Altered Tundra

RANGERS ⚡️

You bring it back and don't tag me? Rudeeee

But I see there's a potential room for one more.

EDIT: Ranger submitted!

Wardens of the Glade: A Light Fantasy RP

_{Location — The Grand City of Atutania
@Erode}

---

The Prince of Hahral stood at the center of attention, which at least lasted for as long as his demonstration of his skills lasted until the next would come and show him up. It was a disgusting way to treat these trials but it was something that Zyran had to make peace with. For however long he remained the focal point of those around him, he would bask in the glory that was watching him show everyone what a true archer looked like.

And it was a beautiful thing to witness. He knew it. They knew it. Everyone in the entire world knew it. The way that he held his bow, tight yet gentle, as was the way he was taught, Zyran took that position, dead center, in front of the practice dummy. It was a hideously-made figure. Doubtless a showing of Atutania itself, the prince thought. The mana flowed through him. It felt warm and assuring at first, like the feeling he got whenever he ordered a slave around, but then it shifted. Crackled. The energy took shape as the Hahralian pulled at an arrow from his quiver. It was properly made from the finest material with the heads from a high quality iron. This would be impressive had he just taken the shot as he would've, but he wouldn't be who he was if he didn't add a certain kind of flare.

So mana was applied. And with it came the element of lightning. As gold as the jewelry he wore, it snapped and crackled and popped with the electric energy that Zyran embodied perfectly. It only lasted for a split second because that's all was needed.

Four arrows were fired. Four speeding bursts of electricity shot after another dead center into the practice dummy, splitting each other until the fourth. Zyran could have done it all day. This was just like breathing to him. The most natural thing ever. Even if the year of training hadn't granted him much in the way of abilties, he could do that with his eyes closed.

But even the fun for a prince — and the attention that came with it — came to an end as others took their turn. One person created a dust cloud reminincant of those one might find in the dessert of his homeland from a mighty swing. Zyran was actually impressed. No trace of fear crawled up his spine from it...well only for the small amount that literally made him worried about making that person angry. No, he was merely impressed by the show of strength. There was a redhead who had impressive footwork and swordplay, but the concentration needed some work.

And then there was the elf. Zyran half-wondered if they felt shame that they didn't use a bow and arrow? Were they a disappointment to their people? Everything about the elves that Zyran had heard from stories told him about their skills as an archer. Part of him even wanted to see it in action, to see exactly what one of the few who could call themselves a "true archer" might look like. Alas, he found himself in a constant state of disappointment. Impressive as it was, it wasn't enough to hold his attention.

What did and what he had completely overlooked for a brief moment was the wannabe archer with the false bow, otherwise known as a crossbow, had. Zyran was observant enough to see that and he smiled in only the superior way someone like him would. "Certainly!" He obliged stepping closer. "What I have—" The Prince lifted up his golden bow, the craftsmanship undeniable."—This is genuine Hahralian excellence. Much like me, it was made from only the highest of materials. My arrows are also made with the best materials. But more importantly...well just look at you. And then look at me!" With arms spread out, Zyran actually gave her a moment to actually bask in his glory. "I am what a true archer looks like. And you saw, didn't you? You saw that I am clearly the best archer to exist in the entirety of ever!" Zyran smirked and finally gestured to her crossbow. "Besides, do you really think your little crossbow actually compares to what I have?" Of course she can't because there wasn't any comparison. Only fools and idiots would compare, let alone think crossbows were superior.

But it was the weapon of the peasant, so maybe this one did think so. Pity.

Starlight Cove: Oceanside Memories

@AlteredTundra Are you still with us?

@Carlyle

Genuinely haven't checked in a while but I am!

Wardens of the Glade: A Light Fantasy RP

With holidays over, I'm hoping to reconvene, assuming everyone is still about it.

@mickilennial

We ain't goin anywhere!

Starlight Cove: Oceanside Memories

Ignore that oopsie

Brenden

B R E N D A N
B R E N D A N

^{”Even in darkness, even in the unknown—there will always be a light, a north star to guide you to where you belong.”}

C H A R A C T E R P O R T R A I T C H A R A C T E R P O R T R A I T _________________________________________________________ C H A R A C T E R S U M M A R Y C H A R A C T E R S U M M A R Y _________________________________________________________ The often introspective, emotionally cynical, twenty-six year old Brendan Leclair is the sole keeper of the lighthouse on the outskirts of town. The lighthouse has a two-story house about twenty steps away from it with a pier next to it. It is there that Brendan stands, often contemplating his purpose in the circle that is life. When he’s not questioning his existence, he likes to write his musings in a journal and take strolls along the shore (usually without shoes so he can feel the sand between his toes). He enjoys fishing even though he isn’t any good and has an obsession with making pies, be it fruit or meat pie. He might not be very good, but it distracts him from how loud his mind can get. He also has a cat. A black cat named Way

C H A R A C T E R B I O G R A P H Y C H A R A C T E R B I O G R A P H Y ________________________________________________________________________________________ Before settling on the small island of Starlight Cove, those who bore the name Leclair, they were sailors. They were navigators. They were kings of the seas. Rumor has it, the sigil of a shooting star was the symbol they were coming. It’s been rumored that everyone who took to the sea knew of their name. But this was so long ago and the norieity of that name has faded into memory of those who still bear it. For three generations, the name Leclair has been associated with the lighthouse tower. From Brendon’s grandfather to his mother and now passed onto him, he oversees the lighthouse. He fixes what needs fixing. Replacing the light, patching up things that need patching up, and making repairs. He inherited it merely three years ago when his mother fell ill and when his father left the island a few months after that. The lighthouse might seem small in comparison to what role it serves to the island, but if there’s one thing that Brendan has always valued, it was how everything in the world has a role in the great circle of life. Everything from the animals the hunters kill to provide the island with food to the florists that give them the benefit of a flowers beauty to even the safe guidance a lighthouse provides for sailors and traders who come to Starlight for business. Everything has a purpose. And though Brendan understands his purpose in maintaining the upkeep of the lighthouse, he still questions about his personal purpose. What is it he’s meant to do? Is being the keeper of the lighthouse simply it? With nobody but himself to fall back on, is he meant to just be alone by the pier without anyone? Or is there someone, somewhere, waiting for him?

---

Starlight Cove: Oceanside Memories

Brendan

B R E N D A N
B R E N D A N

^{”Even in darkness, even in the unknown—there will always be a light, a north star to guide you to where you belong.”}

C H A R A C T E R P O R T R A I T C H A R A C T E R P O R T R A I T _________________________________________________________ C H A R A C T E R S U M M A R Y C H A R A C T E R S U M M A R Y _________________________________________________________ The often introspective, emotionally cynical, twenty-six year old Brendan Leclair is the sole keeper of the lighthouse on the outskirts of town. The lighthouse has a two-story house about twenty steps away from it with a pier next to it. It is there that Brendan stands, often contemplating his purpose in the circle that is life. When he’s not questioning his existence, he likes to write his musings in a journal and take strolls along the shore (usually without shoes so he can feel the sand between his toes). He enjoys fishing even though he isn’t any good and has an obsession with making pies, be it fruit or meat pie. He might not be very good, but it distracts him from how loud his mind can get. He also has a cat. A black cat named Way

C H A R A C T E R B I O G R A P H Y C H A R A C T E R B I O G R A P H Y ________________________________________________________________________________________ Before settling on the small island of Starlight Cove, those who bore the name Leclair, they were sailors. They were navigators. They were kings of the seas. Rumor has it, the sigil of a shooting star was the symbol they were coming. It’s been rumored that everyone who took to the sea knew of their name. But this was so long ago and the norieity of that name has faded into memory of those who still bear it. For three generations, the name Leclair has been associated with the lighthouse tower. From Brendon’s grandfather to his mother and now passed onto him, he oversees the lighthouse. He fixes what needs fixing. Replacing the light, patching up things that need patching up, and making repairs. He inherited it merely three years ago when his mother fell ill and when his father left the island a few months after that. The lighthouse might seem small in comparison to what role it serves to the island, but if there’s one thing that Brendan has always valued, it was how everything in the world has a role in the great circle of life. Everything from the animals the hunters kill to provide the island with food to the florists that give them the benefit of a flowers beauty to even the safe guidance a lighthouse provides for sailors and traders who come to Starlight for business. Everything has a purpose. And though Brendan understands his purpose in maintaining the upkeep of the lighthouse, he still questions about his personal purpose. What is it he’s meant to do? Is being the keeper of the lighthouse simply it? With nobody but himself to fall back on, is he meant to just be alone by the pier without anyone? Or is there someone, somewhere, waiting for him?

---

Starlight Cove: Oceanside Memories

Thinking about character ideas, I've got a few in mind

Would Starlight Cove have any use for a lighthouse? It's an island, but still not sure if it would be of any use plot wise or not

If so, I was thinking of making a character whose family has been the keeper of said lighthouse for a few generations

Alternatively, also had an idea for either an astrologist or maybe even a psychic.

Starlight Cove: Oceanside Memories

Got room for one more? 👀

Wardens of the Glade: A Light Fantasy RP

Really enjoying reading this, but like... How long does it take you to write each response? It takes me over an hour to hit 300 words, including my drafting, proofreading, cross-referencing, revising...

These are long, long posts. How do you manage to do so much without manipulating other characters, or stifling their players? Whenever I write more than 4 paragraphs I feel like I'm doing too much in one post and I need to cut it back to let others respond.

Do you send your responses accepting that large parts of your post simply won't be addressed as other players perform their characters in incongruent ways? Do you just trust each other to read everything multiple times and look for stepping stones to your next posts?

Sorry for all the questions (especially as I'm not even playing) but I'm just getting back into RP and these longer posts have always fascinated me, and I'd like to do it myself, but I want to do it in a way that's considerate, where I've always found myself becoming domineering.

Anyway, again, I'm enjoying the read. Great work, really.

@shallow grave

Intro posts are always a special case because they're the thing you want to really sell your character, but even past that, I do like to yap when I'm writing. Part of it is just writing until I find a flow and then making the decision to end it on a sweet note. Another part is plotting with others and getting a scene together, but the other parts of it? Just going with the flow. At the end of it, having that organic element of bouncing off of each other is what really allows me to write lengthy posts.

300 words per post isn't bad honestly. I remember when I couldn't even do that much. I think as long as you're having fun with it, length is secondary.

Wardens of the Glade: A Light Fantasy RP

“What is that atrocious odor?” Zyran gagged as he stepped into the Grand City of Atutania.

No, not grand. Nothing about the plain, unrefined peasant-for-a-city that was Atutania was deserving of the title of grand. His father, Hisham, now that was someone who was fitting of the title “Grand Prince”. His home of Atuunis was fitting of being called grand, but the shithole that he was forced to travel to? Unacceptable! It’s an insult.

Prince Zyran was someone who hated traveling and he hated it even more when the end of his journey made the slums feel like paradise. For almost a fortnight, with nothing but three of the best guardsmen that the Siada family could afford traveled with him, Zyran encountered all sorts of horrors. He experienced the lack of a comfortable bed and had to settle for inns like he was some commoner. Imagine that! Zyran Siada having to sleep in a bed no bigger than how far he could stretch his limber legs. And that was on the nights where they could rest comfortably…Or whatever the commoners thought comfort was. There was no servant to wash him, dress him, or sit there as he vented about the problems he had. The closest thing to that was the owner of these inns, but after barely scratching the surface, they silenced him and even threatened to kick him and his hired guards out of the inn.

So what if he offered to buy the inn if these owners kicked everyone else out so he and his traveling companions could have the place to themselves? It’s not like he insulted the wives and partners of these innkeepers. Zyran wouldn’t dare do that.

Well that’s why he’s in such a sour mood. No inns or commoner levels of comfort for nearly a week. Word traveled fast about the entitled prince of Atuunis fast and inns refused him. But he had standards.

Zyran walked alone through the main festival grounds of the Day of Heroes. It wasn’t the worst, he supposed. There was a certain flare to it, but it lacked refinement. The smells that penetrated his senses was like a sneak attack from someone without honor. Or when the servants address him as just “Zyran”. No use of “my lord” or “prince”. It’s so unrefined and undignified. What he felt invade his nose was the lack of spices.

The prince, whose white hair, attire of an elaborately-designed robe with silk sashes holding it up, and entire bravado came to a stop at one of the…chefs were trying to entice him with what, as the man called it, an Atutanian delicacy.

“It’s a meat pie. It doesn’t even look like you seasoned it,” The Hahrali prince sourly said, disgust on his face and he made a point to make sure the seller knew it.

“So do you want it or not?”

And the disgust devolved into a deeper level of disgust that was also insulted. “You really think I would poison my perfect body with this…filth?” With a laugh, Zyran walked away.

Not long, Zyran felt his insides grumble with hunger and he ended up buying one of the atrocious meat pie (certainly not like the Sfeeha the cooks make back home) only so he wouldn’t succumb to hunger going into the proving grounds. Each bite felt like he was insulting his palette. The unseasoned beef and how overcooked it was was demeaning to someone like him. It felt like the ultimate betrayal. Despite that, he consumed it so he had the energy for what knew was going to be a difficult day.

---

Zyran, with a belly full of spiritually-poisoned subsistence, had finally freed himself of the decaying odor of mediocracy that were the streets of Atutania and was closer to the proving grounds where he would show just how far superior he was to everyone. It’s where he would start his journey to become a knight of the order and prove to his father that, though his siblings have all achieved far greater things he has done thus far, being a Warden would far surpass all of them.

But alas, his desire would have to wait. What kept him was one of the worst things imaginable for the prince. Something so horrendous that it made the quiver on his back, the golden bow that was under it, and all muscles in his body ache.

“A line? Really?” He groaned, exasperated. He crossed his arms over each other, almost pouting and tapping his foot quite impatiently.

There was two people in front of him. One was a short redhead whose name seemed familiar. Lina Ariesca? The family name was, at least familiar to him but he couldn’t be bothered to remember. If it was important enough for him to actually care to remember, then he would’ve.

When she moved on, the other who Zyran caught quite the barbaric odor. His nose was sensitive, especially after being exposed to the natural scent of Atutania, the Shithole City, there was something equally as unripen as whoever was in front of him.

And then their name came.

Sternwyss.

What kind of name was that? Certainly no name he has ever heard of. It almost sounded elvish, but that couldn’t be possible. Why would they be here?

Zyran took notice of the ears and that confirmed it. He didn’t know whether to just ask the would-be tree-hugger if they were an elf or just some deformed human or if he should leave it be. It was beneath him to bring up such a matter but it was bothering him. So he decided to follow through with it, but before he could, they moved on so Zyran would have to save that for later.

He stepped forward and looked at the man in armor who stood behind the reception desk. “Name?” She asked in the most ungodly tone of voice. So devoid of passion.

“Are you seriously asking my name? Do you not know who I am?” Zyran gave him the benefit of the doubt and let her gaze upon his face so it would come to her.

“I’ve got no clue. Name?”

Zyran felt his blood boil so much that he was almost going to raise his bow at him. That level of disrespect was treasonous in Atuunis, but the diplomat in him that his mother raised him to be found restraint and clung to it for dear life because he feared his bruised ego wouldn’t let it slide. “I am Prince Zyran, of the GRAND merchant guild of Siada." He added extra emphasis to what he felt was important.

The man seemed to write it down on some piece of parchment. “Ranged combat is over there. There are targets you can shoot that fancy bow of yours at.”

For a moment, he wondered if he really should voice his displeasure with the way she insulted the Prince of Atuunis, but he let it go for now. Zyran would make her regret it when he aced all the trials and blew everyone out of the water.

The prince simply walked into the proving grounds, near the targets and readied himself to outshine everyone. They’ll see the shine of his bow and he’ll amaze them with how far he’s come with his magic. “If anyone wants to watch how it’s done--” He took notice of the peasant Hahrali with the crossbow and scoffed, “--how a real archer gets it done, feel free to watch. Perhaps you might learn a thing or two.” Again, he looked at the Hahrali with the crossbow, as if to direct that directly at them.

And Zyran withdrew his bow and pulled a steel-tipped arrow from the matching gold quiver on his back. As he took his position, he aimed for the center of the target.