bloonewb

Summer Camp for Supernatural Teens

Tim heard a faint noise, sounding much like a voice, echo through the cavern. He looked around, picked a direction to go which sounded in the general direction of the source, and began tramping towards it. He went through a few tunnels before he heard a low growl emanating behind him. He froze.

Life in Space

As the two of them walked through the entrance, Jim was hit by that wave of nostalgia he always got when he came to this joint. It looked exactly like a bar back at home, where he and a couple of buddies would lie their age and get a few drinks. A couple of people raised their glasses in his direction and called a greeting, which he returned with a wave. They'd seen him play here not too long ago.

Blood Runs Over Westeros: A Game of Thrones Roleplay. V2

Various Mooks

Boberto - A joker who doesn't take his job seriously, Boberto is quite an interesting figure. He often says annoying things and is almost overenthusiastic about fighting, but he hides a darker past. He was once a fighter in the pits of Meereen under the name Arillos. He demonstrated his ability in the pits to Westerosi buyers (specifically, Lord Kyle Baratheon, second of his name), and has since then served as a member of the elite Stormguard.

Luftum - A tall, serious fellow, Luftum is the type of person people don't want to mess with. He doesn't speak, which unnerves people until they discover his cut tongue and removed teeth. Luftum serves as the unofficial leader of the Stormguards, despite not being able to say a word. Rumors about him say that he's descended from a smaller noble family, and he neither confirms nor denies it (not that he would be able to even if he wanted).

Sreas - The most off putting thing about Sreas is his smile. It's not a very odd smile in and of itself, but he's always wearing it. Even in the midst of combat, he would treat his enemies on the battlefield with a grin. The second most curious thing about him is his boots. Unlike the steel boots of many armoured knights, his is thick leather and wool, masking any noise. No one knows why he wears them, but it's suspected that he's the reason low level officers of the people's rebellion seem to die like flies late at night.

Norman - Commander of the Storm's End garrison's cavalry division. Died to a swarm of angry peasants.

Wallace - High Commander of the Storm's end garrison.

Baelys "Targaryen" - He's a Targaryen claimant and that's all you need to know.

Fen

Blood Runs Over Westeros: A Game of Thrones Roleplay. V2

House Baratheon

Gris Baratheon

Name: Gris Baratheon

Age: 25

Personality: Gris is everything one would expect from a scientist gone wrong. He's obsessive, agoraphobic, and short tempered. He spends his nights dreaming about a future of enlightenment, and his days cooped up in his laboratory trying to turn those dreams into reality.

Gris controls Storm's End, but loathes his position, saying it's a distraction from his discoveries. Usually, he makes executive decisions in his laboratory, with his elder sister Alyssa making them public, or more commonly, Alyssa would do the ruling while he would continue his work.

Gris simply doesn't like people. He never sees his banner men, often using Alyssa as his pseudo-messenger. He locks himself in his lab, and may the Gods save you if you attempt to barge in. The last time someone tried that, he just tossed what was in his hands at the time, a bottle of potent alchemist fire, forcefully at the poor maid. She died horribly, burning down to her bones. There were two exceptions to this rule. His family, and the late Aegon.

Bio: Gris was born to a strong willed warrior of a father and an even stronger willed mother. They both held their family's motto as the highest ideal. "Ours is the fury" they would say to him every day. "All this, my son, will soon be yours, and when we die - which we will, you must show the world the Baratheon might in our stead." Gris never listened. He instead devoted time to reading the works of the old Maester's medicine logs or the ancient records of the Targaryen pyromancers. So when the position of "Lord of Storm's End" was suddenly thrust upon him, he was horridly unprepared.

The dreams began at around 8 years old. He dreamed of large round objects, flying in the sky with nothing suspending it from above and nothing supporting it from below. He dreamed of steel tubes, which erupted fire from the end, destroying castles with ease. He dreamed of a time when strength was an archaic concept, and the most respected attribute was wisdom. He would tell his parents of this, but they would brush him off, saying how silly he was, and how he should go outside once in a while and play with the training swords that daddy got him.

His father died when Gris was only 23. He charged valiantly to crush the rioting in his cities, despite the protests of his family and council, saying "I must go myself. The warriors will be inspired by my presence." And they were inspired, right up to the point one of the peasant rebels tossed a pitchfork that pierced his neck. Gris's mother was heartbroken, and soon grew weak and sick. She now stays in her chambers, awaiting death, refusing to see the Maester for medical help.

Appearance: Despite being a scientist, Gris has the blood of generations of knights within him. He stands tall and broad shouldered, towering over most of the people he meets. However, sitting alone for hours on end have not been kind to him. He is constantly hunched over, never to stand at full height again. One of his eyes took the brunt of a terrible blow from an explosion in his lab, and is white at the pupil while the other is the healthy black of his lineage.

Alyssa Baratheon

Name: Alyssa Baratheon

Age: 32

Personality: Alyssa is a clear descendant of her parents. Not only for her appearance, but her spirit shows the strength and fury of the Baratheon stag. She demands respect wherever she goes, and doesn't take any shit from anyone, especially people who think they are her equals or superiors.

Even at the young and tender age of 6, her parents saw the perfect heir. She listened closely to whatever her parents said, taking their philosophies to heart. She listened as her father taught strategy, and listened as her mother taught diplomacy. She did a lot of listening.

Alyssa doesn't like her brother. He fancies himself a thinker, but he is in reality a madman. Alyssa hates the arrangement that the son must take the throne, no matter how qualified the daughter before him is. However, no matter how much he claims otherwise, her brother needs her. She knows it, and despite her dislike for him, she does what is necessary to perpetuate the Baratheon name. "Family first" and all that.

Bio: Alyssa was firstborn to the Baratheon family, and shows it quite clearly. In her early days, her father and mother tried to teach her everything they knew about maintaining their rule upon their lands. Her father even taught her how to fight with sword and armor. "Nonsense," Her father would say to anyone arguing that ladies should stay in the castle. "My daughter is just as able to cleave through a knight as any boy her age."

When she was 7, another child was born into the house. And to her dismay, it was a boy. Suddenly, her dreams of becoming the Lady of Storm's End were crushed. She could see that he was a weak baby. She knew, because her mother, that healthy babies cried, but little Gris barely ever made any noise. Not even when she once prod him with her training sword.

Appearance: Alyssa, like her parents and brother, was tall and wide, as is common with Baratheons. However, unlike her brother, who is hunched over so that he's almost normal height, Alyssa had a stronger back, and could stand straight, looking down at most of the knights in Storm's End. She has a few scars on her, from sparring accidents and once even a battle, but she never heard the end of it from her mother about the battle, and neither did her father.

House Bolton

Name: Rimm 'the bull-dog' Bolton

Age: 19

Personality: Rimm is on the outside a very calm person. When at formal events, he speaks quietly, casually jokes with a small smile, and even when he is insulted, chuckles along lightly. He is the epitome of the kind and dashing gentleman, very different from his predecessors, as the courtiers would whisper.

He serves his liege the Starks faithfully in the Bolton's new task. Once again, under the yoke of Winterfell, the Boltons were pressed into giving up their task as flayers, but have taken to execution with gusto. Now, sending criminals to the Boltons do not carry the weight they once did, yet they are feared the same. And that's just fine with Rimm.

Rimm, unlike his ancestors, is no traitor. He is fiercely loyal to the Starks, and most of his prisoners are Stark traitors in his eyes. Even peasants who slander the Stark name to their friends in a pub one night are often secretly bundled off in the night, and brought to the Dreadfort. He likes to think of himself as the guardian of the Starks, and has foiled more than one attempt on their lives.

Bio: Rimm comes from the Bolton line, a descendant of Ergan Bolton, a distant cousin of Roose's who claimed the Dreadfort after the death of Ramsay. One day, when he was twelve, his father gave him something he greatly desired. Rimm was given power. Power over the dog pen, where he oversaw the feeding, birthing, and dying. Rimm loved power. Sometimes, when one dog goes rabid, he would have to finish off the poor thing, and that gave him his favorite power, the one over life and death. He would bring the dog into a world of misery with his blade, slitting the throat only seconds before the thing was about to die anyways.

During this time, he was great friends with the Stark children. They would play when his father had to attend his liege. There was one particular one, the youngest Stark girl. He rather fancied her.

Soon, at fifteen, he discovered a plot. His father was planning to overthrow the Starks and place himself in power. His plan, of course, was to get into a position in which he was the greatest friend and advisor for his liege, then when he is placed behind all the children in inheritance, kill them all. "Will you kill them all, father?" he had asked. "Even all of the children?". His father had said yes. As a direct consequence, he had died. Cut by the blade of Promise, wielded by Rimm himself.

Appearance: Rimm was a small man. He stood only at the shoulder of most people, and is deathly pale and thin. Some say that if the wind blew too hard, he would snap in half. Those people disappear in the night. He had a young, open face. People who don't know him would even call him innocent. He was almost never without a friendly smirk painted across his face, and his eyes always suggested that he knew things that others didn't, and wasn't about to reveal them anytime soon.

A Long Walk (Aisling and Bloonewb)

Jacquelyn was at a bit of a conundrum. She didn't really know where to look up the animal. All she did was choke out an "Are you going to wait all day, or should we get going?"

Summer Camp for Supernatural Teens

@KatherinWinter I'm still here, just waiting for a couple more posts.

Moon Cat on the Hunt for 1x1 ( 18+ for some ideas)(Looking for one or two partners)(Closed for now.)

@kittyluna45 Hello! I'm interested in playing the fairy/mortal thing, perhaps set in a renaissance/victorian setting where forests are at risk of being destroyed by soot and smoke?

[IC/OOC] God and Country - A low-fantasy renaissance NRP of religion and discovery

@Aristo Is there only one Pontiff in the world or does each country have it's own pontiff?

[IC/OOC] God and Country - A low-fantasy renaissance NRP of religion and discovery

The sun was beating down heavily on the dusty roads. At the horizon one could see the slowly meandering river moving, a small rim of palms and plants along speaking of shade and relief but up here the wind was relentless and scorching. A few vendors had set up shop at this small crossroads in the borderlands. It was not quite clear if this was still the Turchinan Exclave of Thurmatia or already the northern reaches of Muragenn, but of the shady traders that met here it did not really matter. The crossroads was Turchinan if a patrol of the Republic was close, and it was Muragenn when Riders of the Kaiser where close. Both cases send the Traders away in time to not be confronted by either. Dromedaries and Camels where chewing lazily. And chained men where sitting in what small shadow there was.

"Could I interest you in something to drink, perhaps? Some tea, or Muran delicacies?" Asked Dommak, a tall merchant in spices. "Our people are famous for our sweetmeats."

Agostino Maestri was looking at him stroking his chin beard. The short, beige clad turchinan smiled. "Your people are infamous for the tasting of other meats too." He said jokingly, but his face betrayed no ill will. "May I have a look at the merchandise?"

"Certainly. Such is the right of an interested buyer. Boberto! Get me my things!" A naked man standing behind Dommak rushed off, and returned with two others. All three were carrying large bags. They set them down with a loud thud, then dropped to the ground themselves. "Who said you could sit?" Dommak shouted angrily. They all scrambled to their feet and began muttering apologies in their Surani tongue. Dommak then turned back to the merchant. "Forgive this slight, my good sir. They have not had a thorough disciplining for too long."

Agostino raised an eyebrow at that, as opposed to most Turchinans he was not entirely opposed to holding slaves, often he had bought men himself, for his Plantations and Fabricoriums but the way the Southerners treated their own slaves was still after all these years distatefull to him. Well probably the other man would consider the Maestri way of holding men as far to soft and spoiling them, thus was the way of the world.
With an experienced Eye he set about looking at the wares. inspecting grain and colour licking a finger full, nodding. "This is fine material, I like the colour and the taste is satisfactory too. How much can you sell?"

"That depends. How much do you want?" Dommak asked, chuckling. "But enough with business for now. Boberto! Bring my esteemed guest some tea! Quickly, or I'll have you flogged!"

Agostino gave a weary look at that, oh these barbarian southerners, not much different from the timlucks at times. "You honour me." He nodded at his own two bodyguards who relaxed just a little. "So how was the track down from the mountains? I hear one of the oasis has been plundered? "

"Oh yes, it was terrible. They burned the entire pak plantation, and killed all the slaves. If you ask me, His Excellency the Kaiser doesn't keep a good enough eye on his own men." Boberto returned, bringing with him a teapot and two cups and setting it down on the table. Dommak took the pot and poured the thick, rich brew, first into Agnostino's then his own. "All things are better with tea, no? Especially business."

Agostino nodded at that, "It grants the time and peace of mind to properly think about business and get to know your opposite, which helps coming to fair trades so yes. Also it honours both Traders, so there is that. So you only sell normal Stonesalt? Or can you organise Potash too? I know some of the mines have deposits of it too, and it is highly sought after at our plantations."

"Perhaps. We have salts in all forms. It would be little trouble to obtain some. Now, let us talk of value. I have been dreading this, for it causes bad emotions and disharmony, but in our line of work it is inevitable. What say you to twenty thousand Turchinans?" Dommak sighed.

Agostino made a surprised face, two can play at this game. "Did you hide a caravan of 50 Camels somewhere around here? In the name of the Saint, I could buy you and everything you own for that amount. Do not insult me, you have how much 50 sacks? No, we are talking about maybe 50 sacks you have here which would mean maybe one thousand at current price. Granted the price will go up due to the oasis, and no one can say I am not generous so make that one thousand and one hundred Fiorin."

"One thousand One hundred Turchinans? I pray to God that you are mistaken. Please, take the time to look at it's superior quality, it's fine grindwork. How about we drop it to eighteen thousand and call it there?"

"That may all be true, but we are not at the Great Palazzo in Turchina, but here out in the no where. My ships do not sail for free, my horses and camels need to eat, my workers and sailors ditto. No, no this will not do at all. thousand eighthundred, because you have shown me hospitality but that is what I can pay you."

"Well, I do enjoy a good jest as much as the next man, but please. Trade and humor simply do not mix. Does fifteen thousand sound about fair?"

"I agree, maybe I am mistaken here I was asuming we are talking only about the salt, why did you not say that you want to sell your animals too! Then we are slowly coming to realistic prices. A dozen Thousand with all your Camels and one of your slaves. Does that sound better?"

"As appealing as that may sound, my workforce is indispensable. You cannot expect a good Muran to part with his greatest resource. I offer ten thousand for my salts and one slave in a show of goodwill."

"That would be fair if you treated your slaves, properly like we civilized Turchinans do, but alas you treat them worse than I treat my dogs and it shows. They are broken wretched beings, and I would have to invest a lot to make them halfway useable. No, no. five thousand must do, and two of your slaves."

"My slaves are strong, and can take a good beating. However, we are both civilized men, loyal to the One True Faith. Surely we are not incabable of seeing eye to eye. My final offer is six thousand five hundred in exchange for my salt and two slaves, if you don't mind a humble trader starving."

"If the times were saver and I could count on seeing you again, and making business another time I'd mind but like this I am fine with this." he snapped his finger and one of his men threw him quite a huge bag of coins. "Feel free to count it at your laisure. We can inspect the salt once we are done with the tea."

Dommak clapped his hands, and Boberto picked up the bag and staggered away, out of sight. "I wish you prosperous trade in the years to come, good sir." He said, sipping the last of his tea.

Agostino did the same, smirking. If Dommak had known that he was not just any Turchinan merchant. It always made him giddy to go out incognito from his great plantations.

(Conceived and executed with @Hygswitch)

Summary

A Turchina merchant and a Muran merchant haggle over the price of salt and slaves

[IC/OOC] God and Country - A low-fantasy renaissance NRP of religion and discovery

@Hygswitch Ok, I sent you one. Did you get it?