@MrDidact I think it would be best if my next post was a collab, seeing as how Arak is meeting with Jon and Daenerys, under your control. I'm no good at writing long speeches and monologues.
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What if *I* was the small creature all along?
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O . O staring
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V.1.26 (House of Caecilius Iucundus); 4091: Whoever loves, let him flourish. Let him perish who knows not love. Let him perish twice over whoever forbids love.
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Most Recent Posts
Name: Karl Adalwin
Gender: Male
Age: 45
Appearance: Karl looks like what is left of a once powerful and dominating figure, worn down by age. He stands at a none-too-imposing 5 feet 7 inches, wrinkles are beginning to form on his face, and grey is beginning to invade his hair. His skin hangs loose upon his frame, due to his muscles petering out, but one thing he keeps in pride is his long, thick beard, that he absentmindedly grooms with his hands.
Brief Bio: Karl was born poor, and never lived rich in his life. His parents are conservative, and thus wed him at the young age of 18 to a woman he had never met and at the time wanted nothing to do with him. Eventually, they came to love each other through necessity and years of living together cramped in a small room in a run-down inn (the fact that they had the room to themselves was a luxury). Eventually, this led to their children.
He, like many others, caught on to the patriotic fervor when the men started becoming beasts, and took up a job in a factory, forging guns and bullets to "support the brave hunters killing the beasties". Like the others, he was required no less by the manager to have at least some skill in shooting the weapons he builds.
Brief Personality Description: Karl struggles with what most call Mania, in which he seems to behave as two people inhabiting one body. At times he is a happy, loving man who keeps a level head and just wants to help, but for no reason at all occasionally reverts to a bleak, cynical outlook on life. He randomly encounters random bouts of sadness in his daily life, and may break into tears at little incentive. Strangely, he also seems to require little sleep.
Occupation: Munitions Factory Worker
Family: Karl has a wife, two daughters, a son, and is known to feed and play with a stray dog.
Equipment: Outside of simple clothing for the poor, Karl is equipped with but a pistol and a pocketful of bullets. Those are all that stand between him and any outside threat he encounters.
Other: (Anything else you want to mention.)
Gender: Male
Age: 45
Appearance: Karl looks like what is left of a once powerful and dominating figure, worn down by age. He stands at a none-too-imposing 5 feet 7 inches, wrinkles are beginning to form on his face, and grey is beginning to invade his hair. His skin hangs loose upon his frame, due to his muscles petering out, but one thing he keeps in pride is his long, thick beard, that he absentmindedly grooms with his hands.
Brief Bio: Karl was born poor, and never lived rich in his life. His parents are conservative, and thus wed him at the young age of 18 to a woman he had never met and at the time wanted nothing to do with him. Eventually, they came to love each other through necessity and years of living together cramped in a small room in a run-down inn (the fact that they had the room to themselves was a luxury). Eventually, this led to their children.
He, like many others, caught on to the patriotic fervor when the men started becoming beasts, and took up a job in a factory, forging guns and bullets to "support the brave hunters killing the beasties". Like the others, he was required no less by the manager to have at least some skill in shooting the weapons he builds.
Brief Personality Description: Karl struggles with what most call Mania, in which he seems to behave as two people inhabiting one body. At times he is a happy, loving man who keeps a level head and just wants to help, but for no reason at all occasionally reverts to a bleak, cynical outlook on life. He randomly encounters random bouts of sadness in his daily life, and may break into tears at little incentive. Strangely, he also seems to require little sleep.
Occupation: Munitions Factory Worker
Family: Karl has a wife, two daughters, a son, and is known to feed and play with a stray dog.
Equipment: Outside of simple clothing for the poor, Karl is equipped with but a pistol and a pocketful of bullets. Those are all that stand between him and any outside threat he encounters.
Other: (Anything else you want to mention.)
Name: Karl Adalwin
Gender: Male
Age: 45
Appearance: Karl looks like what is left of a once powerful and dominating figure, worn down by age. He stands at a none-too-imposing 5 feet 7 inches, wrinkles are beginning to form on his face, and grey is beginning to invade his hair. His skin hangs loose upon his frame, due to his muscles petering out, but one thing he keeps in pride is his long, thick beard, that he absentmindedly grooms with his hands.
Brief Bio: Karl was born poor, and never lived rich in his life. His parents are conservative, and thus wed him at the young age of 18 to a woman he had never met and at the time wanted nothing to do with him. Eventually, they came to love each other through necessity and years of living together cramped in a small room in a run-down inn (the fact that they had the room to themselves was a luxury). Eventually, this led to their children.
He, like many others, caught on to the patriotic fervor when the men started becoming beasts, and took up a job in a factory, forging guns and bullets to "support the brave hunters killing the beasties". Like the others, he was required no less by the manager to have at least some skill in shooting the weapons he builds.
Brief Personality Description: Karl struggles with what most call Mania, in which he seems to behave as two people inhabiting one body. At times he is a happy, loving man who keeps a level head and just wants to help, but for no reason at all occasionally reverts to a bleak, cynical outlook on life. He randomly encounters random bouts of sadness in his daily life, and may break into tears at little incentive. Strangely, he also seems to require little sleep.
Occupation: Munitions Factory Worker
Family: Karl has a wife, two daughters, a son, and is known to feed and play with a stray dog.
Equipment: Outside of simple clothing for the poor, Karl is equipped with but a pistol and a pocketful of bullets. Those are all that stand between him and any outside threat he encounters.
Other: (Anything else you want to mention.)
Gender: Male
Age: 45
Appearance: Karl looks like what is left of a once powerful and dominating figure, worn down by age. He stands at a none-too-imposing 5 feet 7 inches, wrinkles are beginning to form on his face, and grey is beginning to invade his hair. His skin hangs loose upon his frame, due to his muscles petering out, but one thing he keeps in pride is his long, thick beard, that he absentmindedly grooms with his hands.
Brief Bio: Karl was born poor, and never lived rich in his life. His parents are conservative, and thus wed him at the young age of 18 to a woman he had never met and at the time wanted nothing to do with him. Eventually, they came to love each other through necessity and years of living together cramped in a small room in a run-down inn (the fact that they had the room to themselves was a luxury). Eventually, this led to their children.
He, like many others, caught on to the patriotic fervor when the men started becoming beasts, and took up a job in a factory, forging guns and bullets to "support the brave hunters killing the beasties". Like the others, he was required no less by the manager to have at least some skill in shooting the weapons he builds.
Brief Personality Description: Karl struggles with what most call Mania, in which he seems to behave as two people inhabiting one body. At times he is a happy, loving man who keeps a level head and just wants to help, but for no reason at all occasionally reverts to a bleak, cynical outlook on life. He randomly encounters random bouts of sadness in his daily life, and may break into tears at little incentive. Strangely, he also seems to require little sleep.
Occupation: Munitions Factory Worker
Family: Karl has a wife, two daughters, a son, and is known to feed and play with a stray dog.
Equipment: Outside of simple clothing for the poor, Karl is equipped with but a pistol and a pocketful of bullets. Those are all that stand between him and any outside threat he encounters.
Other: (Anything else you want to mention.)
Hello! Starting on the sheet now!
In
The Simple Blood (A Survival Horror Bloodborne Roleplay)
→
9 yrs ago
Forum: General Interest Checks
Still room in this RP for one more? I personally am a bit (a lot) stuck in the Forbidden Woods, but have seen people play the game to the end. Also, I vote for map A.
The sharp knock at the door made Krakas jump. She heard a voice on the other end, saying something about having a key to the door. Grimly, she wondered how her own blood could imprison her. "Come in," she called to the voice. "There's nothing to occupy me here." The sound of a key sliding into a lock reverberated throughout the room, and the door creaked open, revealing a figure on the large side, armed to the teeth. "So? Do you need anything?" she asked.
"Mother?" Rughoi turned his head eagerly to look in the direction of the door. An advisor approached him with his decree, but Rughoi interrupted him. "Whatever, Do what needs to be done," he said, waving him away offhandedly. Almost running, he rushed over to the doors and flung them open, then charged down the hall to the main room.
Krakas paced worriedly across the main room. Was her son even here? What if one of millions of things happened, and this supposed "Emperor of All Kobold" was just Rughoi's successor? Her thoughts were dispelled by the heavy stomping of incredibly large feet racing towards her, in a gait that she knew by heart. Without having to look, she flung herself into the arms of the source of the noise the moment he emerged from the hall. Rughoi and his mother shared a warm embrace.
"What are you doing here, mother?" Rughoi asked, breaking the silence and the hug.
"I'm taking you home,” Krakas said, trying to be the stern mother figure she could never imitate.
“That’s the best part! This is home! Not just for you and me, but Xigyll will be a home for all kobolds! Our art and culture will finally surface after hiding since the days of dragons!” Rughoi explained excitedly, not caring if his cool, calculating facade was removed in front of his subjects.
“No. Enough with this imperial fantasy. Please, I beg you. If you return Traeton to its rightful rulers, I promise you the dracons will give you a fair trial in the Fertile Valley,” Krakas said, trying to appeal to reason. Rughoi stiffened, and let go of his mother.
“Guards, Her Kindness the Queen Mother is fatigued after her long days of travel. Please escort her to the safest room in the castle, where she can rest and regain her senses,” Rughoi commanded, as two guards in full armor stepped forwards.
“Don’t you take another step towards me, young man,” Krakas scorned to one of the guards.
“Please come with me, Your Kindness. I would not wish for us to do this the hard way,” he responded, offering his hand. Krakas scowled, but allowed him to lead her away. Once locked in her room, she kneeled before the bed and began praying feverishly to Scen.
Krakas paced worriedly across the main room. Was her son even here? What if one of millions of things happened, and this supposed "Emperor of All Kobold" was just Rughoi's successor? Her thoughts were dispelled by the heavy stomping of incredibly large feet racing towards her, in a gait that she knew by heart. Without having to look, she flung herself into the arms of the source of the noise the moment he emerged from the hall. Rughoi and his mother shared a warm embrace.
"What are you doing here, mother?" Rughoi asked, breaking the silence and the hug.
"I'm taking you home,” Krakas said, trying to be the stern mother figure she could never imitate.
“That’s the best part! This is home! Not just for you and me, but Xigyll will be a home for all kobolds! Our art and culture will finally surface after hiding since the days of dragons!” Rughoi explained excitedly, not caring if his cool, calculating facade was removed in front of his subjects.
“No. Enough with this imperial fantasy. Please, I beg you. If you return Traeton to its rightful rulers, I promise you the dracons will give you a fair trial in the Fertile Valley,” Krakas said, trying to appeal to reason. Rughoi stiffened, and let go of his mother.
“Guards, Her Kindness the Queen Mother is fatigued after her long days of travel. Please escort her to the safest room in the castle, where she can rest and regain her senses,” Rughoi commanded, as two guards in full armor stepped forwards.
“Don’t you take another step towards me, young man,” Krakas scorned to one of the guards.
“Please come with me, Your Kindness. I would not wish for us to do this the hard way,” he responded, offering his hand. Krakas scowled, but allowed him to lead her away. Once locked in her room, she kneeled before the bed and began praying feverishly to Scen.
" . . . The stars are lovely tonight," mused Bran Stark, stroking the unkempt mess that is his beard. "A pity nobody in the city would be able to see it. Daenerys did a wonderful job of standardizing lighting in the city. Too wonderful, I think." The wheels on his chair creaked as he pushed on them, slowly driving him along the quiet seaside. Aside him paced a nervous Arak Snow, improvising a long spear as a walking staff.
"My lord," he began. "With no offense intended for your sound judgement, I still believe that you made a rash decision when you requested only me as your guard. I fear for your safety greatly. Any number of things can happen so many miles from the city." Bran chuckled lightly, sounding a little more like a rasp. Stories told by old smallfolk tell of him traveling beyond the wall to commune with ancient sages of the Old Gods. Arak was not sure if those stories were true, but whatever happened, the lord Bran looked far older than he was and should be.
"Why would I need more guards? I have you," Bran mumbled. "And enough of this 'my lord' nonsense. I hear it enough from my submissive vassals. Bran is a fine enough name, would you not say?"
"I'm sure, my lo- Bran," Arak answered, catching himself. The two of them continued to silently make their way down the beach, the spear tapping to the rhythm of the wheels creaking. Arak decided to break the silence with something that had been harboring his mind for the whole walk. "I feel as if a stroll upon the sand was not your full purpose of requesting me to escort you here," he said, already feeling guilty for accusing his liege of anything.
"Excellent perception," Bran said, smiling. "There is more to be done outside of relaxing to the sound of waves. I should have seen to this years ago. Do you remember the old commander . . . what was his name . . . ah yes, Quorik?"
"Yes, my- Bran," Arak said. "He passed, quite a long time ago."
"Yes, that he did. Now, I haven't gotten around to filling his position yet, but perhaps I should now. I was hoping that your eye for character would influence my decision. Any competent looking soldiers catch your eye?" Bran asked, an odd twinkling seeming to form in his own.
"Well," Arak stammered, fiddling with his spear. He had not expected his lord to even allow him to speak in the beginning of this walk, let alone listen to his counsel! "I would like to put forth my instructor, Sarin. He judges fairly, and is well liked by his men."
"Actually," Bran interrupted, the twinkle getting more apparent. "I was thinking more of a younger officer. He's a tad inexperienced, true, but his valor is unquestioned. I believe he goes by Arak." Arak's eyes shot wide at that.
"Surely not me, my lord! Even I could tell you it would be most unwise to hand a command position to a-"
"A Bolton?" Bran said, eyes narrowing. "Believe me true, I had toyed around with offering the position to another skilled tactician, William. However, I saw immediately the flaw in that. Aye, he'd lead. Aye, he'd win. And when he wins, he'll turn his forces right around and send them at Winterfell. I think that you wouldn't be so inclined to make such a decision, would you?"
"Surely not me, my lord!" Arak said, stuttering almost every word.
"Good, now that we are on the same page, you will take the command position, and I will not hear a word of objection out of you. Is that clear?" There was no response. "Good, that was not so difficult, was it? Now we may go back to enjoying the quiet darkness the sky has to offer." With another push and creak, the wheeled chair made its way further down the beachside. A dark figure, out of the corner of Arak's eye, seemed to crawl out of the river. Was it a figment of his imagination? He turned to look, and discovered to his horror that it was not.
"Duck, my lord!" he shouted, lifting his buckler just in time to catch a bloated pincer crashing down on his liege's head. With his other hand, he lifted the spear and drove it into where he guessed the neck was. It dove in, and stuck. The man-creature stumbled back to the sea, but righted itself. Before it could, Arak grabbed the handles on Bran's chair, turned it around, and began racing for the city. The Red Keep, dominating the skyline within its walls, was but a speck on the horizon. "How far is it till we reach the castle!?" he asked, between breaths.
"If I were to guess, three miles," came Bran's response.
"My lord," he began. "With no offense intended for your sound judgement, I still believe that you made a rash decision when you requested only me as your guard. I fear for your safety greatly. Any number of things can happen so many miles from the city." Bran chuckled lightly, sounding a little more like a rasp. Stories told by old smallfolk tell of him traveling beyond the wall to commune with ancient sages of the Old Gods. Arak was not sure if those stories were true, but whatever happened, the lord Bran looked far older than he was and should be.
"Why would I need more guards? I have you," Bran mumbled. "And enough of this 'my lord' nonsense. I hear it enough from my submissive vassals. Bran is a fine enough name, would you not say?"
"I'm sure, my lo- Bran," Arak answered, catching himself. The two of them continued to silently make their way down the beach, the spear tapping to the rhythm of the wheels creaking. Arak decided to break the silence with something that had been harboring his mind for the whole walk. "I feel as if a stroll upon the sand was not your full purpose of requesting me to escort you here," he said, already feeling guilty for accusing his liege of anything.
"Excellent perception," Bran said, smiling. "There is more to be done outside of relaxing to the sound of waves. I should have seen to this years ago. Do you remember the old commander . . . what was his name . . . ah yes, Quorik?"
"Yes, my- Bran," Arak said. "He passed, quite a long time ago."
"Yes, that he did. Now, I haven't gotten around to filling his position yet, but perhaps I should now. I was hoping that your eye for character would influence my decision. Any competent looking soldiers catch your eye?" Bran asked, an odd twinkling seeming to form in his own.
"Well," Arak stammered, fiddling with his spear. He had not expected his lord to even allow him to speak in the beginning of this walk, let alone listen to his counsel! "I would like to put forth my instructor, Sarin. He judges fairly, and is well liked by his men."
"Actually," Bran interrupted, the twinkle getting more apparent. "I was thinking more of a younger officer. He's a tad inexperienced, true, but his valor is unquestioned. I believe he goes by Arak." Arak's eyes shot wide at that.
"Surely not me, my lord! Even I could tell you it would be most unwise to hand a command position to a-"
"A Bolton?" Bran said, eyes narrowing. "Believe me true, I had toyed around with offering the position to another skilled tactician, William. However, I saw immediately the flaw in that. Aye, he'd lead. Aye, he'd win. And when he wins, he'll turn his forces right around and send them at Winterfell. I think that you wouldn't be so inclined to make such a decision, would you?"
"Surely not me, my lord!" Arak said, stuttering almost every word.
"Good, now that we are on the same page, you will take the command position, and I will not hear a word of objection out of you. Is that clear?" There was no response. "Good, that was not so difficult, was it? Now we may go back to enjoying the quiet darkness the sky has to offer." With another push and creak, the wheeled chair made its way further down the beachside. A dark figure, out of the corner of Arak's eye, seemed to crawl out of the river. Was it a figment of his imagination? He turned to look, and discovered to his horror that it was not.
"Duck, my lord!" he shouted, lifting his buckler just in time to catch a bloated pincer crashing down on his liege's head. With his other hand, he lifted the spear and drove it into where he guessed the neck was. It dove in, and stuck. The man-creature stumbled back to the sea, but righted itself. Before it could, Arak grabbed the handles on Bran's chair, turned it around, and began racing for the city. The Red Keep, dominating the skyline within its walls, was but a speck on the horizon. "How far is it till we reach the castle!?" he asked, between breaths.
"If I were to guess, three miles," came Bran's response.
Ooh, over 2000 posts! We should celebrate the moment the number of posts hits the current year!
@MrDidact Updated the Arak sheet. How does it look?
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