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7,800 | 208 | 1 | 729 | 2,155 | ...Ignore the mortals plight, spill their blood...
...Warden blood is little better than Darkspawn...
...Blood is blood, empower yourself through us...
"Be still for one Maker forsaken day, curse you all." Ansgar Staudinger muttered to himself, walking the lonesome road to the Tevinter Border Fort and having no company besides the demonic voices in his head. They had grown restless as of late, knowing full well bloodshed was coming and were yet kept in check by his will. The foreboding figure walked at a brisk pace, with clear purpose as the fort grew larger as he closed the distance between himself and the staging area for the push into Tevinter. And the Darkspawn area, he could tell the demons were eager to spill the blood of such corrupt creatures. That typically overrode their desire to kill everything that wasn't them, or in this case Staudinger himself included, which made fighting alongside allies blessedly easier to accomplish, more so than the constant struggle of wills to keep his body from turning the great, abyss black greatsword on his back onto those around him as well as those blatantly opposing him. The blade sat heavy on his back, the weapon sheathed yet still was clearly a unique piece of work, not related to any normal forge pieces made for large numbers of soldiers. His armor also stood out, older in design, rebuilt out of old Ferelden Knight's armor that had seen better days, but was just as good as the armor anyone today would wear. Without the embellishments and useless add ons beyond his small shoulder cloak wrapped around his shoulders. It was the remains of his old regiment's standard, reclaimed from Ostagar after the blight was broken, and worn in memory of them, as the last of their ranks.
Entering the fort, as Staudinger was expected as he had responded to the summons before his arrival, he noticed the sheer diversity in troops. Wardens, obviously going to be present, dwarves didn't surprise him either. They had an entire legion dedicated to the slaughter of Darkspawn, to an extreme those who have not met the legionnares could unlikely fathom. Regular men from the Anderfells, too, but he did not put them down at all. Regular soldiers held the line if heroes were needed to win wars, and rarely got the recognition they deserved. He knew that from personal experience, having been one of those faceless mass of soldiers that would fight day in and day out, for little recognition and not much better in pay and reward. But there was little to be done for it, after all, he was but one man, nearly broken so many times he teetered on that precipice constantly now, and that would not change anytime soon. So as he walked, ignored and even feared by some of the men he passed, for the abomination he had become, he did not make their days any worse than they already were. Instead, he heard the call away for a Darkspawn scouting party, and broke into a run that was deceptively fast for his armor, towards the walls.
The flight of Griffons surprised him, he certainly had never seen one in the flesh and had dismissed them as a fairy tale these days. Then again, with the past years events seeing plenty of so called legends becoming real, all too real for his tastes at times, the fact the Wardens had gone and tamed Griffons was not nearly as off putting or surprising as he could have let it be. The Darkspawn were shredded with no casualties on the part of the defenders, thankfully, and once the Wardens landed he spotted a Dalish elf amongst them. That was the Warden he was supposed to be reporting to, and the armored knight approached the Warden, electing glances and unease in anything near him, from his presence alone. Stopping several paces away, he spoke surprisingly quietly, and yet was clearly heard despite that. The distance was reinforced by the Griffon's wing around the elf. It wasn't too surprising, really, a Dalish in tune with the natural beings such as these. "Warden Daeron, I presume? Ansgar Staudinger, of Ferelden. I answer the call to arms."
"...Griffon's blood, old blood, strong blood..." | Name: Ansgar Staudinger
Age: 58
Sex: Male
Race: Human
Allegiance: Ferelden Crown
Class/Sub-class: Warrior | Reaver
Appearance:
Abilities:
Devour - "It is a thirst that cannot be slaked. Each enemy dead, another few moments onto my life in the heat of battle. A curse, or a blessing. Decide for yourself." - Ansgar feasts upon the souls of slain foes, their lingering energy revitalizing him, closing wounds and staving off death for another battle. It only takes him a few moments concentration before the dead spirits energy is stolen away from the dead, creating an unsettling wind centering on Ansgar before his wounds close.
Frightening Appearance - "Darkspawn, men, elves, dwarves, it matters not. The mind is fragile, the flesh weak, and flees what it cannot comprehend. I am the sum of what all fear, a nightmare upon the field of battle, devouring the souls of mortal beings. A glimpse can send the greatest warrior fleeing for his life. And a new pair of trousers." - Focusing his unsettling, faceless gaze upon a foe in the battle, such a single person will feel the full weight of the damned Reaver's ire and all that is wrong with such an imposing figure at that moment. Most beings break under such a gaze, lost in unspeakable terror.
Blood Frenzy - "I have memories, vague, in crimson tints. Of a warrior lost in battle, demons possessing his form, the closer to death's sweet release, the greater his mad fury. Then I awake, in cold sweats, and a somber, chilling thought rings clear in the doubt and despair. Those aren't always my memories, yet they fit the thinker perfectly..." - The pain of each wound landed against him only increases his fury and prowess in combat, when he releases the demons within him. While in this form, the demons prevent the natural healing of his body as the vessel is imperfect, yet the closer to expiring the vessel gets, the more extreme the damage he can deal.
Two Handed Mastery - "The longer I live, the better I have gotten with my accursed blade. It's power has long since left it, I am the new vessel, but it is far better than your average steel blade. Those who would cross blades with me will regret it, even without the demons, I am no target to attack lightly..." - Ansgar has focused all his combat training onto the use of his greatsword, a nameless blade that once bore great corruption, and even before that point when he served as a regular soldier.
Powerful - "Bearing the burden I carry, both physical and mental, has made me stronger. Armor is lighter, and I can stay longer under the destructive power of the demons within. A necessity of life, or death would have found me far sooner..." - Having spent his entire life training and fighting, his vitality and endurance have both increased drastically. Armor and weapons weigh upon him far less, and he is naturally more able to fight for longer, more effectively, as a result.
Death Blow - "Each fallen foe restores my vitality, each fallen foe restores my hope that a blessed end to combat is one step closer. I cannot fail, cannot falter, not until I have finally been slain. Then I can rest in whatever Hell the Maker sees fit to place me in for my transgressions." - Each enemy that Ansgar fells restores part of his stamina, increasing how long he can fight all out. Coupled with drawing in the life force of fallen enemies, it makes him a terror on the battlefield.
Reaving Storm - "Subtle isn't a strong point of mine, in a fight, to begin with. When faced with masses of enemies, mortal or darkspawn, I cannot afford the luxury of single blows, and the demons will not afford the luxury to me. Numbers will not save them." - Each mighty swing of Ansgar's dark blade can claim numerous heads with one mighty cleave, which can be taxing on the stamina of the warrior without some method of keeping his stamina up. Ansgar, however, does and in the right situation, he is a juggernaut on the field.
Personality: Ansgar has a split personality, to put it bluntly, which can be shocking to people who only see him on the battlefield, or off of it, how drastic a change these two men are. When not in a combat situation, the warrior is quiet and contemplative, speaking in a highly intelligent manner that is often accented with polite manners of speech and a steadfast refusal to ever become offended or angered. He tends towards a loner mentality, finding a secluded part of a camp to meditate and center himself, and as far as most people are typically aware, he is merely doing this for the sake of some martial tradition, as it is typically how he explains it away. He isn't lying, but he certainly is not telling the truth either. He isolates himself for the safety of others, and seems unusually loyal to anyone who insists in getting to know the warrior, as they are a rare few and far between.
In combat, one can be forgiven for not recognizing Ansgar at all. Once a battle breaks out, the demons inside the tortured man surge forward, and it is all that Ansgar can do to not lash out at allies, barely controlling the demonic fury to kill everything as he guides his body towards the enemy. He shows a blatent disregard for any and all self preservation, seeming solely focused on one very clear goal. Slaughter anything that stands against him and anyone lucky, or unlucky, enough to not be in his definition of enemy at the time. Ansgar fights with a wild abandon seen only in those with nothing left to lose, and facing certain death, with every battle. Even his fighting style in combat reflects his possessed status. Eyes burning with red fury, abyss black blade drenched in blood, each swing aiming for maximum damage with no care for his own survival, and its with amazement spirit healers and field surgeons look upon him coming back, unwilling to believe he had survived in the state he marches back in.
History: Ansgar Staudinger was born to a family of military lifers, veterans who chose to stay in until they were too old to fight, and would proceed to train oncoming generations of soldiers instead. His mother was an archer that died in child birth, and before he ever met his father, a bold knight that defended his brothers and sisters with shield and blade, the man met his end upon the blades of brigands in ambush. Raised by his father's fellow knights, he was raised solely to fight against any and all who would turn out to be hostile to the realm of Ferelden. He proved a natural with a great two handed sword, and he was taught well in such a manner that, at 9.18 Dragon when his birthday came to, the knights that had befriended his father gave him the fallen man's armor and had reforged his equipment to fit the young man's tastes. It was a grand day for him, and for twelve years he would serve within the Ferelden army as a brave, loyal soldier who enjoyed learning and bettering himself through any means offered to him, something looked upon favorably as he rose in rank.
That all changed after the Fifth Blight broke out, and Ansgar was among the forces who would march to Ostagar and fight the Darkspawn there. It was expected to be an easy breaking of the Darkspawn horde, no suspicion that there was indeed an Archdemon in their ranks, and this was a full blown Blight after all. History took its course, and while Ansgar fought bravely with his brothers to hold off the Darkspawn, a mighty blow from an Ogre cast him from the ramparts, and all would assume the veteran warrior had been slain, either from the ogre or the fall. And to be fair, Ansgar was near death when he came to, with countless broken bones, his blade shattered, and his armor damaged. But he was yet alive, and breathing, the darkspawn and fighting forces gone. Ostagar had fallen, he could tell, which meant that things had not gone as planned. He was, at the time, unaware that King Theirin was slain and betrayed, and only a handful of other survivors, Grey Wardens included, had escaped. But his wounds were bad, and he had a broken greatsword and damaged armor to protect him in these no doubt infested woods. It was a miracle, or a curse, that he managed to survive long enough to stumble upon a long forgotten fort.
It was a small place, old and clearly forboding. Most would have known better and turned away, but a dying warrior cared little for such things. So Ansgar entered the place, descending to the deepest part of the fort, torches lighting of their own volition as he dragged himself along, unable to collapse and give up now. Before long he found a shrine, with a black, abyssial blade on an alter, with a flask of crimson fluid on top of it. Countless dead surrounded the alter, all recently slain despite how old the place was, and the scroll of stone above the makeshift alter spoke of great power, even above death, for those that would imbibe the blood of Dragons. Ansgar would normally not put credence in such myths and heresay, but the mind of a dying man will reach for any reason to exist, especially since he knew the Darkspawn were yet to be halted. So he drank the flask's contents in full, feeling a fire in his belly and something else inside his mind, fighting him for control. The blood was indeed of a Dragon, but had been cursed with the spirit of a Demon. The blood power of a Reaver was all that saved him from succumbing as the others had and falling upon his own ruined blade.
Taking up the blade on the alter, Ansgar shut out the whispers and ragings of the voices that now were in his head, feeling his wounds close as the spirits of the dead around him drew close, binding his wounds and making his bones whole again. He would make his way out of the fort, surrounded by a band of Darkspawn that had found the human's bloody trail. He doesn't readily remember what happened after that, but in a bloody fury he had cut down the band of Darkspawn, nearly tearing himself apart in the process, and he would come to properly in a tavern bed days later, his armor mended and the black blade, gleaming with a silver edge, and with a look in the mirror he was shocked to be missing an eye, a mess of scar tissue remaining in its place. His armor remained as it had been, and as he pulled the helm and sheathed the blade, the voices came back in a torrent, threatening to lose all control at that moment in time. But he was able to resist, slipping out of the tavern and heading for wherever the Darkspawn congregated the thickest. During the year of the Fifth Blight, stories of this warrior would arise, a voiceless figure of death and rage, cleaving grand paths through the Darkspawn forces wherever they reared their ugly heads.
With the Warden slaying the Archdemon, the Darkspawn fled, but Ansgar was still left with his Reaver blood, and the voices in his head that grew loud without their thirst being slaked. He would seek out Apostate mages, as he couldn't trust the mage circles, in the hopes of freeing himself from the demonic voices in his head. He would spend his time unaware of the goings on in Kirkwall, but when rebellion broke out he would find himself protecting the very same Apostate mages, and circle mages as they rose up, that had at least tried to help him and gave him means of controlling the corrupting influence. Templars would speak of the figure with fear and revulsion, the bloody demon of a warrior often times arriving without a word, engaging in wholesale slaughter of any Templars that attempted to strike against the rebel mages. Even the mages he protected would be cautious and frightened of the forboding figure, a man of black armor swathed with azure cloth with a midnight black blade with silver lining, eyes of glowing red evil under his armored hood as he made slaughter a sport upon the Templar.
When the Conclave would explode, instead of fighting Templars, Ansgar would turn his blade upon the demons and invading forces from the rifts. Still claiming loyalty to the Ferelden crown, but serving in no official capacity, he would go wherever the demons invaded, regardless of Inquisition interference or not. He could not close the demonic gateways, but he could kill enough of them to hold long enough for reinforcements to arrive. Eventually even those demons would be gone, leaving the unholy swordsman without a cause again. Ansgar would roam wherever his feet took him, keeping an eye on the world while remaining as isolated as he could be to prevent his addled mind from snapping somewhere he would cause harm to others. The sheer amount of blood and suffering, both his and others, that had been spilled had satiated the voices for some time, only rising up in times of combat at this point to take charge if they could. When the Darkspawn rose again, driving the Qunari into invading Tevinter territory and a call to arms being sent out, one of the first to answer was Ansgar Staudinger, called many things by many people, and would throw himself into combat against any Darkspawn that attempted to go after those who stood against them. When the call rose for a task force led by Grey Wardens, he would report without delay. Either they would have him, or he would make a bloody path to the Archdemon and fight it by himself. He was increasingly tired of living in a constant struggle for his life and sanity, and fully intended to finally die stopping this rising Sixth Blight. |
7,801 | 208 | 2 | 613 | 350 | Blessed are they who stand before
The corrupt and the wicked and do not falter.
Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just.
Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow.
In their blood the Maker's will is written.
My shield is the open hand of the Maker
To protect His children with his Light
My sword is His closed fist
To smite the wicked and purge the corrupt
My life is the Maker's, not my own
For if I fall today I will not die
Instead I shall return to His side
To watch over His children till my vigil be done.
Prayed Torian as knelt before his sword and shield. The sword was stuck upright in the ground with his shield leaning against it. An ornate crosspiece with the sun of the Chantry emblazoned upon it was his focus. The ground was cold and wet under his knees, and has been for the entire four hours he had been praying. Yet he did not feel it for the light of the Maker warmed his body and allowed him to ignore the small discomfort of the earth.
As he finished his prayer Torian stood, his heavy armor clanking against itself as he moved. He lifted his shield, the Templar's sigil shining brightly in the sun, and finally his sword, wiping the dirt from the blade on his cloak before sliding into its sheath at his side.
Looking around himself Torian admired the fortress where the Wardens had gathered their recruits. It was an impressive place and Torian was glad to finally be a part of the events that had shaken the world. For too long he had been cast in the shadows of history, unable to step into the light to aid the land he loved, and protect the Maker's children. Now he was at the vanguard of the world and he would not be found wanting.
Torian was torn from his inner thoughts when a cry of Darkspawn came from the watchtower. One of the Grey Wardens called out orders and the fort scrambled to follow. Being a recruit himself Torian was supposed to go the walls, but he had no bow, so instead he went to the gates. Donning his winged Templar Helm Torian then drew his blade and readied himself should anything come close to the gates. Unfortunately for him nothing did. The Wardens and their griffons made very short work of the small Darkspawn raiding party. It was a sight to behold still, watching the glorious creatures take wing and bear their riders to rid the world of the corruption before them.
Once the all clear was given Torian sheathed his blade once more and looked about. In his determination to serve this cause he had yet to report to the Warden's leader. He spotted the Dalish Elf dismounting his griffon, he quickly approached, his cloak blowing out behind him. As did another man in heavy armor that Torian saw out of the corner of his eye.
Hearing the man's introduction as he came to the Warden leader, Torian went to a knee before the elf and bowed his head. "And I as well, Milord. Torian Aldritch, Templar of the Order." He said proudly as he knelt, awaiting the Commander's word. | Name: Torian "Tor" Aldritch
Age: 25
Sex: Male
Race: Human
Allegiance: Ferelden/ Chantry
Class/Sub-class: Warrior/ Templar: Sword and Shield
Abilities:
1. Master Combat Training
2. Righteous Strike
3. Cleanse Area
4. Mental Fortress
5. Holy Smite
6. Shield Bash
7. Shield Defense
Personality: Torian is a pious man, always serving the Chantry and blessing the Creator. He is more open minded though than most Templars, as he is able to see the good of mages and magic, and not just the evil. Though always vigilant for corruption he is seen as a kindly man more opt to defend others than attack. His shield is a bulwark from evil and boon to his allies as he swears to let no harm come to those he stands besides. His will is a solid wall bending to no adversity in his life and pillar for others to stand behind. Torian though suffers from one thing that all Templars do, and that is a severe addiction to Lyrium.
History: Torian grew up around Red Cliff Village where his parents raised him to be devout in the Chantry's teachings, and his older brother taught him about swordplay. His brother latter in his childhood to join a band of mercenaries where Torian never heard about him again. Meanwhile he continued his studies at the Chantry and even played swords with his friends. While he was still young Torian's father sent him off to join the Templars, to further hone his fighting prowess and his devotion to the Creator, but most importantly, the Chantry.
Torian was still a novice when the Blight struck Ferelden and was stationed at the Chantry in Highever. Luckily avoiding the most of the chaos in the south, and the at the Circle. Though he pleaded to join the front line in the siege of Denerim he was never allowed to leave to stand beside the Hero of Ferelden. Instead he stayed at the Chantry to finish his training and defend Highever from bandits and maintain order.
It wasn't until a few years after the Blight that Torian was fully knighted as a Templar. Finally able to leave Highever he was placed in Denerim to help with reconstruction and aiding the land still recovering from the Blight. This would once again keep him at a distance from world events when the mages rebelled and the Templars left the Chantry. Torian was possibly one of the few Templars to stay with the Chantry during the rebellion as he viewed the Templars cessation as an act of blasphemy and desertion. Therefore he remained loyal to the Chantry throughout the panic of the Breach and the rebellion in whole.
Now with this new threat to the world Torian refuses to sit in the shadows of history and let others fight without him. He has heard the call to arms by the Grey Wardens and he means to respond with sword and shield, and absolute faith to purge the wickedness from the world. To lift high the Chant of Light and let its brilliance burn away the corruption that plagues the land. |
7,802 | 208 | 3 | 180 | 1,444 | Remind me once more why we are aiding the Wardens? the qunari asked her dwarf as they walked down the trail that would lead them to the fort where the Wardens were recruiting. Her companion gave a sigh of annoyance, tired of trying to explain why they were going to help the Wardens. One issue with the Qunari was that they never had to deal with a Blight. Most had never seen a darkspawn until this blight started. His tall counterpart wasn't an exception. She had seen few from afar when they traveled but without an Archdemon, they were unorganized, deadly none the less however. Now with another Blight seemingly upon Thedas and the rest of the world, it was important to get as many able hands to fight the threat.
"Because Zeynep, they need experienced fighters, people with certain skills, and the possibility of payment perhaps or something. Besides that last job in Kirkwall didn't exactly make us any friends better to let that cool off before returning." This is as much as the dwarf said, to tired to repeat the rest of his rant. Zeynep only gave a grunt and looked around, as if waiting for something to attack. She herself had good reason to worry however. Not only were they closing in on the border of Tevinter where qunari didn't have a rather great reputation, she was Saarebas turned Tal Voshoth, a betrayer of the Qun. She was much an outsider to her own people as well as most other races, the qunari not entirely being tolerable of the qunari.
They reached the fort by midday, and entered to the bustling and hustle of men preparing to fight. A griffon flew over them leaving Gavlan in amazement."Bless the ancestors. I only heard of Griffon's in stories," he said before returning to the task at hand ",Well guess we should find the head guy of this outfit and report in. Look on the bright side Zeynep, a qunari on their side might scare the Darkspawn."
"I doubt it after Par Vollen," Zeynep said with a frown making Gavlan curse at his mistake."Right well let us look around bound to find the guy somewhere," Gavlan replied quickly. Of course for a dwarf it was difficult to see everything through a bunch of legs, this was where Zeynep's increased height came into hand, being able to gaze over the top of most of the heads."Perhaps we should try the knife ear dismounting the griffon," she stated pointing over to where he was.
"Right good eyes lass but probably should refrain from calling him a knife ear," Gavlan reminded her as they parted a group of people in their path. | Her attire:
Character name:
Tal-Vashoth Zeynep Sihir
Age:
26
Species:
Qunari
Allegiance:
N/A
Class:
Saarebas (Qunari Mage), more specific her prowess is being a Force Mage.
Skills and talents:
Fist of the Maker- The mage slams enemies into the ground with incredible power, against which armor is no protection.
Stonefist- The mage hurls a stone projectile that strikes with massive force.
Chain Lightning- The mage singes a target with lightning, and electrical arcs lance out to hit other nearby foes.
Hex of Torment- The mage curses the enemy, increasing damage from all sources for a short time.
Items:
Her polearm which doubles as her catalyst of dishing out the magic she knows.
Bio:
Zeynep was born Par Vollen and like all other qunari children, was sent to be raised by the Tamassrans of the capitol city, Qunandar. For a time she led the normal life that is expected of all qunari children, and of course would of more then likely have become one of the Tamassrans as well until the day came that she showed that she was cursed with the use of magic. When it was found out that she was plagued by this curse, she was removed from the care of the Tamassrans and placed in the care of an arvaarad, she became a saarebas. Those that she had come to know as brothers and sisters, the only form of family she would ever had, rejected her and she soon lost all contact to the world around her. Under the care of her arvaarad, she became nothing more then a social outcast due to the fear of magic that the Qun had. Zeynep learned to not speak at all after watching a fellow saarebas have his own tongue cut out of his mouth due to the accusation of that saarebas practicing magic while his arvaarad was not looking. She never spoke only gave nods and head shakes to questions or to show she was listening. She was lucky enough to be sparred from having her horns removed, making an agreement with her arvaarad that allowed her to keep her horns.
Zeynep eventually fooled them all that she was nothing more then a submissive servant, all the while she planned her escape. She might of not spoke but she secretly taught herself magic, it was never an easy task but she taught herself enough to have a means of escape. Eventually the time came where she could run, leave the Qun and become Tal-Voshoth. She never wanted to return to Par Vollen, there was nothing for here there to stay and she cursed the place for her exile from society and treatment which was no better then being an attack dog.
When the night came of her escape, she manage to slip by her arvaarad, asleep like a babe, never expecting that Zeynep would try such a feat. She would never know how long it took for them to discover her escape but it did not matter. She ran south, only stopping when necessary. She could not remain in one place for long, there was no knowing if she was being hunted down as she ran, if she was caught it would only mean death.
Once she managed to get as far as Orlais, that was when she took time to stop. She hid herself among the shadows of the city, finally cutting away the strand of strings that kept her mouth sown shut, not enough to entirely keep her from opening it but enough that it had been able to prevent most talking above a whisper, to finally hear her own voice again shocked her. She had not heard it in years since she had become saarebas, now though she was free of that accursed title and free to learn to speak the native tongue of Thedas. She had to learn on her own for quite some time, listening and piecing what everything meant. She learned a lot from her time in Orlais. Eventually though she left Orlais and continued south, coming to the Free Marches and finding herself in the city of chains, Kirkwall. Here she sold herself off as a mercenary for hire, what else could she do? She had no useful skills besides the little knowledge of magic she had, being able to at least be a mercenary for hire allowed her to learn more about other cultures, the language that most spoke, and at least a little more magic. Her time in Orlais as well as Kirkwall left her feeling slightly jealous of the people she saw. How they had so much freedom to choose their paths they desired, something she never had. Even the Circle of Magi she looked with awe as well, seeing how the mages were treated.
Despite her awe though, she still holds some ideals of the Qun and finds that most people are, for lack of a better term, weak and gets agitated by those that take the little things they have for granted. She also frowns upon those mages that would make deals with demons, seeing them as weak and unfit for the life they have.
His attire:
Character name:
Gavlan Drogoth
Age:
42
Species:
Dwarf
Allegiance:
N/A
Class:
Beserker Warrior
Skills and talents:
His combat skills lie in two handed weapons, specifically he deals with great axes and great hammer weapons. Who says the small guy can pack a powerful punch to his foes? Gavlan skills as a warrior come from his years of training as being an enforcer of the laws in Orzammar as well as having to occasionally be sent into the Deep Roads with his fellow comrades when told too.
Beserk- The berserker flies into a rage, landing powerful blows for as long as this mode is active.
Mighty Blow- The warrior leaps into the air, crashing down on foes with tremendous force.
Giants Reach- The warrior's two-handed attacks rip through the air with such power that each generates a shockwave past the point of impact, effectively extending the weapon's reach.
Items:
His armor on his back and his mighty axe that is named Luca
Bio:
Gavlan grew up at first as a trader of Orzammar. His trade was that in weapons and armor with an occasional dabble of the other markets when he could afford to do so. Unfortunately Gavlan ran into tough times and was forced into making deals with a group of thugs that were called the Carta. His involvement lead to a slight relationship with the gang's leader Jarvia. The relationship didn't last long however with Jarvia pressing him to do more illegal actions then he wanted to. For his disobedience, his shop was destroyed and the law enforcement of Orzammar got an anonymous tip of his dealings with Carta. For his punishment it was either going to jail, becoming casteless, or going into the Deep Roads on expeditions. His choice was the Deep Roads. This was when he began learning his fighting prowess. From other warriors, either other criminals forced into the expeditions for punishment or Orzammars guards who volunteered for these dangerous jobs. Orzammar was the last Thaig and it was determined to not fall, in order to do that, they had to thin Darkspawn from time to time. These expedition were also used to traverse to lost Thaigs and find anything that might be of use to Orzammar, be it ancient texts or miscellaneous items that could fetch a price being sold to the outside world above Orzammar.
Even after his punishment was deemed over, he continued going on the expeditions into the Deep Roads, partially because it meant finding rare items he could sneak back to Orzammar and sell for some coin and partially because he enjoyed the fighting, he learned he had a knack of using an axe and fighting Darkspawn gave him some pleasure and entertainment. Plus he made friends in his merry band of outcasts who also continued these expeditions. They shared in good laughs and mead. Unfortunately all good things come to an end. While on one expedition into the Deep Roads, they were ambushed by Darkspawn. Gavlan was the only one to make it out alive. He feared that perhaps returning to Orzammar would not be a wise decision. All the men in the expedition were considered criminals, even if Gavlan had repaid his dues to society for his supposed crimes. Rather the return he looked for a means of leaving the Deep Road. It took him days to find one of the exits of the Deep Roads, but he did and found himself far from the moutain range of Orzammar that he called home. He felt like he was going to fall off the realm of Thedas with how open the world was. He had no idea where he was only where he couldn't go. So he made his way north, passing though Orlais, Nevarra, and the Free Marches before stopping in Kirkwall. Here is when he meant his partner in crime. Zeynep the Qunari mage. At first neither saw eye to eye on anything. Always bickering back and forth on how things should be done. Eventually though they found the means to get along and even enjoy each others company. Both were social outcasts. She a qunari mage and him an dwarf with no home. They used their talents to be hired out as mercenaries or smugglers in Kirkwall and soon Gavlan was well know for being a guy that could smuggle just about anything into Kirkwall's walls. |
7,803 | 208 | 4 | 1,387 | 500 | Garen had arrived at the Tevinter Border Fort an hour or so before midday. He heard the lookouts raise the alarm and watched from his perch in northeast corner of the courtyard as the Wardens unveiled their new playthings, the griffons. Was it impressive? Sure, but was it enough to stop the neverending hordes of Darkspawn? That remained to be seen.
After the attack ended, a few warriors gathered in the center of the courtyard in front of one of the wardens, an elf by the look of him. By the way some had been treating him it was a fair bet he was the man that Garen was supposed to see. He had no issues taking orders from an elf, heck one of the Dragon Heads had been one. Still it surprised him how eager some seemed to take his direction. Still, it was time to make his presence known. So he approached, his footsteps quiet to even the most attuned ears.
He came up behind a Qunari and a dwarf, content to stand there and listen to whatever speech was going to be held. He knew for a fact the elven warden could see him, and that was enough. His fingers ran along the runes carved into the hilt of the sword on his left hip, Tân, as he waited. | Name: Garen Steelsinger
Age: 32
Sex: Male
Race: Human
Allegiance: N/A
Class/Sub-class: Warrior
Appearance:
Abilities:
Combat Mastery: Due to countless hours of training and even more hours and years of combat experience Garen has a very keen grasp of martial combat. He has mastered the art of dual wielding his magic longswords, Gwynt and Tân. Also something of a strategist Garen has disciplined his mind to think many moves in advance, as such he's not only an able and dangerous combatant but a capable and quick-thinking commander.
Survivalist: Garen has spent enough time in the wilderness to easily survive on his own for months, even years at a time.
The Song of Steel, Dance of Death: Garen himself would say his extreme proficiency with his blades came with hours upon hours of practice.
Other more superstitious crowds believe him to be a demon warrior incarnate, whose only purpose in the world is to reap death upon whomever he pleases. Whatever the actual case, Garen is so attuned to his weapons and his body that when he fights his blades sing a funeral dirge for his enemies. The only sounds to be heard is the whooshing of blades slicing the air, the clanging of metal beating metal, and the screams of his defeated foes.
Personality: To most Garen is a rough, cynical person having seen and dealt with enough death to make the man cold and indifferent to the cruelties of the world. As a wanderer and professional soldier Garen is disciplined, shrewd, logical, sarcastic, and at times a bit ruthless. Still, his iron like persona has soft spots, particularly towards children whom if he's in an area long enough will teach kids how to read, write, and otherwise survive. He gives those he counts as friends high regards and always pay his debts, loyalty with loyalty, blood with blood.
His father was a hunter and was murdered by a band of darkspawn when he was a boy. After that Garen and his mother survived the best they could, eventually she perished as well. After that the boy was recruited by a mercenary company called the Dragon's Blades at the age of 8. He was to serve the fighters much like a squire and eventually become a fighter himself.
He stuck with the company for 10 years, becoming one of the group's most respected fighters and tacticians. He showed great leadership capabilities and quite the mind for battlefield strategy. The group had an established territory, the local villages were grateful for the protection and the company had food and lodging. Garen served as the one of three members of the company known as the "Dragon Heads" for a couple years, marrying the village chief's daughter, Elaine.
The two had a daughter named Alys, they were happy, blissful. However the bliss would not last... One night after returning with his men from a monster hunt they found the village in flames. Tevinter Slavers were ransacking the town and carting off it's inhabitants. Garen and his men did all they could and saved a few. But when the dust settled, Elaine and Alys were nowhere to be found, the village was ruined, burned, and what was left of the population didn't want to be anywhere near there.
After that Garen left the Dragon's Blades, intent on hunting down the slavers and finding his family. That was his mission for years, until finally he did. He and his closest friend Jeremiah Cross who was a tracker hunted the Tevinter to their lair. The two stormed the place, finding horrific things, corpses, tortured, mangled, or worse. Finally the two found Elaine, or what was left of her. They searched but Alys could not be found. And so the two returned and went their separate ways, with Garen wandering the world. Listless aside from finding his daughter.
Now the world is threatened, and a call for heroes has been issued. Though no hero himself, Garen has decided to lend his twin longswords Gwynt and Tân to the cause of saving the world. For if the world is destroyed, if Alys still lives she will perish with it. |
7,804 | 208 | 5 | 157 | 3,052 | Daeron turned to face the few that had gathered around him. He first looked to Ansgar carefully, nodding to the man. "I'm a Warden Constable, specifically Ferelden's."
He told them still petting the Griffin as both of them looked between the those arranged before them. "I see you've all come to answer the call. I'll make this quick, as were leaving in just a few hours." He patted the Griffin under her wing and she slowly walked off picking at rats and such. "The Qunari and the Tevinters have been decimated. The Archdemon was sighted near the capital which the Darkspawn destroyed." He looked at the Qunari mage and then the dwarf. "The army will be three to four days behind us and a team of Grey Wardens on Griffin back will fly in to face the Archdemon. A secondary objective we have been given is locate capture a Qunari ship, the canons on board them would allow us to bring down the Archdemon."
He sat a moment and shifted. "Our other concern is that another one of the seven original Darkspawn could be behind this. You all remember Corpyheus and his near destruction of the world, the Wardens are worried more like him could exist. Now they know the Wardens can always destroy their Blights, they may target us next. The attacks we've seen match nothing we have ever encountered before and we know nothing of what happened on Par Vollen save only that this Blight started their." He told them everything he knew so far. He needed these people to trust him if they were to survive this journey. | Name: Daeron Sabrae
Age: 23
Sex: Male
Race: Elf
Allegiance: Grey Wardens
Class/Sub-class: Rogue: Ranger
Appearance:
Abilities:
Master Ranger: "You know why I lead out here Ser Knight? Simply, you've got a horse. I've got wolves." -The Ranger can call upon animals of the forest to aid them in battle.
Coup De Grace: "As a Grey Warden you must learn not only to be lethal but a show off, the easier the make it you look the more invincible people believe you are." -A sudden and swift attack by a rogue that if it catches any enemy off guard ends their life, spectacularly.
Evasion: "The best way to win is not to get hit." -Quick thinking and instinct make hitting the target rather difficult.
Device mastery: "Wardens make a lot of trips in the Deep roads, Dwarves make complex locks and traps to keep people out so you learn to beat them or die." -Able to disable any trap or lock given enough time.
Dual Weapon mastery: "The trick here is to know how to act and react. Using two weapons is much more difficult then hiding behind a shield." -A user who can perform a dance of death with his twin blades.
Master Archer: "To kill a Darkspawn with a single arrow is tough, their hides are thick and they move wildly and don't get me started on vitals." -The archer can pick off targets at longer ranges and can track targets others cannot.
Master Coercion: "Wardens are good at fighting but I have bonus of being good at talking. Now lets be civil and talk this out." -A silver tongued devil who convince most people to help or aid them.
Personality: A youthful optimist with a belief in what the Grey Wardens are doing is right. With a passion for animals and the outdoors in general. Generally he tries to live by Dalish principles however living in the Shem's world has curved some of that. His loyalty and dedication have risen him through the ranks as well as how seriously he takes battles. A solemn believer that the Wardens stand as against the greatest evil of all, the Darkspawn.
History: Born into the Sabrae clan four years after the Blight he grew up hunting and learning the skills of his clan however he wished to follow the Hero of Ferelden. With the Elves having a home in the Hinterlands many clans unite their sharing knowledge yet each keeps to a group forming communities. Over time Elves would begin to build more permanent homes, of course this would anger the Arl's who worried if the Elves would soon have a seat among them. Of course the keepers would vote on things for their clan elect a leader to send as a diplomat to landsmeets and such.
Daeron was selected at age eighteen to join the Grey Wardens, undertaking his joining alone he survived and went on to become Constable of the Grey in only two years. With this outstanding achievement he would be called by the first warden to undertake a secret project in the Anderfels. Now after three years a new blight has risen and his special project could be just the thing to save them all.
Currently stationed along the border of Tevinter and Anderfels Daeron is recruiting Grey Wardens. He was selected to be the leader of the strike for his ability to keep secrets and for his unique skills. He has been given everything he needs to conduct several joining and bring new member into the order. Even know with the Grey Wardens ranks swelling more than ever they must increase their number as this Blight has gone on to long unchecked. He waits for the strike in a fort near Kal'Sharok a large garrison their having held off a number of raids as the Darkspawn ravage and destroy Tevinter. |
7,805 | 208 | 6 | 1,707 | 386 | Fourth week on the road, and Ser Gyles Hawthorne's mood was as bad as it might get. I am getting too old for long trips, it seems. But there are darkspawn to be killed, and loot to be gathered, so I can't just whimper out of this opportunity, he thought. He was holding a palaver with one of his men, a scout named Harding, who hailed from Ferelden. Gyles' company had stopped marching and most of the men were eating supper, a soup with deer meat, mushrooms and roots in it.
"The Tevinter's border fort is not so far away, commander. A couple of hours ride from here" scout Harding said to Gyles. "There the Wardens should be."
"Let us hope so. I'd like to have some shelter and warm fireplace after few weeks of tenting in the wilds" Gyles said mildly. "Get some supper and get back to the formation, Harding, and send out Michael. It's his turn." It had been weeks since he and his company of about fifty men had seen a village, and it had had a poor brothel. Along the way to the north towards the Tevinter territory he had recruited about fifty men, all from different nations and villages. Most were Fereldan and some were from Orlais. A couple of the recruits were even from the Free Marches or Rivain, but luckily all of them were capable soldiers and knew which end of a sword to hold.
At first, they had resented and distrusted each other, but the during the past few months they had been together the men had grown bonds between them that only soldiers knew, and Gyles for happy for that. Gyles had noticed that if a man fought not for himself but for his unit and his comrades, even a small company could hold its ground against a great enemy army. Of course, the company also needed training and drilling beyond measure, and supplies also helped. But Gyles had all of his trust placed on his men.
After the meal, they packed their goods and started to march forwards, and in few hours the company reached the border fort. A young man, apparently in his early twenties, appeared at the top of the gatehouse. "Halt!" he shouted to Ser Gyles, who was riding as the first man of the company "Who are you, and on what business?"
"The name's Gyles Hawthorne of Ferelden, and remember to add a ser when you address me if we converse later. I heard that the Wardens would need some assistance, and that they would pay handsomely those who helped them. I sent my answer to your commander few months ago, but my company and I were slightly delayed by a small battle in Orlais."
"I see. Wait for a moment, I'll go to confirm from my captain" the young man said, and in a matter of seconds he was gone.
About fifteen minutes later the gates opened, and the company entered the fort. Gyles glanced around, and noticed a circle around a young elven Grey Warden. He jumped from his destrier's back and walked to the group. "Who's in command here, Warden?" | Name: Ser Gyles Hawthorne (nicknamed One-Eyed Gyles)
Age: 49
Sex: Male
Race: Human
Allegiance: Gyles' allegiance is mostly with himself and his companions. Gyles often trusts those who he fights with and earn his respect.
Class/Sub-class: Warrior / Champion
Banner: A stylized black spades with roses on a snow-white field.
Appearance:
Ser Gyles is a muscular man and about six feet two tall. His hair and beard are raven black, although his hair is cropped. He has strikingly blue eye, as he has lost his left eye in the battle of Ostagar. Gyles has a lot of scars, and across his face there's a long, pale scar. Gyles is highly accomplished swordsman, mostly using a shield and a bastard sword. During the Fifth Blight he was also taught how to use a longbow to certain degree. Due to martial life and some elvish lineage, Gyles still looks younger than his years.
Abilities:
Assault: Because the darkspawn and other foes need a shield to a face occasionally. Several times. In a row.
Shield Mastery: Hiding behind a shield, eh? Craven! *Clunk!*
Melee Archer: Bodkin arrows and longbows never fail in close quarters, trust me!
Threaten: Threats and grunts are the new form of motivation!
Motivate: When war cries just don't cut it.
Pommel Strike: The blade isn't the only part of the sword that can hurt you.
Two-Handed Sweep: Why hit just one enemy when there's an option to hit many?
Personality:
One-Eyed Gyles is a veteran of dozens of campaigns and battles. He knows the dirty tricks of the battlefield, but he has a code of honor he follows due to his knightly origins. Strong in body and mind, he is decisive and determinant. He is a man who's words and orders men follow. To the public he seems like a great commander and a natural-born fighter. Personally, he has seen much bloodshed and chaos during his years as a mercenary and his experiences has left a mark on him. Gyles doesn't like to talk about his past dealings or inner feelings.
History:
A native Fereldan and born to lower nobility, Gyles became a knight and served in King Cailan's army for a few years. Gaining experience as an officer in a cavalry company, he fought in the doomed battle of Ostagar, but could escape with a fragment of his company. Around ninety men out of hundred of his company died at Ostagar. Gyles lost his left eye in the battle and was feverish for a few days. A refuge healer helped him to recover and assume command of the company.
Escaping the darkspawn horde, the company headed northwards, gathering survivors and refugees along the way, passing Lothering just before the town was raided by the darkspawn. Soon, Gyles had a rag tag company of cavalrymen, infantry, engineers and longbowmen. Gyles started a small-scale guerrilla campaign against darkspawn, targeting mostly small scouting units.
During the war, Gyles' company was very successful. After the war, Gyles found his family dead and lands devastated. On the other hand, he had found leading men and warfare highly exciting. Barreling around Ferelden for a two years offering his services to many lords, he was refused by almost every lord. Taking what money and riches he had left, Gyles set out to the northern Thedas, pursuing a career of a mercenary and founded the Black Hearts Company.
Many years later, he retired his command of the Black Hearts Company to a younger captain called Lucas Castellano and came back to Ferelden. After two decades of mercenary work, he bought a small holdfast and a farm. He thought he had left his past life behind him, but only one bad harvest later Gyles lost his estates and was sent drifting. Soon he heard that his old enemy, the darkspawn had resurfaced in the north. He faces an opportunity for one last campaign, as the southerners have started to mass an army to drive back the darkspawn crawling from the north. Maybe he can use his old sellsword contacts and experiences as a instructor to bolster the ranks of the allied army? |
7,806 | 208 | 7 | 157 | 3,052 | Daeron looked to the new arrival. "That would be me, it's Warden Constable actually." He whistled and his Griffin returned to his side. "Horse's are being arranged for travel as we speak and we will be on the road in an hour. The other Wardens and my most of the recruits will be heading back to join the armies. Should an of you wish to join the order on this trip I have the materiel's needed for that." He continued as he saddled his Griffin. "We will run across survivors fleeing Tevinter, we cannot stop to aid them, the Archdemon and the horde is primary concern and if delay with survivor their will only be more deaths." He stated in a very calm and collect manner pulling on his helmet.
The Warden then carefully looked over all those before him. "Should we get into a fight with one of the Seven original Darkspawn my orders are very clear... You are to kill me and any other Grey Wardens in our company." He told them that knowing he was ready to die to end such a beast that craved only death and carnage. "It's become clear that that those individuals can influence and claim the minds of Grey Wardens." He looked over them all. "If anyone wants to back out now is the time, once we enter Tevinter there is no going back." He warned as fresh strong horse's were brought out, Anderfels horse's, larger than most and able to carry even a Qunari they were strong battle mounts thank to harsh conditions they endured. | Name: Daeron Sabrae
Age: 23
Sex: Male
Race: Elf
Allegiance: Grey Wardens
Class/Sub-class: Rogue: Ranger
Appearance:
Abilities:
Master Ranger: "You know why I lead out here Ser Knight? Simply, you've got a horse. I've got wolves." -The Ranger can call upon animals of the forest to aid them in battle.
Coup De Grace: "As a Grey Warden you must learn not only to be lethal but a show off, the easier the make it you look the more invincible people believe you are." -A sudden and swift attack by a rogue that if it catches any enemy off guard ends their life, spectacularly.
Evasion: "The best way to win is not to get hit." -Quick thinking and instinct make hitting the target rather difficult.
Device mastery: "Wardens make a lot of trips in the Deep roads, Dwarves make complex locks and traps to keep people out so you learn to beat them or die." -Able to disable any trap or lock given enough time.
Dual Weapon mastery: "The trick here is to know how to act and react. Using two weapons is much more difficult then hiding behind a shield." -A user who can perform a dance of death with his twin blades.
Master Archer: "To kill a Darkspawn with a single arrow is tough, their hides are thick and they move wildly and don't get me started on vitals." -The archer can pick off targets at longer ranges and can track targets others cannot.
Master Coercion: "Wardens are good at fighting but I have bonus of being good at talking. Now lets be civil and talk this out." -A silver tongued devil who convince most people to help or aid them.
Personality: A youthful optimist with a belief in what the Grey Wardens are doing is right. With a passion for animals and the outdoors in general. Generally he tries to live by Dalish principles however living in the Shem's world has curved some of that. His loyalty and dedication have risen him through the ranks as well as how seriously he takes battles. A solemn believer that the Wardens stand as against the greatest evil of all, the Darkspawn.
History: Born into the Sabrae clan four years after the Blight he grew up hunting and learning the skills of his clan however he wished to follow the Hero of Ferelden. With the Elves having a home in the Hinterlands many clans unite their sharing knowledge yet each keeps to a group forming communities. Over time Elves would begin to build more permanent homes, of course this would anger the Arl's who worried if the Elves would soon have a seat among them. Of course the keepers would vote on things for their clan elect a leader to send as a diplomat to landsmeets and such.
Daeron was selected at age eighteen to join the Grey Wardens, undertaking his joining alone he survived and went on to become Constable of the Grey in only two years. With this outstanding achievement he would be called by the first warden to undertake a secret project in the Anderfels. Now after three years a new blight has risen and his special project could be just the thing to save them all.
Currently stationed along the border of Tevinter and Anderfels Daeron is recruiting Grey Wardens. He was selected to be the leader of the strike for his ability to keep secrets and for his unique skills. He has been given everything he needs to conduct several joining and bring new member into the order. Even know with the Grey Wardens ranks swelling more than ever they must increase their number as this Blight has gone on to long unchecked. He waits for the strike in a fort near Kal'Sharok a large garrison their having held off a number of raids as the Darkspawn ravage and destroy Tevinter. |
7,807 | 209 | 0 | 1,570 | 4,056 | 𝔹𝕖𝕣𝕟𝕒𝕕𝕖𝕥𝕥𝕖 𝔹𝕝𝕒𝕔𝕜𝕨𝕖𝕝𝕝
Location: Outside of Gwen's house
Interacting With:
9:00 PM, October 31st.
Chilly, with a slight fog.
Halloween night had came in full force in the small town of Sterling Heights. Kids ran around crazy collecting candy from lit up houses, teens caused trouble, and even adults got in on the fun- finding solace in parties where people got drunk and talked about work. Bernadette Blackwell found herself outside walking to her best friend's house. Without a driver's license and a ride from her parents, she wanted to show a bit of independence and do this herself. Regretting every moment. The girl clung to her self as she walked up the sidewalk, arms wrapped around her not too warm costume. Deciding to do something very basic this year, Bernie adorned herself in a black blouse and some black short shorts. A pair of cat ears sat upon her ears. Basic and cheap, something that was just fine for a night in with her friends.
Gwen had been nice enough to host tonight's get together at her house. It would just be the six friends together, and they probably would spend the night watching movies and just gossiping about things that were going on in the town. When you're in a small town like that, and you have friends who parents are in the police force- you can't get in to too much trouble. Reaching the door finally, Gwen knocked on the door with three loud thuds and two presses of the doorbell.
"Hurry up Gwen, I'm cold!" she called through the door, hoping that her friend was somewhat near by to get her into the house quickly. While waiting for Gwen to answer, Bernadette pulled out her cellphone and began to send a text to Yao while she waited:
To:Yao
From: Bernadette
on ur way? pls. <3
Her texting etiquette was atrocious but she got her point apart for the most part. Pressing send, she tucked the phone back into a pocket of her shorts and began pounding on the door once again. "Gwendolyn Georgie Westbrooooooook!" her loud voice called through the door as her head fell back in distraught. It hadn't even been a minute since she first knocked on the door, but Bernie wasn't ever known to be patient. | 𝔹𝕖𝕣𝕟𝕒𝕕𝕖𝕥𝕥𝕖 𝔹𝕝𝕒𝕔𝕜𝕨𝕖𝕝𝕝
"Life is too short not to have fun every single day."
● Name:
Bernadette Blackwell. Bernie among friends. Bertha among enemies.
● Age:
Sixteen
● Gender:
Female
● Sexuality:
Heterosexual
● More In Depth Appearance:
Bernadette stands tall at around 5ft 7 and is a fit weight of about 120lbs. She has naturally wavy brown hair that she likes to get dyed to have a caramel to blonde ombre of sorts. She changes it often, and isn't afraid to try new things with her look. Her eyes are a piercing blue that she gets from her father's side. She loves makeup and keeps herself very well manicured. Bernadette has a very strong voice, she is not one to be soft spoken or gentle in her tone. Most find this rather annoying, but some find her to be lively. She doesn't have any tattoos yet, but plans to get some in the future when she is older. Her ears are pierced once on each side of her ear lobes. She has no prominent scars, but does have various bruises and dings from rough housing with her brothers and just everyday wear and tear.
● Friendly ● Obnoxious ● Adventurous ● Unreliable ●
● Personality:
Despite having a very old fashioned name, Bernadette is one of the most forward thinking and adventurous people there are. She is always willing to try something new, no matter the consequences it may hold. This tends to scare a lot of people off and away from her life. Though she isn't afraid to walk up to a stranger and start having a conversation, most people in the small town would rather keep to themselves. One could guess because her father is a car salesman that there is where she received her outspoken and overwhelming ability to speak to people with ease. Bernie also tends to take on too many projects or ideas at once, making her an unreliable friend in the sense of she might make several plans at once and only follow through with one of them. Howoever when she finally is around you she will give you all her attention and more.
● Quirks:
Gasping dramatically for no real reason
Texting with no grammar at all
Eating late at night when she shouldn't be
Singing songs that match lyrics from what someone said previously
● Hobbies:
Watching you tube tutorial videos on hair and makeup
Browsing the internet and social media sites
Going out to eat with friends
Taking selfies
● Likes & Dislikes:
Likes
Eating good meals
Pink lemonade
Trying new things
Browsing the internet
Getting her hair and nails done
Dislikes
Being grounded
Not having her drivers license
Her older brothers usually
Winter time where you can't go outside
Not having her dad at home very often
● Family Members:
Father: David Blackwell - Car Salesman - 46
Mother: Nicole Blackwell - Homemaker - 45
Older Brother: Henry Blackwell - Banker - 30
Older Brother: Anthony Blackwell - Janitor - 28
Older Brother: Lukas Blackwell - College Student - 24
Dog: Frankly - Pet - 5
● Biography:
Bernadette was named after her grandmother on her mother's side. She is the youngest child and only daughter to David and Nicole Blackwell. The Blackwell family has lived in Sterling Heights for as long as anyone could remember, going from simple farmers to various workers as years went by. David currently is a car salesman and is the only bread winner for the family at the moment. Bernadette had always been a rambunctious child, she wanted to keep up with whatever her older brothers were doing and whatever the other kids were doing on the block she had to be apart of it some how and some way. She never wanted to feel left out of anything.
School for the most part came easily for her, despite her goofy and "leap before looking" personality she has never been considered a stupid person and is usually an average B student. She doesn't try too hard as her mind is usually wandering to other things instead of studying or doing homework. She would apply to do more after school clubs and activities but her unreliability to attend the scheduled meetings make it so most clubs don't want anything to do with her unless it's a one day event type of thing, even then they can't hold their breath.
Being one of the first to see and hear about the SHS website, Bernadette was pretty interested in the whole fiasco, often checking the site to see who's name would pop up next. It became part of her daily routine when she went online- checking the website and being both intrigued and curious about what it said. She never once used the information to harm anyone, and it very rarely changed her thoughts about the people that had their secrets told- but perhaps as her own secret and her friend's secrets are revealed things may take a more personal toll on her.
● Theme Song:
Love With Em' - Jonn Hart
I don't wanna be a player no more
But it's The Bay in me so I gotta play on
If you talking 'bout love, that's a no-no
Gotta go, gotta go, gotta get the dough
𝔹𝕖𝕣𝕟𝕒𝕕𝕖𝕥𝕥𝕖 𝔹𝕝𝕒𝕔𝕜𝕨𝕖𝕝𝕝
"When in doubt, kick them haters out."
● Gwen Westbrook ●
"My best friend, she always has a good head on her shoulders."
Meeting when their parents signed them up for a little league soccer team, Gwen and Bernadette have been friends ever since. Their strong personalities tend to clash sometimes but for the most part they balance one another out. Bernie knows that Gwen always has her back. She would never tell Gwen, but she really looks up to her and admires her strong leadership and the ability to get things accomplished.
● Yaozu Au-Yeung ●
"Live fast. Die young. Bad boys do it well."
Trouble makers always seem to stick together. Bernadette and Yaozu together is often a recipe for disaster. The two can always be seen teasing each other and rough housing one another. They would probably make a wonderful couple in the Bonnie and Clyde sort of way. Gwen and Yao don't really see eye to eye so Bernadette keeps her thoughts to herself about Yao when around her best friend. However, it won't stop her from finding fun and excitement in the boy when she can.
● Jay Hunter-Darling ●
"You've tickled me pink. Get it? Cause of your hair!"
With a kind heart and a bit of goofiness, it was no surprise that Bernadette and Jay became friends. They both have the same ideas of Sterling Heights where you're most likely going to die there, but you might as well put up a little bit of a fight to seem like you want to get out of there. Bernadette enjoys watching Jay's fashion change over the years, and even helped dyed his hair pink. They both got grounded over the huge mess made in the Blackwell bathroom sink. Yikes.
● Cass Rowley ●
"If I didn't love you so much, I'd have punched you in the face already."
These two together are a fight waiting to happen. Though they care about one another and are friends, Cass tends to push Bernie's buttons extra hard to the point where Bernie has cussed her out and thrown items at her. Cass knows that Bernadette hates being called Bertha, and yet she still continues to call her that, even going as far as writing it on birthday cards, attendance role calls, and text messages. She is a bad influence on Bernadette but she also brings a lot of fun to Sterling Heights. Despite the petty arguments the two of them are always encouraging one another to try new things and want the best for each other.
● Connor Collins ●
"Steady and always there for me, he's a good friend."
Though these two have a little difference in personalities, they have been good friends since they've met. Bernadette likes to push Connor to try new things and be more outgoing in life when it comes to talking and speaking his mind. Despite his initial hesitations, he usually agrees. She loves talking about movies with him when they are one on one, and she sometimes goes to him when she has issues at school. |
7,808 | 209 | 1 | 1,595 | 3,188 | Gwen Westbrook Gwen's House
Interacting With: Bernadette Blackwell Gwen finished pinning her hair up, hearing the doorbell ring twice, and someone pound. Rolling her eyes, she knew exactly who it was. And as far as she was concerned, Bernie could bloody well wait. It had taken her a good hour to get the three looping buns done, and grabbing the makeshift staff she made, Gwen went down the stairs, entirely alone in the house.
Her father was out on patrol that night, despite being a homicide detective. It was Halloween and they needed bodies--no matter what their normal duty was. Her mother, a school administrator, was at the local elementary school's carnival, helping to run some of the many booths. And with her brother away at boarding school, it made perfect sense for the six friends to host the party at Gwen's house. Nothing too outrageous could happen, of course. Even if Gwen's father wasn't present, that didn't mean he couldn't recognize the residue of certain activities.
Standing in front of the door, Gwen smirked a bit. She could see Bernie through the glass pane, but instead chose to take out her phone, flipping over to Pokemon Go. She stood there, snickering to herself, as she focused more on catching an eevee than her friend. After catching the pokemon, she peeked up at Bernie, hoping to see her fuming.
Opening the door, Gwen stepped aside. "Where's the fire?" she teased, closing the door after Bernie came inside. She tucked her phone away, happy that her Rey costume provided a few places to hide it. It wasn't every day that she got to dress up like a Star Wars character.
"There's food in the living room if you're hungry already," Gwen commented. "No one else is here yet...obviously." | Gwendolyn Georgie Westbrook
"Everything is out there, if we take a moment to look."
● Name:
Gwendolyn Georgie Westbrook; Gwen
● Age:
Seventeen
● Gender:
Female
● Sexuality:
Homosexual
● More In Depth Appearance:
Standing at 5'6", Gwen weighs roughly 160 pounds. She has a curvy figure, yet her arms and legs are incredibly lean, and she could easily be a pro-athlete one day if she chose. She has the body of a soccer player. Her hair falls a few inches past her shoulder, a lovely rich brown color. She either has it down or up in a ponytail. She isn't one to wear make-up unless it's a special occasion, as she's a bit of a tomboy. If she doesn't brush her hair after its wet, it tends to curl, making some people think she actually spent the time to curl it (she didn't). Her personal style is fairly typical for a tomboy, tending to wear jeans and a comfy shirt, rather than designer labels. Her voice doesn't stand out much in conversation, not too loud yet not too soft. She's right in the middle. She has a scar on her knee from a canoeing accident at camp when she was twelve.
● Independent ● Sarcastic ● Determined ● Judgmental ●
● Personality:
Gwen is the type of person who, in a novel, would be labeled "a strong female character." She doesn't take nonsense from anyone and is very confident in her own actions, thinking everything through and making the best choice. She is decisive and firm, hardworking and able to get things done. She doesn't procrastinate and is very methodic in her approach to problems. However, she's also a bit snarky and quick to judge people, assuming that she's figured out everything about them. Being wrong isn't something that (so she thinks) happens often. Of course, she also tends to find a lot of humor in sarcasm, and it serves to lighten up her personality. She is a decent friend, but a blunt and honest one as well. She doesn't sugarcoat things, and doesn't think anyone else should either.
● Quirks:
Tapping her pen against the desk constantly
Twitching her leg
Pretending to stalk/follow people
Actually enjoying homework
● Hobbies:
Archery
Soccer
Drama/Theater
Puzzles
● Likes & Dislikes:
Likes:
Movies
Literature
Nature
Camping
Sports
Awards
Alone time
Dogs
Driving
Dislikes:
Corporate America
Criminals
Hamburgers
Pushy people
Snakes
Drama queens
● Family Members:
Father: George Westbrook, 46 years old, homicide detective
Mother: Annie Westbrook, 49 years old, school administrator
Twin Brother: Kingston Westbrook, 17 years old, goes to Academy for Fine Musicians, a boarding school
Pet: Belladona, black lab, 3 years old
Pet: Jolly Jane, black lab, 6 months old (Belladona's baby)
● Biography:
Gwen was named after her father, George (hence the middle name Georgie). From the moment she was born, she acted rather like him, something that holds true to this day. Her father was from Boston, working as a homicide detective there, when he met Annie. She was in town for an education convention, and they had a whirlwind romance. "It was the kind you see in Lifetime movies," Annie still says to this day. After a long distance relationship for several years, it became clear to the two of them that they were meant to be. George relocated for Annie, moving to her hometown of Sterling Heights.
A few years into their marriage, they gave birth to twins: Gwendolyn Georgie and Kingston George. The twins were polar opposites, with Gwendolyn acting more masculine, and Kingston acting more feminine. She loved cops and playing in the mud and cars, while Kingston enjoyed baking and playing the piano. A bit of an exaggeration, Annie always claimed, but it was true nonetheless. George and Annie wanted the best for their children, and a small town seemed to be perfect. They ensured that their children would have every opportunity, the entire reason Kingston ended up going to a boarding school in order to jumpstart his career in music. Gwen, meanwhile, was allowed to come with her father to the station, as she had determined she wanted to follow in his footsteps and become a detective.
A tomboy to the end, Gwen excelled in soccer and picked up archery on the side. However, in high school, she ended up discovering a love of theater, and started auditioning regularly for all of the plays. Her grades are decent--not the highest of the school, but not poor either. She ended up taking a fair amount of advanced courses, and is set on attending university in order to get a degree in criminology, and push her into her field.
The SHS website fascinated her, and she saw it almost as a thought experiment. If the rumors were true, who was the person behind the site? Who was able to find out about it all? Why were they doing it? It was, to her, almost a preview of what her work might be like one day. Of course, it soon appeared to her that the rumors were baseless...but in the back of her mind, she was still wondering about the site.
● Theme Song:
Confident - Demi Lovato
It's time for me to take it
I'm the boss right now
Not gonna fake it
Gwendolyn Georgie Westbrook
"Please, tell me more about what you do with all the time you save by typing "u" instead of "you."
● Bernadette Blackwell ●
"She might be a hipster, but she's my hipster."
If Bernie is the sun, then Gwen is the moon. Each of them are headstrong and confident, with their personalities on paper seeming to contradict each other, but working out beautifully in reality. Best friends since playing soccer together as a kid, they're pretty inseparable... Even if Gwen can't comprehend why Bernie loves taking selfies all the time.
● Yaozu Au-Yeung ●
"I don't hate him...But I kind of tend to hate him."
Friends through Bernie, Yao and Gwen are famous for getting into arguments and fights. From completely inane topics to politics, they're always bickering about something. However, they still are good friends--simply friends who debate all of the time and seem like it could erupt into a death match at any moment.
● Jay Hunter-Darling ●
"He needs to learn to make his own choices already..."
With police officer fathers, Jay and Gwen grew up attending the same functions. When the police officers had some sort of banquet or picnic, the pair of them would amuse themselves, inventing stories and playing games. Of course, once they grew older, they didn't keep those same habits up--now, they're more likely to chat with each other about sci-fi novels. And while they are good friends, Jay follows Gwen's lead almost to the extent that it irritates her.
● Cass Rowley ●
"She's going to get herself arrested....Really cool person, though, I'll visit her in prison!"
Cass and Gwen do get along, despite some fundamental differences when it comes to the legality of things. Gwen tends to turn a bit of a blind eye to it, figuring that she can't convince Cass to change, and that Cass should be able to choose how she acts. They enjoy bantering with each other, and can be quite good friends. Gwen also has only confided in Cass about her sexuality thus far.
● Connor Collins ●
"The ultimate Netflix and Chill friend....without the chill, of course."
He's the Ron to her Harry, the Grover to her Percy, the Rosencrantz to her Guildenstern. The pair of them are the ultimate movie and book lovers, and it makes a lot of sense that they're best friends for it. Highly intelligent individuals, Gwen provides the confidence that Connor sometimes lacks, and the friendship is an incredibly strong one. They usually have at least one late night movie marathon a week. |
7,809 | 209 | 2 | 2,232 | 2,604 | Location - Gwen's House
Interacting With - | Gwen | Bernie |
Chances are, everyone in the neigborhood heard Connor pull up to Gwen's house in his sorry excuse for a car. The old, VW Beetle had been a gift from his mom, for his sixteenth birthday. The AC didn't work, it was loud as all hell, and it had broken down more times than he could count. Despite all this, Connor loved it, though the rest of the neighborhood, and his friends, might not have held the same sentiment.
After making sure to catch this Eevee that had popped up on Pokemon Go, he stepped out of his car, slamming the door behind him, and making sure it was shut all the way. A slightly stupid, very Connorish grin was plastered on his face as he walked up to Gwen's house, and walked right on in. He rarely knocked when he came over to Gwen's, mostly because he was over there all the time. At some point it had gotten to be too much of a hassle.
"Hey, Gwen! Did you know you have an Eevee around here?" he called out, stepping inside, and rejoicing at the warmth of the house. "Oh, hey Bernie," he said, offering both his friends a sheepish smile and a wave. While both of them had donned costumes, or at least some form of one, Connor had remained as toned down as possible with his. A batman t-shirt and black skinny jeans, coupled with some Converse were all he'd really needed. He'd never been very good at costumes anyways. | "Well, that can't be good."
● Name:
Connor Jacob Collins
● Age:
Seventeen
● Gender:
Male
● Sexuality:
Heterosexual
● More In Depth Appearance:
Connor Collins is definitely one of the more attractive boys in Sterling Heights. Granted, there aren't a whole lot of options, as Connor will point out if you tell him this, but it still holds true. While he's not particularly muscled, he is slender, and his height makes him even more desirable. 6'2 is nothing to laugh at, as his mother always said.
His dirty blonde head of hair is kept swept up, out of his eyes, mainly because his mom hates it when he doesn't. She thinks his eyes are too pretty to hide. And she is right. Connor's eyes are probably his most noticeable feature, their striking blueish green color giving them an almost otherworldly look. A strong jawline makes the teenager even better looking, and his perpetual frown always makes him look like he's deep in thought.
Connor's apparel can best be described as preppy. Button up shirts and tight khakis, coupled with a pair of well taken care of Converse, or some Oxfords, and he looks a little bit too good for this town. Not to say he doesn't have days where he dresses in sweats and a three day old t-shirt because he does, but it's just that on those days he probably still looks better than your average citizen of Sterling Heights, or at least he thinks he does.
● Intelligent ● Awkward ● Friendly ● Impulsive ●
● Personality
All of Connor's friends will describe him as a lovable nerd, someone who you can't help but be friends with. When first meeting Connor, the first things most people notice is how smart he is, in part because of the painfully large words that he sometimes throws into a conversation on accident, and also because of the heaps of random trivia he has buried inside his head. As you get to know him however, you see how good of a friend he can be, kind and caring, and loyal too. He's never one to betray a friend, and the other five members of his group are people he'd trust with anything. Well, almost anything.
Connor's worse traits include his social awkwardness, and impulsiveness. He makes decisions as if each day is his last, sometimes to the detriment of himself, or those who are around him. Not to mention his incredibly poor social skills. While he may get friendly after you get to know him, he won't ever seek out social interaction with a stranger, and crowds stress him out to no end.
● Quirks:
🌟 Bites nails
🌟 Bites lip
🌟 Chews on pencils
🌟 Talks a lot when nervous
🌟 Runs hands through his hair when stressed
● Hobbies:
🏆 Reading
🏆 Chess
🏆 Film and Photography - Head of the Film Club at school, and in charge of the school's daily video announcements
🏆 Watching Movies
● Likes & Dislikes:
✔️ Books, especially mystery novels
✔️ Movies, really any genre
✔️ Art, mainly photography or anything by Van Gogh
✔️ Hanging out with his friends
✔️ Video games
❌ Snakes
❌ Spiders
❌ Chinese food
❌ Romance novels
❌ Jump scares
❌ Crowds
● Family Members:
Mara Collins - Mother, 42 - Mara Collins is a kindhearted woman, and the school principal at Sterling Heights High.
● Biography:
It was a Tuesday when Mara Collins arrived in Sterling Heights, two days past the due date of her first child, and fighting through the cold that came with January. It was a miracle that she went into labor just as she was passing by the small town's hospital, where she was quickly admitted. Connor was born that night, a screaming mess, but his mom's pride and joy all the same. It was then that Mara thought, it might just be alright.
From then on it was just the two of them, Connor and Mara. Mara got a job at the high school, as an English teacher, and Connor loved to tell everyone at school that his mommy was a teacher. No family ever came to visit, no grandparents or aunts and uncles. Connor always thought this to be a little strange, but at the same time, he liked it like this. Just him and his mom in a quaint little house in a quaint little town.
Life meandered on for Connor, as it does for everyone, and as his mom was promoted to principal, he discovered his love for the camera, much to the chagrin of his more camera shy friends. With senior year rolling around, he was ecstatic to finally be on his way out the door, off to bigger and better things. As much as he loves Sterling Heights, he can't help but feel like he has more to do than just roam around looking at cows. With the discovery of SHS, Connor was shocked, and soon became worried that something he'd long kept hidden would come to light.
● Theme Song:
At Last - Jukebox the Ghost
He was a fearful boy
Watchful of the earth
Worried that it might split apart
And he wouldn't even hear it first
He'd be caught in some position
Like a broken, old physician
And worst of all he feared that it would hurt
"It's not that I'm weird and awkward...okay well no that's exactly it."
● Bernadette Blackwell ●
"Bernie's a good friend, always there when it counts."
Connor and Bernie are close, and he trusts her a lot. She often pushes him out of his comfort zone, which he openly hates, and secretly loves.
● Gwendolyn Westbrook ●
"Honestly, we're practically married."
Gwen is one of Connor's closest friend, and he spends most of his time with her. Movie marathons and late night rants about particularly amazing books have made them extremely close, and he considers her to be one of his best friends.
● Yaozu Au-Yeung ●
"A personal line of thought about that character"
A more detailed description of the past with that character.
● Jay Hunter-Darling ●
"Okay so, he kind of sorta sucks at Mario Kart but I'll let it slide."
Connor's other closest friend, he and Jay are extremely close, the quintessential brotp if you will. Connor considers Jay his closest "guy-friend" and trusts him with almost everything.
● Cass Rowley ●
"She can be a bit of a pain in the ass, but I still care about her."
Cass often shoots playful jibes at Connor, some of which hit a little to close to home. Never the less, he still thinks of her as a friend. |
7,810 | 209 | 3 | 1,523 | 3,443 | Location: Gwen's House
Interacting With: Gwen , Bernie , Connor
It wouldn't be Halloween without a costume, and while the Plan™ had been to find a skin-tight leather cat-suit to fit a 6'5" frame, his dreams of being Halle Berry's catwoman were dashed by an icy dose of reality: he had no money. Now, instead of skating along on his roses-and-skulls board while mortifying Sterling Heights with – quote – "an ass that won't quit" on full display, Jay was dressed conservatively.
(If conservative was even possible.)
Jay's suit pants fit him just fine, tailored from a pair of his step-father's with a little hick jiggery-pokery learned from growing up poor. The suit jacket to match was too big on the shoulders and almost too short in the arms, so he folded them up. He didn't have a dress shirt – hadn't owned once since his mom remarried and he had to wear it to a wedding, and hell no he wasn't going to buy one; he was anti-establishment, which meant anti-formal wear. Substituted was a white t-shirt, a black tie around his neck that would surely end up around his forehead by the night's end.
Borrowed violin case, with a prop skeleton inside.
He was the Godfather – a sight that would make even Marlon Brando shed a tear of sheer awe at the ingenuity of it. And as he kicked his skateboard back up to tuck under his arm as he approached the house, he found it difficult to suppress a wicked grin as he contemplated how very terrible his costume was and how very excited he was to see everyone else's. Halloween, as always, was the best time of year, and he went full-out Lindsay Lohan in Mean Girls without fail.
Jay slid his phone (cracked screen and all) out of his pocket to ensure there were no last minute cancellations and knocked like a proper gentleman. He had to stoop so that his head could possibly fit under the archway and let himself inside. "So, yo, where's the snacks at? Never let it be said that my priorities aren't in the right order."
Then, "Hey guys. Nice costumes. Except you, Connor, bae." He clicked his tongue. | Han Solo shot first.
● Name ●
Jason Hunter-Darling
"Jay"
● Age ●
Seventeen
● Gender ●
Male
● Sexuality ●
Bisexual
● In-Depth Appearance ●
Messy pink hair. Light grey eyes. Those are Jay's defining characteristics. He always tries to be the most noticeable person in the room and half of the time, it works, and it's not just because his voice is loud and deep – his genetics have done him well, for an attention-seeking class clown.
Long and lanky at 6'5" (well over the point where he has to duck under door frames) with his bleached then brightly dyed hair, his appearance alone marks him as a character. He isn't particularly brawny or muscly but he is lean, probably helped only by his skateboarding and enthusiasm for urban exploration. Due to his height and having short friends, or perhaps his laid-back, carefree nature, Jay has a slouch that will probably result in a bad back in later life. Even so, he's fairly attractive and, like his mom says, he has "good bone structure" like his father; a strong jawline and a pretty smile that he puts to good use.
His attire is stereotypical grunge or "skater" with beanie hats, acid-washed denim jackets and sweaters underneath. He wears one worn pair of black and white sneakers most often because he can't afford a new pair of Converse, not without selling his soul to his step-father. Often he carries his skateboard with him and it is as much an accessory as anything else: the design on it is worn out but it was clearly once a black and pink depiction of roses.
Jay is pretty scarred up. He's had more than a few accidents while skateboarding before, resulting in knees that have been torn open and stitched up – he's quite self-conscious of them – and a whole variety of scrapes and bruises and friction burns that never quite healed properly.
He has one dorky tattoo of a quote from Battlestar Galactica on the back of his neck ("Sometimes, you have to roll a hard six,") that actually has fairly good lettering, and a conical flask of pink chemicals on his shoulder. Both were paid for and organised by his biological father on Jay's sixteenth birthday – slightly before the legal age to do so, but that's hicks for you. Finally for piercings Jay has both of his ears pierced but wears a feather earring in only one on occasion; he has his nose pierced but is letting it heal out and has a tongue piercing. One could say that since his early teens, he's been channeling his inner anarchist.
● Precocious ● Hot-Headed ● Kind ● Know-It-All ●
● Personality ●
Jay is a stereotypical rebel, so much so that it almost seems forced. He cares about freedom and creativity and expressing oneself openly and all that jazz, and usually tries to do things for the movements he is interested in: signing anti-animal cruelty petitions, taking part in equal rights parades in the city, socialist (and communist) demonstrations and protests. He doesn't have many ideas regarding his own future as he prefers to look at the 'big picture' of how the world will be at that time instead, hence he's more interested in fighting climate change than hunting for a job or college prospects. Jay hopes, however, that he won't end up in retail – he'd rather travel the world and do volunteering work, saving the rainforest and helping people. Still, he doesn't quite understand that putting in momentous effort is necessary to get a reward at the end.
He'll probably go into science.
Happy to listen to anyone talk or rant at him (and a bit of a pushover in that way), Jay is content to let other people run his life. This isn't as bad as some might think: he tends to attract people with optimism and good cheer, and as he's gotten older, he's become a bit more headstrong – able to think for himself on moral choices like not following a girlfriend down a dark rabbit hole or avoiding going shoplifting because it's inherently wrong. Even his thoughts are happy-go-lucky now. Jay believes the best of people, even when repeatedly lied to or cheated or stolen from. Thus, he is naive in many ways.
On to his interests: Jay is a total geek for sci-fi classics, especially the cheesy sort. Video games are fun for him but he's not as competitive as he should be, and on some occasions, he's let his friends win and smiled to himself when they were excited about the outcome. Heavily into all three sciences as a hobbyist and as a possible career path, it could be said that these are the only subjects that he actually tries in – the only ones he shows his single-minded intellect in – though he's never had a problem with the others beyond a lack of care. Mostly it's because he enjoys experimenting with... stuff. In his defense, he's an active learner!
Jay bases himself around being as different from his biological dad, Jamie Darling, as is possible. As a result he is very vocal about his dislike for drugs and drink – even becoming tipsy in public, really. The thing is, though... he's probably more like him than he believes. Often he can be seen spacing out, and his memory isn't really all there. The little things escape him, even if last night's equations don't.
While Jay prides himself on not being aggressive and hot-headed as he thinks his dad is, he's never backed down or disagreed with throwing the first punch at someone who threatens a person or movement he cares about. He's loyal until the end. Eternally.
● Quirks ●
- Sleeps in class – honest to god, head-on-desk style at the back of the room.
- Recites dorky chemistry jokes.
- Dozes off often and loses his train of thought mid-sentence; goes on tangents.
- Hand tremors.
- Really good at reciting pop-culture lines.
● Hobbies ●
✂ Science Club
✂ Skateboarding
✂ Urban Exploration
● Likes & Dislikes ●
✔ The sciences – biology, chemistry, and physics.
✔ Activism. Jay is signed up to PETA, Greenpeace, and various other organisations despite how much it costs in megaphones.
✔ Skateboarding, even if it's just a gateway to an aesthetic that he is going for: punk rebel.
✔ Graffiti in old, run-down buildings in Sterling Heights.
✔ The type of music typically expected of him to like; that is, edgy teenage pop-punk from the 2000s.
✔ Children (he's always been good with them). The ideal of 2.5 kids and a white picket fence.
✔ Sci-Fi. Really, Jay's entire life could be considered a plot from some pulp fiction novel; it's no surprise he loves the genre.
✘ Deadbeat parents, no doubt inspired by Jamie Darling himself. Daddy issues, ahoy!
✘ The Man. By that Jay envisions some collective of powerful men, making decisions for all the little people.
✘ Long, thought-out decisions. Gut instinct and short-term things go better with his complexion.
✘ Overachievers. He doesn't trust them, not with the state of his family as it is right now.
✘ Cars. Driving. They're causing pollution and ultimately global warming, don't you know? Also dangerous.
✘ Censorship – freedom on the Internet, man!
✘ Curfews and being grounded.
● Family Members ●
Lillian Hunter-Logan – A reformed junkie and high-functioning alcoholic. Jay's mother is fairly friendly and it's clear to see who Jay takes after in personality: laid-back and unambitious. She's intelligent but is content to live her life as a hairdresser, feeling morally superior to others as a 'working class woman' while answering crossword puzzles and day-time TV quiz shows.
Jamie Darling – Jay's biological father who is probably the only person in the world who Jay actively hates. Having left Lil whilst she was pregnant at eighteen despite being seven years older and in a stable job as a mechanic, he's considered lower than low by the people in Sterling Heights. A drug addict and an alcoholic and a smoker, he lives on the outskirts of town in a damaged house inherited from his family. He hasn't even had another girlfriend since Jay's mother.
Harold Logan – Jay's step-father, the chief of police in Sterling Heights. People think that he married Lil out of pity, or was in some way manipulated by her. He is mildly bemused at Jay's attempts at acting out but for the most part ignores Jay. Not his kid, not his problem. The feeling is mutual.
● Biography ●
If you're born in Sterling Heights – small-town dystopia – and your surname is either Hunter or Darling, you're going to die there, too. It doesn't matter how gifted you are at academics in elementary (or not) or how much you try, kicking and screaming, not to become a farmer or a hairdresser or a mechanic. Jay hates the town and he has always hated the town, though he certainly has some form of Stockholm Syndrome for it.
For his first seven years, he was raised in a single-parent family by his mother (Lillian "Lil" Hunter) and saw his biological father at most three times a year – at Christmas, at his birthdays, and at Halloween when he went trick or treating. Jay's home used to be in the decrepit neighborhood that was mostly made up of old, weathered apartment buildings with little to do but run about wild in the streets, and of course, skate.
He was a bit of a tearaway at that time, his friends being similarly poor with nothing to do but wander around outside and play pranks by ringing doorbells and so on. He used to tag surfaces with pens and penknives because he couldn't afford spray paint. Jay didn't get the attention he deserved, though he assumed his mother loved him dearly – she was just busy. Either way, he stayed out of her way as much as possible.
Things changed as his mother began a whirlwind romance with the chief of police, Harold Logan, who was a recent divorcee. She moved in with him and married him in a move that was considered hasty by, well, everyone on either side of the family, and it was Jay that was looked on with the most pity: a gold-digger for a mom, and a biological dad who was so wasted most of the time he forgot to send a birthday card? Jay never really understood why people thought his life must have been dreadful. It was actually pretty good, and although he acted out in school, it was undeniable that he was excellent grades.
Things were okay. He still stayed out late at nights, a true night-owl.
As he grew into a teenager, and his biological dad (possibly out of jealousy) wanted to be come a bigger part in his son's life, Jay's relationship with him grew even more tumultuous. He has fought and ranted at his father, even though Jamie never fought back and was already half-defeated, and repeated the insults that his mother used often when she was speaking about him. That's not to say that Lillian Hunter-Logan was innocent – Jay argued with her more than once over her subtle alcoholism. Even if he's flunking English, Jamie Darling is proud of him, at least.
Right now he's looking into out-of-state colleges and praying, praying that he can make it out of Sterling Heights before he dies.
● Theme Song ●
Title and Artist
Put some lyrics here
Your characters full name here
Realistic image of your character goes here
A quote coming from your character
● Name of Character goes here ●
"A personal line of thought about that character"
A more detailed description of the past with that character.
● Name of Character goes here ●
"A personal line of thought about that character"
A more detailed description of the past with that character.
● Name of Character goes here ●
"A personal line of thought about that character"
A more detailed description of the past with that character.
● Name of Character goes here ●
"A personal line of thought about that character"
A more detailed description of the past with that character.
● Name of Character goes here ●
"A personal line of thought about that character"
A more detailed description of the past with that character. |
7,811 | 209 | 4 | 2,372 | 423 | Yaozu Au-Yeung
Location: Gwen's House
Interacting With: Gwen, Bernadette , Connor , Jay
To: Bernadette
From: Yao
chill ur horsies, i'm pulling up rn
Yao's eyes flickered back and forth from the small, dimly-lit screen of his phone to the similarly dimly-lit road on which he drove on, his hand gracefully pulling at the wheel of his car. Immediately, his black Lancer Evo responded swiftly to the sudden motion and managed to dodge an incoming vehicle that honked angrily at him as it passed. The boy didn't even react, and instead, hit send on his message and finally pocketed his phone. Yao began to whistle to himself as he made an additional few turns, eventually ending up on the street where Gwen, his friend and sworn nemesis, lived. Parking his car neatly on the curb closest to her place, he lazily got out and gave a hearty stretch.
Vapors escaped from his nostrils and slightly parted mouth, indicating the chilly temperature on this Halloween night. When his tense muscles were finally able to unwind and stretch, he gave a small yawn before shoving his hands into his black bomber jacket's pockets. Underneath that, he wore a plain-white, long-fitted long sleeve that matched his pair of old Chuck's. For pants, he wore dark-grey skinnies that fitted his legs quite well. He wasn't one to dress up in costumes much, even though Halloween was one of his favorite holidays. Yao was more into the "scary" side of Halloween, with all the haunted houses, gorey movies and mischievous fun the night had to offer.
But knowing Bernie would be nagging in his ear at the first sight of him, the least he could do was wear a black snap-back that had pointed cat-ears. At least the hat worked well with his outfit for the night...
Sighing and already mentally exhausted at the thought, he made his way up Gwen's driveway and to the door. He began to ring the doorbell like a madman before abruptly opening the door, popping his head in.
"Boo. Did I scare any of you?" Yao gave a slight grin before opening it up all the way, stepping inside and closed it firmly behind him. "Hello my children. Happy Halloween. Gonna get each and everyone of you drunk tonight, just telling you all right now."
He shivered slightly, rubbing his hands together and pressing it to his lips so that its color may be regained as warmth replaced cold in his body. His deep brown eyes, twinkling with boyish mischief, eyed each of his friends one by one. "Love the costume, Jay. Are you supposed to be a fancy hobo? And Gwen, ugly as ever I see. But the Rey costume suits you well." Yao then settled his eyes on Connor and tsked at the boy. "C'mon, man, where's your Halloween spirit? Even I dressed up!" He teased, pointing to his hat. Finally, he looked towards Bernie and gave a mocked gasped, raising his hand dramatically to his mouth. Walking right up to her and placing his hands sassily on his hips, Yao looked her up and down.
"Girl, you need to change." He grinned at her, shaking his head slightly to accentuate his pointy cat-ears. After giving a small chuckle, he dropped his diva act and stood beside Bernadette, draping an arm around the girl's shoulder casually and gave a small yawn.
"Hey, I'm not last this time," he said, addressing the group. "When's Cass coming?" | Yaozu Au-Yeung
"Ayo! Whatchu lookin' at?!"
● Name:
Yaozu, or goes by Yao.
● Age:
Seventeen.
● Gender:
Male.
● Sexuality:
Heterosexual.
● More In Depth Appearance:
Black, short-to-medium length chic hair that is usually kept dyed and styled in several expressive but alluring manner that frames his angular face quite well. He is of Chinese decent but having been born and raised in the States. He has an olive-colored complexion, inheriting the darker skin tones from his father. Being Chinese-American, he stands at a shorter-than-average height than his fully Caucasian peers, but only by a little. His actual height is a bit above 5'8, and he weighs about 175 lbs. Sporting a thin frame, his athleticism over the years have made his body quite sturdy, though it doesn't quite show underneath his usual fitted clothing. For his attire, he usually wears things that are pretty casual but urban and stylish. He has his ears pierced, as well as several tattoos on his shoulders, back, and forearm.
● Affable ● Ill-Behaved ● Intelligent ● Lazy ●
● Personality:
Erratic and wild, Yaozu is a young man who is not afraid to express his fearlessness with vulgarity and a headstrong attitude. He radiates youth with his optimism as well as show it by partaking in silly risks and living his days with a splash of adventure and mischief. His confidence is backed by his stubbornness, a disastrous combination that usually leads him into trouble. Though many consider Yao to be a bad influence, he is not totally rotten to the core like most delinquents around his age. Sure, he may have contributed and partook in many deeds deemed unethical, but that is to personally provide relief for his otherwise mundane life outside of school, work and at home. He would never instigate a situation that would incite violence and harm towards innocents. In fact, he is quite friendly, knowing to be amicable to every group, clique, or individuals around his community despite his shady reputation. Yao speaks to everyone outside of his friend group and gang in the same level of friendliness and neutrality regardless of what they may think of him or others. Yao believes that his personal doings, crooked and ill-mannered or not, should not affect his ability to have fun with all types of people.
● Quirks:
Knowing he can't rap free-style but does it anyway
Carrying various types of sweets and candies around because of his sweet-tooth
Likes to read romance manga
Scared of dry skin and has to moisturize on the daily
● Hobbies:
Street-style martial arts, informally taught by various people he hung out with.
Manga, anime, video games
Cars (specifically tuners and imports ; owns an maintains a black 01 Integra)
Work (bus-boy at a local restaurant)
● Likes & Dislikes:
Likes:
All dem females
His small, close-knit group of friends
Sweets, candies, pastries
Making money
Cigarettes
Dislikes:
Bitter foods
General disrespect towards him and his friends
The PoPo
Stupidity
Being bored
● Family Members:
Father, Machinist, 45
Mother, Receptionist, 41
● Biography:
His father, Chen "Chad" Au-Yeung, is a descendant of Chinese immigrants who had came over to the United States during WWII. Though having grown up in San Diego, California since he was born, Yao's father and his grandparents were quite traditional with their Chinese roots. It was only after his father was in high school, where he met Yao's mother, Ai "Ali" Liang, that his father's sense of tradition began to fade and instead became quite 'westernized' himself. So when Yaozu was born many years later after the couple had move to Sterling Heights he was raised primarily on American values and principles, with his Chinese heritage being sprinkled in here and there. Yaozu grew up in a household of an average, middle-class nuclear family with him being the only child. His parents are hard workers, with his dad being a small-time lead machinist of a computer parts factory and his mom a receptionist at a local hospital.
It was pretty early on that Yaozu's rebellious streak emerged. Though he grew up as a smart and intelligent kid, he misbehaved a lot and, to the disapproval of his parents, started to not take school seriously even though he had a capable mind. Towards the end of his time in middle school, Yao became quite alienated from his parents. Though the couple still loved their son dearly, they could do nothing to tame Yaozu's wild soul.
In high school, Yao clicked with a group of people that were deemed to be the town's misfits and delinquents. Though the severity of their mischief and crooked ways was not that bad, he had garnered a reputation of being the bad boy at SHS. Various outrageous rumors that he neither denied nor claimed to be true floated with him wherever he went. But he didn't care - Yao was the type of guy who did not let the gossip of his peers affect him in his ever day life. If they wanted to talk behind his back, fine. Just be prepared to say it to his face when he chooses to confront those who do.
That was why when the SHS site became the talk of the school, and hell, even the town, Yao didn't pay any mind to it. However, due to the curiosities of his friends, he was forced to become intertwined with something that is far more fearsome and dangerous than he could imagine.
● Theme Song:
Random by G-Eazy
Uh, this shit is not random (nope)
Everybody ain't got it, understand son, yeah (sorry)
This shit is not random
Your characters full name here
Realistic image of your character goes here
A quote coming from your character
● Name of Character goes here ●
"A personal line of thought about that character"
A more detailed description of the past with that character.
● Name of Character goes here ●
"A personal line of thought about that character"
A more detailed description of the past with that character.
● Name of Character goes here ●
"A personal line of thought about that character"
A more detailed description of the past with that character.
● Name of Character goes here ●
"A personal line of thought about that character"
A more detailed description of the past with that character.
● Name of Character goes here ●
"A personal line of thought about that character"
A more detailed description of the past with that character. |
7,812 | 209 | 5 | 792 | 4,390 | Location: Casa de Gwen
Interacting With: Come On, Party People Throw Your Hands in the Air
It was very likely that Cass' arrival was heard coming from a mile away. Her car wasn't a rusty bucket of bolts or anything, despite it being an older model Camaro and all, Cass took care of her car like it was her child...if she had a child. But as she turned onto the street where Gwen's domicile lay, the thumping loud noise could be heard as her speakers were turned up and her windows were rolled all the way down. Half the reason she was the last arriving was because she was enjoying driving around the town earlier blasting some loud, vulgar music so the kids holding hands with their parents would be exposed to the sounds of maturity. Cass got a lot of angry adults shouting at her, trying to drown out the music, but her laughter at their anger was louder still.
Currently, the sounds of Bad Brains was blaring as her Camaro pulled up towards Gwen's house. Noting the presence of at least two other cars, meaning the other guests, Cass parked in what seemed like the most sensible place at the time: by pulling onto the grass and planting the vehicle half on the front lawn and half on the sidewalk. At least then no one would say "oh you're blocking me in" when they wanted to leave early.
Cass waited until the end of the song and then through the next one on the mix before even shutting off her car and stepping out onto the grass. Her initial idea for a costume was a 'sexy schoolgirl' since Halloween for people her age, at the young seventeen, was at the point where it was about transitioning to the adult Halloween with booze, boobs, butts, and mistakes. Her second choice was 'sexy nurse' but that one hit a bit too close to home with her mom working in the medical field and all. Plus when she showed off both of those costume ideas to her room mate Rodrigo he only had one thing to say. "¿no es demasiado viejo para ser vestirse?"
Cass' response both times was a scoff and a "¿No es usted demasiado viejo para ser viviendo conmigo?" One good thing about living with Rodrigo was learning a fair amount of Spanish. It made the funny little rumors about the situation all the more hilarious.
Rather than a nurse or a school girl, Cass arrived wearing Daisy Dukes that would even make Daisy Duke blush and a flannel shirt, sleeveless, and tied so it resembled more of a bra than an actual shirt. "White Trash Supermodel" was how she sold it.
Cass didn't bother knocking at the front door - she was invited, that meant she could just waltz in. So she simply walked in and spotted everyone else already present. "What the fuck, where's the costumes you lazy assholes?" Cass announced her presence by scoffing at Connor, Bertha, and Yao for their seeming lack of effort. She turned to Jay and snickered. "What are you, 'Too Big For Daddy's Clothes'?" As she crossed into the living room to scope out the night's food, she spotted the hostess and shrugged her shoulders at the costume. "Fuck is that? 'From Rags to More Rags'? It's like none of you clowns give a shit."
Cass grabbed a handful of pretzels after taking a handful of chips and shoving them into her mouth. "By the way, Gwen, if your dad calls I had nothing to do with the graffiti and the toilet paper over at Sterling High. As far as you guys know I've been here all night." | Have fun and be safe with it...just kidding: FUCK SHIT UP
● Name:
Cassandra Jane Rowley
Her nickname and the name she wants you to call her is 'Cass'.
● Age:
Seventeen
● Gender:
Female
● Sexuality:
If human, will sleep with.
● More In Depth Appearance:
Cass isn't trying to impress anyone with how she dresses, which might explain why she often has a sort of greasy, slovenly look about her, from t-shirts that have what people hope are drink and food stains, to jeans that long since lost their last legs, down to shoes that are run over. There's a certain madness to her outfits that somehow manages to feel just so...fitting. Her hair, golden blonde, is often stringy and unkempt while her blue eyes are striking if only because of her heavy and dark eye shadow that stands out amidst her otherwise pale complexion. Her hair wasn't always blonde, there was a time when it was muddy brown - bleaching had a more lasting impact. She prefers the blonde style anyway.
Cass is of average height at 5'5" and her lack of a strict exercise routine is quite clear from her figure, which isn't as slim and trim as is the 'ideal'. A diet of bad food will do that to a person. So long as she can make her ass fit into her jeans, she's perfectly fine with her choices. Some have called her style punk. She thinks that that is stupid as her style is just whatever. There's no style.
When she speaks it's with a rasp that is both husky and aggressive even if she's speaking at a normal volume. It's the voice one would describe as a 'smoker's rasp' and given that she's picked up smoking as a hobby that's to be expected, but her voice has always been like that, even before she started smoking. Cass also has a 'tramp stamp' of a pair of purple roses tattooed on her lower back.
● Fearless ● Crass ● Quick-Witted ● Abrasive ●
● Personality:
There's always that one person you know growing up that everyone figures will be a dropout, burnout, or behind bars because of their attitude, that person parents don't want their kids hanging out with for the most superficial of reasons, and Cass is that girl. Her reputation is almost as loud as she is, and considering the pipes she has that's quite impressive. Cass controls a room with her voice when her actions don't do it for her, though most people just find her grating, gross, or annoying. Cass has little time for the people who can't keep up with her on some level though she holds the people that give her a chance in high regard. She's never going to be the one to apologize for her actions, but she'll also be the first one to volunteer to do something that could get people into trouble. Her reputation is already in the mud, no need to drag others down with her.
Cass has an undeniable charisma about her, the same way that a front man for a band would have and though the legality and morality of her ideas stretch the limits of acceptable, one can never deny that a time with Cass is never boring. Whether or not that's a good thing is up to the individual.
● Quirks:
-Cass smacks her lips when she eats and doesn't care how annoying and gross that might be to others.
-Perhaps an overuse of "that's what she said" and other terms, in addition to her general vulgarity.
-Greets people by slapping them on the back. The slap is far beyond a friendly tap and is, in fact, a full on slap that stings.
-Can, has, and will go up to random people and show them affection. Some call it harassment. Cass does not.
● Hobbies:
Cooking
Driving long stretches of road really fast
Sloppily making out
Instagraming the meals she makes, complete with recipes and quick tutorials on Youtube
● Likes & Dislikes:
The Dead Milkmen. She bought an old Camaro because of the song Bitchin Camaro
Vinyl albums. Not to collect, per se. They break real good.
Macaroni and Cheese. It's the greatest food ever made. But not that Kraft crap.
Making Mistakes. It doesn't matter how bad something goes, so long as you live through it and find a way to do it better.
Driving with no destination in mind.
Dislikes:
Holding down a job.
People that are indecisive
Hospitals and doctors
Law enforcement, but only when they inconvenience her.
Fruit juices. Just eat a damn fruit.
● Family Members:
Cassidy Rowley, Father (48), Attorney at Law
Janet Rowley, Mother (43), doctor of Hematology
Rodney Anonymous, Fish, pet
Mojo Nixon, Fish, pet
Dean Clean, Fish, pet
Genaro, Fish, pet
● Biography:
A question many have after meeting Cass is 'was she always like that?' And the answer might come as a surprise if ever there was anyone around to hear it. Cass, born Cassandra, Rowley comes from a well off family, the type of family that has wings of a hospital or building named after them. The type of family that lives in a gated community and speaks ill about those that look different than they do, or as gated as it gets in a town of rural sorts. You know the type. In a town of farmers and earthy types, a lawyer and a respected doctor is practically the same as being a wealthy city dweller; of course the price tag involved with Cassidy Rowley's services makes the Rowley family hardly liked, and Cass is doing them no favors. Cass bought into the lifestyle as a child, taking the piano lessons and being groomed to be a perfect little well mannered adult. It was around the start of middle school when Cass began to change. Her parents liked to blame some of her friends as a bad influence, but it was just a matter of Cass seeing her parents and realizing that she wanted to be anything but them.
Cass attended public high school, which was about as big a slap in the face to her family as she could do without bringing home an unwanted suitor, and went to great lengths to hide her status from the others. She accomplished this by wearing clothes straight out of punk music videos, at first being a very poor poser but slowly, over time, adapting the anarchistic, wild child lifestyle for herself. All the marks were checked on the list. Smoking behind the gym. Truancy. A stint with a shitty garage band. Being thrown out of said band for thinking that their one and only gig had to end with her kicking a bigass hole in the drummer's kit. Cass embraced a life of attitude and loose morals even if it meant being cut off from her family's bank account once she turned eighteen.
Despite her grades being on the passing end of the spectrum, Cass stopped seeming to care about school at the tail end of her junior year, the same time her hair became the bleached blonde it is today. Because of how she acted she never relied on her parents for money (other than asking them to buy her a bitchin camaro for her sixteenth) and took up odd jobs around town over the summer and throughout her junior year, from mowing lawns with a lawn care company, to her most recent stint as a waitress at the cheapest, and thus most popular, diner in town. She hates it, the responsibilities of working, which is why she often looks for ways to cause trouble or get fired after making enough to cover what expenses she needs, though her parents have, without her knowledge, been footing some of her bills as a potential olive branch.
Currently she lives with a man that is twenty five years old, a former co-worker of hers from back when she was mowing lawns. The man speaks very little English and there are, of course, plenty of rumors going around, but that's not her secret at all, because in this case the rumors have a bit of truth to them. Cass would have herself emancipated but that's far too much paperwork. So instead she'll live in a small place since she considers herself an adult anyway.
● Theme Song:
Flagpole Sitta - Harvey Danger
Been around the world and found
That only stupid people are breeding
The cretins cloning and feeding
And I don't even own a TV
Put me in the hospital for nerves
And then they had to commit me
I'm not sick, but I'm not well
And I'm so hot, cause I'm in hell
I'm not sick, but I'm not well
And it's a sin, to live so well |
7,813 | 209 | 6 | 1,570 | 4,056 | 𝔹𝕖𝕣𝕟𝕒𝕕𝕖𝕥𝕥𝕖 𝔹𝕝𝕒𝕔𝕜𝕨𝕖𝕝𝕝
Location: Inside of Gwen's house
Interacting With: Everyone
"The fire is the opposite of fire, it's that I am freezing!" Bernadette exclaimed the minute the door was opened in front of her and pointed to her bare legs. Granted, it was her own fault for this, but she had to put the blame on someone other than herself of course. "Cute costume by the way." Bernie complimented, embracing Gwen in a tight hug. Not too long after Colin came up the way, "I knew once I got here, everyone would start flooding in." she teased, moving out of the way for Colin to come through the door. She gave a friendly wave to the boy and a soft smile. The three of them sat there only a minute as the rest of their group began to flood in.
Jay dawned a suit and Bernie couldn't help but laugh. She imagined this was a preview into prom night that would be there before the group knew it. "Thaaanks Jay." she beamed, as she moved a little bit into the house even more. With her phone buzzing in her pocket, she assumed it was Yao. Seeing him pull up confirmed this. After he belittled each of them, in a playful way, Bernadette felt a warm happiness as Yao wrapped his arm around her shoulder. Gwen probably would be hating the sight of this, but Bernie hoped that the judgement wasn't too harsh.
Bernie took off her cat ears, and snatched the hat from Yao's head. Exchanging the two between them. She wearing his snapback hat, and him adorning her cat ear headband. Disgustingly cute, and just in time for Cass to make her loud entrance. "Nice of you to join us Cass." Bernadette teased pointing out that Cass was the last one here to arrive. The group began crowding in the living room to eat the food and settle in. Grabbing a hand full of chips for herself she cozied up in one of the arm chairs that were situated in the living room. "What's our plans for the night?" she asked mostly towards Gwen, as she was the host of the party. However, she assumed that everyone would have their own ideas of a good time for tonight. | 𝔹𝕖𝕣𝕟𝕒𝕕𝕖𝕥𝕥𝕖 𝔹𝕝𝕒𝕔𝕜𝕨𝕖𝕝𝕝
"Life is too short not to have fun every single day."
● Name:
Bernadette Blackwell. Bernie among friends. Bertha among enemies.
● Age:
Sixteen
● Gender:
Female
● Sexuality:
Heterosexual
● More In Depth Appearance:
Bernadette stands tall at around 5ft 7 and is a fit weight of about 120lbs. She has naturally wavy brown hair that she likes to get dyed to have a caramel to blonde ombre of sorts. She changes it often, and isn't afraid to try new things with her look. Her eyes are a piercing blue that she gets from her father's side. She loves makeup and keeps herself very well manicured. Bernadette has a very strong voice, she is not one to be soft spoken or gentle in her tone. Most find this rather annoying, but some find her to be lively. She doesn't have any tattoos yet, but plans to get some in the future when she is older. Her ears are pierced once on each side of her ear lobes. She has no prominent scars, but does have various bruises and dings from rough housing with her brothers and just everyday wear and tear.
● Friendly ● Obnoxious ● Adventurous ● Unreliable ●
● Personality:
Despite having a very old fashioned name, Bernadette is one of the most forward thinking and adventurous people there are. She is always willing to try something new, no matter the consequences it may hold. This tends to scare a lot of people off and away from her life. Though she isn't afraid to walk up to a stranger and start having a conversation, most people in the small town would rather keep to themselves. One could guess because her father is a car salesman that there is where she received her outspoken and overwhelming ability to speak to people with ease. Bernie also tends to take on too many projects or ideas at once, making her an unreliable friend in the sense of she might make several plans at once and only follow through with one of them. Howoever when she finally is around you she will give you all her attention and more.
● Quirks:
Gasping dramatically for no real reason
Texting with no grammar at all
Eating late at night when she shouldn't be
Singing songs that match lyrics from what someone said previously
● Hobbies:
Watching you tube tutorial videos on hair and makeup
Browsing the internet and social media sites
Going out to eat with friends
Taking selfies
● Likes & Dislikes:
Likes
Eating good meals
Pink lemonade
Trying new things
Browsing the internet
Getting her hair and nails done
Dislikes
Being grounded
Not having her drivers license
Her older brothers usually
Winter time where you can't go outside
Not having her dad at home very often
● Family Members:
Father: David Blackwell - Car Salesman - 46
Mother: Nicole Blackwell - Homemaker - 45
Older Brother: Henry Blackwell - Banker - 30
Older Brother: Anthony Blackwell - Janitor - 28
Older Brother: Lukas Blackwell - College Student - 24
Dog: Frankly - Pet - 5
● Biography:
Bernadette was named after her grandmother on her mother's side. She is the youngest child and only daughter to David and Nicole Blackwell. The Blackwell family has lived in Sterling Heights for as long as anyone could remember, going from simple farmers to various workers as years went by. David currently is a car salesman and is the only bread winner for the family at the moment. Bernadette had always been a rambunctious child, she wanted to keep up with whatever her older brothers were doing and whatever the other kids were doing on the block she had to be apart of it some how and some way. She never wanted to feel left out of anything.
School for the most part came easily for her, despite her goofy and "leap before looking" personality she has never been considered a stupid person and is usually an average B student. She doesn't try too hard as her mind is usually wandering to other things instead of studying or doing homework. She would apply to do more after school clubs and activities but her unreliability to attend the scheduled meetings make it so most clubs don't want anything to do with her unless it's a one day event type of thing, even then they can't hold their breath.
Being one of the first to see and hear about the SHS website, Bernadette was pretty interested in the whole fiasco, often checking the site to see who's name would pop up next. It became part of her daily routine when she went online- checking the website and being both intrigued and curious about what it said. She never once used the information to harm anyone, and it very rarely changed her thoughts about the people that had their secrets told- but perhaps as her own secret and her friend's secrets are revealed things may take a more personal toll on her.
● Theme Song:
Love With Em' - Jonn Hart
I don't wanna be a player no more
But it's The Bay in me so I gotta play on
If you talking 'bout love, that's a no-no
Gotta go, gotta go, gotta get the dough
𝔹𝕖𝕣𝕟𝕒𝕕𝕖𝕥𝕥𝕖 𝔹𝕝𝕒𝕔𝕜𝕨𝕖𝕝𝕝
"When in doubt, kick them haters out."
● Gwen Westbrook ●
"My best friend, she always has a good head on her shoulders."
Meeting when their parents signed them up for a little league soccer team, Gwen and Bernadette have been friends ever since. Their strong personalities tend to clash sometimes but for the most part they balance one another out. Bernie knows that Gwen always has her back. She would never tell Gwen, but she really looks up to her and admires her strong leadership and the ability to get things accomplished.
● Yaozu Au-Yeung ●
"Live fast. Die young. Bad boys do it well."
Trouble makers always seem to stick together. Bernadette and Yaozu together is often a recipe for disaster. The two can always be seen teasing each other and rough housing one another. They would probably make a wonderful couple in the Bonnie and Clyde sort of way. Gwen and Yao don't really see eye to eye so Bernadette keeps her thoughts to herself about Yao when around her best friend. However, it won't stop her from finding fun and excitement in the boy when she can.
● Jay Hunter-Darling ●
"You've tickled me pink. Get it? Cause of your hair!"
With a kind heart and a bit of goofiness, it was no surprise that Bernadette and Jay became friends. They both have the same ideas of Sterling Heights where you're most likely going to die there, but you might as well put up a little bit of a fight to seem like you want to get out of there. Bernadette enjoys watching Jay's fashion change over the years, and even helped dyed his hair pink. They both got grounded over the huge mess made in the Blackwell bathroom sink. Yikes.
● Cass Rowley ●
"If I didn't love you so much, I'd have punched you in the face already."
These two together are a fight waiting to happen. Though they care about one another and are friends, Cass tends to push Bernie's buttons extra hard to the point where Bernie has cussed her out and thrown items at her. Cass knows that Bernadette hates being called Bertha, and yet she still continues to call her that, even going as far as writing it on birthday cards, attendance role calls, and text messages. She is a bad influence on Bernadette but she also brings a lot of fun to Sterling Heights. Despite the petty arguments the two of them are always encouraging one another to try new things and want the best for each other.
● Connor Collins ●
"Steady and always there for me, he's a good friend."
Though these two have a little difference in personalities, they have been good friends since they've met. Bernadette likes to push Connor to try new things and be more outgoing in life when it comes to talking and speaking his mind. Despite his initial hesitations, he usually agrees. She loves talking about movies with him when they are one on one, and she sometimes goes to him when she has issues at school. |
7,814 | 209 | 7 | 1,595 | 3,188 | Gwen Westbrook Gwen's House
Interacting With: Everyone"Then you should have dressed for the weather!" Gwen giggled, hugging Bernie back tightly. They'd been best friends since forever. She was allowed to tease Bernie.
Gwen then glanced up, watching Connor walk in. He looked as adorable as ever in his Batman shirt, his phone out with Pokemon Go pulled out. With his quip about the eevee, Gwen pulled her own phone out, opened the app, and showed him her pokemon collection. She had about twenty eeves. "This place is crawling with them, no bloody idea why," Gwen explained. "They're more common than rattatas here."
She pointed her hands towards the living room, indicating to Connor that he could go there and wait for the others to arrive. Her lips pursed as she reminded herself that Yao would be coming over. She wouldn't exactly be upset if her father showed up and dragged him away in handcuffs. He and Cass were the two of the group most likely to go to prison.
The door opened, and Gwen sighed. "Chivalry really is dead," she muttered bitterly, as Jay walked inside. He was wearing a tux and carrying a violin case, and Gwen rolled her eyes slightly, understanding the intention. It wasn't too bad for a cheap fix.
"Thanks, yours isn't too shabby," Gwen replied, right after Jay complimented them all on their costumes. Her smile vanished as the doorbell rang incessantly, and in a moment, the door swung open. Yao stepped through, and Gwen let out a sigh of frustration.
"One more comment like that and you're done here," Gwen threatened. She had already talked with her father earlier, and he agreed that if she wanted anyone to leave, to just give him a call. Having your cop father show up in the police car, lights blazing, tended to be very effective in terms of kicking people out of the house. It wouldn't be the first time she'd called her father on Yao, either.
Blaring music, of course, only caused her irritation to increase. Cass. She didn't mind Cass as much, finding some of her antics amusing. But peeking through the window by the door, she saw Cass sitting in her car, half of it on her lawn. Her mother was not going to like that. Gwen had no problem telling her mother who was responsible--but admittedly, informing her parents that Yao had done it would provide more personal amusement.
"Sure, I'll tell him Yao did that," Gwen snickered, after hearing Cass' hinted confession about vandalizing the school.
Cass entered, running her mouth as always. Gwen rolled her eyes about the costume comment, tempted to take the staff and gently hit Cass over the head with it. However, she had to stick to her own rules--she couldn't force the others into obeying the law in the utmost respect if she didn't. Bashing a friend with a staff wasn't exactly legal. Locking the door up tightly, Gwen shut the lights off in the other parts of the house, leaving them on only in the living room. There was no need to waste electricity.
"Well...My only rule is that Yao isn't allowed to suggest anything. His suggestions have to be filtered by Bernie for sanity's sake. As for what we could do...We could play truth or dare?" | Gwendolyn Georgie Westbrook
"Everything is out there, if we take a moment to look."
● Name:
Gwendolyn Georgie Westbrook; Gwen
● Age:
Seventeen
● Gender:
Female
● Sexuality:
Homosexual
● More In Depth Appearance:
Standing at 5'6", Gwen weighs roughly 160 pounds. She has a curvy figure, yet her arms and legs are incredibly lean, and she could easily be a pro-athlete one day if she chose. She has the body of a soccer player. Her hair falls a few inches past her shoulder, a lovely rich brown color. She either has it down or up in a ponytail. She isn't one to wear make-up unless it's a special occasion, as she's a bit of a tomboy. If she doesn't brush her hair after its wet, it tends to curl, making some people think she actually spent the time to curl it (she didn't). Her personal style is fairly typical for a tomboy, tending to wear jeans and a comfy shirt, rather than designer labels. Her voice doesn't stand out much in conversation, not too loud yet not too soft. She's right in the middle. She has a scar on her knee from a canoeing accident at camp when she was twelve.
● Independent ● Sarcastic ● Determined ● Judgmental ●
● Personality:
Gwen is the type of person who, in a novel, would be labeled "a strong female character." She doesn't take nonsense from anyone and is very confident in her own actions, thinking everything through and making the best choice. She is decisive and firm, hardworking and able to get things done. She doesn't procrastinate and is very methodic in her approach to problems. However, she's also a bit snarky and quick to judge people, assuming that she's figured out everything about them. Being wrong isn't something that (so she thinks) happens often. Of course, she also tends to find a lot of humor in sarcasm, and it serves to lighten up her personality. She is a decent friend, but a blunt and honest one as well. She doesn't sugarcoat things, and doesn't think anyone else should either.
● Quirks:
Tapping her pen against the desk constantly
Twitching her leg
Pretending to stalk/follow people
Actually enjoying homework
● Hobbies:
Archery
Soccer
Drama/Theater
Puzzles
● Likes & Dislikes:
Likes:
Movies
Literature
Nature
Camping
Sports
Awards
Alone time
Dogs
Driving
Dislikes:
Corporate America
Criminals
Hamburgers
Pushy people
Snakes
Drama queens
● Family Members:
Father: George Westbrook, 46 years old, homicide detective
Mother: Annie Westbrook, 49 years old, school administrator
Twin Brother: Kingston Westbrook, 17 years old, goes to Academy for Fine Musicians, a boarding school
Pet: Belladona, black lab, 3 years old
Pet: Jolly Jane, black lab, 6 months old (Belladona's baby)
● Biography:
Gwen was named after her father, George (hence the middle name Georgie). From the moment she was born, she acted rather like him, something that holds true to this day. Her father was from Boston, working as a homicide detective there, when he met Annie. She was in town for an education convention, and they had a whirlwind romance. "It was the kind you see in Lifetime movies," Annie still says to this day. After a long distance relationship for several years, it became clear to the two of them that they were meant to be. George relocated for Annie, moving to her hometown of Sterling Heights.
A few years into their marriage, they gave birth to twins: Gwendolyn Georgie and Kingston George. The twins were polar opposites, with Gwendolyn acting more masculine, and Kingston acting more feminine. She loved cops and playing in the mud and cars, while Kingston enjoyed baking and playing the piano. A bit of an exaggeration, Annie always claimed, but it was true nonetheless. George and Annie wanted the best for their children, and a small town seemed to be perfect. They ensured that their children would have every opportunity, the entire reason Kingston ended up going to a boarding school in order to jumpstart his career in music. Gwen, meanwhile, was allowed to come with her father to the station, as she had determined she wanted to follow in his footsteps and become a detective.
A tomboy to the end, Gwen excelled in soccer and picked up archery on the side. However, in high school, she ended up discovering a love of theater, and started auditioning regularly for all of the plays. Her grades are decent--not the highest of the school, but not poor either. She ended up taking a fair amount of advanced courses, and is set on attending university in order to get a degree in criminology, and push her into her field.
The SHS website fascinated her, and she saw it almost as a thought experiment. If the rumors were true, who was the person behind the site? Who was able to find out about it all? Why were they doing it? It was, to her, almost a preview of what her work might be like one day. Of course, it soon appeared to her that the rumors were baseless...but in the back of her mind, she was still wondering about the site.
● Theme Song:
Confident - Demi Lovato
It's time for me to take it
I'm the boss right now
Not gonna fake it
Gwendolyn Georgie Westbrook
"Please, tell me more about what you do with all the time you save by typing "u" instead of "you."
● Bernadette Blackwell ●
"She might be a hipster, but she's my hipster."
If Bernie is the sun, then Gwen is the moon. Each of them are headstrong and confident, with their personalities on paper seeming to contradict each other, but working out beautifully in reality. Best friends since playing soccer together as a kid, they're pretty inseparable... Even if Gwen can't comprehend why Bernie loves taking selfies all the time.
● Yaozu Au-Yeung ●
"I don't hate him...But I kind of tend to hate him."
Friends through Bernie, Yao and Gwen are famous for getting into arguments and fights. From completely inane topics to politics, they're always bickering about something. However, they still are good friends--simply friends who debate all of the time and seem like it could erupt into a death match at any moment.
● Jay Hunter-Darling ●
"He needs to learn to make his own choices already..."
With police officer fathers, Jay and Gwen grew up attending the same functions. When the police officers had some sort of banquet or picnic, the pair of them would amuse themselves, inventing stories and playing games. Of course, once they grew older, they didn't keep those same habits up--now, they're more likely to chat with each other about sci-fi novels. And while they are good friends, Jay follows Gwen's lead almost to the extent that it irritates her.
● Cass Rowley ●
"She's going to get herself arrested....Really cool person, though, I'll visit her in prison!"
Cass and Gwen do get along, despite some fundamental differences when it comes to the legality of things. Gwen tends to turn a bit of a blind eye to it, figuring that she can't convince Cass to change, and that Cass should be able to choose how she acts. They enjoy bantering with each other, and can be quite good friends. Gwen also has only confided in Cass about her sexuality thus far.
● Connor Collins ●
"The ultimate Netflix and Chill friend....without the chill, of course."
He's the Ron to her Harry, the Grover to her Percy, the Rosencrantz to her Guildenstern. The pair of them are the ultimate movie and book lovers, and it makes a lot of sense that they're best friends for it. Highly intelligent individuals, Gwen provides the confidence that Connor sometimes lacks, and the friendship is an incredibly strong one. They usually have at least one late night movie marathon a week. |
7,815 | 210 | 0 | 1,729 | 158 | The white light that emitted from the computer screen illuminated Olivia's already pale face. Her blue eyes scrolled over the email, taking in the bits of information that were important. After she had finished reading the email, she sighed and clicked the little red X at the stop of the screen. Still no word about Ricky. She was starting to get worried. V shook her head and leaned back in her chair. The chair that Ricky should have been sitting in as head of the family by now. This was a young vamps job. She was too old for this. After sitting still for a period of time, the computer screen went black. Still, the vampire did not move.
After sitting in the dark for awhile, the all to recognizable feeling of thirst mixed with hunger tickled her throat and clawed at her stomach. She checked her watch. 9:30 PM. The clubs would be filling up soon with some pretty blood donors. She rose from behind the desk and exited to the hall way. The house was quiet. The rest of the family members must have been out and about doing their jobs or hunting already. Damn. I hate hunting alone. She thought to herself as she descended the stairs. As she was entering the parlor, she heard a noise coming from the garage behind the house. Maybe that's Jack. She thought as she headed in the direction the noises were coming from. | Name: Olivia Abascal
Nickname: V
Age: 500 years old (Looks early 20’s)
Family: Vampire- Head of the Abascal family
Bio: Not much is known about Olivia. She doesn’t discus where she came from or how was was turned into a vampire. The most important information that needs to be known about her is that she runs the Northernmost section of San Francisco. Her family owns five banks, one police department, ten clubs, and about a dozen bars. Her “little brother” Ricky was supposed to take over the family business, but he is one of the vampires that have gone missing. Now, she will not rest until he is found and the person or thing responsible is killed.
Personality: Fierce. Ruthless. Always calm and collected, V rules with an iron fist.
Special Power: Animal Control
Other: Has a pet black cat named Charmed |
7,816 | 210 | 1 | 2,057 | 7 | David looked over the neon haze of the clubbing district in north San Francisco. The noise and momentum of the night was tugging at his curiosity as he took one last drag from his cigarette and cast it to the sidewalk. It had been about a month since he had been in the public space. There was a certain strict protocol he needed to follow to make sure he wasn't discovered. He figured after a month of silence the Agency wouldn't be looking into his case with any major degree of scrutiny.
"Just another fucking door-kicker killed on the job." David imagined they would eventually pen down. The whole process felt reminiscent of those times when he and his team would be dropped into the middle of some horrible arse-end country that usually ended with 'stan'. He couldn't help but think of that five minute window after the helicopter disappeared into the night sky and the noise it kicks up faded away. A cold and eerie silence would follow as they faced out and waited to see if they were compromised.
In this case, San Francisco was his new area of operations, and the helicopter was a shitty convertible he stole at a truck stop. That golden five minutes was equivalent to a month of studying the night life of the city from afar. This was the area that Sofia was investigating. This is where she vanished.
David had made a note of the grand attire of wankery that most people wore when they were 'out on the town' but he could only really muster some slim dark blue jeans, brown dress shoes and belt, a light dress shirt and a blue blazer for practical purposes. This was the limit of modern twatiness he could tolerate. What he would give for some board shorts, a singlet and "flip flops" as the yanks called them.
With hands delved deep into his pocket he sampled the atmosphere of the crowds outside each of the clubs in the district before choosing one at random to get into. After a short stint in the lineup he was inside and navigating his way to the nearest bar counter to compete in the hustle and bustle for a drink. | Name: David Anthony Matheson
Nickname: Dave, Matho
Age: 28
Family: Human, Independent.
Biography:
David Matheson always thought the world was stranger than it seemed. This was mostly due to his time in JTF66, a secretive multinational task force assembled to handle incidents of a sensitive nature for an organisation simply known as the Agency.
In a short period of time, David had been exposed to many strange circumstances that has left him questioning his fundamental understanding of the world.
David was poached into the Agency during his time in the Australian Special Air Service (SAS) where he was one of the youngest candidates to have passed selection at 20 years of age.
After 6 years of combat rotations in trouble spots around the world, David was given a chance to move deeper into the underbelly of operations that existed in the world of the seen and the unseen - the grey role if you will.
David left his personal identity and life behind to fall deep into this world where spies, special forces and other certain ‘types’ of individuals work closely together.
It was in this new life where he became attached to a woman. A field agent that went missing somewhere in San Francisco while on a suspicious assignment.
Frustrated with the lack of answers and desperate to find her, David faked his own death during an operation about 2 weeks later.
With only his determination and some basic equipment left, he has begun investigating the city’s criminal underworld.
Note - If someone would like to RP the missing field agent send me a PM.
Personality:
David is often quite laid back and calm even when placed in difficult situations. A personality trait typical of those in his profession. He really could be your best friend.
Occasionally however, certain situations can cause a trigger to go off in his head and his aggression whilst controlled can certainly come to the fore.
He is certainly a man with a past full of things he’s not proud of and this has left a few emotional scars.
Special Power:
Contacts: Trusted friends inside the Agency know about his endeavour and will help him where it is practical and safe to do so. |
7,817 | 210 | 2 | 683 | 76 | Jack sat in his small office tucked into the corner of the workshop, feet up on his desk scrolling through Instagram on his phone. He'd finished his last job an hour or so ago, replacing a clutch that one of the Vamps had trashed in one the many cars in the Abascas fleet, & had nothing much else to do. As the time hit 9:30 pm Jack peered out of his office out into the shop and satisfied that nothing else was coming in decided that it was quitting time. Quickly doing a once over of the shop to make sure everything was where it should be Jack switched the lights off and headed for the exit. No sooner had he set foot outside the door though did a Corvette appear round the corner, one Vamp pushing it & another inside steering it. Smoke was pouring from beneath the hood. Jack sighed heavily. Looks like he wasn't going home after all.
"What the hell did you do it?" He asked as the car stopped in front of him. "Dunno, it just went bang," said the Vamp climbing out of the car. The other one had quickly bolted once the car was where it needed to be, clearly wanting to be anywhere but there. Jack shook his head. About as an intelligent a reply as he normally got. "Just push it in" he instructed, still shaking his head as he pressed the button to open the garage shutter door & stepping through when it was sufficiently open enough. The stricken Corvette was pushed in shortly after & Jack dismissed the Vamp with a wave of his hand. "Let's see what the damage is then," he sighed as he popped the hood & lifted it up to reveal the V8 engine beneath - or what was left of it in this case. Smoke still pouring out, oil everywhere and quite a large hole in the side of the block. "Great." Jack muttered. "There goes my night." | Name: Dragos Dragomir
Nickname: Referred to as “Mr.Dragomir” when dealing with humans while seeks to be sought out as “Lord Dragos” when dealing with supernatural beings aware of his identity.
Age: Roughly 800 years
Family: Vampire: Head of the Dragomir Family
Bio: Roots date back to around Eastern Europe during the Medieval times. While various European lords attempted to establish dynasties, a vampiric family known as the Dragomir emerged due to their proficiency of combat. Acting as mercenary knights, the Dragomir’s fought throughout Europe’s various wars throughout the centuries, holding no permanent allegiances other than to themselves or gold. After countless battles the Dragomir’s ensured their secrecy by violently executing those who attempted to expose them having built a vast wealth that would enable them to live incredibly lavishly even into the modern day. Dragos has emerged as the longest reigning and most powerful of the Dragomirs having an established empire in New York City. He recently arrived in Oakland having established a base of operations by its ports while preparing to expand his empire towards San Francisco though those closest to him understand there is an even greater motivation on why he went out west.
Appearance: Dragos stands tall at 6'5 with a muscular, athletic appearance. In public he is often mistaken as a professional athlete and his knack for wearing expensive suits doesn't necessarily help to dissuade this illusion. Despite his age Dragos looks no older than his late 20s to early 30s.
Personality: Calculated and charismatic, very rarely does Dragos lose his temper. Due to his centuries worth of combat experience, Dragos can be incredibly confident regarding his abilities while also having the habit of talking down to those he see's beneath him. Dragos however does respect power and courage and despite his own ambitions is willing to compromise even with other heads of vampire families if there is something positive to gain.
Special Power: Pyromancy
Other: Currently armed with two dessert eagles while also still possessing the same sword he’s used back in his medieval conflicts. His sword is considered his ultimate weapon only using it if the situation calls for it. Due to his vast wealth Dragos also has access to a variety of cars that he has brought with him to Oakland. His favorite and most used is an all black Bugatti Chiron. |
7,818 | 211 | 0 | 179 | 5,558 | The caravan sets off, and gets stuck in a hole where any chance of continuing looks rather bleak. Caravan master charges through a storm that he probably should have waited out, but didn't in the name of speed. That went rather poorly. The horse had two busted legs, and was put down by the caravan master - a dark end to a pair that had lasted some 13 years. An approaching figure from the darkness was greeted by an array of swords, bows, guns and nuclear ordinance before turning out to be a hot girl. Twists of fate, eh >.>
Said girl, introduced as Regina, brings the group back to the house, which is quite obviously enchanted, and the owner is most certainly capable around magic, healing the busted leg of a young group member. Soon after the group is partially settled in, 4 more odd folks pop in, a cultist, a rather young fellow, a bodybuilder, and a highwayman that immediately takes Regina upstairs. Oh, and a mud man takes vigil in the backdoor and a few folks notice there's something under the floor. The two groups uneasily keep calm, for a time. Things heat up a bit as one of the caravan riders takes the recently healed kid out to the woods, where a mud-demon-guy forms up to greet him, and when one of the caravan group members cuts the crap and asks the big questions, namely, "what the fuck are you and are we gonna have a problem" (in short). One of the newcomers... kind of explains the situation. A small brawl breaks out as Baldur goes upstairs and has a chat with the resident demon there. The group goes all out on the cultist, believing him to be the leader. Not quite.
After a tense conversation and a chase in the forest, the group eventually makes it out in one piece, though two individuals are split from the main group and meet up with a few soldiers downstream. The others continue their path north, and from here this tale ends, and the next shall begin...
Please only post here if you're accepted. See the list of accepted folks and a list of chars with them in the OOC tab. | Please stick your CS into the OOC first, the drop it in here when accepted. If it's got larger images feel free to stick it in a hider, but I don't consider that a requirement.
NPC's will get a mention here with a short description, along with any important roleplay details, but I'm leaving them largely open to interpretation. Most of the time.
Caravan Master - an old, limping, rough and somewhat unpleasant fellow with a record for getting people up north in very good time and having survived trips through weather many don't dare tempt.
Caravan Master's Horse - I figured the poor sod needed a mention somewhere. He's almost as old as the caravan master and twice the pain in the ass. |
7,819 | 211 | 1 | 179 | 5,558 | The Caravan
A Halloween Mini-RP
First of the Tenth Month, Western Year 998 - Prologue
The caravan master looked at his crew. Six members strong, some magic capability between a few members, and a surprising amount of young gents, one being very young. He was accustomed to receiving older folks - he supposed youth would be nice for a change, though he couldn't speak for how ready they were for the journey. They probably still weren't happy with him about his very early morning greeting, but he didn't care.
After for five days and five nights, he finally burst through the doors of each traveler at the local inn just before the sunrise, bellowing "IT'S TIME!" and waiting to make sure they sat up before quickly moving to the next door, partially for speed and partially to avoid the flurry of projectiles that sometimes greeted his call.
An old man, no younger than 60, with crazy white hair and battered travel clothes, he hadn't given a damn for what people thought of him for years. Rumors said that at the age of thirty he was handsome, had blue eyes and walked with the confidence of a king, and over the next thirty years became ugly, developed green eyes and walked with a slight limp and a less slight hunch. Whatever the rumors, the fact was that the caravan master was a fellow each traveler no doubt wanted to be rid of sooner or later, which was thankfully a key selling point of his - he boasted a maximum of 1 week travel time before arriving in the northern reaches. Another rumor was that his one horse was friendlier than he was and quite obedient... a rumor which was decidedly proven false as the horse failed to listen to its master for a full hour.
Complications aside, the caravan set forth to the rising sun on the first day of the tenth month, making its way up to and past Crassus Royal, the last civilized town before the northern forests. From there, it traveled through increasingly dense forest.
Three days later is when something went wrong.
In the midst of the Draulid, considered by many the most dangerous forest yet in the route to the north, the roads were of little more than dirt, and at this time of year, mud.
-------------—————~~~~~♠~~~~~—————-------------
Third of the Tenth Month, Western Year 998 - All Characters
While the caravan had fared remarkably well the day before, the third day was of particular concern. Rain, fog, dripping trees and the distinct noise of a storm were all present and rapidly increasing in size and sound, as was a constant lurching of the caravan as it barely pulled through various stretches of mud, deeper and deeper each time.
The caravan lurched forwards, throwing everyone inside forwards, all piled atop each other to the sound of heavy rain, bellowing curses of the driver and each other's reactions ranging from cries of pain to enraged howls.
For those managing to exit the caravan, a dismal scene awaited: the horse, stuck in mud with rear legs at unnatural angles, the caravan with one wheel busted and the other halfway sunk in the mud, and the sight of the driver cursing and making repeated failed attempts to pull the horse up, himself with knees partially buried in mud. Foggy as it was, a clearing was visible in the distance ahead, and no end to trees in the distance behind. | Please stick your CS into the OOC first, the drop it in here when accepted. If it's got larger images feel free to stick it in a hider, but I don't consider that a requirement.
NPC's will get a mention here with a short description, along with any important roleplay details, but I'm leaving them largely open to interpretation. Most of the time.
Caravan Master - an old, limping, rough and somewhat unpleasant fellow with a record for getting people up north in very good time and having survived trips through weather many don't dare tempt.
Caravan Master's Horse - I figured the poor sod needed a mention somewhere. He's almost as old as the caravan master and twice the pain in the ass. |
7,820 | 211 | 2 | 2,713 | 253 | Goddammit, first time leaving the south and this is what I get, if this is how the north is gonna be, I don't think I wanna go there anymore! exclaimed Jameson as he exits the caravan. It was rainy and muddy outside but Jameson wasn't going to hang inside the caravan with a bunch of sweaty, grumpy men, might as well get out and see what's the problem. One step onto the ground and his foot was already sunken up to his ankle, "Great, gonna have to get a pair of northern boots if I don't wash this mud off soon". He noticed the broken wheel and the caravan master struggling with the awkwardly sunken horse, "Seems like I'm gonna be stuck with this pair of boots".
Jameson waddled towards the caravan master and said jestingly as he stared at the horse's rear legs, "I don't suppose you're interested in having one of them seahorses right now. I can help you get your horse out, but I don't think it'll be in any condition to pull the caravan any time soon." He took another look at the wheel and then the surrounding forest, it was so foggy that he couldn't make anything out except for a clearing up ahead. Jameson started to wonder if he made the right choice venturing to the north, but it's too late to back down now, he's already about halfway there, and it sure beats the monotonous life down south. After a moment of thought, Jameson turned back to the caravan master, "So what's your plan sir? No way we're going north in these conditions." | Name: Jameson
Age: is 21, looks 21
Description: Jameson is your typical, run of the mill cowboy-type character, wearing a cowboy hat and a dark long overcoat. He is of average build and height, slightly bearded. He believes in travelling light and sufficient so he carries around a canteen, a knife and machete and 2 flintlock pistols (better safe than sorry he says). He looks worn from all the travelling but has the look of determination of a young man.
Gender: Male
Personality: Jameson keeps to himself most of the time but is a friendly guy who believes that travellers should help each other whenever possible, especially during times like these. However, he wasn't born yesterday and knows when someone is being "overly appreciative" of his kindness. He hates evil of all kind and will do his best to stop them whenever he comes across them in his travels even if it means bending over backwards at times.
Backstory: Jameson is from a land way down south, however he spent most of his adult years travelling and seeking a more meaningful life than tending to the livestock back home. He travelled to many places and has seen many things, but never did he leave the safety and familiarity of his own land. After hearing news of a caravan that brings people north, he decided that perhaps it's time to look for something more foreign to satisfy his adventurous young heart.
Skills: Jameson is no master of combat, but he handles himself well with most types of blades and close combat in general. At range, he is able to fire his strange contraptions gifted to him during his journeys (the pistols) with relative accuracy though at a slow speed. Living off the land for a few years taught him the basics of survival such as foraging and setting up camp from sticks and leaves. Also, he makes the best (nastiest) bug stew. |
7,821 | 211 | 3 | 179 | 5,558 | Just a conversation continuation - only when I use a bunch of fancy formatting is it the "official" second post
The caravan master looked up and scowled through the rain at the man he recognized as the one with the weird metal tubes. "Horse inni't goin' anywhere soon!" He looked around quickly. "We'll need a shelter som'place, an' hell if it's in that caravan! Wait for a moment before those bloody pack o' sods come out n' have their fair share..." his last words coming out in a barely audible mutter. "Aren't ye goin' to help with this!" He bellowed as he pulled at the front side of the horse fruitlessly. | Please stick your CS into the OOC first, the drop it in here when accepted. If it's got larger images feel free to stick it in a hider, but I don't consider that a requirement.
NPC's will get a mention here with a short description, along with any important roleplay details, but I'm leaving them largely open to interpretation. Most of the time.
Caravan Master - an old, limping, rough and somewhat unpleasant fellow with a record for getting people up north in very good time and having survived trips through weather many don't dare tempt.
Caravan Master's Horse - I figured the poor sod needed a mention somewhere. He's almost as old as the caravan master and twice the pain in the ass. |
7,822 | 211 | 4 | 2,713 | 253 | "Sorry about that, got too distracted by the surroundings." said Jameson as he gave the caravan master a hand in pulling out his horse. | Name: Jameson
Age: is 21, looks 21
Description: Jameson is your typical, run of the mill cowboy-type character, wearing a cowboy hat and a dark long overcoat. He is of average build and height, slightly bearded. He believes in travelling light and sufficient so he carries around a canteen, a knife and machete and 2 flintlock pistols (better safe than sorry he says). He looks worn from all the travelling but has the look of determination of a young man.
Gender: Male
Personality: Jameson keeps to himself most of the time but is a friendly guy who believes that travellers should help each other whenever possible, especially during times like these. However, he wasn't born yesterday and knows when someone is being "overly appreciative" of his kindness. He hates evil of all kind and will do his best to stop them whenever he comes across them in his travels even if it means bending over backwards at times.
Backstory: Jameson is from a land way down south, however he spent most of his adult years travelling and seeking a more meaningful life than tending to the livestock back home. He travelled to many places and has seen many things, but never did he leave the safety and familiarity of his own land. After hearing news of a caravan that brings people north, he decided that perhaps it's time to look for something more foreign to satisfy his adventurous young heart.
Skills: Jameson is no master of combat, but he handles himself well with most types of blades and close combat in general. At range, he is able to fire his strange contraptions gifted to him during his journeys (the pistols) with relative accuracy though at a slow speed. Living off the land for a few years taught him the basics of survival such as foraging and setting up camp from sticks and leaves. Also, he makes the best (nastiest) bug stew. |
7,823 | 211 | 5 | 1,727 | 876 | Ivan stepped out of the caravan a bit after the others, rubbing his head with a wince. He flinched as he saw the dire straits the horse was in, but knew his tiny hands would do no good, so he stayed well back. Even standing still as he was, He was clearly favoring his right leg, leaning on his left side a bit to stay steady. Every now and then he would wobble a bit, as if about to lose his balance, but remained stable for the most part. Either way, it wasn't like he was going back inside the caravan. It smelled like the devil in there after all the time they'd spent inside, and with all their belongings thrown about it wasn't like he could sit comfortably in there. He remained silent, feeling bad for just watching them work, but he knew it would be better if he stayed out of the way and didn't spook the horse.
@EveryoneelseIforgot | Name: Ivan Levin Mikhailovich
Age: Looks 9, is 11
Description: Ivan is a small boy, only a little over four feet tall. His messy golden brown hair falls to just below his chin in unkempt layers, framing his pale face. He has a pair of sharp dark brown eyes, that always make him look alert and watchful. His build is frail and skinny, with long slender limbs and childish facial features. His posture leans a bit to the left and he walks with a limp.
He dresses in whatever rags he can get his fragile thin-fingered little hands on. Right now, this means a worn out orange waistcoat at least three sizes too large for him, a white button down shirt that's surprisingly unstained, torn black dress pants and no shoes for his little feet.
Gender: Male
Personality: Ivan is quiet, mostly because his English isn't very good but also because he's extremely shy. When interacting with others, he seems stiff and unfriendly, speaking in a hushed and hurried voice and stammering. He's very sensitive and is easily made upset, especially when asked about his past or his parents. He'll often go days without ever speaking to anyone. He's reluctant to try new things, preferring to stick with what he knows.
Backstory: Ivan's mother died giving birth to him, and his father, tied down with caring for sick relatives, sent Ivan off on his own to find money to help the family. Ivan, finding no work in his hometown, joined the caravan with hope of finding his fortune elsewhere.
Skills: Sneaking, hiding, marksmanship, drawing, general craftiness
Extra:
-Ivan has asthma and is allergic to cats and shellfish
-He is afraid of heights and spiders
-He carries his mother's wedding ring in his pocket at all times
-He walks with a limp because of an accident he got into when he was only eight years old. He fell off of a roof and fractured his right leg in two places.
-He suffers from chronic nightmares that cause him to sleep poorly and occasionally wet the bed. He really doesn't like to talk about this.
-He tries not to kill unless he has to, and usually only shoots non-lethally.
-Despite the above statement, he has very good marksmanship and could probably kill if he had to.
-He likes to draw and is quite good at it. |
7,824 | 211 | 6 | 2,254 | 547 | With some aching in his joints, the knight pulled himself up with muffled grunts, rousing his muscles from the torpor of an interrupted sleep. He was glad to have sat near the front, so that his dusty, armored, unclean self wouldn't have had to fall onto anyone.
He stepped outside the wagon, landing heavily, and cringed at the horse's dislocated limbs. He struggled to walk in this deep mud, and moved to the edge of the grass, where at least some roots would've held the ground together underneath him. A regular man would've carried a lighter load over swampy earth, but hell if Robart would deaden morale any further by showing his face. He probably wasn't contagious. Probably. But no one wants to travel with a leper, for completely obvious reasons.
"Two enough to hoist up that beast? I'll lend you a hand if I don't get in the way." | Name:Robart "The Pilgrim" Garrithe
Age: 32, though he looks like he's been dead and buried in a salt pile for years.
Description: The remnants of what was once a powerful and imposing figure, has apparently shriveled underneath sandstone-looking, leathery skin. Like a tan, semi-muscular hollow from Dark Souls, but with functioning eyes and some streaks of blackish melanin left in his beard. He usually hides this under his armor and cloak, of course. He has a uniquely beaked helmet that sticks out from under his hood.
Gender: Male
Personality: Very austere and moribund in nature. He has the poise and mannerisms of someone who was once very 'Type A' and confrontational, but his bile has gone out of him and he doesn't know how to present himself in another way. Apologizes often when he imagines someone imagines that he slighted them.
Backstory: Used to be a kmight, got infected with "The Drying" and joined a sort of crusade movement called "The Leper Knights", felt that he could get no closer to 'Salvation' in battle, and went North to find a quiet, peaceful place to die. Or, at least one that wasn't fighting with itself.
Skills: He’s quite adept at fighting with his Crows beak staff, sword, and shield. Very efficient and brutal. He can also start fires and shoot things with a bow and arrow, but those would qualify more as survival skills than things with battle application, and they are not his forte.
Extra: It's not usually the case, but he always feels massively dehydrated. Any beverage he isn't suspicious of he will down with haste. Due to his disease, his skin is hard, solid, and durable, like hardleather, but it heals very slowly. Nearly any wound requires stitches and bandages. |
7,825 | 211 | 7 | 1,727 | 876 | In the short minutes in which Ivan had been outside, the young boy had become drenched in rain, his messy brown hair sticking to his face and blocking his left eye. He coughed miserably; foul weather was never good for his asthmatic lungs. Still a bit sore over the fact that he couldn't offer any help, he looked back at the caravan, trying to see who had just stepped out of it. ой. Это человек в маске He thought, running a hand through his soaking wet hair. | Name: Ivan Levin Mikhailovich
Age: Looks 9, is 11
Description: Ivan is a small boy, only a little over four feet tall. His messy golden brown hair falls to just below his chin in unkempt layers, framing his pale face. He has a pair of sharp dark brown eyes, that always make him look alert and watchful. His build is frail and skinny, with long slender limbs and childish facial features. His posture leans a bit to the left and he walks with a limp.
He dresses in whatever rags he can get his fragile thin-fingered little hands on. Right now, this means a worn out orange waistcoat at least three sizes too large for him, a white button down shirt that's surprisingly unstained, torn black dress pants and no shoes for his little feet.
Gender: Male
Personality: Ivan is quiet, mostly because his English isn't very good but also because he's extremely shy. When interacting with others, he seems stiff and unfriendly, speaking in a hushed and hurried voice and stammering. He's very sensitive and is easily made upset, especially when asked about his past or his parents. He'll often go days without ever speaking to anyone. He's reluctant to try new things, preferring to stick with what he knows.
Backstory: Ivan's mother died giving birth to him, and his father, tied down with caring for sick relatives, sent Ivan off on his own to find money to help the family. Ivan, finding no work in his hometown, joined the caravan with hope of finding his fortune elsewhere.
Skills: Sneaking, hiding, marksmanship, drawing, general craftiness
Extra:
-Ivan has asthma and is allergic to cats and shellfish
-He is afraid of heights and spiders
-He carries his mother's wedding ring in his pocket at all times
-He walks with a limp because of an accident he got into when he was only eight years old. He fell off of a roof and fractured his right leg in two places.
-He suffers from chronic nightmares that cause him to sleep poorly and occasionally wet the bed. He really doesn't like to talk about this.
-He tries not to kill unless he has to, and usually only shoots non-lethally.
-Despite the above statement, he has very good marksmanship and could probably kill if he had to.
-He likes to draw and is quite good at it. |
7,826 | 211 | 8 | 1,876 | 146 | Raven stepped outside, and looked up at the sky for a moment before heading towards the front to help the caravan master with his horse.
"Oh, you already got it then." The young fellow spoke, noting as another member had already assisted the horse. Raven's hair was messy from the banging around in the caravan, and his face had a look of annoyance. "This weather is utter s***..." he grumbled to himself. Raven immediately regretted saying this, as a younger lad was standing not too far nearby, coughing. "Hey kid, take this. It's no raincoat, but maybe it'll keep the water off you for a little while." He said, handing his chainmail-coated jacket to Ivan. "Again, I don't think the cloth under the metal layer is waterproof, but it's better then the rain splashing all over you."
Raven took another look at the horse, and realizing they may need more help then he thought. The horse's legs appeared to be injured. He took off his gauntlets, and tried to help keep the horse's hindquarters up and steady as they pulled the animal from the muck. This was to keep it's hind legs from taking too much pressure as it was dragged out, to avoid causing them worse pain then they were probably already in. | Name: Raven.
Age: 19.
Description: Raven has a fairly tall, muscular body. He's six feet and 2 inches in height and his build isn't like that of a bodybuilder, but one can clearly see that he is fairly strong and agile. His clothes consist of a chainmail jacket with a gray shirt underneath. His pants are dark green and have several pockets. His shoes are black boots. He wears clawed gauntlets that have spikes on the knuckles, these are his primary weapons. He also has a amulet on a necklace shaped like a dragon's head that gives him full immunity to unwanted spells, curses, hexes, jinxes, and the like. Although some things can bypass it. (like, a spell that makes an anvil fall on you. The emblem doesn't make you immune to falling anvils, just stuff like death spells, spells that turn him into something else or manipulate his body or mind, curses that make inexplicable bad things happen to him, etc.) his face is fairly slender and smooth as he dies not grow facial hair. His eyes are a bright green and his hair is black and medium length. His eyes are deep and intense looking, or cheerful and jovial looking, or fierce and wild looking, depending on his mood. Raven's skin is pale and smooth.
Gender: Male.
Backstory: Raven was a martial arts student in a city caught up in civil war during his teenage years. However he had a distrust of the military and the government due to some shady things he had evidence of them being up to, such as his friend's sister mysteriously disappearing and reappearing now remembering what happened to her but having injuries showing sighs of interrogation on her body. Not only that, but multiple times guards broke into and searched his private space, when Raven despised. So when he was at the age of 18, and was drafted into war because of his hand-to-hand combat proficiency and healthy body, he ran away from home. Not wanting to join the ranks of the same people who ransacked his room on multiple occasions and taxed the hell out of him as soon as he started his first job as an assistant to the teachers at the martial arts school. Not to mention the possibility of the violent interrogations. All these things were because his city was losing the war, and Raven didn't intend to join a battle that was pointless, a waste of time in the first place, and where his side was about to lose before long anyway. He definitely didn't want to end up dead on the battlefield all because some rich Noble in his city wanted more land and resources. So he fled from the military to head north, hoping to get away from the constant wars and commonly occuring street fights where no bystander was safe. (all the town guards had been appointed into the front lines and the wall defenses. The result? Near-anarchy.) along with other poor conditions. His family was barely connected to him, and his friends had moved on to other cities, became soldiers, or mysteriously disappeared. So with nobody to stay for, raven then left the city altogether and headed north where he found the caravan. Deciding that with his combat training, durable claw weapons, an amulet that was said to help him protect himself from sorcery and the occult, he could be of some assistance to the other travelers and stuck around them because they were likely to have food.
Personality: Friendly, rarely that excited about anything, cheeky and sarcastic at times when someone does something to irritate him, confident, and easily scoffs at romance and sex. He is completely asexual and aromantic with no interest in being more then best friends. He is fairly energetic and optimistic, but will speak his mind when he's tired or the situation isn't good for him for a long period of time. Maybe even a little too much. Sometimes he strokes his own ego about his skill with the combat gauntlets and his athletic capabilities, but Raven rarely puts down the abilities of others and its not especially difficult to earn his respect. Earning his trust is a bit more difficult.
Skills: To sum it up, he is good at hand-to-hand and gauntlets and knives. Good at athletics and agility-based tasks as well. Fairly strong and can take a few hits if he has to. Knows a lot about the anatomy and weaknesses of the human body, and just how to take advantage of them. Also has lots of balancing skills as part of his athleticism. |
7,827 | 211 | 9 | 2,002 | 2,688 | Bladur had been one of the lucky ones to have been sitting in the back of the Caravan so he landed on top of most of the lot. He was more than sure that he probably would have broken something had he been landed on by even one of the occupants of the caravan, save for the sickly boy who had been traveling with them. After getting his bearings back once more, Baldur got to his feet and stumbled out of the Caravan with a grim look on his face. He observed the others trying to get the now obviously lame horse out of the mud. Baldur didn't bother helping the lot that were trying to get the horse out as he knew he didn't have that much strength left in him. Instead Baldur walked into the outskirts of the forest and began picking up stick so he could hopefully set up a fire using a little bit of his magic to keep himself and the others warm until they were ready to head out "if you ask me we should just put that horse out of its misery..." Baldur said to himself as he crouched down to pick up another stick. | Name: Baldur the Great
Age: 50 and looks it
Description: Baldur is in decent shape for his age but his ‘experience’ is beginning to show as his hairs are getting greyer and whiter.
Gender: Male
Personality: Baldur was once a very chipper and passionate magician and mage but now he is little more than a husk of a man. His previous attitude towards life is now buried beneath heaps of experience in the world but sometimes one can catch a glimpse of the wide eyed struggling magician beneath his beaten exterior.
Backstory: Baldur keeps his past pretty secretive but what he is more than liberal of sharing is his failed stint as a Magician. When he was younger he began studying slight of hand and similar fake magics while also learning some real magic on the side to spice up his act. His act didn’t go very far and he ended up needing to give up on his dream of making it big. Later on in life he worked as a librarian but decided that he wanted to move up North to get away from the political drama of the south.
Skills: He’s shown that ability to cast a few basic spells such as small fires or magic lights. He’s still very adept at slight of hand tricks and subterfuge overall. He’s pretty good at stick fighting and he can tell a mean story when he’s in the mood.
Extra: He carries around a notebook and has a strong wooden staff that he uses to bash people when in trouble. |
7,828 | 211 | 10 | 1,727 | 876 | Ivan smiled gratefully as he was handed the coat. It was far too big on him, of course, but that just meant it kept the rain off all the better.
"I dislike to say it," Piped in Ivan when Bladur spoke, "But I agree. with Bladur. The animal will take us no further, and trust me, legs do not heal easy." | Name: Ivan Levin Mikhailovich
Age: Looks 9, is 11
Description: Ivan is a small boy, only a little over four feet tall. His messy golden brown hair falls to just below his chin in unkempt layers, framing his pale face. He has a pair of sharp dark brown eyes, that always make him look alert and watchful. His build is frail and skinny, with long slender limbs and childish facial features. His posture leans a bit to the left and he walks with a limp.
He dresses in whatever rags he can get his fragile thin-fingered little hands on. Right now, this means a worn out orange waistcoat at least three sizes too large for him, a white button down shirt that's surprisingly unstained, torn black dress pants and no shoes for his little feet.
Gender: Male
Personality: Ivan is quiet, mostly because his English isn't very good but also because he's extremely shy. When interacting with others, he seems stiff and unfriendly, speaking in a hushed and hurried voice and stammering. He's very sensitive and is easily made upset, especially when asked about his past or his parents. He'll often go days without ever speaking to anyone. He's reluctant to try new things, preferring to stick with what he knows.
Backstory: Ivan's mother died giving birth to him, and his father, tied down with caring for sick relatives, sent Ivan off on his own to find money to help the family. Ivan, finding no work in his hometown, joined the caravan with hope of finding his fortune elsewhere.
Skills: Sneaking, hiding, marksmanship, drawing, general craftiness
Extra:
-Ivan has asthma and is allergic to cats and shellfish
-He is afraid of heights and spiders
-He carries his mother's wedding ring in his pocket at all times
-He walks with a limp because of an accident he got into when he was only eight years old. He fell off of a roof and fractured his right leg in two places.
-He suffers from chronic nightmares that cause him to sleep poorly and occasionally wet the bed. He really doesn't like to talk about this.
-He tries not to kill unless he has to, and usually only shoots non-lethally.
-Despite the above statement, he has very good marksmanship and could probably kill if he had to.
-He likes to draw and is quite good at it. |
7,829 | 211 | 11 | 32 | 217 | Skylar groaned loudly as he picked himself up off the caravan floor and stumbled out after hastily shrugging on his coat. After a brief glance at the horse and deciding several people struggling knee deep in mud was enough, Skylar took a second to take in the surroundings and his companions. Clothes and armor abound but coats? Tsk. At this rate, everyone was going to get sick. Not exactly the best plan in this neck of the woods. The boy's coughing caught his attention and he muttered darkly as he dug through his bag.
"Oye, anyone gotta knife? I left mine back at town it seems." Skylar snapped, irritated at his own stupidity. "Gotta deal with this rain before we decide what do to. Don't want to deal with corpses on top of everything else." | Name: Skylar Altzan
Age: 24
Description: Short for a male, Skylar stands 5'3". He wears simple garments, a tunic, breeches, and boots. He keeps an oil cloth coat for the rain in a large back pack. He cuts his black hair short himself, not caring his hair is uneven and unkempt. He limps slightly from a childhood injury but nothing that interferes with his day to day life.
Gender: Male
Personality: Open and blunt, Skylar could never be accused of possessing tact. That didn't mean he was rude. He just felt that honesty was the best option amd refused to play those silly social games others indulged in. Life was so much easier that way.
Backstory: All magically inclined, the Altzan family ran several magical shops in the south. He grew up around magic and fell in love with it. He had practiced since he could read his mother's tomes and discovered an easy talent with defensive magics. The more violent ones made him a little queasy. It was this affinity for magic that made them a target for demon worshippers. They were attacked , captured and sacrificed. A few even succumbed. Skylar decided to flee, keeping his magic secret in hopes he would escape. He decided to pass himself off as an explorer, looking to make it rich in the North.
Skills: Skylar specializes in defensive and utility magic. Since his distaste for offensive magics stopped him from learning them, he learned how to use a raiper if he ever needed a way to defend himself without magic. |
7,830 | 211 | 12 | 2,713 | 253 | Jameson heard Skylar while still struggling with the horse and said, "Skylar is it? I've got a knife, but may I know what do you intend to do with it? I don't think a knife can be of help in stopping this blasted rain." He stared at the horse's hindlegs and sighed, "Gonna need someone who knows some healing magic if we wanna get him going soon." Jameson was sopping wet with sweat and rain as he looked around to catch a breather. He noticed Ivan standing outside with an oversized coat and Baldur picking up sticks further away. "In a rain like this, that coat won't do you much good, best head inside the caravan kid, no one's looking forward to taking care of a sick boy", said Jameson to Ivan. "Oye Baldur! Do you know any spells to heal this damn beast?" yelled Jameson at Baldur in the distance. | Name: Jameson
Age: is 21, looks 21
Description: Jameson is your typical, run of the mill cowboy-type character, wearing a cowboy hat and a dark long overcoat. He is of average build and height, slightly bearded. He believes in travelling light and sufficient so he carries around a canteen, a knife and machete and 2 flintlock pistols (better safe than sorry he says). He looks worn from all the travelling but has the look of determination of a young man.
Gender: Male
Personality: Jameson keeps to himself most of the time but is a friendly guy who believes that travellers should help each other whenever possible, especially during times like these. However, he wasn't born yesterday and knows when someone is being "overly appreciative" of his kindness. He hates evil of all kind and will do his best to stop them whenever he comes across them in his travels even if it means bending over backwards at times.
Backstory: Jameson is from a land way down south, however he spent most of his adult years travelling and seeking a more meaningful life than tending to the livestock back home. He travelled to many places and has seen many things, but never did he leave the safety and familiarity of his own land. After hearing news of a caravan that brings people north, he decided that perhaps it's time to look for something more foreign to satisfy his adventurous young heart.
Skills: Jameson is no master of combat, but he handles himself well with most types of blades and close combat in general. At range, he is able to fire his strange contraptions gifted to him during his journeys (the pistols) with relative accuracy though at a slow speed. Living off the land for a few years taught him the basics of survival such as foraging and setting up camp from sticks and leaves. Also, he makes the best (nastiest) bug stew. |
7,831 | 211 | 13 | 1,727 | 876 | Ivan sighed, but nodded, heading back into the caravan. Everything was thrown about haphazardly inside after the collision before. There wasn't much fresh air inside and it smelled somewhat of unwashed humans and their byproducts. Ivan had had quite enough of the cramped old caravan, but Jameson was right. It would only be worse for everyone if he went and got sick, which he was more than likely to given his current condition and the weather outside. Being asthmatic and very young besides, Ivan was likely a bit more prone to disease and infection than the others.
He shook the rain off himself, folding up Raven's coat and setting it gently on the floor. He then cleared a space in the clutter for himself to sit down, deeply regretting not having more sets of clothes. The ones he had on were the only ones he could afford, and they were soaking wet and sticking to his pale skin uncomfortably. He sighed miserably, squirming around a bit to try and find a comfortable position on the tilted floor. | Name: Ivan Levin Mikhailovich
Age: Looks 9, is 11
Description: Ivan is a small boy, only a little over four feet tall. His messy golden brown hair falls to just below his chin in unkempt layers, framing his pale face. He has a pair of sharp dark brown eyes, that always make him look alert and watchful. His build is frail and skinny, with long slender limbs and childish facial features. His posture leans a bit to the left and he walks with a limp.
He dresses in whatever rags he can get his fragile thin-fingered little hands on. Right now, this means a worn out orange waistcoat at least three sizes too large for him, a white button down shirt that's surprisingly unstained, torn black dress pants and no shoes for his little feet.
Gender: Male
Personality: Ivan is quiet, mostly because his English isn't very good but also because he's extremely shy. When interacting with others, he seems stiff and unfriendly, speaking in a hushed and hurried voice and stammering. He's very sensitive and is easily made upset, especially when asked about his past or his parents. He'll often go days without ever speaking to anyone. He's reluctant to try new things, preferring to stick with what he knows.
Backstory: Ivan's mother died giving birth to him, and his father, tied down with caring for sick relatives, sent Ivan off on his own to find money to help the family. Ivan, finding no work in his hometown, joined the caravan with hope of finding his fortune elsewhere.
Skills: Sneaking, hiding, marksmanship, drawing, general craftiness
Extra:
-Ivan has asthma and is allergic to cats and shellfish
-He is afraid of heights and spiders
-He carries his mother's wedding ring in his pocket at all times
-He walks with a limp because of an accident he got into when he was only eight years old. He fell off of a roof and fractured his right leg in two places.
-He suffers from chronic nightmares that cause him to sleep poorly and occasionally wet the bed. He really doesn't like to talk about this.
-He tries not to kill unless he has to, and usually only shoots non-lethally.
-Despite the above statement, he has very good marksmanship and could probably kill if he had to.
-He likes to draw and is quite good at it. |
7,832 | 211 | 14 | 32 | 217 | Well what I do with the knife won't make this day anymore miserable and might help you get that horse out. Skylar replied, standing next to Jameson. He glanced down at the horse and retched sightly. Those legs didn't look particularly pleasant. He knew a few healing spells but not for animals and defiantly not for broken legs to that... degree. | Name: Skylar Altzan
Age: 24
Description: Short for a male, Skylar stands 5'3". He wears simple garments, a tunic, breeches, and boots. He keeps an oil cloth coat for the rain in a large back pack. He cuts his black hair short himself, not caring his hair is uneven and unkempt. He limps slightly from a childhood injury but nothing that interferes with his day to day life.
Gender: Male
Personality: Open and blunt, Skylar could never be accused of possessing tact. That didn't mean he was rude. He just felt that honesty was the best option amd refused to play those silly social games others indulged in. Life was so much easier that way.
Backstory: All magically inclined, the Altzan family ran several magical shops in the south. He grew up around magic and fell in love with it. He had practiced since he could read his mother's tomes and discovered an easy talent with defensive magics. The more violent ones made him a little queasy. It was this affinity for magic that made them a target for demon worshippers. They were attacked , captured and sacrificed. A few even succumbed. Skylar decided to flee, keeping his magic secret in hopes he would escape. He decided to pass himself off as an explorer, looking to make it rich in the North.
Skills: Skylar specializes in defensive and utility magic. Since his distaste for offensive magics stopped him from learning them, he learned how to use a raiper if he ever needed a way to defend himself without magic. |
7,833 | 211 | 15 | 2,713 | 253 | Ahh what the hell, just take it. But you better return it to me the way it is now or we're gonna have problems. said Jameson as he drew his knife from his overcoat and handed it to Skylar. Jameson wasn't too keen on lending a stranger his knife, but any help now would be great and Skylar seemed like a decent enough man. Besides, if Skylar decides to give one of them the ol' stabby, Jameson had no problems blowing a stranger's head off either. "Alright, there ya go. Now show me whatcha gonna do." | Name: Jameson
Age: is 21, looks 21
Description: Jameson is your typical, run of the mill cowboy-type character, wearing a cowboy hat and a dark long overcoat. He is of average build and height, slightly bearded. He believes in travelling light and sufficient so he carries around a canteen, a knife and machete and 2 flintlock pistols (better safe than sorry he says). He looks worn from all the travelling but has the look of determination of a young man.
Gender: Male
Personality: Jameson keeps to himself most of the time but is a friendly guy who believes that travellers should help each other whenever possible, especially during times like these. However, he wasn't born yesterday and knows when someone is being "overly appreciative" of his kindness. He hates evil of all kind and will do his best to stop them whenever he comes across them in his travels even if it means bending over backwards at times.
Backstory: Jameson is from a land way down south, however he spent most of his adult years travelling and seeking a more meaningful life than tending to the livestock back home. He travelled to many places and has seen many things, but never did he leave the safety and familiarity of his own land. After hearing news of a caravan that brings people north, he decided that perhaps it's time to look for something more foreign to satisfy his adventurous young heart.
Skills: Jameson is no master of combat, but he handles himself well with most types of blades and close combat in general. At range, he is able to fire his strange contraptions gifted to him during his journeys (the pistols) with relative accuracy though at a slow speed. Living off the land for a few years taught him the basics of survival such as foraging and setting up camp from sticks and leaves. Also, he makes the best (nastiest) bug stew. |
7,834 | 211 | 16 | 1,727 | 876 | Ivan curled up on the floor of the caravan, clearing his sore throat as he took out a handkerchief and started cleaning the mud off his bare feet and legs. He still felt bad about being the only one unable to help. If he was just a little older and stronger, surely he could have been of some use... He sighed, cursing under his breath.
"Блядь"
"бог чертовски подери"
"Я бесполезно, не так ли?"
He got up and started pacing back and forth, still muttering words of self deprecation to himself until he started biting his knuckles, forcing himself to quiet down. | Name: Ivan Levin Mikhailovich
Age: Looks 9, is 11
Description: Ivan is a small boy, only a little over four feet tall. His messy golden brown hair falls to just below his chin in unkempt layers, framing his pale face. He has a pair of sharp dark brown eyes, that always make him look alert and watchful. His build is frail and skinny, with long slender limbs and childish facial features. His posture leans a bit to the left and he walks with a limp.
He dresses in whatever rags he can get his fragile thin-fingered little hands on. Right now, this means a worn out orange waistcoat at least three sizes too large for him, a white button down shirt that's surprisingly unstained, torn black dress pants and no shoes for his little feet.
Gender: Male
Personality: Ivan is quiet, mostly because his English isn't very good but also because he's extremely shy. When interacting with others, he seems stiff and unfriendly, speaking in a hushed and hurried voice and stammering. He's very sensitive and is easily made upset, especially when asked about his past or his parents. He'll often go days without ever speaking to anyone. He's reluctant to try new things, preferring to stick with what he knows.
Backstory: Ivan's mother died giving birth to him, and his father, tied down with caring for sick relatives, sent Ivan off on his own to find money to help the family. Ivan, finding no work in his hometown, joined the caravan with hope of finding his fortune elsewhere.
Skills: Sneaking, hiding, marksmanship, drawing, general craftiness
Extra:
-Ivan has asthma and is allergic to cats and shellfish
-He is afraid of heights and spiders
-He carries his mother's wedding ring in his pocket at all times
-He walks with a limp because of an accident he got into when he was only eight years old. He fell off of a roof and fractured his right leg in two places.
-He suffers from chronic nightmares that cause him to sleep poorly and occasionally wet the bed. He really doesn't like to talk about this.
-He tries not to kill unless he has to, and usually only shoots non-lethally.
-Despite the above statement, he has very good marksmanship and could probably kill if he had to.
-He likes to draw and is quite good at it. |
7,835 | 211 | 17 | 32 | 217 | Skylar winced as he drew a thin line across his palm and wiped the few droplets that smeared the knife on his coat. Blood pooled in his hand and he started whispering into it quietly. His blood swirled together into a small sphere before turning to a shimmering blue. He snapped one last word and it exploded outwards. A translucent blue dome covered the caravan and a few feet around it. The rain washed down the sides of the dome and flowed away. A blue sigil floated an inch above his palm and he stared at it intently.
"Okay that's that. How people live without magic, I'll never know. A week without it and I wanted to die." He passed the blade back to Jameson. "Won't keep out the cold but it'll keep the rain off us while we figure out what to do." | Name: Skylar Altzan
Age: 24
Description: Short for a male, Skylar stands 5'3". He wears simple garments, a tunic, breeches, and boots. He keeps an oil cloth coat for the rain in a large back pack. He cuts his black hair short himself, not caring his hair is uneven and unkempt. He limps slightly from a childhood injury but nothing that interferes with his day to day life.
Gender: Male
Personality: Open and blunt, Skylar could never be accused of possessing tact. That didn't mean he was rude. He just felt that honesty was the best option amd refused to play those silly social games others indulged in. Life was so much easier that way.
Backstory: All magically inclined, the Altzan family ran several magical shops in the south. He grew up around magic and fell in love with it. He had practiced since he could read his mother's tomes and discovered an easy talent with defensive magics. The more violent ones made him a little queasy. It was this affinity for magic that made them a target for demon worshippers. They were attacked , captured and sacrificed. A few even succumbed. Skylar decided to flee, keeping his magic secret in hopes he would escape. He decided to pass himself off as an explorer, looking to make it rich in the North.
Skills: Skylar specializes in defensive and utility magic. Since his distaste for offensive magics stopped him from learning them, he learned how to use a raiper if he ever needed a way to defend himself without magic. |
7,836 | 211 | 18 | 1,727 | 876 | The sound of the rain suddenly stopped. Ivan hadn't expected the storm to cease so soon. It seemed odd, so he walked out to check on the situation only to find the caravan and a small area around it surrounded by a faint blue glow, as though they were inside some sort of globe. "Vat happened? This is some sort of wizardry?" He asked, looking around. The storm still raged on outside the dome, and the caravan and horse were still stuck deep in the mud, but at the very least it kept the rain off. | Name: Ivan Levin Mikhailovich
Age: Looks 9, is 11
Description: Ivan is a small boy, only a little over four feet tall. His messy golden brown hair falls to just below his chin in unkempt layers, framing his pale face. He has a pair of sharp dark brown eyes, that always make him look alert and watchful. His build is frail and skinny, with long slender limbs and childish facial features. His posture leans a bit to the left and he walks with a limp.
He dresses in whatever rags he can get his fragile thin-fingered little hands on. Right now, this means a worn out orange waistcoat at least three sizes too large for him, a white button down shirt that's surprisingly unstained, torn black dress pants and no shoes for his little feet.
Gender: Male
Personality: Ivan is quiet, mostly because his English isn't very good but also because he's extremely shy. When interacting with others, he seems stiff and unfriendly, speaking in a hushed and hurried voice and stammering. He's very sensitive and is easily made upset, especially when asked about his past or his parents. He'll often go days without ever speaking to anyone. He's reluctant to try new things, preferring to stick with what he knows.
Backstory: Ivan's mother died giving birth to him, and his father, tied down with caring for sick relatives, sent Ivan off on his own to find money to help the family. Ivan, finding no work in his hometown, joined the caravan with hope of finding his fortune elsewhere.
Skills: Sneaking, hiding, marksmanship, drawing, general craftiness
Extra:
-Ivan has asthma and is allergic to cats and shellfish
-He is afraid of heights and spiders
-He carries his mother's wedding ring in his pocket at all times
-He walks with a limp because of an accident he got into when he was only eight years old. He fell off of a roof and fractured his right leg in two places.
-He suffers from chronic nightmares that cause him to sleep poorly and occasionally wet the bed. He really doesn't like to talk about this.
-He tries not to kill unless he has to, and usually only shoots non-lethally.
-Despite the above statement, he has very good marksmanship and could probably kill if he had to.
-He likes to draw and is quite good at it. |
7,837 | 211 | 19 | 2,713 | 253 | Holy shit... those were the only words Jameson could muster as he stared at the blue dome surrounding the caravan with disbelief. One moment the rain was falling on his hat like fallen rocks, the next everything was just silent, the sound of raindrops falling onto the dome barely audible by those inside. "Uhh... yeah... thanks for returning my knife and... uh... this shelter..." said Jameson as he took his knife back while looking at Skylar wide-eyed with a smile, trying to look appreciative. He took a moment to pat most of the rain off his coat and hat and said to Skylar, "Didn't expect to see another mage in our midst, need help with that wound? Should have a bandage somewhere on me." Jameson fumbled around his coat and took out a bandage, he noticed Ivan outside again. "Hey kid, you don't happen to have any hidden talents we should know about do you?" said Jameson jokingly as he wrapped up Skylar's wound. | Name: Jameson
Age: is 21, looks 21
Description: Jameson is your typical, run of the mill cowboy-type character, wearing a cowboy hat and a dark long overcoat. He is of average build and height, slightly bearded. He believes in travelling light and sufficient so he carries around a canteen, a knife and machete and 2 flintlock pistols (better safe than sorry he says). He looks worn from all the travelling but has the look of determination of a young man.
Gender: Male
Personality: Jameson keeps to himself most of the time but is a friendly guy who believes that travellers should help each other whenever possible, especially during times like these. However, he wasn't born yesterday and knows when someone is being "overly appreciative" of his kindness. He hates evil of all kind and will do his best to stop them whenever he comes across them in his travels even if it means bending over backwards at times.
Backstory: Jameson is from a land way down south, however he spent most of his adult years travelling and seeking a more meaningful life than tending to the livestock back home. He travelled to many places and has seen many things, but never did he leave the safety and familiarity of his own land. After hearing news of a caravan that brings people north, he decided that perhaps it's time to look for something more foreign to satisfy his adventurous young heart.
Skills: Jameson is no master of combat, but he handles himself well with most types of blades and close combat in general. At range, he is able to fire his strange contraptions gifted to him during his journeys (the pistols) with relative accuracy though at a slow speed. Living off the land for a few years taught him the basics of survival such as foraging and setting up camp from sticks and leaves. Also, he makes the best (nastiest) bug stew. |
7,838 | 211 | 20 | 1,727 | 876 | Ivan looked down, biting his lip as he mentally went down the list of things he could do. He wasn't magic or anything, but back in his old village while he was living with his father, he used to pick pockets to help with the costs of food and medicine. He actually got quite good at that indeed. He'd never been caught, to say the least. But would it be a good idea to share that particular talent with the caravan? They might not trust him much if they found out he was a thief. No, he had to think of something else. "I can shoot a bow..." He said uncertainly. He'd gone hunting with his father a couple of times, and had been praised for his excellent aim. He wasn't sure if it was quite as impressive as magic, but it was better than admitting to his feelings of uselessness. | Name: Ivan Levin Mikhailovich
Age: Looks 9, is 11
Description: Ivan is a small boy, only a little over four feet tall. His messy golden brown hair falls to just below his chin in unkempt layers, framing his pale face. He has a pair of sharp dark brown eyes, that always make him look alert and watchful. His build is frail and skinny, with long slender limbs and childish facial features. His posture leans a bit to the left and he walks with a limp.
He dresses in whatever rags he can get his fragile thin-fingered little hands on. Right now, this means a worn out orange waistcoat at least three sizes too large for him, a white button down shirt that's surprisingly unstained, torn black dress pants and no shoes for his little feet.
Gender: Male
Personality: Ivan is quiet, mostly because his English isn't very good but also because he's extremely shy. When interacting with others, he seems stiff and unfriendly, speaking in a hushed and hurried voice and stammering. He's very sensitive and is easily made upset, especially when asked about his past or his parents. He'll often go days without ever speaking to anyone. He's reluctant to try new things, preferring to stick with what he knows.
Backstory: Ivan's mother died giving birth to him, and his father, tied down with caring for sick relatives, sent Ivan off on his own to find money to help the family. Ivan, finding no work in his hometown, joined the caravan with hope of finding his fortune elsewhere.
Skills: Sneaking, hiding, marksmanship, drawing, general craftiness
Extra:
-Ivan has asthma and is allergic to cats and shellfish
-He is afraid of heights and spiders
-He carries his mother's wedding ring in his pocket at all times
-He walks with a limp because of an accident he got into when he was only eight years old. He fell off of a roof and fractured his right leg in two places.
-He suffers from chronic nightmares that cause him to sleep poorly and occasionally wet the bed. He really doesn't like to talk about this.
-He tries not to kill unless he has to, and usually only shoots non-lethally.
-Despite the above statement, he has very good marksmanship and could probably kill if he had to.
-He likes to draw and is quite good at it. |
7,839 | 211 | 21 | 2,254 | 547 | I can shoot with a bow. Perhaps not particularly well, but it is a damned easier job than wrestling with horses. The man adjusted his cloak and pulled himself up, "Perhaps we should go find dinner of some sort? I'm doing more sinking than pulling." | Name:Robart "The Pilgrim" Garrithe
Age: 32, though he looks like he's been dead and buried in a salt pile for years.
Description: The remnants of what was once a powerful and imposing figure, has apparently shriveled underneath sandstone-looking, leathery skin. Like a tan, semi-muscular hollow from Dark Souls, but with functioning eyes and some streaks of blackish melanin left in his beard. He usually hides this under his armor and cloak, of course. He has a uniquely beaked helmet that sticks out from under his hood.
Gender: Male
Personality: Very austere and moribund in nature. He has the poise and mannerisms of someone who was once very 'Type A' and confrontational, but his bile has gone out of him and he doesn't know how to present himself in another way. Apologizes often when he imagines someone imagines that he slighted them.
Backstory: Used to be a kmight, got infected with "The Drying" and joined a sort of crusade movement called "The Leper Knights", felt that he could get no closer to 'Salvation' in battle, and went North to find a quiet, peaceful place to die. Or, at least one that wasn't fighting with itself.
Skills: He’s quite adept at fighting with his Crows beak staff, sword, and shield. Very efficient and brutal. He can also start fires and shoot things with a bow and arrow, but those would qualify more as survival skills than things with battle application, and they are not his forte.
Extra: It's not usually the case, but he always feels massively dehydrated. Any beverage he isn't suspicious of he will down with haste. Due to his disease, his skin is hard, solid, and durable, like hardleather, but it heals very slowly. Nearly any wound requires stitches and bandages. |
7,840 | 211 | 22 | 1,727 | 876 | Vhere? You think we can find anything in this fog? Ivan asked the masked man, crossing his arms over his chest and tilting his head skeptically. "Beside, I do not think we can leave this... this..." The word Ivan was looking for was 'sphere', but he didn't know how to say that in Common, so he just gestured to the magic dome. | Name: Ivan Levin Mikhailovich
Age: Looks 9, is 11
Description: Ivan is a small boy, only a little over four feet tall. His messy golden brown hair falls to just below his chin in unkempt layers, framing his pale face. He has a pair of sharp dark brown eyes, that always make him look alert and watchful. His build is frail and skinny, with long slender limbs and childish facial features. His posture leans a bit to the left and he walks with a limp.
He dresses in whatever rags he can get his fragile thin-fingered little hands on. Right now, this means a worn out orange waistcoat at least three sizes too large for him, a white button down shirt that's surprisingly unstained, torn black dress pants and no shoes for his little feet.
Gender: Male
Personality: Ivan is quiet, mostly because his English isn't very good but also because he's extremely shy. When interacting with others, he seems stiff and unfriendly, speaking in a hushed and hurried voice and stammering. He's very sensitive and is easily made upset, especially when asked about his past or his parents. He'll often go days without ever speaking to anyone. He's reluctant to try new things, preferring to stick with what he knows.
Backstory: Ivan's mother died giving birth to him, and his father, tied down with caring for sick relatives, sent Ivan off on his own to find money to help the family. Ivan, finding no work in his hometown, joined the caravan with hope of finding his fortune elsewhere.
Skills: Sneaking, hiding, marksmanship, drawing, general craftiness
Extra:
-Ivan has asthma and is allergic to cats and shellfish
-He is afraid of heights and spiders
-He carries his mother's wedding ring in his pocket at all times
-He walks with a limp because of an accident he got into when he was only eight years old. He fell off of a roof and fractured his right leg in two places.
-He suffers from chronic nightmares that cause him to sleep poorly and occasionally wet the bed. He really doesn't like to talk about this.
-He tries not to kill unless he has to, and usually only shoots non-lethally.
-Despite the above statement, he has very good marksmanship and could probably kill if he had to.
-He likes to draw and is quite good at it. |
7,841 | 211 | 23 | 2,254 | 547 | When the sun's at an angle, you can find anything in the fog that stands taller than your average table. Robart shrugged, "haven't the means to figure out what time of day it is, though."
Robart stood up and moved to lean on the caravan.
"Methinks we could eat the horse's legs, and he'd be out of this mess right quickly." He added in jest | Name:Robart "The Pilgrim" Garrithe
Age: 32, though he looks like he's been dead and buried in a salt pile for years.
Description: The remnants of what was once a powerful and imposing figure, has apparently shriveled underneath sandstone-looking, leathery skin. Like a tan, semi-muscular hollow from Dark Souls, but with functioning eyes and some streaks of blackish melanin left in his beard. He usually hides this under his armor and cloak, of course. He has a uniquely beaked helmet that sticks out from under his hood.
Gender: Male
Personality: Very austere and moribund in nature. He has the poise and mannerisms of someone who was once very 'Type A' and confrontational, but his bile has gone out of him and he doesn't know how to present himself in another way. Apologizes often when he imagines someone imagines that he slighted them.
Backstory: Used to be a kmight, got infected with "The Drying" and joined a sort of crusade movement called "The Leper Knights", felt that he could get no closer to 'Salvation' in battle, and went North to find a quiet, peaceful place to die. Or, at least one that wasn't fighting with itself.
Skills: He’s quite adept at fighting with his Crows beak staff, sword, and shield. Very efficient and brutal. He can also start fires and shoot things with a bow and arrow, but those would qualify more as survival skills than things with battle application, and they are not his forte.
Extra: It's not usually the case, but he always feels massively dehydrated. Any beverage he isn't suspicious of he will down with haste. Due to his disease, his skin is hard, solid, and durable, like hardleather, but it heals very slowly. Nearly any wound requires stitches and bandages. |
7,842 | 211 | 24 | 1,727 | 876 | I have eaten stranger things, Said Ivan, mimicking Robart's shrug. "But the animal is not yours or mine. It is the caravan master's. He would not kill it, yes?" | Name: Ivan Levin Mikhailovich
Age: Looks 9, is 11
Description: Ivan is a small boy, only a little over four feet tall. His messy golden brown hair falls to just below his chin in unkempt layers, framing his pale face. He has a pair of sharp dark brown eyes, that always make him look alert and watchful. His build is frail and skinny, with long slender limbs and childish facial features. His posture leans a bit to the left and he walks with a limp.
He dresses in whatever rags he can get his fragile thin-fingered little hands on. Right now, this means a worn out orange waistcoat at least three sizes too large for him, a white button down shirt that's surprisingly unstained, torn black dress pants and no shoes for his little feet.
Gender: Male
Personality: Ivan is quiet, mostly because his English isn't very good but also because he's extremely shy. When interacting with others, he seems stiff and unfriendly, speaking in a hushed and hurried voice and stammering. He's very sensitive and is easily made upset, especially when asked about his past or his parents. He'll often go days without ever speaking to anyone. He's reluctant to try new things, preferring to stick with what he knows.
Backstory: Ivan's mother died giving birth to him, and his father, tied down with caring for sick relatives, sent Ivan off on his own to find money to help the family. Ivan, finding no work in his hometown, joined the caravan with hope of finding his fortune elsewhere.
Skills: Sneaking, hiding, marksmanship, drawing, general craftiness
Extra:
-Ivan has asthma and is allergic to cats and shellfish
-He is afraid of heights and spiders
-He carries his mother's wedding ring in his pocket at all times
-He walks with a limp because of an accident he got into when he was only eight years old. He fell off of a roof and fractured his right leg in two places.
-He suffers from chronic nightmares that cause him to sleep poorly and occasionally wet the bed. He really doesn't like to talk about this.
-He tries not to kill unless he has to, and usually only shoots non-lethally.
-Despite the above statement, he has very good marksmanship and could probably kill if he had to.
-He likes to draw and is quite good at it. |
7,843 | 211 | 25 | 2,713 | 253 | Jameson noticed the uncertainty in Ivan's words and said, "A bow huh? For a boy your age? You'd do fine kid, might even teach Robart here a thing or two.", wanting to keep the boy's confidence up. Jameson then turned to look at the poor horse and then to Robart, "Well... If we don't find a way to get him going soon, might as well eat him, should last all of us 3 days tops, though I'd avoid those nasty hind legs." He paused for a moment to look at the sky, it doesn't seem like the rain is going to stop any time soon, and he's glad that he's no longer in it. "Also, I'm not looking forward to hunting in this weather, and the fog is giving me the creeps." | Name: Jameson
Age: is 21, looks 21
Description: Jameson is your typical, run of the mill cowboy-type character, wearing a cowboy hat and a dark long overcoat. He is of average build and height, slightly bearded. He believes in travelling light and sufficient so he carries around a canteen, a knife and machete and 2 flintlock pistols (better safe than sorry he says). He looks worn from all the travelling but has the look of determination of a young man.
Gender: Male
Personality: Jameson keeps to himself most of the time but is a friendly guy who believes that travellers should help each other whenever possible, especially during times like these. However, he wasn't born yesterday and knows when someone is being "overly appreciative" of his kindness. He hates evil of all kind and will do his best to stop them whenever he comes across them in his travels even if it means bending over backwards at times.
Backstory: Jameson is from a land way down south, however he spent most of his adult years travelling and seeking a more meaningful life than tending to the livestock back home. He travelled to many places and has seen many things, but never did he leave the safety and familiarity of his own land. After hearing news of a caravan that brings people north, he decided that perhaps it's time to look for something more foreign to satisfy his adventurous young heart.
Skills: Jameson is no master of combat, but he handles himself well with most types of blades and close combat in general. At range, he is able to fire his strange contraptions gifted to him during his journeys (the pistols) with relative accuracy though at a slow speed. Living off the land for a few years taught him the basics of survival such as foraging and setting up camp from sticks and leaves. Also, he makes the best (nastiest) bug stew. |
7,844 | 211 | 26 | 1,727 | 876 | Ivan blushed slightly and grinned in an almost relieved fashion, showing a few missing teeth. He was glad that Jameson hadn't mocked his lack of magical ability or more impressive skills. "I took my father's hunting bow with me. If we need it, I can hunt for us... though I would not count on finding very much." He offered, hoping that he'd have a chance to prove himself useful to the group. | Name: Ivan Levin Mikhailovich
Age: Looks 9, is 11
Description: Ivan is a small boy, only a little over four feet tall. His messy golden brown hair falls to just below his chin in unkempt layers, framing his pale face. He has a pair of sharp dark brown eyes, that always make him look alert and watchful. His build is frail and skinny, with long slender limbs and childish facial features. His posture leans a bit to the left and he walks with a limp.
He dresses in whatever rags he can get his fragile thin-fingered little hands on. Right now, this means a worn out orange waistcoat at least three sizes too large for him, a white button down shirt that's surprisingly unstained, torn black dress pants and no shoes for his little feet.
Gender: Male
Personality: Ivan is quiet, mostly because his English isn't very good but also because he's extremely shy. When interacting with others, he seems stiff and unfriendly, speaking in a hushed and hurried voice and stammering. He's very sensitive and is easily made upset, especially when asked about his past or his parents. He'll often go days without ever speaking to anyone. He's reluctant to try new things, preferring to stick with what he knows.
Backstory: Ivan's mother died giving birth to him, and his father, tied down with caring for sick relatives, sent Ivan off on his own to find money to help the family. Ivan, finding no work in his hometown, joined the caravan with hope of finding his fortune elsewhere.
Skills: Sneaking, hiding, marksmanship, drawing, general craftiness
Extra:
-Ivan has asthma and is allergic to cats and shellfish
-He is afraid of heights and spiders
-He carries his mother's wedding ring in his pocket at all times
-He walks with a limp because of an accident he got into when he was only eight years old. He fell off of a roof and fractured his right leg in two places.
-He suffers from chronic nightmares that cause him to sleep poorly and occasionally wet the bed. He really doesn't like to talk about this.
-He tries not to kill unless he has to, and usually only shoots non-lethally.
-Despite the above statement, he has very good marksmanship and could probably kill if he had to.
-He likes to draw and is quite good at it. |
7,845 | 211 | 27 | 32 | 217 | Whatever we decide, let's move quickly. I'd rather not attract unwanted attention with this. He gestured at the bubble. "Thanks for the patch up there. Blood is just such a good reagent as gross as it is." He grimaced at the mention of hunting. Watching people kill things never sat well with him. | Name: Skylar Altzan
Age: 24
Description: Short for a male, Skylar stands 5'3". He wears simple garments, a tunic, breeches, and boots. He keeps an oil cloth coat for the rain in a large back pack. He cuts his black hair short himself, not caring his hair is uneven and unkempt. He limps slightly from a childhood injury but nothing that interferes with his day to day life.
Gender: Male
Personality: Open and blunt, Skylar could never be accused of possessing tact. That didn't mean he was rude. He just felt that honesty was the best option amd refused to play those silly social games others indulged in. Life was so much easier that way.
Backstory: All magically inclined, the Altzan family ran several magical shops in the south. He grew up around magic and fell in love with it. He had practiced since he could read his mother's tomes and discovered an easy talent with defensive magics. The more violent ones made him a little queasy. It was this affinity for magic that made them a target for demon worshippers. They were attacked , captured and sacrificed. A few even succumbed. Skylar decided to flee, keeping his magic secret in hopes he would escape. He decided to pass himself off as an explorer, looking to make it rich in the North.
Skills: Skylar specializes in defensive and utility magic. Since his distaste for offensive magics stopped him from learning them, he learned how to use a raiper if he ever needed a way to defend himself without magic. |
7,846 | 211 | 28 | 2,002 | 2,688 | Healing isn't my forté. Baldur said, keeping his back turned towards Jameson still as he collected sticks. This whole situation was going downhill fast and to make matters worse he was stuck with a bunch of goody two shoes who were trying to get a lame horse out of the mud. This trip was going so perfectly until they got to this mudded area.
Eventually Baldur got enough sticks together just in time to see one of the other Caravan passengers create a large force field over the group.
"Show off.." Baldur thought to himself as he arranged his sticks in a campfire like position and lit them aflame using his own magics. It wasn't some spectacular fire but instead a small steady stream that he used to begin to dry the sticks and eventually get a decent fire going. "Any of you that don't intend to keep wasting time with the horse, how about you help me get some more wood for the fire." Baldur said as he went out to collect some bigger looking logs for his fire. | Name: Baldur the Great
Age: 50 and looks it
Description: Baldur is in decent shape for his age but his ‘experience’ is beginning to show as his hairs are getting greyer and whiter.
Gender: Male
Personality: Baldur was once a very chipper and passionate magician and mage but now he is little more than a husk of a man. His previous attitude towards life is now buried beneath heaps of experience in the world but sometimes one can catch a glimpse of the wide eyed struggling magician beneath his beaten exterior.
Backstory: Baldur keeps his past pretty secretive but what he is more than liberal of sharing is his failed stint as a Magician. When he was younger he began studying slight of hand and similar fake magics while also learning some real magic on the side to spice up his act. His act didn’t go very far and he ended up needing to give up on his dream of making it big. Later on in life he worked as a librarian but decided that he wanted to move up North to get away from the political drama of the south.
Skills: He’s shown that ability to cast a few basic spells such as small fires or magic lights. He’s still very adept at slight of hand tricks and subterfuge overall. He’s pretty good at stick fighting and he can tell a mean story when he’s in the mood.
Extra: He carries around a notebook and has a strong wooden staff that he uses to bash people when in trouble. |
7,847 | 211 | 29 | 2,713 | 253 | Geez gramps, no need to be so grumpy. Your magic kept us entertained for a day or two too. said Jameson jestingly. Jameson stood by the fire to warm himself up a bit, though it wasn't doing much help, he was just slightly drier than before. "I suppose I'll help ya gramps, don't want you breaking your back out there. Besides, this little fire isn't doing much in this weather." said Jameson as he followed Baldur out the dome.
One step out of the dome and he felt the rain falling on his hat again and he gave a little sigh. Jameson picked up speed and walked beside Baldur, keeping his eyes out for bigger logs along the way. "I take it that you plan on staying here until the rain stops? That magic dome might keep the rain out, but I can't say the same for other creatures..." said Jameson in a hushed tone as he surveyed their surroundings. | Name: Jameson
Age: is 21, looks 21
Description: Jameson is your typical, run of the mill cowboy-type character, wearing a cowboy hat and a dark long overcoat. He is of average build and height, slightly bearded. He believes in travelling light and sufficient so he carries around a canteen, a knife and machete and 2 flintlock pistols (better safe than sorry he says). He looks worn from all the travelling but has the look of determination of a young man.
Gender: Male
Personality: Jameson keeps to himself most of the time but is a friendly guy who believes that travellers should help each other whenever possible, especially during times like these. However, he wasn't born yesterday and knows when someone is being "overly appreciative" of his kindness. He hates evil of all kind and will do his best to stop them whenever he comes across them in his travels even if it means bending over backwards at times.
Backstory: Jameson is from a land way down south, however he spent most of his adult years travelling and seeking a more meaningful life than tending to the livestock back home. He travelled to many places and has seen many things, but never did he leave the safety and familiarity of his own land. After hearing news of a caravan that brings people north, he decided that perhaps it's time to look for something more foreign to satisfy his adventurous young heart.
Skills: Jameson is no master of combat, but he handles himself well with most types of blades and close combat in general. At range, he is able to fire his strange contraptions gifted to him during his journeys (the pistols) with relative accuracy though at a slow speed. Living off the land for a few years taught him the basics of survival such as foraging and setting up camp from sticks and leaves. Also, he makes the best (nastiest) bug stew. |
7,848 | 211 | 30 | 2,002 | 2,688 | I'm just trying make things a little comfier while the others try to carve that horse out of the ground. Baldur said as he spotted a small bunch of sticks and began walking towards it. It wasn't logs but it might help keep the fire going a little while longer. Baldur noted that Jameson kept calling him gramps which he really did not appreciate. He was liking this group less and less. | Name: Baldur the Great
Age: 50 and looks it
Description: Baldur is in decent shape for his age but his ‘experience’ is beginning to show as his hairs are getting greyer and whiter.
Gender: Male
Personality: Baldur was once a very chipper and passionate magician and mage but now he is little more than a husk of a man. His previous attitude towards life is now buried beneath heaps of experience in the world but sometimes one can catch a glimpse of the wide eyed struggling magician beneath his beaten exterior.
Backstory: Baldur keeps his past pretty secretive but what he is more than liberal of sharing is his failed stint as a Magician. When he was younger he began studying slight of hand and similar fake magics while also learning some real magic on the side to spice up his act. His act didn’t go very far and he ended up needing to give up on his dream of making it big. Later on in life he worked as a librarian but decided that he wanted to move up North to get away from the political drama of the south.
Skills: He’s shown that ability to cast a few basic spells such as small fires or magic lights. He’s still very adept at slight of hand tricks and subterfuge overall. He’s pretty good at stick fighting and he can tell a mean story when he’s in the mood.
Extra: He carries around a notebook and has a strong wooden staff that he uses to bash people when in trouble. |
7,849 | 211 | 31 | 1,727 | 876 | Ivan started to cough again, this time a bit more harshly. He paced aimlessly back and forth while Baldur made a fire, wondering if he could offer any assistance. He said nothing, deciding to wait to be asked to do something instead of volunteering. | Name: Ivan Levin Mikhailovich
Age: Looks 9, is 11
Description: Ivan is a small boy, only a little over four feet tall. His messy golden brown hair falls to just below his chin in unkempt layers, framing his pale face. He has a pair of sharp dark brown eyes, that always make him look alert and watchful. His build is frail and skinny, with long slender limbs and childish facial features. His posture leans a bit to the left and he walks with a limp.
He dresses in whatever rags he can get his fragile thin-fingered little hands on. Right now, this means a worn out orange waistcoat at least three sizes too large for him, a white button down shirt that's surprisingly unstained, torn black dress pants and no shoes for his little feet.
Gender: Male
Personality: Ivan is quiet, mostly because his English isn't very good but also because he's extremely shy. When interacting with others, he seems stiff and unfriendly, speaking in a hushed and hurried voice and stammering. He's very sensitive and is easily made upset, especially when asked about his past or his parents. He'll often go days without ever speaking to anyone. He's reluctant to try new things, preferring to stick with what he knows.
Backstory: Ivan's mother died giving birth to him, and his father, tied down with caring for sick relatives, sent Ivan off on his own to find money to help the family. Ivan, finding no work in his hometown, joined the caravan with hope of finding his fortune elsewhere.
Skills: Sneaking, hiding, marksmanship, drawing, general craftiness
Extra:
-Ivan has asthma and is allergic to cats and shellfish
-He is afraid of heights and spiders
-He carries his mother's wedding ring in his pocket at all times
-He walks with a limp because of an accident he got into when he was only eight years old. He fell off of a roof and fractured his right leg in two places.
-He suffers from chronic nightmares that cause him to sleep poorly and occasionally wet the bed. He really doesn't like to talk about this.
-He tries not to kill unless he has to, and usually only shoots non-lethally.
-Despite the above statement, he has very good marksmanship and could probably kill if he had to.
-He likes to draw and is quite good at it. |
7,850 | 211 | 32 | 1,876 | 146 | Raven looked up at the dome.
"That was handy. Haha! Guess we could've stopped and done that an hour or two ago and the horse would've been fine" He looked down at the injured animal that by now was most likely freed with three or more men bringing it out of the mud. "You know what would be great right now? A healing spell for horses. But it looks like nobody here has one, which kinda sucks a lot. If we're gonna kill it, well, I'm not gonna do it. There's no way I'm gonna punch a horse to death with spiked gauntlets." | Name: Raven.
Age: 19.
Description: Raven has a fairly tall, muscular body. He's six feet and 2 inches in height and his build isn't like that of a bodybuilder, but one can clearly see that he is fairly strong and agile. His clothes consist of a chainmail jacket with a gray shirt underneath. His pants are dark green and have several pockets. His shoes are black boots. He wears clawed gauntlets that have spikes on the knuckles, these are his primary weapons. He also has a amulet on a necklace shaped like a dragon's head that gives him full immunity to unwanted spells, curses, hexes, jinxes, and the like. Although some things can bypass it. (like, a spell that makes an anvil fall on you. The emblem doesn't make you immune to falling anvils, just stuff like death spells, spells that turn him into something else or manipulate his body or mind, curses that make inexplicable bad things happen to him, etc.) his face is fairly slender and smooth as he dies not grow facial hair. His eyes are a bright green and his hair is black and medium length. His eyes are deep and intense looking, or cheerful and jovial looking, or fierce and wild looking, depending on his mood. Raven's skin is pale and smooth.
Gender: Male.
Backstory: Raven was a martial arts student in a city caught up in civil war during his teenage years. However he had a distrust of the military and the government due to some shady things he had evidence of them being up to, such as his friend's sister mysteriously disappearing and reappearing now remembering what happened to her but having injuries showing sighs of interrogation on her body. Not only that, but multiple times guards broke into and searched his private space, when Raven despised. So when he was at the age of 18, and was drafted into war because of his hand-to-hand combat proficiency and healthy body, he ran away from home. Not wanting to join the ranks of the same people who ransacked his room on multiple occasions and taxed the hell out of him as soon as he started his first job as an assistant to the teachers at the martial arts school. Not to mention the possibility of the violent interrogations. All these things were because his city was losing the war, and Raven didn't intend to join a battle that was pointless, a waste of time in the first place, and where his side was about to lose before long anyway. He definitely didn't want to end up dead on the battlefield all because some rich Noble in his city wanted more land and resources. So he fled from the military to head north, hoping to get away from the constant wars and commonly occuring street fights where no bystander was safe. (all the town guards had been appointed into the front lines and the wall defenses. The result? Near-anarchy.) along with other poor conditions. His family was barely connected to him, and his friends had moved on to other cities, became soldiers, or mysteriously disappeared. So with nobody to stay for, raven then left the city altogether and headed north where he found the caravan. Deciding that with his combat training, durable claw weapons, an amulet that was said to help him protect himself from sorcery and the occult, he could be of some assistance to the other travelers and stuck around them because they were likely to have food.
Personality: Friendly, rarely that excited about anything, cheeky and sarcastic at times when someone does something to irritate him, confident, and easily scoffs at romance and sex. He is completely asexual and aromantic with no interest in being more then best friends. He is fairly energetic and optimistic, but will speak his mind when he's tired or the situation isn't good for him for a long period of time. Maybe even a little too much. Sometimes he strokes his own ego about his skill with the combat gauntlets and his athletic capabilities, but Raven rarely puts down the abilities of others and its not especially difficult to earn his respect. Earning his trust is a bit more difficult.
Skills: To sum it up, he is good at hand-to-hand and gauntlets and knives. Good at athletics and agility-based tasks as well. Fairly strong and can take a few hits if he has to. Knows a lot about the anatomy and weaknesses of the human body, and just how to take advantage of them. Also has lots of balancing skills as part of his athleticism. |
7,851 | 211 | 33 | 2,254 | 547 | Perhaps, said Robart, "That job would best be left to the person who owns the big hammer in the back of the wagon."
The knight turned to the caravan master, folding his arms, "If there's nothing we can do for 'im, just say the word and the horse won't ever have to know it hit him." | Name:Robart "The Pilgrim" Garrithe
Age: 32, though he looks like he's been dead and buried in a salt pile for years.
Description: The remnants of what was once a powerful and imposing figure, has apparently shriveled underneath sandstone-looking, leathery skin. Like a tan, semi-muscular hollow from Dark Souls, but with functioning eyes and some streaks of blackish melanin left in his beard. He usually hides this under his armor and cloak, of course. He has a uniquely beaked helmet that sticks out from under his hood.
Gender: Male
Personality: Very austere and moribund in nature. He has the poise and mannerisms of someone who was once very 'Type A' and confrontational, but his bile has gone out of him and he doesn't know how to present himself in another way. Apologizes often when he imagines someone imagines that he slighted them.
Backstory: Used to be a kmight, got infected with "The Drying" and joined a sort of crusade movement called "The Leper Knights", felt that he could get no closer to 'Salvation' in battle, and went North to find a quiet, peaceful place to die. Or, at least one that wasn't fighting with itself.
Skills: He’s quite adept at fighting with his Crows beak staff, sword, and shield. Very efficient and brutal. He can also start fires and shoot things with a bow and arrow, but those would qualify more as survival skills than things with battle application, and they are not his forte.
Extra: It's not usually the case, but he always feels massively dehydrated. Any beverage he isn't suspicious of he will down with haste. Due to his disease, his skin is hard, solid, and durable, like hardleather, but it heals very slowly. Nearly any wound requires stitches and bandages. |
7,852 | 211 | 34 | 179 | 5,558 | The Caravan
A Halloween Mini-RP
Trip Day 3, Morning - All Characters
Rainy as it was before, the clouds above managed to become deeper, darker, and considerably wetter, with the rain showing no sign of letting up anytime soon. Fog and rain relentlessly hammered the forest, accompanied by a growing wind coming down from the north. Though it was only morning, it was dark enough to be late evening. Rain and wind were the best indicators; nobody could see the sky through the increasingly dense fog...
-------------—————~~~~~♠~~~~~—————-------------
Caravan Group
The rain came down with a wrath unseen in the South, battering the dome with the fury of a hail of arrows. The caravan master and those assisting him managed to get the horse up, who was taking the whole affair rather well given his broken front legs.
"He's the only u'n who ca- bloody-"
The horse fell with an almost human scream in the direction of the caravan driver, who barely avoided being crushed but found his feet planted a foot under the mud by a horse that was now screaming in pain.
"Bloody hells! Damn horse inni't goin' to last longer! Gimme the-" He grabbed at the inside of his cloak, pulling out a short silver dagger. "...I'm sorry..." he choked out as he pulled the horses head near him and plunged the blade into the middle of the animal's skull.
He held the horse as it died, clutching it tightly for several seconds before slowly pulling out the blade red with blood and laying it into the mud. Waving away anyone who would have helped him, he extracted his legs from the mud, black boots now entirely brown with a little red on them as well. "...13 years..." he muttered as he stood unsteadily, picking up the knife and putting it back in his completely dirty cloak without cleaning it off. Squinting to the road ahead, he pointed and said "There".
'There', in the fog, still distant yet coming closer, was a distinct beam of yellow held by a dark silhouette.
-------------—————~~~~~♠~~~~~—————-------------
Forest Group
As the two conversed in the relentless pounding of heavier rain and deeper fog, the almost human scream of the horse reached their ears. | Please stick your CS into the OOC first, the drop it in here when accepted. If it's got larger images feel free to stick it in a hider, but I don't consider that a requirement.
NPC's will get a mention here with a short description, along with any important roleplay details, but I'm leaving them largely open to interpretation. Most of the time.
Caravan Master - an old, limping, rough and somewhat unpleasant fellow with a record for getting people up north in very good time and having survived trips through weather many don't dare tempt.
Caravan Master's Horse - I figured the poor sod needed a mention somewhere. He's almost as old as the caravan master and twice the pain in the ass. |
7,853 | 211 | 35 | 1,727 | 876 | Ivan turned away and covered his ears as the horse screamed, squeezing his eyes shut as the blade sunk into the animal's skull. He'd killed animals himself before, but he hated to watch them die in such pain. He cleared his throat a few times, his lungs rattling a bit as he took a deep breath and tried to move on from the horse's death. It was clear the caravan master cared deeply for the horse. It wasn't quite the same as the wild deer he killed... this was an animal that was raised and loved. | Name: Ivan Levin Mikhailovich
Age: Looks 9, is 11
Description: Ivan is a small boy, only a little over four feet tall. His messy golden brown hair falls to just below his chin in unkempt layers, framing his pale face. He has a pair of sharp dark brown eyes, that always make him look alert and watchful. His build is frail and skinny, with long slender limbs and childish facial features. His posture leans a bit to the left and he walks with a limp.
He dresses in whatever rags he can get his fragile thin-fingered little hands on. Right now, this means a worn out orange waistcoat at least three sizes too large for him, a white button down shirt that's surprisingly unstained, torn black dress pants and no shoes for his little feet.
Gender: Male
Personality: Ivan is quiet, mostly because his English isn't very good but also because he's extremely shy. When interacting with others, he seems stiff and unfriendly, speaking in a hushed and hurried voice and stammering. He's very sensitive and is easily made upset, especially when asked about his past or his parents. He'll often go days without ever speaking to anyone. He's reluctant to try new things, preferring to stick with what he knows.
Backstory: Ivan's mother died giving birth to him, and his father, tied down with caring for sick relatives, sent Ivan off on his own to find money to help the family. Ivan, finding no work in his hometown, joined the caravan with hope of finding his fortune elsewhere.
Skills: Sneaking, hiding, marksmanship, drawing, general craftiness
Extra:
-Ivan has asthma and is allergic to cats and shellfish
-He is afraid of heights and spiders
-He carries his mother's wedding ring in his pocket at all times
-He walks with a limp because of an accident he got into when he was only eight years old. He fell off of a roof and fractured his right leg in two places.
-He suffers from chronic nightmares that cause him to sleep poorly and occasionally wet the bed. He really doesn't like to talk about this.
-He tries not to kill unless he has to, and usually only shoots non-lethally.
-Despite the above statement, he has very good marksmanship and could probably kill if he had to.
-He likes to draw and is quite good at it. |
7,854 | 211 | 36 | 1,876 | 146 | Raven's face seemed to turn sour, and he looked away. "It was for the best, the poor beast wasn't going to get any better. Better to end its suffering now..." he thought to himself. With a "fwip" noise, he put his jacket back on now that Ivan had removed it and put his gauntlets back on. Walking over to the fire and sitting down next to it, Raven pondered on how to make further progress north. | Name: Raven.
Age: 19.
Description: Raven has a fairly tall, muscular body. He's six feet and 2 inches in height and his build isn't like that of a bodybuilder, but one can clearly see that he is fairly strong and agile. His clothes consist of a chainmail jacket with a gray shirt underneath. His pants are dark green and have several pockets. His shoes are black boots. He wears clawed gauntlets that have spikes on the knuckles, these are his primary weapons. He also has a amulet on a necklace shaped like a dragon's head that gives him full immunity to unwanted spells, curses, hexes, jinxes, and the like. Although some things can bypass it. (like, a spell that makes an anvil fall on you. The emblem doesn't make you immune to falling anvils, just stuff like death spells, spells that turn him into something else or manipulate his body or mind, curses that make inexplicable bad things happen to him, etc.) his face is fairly slender and smooth as he dies not grow facial hair. His eyes are a bright green and his hair is black and medium length. His eyes are deep and intense looking, or cheerful and jovial looking, or fierce and wild looking, depending on his mood. Raven's skin is pale and smooth.
Gender: Male.
Backstory: Raven was a martial arts student in a city caught up in civil war during his teenage years. However he had a distrust of the military and the government due to some shady things he had evidence of them being up to, such as his friend's sister mysteriously disappearing and reappearing now remembering what happened to her but having injuries showing sighs of interrogation on her body. Not only that, but multiple times guards broke into and searched his private space, when Raven despised. So when he was at the age of 18, and was drafted into war because of his hand-to-hand combat proficiency and healthy body, he ran away from home. Not wanting to join the ranks of the same people who ransacked his room on multiple occasions and taxed the hell out of him as soon as he started his first job as an assistant to the teachers at the martial arts school. Not to mention the possibility of the violent interrogations. All these things were because his city was losing the war, and Raven didn't intend to join a battle that was pointless, a waste of time in the first place, and where his side was about to lose before long anyway. He definitely didn't want to end up dead on the battlefield all because some rich Noble in his city wanted more land and resources. So he fled from the military to head north, hoping to get away from the constant wars and commonly occuring street fights where no bystander was safe. (all the town guards had been appointed into the front lines and the wall defenses. The result? Near-anarchy.) along with other poor conditions. His family was barely connected to him, and his friends had moved on to other cities, became soldiers, or mysteriously disappeared. So with nobody to stay for, raven then left the city altogether and headed north where he found the caravan. Deciding that with his combat training, durable claw weapons, an amulet that was said to help him protect himself from sorcery and the occult, he could be of some assistance to the other travelers and stuck around them because they were likely to have food.
Personality: Friendly, rarely that excited about anything, cheeky and sarcastic at times when someone does something to irritate him, confident, and easily scoffs at romance and sex. He is completely asexual and aromantic with no interest in being more then best friends. He is fairly energetic and optimistic, but will speak his mind when he's tired or the situation isn't good for him for a long period of time. Maybe even a little too much. Sometimes he strokes his own ego about his skill with the combat gauntlets and his athletic capabilities, but Raven rarely puts down the abilities of others and its not especially difficult to earn his respect. Earning his trust is a bit more difficult.
Skills: To sum it up, he is good at hand-to-hand and gauntlets and knives. Good at athletics and agility-based tasks as well. Fairly strong and can take a few hits if he has to. Knows a lot about the anatomy and weaknesses of the human body, and just how to take advantage of them. Also has lots of balancing skills as part of his athleticism. |
7,855 | 211 | 37 | 2,254 | 547 | Robart kept his eyes trained on the incoming stranger, cloak sinking around his shoulder and hiding the hand that rested ready to draw his sword. Surely travellers with lanterns were a common occurrence and innocent enough, but they were far from out of war-torn borders, and highwaymen were a likely occurrence in any populated region, perhaps no matter how far north you went.
Whether their unlucky streak was about to continue or come to an abrupt end, Robart just felt more comfortable being prepared for the former outcome...
"Who's this, then?" | Name:Robart "The Pilgrim" Garrithe
Age: 32, though he looks like he's been dead and buried in a salt pile for years.
Description: The remnants of what was once a powerful and imposing figure, has apparently shriveled underneath sandstone-looking, leathery skin. Like a tan, semi-muscular hollow from Dark Souls, but with functioning eyes and some streaks of blackish melanin left in his beard. He usually hides this under his armor and cloak, of course. He has a uniquely beaked helmet that sticks out from under his hood.
Gender: Male
Personality: Very austere and moribund in nature. He has the poise and mannerisms of someone who was once very 'Type A' and confrontational, but his bile has gone out of him and he doesn't know how to present himself in another way. Apologizes often when he imagines someone imagines that he slighted them.
Backstory: Used to be a kmight, got infected with "The Drying" and joined a sort of crusade movement called "The Leper Knights", felt that he could get no closer to 'Salvation' in battle, and went North to find a quiet, peaceful place to die. Or, at least one that wasn't fighting with itself.
Skills: He’s quite adept at fighting with his Crows beak staff, sword, and shield. Very efficient and brutal. He can also start fires and shoot things with a bow and arrow, but those would qualify more as survival skills than things with battle application, and they are not his forte.
Extra: It's not usually the case, but he always feels massively dehydrated. Any beverage he isn't suspicious of he will down with haste. Due to his disease, his skin is hard, solid, and durable, like hardleather, but it heals very slowly. Nearly any wound requires stitches and bandages. |
7,856 | 211 | 38 | 2,002 | 2,688 | As the screech was heard from back at the camp, without a word, Baldur dropped the sticks he had been collecting and sprinted as fast as he could back to camp. He arrived panting heavily as he saw that the group had finally put the horse down. Baldur felt a ping of sadness for the Caravan driver but he quickly discarded this thought of pity as quickly as it had come to him. Baldur then noticed the light heading in their direction and got his large fighting-stick out, ready for a confrontation. | Name: Baldur the Great
Age: 50 and looks it
Description: Baldur is in decent shape for his age but his ‘experience’ is beginning to show as his hairs are getting greyer and whiter.
Gender: Male
Personality: Baldur was once a very chipper and passionate magician and mage but now he is little more than a husk of a man. His previous attitude towards life is now buried beneath heaps of experience in the world but sometimes one can catch a glimpse of the wide eyed struggling magician beneath his beaten exterior.
Backstory: Baldur keeps his past pretty secretive but what he is more than liberal of sharing is his failed stint as a Magician. When he was younger he began studying slight of hand and similar fake magics while also learning some real magic on the side to spice up his act. His act didn’t go very far and he ended up needing to give up on his dream of making it big. Later on in life he worked as a librarian but decided that he wanted to move up North to get away from the political drama of the south.
Skills: He’s shown that ability to cast a few basic spells such as small fires or magic lights. He’s still very adept at slight of hand tricks and subterfuge overall. He’s pretty good at stick fighting and he can tell a mean story when he’s in the mood.
Extra: He carries around a notebook and has a strong wooden staff that he uses to bash people when in trouble. |
7,857 | 211 | 39 | 2,713 | 253 | What the hell was that!? said Jameson as he quickly sprinted alongside Baldur. Back at the caravan, he arrived at the scene of the bloody dead horse. He felt pity for the caravan master and his horse, to others it might just be any other livestock, but to the caravan master, it was his companion all these years. He thought to himself, maybe he should've stayed, would've been easier for the caravan master if Jameson was the one to end the horse, but the trail of thought ended abruptly when he noticed the dark silhouette. "Sorry about the horse, but by the looks on everyone's faces, I'm guessing whoever is over there ain't one of us." said Jameson in a serious tone as he drew one of his flintlock pistols from his coat. He positioned himself in front of Ivan and whispered to him, "Best head inside kid, seems like trouble ain't over yet." | Name: Jameson
Age: is 21, looks 21
Description: Jameson is your typical, run of the mill cowboy-type character, wearing a cowboy hat and a dark long overcoat. He is of average build and height, slightly bearded. He believes in travelling light and sufficient so he carries around a canteen, a knife and machete and 2 flintlock pistols (better safe than sorry he says). He looks worn from all the travelling but has the look of determination of a young man.
Gender: Male
Personality: Jameson keeps to himself most of the time but is a friendly guy who believes that travellers should help each other whenever possible, especially during times like these. However, he wasn't born yesterday and knows when someone is being "overly appreciative" of his kindness. He hates evil of all kind and will do his best to stop them whenever he comes across them in his travels even if it means bending over backwards at times.
Backstory: Jameson is from a land way down south, however he spent most of his adult years travelling and seeking a more meaningful life than tending to the livestock back home. He travelled to many places and has seen many things, but never did he leave the safety and familiarity of his own land. After hearing news of a caravan that brings people north, he decided that perhaps it's time to look for something more foreign to satisfy his adventurous young heart.
Skills: Jameson is no master of combat, but he handles himself well with most types of blades and close combat in general. At range, he is able to fire his strange contraptions gifted to him during his journeys (the pistols) with relative accuracy though at a slow speed. Living off the land for a few years taught him the basics of survival such as foraging and setting up camp from sticks and leaves. Also, he makes the best (nastiest) bug stew. |
7,858 | 211 | 40 | 32 | 217 | Shouldn't have used magic idiot. Skylar muttered angrily at himself as he snatched his raiper from the clutter of the caravan. He kept it pointed at the approaching light and had a half prepared spell in his mind.
"Perhaps it would be best if they boy readied an arrow.I'm sure your contraptions work wonders but another stinger in the air if it attacks wouldn't be the worst, especially around here." He said softly. "This barrier won't stop a creature from passing through after all. Probably won't hold if the rain gets any harder." | Name: Skylar Altzan
Age: 24
Description: Short for a male, Skylar stands 5'3". He wears simple garments, a tunic, breeches, and boots. He keeps an oil cloth coat for the rain in a large back pack. He cuts his black hair short himself, not caring his hair is uneven and unkempt. He limps slightly from a childhood injury but nothing that interferes with his day to day life.
Gender: Male
Personality: Open and blunt, Skylar could never be accused of possessing tact. That didn't mean he was rude. He just felt that honesty was the best option amd refused to play those silly social games others indulged in. Life was so much easier that way.
Backstory: All magically inclined, the Altzan family ran several magical shops in the south. He grew up around magic and fell in love with it. He had practiced since he could read his mother's tomes and discovered an easy talent with defensive magics. The more violent ones made him a little queasy. It was this affinity for magic that made them a target for demon worshippers. They were attacked , captured and sacrificed. A few even succumbed. Skylar decided to flee, keeping his magic secret in hopes he would escape. He decided to pass himself off as an explorer, looking to make it rich in the North.
Skills: Skylar specializes in defensive and utility magic. Since his distaste for offensive magics stopped him from learning them, he learned how to use a raiper if he ever needed a way to defend himself without magic. |
7,859 | 211 | 41 | 1,727 | 876 | Ivan nodded as Skylar suggested readying an arrow. He liked that idea a lot better than Jameson's suggestion of hiding inside the caravan and letting the adults take care of everything. He ran inside the caravan to find his father's bow and quiver of arrows. Coming back outside with the bow in hand, he took notice of the figure approaching.
They weren't too far away now, and seemed to be holding some sort of torch or lantern. Ivan had no idea who would be out alone on a muddy road this deep in the woods with torrential rain pouring down on them, so Ivan's first thought was that this might be trouble. He selected a steel arrow from the quiver on his back, pulling back the bowstring and hoping he was wrong about whoever this person was. | Name: Ivan Levin Mikhailovich
Age: Looks 9, is 11
Description: Ivan is a small boy, only a little over four feet tall. His messy golden brown hair falls to just below his chin in unkempt layers, framing his pale face. He has a pair of sharp dark brown eyes, that always make him look alert and watchful. His build is frail and skinny, with long slender limbs and childish facial features. His posture leans a bit to the left and he walks with a limp.
He dresses in whatever rags he can get his fragile thin-fingered little hands on. Right now, this means a worn out orange waistcoat at least three sizes too large for him, a white button down shirt that's surprisingly unstained, torn black dress pants and no shoes for his little feet.
Gender: Male
Personality: Ivan is quiet, mostly because his English isn't very good but also because he's extremely shy. When interacting with others, he seems stiff and unfriendly, speaking in a hushed and hurried voice and stammering. He's very sensitive and is easily made upset, especially when asked about his past or his parents. He'll often go days without ever speaking to anyone. He's reluctant to try new things, preferring to stick with what he knows.
Backstory: Ivan's mother died giving birth to him, and his father, tied down with caring for sick relatives, sent Ivan off on his own to find money to help the family. Ivan, finding no work in his hometown, joined the caravan with hope of finding his fortune elsewhere.
Skills: Sneaking, hiding, marksmanship, drawing, general craftiness
Extra:
-Ivan has asthma and is allergic to cats and shellfish
-He is afraid of heights and spiders
-He carries his mother's wedding ring in his pocket at all times
-He walks with a limp because of an accident he got into when he was only eight years old. He fell off of a roof and fractured his right leg in two places.
-He suffers from chronic nightmares that cause him to sleep poorly and occasionally wet the bed. He really doesn't like to talk about this.
-He tries not to kill unless he has to, and usually only shoots non-lethally.
-Despite the above statement, he has very good marksmanship and could probably kill if he had to.
-He likes to draw and is quite good at it. |
7,860 | 211 | 42 | 1,876 | 146 | Taking note that there was a light in the darkness, Raven slinked into the shadows. Travellers weren't always safe from the natives of the woods, and he wanted to be prepared to jump the entity if they decided to attack. Hiding in the bushes, Raven was difficult to spot and he sat, waiting and peering at the light through the leaves. | Name: Raven.
Age: 19.
Description: Raven has a fairly tall, muscular body. He's six feet and 2 inches in height and his build isn't like that of a bodybuilder, but one can clearly see that he is fairly strong and agile. His clothes consist of a chainmail jacket with a gray shirt underneath. His pants are dark green and have several pockets. His shoes are black boots. He wears clawed gauntlets that have spikes on the knuckles, these are his primary weapons. He also has a amulet on a necklace shaped like a dragon's head that gives him full immunity to unwanted spells, curses, hexes, jinxes, and the like. Although some things can bypass it. (like, a spell that makes an anvil fall on you. The emblem doesn't make you immune to falling anvils, just stuff like death spells, spells that turn him into something else or manipulate his body or mind, curses that make inexplicable bad things happen to him, etc.) his face is fairly slender and smooth as he dies not grow facial hair. His eyes are a bright green and his hair is black and medium length. His eyes are deep and intense looking, or cheerful and jovial looking, or fierce and wild looking, depending on his mood. Raven's skin is pale and smooth.
Gender: Male.
Backstory: Raven was a martial arts student in a city caught up in civil war during his teenage years. However he had a distrust of the military and the government due to some shady things he had evidence of them being up to, such as his friend's sister mysteriously disappearing and reappearing now remembering what happened to her but having injuries showing sighs of interrogation on her body. Not only that, but multiple times guards broke into and searched his private space, when Raven despised. So when he was at the age of 18, and was drafted into war because of his hand-to-hand combat proficiency and healthy body, he ran away from home. Not wanting to join the ranks of the same people who ransacked his room on multiple occasions and taxed the hell out of him as soon as he started his first job as an assistant to the teachers at the martial arts school. Not to mention the possibility of the violent interrogations. All these things were because his city was losing the war, and Raven didn't intend to join a battle that was pointless, a waste of time in the first place, and where his side was about to lose before long anyway. He definitely didn't want to end up dead on the battlefield all because some rich Noble in his city wanted more land and resources. So he fled from the military to head north, hoping to get away from the constant wars and commonly occuring street fights where no bystander was safe. (all the town guards had been appointed into the front lines and the wall defenses. The result? Near-anarchy.) along with other poor conditions. His family was barely connected to him, and his friends had moved on to other cities, became soldiers, or mysteriously disappeared. So with nobody to stay for, raven then left the city altogether and headed north where he found the caravan. Deciding that with his combat training, durable claw weapons, an amulet that was said to help him protect himself from sorcery and the occult, he could be of some assistance to the other travelers and stuck around them because they were likely to have food.
Personality: Friendly, rarely that excited about anything, cheeky and sarcastic at times when someone does something to irritate him, confident, and easily scoffs at romance and sex. He is completely asexual and aromantic with no interest in being more then best friends. He is fairly energetic and optimistic, but will speak his mind when he's tired or the situation isn't good for him for a long period of time. Maybe even a little too much. Sometimes he strokes his own ego about his skill with the combat gauntlets and his athletic capabilities, but Raven rarely puts down the abilities of others and its not especially difficult to earn his respect. Earning his trust is a bit more difficult.
Skills: To sum it up, he is good at hand-to-hand and gauntlets and knives. Good at athletics and agility-based tasks as well. Fairly strong and can take a few hits if he has to. Knows a lot about the anatomy and weaknesses of the human body, and just how to take advantage of them. Also has lots of balancing skills as part of his athleticism. |
7,861 | 211 | 43 | 1,727 | 876 | Ivan held his arrow pointed steadily at the approaching figure, though his knees were shaking and beads of sweat formed on his pale forehead. He let out a small fit of coughs, his arrow just barely staying pointed on target as he wheezed and tried to catch his breath. He looked back up, and now he could easily see that the figure was no more than fifteen yards away. An easy shot, if he had to make it. | Name: Ivan Levin Mikhailovich
Age: Looks 9, is 11
Description: Ivan is a small boy, only a little over four feet tall. His messy golden brown hair falls to just below his chin in unkempt layers, framing his pale face. He has a pair of sharp dark brown eyes, that always make him look alert and watchful. His build is frail and skinny, with long slender limbs and childish facial features. His posture leans a bit to the left and he walks with a limp.
He dresses in whatever rags he can get his fragile thin-fingered little hands on. Right now, this means a worn out orange waistcoat at least three sizes too large for him, a white button down shirt that's surprisingly unstained, torn black dress pants and no shoes for his little feet.
Gender: Male
Personality: Ivan is quiet, mostly because his English isn't very good but also because he's extremely shy. When interacting with others, he seems stiff and unfriendly, speaking in a hushed and hurried voice and stammering. He's very sensitive and is easily made upset, especially when asked about his past or his parents. He'll often go days without ever speaking to anyone. He's reluctant to try new things, preferring to stick with what he knows.
Backstory: Ivan's mother died giving birth to him, and his father, tied down with caring for sick relatives, sent Ivan off on his own to find money to help the family. Ivan, finding no work in his hometown, joined the caravan with hope of finding his fortune elsewhere.
Skills: Sneaking, hiding, marksmanship, drawing, general craftiness
Extra:
-Ivan has asthma and is allergic to cats and shellfish
-He is afraid of heights and spiders
-He carries his mother's wedding ring in his pocket at all times
-He walks with a limp because of an accident he got into when he was only eight years old. He fell off of a roof and fractured his right leg in two places.
-He suffers from chronic nightmares that cause him to sleep poorly and occasionally wet the bed. He really doesn't like to talk about this.
-He tries not to kill unless he has to, and usually only shoots non-lethally.
-Despite the above statement, he has very good marksmanship and could probably kill if he had to.
-He likes to draw and is quite good at it. |
7,862 | 211 | 44 | 179 | 5,558 | The silhouette approached, almost silently save for the squishing and splashing of mud mixed with the heavy rain. The figure slowly became visible as a slim and somewhat short person in the fog, little taller than Ivan, carrying what was indeed a lantern in one raised hand. Said person wore a very dark blue cloak with a sash keeping it closed in the midsection, the garments almost silk in their appearance, save for the harsh contrast of mud coming halfway up to the person's knees. Said person, coming into view, was a woman with striking blue eyes, a face that was in perfect contrast to the mud down below, and could not have been older than her early twenties.
She stopped outside the dome, looking at the diverse weaponry aimed at her while she held the lantern.
"Did I come at a bad time?" she asked over the rain. | Please stick your CS into the OOC first, the drop it in here when accepted. If it's got larger images feel free to stick it in a hider, but I don't consider that a requirement.
NPC's will get a mention here with a short description, along with any important roleplay details, but I'm leaving them largely open to interpretation. Most of the time.
Caravan Master - an old, limping, rough and somewhat unpleasant fellow with a record for getting people up north in very good time and having survived trips through weather many don't dare tempt.
Caravan Master's Horse - I figured the poor sod needed a mention somewhere. He's almost as old as the caravan master and twice the pain in the ass. |
7,863 | 211 | 45 | 1,727 | 876 | Ah...Прости! Ivan lowered his bow immediately, looking surprised and ashamed for aiming a weapon at such a proper looking young woman. Surely, his father would have slapped him across the face for using his own bow in such a way. He limped out of the dome towards her, rain immediately resoaking his clothes and hair. "Trust me, we mean no hurt! You must forgive, we come very far to get here. Are very lost. You as well, yes?..." He probably would have blathered on endlessly, but he was stopped by another harsh fit of coughs, his asthmatic lungs rejecting the frigid air. | Name: Ivan Levin Mikhailovich
Age: Looks 9, is 11
Description: Ivan is a small boy, only a little over four feet tall. His messy golden brown hair falls to just below his chin in unkempt layers, framing his pale face. He has a pair of sharp dark brown eyes, that always make him look alert and watchful. His build is frail and skinny, with long slender limbs and childish facial features. His posture leans a bit to the left and he walks with a limp.
He dresses in whatever rags he can get his fragile thin-fingered little hands on. Right now, this means a worn out orange waistcoat at least three sizes too large for him, a white button down shirt that's surprisingly unstained, torn black dress pants and no shoes for his little feet.
Gender: Male
Personality: Ivan is quiet, mostly because his English isn't very good but also because he's extremely shy. When interacting with others, he seems stiff and unfriendly, speaking in a hushed and hurried voice and stammering. He's very sensitive and is easily made upset, especially when asked about his past or his parents. He'll often go days without ever speaking to anyone. He's reluctant to try new things, preferring to stick with what he knows.
Backstory: Ivan's mother died giving birth to him, and his father, tied down with caring for sick relatives, sent Ivan off on his own to find money to help the family. Ivan, finding no work in his hometown, joined the caravan with hope of finding his fortune elsewhere.
Skills: Sneaking, hiding, marksmanship, drawing, general craftiness
Extra:
-Ivan has asthma and is allergic to cats and shellfish
-He is afraid of heights and spiders
-He carries his mother's wedding ring in his pocket at all times
-He walks with a limp because of an accident he got into when he was only eight years old. He fell off of a roof and fractured his right leg in two places.
-He suffers from chronic nightmares that cause him to sleep poorly and occasionally wet the bed. He really doesn't like to talk about this.
-He tries not to kill unless he has to, and usually only shoots non-lethally.
-Despite the above statement, he has very good marksmanship and could probably kill if he had to.
-He likes to draw and is quite good at it. |
7,864 | 211 | 46 | 1,876 | 146 | Raven stepped out of the bushes. He was still suspicious, for not everything was as harmless as it looked in this world. Because of this he kept the gauntlets on, just to be on the safe side.
"You sure did. Horse is dead, the caravan won't move, and like the kid said we're lost. Never know who you'll meet out here." He spoke clearly towards the woman. His facial expression was not an unfriendly one, but he certainly did not look like he was going to walk over to the women and give hugs. By no means was Raven worried, but if there's one thing he knew it was that judging a book by its cover wasn't always wise. | Name: Raven.
Age: 19.
Description: Raven has a fairly tall, muscular body. He's six feet and 2 inches in height and his build isn't like that of a bodybuilder, but one can clearly see that he is fairly strong and agile. His clothes consist of a chainmail jacket with a gray shirt underneath. His pants are dark green and have several pockets. His shoes are black boots. He wears clawed gauntlets that have spikes on the knuckles, these are his primary weapons. He also has a amulet on a necklace shaped like a dragon's head that gives him full immunity to unwanted spells, curses, hexes, jinxes, and the like. Although some things can bypass it. (like, a spell that makes an anvil fall on you. The emblem doesn't make you immune to falling anvils, just stuff like death spells, spells that turn him into something else or manipulate his body or mind, curses that make inexplicable bad things happen to him, etc.) his face is fairly slender and smooth as he dies not grow facial hair. His eyes are a bright green and his hair is black and medium length. His eyes are deep and intense looking, or cheerful and jovial looking, or fierce and wild looking, depending on his mood. Raven's skin is pale and smooth.
Gender: Male.
Backstory: Raven was a martial arts student in a city caught up in civil war during his teenage years. However he had a distrust of the military and the government due to some shady things he had evidence of them being up to, such as his friend's sister mysteriously disappearing and reappearing now remembering what happened to her but having injuries showing sighs of interrogation on her body. Not only that, but multiple times guards broke into and searched his private space, when Raven despised. So when he was at the age of 18, and was drafted into war because of his hand-to-hand combat proficiency and healthy body, he ran away from home. Not wanting to join the ranks of the same people who ransacked his room on multiple occasions and taxed the hell out of him as soon as he started his first job as an assistant to the teachers at the martial arts school. Not to mention the possibility of the violent interrogations. All these things were because his city was losing the war, and Raven didn't intend to join a battle that was pointless, a waste of time in the first place, and where his side was about to lose before long anyway. He definitely didn't want to end up dead on the battlefield all because some rich Noble in his city wanted more land and resources. So he fled from the military to head north, hoping to get away from the constant wars and commonly occuring street fights where no bystander was safe. (all the town guards had been appointed into the front lines and the wall defenses. The result? Near-anarchy.) along with other poor conditions. His family was barely connected to him, and his friends had moved on to other cities, became soldiers, or mysteriously disappeared. So with nobody to stay for, raven then left the city altogether and headed north where he found the caravan. Deciding that with his combat training, durable claw weapons, an amulet that was said to help him protect himself from sorcery and the occult, he could be of some assistance to the other travelers and stuck around them because they were likely to have food.
Personality: Friendly, rarely that excited about anything, cheeky and sarcastic at times when someone does something to irritate him, confident, and easily scoffs at romance and sex. He is completely asexual and aromantic with no interest in being more then best friends. He is fairly energetic and optimistic, but will speak his mind when he's tired or the situation isn't good for him for a long period of time. Maybe even a little too much. Sometimes he strokes his own ego about his skill with the combat gauntlets and his athletic capabilities, but Raven rarely puts down the abilities of others and its not especially difficult to earn his respect. Earning his trust is a bit more difficult.
Skills: To sum it up, he is good at hand-to-hand and gauntlets and knives. Good at athletics and agility-based tasks as well. Fairly strong and can take a few hits if he has to. Knows a lot about the anatomy and weaknesses of the human body, and just how to take advantage of them. Also has lots of balancing skills as part of his athleticism. |
7,865 | 211 | 47 | 1,727 | 876 | By the time Ivan had stopped coughing, his bad leg had given out and he had fallen to his hands and knees in the mud. Realizing just how pathetically helpless he looked, he quickly caught his breath and stood back up, wincing as he put too much weight on his right leg. Though he had no doubt in his mind that the woman was just a harmless traveler, he kept his bow by his side instead of fastening it to his back again. Just in case. At this point, he was more afraid of the possibilities of wolves or something than this stranger. | Name: Ivan Levin Mikhailovich
Age: Looks 9, is 11
Description: Ivan is a small boy, only a little over four feet tall. His messy golden brown hair falls to just below his chin in unkempt layers, framing his pale face. He has a pair of sharp dark brown eyes, that always make him look alert and watchful. His build is frail and skinny, with long slender limbs and childish facial features. His posture leans a bit to the left and he walks with a limp.
He dresses in whatever rags he can get his fragile thin-fingered little hands on. Right now, this means a worn out orange waistcoat at least three sizes too large for him, a white button down shirt that's surprisingly unstained, torn black dress pants and no shoes for his little feet.
Gender: Male
Personality: Ivan is quiet, mostly because his English isn't very good but also because he's extremely shy. When interacting with others, he seems stiff and unfriendly, speaking in a hushed and hurried voice and stammering. He's very sensitive and is easily made upset, especially when asked about his past or his parents. He'll often go days without ever speaking to anyone. He's reluctant to try new things, preferring to stick with what he knows.
Backstory: Ivan's mother died giving birth to him, and his father, tied down with caring for sick relatives, sent Ivan off on his own to find money to help the family. Ivan, finding no work in his hometown, joined the caravan with hope of finding his fortune elsewhere.
Skills: Sneaking, hiding, marksmanship, drawing, general craftiness
Extra:
-Ivan has asthma and is allergic to cats and shellfish
-He is afraid of heights and spiders
-He carries his mother's wedding ring in his pocket at all times
-He walks with a limp because of an accident he got into when he was only eight years old. He fell off of a roof and fractured his right leg in two places.
-He suffers from chronic nightmares that cause him to sleep poorly and occasionally wet the bed. He really doesn't like to talk about this.
-He tries not to kill unless he has to, and usually only shoots non-lethally.
-Despite the above statement, he has very good marksmanship and could probably kill if he had to.
-He likes to draw and is quite good at it. |
7,866 | 211 | 48 | 2,002 | 2,688 | Baldur didn't make any move to put away his fighting stick as he didn't believe this woman had good intentions in the slightest and he didn't feel safe with having this woman so close to the group. He'd heard stories about witches and monsters in the guise of people and these woods had an horribly eerie and dangerous feeling to them that were only amplified by the woman's sudden appearance. | Name: Baldur the Great
Age: 50 and looks it
Description: Baldur is in decent shape for his age but his ‘experience’ is beginning to show as his hairs are getting greyer and whiter.
Gender: Male
Personality: Baldur was once a very chipper and passionate magician and mage but now he is little more than a husk of a man. His previous attitude towards life is now buried beneath heaps of experience in the world but sometimes one can catch a glimpse of the wide eyed struggling magician beneath his beaten exterior.
Backstory: Baldur keeps his past pretty secretive but what he is more than liberal of sharing is his failed stint as a Magician. When he was younger he began studying slight of hand and similar fake magics while also learning some real magic on the side to spice up his act. His act didn’t go very far and he ended up needing to give up on his dream of making it big. Later on in life he worked as a librarian but decided that he wanted to move up North to get away from the political drama of the south.
Skills: He’s shown that ability to cast a few basic spells such as small fires or magic lights. He’s still very adept at slight of hand tricks and subterfuge overall. He’s pretty good at stick fighting and he can tell a mean story when he’s in the mood.
Extra: He carries around a notebook and has a strong wooden staff that he uses to bash people when in trouble. |
7,867 | 211 | 49 | 32 | 217 | Skylar eyed the woman with suspicion and let the magical energy he stored fade away but left his sword unsheathed. He found it odd a lone woman just happened to meander down the trail as they found trouble. Maybe he should... the boy's coughing snapped him from his train of thought. He frowned and strode to the edge of his bubble.
"Come back inside young one. No need to kill yourself out in the cold when we have shelter." He reached out to pull the boy back in gently before addressing the woman. "A little trouble on this road in a storm is enough to put everyone on guard. Come inside, no need to soak yourself any further." | Name: Skylar Altzan
Age: 24
Description: Short for a male, Skylar stands 5'3". He wears simple garments, a tunic, breeches, and boots. He keeps an oil cloth coat for the rain in a large back pack. He cuts his black hair short himself, not caring his hair is uneven and unkempt. He limps slightly from a childhood injury but nothing that interferes with his day to day life.
Gender: Male
Personality: Open and blunt, Skylar could never be accused of possessing tact. That didn't mean he was rude. He just felt that honesty was the best option amd refused to play those silly social games others indulged in. Life was so much easier that way.
Backstory: All magically inclined, the Altzan family ran several magical shops in the south. He grew up around magic and fell in love with it. He had practiced since he could read his mother's tomes and discovered an easy talent with defensive magics. The more violent ones made him a little queasy. It was this affinity for magic that made them a target for demon worshippers. They were attacked , captured and sacrificed. A few even succumbed. Skylar decided to flee, keeping his magic secret in hopes he would escape. He decided to pass himself off as an explorer, looking to make it rich in the North.
Skills: Skylar specializes in defensive and utility magic. Since his distaste for offensive magics stopped him from learning them, he learned how to use a raiper if he ever needed a way to defend himself without magic. |
7,868 | 211 | 50 | 1,727 | 876 | Ivan shot Baldur a scathing look, mouthing "Put down your weapon." He shifted his posture so as to put less pressure on his hurting leg. When Skylar suggested he return to the dome, he sighed and reluctantly obeyed, limping back inside and removing his soaked orange vest to wring it out. | Name: Ivan Levin Mikhailovich
Age: Looks 9, is 11
Description: Ivan is a small boy, only a little over four feet tall. His messy golden brown hair falls to just below his chin in unkempt layers, framing his pale face. He has a pair of sharp dark brown eyes, that always make him look alert and watchful. His build is frail and skinny, with long slender limbs and childish facial features. His posture leans a bit to the left and he walks with a limp.
He dresses in whatever rags he can get his fragile thin-fingered little hands on. Right now, this means a worn out orange waistcoat at least three sizes too large for him, a white button down shirt that's surprisingly unstained, torn black dress pants and no shoes for his little feet.
Gender: Male
Personality: Ivan is quiet, mostly because his English isn't very good but also because he's extremely shy. When interacting with others, he seems stiff and unfriendly, speaking in a hushed and hurried voice and stammering. He's very sensitive and is easily made upset, especially when asked about his past or his parents. He'll often go days without ever speaking to anyone. He's reluctant to try new things, preferring to stick with what he knows.
Backstory: Ivan's mother died giving birth to him, and his father, tied down with caring for sick relatives, sent Ivan off on his own to find money to help the family. Ivan, finding no work in his hometown, joined the caravan with hope of finding his fortune elsewhere.
Skills: Sneaking, hiding, marksmanship, drawing, general craftiness
Extra:
-Ivan has asthma and is allergic to cats and shellfish
-He is afraid of heights and spiders
-He carries his mother's wedding ring in his pocket at all times
-He walks with a limp because of an accident he got into when he was only eight years old. He fell off of a roof and fractured his right leg in two places.
-He suffers from chronic nightmares that cause him to sleep poorly and occasionally wet the bed. He really doesn't like to talk about this.
-He tries not to kill unless he has to, and usually only shoots non-lethally.
-Despite the above statement, he has very good marksmanship and could probably kill if he had to.
-He likes to draw and is quite good at it. |
7,869 | 211 | 51 | 2,254 | 547 | Robart coughed, more to announce that he was about to talk than to retch from the cold... Though, with the disease in his body so long, it was inpossible to hear the difference.
"You must forgive us..." The knight shrugged, keeping the sword and his hand well-hidden under his cloak, "It all happened so quickly... It would be too easy for, say, a highwayman, with the fine dress to show for it, to have tracked us all this way and waited for our wagon to be crippled and its riders to be stuck out in the open to be shot by the rest of the gang... Or perhaps having gone ahead to hide big rocks in the road. I've seen many attempts at money and life in my time..." | Name:Robart "The Pilgrim" Garrithe
Age: 32, though he looks like he's been dead and buried in a salt pile for years.
Description: The remnants of what was once a powerful and imposing figure, has apparently shriveled underneath sandstone-looking, leathery skin. Like a tan, semi-muscular hollow from Dark Souls, but with functioning eyes and some streaks of blackish melanin left in his beard. He usually hides this under his armor and cloak, of course. He has a uniquely beaked helmet that sticks out from under his hood.
Gender: Male
Personality: Very austere and moribund in nature. He has the poise and mannerisms of someone who was once very 'Type A' and confrontational, but his bile has gone out of him and he doesn't know how to present himself in another way. Apologizes often when he imagines someone imagines that he slighted them.
Backstory: Used to be a kmight, got infected with "The Drying" and joined a sort of crusade movement called "The Leper Knights", felt that he could get no closer to 'Salvation' in battle, and went North to find a quiet, peaceful place to die. Or, at least one that wasn't fighting with itself.
Skills: He’s quite adept at fighting with his Crows beak staff, sword, and shield. Very efficient and brutal. He can also start fires and shoot things with a bow and arrow, but those would qualify more as survival skills than things with battle application, and they are not his forte.
Extra: It's not usually the case, but he always feels massively dehydrated. Any beverage he isn't suspicious of he will down with haste. Due to his disease, his skin is hard, solid, and durable, like hardleather, but it heals very slowly. Nearly any wound requires stitches and bandages. |
7,870 | 211 | 52 | 2,002 | 2,688 | Baldur gave the boy Ivan a death glare when the boy silently told him to put his stick away. The rest of the group could trust the woman all they wanted but he'd read up on all sorts of nefarious magical items and beasts that could be at play here. "What's your name." Baldur said to the woman, more as a demand and less as a question. | Name: Baldur the Great
Age: 50 and looks it
Description: Baldur is in decent shape for his age but his ‘experience’ is beginning to show as his hairs are getting greyer and whiter.
Gender: Male
Personality: Baldur was once a very chipper and passionate magician and mage but now he is little more than a husk of a man. His previous attitude towards life is now buried beneath heaps of experience in the world but sometimes one can catch a glimpse of the wide eyed struggling magician beneath his beaten exterior.
Backstory: Baldur keeps his past pretty secretive but what he is more than liberal of sharing is his failed stint as a Magician. When he was younger he began studying slight of hand and similar fake magics while also learning some real magic on the side to spice up his act. His act didn’t go very far and he ended up needing to give up on his dream of making it big. Later on in life he worked as a librarian but decided that he wanted to move up North to get away from the political drama of the south.
Skills: He’s shown that ability to cast a few basic spells such as small fires or magic lights. He’s still very adept at slight of hand tricks and subterfuge overall. He’s pretty good at stick fighting and he can tell a mean story when he’s in the mood.
Extra: He carries around a notebook and has a strong wooden staff that he uses to bash people when in trouble. |
7,871 | 211 | 53 | 1,727 | 876 | Ivan found himself leaning heavily on the side of the caravan, coughing weakly as he scrubbed mud off his hands. He was no longer really paying attention to what everyone was saying to the woman; it was all the same explanations. Ivan shivered when Baldur gave him the evil eye, but kept a straight face and once again gestured for him to lower the stick. | Name: Ivan Levin Mikhailovich
Age: Looks 9, is 11
Description: Ivan is a small boy, only a little over four feet tall. His messy golden brown hair falls to just below his chin in unkempt layers, framing his pale face. He has a pair of sharp dark brown eyes, that always make him look alert and watchful. His build is frail and skinny, with long slender limbs and childish facial features. His posture leans a bit to the left and he walks with a limp.
He dresses in whatever rags he can get his fragile thin-fingered little hands on. Right now, this means a worn out orange waistcoat at least three sizes too large for him, a white button down shirt that's surprisingly unstained, torn black dress pants and no shoes for his little feet.
Gender: Male
Personality: Ivan is quiet, mostly because his English isn't very good but also because he's extremely shy. When interacting with others, he seems stiff and unfriendly, speaking in a hushed and hurried voice and stammering. He's very sensitive and is easily made upset, especially when asked about his past or his parents. He'll often go days without ever speaking to anyone. He's reluctant to try new things, preferring to stick with what he knows.
Backstory: Ivan's mother died giving birth to him, and his father, tied down with caring for sick relatives, sent Ivan off on his own to find money to help the family. Ivan, finding no work in his hometown, joined the caravan with hope of finding his fortune elsewhere.
Skills: Sneaking, hiding, marksmanship, drawing, general craftiness
Extra:
-Ivan has asthma and is allergic to cats and shellfish
-He is afraid of heights and spiders
-He carries his mother's wedding ring in his pocket at all times
-He walks with a limp because of an accident he got into when he was only eight years old. He fell off of a roof and fractured his right leg in two places.
-He suffers from chronic nightmares that cause him to sleep poorly and occasionally wet the bed. He really doesn't like to talk about this.
-He tries not to kill unless he has to, and usually only shoots non-lethally.
-Despite the above statement, he has very good marksmanship and could probably kill if he had to.
-He likes to draw and is quite good at it. |
7,872 | 211 | 54 | 32 | 217 | Skylar pursed his lips as Ivan leaned against the caravan. He shrugged out of his coat and draped it around the lad. He frowned down at the boy and sheathed his weapon, turning away from the woman.
"Hey Ivan, why don't you go sit down? You'll need your strength for the walk if we need to." Skylar held his hand out to help the boy to the back of the caravan. | Name: Skylar Altzan
Age: 24
Description: Short for a male, Skylar stands 5'3". He wears simple garments, a tunic, breeches, and boots. He keeps an oil cloth coat for the rain in a large back pack. He cuts his black hair short himself, not caring his hair is uneven and unkempt. He limps slightly from a childhood injury but nothing that interferes with his day to day life.
Gender: Male
Personality: Open and blunt, Skylar could never be accused of possessing tact. That didn't mean he was rude. He just felt that honesty was the best option amd refused to play those silly social games others indulged in. Life was so much easier that way.
Backstory: All magically inclined, the Altzan family ran several magical shops in the south. He grew up around magic and fell in love with it. He had practiced since he could read his mother's tomes and discovered an easy talent with defensive magics. The more violent ones made him a little queasy. It was this affinity for magic that made them a target for demon worshippers. They were attacked , captured and sacrificed. A few even succumbed. Skylar decided to flee, keeping his magic secret in hopes he would escape. He decided to pass himself off as an explorer, looking to make it rich in the North.
Skills: Skylar specializes in defensive and utility magic. Since his distaste for offensive magics stopped him from learning them, he learned how to use a raiper if he ever needed a way to defend himself without magic. |
7,873 | 211 | 55 | 179 | 5,558 | The newcomer gave a rueful smile as she trudged inside the dome, looking at Ivan and the horse. "Call me Regina."
"I can't say I have met many a highwayman on this road, probably because most people don't use this road... and if you've heard anything about the forests of this land, it would be for good reason."
She looked down at the lower portions of her cloak, stained a deep brown that became more obvious as she stepped over marginally less deep mud. "Mess again..." She looked at the group. "I know it's hard to see in the fog, but I do live around here." She pointed towards the foggy clearing. "Yes, there's the fog, but my house is down there."
The caravan master scowled darkly, muttering under his breath. "...'itch..." | Please stick your CS into the OOC first, the drop it in here when accepted. If it's got larger images feel free to stick it in a hider, but I don't consider that a requirement.
NPC's will get a mention here with a short description, along with any important roleplay details, but I'm leaving them largely open to interpretation. Most of the time.
Caravan Master - an old, limping, rough and somewhat unpleasant fellow with a record for getting people up north in very good time and having survived trips through weather many don't dare tempt.
Caravan Master's Horse - I figured the poor sod needed a mention somewhere. He's almost as old as the caravan master and twice the pain in the ass. |
7,874 | 211 | 56 | 1,727 | 876 | I am fine. Ivan insisted curtly, one of his small, frail hands reaching up to swat Skylar's (significantly larger) hand away. He didn't want to be sent back inside. If something happened, he at least wanted to not be the only one cowering in the back of the caravan. In truth he was perhaps just being a bit petulant, but he honestly did want to offer as much assistance as he could. | Name: Ivan Levin Mikhailovich
Age: Looks 9, is 11
Description: Ivan is a small boy, only a little over four feet tall. His messy golden brown hair falls to just below his chin in unkempt layers, framing his pale face. He has a pair of sharp dark brown eyes, that always make him look alert and watchful. His build is frail and skinny, with long slender limbs and childish facial features. His posture leans a bit to the left and he walks with a limp.
He dresses in whatever rags he can get his fragile thin-fingered little hands on. Right now, this means a worn out orange waistcoat at least three sizes too large for him, a white button down shirt that's surprisingly unstained, torn black dress pants and no shoes for his little feet.
Gender: Male
Personality: Ivan is quiet, mostly because his English isn't very good but also because he's extremely shy. When interacting with others, he seems stiff and unfriendly, speaking in a hushed and hurried voice and stammering. He's very sensitive and is easily made upset, especially when asked about his past or his parents. He'll often go days without ever speaking to anyone. He's reluctant to try new things, preferring to stick with what he knows.
Backstory: Ivan's mother died giving birth to him, and his father, tied down with caring for sick relatives, sent Ivan off on his own to find money to help the family. Ivan, finding no work in his hometown, joined the caravan with hope of finding his fortune elsewhere.
Skills: Sneaking, hiding, marksmanship, drawing, general craftiness
Extra:
-Ivan has asthma and is allergic to cats and shellfish
-He is afraid of heights and spiders
-He carries his mother's wedding ring in his pocket at all times
-He walks with a limp because of an accident he got into when he was only eight years old. He fell off of a roof and fractured his right leg in two places.
-He suffers from chronic nightmares that cause him to sleep poorly and occasionally wet the bed. He really doesn't like to talk about this.
-He tries not to kill unless he has to, and usually only shoots non-lethally.
-Despite the above statement, he has very good marksmanship and could probably kill if he had to.
-He likes to draw and is quite good at it. |
7,875 | 211 | 57 | 2,254 | 547 | Robart let his arm drop back to his side. Albeit peeved, the caravan master wasn't worried, and if the expert had nothing to fear from this woman, neither did he.
"Hm. You live here? Is the weather always this bad?..." | Name:Robart "The Pilgrim" Garrithe
Age: 32, though he looks like he's been dead and buried in a salt pile for years.
Description: The remnants of what was once a powerful and imposing figure, has apparently shriveled underneath sandstone-looking, leathery skin. Like a tan, semi-muscular hollow from Dark Souls, but with functioning eyes and some streaks of blackish melanin left in his beard. He usually hides this under his armor and cloak, of course. He has a uniquely beaked helmet that sticks out from under his hood.
Gender: Male
Personality: Very austere and moribund in nature. He has the poise and mannerisms of someone who was once very 'Type A' and confrontational, but his bile has gone out of him and he doesn't know how to present himself in another way. Apologizes often when he imagines someone imagines that he slighted them.
Backstory: Used to be a kmight, got infected with "The Drying" and joined a sort of crusade movement called "The Leper Knights", felt that he could get no closer to 'Salvation' in battle, and went North to find a quiet, peaceful place to die. Or, at least one that wasn't fighting with itself.
Skills: He’s quite adept at fighting with his Crows beak staff, sword, and shield. Very efficient and brutal. He can also start fires and shoot things with a bow and arrow, but those would qualify more as survival skills than things with battle application, and they are not his forte.
Extra: It's not usually the case, but he always feels massively dehydrated. Any beverage he isn't suspicious of he will down with haste. Due to his disease, his skin is hard, solid, and durable, like hardleather, but it heals very slowly. Nearly any wound requires stitches and bandages. |
7,876 | 211 | 58 | 1,876 | 146 | A lass dressed like that living out here in... The middle of nowhere, with weather like this? Where raven came from, anyone who had clothes like that lived in a manor in the city. Not some random cabin in the woods.
"Hey, don't judge. You haven't even seen her house yet. Besides, if she wanted to attack then she certainly would not have walked up to us carrying a lantern. But then again, if she had a full-on house out here where caravan man travels, you'd think he'd have seen it already. But if for like this is common, then it makes sense. Eh, I'll give this lass the benefit of the doubt." Raven thought to himself. He walked up to the alleged Regina and introduced himself. "Hello miss Regina, my name is Raven. Sorry about the... You know, weapons and suspicion thing. But a man's gotta play it smart. Good to meet ya!" | Name: Raven.
Age: 19.
Description: Raven has a fairly tall, muscular body. He's six feet and 2 inches in height and his build isn't like that of a bodybuilder, but one can clearly see that he is fairly strong and agile. His clothes consist of a chainmail jacket with a gray shirt underneath. His pants are dark green and have several pockets. His shoes are black boots. He wears clawed gauntlets that have spikes on the knuckles, these are his primary weapons. He also has a amulet on a necklace shaped like a dragon's head that gives him full immunity to unwanted spells, curses, hexes, jinxes, and the like. Although some things can bypass it. (like, a spell that makes an anvil fall on you. The emblem doesn't make you immune to falling anvils, just stuff like death spells, spells that turn him into something else or manipulate his body or mind, curses that make inexplicable bad things happen to him, etc.) his face is fairly slender and smooth as he dies not grow facial hair. His eyes are a bright green and his hair is black and medium length. His eyes are deep and intense looking, or cheerful and jovial looking, or fierce and wild looking, depending on his mood. Raven's skin is pale and smooth.
Gender: Male.
Backstory: Raven was a martial arts student in a city caught up in civil war during his teenage years. However he had a distrust of the military and the government due to some shady things he had evidence of them being up to, such as his friend's sister mysteriously disappearing and reappearing now remembering what happened to her but having injuries showing sighs of interrogation on her body. Not only that, but multiple times guards broke into and searched his private space, when Raven despised. So when he was at the age of 18, and was drafted into war because of his hand-to-hand combat proficiency and healthy body, he ran away from home. Not wanting to join the ranks of the same people who ransacked his room on multiple occasions and taxed the hell out of him as soon as he started his first job as an assistant to the teachers at the martial arts school. Not to mention the possibility of the violent interrogations. All these things were because his city was losing the war, and Raven didn't intend to join a battle that was pointless, a waste of time in the first place, and where his side was about to lose before long anyway. He definitely didn't want to end up dead on the battlefield all because some rich Noble in his city wanted more land and resources. So he fled from the military to head north, hoping to get away from the constant wars and commonly occuring street fights where no bystander was safe. (all the town guards had been appointed into the front lines and the wall defenses. The result? Near-anarchy.) along with other poor conditions. His family was barely connected to him, and his friends had moved on to other cities, became soldiers, or mysteriously disappeared. So with nobody to stay for, raven then left the city altogether and headed north where he found the caravan. Deciding that with his combat training, durable claw weapons, an amulet that was said to help him protect himself from sorcery and the occult, he could be of some assistance to the other travelers and stuck around them because they were likely to have food.
Personality: Friendly, rarely that excited about anything, cheeky and sarcastic at times when someone does something to irritate him, confident, and easily scoffs at romance and sex. He is completely asexual and aromantic with no interest in being more then best friends. He is fairly energetic and optimistic, but will speak his mind when he's tired or the situation isn't good for him for a long period of time. Maybe even a little too much. Sometimes he strokes his own ego about his skill with the combat gauntlets and his athletic capabilities, but Raven rarely puts down the abilities of others and its not especially difficult to earn his respect. Earning his trust is a bit more difficult.
Skills: To sum it up, he is good at hand-to-hand and gauntlets and knives. Good at athletics and agility-based tasks as well. Fairly strong and can take a few hits if he has to. Knows a lot about the anatomy and weaknesses of the human body, and just how to take advantage of them. Also has lots of balancing skills as part of his athleticism. |
7,877 | 211 | 59 | 2,002 | 2,688 | If you live out here then how do you keep all of the... things, that live out here away from your home? From what I've heard its pretty tough to settle up here, especially by yourself. Baldur said still suspicious but lowering his weapons as he now used it to assist with walking rather than combat. He doubted any of this was going to end well but he realized that may just be his elderly nerves talking. | Name: Baldur the Great
Age: 50 and looks it
Description: Baldur is in decent shape for his age but his ‘experience’ is beginning to show as his hairs are getting greyer and whiter.
Gender: Male
Personality: Baldur was once a very chipper and passionate magician and mage but now he is little more than a husk of a man. His previous attitude towards life is now buried beneath heaps of experience in the world but sometimes one can catch a glimpse of the wide eyed struggling magician beneath his beaten exterior.
Backstory: Baldur keeps his past pretty secretive but what he is more than liberal of sharing is his failed stint as a Magician. When he was younger he began studying slight of hand and similar fake magics while also learning some real magic on the side to spice up his act. His act didn’t go very far and he ended up needing to give up on his dream of making it big. Later on in life he worked as a librarian but decided that he wanted to move up North to get away from the political drama of the south.
Skills: He’s shown that ability to cast a few basic spells such as small fires or magic lights. He’s still very adept at slight of hand tricks and subterfuge overall. He’s pretty good at stick fighting and he can tell a mean story when he’s in the mood.
Extra: He carries around a notebook and has a strong wooden staff that he uses to bash people when in trouble. |
7,878 | 211 | 60 | 179 | 5,558 | She looked up at the sky at the question regarding the frequency of the present deplorable weather conditions. "In this time of year? Every couple of weeks."
To Raven she gave a slight bow. "There have been a number of travelers along this road, and having heard some of their stories I can't be surprised one bit at your suspicion. If what I hear is correct, the South is no place to make a life in." She looked at Baldur and gave him an odd look. "Those in the forest know their limits, and I doubt they have any desire to test them with me... today at least."
She addressed her next statement to the group. "I would imagine none of you want to stay in this weather longer than necessary. My home isn't much, but it will keep everyone dry, at least until the storm passes and once the path isn't mud."
She moved to the edge of the path, coming out of the mud and revealing brown-caked yet bare feet. "I'd suggest staying to the edges. When we get to the grass there shouldn't be as much of a mess. Feel free to come along if you like." She stood for a few moments.
The caravan master, scowling in the background, gave a slight nod at her last statement, giving the horse a long look before collecting a few spilled coins, his remaining funds. Sighing, he stated to the group, "There's been a home o' two on the path, I don' recall hers exactly, but I don' doubt its existance either." With that, he trudged over to the side of the path to join her. | Please stick your CS into the OOC first, the drop it in here when accepted. If it's got larger images feel free to stick it in a hider, but I don't consider that a requirement.
NPC's will get a mention here with a short description, along with any important roleplay details, but I'm leaving them largely open to interpretation. Most of the time.
Caravan Master - an old, limping, rough and somewhat unpleasant fellow with a record for getting people up north in very good time and having survived trips through weather many don't dare tempt.
Caravan Master's Horse - I figured the poor sod needed a mention somewhere. He's almost as old as the caravan master and twice the pain in the ass. |
7,879 | 211 | 61 | 1,876 | 146 | If she's got food, I'm sold. Raven said with a slight chuckle. He trudged along behind her and the Caravanian. His arms swung side to side and he took a look back to see who else was following. He was in-between the grandpa and the kid when it came to trusting this woman. | Name: Raven.
Age: 19.
Description: Raven has a fairly tall, muscular body. He's six feet and 2 inches in height and his build isn't like that of a bodybuilder, but one can clearly see that he is fairly strong and agile. His clothes consist of a chainmail jacket with a gray shirt underneath. His pants are dark green and have several pockets. His shoes are black boots. He wears clawed gauntlets that have spikes on the knuckles, these are his primary weapons. He also has a amulet on a necklace shaped like a dragon's head that gives him full immunity to unwanted spells, curses, hexes, jinxes, and the like. Although some things can bypass it. (like, a spell that makes an anvil fall on you. The emblem doesn't make you immune to falling anvils, just stuff like death spells, spells that turn him into something else or manipulate his body or mind, curses that make inexplicable bad things happen to him, etc.) his face is fairly slender and smooth as he dies not grow facial hair. His eyes are a bright green and his hair is black and medium length. His eyes are deep and intense looking, or cheerful and jovial looking, or fierce and wild looking, depending on his mood. Raven's skin is pale and smooth.
Gender: Male.
Backstory: Raven was a martial arts student in a city caught up in civil war during his teenage years. However he had a distrust of the military and the government due to some shady things he had evidence of them being up to, such as his friend's sister mysteriously disappearing and reappearing now remembering what happened to her but having injuries showing sighs of interrogation on her body. Not only that, but multiple times guards broke into and searched his private space, when Raven despised. So when he was at the age of 18, and was drafted into war because of his hand-to-hand combat proficiency and healthy body, he ran away from home. Not wanting to join the ranks of the same people who ransacked his room on multiple occasions and taxed the hell out of him as soon as he started his first job as an assistant to the teachers at the martial arts school. Not to mention the possibility of the violent interrogations. All these things were because his city was losing the war, and Raven didn't intend to join a battle that was pointless, a waste of time in the first place, and where his side was about to lose before long anyway. He definitely didn't want to end up dead on the battlefield all because some rich Noble in his city wanted more land and resources. So he fled from the military to head north, hoping to get away from the constant wars and commonly occuring street fights where no bystander was safe. (all the town guards had been appointed into the front lines and the wall defenses. The result? Near-anarchy.) along with other poor conditions. His family was barely connected to him, and his friends had moved on to other cities, became soldiers, or mysteriously disappeared. So with nobody to stay for, raven then left the city altogether and headed north where he found the caravan. Deciding that with his combat training, durable claw weapons, an amulet that was said to help him protect himself from sorcery and the occult, he could be of some assistance to the other travelers and stuck around them because they were likely to have food.
Personality: Friendly, rarely that excited about anything, cheeky and sarcastic at times when someone does something to irritate him, confident, and easily scoffs at romance and sex. He is completely asexual and aromantic with no interest in being more then best friends. He is fairly energetic and optimistic, but will speak his mind when he's tired or the situation isn't good for him for a long period of time. Maybe even a little too much. Sometimes he strokes his own ego about his skill with the combat gauntlets and his athletic capabilities, but Raven rarely puts down the abilities of others and its not especially difficult to earn his respect. Earning his trust is a bit more difficult.
Skills: To sum it up, he is good at hand-to-hand and gauntlets and knives. Good at athletics and agility-based tasks as well. Fairly strong and can take a few hits if he has to. Knows a lot about the anatomy and weaknesses of the human body, and just how to take advantage of them. Also has lots of balancing skills as part of his athleticism. |
7,880 | 211 | 62 | 2,002 | 2,688 | Baldur was still skeptical but his fire wasn't working out to well and he knew that he couldn't stay here all night and even though he still didn't trust the woman, he didn't want to be out in the woods by himself. He started walking after Raven as he followed the woman further down the road. | Name: Baldur the Great
Age: 50 and looks it
Description: Baldur is in decent shape for his age but his ‘experience’ is beginning to show as his hairs are getting greyer and whiter.
Gender: Male
Personality: Baldur was once a very chipper and passionate magician and mage but now he is little more than a husk of a man. His previous attitude towards life is now buried beneath heaps of experience in the world but sometimes one can catch a glimpse of the wide eyed struggling magician beneath his beaten exterior.
Backstory: Baldur keeps his past pretty secretive but what he is more than liberal of sharing is his failed stint as a Magician. When he was younger he began studying slight of hand and similar fake magics while also learning some real magic on the side to spice up his act. His act didn’t go very far and he ended up needing to give up on his dream of making it big. Later on in life he worked as a librarian but decided that he wanted to move up North to get away from the political drama of the south.
Skills: He’s shown that ability to cast a few basic spells such as small fires or magic lights. He’s still very adept at slight of hand tricks and subterfuge overall. He’s pretty good at stick fighting and he can tell a mean story when he’s in the mood.
Extra: He carries around a notebook and has a strong wooden staff that he uses to bash people when in trouble. |
7,881 | 211 | 63 | 2,254 | 547 | The knight walked around to the back of the caravan to retrieve his shield and hammer. The woman seemed trustworthy enough, but he didn't plan on using them. His weapons had stuck by him through everything, and he certainly wouldn't leave them in a wagon in the middle of nowhere. Hitching his shield, (Which he had been very careful to scratch the heraldry off of, but not careful enough to make it less than obvious that the original painting was scratched off and repainted with white laminate) to some belt under his cape, he leaned the hammer unagressively on his shoulder and followed the woman. | Name:Robart "The Pilgrim" Garrithe
Age: 32, though he looks like he's been dead and buried in a salt pile for years.
Description: The remnants of what was once a powerful and imposing figure, has apparently shriveled underneath sandstone-looking, leathery skin. Like a tan, semi-muscular hollow from Dark Souls, but with functioning eyes and some streaks of blackish melanin left in his beard. He usually hides this under his armor and cloak, of course. He has a uniquely beaked helmet that sticks out from under his hood.
Gender: Male
Personality: Very austere and moribund in nature. He has the poise and mannerisms of someone who was once very 'Type A' and confrontational, but his bile has gone out of him and he doesn't know how to present himself in another way. Apologizes often when he imagines someone imagines that he slighted them.
Backstory: Used to be a kmight, got infected with "The Drying" and joined a sort of crusade movement called "The Leper Knights", felt that he could get no closer to 'Salvation' in battle, and went North to find a quiet, peaceful place to die. Or, at least one that wasn't fighting with itself.
Skills: He’s quite adept at fighting with his Crows beak staff, sword, and shield. Very efficient and brutal. He can also start fires and shoot things with a bow and arrow, but those would qualify more as survival skills than things with battle application, and they are not his forte.
Extra: It's not usually the case, but he always feels massively dehydrated. Any beverage he isn't suspicious of he will down with haste. Due to his disease, his skin is hard, solid, and durable, like hardleather, but it heals very slowly. Nearly any wound requires stitches and bandages. |
7,882 | 211 | 64 | 1,727 | 876 | Somehow, despite not eating for the last day or so as food ran short, Ivan wasn't terribly interested in the prospect of food. Mostly he just wanted to get out of the rain, for the sake of his asthma and maintaining what little respect and dignity he had. He was still slumped against the caravan, his bad leg limply kicked up against the wall and his good leg supporting him. He had dropped his bow and quiver to his side, as though they were too heavy for him to carry any longer. He had intended to follow the others, but somehow he felt the need to regain a bit of energy before he started to walk again. He convinced himself he'd catch up. | Name: Ivan Levin Mikhailovich
Age: Looks 9, is 11
Description: Ivan is a small boy, only a little over four feet tall. His messy golden brown hair falls to just below his chin in unkempt layers, framing his pale face. He has a pair of sharp dark brown eyes, that always make him look alert and watchful. His build is frail and skinny, with long slender limbs and childish facial features. His posture leans a bit to the left and he walks with a limp.
He dresses in whatever rags he can get his fragile thin-fingered little hands on. Right now, this means a worn out orange waistcoat at least three sizes too large for him, a white button down shirt that's surprisingly unstained, torn black dress pants and no shoes for his little feet.
Gender: Male
Personality: Ivan is quiet, mostly because his English isn't very good but also because he's extremely shy. When interacting with others, he seems stiff and unfriendly, speaking in a hushed and hurried voice and stammering. He's very sensitive and is easily made upset, especially when asked about his past or his parents. He'll often go days without ever speaking to anyone. He's reluctant to try new things, preferring to stick with what he knows.
Backstory: Ivan's mother died giving birth to him, and his father, tied down with caring for sick relatives, sent Ivan off on his own to find money to help the family. Ivan, finding no work in his hometown, joined the caravan with hope of finding his fortune elsewhere.
Skills: Sneaking, hiding, marksmanship, drawing, general craftiness
Extra:
-Ivan has asthma and is allergic to cats and shellfish
-He is afraid of heights and spiders
-He carries his mother's wedding ring in his pocket at all times
-He walks with a limp because of an accident he got into when he was only eight years old. He fell off of a roof and fractured his right leg in two places.
-He suffers from chronic nightmares that cause him to sleep poorly and occasionally wet the bed. He really doesn't like to talk about this.
-He tries not to kill unless he has to, and usually only shoots non-lethally.
-Despite the above statement, he has very good marksmanship and could probably kill if he had to.
-He likes to draw and is quite good at it. |
7,883 | 211 | 65 | 2,713 | 253 | Jameson is on Baldur's side for this one, he has lived off the land long enough to know that random strangers don't walk up to one another unless they want something, and for one that seems much well to do than the gang? It roused his suspicions even more. Nevertheless, Jameson lowered his gun out of courtesy for this stranger and followed the group, but not ready to holster it just yet, fiddling with it as he spoke. "I'm all for being friendly with strangers, but may I know what such a finely dressed lass is doing walking out in this horrible rain, inviting a couple of strange men to her house?" said Jameson as he examined the lady. She seemed like just any ordinary lady, too ordinary for these parts, and all is never what it seems in this world. | Name: Jameson
Age: is 21, looks 21
Description: Jameson is your typical, run of the mill cowboy-type character, wearing a cowboy hat and a dark long overcoat. He is of average build and height, slightly bearded. He believes in travelling light and sufficient so he carries around a canteen, a knife and machete and 2 flintlock pistols (better safe than sorry he says). He looks worn from all the travelling but has the look of determination of a young man.
Gender: Male
Personality: Jameson keeps to himself most of the time but is a friendly guy who believes that travellers should help each other whenever possible, especially during times like these. However, he wasn't born yesterday and knows when someone is being "overly appreciative" of his kindness. He hates evil of all kind and will do his best to stop them whenever he comes across them in his travels even if it means bending over backwards at times.
Backstory: Jameson is from a land way down south, however he spent most of his adult years travelling and seeking a more meaningful life than tending to the livestock back home. He travelled to many places and has seen many things, but never did he leave the safety and familiarity of his own land. After hearing news of a caravan that brings people north, he decided that perhaps it's time to look for something more foreign to satisfy his adventurous young heart.
Skills: Jameson is no master of combat, but he handles himself well with most types of blades and close combat in general. At range, he is able to fire his strange contraptions gifted to him during his journeys (the pistols) with relative accuracy though at a slow speed. Living off the land for a few years taught him the basics of survival such as foraging and setting up camp from sticks and leaves. Also, he makes the best (nastiest) bug stew. |
7,884 | 211 | 66 | 32 | 217 | Skylar clicked his tongue is disapproval at the boy but didn't push. He'd just have to keep an eye on him. He felt a surge of guilt swell up as he thought about his younger brother but quickly pushed that away. This had nothing to do with it.
He glanced around and noticed the woman- Regina is what she said?- leading a few of the group out into the rain. He shrugged, the promise of shelter and a little warmth dispelling his immediate concerns. He hung back, waiting for the boy to follow the others. Plus it gave him time to settle a few spells in his head just in case. | Name: Skylar Altzan
Age: 24
Description: Short for a male, Skylar stands 5'3". He wears simple garments, a tunic, breeches, and boots. He keeps an oil cloth coat for the rain in a large back pack. He cuts his black hair short himself, not caring his hair is uneven and unkempt. He limps slightly from a childhood injury but nothing that interferes with his day to day life.
Gender: Male
Personality: Open and blunt, Skylar could never be accused of possessing tact. That didn't mean he was rude. He just felt that honesty was the best option amd refused to play those silly social games others indulged in. Life was so much easier that way.
Backstory: All magically inclined, the Altzan family ran several magical shops in the south. He grew up around magic and fell in love with it. He had practiced since he could read his mother's tomes and discovered an easy talent with defensive magics. The more violent ones made him a little queasy. It was this affinity for magic that made them a target for demon worshippers. They were attacked , captured and sacrificed. A few even succumbed. Skylar decided to flee, keeping his magic secret in hopes he would escape. He decided to pass himself off as an explorer, looking to make it rich in the North.
Skills: Skylar specializes in defensive and utility magic. Since his distaste for offensive magics stopped him from learning them, he learned how to use a raiper if he ever needed a way to defend himself without magic. |
7,885 | 211 | 67 | 1,727 | 876 | Ivan took a shallow and shaky breath, pushing himself away from the side of the caravan and picking up his bow and quiver, limping back towards the others. His limp seemed to have gotten a bit worse, his right leg dragging behind him as he walked in an unsteady pace. The mud was up above his knees at certain points on the path, making it even harder to walk properly. Thankfully the others hadn't gotten too far, but he still lagged behind them a good deal. | Name: Ivan Levin Mikhailovich
Age: Looks 9, is 11
Description: Ivan is a small boy, only a little over four feet tall. His messy golden brown hair falls to just below his chin in unkempt layers, framing his pale face. He has a pair of sharp dark brown eyes, that always make him look alert and watchful. His build is frail and skinny, with long slender limbs and childish facial features. His posture leans a bit to the left and he walks with a limp.
He dresses in whatever rags he can get his fragile thin-fingered little hands on. Right now, this means a worn out orange waistcoat at least three sizes too large for him, a white button down shirt that's surprisingly unstained, torn black dress pants and no shoes for his little feet.
Gender: Male
Personality: Ivan is quiet, mostly because his English isn't very good but also because he's extremely shy. When interacting with others, he seems stiff and unfriendly, speaking in a hushed and hurried voice and stammering. He's very sensitive and is easily made upset, especially when asked about his past or his parents. He'll often go days without ever speaking to anyone. He's reluctant to try new things, preferring to stick with what he knows.
Backstory: Ivan's mother died giving birth to him, and his father, tied down with caring for sick relatives, sent Ivan off on his own to find money to help the family. Ivan, finding no work in his hometown, joined the caravan with hope of finding his fortune elsewhere.
Skills: Sneaking, hiding, marksmanship, drawing, general craftiness
Extra:
-Ivan has asthma and is allergic to cats and shellfish
-He is afraid of heights and spiders
-He carries his mother's wedding ring in his pocket at all times
-He walks with a limp because of an accident he got into when he was only eight years old. He fell off of a roof and fractured his right leg in two places.
-He suffers from chronic nightmares that cause him to sleep poorly and occasionally wet the bed. He really doesn't like to talk about this.
-He tries not to kill unless he has to, and usually only shoots non-lethally.
-Despite the above statement, he has very good marksmanship and could probably kill if he had to.
-He likes to draw and is quite good at it. |
7,886 | 211 | 68 | 1,876 | 146 | Raven continued to walk through the mud. He'd never been this far from home before, and he enjoyed it quite a bit. Despite the fact that it was raining and cold and he was following some random stranger. Still, nobody said traveling was easy and Raven enjoyed the challenge. Taking a look back, he noticed that Ivan was having some serious difficulties walking. It reminded him of when sometimes a kid would get hurt in his school of martial arts. The teachers weren't abusive, but when you get a bunch of warrior kids in a room with training equipment and blunt weapons, sometimes things would go a little too rough. And somebody would have to tend to the kid and help them until they were healed. Naturally he didn't want to go up to Ivan and ask if he needed help as Raven didn't want to seem like a concerned mother. But he slowed his pace a bit to where he was almost back to where Ivan was, just in case the kid needed someone to take some of the weight off his leg. | Name: Raven.
Age: 19.
Description: Raven has a fairly tall, muscular body. He's six feet and 2 inches in height and his build isn't like that of a bodybuilder, but one can clearly see that he is fairly strong and agile. His clothes consist of a chainmail jacket with a gray shirt underneath. His pants are dark green and have several pockets. His shoes are black boots. He wears clawed gauntlets that have spikes on the knuckles, these are his primary weapons. He also has a amulet on a necklace shaped like a dragon's head that gives him full immunity to unwanted spells, curses, hexes, jinxes, and the like. Although some things can bypass it. (like, a spell that makes an anvil fall on you. The emblem doesn't make you immune to falling anvils, just stuff like death spells, spells that turn him into something else or manipulate his body or mind, curses that make inexplicable bad things happen to him, etc.) his face is fairly slender and smooth as he dies not grow facial hair. His eyes are a bright green and his hair is black and medium length. His eyes are deep and intense looking, or cheerful and jovial looking, or fierce and wild looking, depending on his mood. Raven's skin is pale and smooth.
Gender: Male.
Backstory: Raven was a martial arts student in a city caught up in civil war during his teenage years. However he had a distrust of the military and the government due to some shady things he had evidence of them being up to, such as his friend's sister mysteriously disappearing and reappearing now remembering what happened to her but having injuries showing sighs of interrogation on her body. Not only that, but multiple times guards broke into and searched his private space, when Raven despised. So when he was at the age of 18, and was drafted into war because of his hand-to-hand combat proficiency and healthy body, he ran away from home. Not wanting to join the ranks of the same people who ransacked his room on multiple occasions and taxed the hell out of him as soon as he started his first job as an assistant to the teachers at the martial arts school. Not to mention the possibility of the violent interrogations. All these things were because his city was losing the war, and Raven didn't intend to join a battle that was pointless, a waste of time in the first place, and where his side was about to lose before long anyway. He definitely didn't want to end up dead on the battlefield all because some rich Noble in his city wanted more land and resources. So he fled from the military to head north, hoping to get away from the constant wars and commonly occuring street fights where no bystander was safe. (all the town guards had been appointed into the front lines and the wall defenses. The result? Near-anarchy.) along with other poor conditions. His family was barely connected to him, and his friends had moved on to other cities, became soldiers, or mysteriously disappeared. So with nobody to stay for, raven then left the city altogether and headed north where he found the caravan. Deciding that with his combat training, durable claw weapons, an amulet that was said to help him protect himself from sorcery and the occult, he could be of some assistance to the other travelers and stuck around them because they were likely to have food.
Personality: Friendly, rarely that excited about anything, cheeky and sarcastic at times when someone does something to irritate him, confident, and easily scoffs at romance and sex. He is completely asexual and aromantic with no interest in being more then best friends. He is fairly energetic and optimistic, but will speak his mind when he's tired or the situation isn't good for him for a long period of time. Maybe even a little too much. Sometimes he strokes his own ego about his skill with the combat gauntlets and his athletic capabilities, but Raven rarely puts down the abilities of others and its not especially difficult to earn his respect. Earning his trust is a bit more difficult.
Skills: To sum it up, he is good at hand-to-hand and gauntlets and knives. Good at athletics and agility-based tasks as well. Fairly strong and can take a few hits if he has to. Knows a lot about the anatomy and weaknesses of the human body, and just how to take advantage of them. Also has lots of balancing skills as part of his athleticism. |
7,887 | 211 | 69 | 1,727 | 876 | Ivan looked up at Raven as the man slowed his pace to match the boy's. Ivan covered his mouth with his rain-soaked hand to let out a few more coughs, using his other hand to push a lock of his drenched hiar out of his eye. He continued to laboriously schlep his way through the mud, his bad leg dragging on the ground as if it had no bones in it at all. | Name: Ivan Levin Mikhailovich
Age: Looks 9, is 11
Description: Ivan is a small boy, only a little over four feet tall. His messy golden brown hair falls to just below his chin in unkempt layers, framing his pale face. He has a pair of sharp dark brown eyes, that always make him look alert and watchful. His build is frail and skinny, with long slender limbs and childish facial features. His posture leans a bit to the left and he walks with a limp.
He dresses in whatever rags he can get his fragile thin-fingered little hands on. Right now, this means a worn out orange waistcoat at least three sizes too large for him, a white button down shirt that's surprisingly unstained, torn black dress pants and no shoes for his little feet.
Gender: Male
Personality: Ivan is quiet, mostly because his English isn't very good but also because he's extremely shy. When interacting with others, he seems stiff and unfriendly, speaking in a hushed and hurried voice and stammering. He's very sensitive and is easily made upset, especially when asked about his past or his parents. He'll often go days without ever speaking to anyone. He's reluctant to try new things, preferring to stick with what he knows.
Backstory: Ivan's mother died giving birth to him, and his father, tied down with caring for sick relatives, sent Ivan off on his own to find money to help the family. Ivan, finding no work in his hometown, joined the caravan with hope of finding his fortune elsewhere.
Skills: Sneaking, hiding, marksmanship, drawing, general craftiness
Extra:
-Ivan has asthma and is allergic to cats and shellfish
-He is afraid of heights and spiders
-He carries his mother's wedding ring in his pocket at all times
-He walks with a limp because of an accident he got into when he was only eight years old. He fell off of a roof and fractured his right leg in two places.
-He suffers from chronic nightmares that cause him to sleep poorly and occasionally wet the bed. He really doesn't like to talk about this.
-He tries not to kill unless he has to, and usually only shoots non-lethally.
-Despite the above statement, he has very good marksmanship and could probably kill if he had to.
-He likes to draw and is quite good at it. |
7,888 | 211 | 70 | 1,876 | 146 | Raven awkwardly held out his hand for Ivan to take and use for support if he so wished, taking off the gauntlet first. "Kid I really don't think you should be walking by yourself, just saying. If you like I can help hold you up." | Name: Raven.
Age: 19.
Description: Raven has a fairly tall, muscular body. He's six feet and 2 inches in height and his build isn't like that of a bodybuilder, but one can clearly see that he is fairly strong and agile. His clothes consist of a chainmail jacket with a gray shirt underneath. His pants are dark green and have several pockets. His shoes are black boots. He wears clawed gauntlets that have spikes on the knuckles, these are his primary weapons. He also has a amulet on a necklace shaped like a dragon's head that gives him full immunity to unwanted spells, curses, hexes, jinxes, and the like. Although some things can bypass it. (like, a spell that makes an anvil fall on you. The emblem doesn't make you immune to falling anvils, just stuff like death spells, spells that turn him into something else or manipulate his body or mind, curses that make inexplicable bad things happen to him, etc.) his face is fairly slender and smooth as he dies not grow facial hair. His eyes are a bright green and his hair is black and medium length. His eyes are deep and intense looking, or cheerful and jovial looking, or fierce and wild looking, depending on his mood. Raven's skin is pale and smooth.
Gender: Male.
Backstory: Raven was a martial arts student in a city caught up in civil war during his teenage years. However he had a distrust of the military and the government due to some shady things he had evidence of them being up to, such as his friend's sister mysteriously disappearing and reappearing now remembering what happened to her but having injuries showing sighs of interrogation on her body. Not only that, but multiple times guards broke into and searched his private space, when Raven despised. So when he was at the age of 18, and was drafted into war because of his hand-to-hand combat proficiency and healthy body, he ran away from home. Not wanting to join the ranks of the same people who ransacked his room on multiple occasions and taxed the hell out of him as soon as he started his first job as an assistant to the teachers at the martial arts school. Not to mention the possibility of the violent interrogations. All these things were because his city was losing the war, and Raven didn't intend to join a battle that was pointless, a waste of time in the first place, and where his side was about to lose before long anyway. He definitely didn't want to end up dead on the battlefield all because some rich Noble in his city wanted more land and resources. So he fled from the military to head north, hoping to get away from the constant wars and commonly occuring street fights where no bystander was safe. (all the town guards had been appointed into the front lines and the wall defenses. The result? Near-anarchy.) along with other poor conditions. His family was barely connected to him, and his friends had moved on to other cities, became soldiers, or mysteriously disappeared. So with nobody to stay for, raven then left the city altogether and headed north where he found the caravan. Deciding that with his combat training, durable claw weapons, an amulet that was said to help him protect himself from sorcery and the occult, he could be of some assistance to the other travelers and stuck around them because they were likely to have food.
Personality: Friendly, rarely that excited about anything, cheeky and sarcastic at times when someone does something to irritate him, confident, and easily scoffs at romance and sex. He is completely asexual and aromantic with no interest in being more then best friends. He is fairly energetic and optimistic, but will speak his mind when he's tired or the situation isn't good for him for a long period of time. Maybe even a little too much. Sometimes he strokes his own ego about his skill with the combat gauntlets and his athletic capabilities, but Raven rarely puts down the abilities of others and its not especially difficult to earn his respect. Earning his trust is a bit more difficult.
Skills: To sum it up, he is good at hand-to-hand and gauntlets and knives. Good at athletics and agility-based tasks as well. Fairly strong and can take a few hits if he has to. Knows a lot about the anatomy and weaknesses of the human body, and just how to take advantage of them. Also has lots of balancing skills as part of his athleticism. |
7,889 | 211 | 71 | 1,727 | 876 | Ivan looked away sharply, with an insulted grimace. "I am alright." He said curtly, though he winced with every step and looked as though he were having trouble just staying balanced, let alone moving forward. His breath was shallow and wheezy, and one of his hands was wrapped around his chest at all times. Though he was obviously not having an easy time of it, he kept heading forward, a determined glare in his dark brown eyes. | Name: Ivan Levin Mikhailovich
Age: Looks 9, is 11
Description: Ivan is a small boy, only a little over four feet tall. His messy golden brown hair falls to just below his chin in unkempt layers, framing his pale face. He has a pair of sharp dark brown eyes, that always make him look alert and watchful. His build is frail and skinny, with long slender limbs and childish facial features. His posture leans a bit to the left and he walks with a limp.
He dresses in whatever rags he can get his fragile thin-fingered little hands on. Right now, this means a worn out orange waistcoat at least three sizes too large for him, a white button down shirt that's surprisingly unstained, torn black dress pants and no shoes for his little feet.
Gender: Male
Personality: Ivan is quiet, mostly because his English isn't very good but also because he's extremely shy. When interacting with others, he seems stiff and unfriendly, speaking in a hushed and hurried voice and stammering. He's very sensitive and is easily made upset, especially when asked about his past or his parents. He'll often go days without ever speaking to anyone. He's reluctant to try new things, preferring to stick with what he knows.
Backstory: Ivan's mother died giving birth to him, and his father, tied down with caring for sick relatives, sent Ivan off on his own to find money to help the family. Ivan, finding no work in his hometown, joined the caravan with hope of finding his fortune elsewhere.
Skills: Sneaking, hiding, marksmanship, drawing, general craftiness
Extra:
-Ivan has asthma and is allergic to cats and shellfish
-He is afraid of heights and spiders
-He carries his mother's wedding ring in his pocket at all times
-He walks with a limp because of an accident he got into when he was only eight years old. He fell off of a roof and fractured his right leg in two places.
-He suffers from chronic nightmares that cause him to sleep poorly and occasionally wet the bed. He really doesn't like to talk about this.
-He tries not to kill unless he has to, and usually only shoots non-lethally.
-Despite the above statement, he has very good marksmanship and could probably kill if he had to.
-He likes to draw and is quite good at it. |
7,890 | 211 | 72 | 1,876 | 146 | Kid's got some guts. Nice. Next time mind your own business dumbass. Raven thought to himself before scurrying back up to the woman ahead. He gave Jameson's weapons a funny look. "How do those things fire metal projectiles so fast?" He wondered. Raven knew what guns did, but since they were never found back where he lived, he was uncertain on how one worked. They didn't seem to require magic as far as he could tell, nor did they run off the force called electricity he had once heard about. It was very curious. | Name: Raven.
Age: 19.
Description: Raven has a fairly tall, muscular body. He's six feet and 2 inches in height and his build isn't like that of a bodybuilder, but one can clearly see that he is fairly strong and agile. His clothes consist of a chainmail jacket with a gray shirt underneath. His pants are dark green and have several pockets. His shoes are black boots. He wears clawed gauntlets that have spikes on the knuckles, these are his primary weapons. He also has a amulet on a necklace shaped like a dragon's head that gives him full immunity to unwanted spells, curses, hexes, jinxes, and the like. Although some things can bypass it. (like, a spell that makes an anvil fall on you. The emblem doesn't make you immune to falling anvils, just stuff like death spells, spells that turn him into something else or manipulate his body or mind, curses that make inexplicable bad things happen to him, etc.) his face is fairly slender and smooth as he dies not grow facial hair. His eyes are a bright green and his hair is black and medium length. His eyes are deep and intense looking, or cheerful and jovial looking, or fierce and wild looking, depending on his mood. Raven's skin is pale and smooth.
Gender: Male.
Backstory: Raven was a martial arts student in a city caught up in civil war during his teenage years. However he had a distrust of the military and the government due to some shady things he had evidence of them being up to, such as his friend's sister mysteriously disappearing and reappearing now remembering what happened to her but having injuries showing sighs of interrogation on her body. Not only that, but multiple times guards broke into and searched his private space, when Raven despised. So when he was at the age of 18, and was drafted into war because of his hand-to-hand combat proficiency and healthy body, he ran away from home. Not wanting to join the ranks of the same people who ransacked his room on multiple occasions and taxed the hell out of him as soon as he started his first job as an assistant to the teachers at the martial arts school. Not to mention the possibility of the violent interrogations. All these things were because his city was losing the war, and Raven didn't intend to join a battle that was pointless, a waste of time in the first place, and where his side was about to lose before long anyway. He definitely didn't want to end up dead on the battlefield all because some rich Noble in his city wanted more land and resources. So he fled from the military to head north, hoping to get away from the constant wars and commonly occuring street fights where no bystander was safe. (all the town guards had been appointed into the front lines and the wall defenses. The result? Near-anarchy.) along with other poor conditions. His family was barely connected to him, and his friends had moved on to other cities, became soldiers, or mysteriously disappeared. So with nobody to stay for, raven then left the city altogether and headed north where he found the caravan. Deciding that with his combat training, durable claw weapons, an amulet that was said to help him protect himself from sorcery and the occult, he could be of some assistance to the other travelers and stuck around them because they were likely to have food.
Personality: Friendly, rarely that excited about anything, cheeky and sarcastic at times when someone does something to irritate him, confident, and easily scoffs at romance and sex. He is completely asexual and aromantic with no interest in being more then best friends. He is fairly energetic and optimistic, but will speak his mind when he's tired or the situation isn't good for him for a long period of time. Maybe even a little too much. Sometimes he strokes his own ego about his skill with the combat gauntlets and his athletic capabilities, but Raven rarely puts down the abilities of others and its not especially difficult to earn his respect. Earning his trust is a bit more difficult.
Skills: To sum it up, he is good at hand-to-hand and gauntlets and knives. Good at athletics and agility-based tasks as well. Fairly strong and can take a few hits if he has to. Knows a lot about the anatomy and weaknesses of the human body, and just how to take advantage of them. Also has lots of balancing skills as part of his athleticism. |
7,891 | 211 | 73 | 32 | 217 | Skylar kept glancing at Ivan as they trudged forward, racking his brain for a spell to help the kid. Healing magic wasn't anything near his strong point and Ivan probably won't appreciate anything else he had on hand. He slowed to match pace with Ivan.
Skylar wasn't exactly settled around this woman. Her statement about the forest creatures not wishing to test their limits made him nervous. Moving to the back gave him time to watch and think. | Name: Skylar Altzan
Age: 24
Description: Short for a male, Skylar stands 5'3". He wears simple garments, a tunic, breeches, and boots. He keeps an oil cloth coat for the rain in a large back pack. He cuts his black hair short himself, not caring his hair is uneven and unkempt. He limps slightly from a childhood injury but nothing that interferes with his day to day life.
Gender: Male
Personality: Open and blunt, Skylar could never be accused of possessing tact. That didn't mean he was rude. He just felt that honesty was the best option amd refused to play those silly social games others indulged in. Life was so much easier that way.
Backstory: All magically inclined, the Altzan family ran several magical shops in the south. He grew up around magic and fell in love with it. He had practiced since he could read his mother's tomes and discovered an easy talent with defensive magics. The more violent ones made him a little queasy. It was this affinity for magic that made them a target for demon worshippers. They were attacked , captured and sacrificed. A few even succumbed. Skylar decided to flee, keeping his magic secret in hopes he would escape. He decided to pass himself off as an explorer, looking to make it rich in the North.
Skills: Skylar specializes in defensive and utility magic. Since his distaste for offensive magics stopped him from learning them, he learned how to use a raiper if he ever needed a way to defend himself without magic. |
7,892 | 211 | 74 | 1,727 | 876 | Ivan seemed to be fading more and more as he limped after the group. He was going as fast as he could make himself go, his face contorted in pain. He lagged further and further behind the group, until they could barely hear his weak coughs and gasps of pain. About a minute later, he caught his heel on a branch under the mud and collapsed face-first into the muddy road. It was a few seconds before he pulled himself up, spitting out two mouthfuls of the vile tasting earth and coughing harshly, propping himself up on his good knee. He was a soaked, filthy mess by this point, a small trickle of red running from his mouth which he quickly wiped away. He realized his ankle was caught fast under the root. There was little chance he'd be able to pry himself free on his own, but he refused to call for help, trying in vain to break the root with one of his arrows as he coughed up a bitter combination of mud, phlegm, blood and saliva. In no way was this a good start to the day. | Name: Ivan Levin Mikhailovich
Age: Looks 9, is 11
Description: Ivan is a small boy, only a little over four feet tall. His messy golden brown hair falls to just below his chin in unkempt layers, framing his pale face. He has a pair of sharp dark brown eyes, that always make him look alert and watchful. His build is frail and skinny, with long slender limbs and childish facial features. His posture leans a bit to the left and he walks with a limp.
He dresses in whatever rags he can get his fragile thin-fingered little hands on. Right now, this means a worn out orange waistcoat at least three sizes too large for him, a white button down shirt that's surprisingly unstained, torn black dress pants and no shoes for his little feet.
Gender: Male
Personality: Ivan is quiet, mostly because his English isn't very good but also because he's extremely shy. When interacting with others, he seems stiff and unfriendly, speaking in a hushed and hurried voice and stammering. He's very sensitive and is easily made upset, especially when asked about his past or his parents. He'll often go days without ever speaking to anyone. He's reluctant to try new things, preferring to stick with what he knows.
Backstory: Ivan's mother died giving birth to him, and his father, tied down with caring for sick relatives, sent Ivan off on his own to find money to help the family. Ivan, finding no work in his hometown, joined the caravan with hope of finding his fortune elsewhere.
Skills: Sneaking, hiding, marksmanship, drawing, general craftiness
Extra:
-Ivan has asthma and is allergic to cats and shellfish
-He is afraid of heights and spiders
-He carries his mother's wedding ring in his pocket at all times
-He walks with a limp because of an accident he got into when he was only eight years old. He fell off of a roof and fractured his right leg in two places.
-He suffers from chronic nightmares that cause him to sleep poorly and occasionally wet the bed. He really doesn't like to talk about this.
-He tries not to kill unless he has to, and usually only shoots non-lethally.
-Despite the above statement, he has very good marksmanship and could probably kill if he had to.
-He likes to draw and is quite good at it. |
7,893 | 211 | 75 | 32 | 217 | He heard the heavy thud and splat as Ivan hit the groind. Skylar whirled around and groaned before quickly reaching the kneeling boy. Skylar sighed. "Listen kid, there's no point in being stubborn if it's going to get you killed." He muttered a quick incantation before tapping the root, watching as it followed his fingers just enough to loosen then yanked out the boys ankle.
"You can't walk like this Ivan. Remember, survival is the goal and stubbornness isn't going to get you there." Skylar turned to the group. "Oye, anyone strong enough to carry the boy for a bit?" | Name: Skylar Altzan
Age: 24
Description: Short for a male, Skylar stands 5'3". He wears simple garments, a tunic, breeches, and boots. He keeps an oil cloth coat for the rain in a large back pack. He cuts his black hair short himself, not caring his hair is uneven and unkempt. He limps slightly from a childhood injury but nothing that interferes with his day to day life.
Gender: Male
Personality: Open and blunt, Skylar could never be accused of possessing tact. That didn't mean he was rude. He just felt that honesty was the best option amd refused to play those silly social games others indulged in. Life was so much easier that way.
Backstory: All magically inclined, the Altzan family ran several magical shops in the south. He grew up around magic and fell in love with it. He had practiced since he could read his mother's tomes and discovered an easy talent with defensive magics. The more violent ones made him a little queasy. It was this affinity for magic that made them a target for demon worshippers. They were attacked , captured and sacrificed. A few even succumbed. Skylar decided to flee, keeping his magic secret in hopes he would escape. He decided to pass himself off as an explorer, looking to make it rich in the North.
Skills: Skylar specializes in defensive and utility magic. Since his distaste for offensive magics stopped him from learning them, he learned how to use a raiper if he ever needed a way to defend himself without magic. |
7,894 | 211 | 76 | 1,727 | 876 | Ivan cried out in pain as Skylar yanked on his bad leg, freeing his ankle from the root. He knew it had to be done, but it still hurt like hell. His face was flushed red and his brown eyes carried a glassy glint which he hid by keeping his head down. Everything he did to try and keep going seemed to get him in a worse and worse situation. Ivan was definitely not looking forward to being carried like an infant,to say the least. He slid the arrow he was trying to free himself with back in his quiver, slumping forward slightly as he took in short, ragged breaths. | Name: Ivan Levin Mikhailovich
Age: Looks 9, is 11
Description: Ivan is a small boy, only a little over four feet tall. His messy golden brown hair falls to just below his chin in unkempt layers, framing his pale face. He has a pair of sharp dark brown eyes, that always make him look alert and watchful. His build is frail and skinny, with long slender limbs and childish facial features. His posture leans a bit to the left and he walks with a limp.
He dresses in whatever rags he can get his fragile thin-fingered little hands on. Right now, this means a worn out orange waistcoat at least three sizes too large for him, a white button down shirt that's surprisingly unstained, torn black dress pants and no shoes for his little feet.
Gender: Male
Personality: Ivan is quiet, mostly because his English isn't very good but also because he's extremely shy. When interacting with others, he seems stiff and unfriendly, speaking in a hushed and hurried voice and stammering. He's very sensitive and is easily made upset, especially when asked about his past or his parents. He'll often go days without ever speaking to anyone. He's reluctant to try new things, preferring to stick with what he knows.
Backstory: Ivan's mother died giving birth to him, and his father, tied down with caring for sick relatives, sent Ivan off on his own to find money to help the family. Ivan, finding no work in his hometown, joined the caravan with hope of finding his fortune elsewhere.
Skills: Sneaking, hiding, marksmanship, drawing, general craftiness
Extra:
-Ivan has asthma and is allergic to cats and shellfish
-He is afraid of heights and spiders
-He carries his mother's wedding ring in his pocket at all times
-He walks with a limp because of an accident he got into when he was only eight years old. He fell off of a roof and fractured his right leg in two places.
-He suffers from chronic nightmares that cause him to sleep poorly and occasionally wet the bed. He really doesn't like to talk about this.
-He tries not to kill unless he has to, and usually only shoots non-lethally.
-Despite the above statement, he has very good marksmanship and could probably kill if he had to.
-He likes to draw and is quite good at it. |
7,895 | 211 | 77 | 1,876 | 146 | Ivan, look, we're probably almost there. I know you don't want assistance, but keeping this up might just make you collapse in the mud. Which would suck because then we'd all have to wait for you to rest up and get back on your feet again. Skylar, I am fully capable of carrying this lad. Raven spoke to Ivan and Skylar.
As he said this, Raven thought to himself: "This whole situation is getting ridiculous." | Name: Raven.
Age: 19.
Description: Raven has a fairly tall, muscular body. He's six feet and 2 inches in height and his build isn't like that of a bodybuilder, but one can clearly see that he is fairly strong and agile. His clothes consist of a chainmail jacket with a gray shirt underneath. His pants are dark green and have several pockets. His shoes are black boots. He wears clawed gauntlets that have spikes on the knuckles, these are his primary weapons. He also has a amulet on a necklace shaped like a dragon's head that gives him full immunity to unwanted spells, curses, hexes, jinxes, and the like. Although some things can bypass it. (like, a spell that makes an anvil fall on you. The emblem doesn't make you immune to falling anvils, just stuff like death spells, spells that turn him into something else or manipulate his body or mind, curses that make inexplicable bad things happen to him, etc.) his face is fairly slender and smooth as he dies not grow facial hair. His eyes are a bright green and his hair is black and medium length. His eyes are deep and intense looking, or cheerful and jovial looking, or fierce and wild looking, depending on his mood. Raven's skin is pale and smooth.
Gender: Male.
Backstory: Raven was a martial arts student in a city caught up in civil war during his teenage years. However he had a distrust of the military and the government due to some shady things he had evidence of them being up to, such as his friend's sister mysteriously disappearing and reappearing now remembering what happened to her but having injuries showing sighs of interrogation on her body. Not only that, but multiple times guards broke into and searched his private space, when Raven despised. So when he was at the age of 18, and was drafted into war because of his hand-to-hand combat proficiency and healthy body, he ran away from home. Not wanting to join the ranks of the same people who ransacked his room on multiple occasions and taxed the hell out of him as soon as he started his first job as an assistant to the teachers at the martial arts school. Not to mention the possibility of the violent interrogations. All these things were because his city was losing the war, and Raven didn't intend to join a battle that was pointless, a waste of time in the first place, and where his side was about to lose before long anyway. He definitely didn't want to end up dead on the battlefield all because some rich Noble in his city wanted more land and resources. So he fled from the military to head north, hoping to get away from the constant wars and commonly occuring street fights where no bystander was safe. (all the town guards had been appointed into the front lines and the wall defenses. The result? Near-anarchy.) along with other poor conditions. His family was barely connected to him, and his friends had moved on to other cities, became soldiers, or mysteriously disappeared. So with nobody to stay for, raven then left the city altogether and headed north where he found the caravan. Deciding that with his combat training, durable claw weapons, an amulet that was said to help him protect himself from sorcery and the occult, he could be of some assistance to the other travelers and stuck around them because they were likely to have food.
Personality: Friendly, rarely that excited about anything, cheeky and sarcastic at times when someone does something to irritate him, confident, and easily scoffs at romance and sex. He is completely asexual and aromantic with no interest in being more then best friends. He is fairly energetic and optimistic, but will speak his mind when he's tired or the situation isn't good for him for a long period of time. Maybe even a little too much. Sometimes he strokes his own ego about his skill with the combat gauntlets and his athletic capabilities, but Raven rarely puts down the abilities of others and its not especially difficult to earn his respect. Earning his trust is a bit more difficult.
Skills: To sum it up, he is good at hand-to-hand and gauntlets and knives. Good at athletics and agility-based tasks as well. Fairly strong and can take a few hits if he has to. Knows a lot about the anatomy and weaknesses of the human body, and just how to take advantage of them. Also has lots of balancing skills as part of his athleticism. |
7,896 | 211 | 78 | 1,727 | 876 | Ivan sighed, gritting his teeth and swallowing his pride. "Fine then. You can carry me." He said reluctantly. "I just vant to do vhat's best." | Name: Ivan Levin Mikhailovich
Age: Looks 9, is 11
Description: Ivan is a small boy, only a little over four feet tall. His messy golden brown hair falls to just below his chin in unkempt layers, framing his pale face. He has a pair of sharp dark brown eyes, that always make him look alert and watchful. His build is frail and skinny, with long slender limbs and childish facial features. His posture leans a bit to the left and he walks with a limp.
He dresses in whatever rags he can get his fragile thin-fingered little hands on. Right now, this means a worn out orange waistcoat at least three sizes too large for him, a white button down shirt that's surprisingly unstained, torn black dress pants and no shoes for his little feet.
Gender: Male
Personality: Ivan is quiet, mostly because his English isn't very good but also because he's extremely shy. When interacting with others, he seems stiff and unfriendly, speaking in a hushed and hurried voice and stammering. He's very sensitive and is easily made upset, especially when asked about his past or his parents. He'll often go days without ever speaking to anyone. He's reluctant to try new things, preferring to stick with what he knows.
Backstory: Ivan's mother died giving birth to him, and his father, tied down with caring for sick relatives, sent Ivan off on his own to find money to help the family. Ivan, finding no work in his hometown, joined the caravan with hope of finding his fortune elsewhere.
Skills: Sneaking, hiding, marksmanship, drawing, general craftiness
Extra:
-Ivan has asthma and is allergic to cats and shellfish
-He is afraid of heights and spiders
-He carries his mother's wedding ring in his pocket at all times
-He walks with a limp because of an accident he got into when he was only eight years old. He fell off of a roof and fractured his right leg in two places.
-He suffers from chronic nightmares that cause him to sleep poorly and occasionally wet the bed. He really doesn't like to talk about this.
-He tries not to kill unless he has to, and usually only shoots non-lethally.
-Despite the above statement, he has very good marksmanship and could probably kill if he had to.
-He likes to draw and is quite good at it. |
7,897 | 211 | 79 | 179 | 5,558 | Do tell me if an image broke, doing a slight round of testing with this...
The Caravan
A Halloween Mini-RP
Day 3, Morning - All Characters
As the group moved into the clearing, it was apparent that it was a larger clearing than most. It was also apparent that Regina's home wasn't a tiny cabin.
The ground around her home was more stable than the surrounding area, even the path in front of it. As she stepped up the planks of her small porch, the mud fell from her clothes, with no sign remaining that she had walked in the mud at all. As she opened opened the door and entered, leaving it for others to follow, the caravan master's grimy clothes were similarly refreshed, the mud flowing down the steps and vanishing into the surrounding grass. The clearing had superior visibility as well, though seeing outside of the clearing was another matter entirely.
-------------—————~~~~~♠~~~~~—————-------------
Right - Left - Up - Behind
Those to enter would find the place comfortable-seeming, clean, yet rather messy in its own way. The walls were stuffed, bookshelves, paintings, innocently hanging items ranging from onions to kitchen utensils, tables with a variety of items, including loose coins and open books, and to the right a ladder going upwards and tucked in the corner a trapdoor presumably leading downwards. The back door, for whatever reason, was open. An open, solitary cloak-hook was positioned by the doorway.
Regina walked in to take a seat at the chair in front of the central table, awaiting the entry of other group members, as the caravan master stood just outside the door. | Please stick your CS into the OOC first, the drop it in here when accepted. If it's got larger images feel free to stick it in a hider, but I don't consider that a requirement.
NPC's will get a mention here with a short description, along with any important roleplay details, but I'm leaving them largely open to interpretation. Most of the time.
Caravan Master - an old, limping, rough and somewhat unpleasant fellow with a record for getting people up north in very good time and having survived trips through weather many don't dare tempt.
Caravan Master's Horse - I figured the poor sod needed a mention somewhere. He's almost as old as the caravan master and twice the pain in the ass. |
7,898 | 211 | 80 | 1,727 | 876 | Ivan was still in the mud, shivering from the cold and coughing miserably. Pain still shot through his right leg as he looked up at Skylar, his arms crossed over his chest frustratedly. "Ve do not have all day." He coughed out, growing more and more embarrassed by the minute. | Name: Ivan Levin Mikhailovich
Age: Looks 9, is 11
Description: Ivan is a small boy, only a little over four feet tall. His messy golden brown hair falls to just below his chin in unkempt layers, framing his pale face. He has a pair of sharp dark brown eyes, that always make him look alert and watchful. His build is frail and skinny, with long slender limbs and childish facial features. His posture leans a bit to the left and he walks with a limp.
He dresses in whatever rags he can get his fragile thin-fingered little hands on. Right now, this means a worn out orange waistcoat at least three sizes too large for him, a white button down shirt that's surprisingly unstained, torn black dress pants and no shoes for his little feet.
Gender: Male
Personality: Ivan is quiet, mostly because his English isn't very good but also because he's extremely shy. When interacting with others, he seems stiff and unfriendly, speaking in a hushed and hurried voice and stammering. He's very sensitive and is easily made upset, especially when asked about his past or his parents. He'll often go days without ever speaking to anyone. He's reluctant to try new things, preferring to stick with what he knows.
Backstory: Ivan's mother died giving birth to him, and his father, tied down with caring for sick relatives, sent Ivan off on his own to find money to help the family. Ivan, finding no work in his hometown, joined the caravan with hope of finding his fortune elsewhere.
Skills: Sneaking, hiding, marksmanship, drawing, general craftiness
Extra:
-Ivan has asthma and is allergic to cats and shellfish
-He is afraid of heights and spiders
-He carries his mother's wedding ring in his pocket at all times
-He walks with a limp because of an accident he got into when he was only eight years old. He fell off of a roof and fractured his right leg in two places.
-He suffers from chronic nightmares that cause him to sleep poorly and occasionally wet the bed. He really doesn't like to talk about this.
-He tries not to kill unless he has to, and usually only shoots non-lethally.
-Despite the above statement, he has very good marksmanship and could probably kill if he had to.
-He likes to draw and is quite good at it. |
7,899 | 211 | 81 | 1,876 | 146 | Raven walked it, carrying Ivan. "Nice place. Thank you for inviting us over." he said, putting Ivan down slowly. "It's interesting that you hang onions and utensils from the ceiling, I don't see that too often. But not quite as interesting as your clothes just suddenly cleaning themselves, along with the Caravanian's." Raven then paused to look at his own clothes to see if they were cleaned as well. | Name: Raven.
Age: 19.
Description: Raven has a fairly tall, muscular body. He's six feet and 2 inches in height and his build isn't like that of a bodybuilder, but one can clearly see that he is fairly strong and agile. His clothes consist of a chainmail jacket with a gray shirt underneath. His pants are dark green and have several pockets. His shoes are black boots. He wears clawed gauntlets that have spikes on the knuckles, these are his primary weapons. He also has a amulet on a necklace shaped like a dragon's head that gives him full immunity to unwanted spells, curses, hexes, jinxes, and the like. Although some things can bypass it. (like, a spell that makes an anvil fall on you. The emblem doesn't make you immune to falling anvils, just stuff like death spells, spells that turn him into something else or manipulate his body or mind, curses that make inexplicable bad things happen to him, etc.) his face is fairly slender and smooth as he dies not grow facial hair. His eyes are a bright green and his hair is black and medium length. His eyes are deep and intense looking, or cheerful and jovial looking, or fierce and wild looking, depending on his mood. Raven's skin is pale and smooth.
Gender: Male.
Backstory: Raven was a martial arts student in a city caught up in civil war during his teenage years. However he had a distrust of the military and the government due to some shady things he had evidence of them being up to, such as his friend's sister mysteriously disappearing and reappearing now remembering what happened to her but having injuries showing sighs of interrogation on her body. Not only that, but multiple times guards broke into and searched his private space, when Raven despised. So when he was at the age of 18, and was drafted into war because of his hand-to-hand combat proficiency and healthy body, he ran away from home. Not wanting to join the ranks of the same people who ransacked his room on multiple occasions and taxed the hell out of him as soon as he started his first job as an assistant to the teachers at the martial arts school. Not to mention the possibility of the violent interrogations. All these things were because his city was losing the war, and Raven didn't intend to join a battle that was pointless, a waste of time in the first place, and where his side was about to lose before long anyway. He definitely didn't want to end up dead on the battlefield all because some rich Noble in his city wanted more land and resources. So he fled from the military to head north, hoping to get away from the constant wars and commonly occuring street fights where no bystander was safe. (all the town guards had been appointed into the front lines and the wall defenses. The result? Near-anarchy.) along with other poor conditions. His family was barely connected to him, and his friends had moved on to other cities, became soldiers, or mysteriously disappeared. So with nobody to stay for, raven then left the city altogether and headed north where he found the caravan. Deciding that with his combat training, durable claw weapons, an amulet that was said to help him protect himself from sorcery and the occult, he could be of some assistance to the other travelers and stuck around them because they were likely to have food.
Personality: Friendly, rarely that excited about anything, cheeky and sarcastic at times when someone does something to irritate him, confident, and easily scoffs at romance and sex. He is completely asexual and aromantic with no interest in being more then best friends. He is fairly energetic and optimistic, but will speak his mind when he's tired or the situation isn't good for him for a long period of time. Maybe even a little too much. Sometimes he strokes his own ego about his skill with the combat gauntlets and his athletic capabilities, but Raven rarely puts down the abilities of others and its not especially difficult to earn his respect. Earning his trust is a bit more difficult.
Skills: To sum it up, he is good at hand-to-hand and gauntlets and knives. Good at athletics and agility-based tasks as well. Fairly strong and can take a few hits if he has to. Knows a lot about the anatomy and weaknesses of the human body, and just how to take advantage of them. Also has lots of balancing skills as part of his athleticism. |
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