Status

User has no status, yet

Bio

User has no bio, yet

Most Recent Posts

There would be other ships. There always were, especially in places like Melin. One of those might take him, but it might not. It could be days before a new vessel docked in, weeks even, and it was never a certainty he'd make it onboard. Now, the offer was there in front of him, and the money was but a boon he could live without. At least, for the time being.

"I'll take the job," he said, and stepped aside to let the woman storm past him. Her words, the way her fingers strayed so close to her blade, it all had put him on edge. He'd seen men keel-hauled for less---dragged by their ankles with ropes, across the scorching wasteland, to be flayed by sand and rock---and he hadn't the measure of this Captain Oliver. Not yet. "I'll be happy to get some shut-eye, Captain. It's been a strange afternoon."

Swindled on the first day, what a bitter thought. He tucked his contracts back into his belt, and only then realized his palms were lightly coated in sweat. He tried not to let it show, but the threat of violence hung heavy on his nerves, and all on account of the same person. That woman meant trouble. If only for herself, or all of them, only time would tell.
Blood money. Maurice was no stranger to it. It was his own at first, spilt on hot rock and cold iron machinery, working the depths of the earth for muddy water. Now as before, with his knees on the warm stone and his fingers pressed to the crewman's neck, it was strangers' blood.

The man's pulse died away but a moment after his chest stopped heaving. His face was undone, turned to ribbons of flesh drenched in gore, splintered bone, and oozing gray matter. But the body struggled until the end, and Maurice held on. He did not bother with words, though he felt no joy in it. The pirate's arms twitched and jerked well after the last beat of his heart, and he lay still.

"I'll take that money, Captain," he said, more to himself than anyone else, and let the dead man's corpse fall softly to the ground. He stood and dusted himself, faced the ship and moved on. Men died, bullets were spent, and Dims changed hands. That was the way it was for people like them.

He turned to the woman, the mercenary who had fired the first shot. She rushed past, eager to get her due. To be mad at her for the lives wasted on that port would be bullshit on him. His mother had raised no bullshitter. What devils prowled the wasteland knew, he'd done his fair share of wasting.

He followed after her---pausing by the beastman, Misha, to offer a nod---and into the captain's cockpit. Animated, eager, she cut to the chase. Once done, Maurice had little to add.

"As she said, Captain." He pulled from under his belt a bundle of papers. Pages scribbled-on by men he'd worked for, pages he couldn't read. Trust and the loyalty between men who'd bled and killed for each other were the worth he gave to those pages.

"I've served aboard the 'Heroic', with Captain Mortain, from the Deepwell Company, down in the South. Captains O'Ciara, from the 'Indomitable' and Kelly, from the 'Forgotten'. Done work for others, too." He offered his contracts as proof. "For what it's worth, Captain."
"It's a loser's gamble, see." Maurice had a cigarette between his teeth. Clouds of lazy smoke lingered in the air around him---the faint scent of tobacco, his constant companion. He was standing close to the edge of the crowd, far enough that he didn't feel trapped, but close enough. He had a mind to catch a ship.

"Ah." The man next to him was a spice merchant by trade. They'd only just met. "Think so?"

"Six men. Can't see any guns but I'd bet they're armed." The prisoner had just made his offer. "Even if you managed to free the beastman there..." He clicked his tongue.

"It's a lot of money."

"That it is." It was, it really was. Maurice could feel his trigger finger tap away at his breastpocket. He'd crossed his arms the moment the money was mentioned. It wasn't that he didn't trust himself to keep out of trouble, not at all. But trouble had one hell of a way to find him. "Why? Are you feeling tough today?"

"What about you, gunman?" The merchant lightly tapped at the rifle wrapped in cloth at his back, the sound of the wooden cane against the muzzle was loud enough for Maurice to flinch.

"It's that obvious, huh?" He'd thought it looked more a map than a gun. The merchant simply shrugged his shoulders---an eerie thing, beard or not, that reminded him too much of his mother. Clumsy Maurice, who couldn't fix a boiler or plug a leak if his life depended on it, she'd say.

"I wouldn't trust you to wrap my meals, son. I'll tell you that much." The merchant patted his shoulder and limped away, just a few moments before the first shots rang out.

A loser's bet, Maurice thought. The pack with his clothes had hit the ground, and his rifle was out, before the first men began to flee. Chaos, blood and splattered brains. How quickly the scene had changed, and all it had taken was a loser with a bet to be won---a madwoman with a gun, and a hundred Dits in her pocket already.

Leave now, Maurice. It's not worth dying for. Fuck, but he really should. He pressed the butt of his rifle against his shoulder, and reached down to grab his pack... when the first of the crew noticed him. A young fellow, with a couple scars and a frightened look in his eyes. His boss's brains were splashed all over his boots, and his mate was on the ground, clutching at his busted kneecap, so Maurice couldn't blame him. But scared or not, perhaps precisely because of it, he reached for his revolver.

"Don't do it..." Maurice cursed his luck. The crewman's fingers tightened around the grip of the handgun, eyes fixed on him, much too scared of death to realize what a terrible misunderstanding it all was. Maurice dropped the pack, and shouldered his weapon. By misunderstandings and ill intent, the blood spilled on the wasteland could be measured.

He squeezed the trigger. Once, twice, and the bullets ripped away the crewman's face in a bloody explosion of gore. A lucky hit, Maurice lamented. He'd aimed for the man's hand.

More revolvers were drawn. Screams joined the panicked sound of boots against stone, and Maurice Pfeifer became all too aware of how exposed he was. How deep in shit he was.

"Hit the fucking ground!" He set his iron sights on the next unlucky bastard to have the misfortune of being there, and hoped to mercy none of them had the balls to gamble their lives. He certainly hadn't planned to.
Full name: Maurice Pfeifer.
Gender: Male.
Age: 29.
Physical description: 1.70 meters tall, 120lbs. Black-haired, worn medium-short and unkempt, with a full beard about 5 cm long. Crooked, aquiline nose, and dark, brown eyes.



Personality: A practical man, always restless and looking for something to busy himself with. Never seems to be alone, and has that general attitude so common among wastelanders, one tough cookie.

Backstory:

Maurice was born in a water mining outpost, deep in the wasteland. The outpost was built on top of a sizeable aquifer, deep within an expansive cavern system that required the miners to delve into the underground to operate the machinery needed to pump the water out to the surface, where it could be loaded onto airships.

It was a tough living, but it was a living. From an early age, he and the other children of the settlement would help around the mine, taking tools, food, and supplies down to the uppermost levels of the complex. It was expensive machinery, and temperamental, too. Leaks and breakages were common, and as Maurice grew, he realized that theft was too.

It was lucrative business for men to 'overlook' some leaks, and to stash away the losses to be sold on the side, for a profit. As Maurice grew, so did the problem, and soon the overseers of the mine saw fit to double their security.

A militia of sorts was levied, and Maurice proved a natural with a rifle. He avoided his father's underpaid wages and meager living, and took on a gun and a mean attitude.

But the Dims were few and the shifts were long. Maurice soon found himself involved in the very practices he was meant to oppose. He and a few others from the watch were approached by an agent interested in acquiring the cargo from a convoy, at a discount.

Maurice and his fellows were assigned to the convoy, in a rather 'fortunate' turn of events. The pay was very good, and no one aboard the Class C vessel expected their own guards to be in on it. The crew weren't willing to die for a few thousand gallons of water.

Piracy suited them, somewhat. They knew where the pipes were, they knew the routes the airships took, and they knew what guns they carried. For a while, it worked out.

Until it didn't. The outposts stepped up their game, they hired tighter crews, professional security. It soon cost more to make a raid than it did to purchase legally. So their employers ended their agreement.

Maurice got his pay, and tried to enjoy it in peace. But a warning came to him one day. One of the men from his former gang appeared at his doorstep, unnerved to the core. The men they had cheated were after them, with a vengeance.

With a head start, Maurice managed to set out once again and sold most his belongings to purchase some equipment. But it became obvious he wouldn't get far, not in a world so dangerous, where any one man with a gun could make a quick Dis by putting a bullet in his skull.

But he had skills, and the fall of Tholmhaven had given rise to men who just might need those skills... and so, with a dust storm raging strong all around, alone in a rusted skyport, with little but a rifle and some spare clothes, Maurice boarded the first ship that would take him.

Description: Maurice was a water miner, men who delve deep underground in claustrophobic conditions, to operate and repair heavy machinery known to be as deadly as it is expensive. He's spent most of his life in danger, and is well used to the pressure of life-threatening situations. Having served as an armed guard in the wastes soon after, he's also no stranger to firefights, or airships, for that matter.

He's something of a short fellow, a product of the cramped tunnels and poor nutrition of his birthplace, but is quick and agile, even in tight places where other men would be reduced to a crawl.

Back home, in his free time he hunted and played cards to pass the time. He wasn't very good at either.

Skills: He's a fair shot with a rifle, and strong from having spent a lifetime working the water mines. He's well used to running in cramped spaces, and his short stature makes it easy for him. The heat of the wasteland doesn't bother him as much as it might do to others, given he's accustomed to the sweltering temperatures underground.

He's also familiar with the layout of the land around his hometown, having spent several years traversing the wasteland as a convoy guard.

Quirks: He's very much not fond of the sunlight, or crowds. Open spaces and idleness make him nervous. Silence is nearly unbearable.
Other: He really likes omelettes. Like a lot.
Hello! I'm interested in joining, but I've got a few questions regarding the setting.

1) Technological level. (I'm assuming it's somewhat modern, given we're drilling for oil, but to about what time in our past was civilization thrown back to?)
2) Culture of the region/world/plausible character origins. We're talking about post-apocalyptic Earth here? I wouldn't want to show up with a snow-dwelling viking dwarf (not what I plan on doing, rest assured), only to realize I'm the odd one out in the entire planet.
3) Setting-appropriate, cool occupations. Thought of making a butcher, or an accountant. But if I can capture mammoths (from the picture) in some far off land to sell them back home? Well, that's just a tad cooler.
4) Naming conventions. For EXTRA immersion!
5) Are we going for a dark, or light tone with the story?

Thanks man! I'll edit the post with my character later, if that's all right.

Full name: Maurice Pfeifer.
Gender: Male.
Age: 29.
Physical description: 1.70 meters tall, 120lbs. Black-haired, worn medium-short and unkempt, with a full beard about 5 cm long. Crooked, aquiline nose, and dark, brown eyes.



Personality: A practical man, always restless and looking for something to busy himself with. Never seems to be alone, and has that general attitude so common among wastelanders, one tough cookie.

Backstory:

Maurice was born in a water mining outpost, deep in the wasteland. The outpost was built on top of a sizeable aquifer, deep within an expansive cavern system that required the miners to delve into the underground to operate the machinery needed to pump the water out to the surface, where it could be loaded onto airships.

It was a tough living, but it was a living. From an early age, he and the other children of the settlement would help around the mine, taking tools, food, and supplies down to the uppermost levels of the complex. It was expensive machinery, and temperamental, too. Leaks and breakages were common, and as Maurice grew, he realized that theft was too.

It was lucrative business for men to 'overlook' some leaks, and to stash away the losses to be sold on the side, for a profit. As Maurice grew, so did the problem, and soon the overseers of the mine saw fit to double their security.

A militia of sorts was levied, and Maurice proved a natural with a rifle. He avoided his father's underpaid wages and meager living, and took on a gun and a mean attitude.

But the Dims were few and the shifts were long. Maurice soon found himself involved in the very practices he was meant to oppose. He and a few others from the watch were approached by an agent interested in acquiring the cargo from a convoy, at a discount.

Maurice and his fellows were assigned to the convoy, in a rather 'fortunate' turn of events. The pay was very good, and no one aboard the Class C vessel expected their own guards to be in on it. The crew weren't willing to die for a few thousand gallons of water.

Piracy suited them, somewhat. They knew where the pipes were, they knew the routes the airships took, and they knew what guns they carried. For a while, it worked out.

Until it didn't. The outposts stepped up their game, they hired tighter crews, professional security. It soon cost more to make a raid than it did to purchase legally. So their employers ended their agreement.

Maurice got his pay, and tried to enjoy it in peace. But a warning came to him one day. One of the men from his former gang appeared at his doorstep, unnerved to the core. The men they had cheated were after them, with a vengeance.

With a head start, Maurice managed to set out once again and sold most his belongings to purchase some equipment. But it became obvious he wouldn't get far, not in a world so dangerous, where any one man with a gun could make a quick Dis by putting a bullet in his skull.

But he had skills, and the fall of Tholmhaven had given rise to men who just might need those skills... and so, with a dust storm raging strong all around, alone in a rusted skyport, with little but a rifle and some spare clothes, Maurice boarded the first ship that would take him.

Description: Maurice was a water miner, men who delve deep underground in claustrophobic conditions, to operate and repair heavy machinery known to be as deadly as it is expensive. He's spent most of his life in danger, and is well used to the pressure of life-threatening situations. Having served as an armed guard in the wastes soon after, he's also no stranger to firefights, or airships, for that matter.

He's something of a short fellow, a product of the cramped tunnels and poor nutrition of his birthplace, but is quick and agile, even in tight places where other men would be reduced to a crawl.

Back home, in his free time he hunted and played cards to pass the time. He wasn't very good at either.

Skills: He's a fair shot with a rifle, and strong from having spent a lifetime working the water mines. He's well used to running in cramped spaces, and his short stature makes it easy for him. The heat of the wasteland doesn't bother him as much as it might do to others, given he's accustomed to the sweltering temperatures underground.

He's also familiar with the layout of the land around his hometown, having spent several years traversing the wasteland as a convoy guard.

Quirks: He's very much not fond of the sunlight, or crowds. Open spaces and idleness make him nervous. Silence is nearly unbearable.
Other: He really likes omelettes. Like a lot.
Thanks, everyone. :) Looking forward to losing many hours in these forums!
I could definitely do ice knights. Is a post per week satisfactory? I'm new to the site but I've some experience in RPs.
I'm a guy with a thing for writing, strategy games, and Darkest Dungeon as of late, looking for a decent RP that doesn't mix a medieval setting with moody teens wearing sneakers and wielding swords three times their body weight and size. I'm willing to compromise on the sneakers, however, provided I'm allowed to be a cyborg were-bear. Diplomacy I'm told, greases the gears of the world...

I've also made a terrible mistake while choosing my username and now I'm unable to change it. Had I known the error of my ways would eternally haunt me, I'd have gone with my initial choice to call myself Billy... Oh well.
© 2007-2017
BBCode Cheatsheet