BingTheWing Member

I was just thinking - would my character sound better with a Scottish or Irish accent? The Irish are more common in America, btw. And it's sometimes difficult to distinguish between the two's accents. And the Scots have more of brown to red hair, whereas my appearance has blonde which is more typical of Ireland. I'm still not sure which side is the better drinker. Any natives, help?

yuys.

ooh sounds goodie.

Still open?

yuy.

"Aeros... you can't just leave us like this." Captain Malcer Greystorm portrayed himself at all times as an honorable, confident leader that had served for over twenty years and still could defeat ten Glamhoth in a row in an arm wrestling match. But now, he was the humble blacksmith's boy he had been twenty years ago, before the bandits came and changed it all. Those same blue eyes who twenty years ago stared down five bandits without flinching were staring desperately into the wounded Mûl's fair but sorrowful emerald irises. "Talimor'naerhya, my captain." The elf gave a simple but genuine smile, which seemed to Malcer a glowing tower in the darkness. "That is good night in the Ancient Speech, what the Lebethron used in the Elder Days, ere my house was cast out from the great forest. It is a great honor nowadays among elves to be addressed in it." A ghost of a smile passed over the rugged captain's face, then slowly dissipated into a mournful sigh. "Aeros, we can still save you. We have herbs-" He stopped suddenly. "Why? Why so soon, friend? We could have died in glory, together. Like back then." "That is not for me to decide, Malcer son of Malborn." Aeros wheezed and coughed. "To have served alongside you, all these years, is enough." Aeros exhaled one last time, and went limp. His deep emerald eyes turned lifeless, cold. His clenched fists relaxed. Malcer stared into those deep pools of emerald for what seemed an eternity. Then, very slowly, he raised one gauntlet, closed his fallen comrade's eyes, and kissed his forehead. "Goodbye, Aeros." A few seconds later, a lieutenant intruded silently but respectfully into the ruins of the guardhouse. "Sir. The enemy regroups and advances once more. Commander Bali calls for your blade." "I will come." Stifling a sniffle, Malcer put Aeros's hands upon his breast, clutching his longbow. He painfully stood up to his full height and stepped out of the ruins. "Give orders for Sergeant Aeros to be buried with honor and left somewhere where no work of the Dead God can move his bones." The lieutenant nodded, and issued a command to some nearby conscripts. The conscripts ran in with a wooden stretcher, and seconds later, carried the lifeless elf out. "He was a great elf, my captain. Wasn't he the first friend you made in the army?" "Yes. And now, we take action for him. We will take revenge." "To the battlements, sir? Your archers are waiting." "Yes..." Malcer stared into the distance. "To the battlements." _..._ "That's for Anderston!" "And Myrna!" "And Kalon!" "And Meros!" "And Dirk and Morrin!" Malcer, with a one-handed stroke, felled two of the Linebreakers at once. "And THAT, especially, is for AEROS!" With an almighty cry that somehow rung over the clamor of battle, the captain with a two-handed stroke drove Nara into the belly of a Linebreaker. The rotting, armored humanoid dropped his hammer and let out a bellow of a hideous mix of rage, fear and pain. Malcer twisted the sword, and the Linebreaker let out an ear-piercing scream. Soldiers nearby winced and covered their ears. Malcer was unfortunate enough to be close to it. He fell to the ground and shielded his ears, Nara still in her fleshy sheathe. The Linebreaker suddenly went limp, and his slimy form fell face down onto the unfortunate Malcer. Its heavy helm made brutal contact with Nara's visored but still somewhat lighter counterpart. He lay unconscious for no more than five to six minutes. Malcer stirred. The first thing he smelt was foul, rotten flesh. With further inspection, Malcer noticed that his (luckily) visored face was pressed against the very uncomfortable iron surface of a Linebreaker breastplate. Now, lifting a heavily armored humanoid off one's face is not an easy task, let alone the seven-foot tall broad-shouldered form of a Linebreaker. He heard cries of joy swiftly turned into exclamations of confusion and terror. Evidently, their task was not yet complete. Before Malcer could get a chance to shove the armored chunk of hell-flesh off him, he immediately heard the sound of rusted metal being lifted and the groan of a wounded man. Something snapped. With his (muffled) signature cry, Malcer shoved the corpse off himself and with his dagger, rushed at the curious spearman. Unfortunately, he didn't have enough time to carefully observe this new foe in battle. The spearman, with an incredibly sudden jolt, elbowed Malcer in the solar plexus with an unarmored but still rock-hard elbow. After closer inspection, the spearman realized his attacker and pinned a half-dazed Malcer to a wall, ready to slit him with his own dagger. Suddenly, the spearman's horridly grinning face froze in a permanent expression of horror. His foul-fumed body went limp and fell, revealing a wounded but smug-faced soldier with a crossbow in hand. "Need a little help, sir?" "Kennery!" Malcer erupted into an ear-to-ear smile. "Thank the Goddess you're still alive. How many of our company are still standing?" "About eight to ten, tops." The soldier held up both hands, and his expression went dark. "But we've merged with the 116th. They lost only thirty during Talamor." His grin picked up again. "Shall we find the others?" "Judging by the looks of it, rather quickly, I'd expect."

Name: Donnie O'Cunnell Age: 28 (b.1987) Gender: Male Appearance:  Magic Branch: Elemental, prefers earth Bio: Donnie was kidnapped from Irish expatriates from Boston, Massachusetts in 1980. A statewide manhunt was held, but after a few months was given up. Meanwhile, Donnie was exposed to the crystal at headquarters. Donnie was younger than most of the kids on the waiting list, but while some kids sobbed wildly and/or released destructive and uncontrolled amounts of energy upon contact with the crystal, little four-year-old Don didn't even blink. He felt nothing but a tingle up his spine. He then very slowly raised a hand, and before anyone knew it, the various sears and rips in the room were slowly closing themselves. Even though Don has never seen his bonnie home country in the flesh until now, anybody can take a casual look and guess the Irishman within. He's a giant: about 6'5, meaty huge hands, quick to anger and quicker to laughter, and of course a damn excellent drinker. As an Irishman, he stayed unsurprisingly true to his element of earth- honorable, rugged, loyal and of course stubborn to a fault. He successfully completed his first mission at sixteen - providing cover for an escaping assassination team in Miami. Since then, he has completed eight successful missions for the SWH.

Surps.

Me too. Thinking of a badass Scottish fire mage or somethin'.

Any idea how to make hiders or strikethrough fonts?