BrokenPromise

Let's Talk: The Discord Discussion

If I had to say something bad about discord, it's that perhaps it makes one too connected. I've recently decided that I'm basically only going to write over the weekends to keep the rest of my week free for other stuff, but I find that more often than not, someone has an idea they want to share with me, or I just find myself rambling to people about RP stuff. It's easy enough to just go invisible, but then that one time you forget to turn invisibility off and people think you're ignoring them when you really are offline. Also, fully turning off discord makes you harder to get a hold of, which was one of the things using discord was suppose to fix.

This is a problem I've always struggled with, but it's a bit worse in the hyper connectivity era we currently live in. That and I'm a co-gm/GM in 3 rps now. Maybe I just need to scale back.

Let's Talk: The Discord Discussion

One must be careful talking about the “good ol' days.” I'm not talking about making the common mistake of looking at the past through rose tinted glasses, but forum Rping was just a different game back then. If you had your RP buds on a messenger service, it was likely msn messenger or Skype. There were no servers. Instead we had these clumsy things called group conversations that weren't exactly intuitive. There wasn't much you could do with them in terms of organization. I remember writing collabs over skype, and I'd copy parts of the actual post into a word document among all the random shit posting. Those were good days, but I do not miss the process.

A lot has changed since then. Phones with internet access have become more accessible, and Discord's focus on servers makes it possible for anyone to create an online hangout. By bonding with your fellow Rpers on a level beyond “that stranger who writes posts,” people become more invested in each other, the group, and the RP as a result.

Discord presents distractions. I can confirm that I've wasted quite a few hours on pointless discussions that I've forgotten as soon as the new day came. But then you need to ask if it was any different in the days when you'd talk to people one-on-one over Skype. I can't speak for everyone, but I always did a fair bit of shit posting.

I just spent ten or twenty minutes gathering my thoughts on this topic and posting them. Was that time wasted? Should I have put it towards RP instead? Investing more time in IC posts doesn't always insure they will be of outstanding quality. Sometimes you get your best ideas sharing a discussion with others, or just thinking about things a bit.

Character Contest #1: Voting

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Voting and Critique

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So it's started. A rootin' tootin' mystery out in the old west. The miners have arrived at Ashfork, and money is already starting to shuffle hands. But the night of knives is also well underway, and in just 3 days the death toll is already at 12.

Votes

Before you start voting, I encourage you to go to this thread so that you can see the mock RP these characters were made for, as well as the types of rules and hurdles their writers had to go through in order to make them. Once that's done, you may read the entries and vote for the best character for said RP. Simply name one character you're voting for in this thread to cast a vote. Contestants may vote if they wish.

Critique

This is also a space to give others advice so that they can grow as writers and make better character sheets in the future. All critiques are expected to be constructive in nature. Giving good critique is an art in itself, but there's a few tips that most of the pros genuinely agree on:

-Make your critiques into a “feedback sandwich.” That is to say any criticism should be between two slices of fresh praise.

I liked Jack's character in your story. He was extremely repeatable, and his dialog was really fun to read. I was less a fan of Janet, who felt less like a character and was just a doll for the keeper of secrets to bounce dialog off of. Overall though, the story had great pacing, and the reveal at the end was a great note to end it all on.

-Critique the work, not the writer. “You used too many adjectives” VS “I think this entry has too many adjectives.” It never hurts to present things as an opinion either.

-Not every aspect of a work needs to be critiqued. The point is to help the writer target their weakest areas, and they can't do that if you target too many things as a weakness. Don't nitpick if there are bigger problems worth addressing.

The above are not hard rules for the contest, but a good policy if you don't want contestant retaliation. Remember the golden rule: “Do unto others as you would like done unto you.”

As for those of you receiving critique, remember that the voters took time out of their day to read your entries. Replying to them with anything but gratitude for reading your entry or a request to clarify themselves is punching well above your weight class. Sometimes it's best to just mentally ignore critiques that you don't agree with instead of debating the point and making the voter feel like they wasted their time trying to help you. Remember the golden rule: “Do unto others as you would like done unto you.”

Deadline

Voting will close march 5th when I get home from work. Count on 7-9 PM GMT.

The Characters

@Briza

Samuel J. Foster

S a m u e l J. F o s t e r

^{Every man dies. Not every man lives.}

— William Wallace

^{A p p e a r a n c e :}

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The only distinguishing feature on Samuel J. Foster is that his nose is longer than the usual snub; and it's seemed to keep him out of trouble; or maybe it's his indistinguishable features that have kept him pinned as a wall flower when it comes with appearances. Whatever the case, Samuel's only been caught in one scandal, and the rest is just smoke easily stomped out with a good pair of leather boots.

To be more precise, plain dusty brown or black leather boots with high waist knickers tucked into the shaft. It's hard to tell the color with the amount of wear and tear the pair has seen through the years, and it's amazing they're still together. In fact, Samuel thanks God every damn day they don't ever need much repair.

Speaking of legs; Samuel's are the long and sturdy sort with a slight bull curve, and his back is finely tuned; it's easy to tell through his musty seeming white shirt and black jacket when he bends his waist properly, all good and ready to snipe another wild game in the head. His hands are large and square with blonde hairs that travel up his strong arms. He has one of those bodies with square shoulders and a neck that's long, but at least, it stands up straight to hold an average looking face to a more handsome degree than if he was a slouched man.

Samuel wears the sort of clean shaven, square-jawed face only a man with a few secrets would hold. However, despite only having a few secrets, it's obvious that they are important ones, and he is not about to let himself slide from the railing for being such a goody two shoes. If anything, he'd rather keep his sins to a bare minimum and most importantly, to himself. His small hazel eyes tell a lot about him, like he minds who he watches, and he makes sure not to contemplate on any one person for too long lest their own actions will start to tarnish his soul. It's that sort of astuteness that keeps him looking keen, because all the fellows know him as a practical man with enough money to live far better than he does. Hell, he wears a tailored suit that even though it could be bursting at the seams, he wouldn't be too prideful to not be buried in it. God forbid something happened to him, let alone his suit, with the wear he wears those two boots of his.

^{P e r s o n a l i t y :}

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If honesty was based on how a man crossed his diagonals over his zeros, Samuel would be considered a man who never told a lie, but typography is not always accurate. This is true of Samuel's first appearance. He has a studious tender look with a rough side that's worn on the age of his attire and occupation. The combination leaves him with the indistinguishable look of being average. He's usually seen with some sort of positive attribute on his face. He is not one to let his comrades down, but that's probably why he is not always the most honest fellow. He has a dark side that he hides, and sometimes the darkness is the inevitable truth. It takes a charlatan to keep such a persona afloat, and since Samuel isn't the most charismatic man, it's probably safe to assume a lot of his frustration is taken out during his line of work since he's rarely seen getting too easy going at the pubs.

It also takes a strong man to keep the dark truths from seeing the light of day. Samuel may only be an inch over six feet, but his keen persona takes his burly stance to a status that keeps him from having to roll with too many punches, since its rare to ever have any thrown at him. It helps he doesn't frequent the places where the brawls happen. However, he's never been called a flamboyant man for skipping these places. (At least, to his face.)

There are other negative parts about him that genuinely have a raise for concern such as some suspicious relationship with former Russian resident Mikhail Nuchovich's wife. Of course, after all the tragedy surrounding the incident, there were too many things with a ability to be spoken against the truth. Granted, this did cause for some darkness to lay a resting head on the broad shoulders of the Western man. He may not have been perfect, but by golly, he sure ain't all that toxic either. Therefore, with all his good intentions, he always plans to use them to the best of his abilities whether he fails sometimes or not... Just wait until you see how he rides his horse and sling his gun; and you'll be darn tootin' sure to believe there's a heart of gold in him.

^{B i o g r a p h y :}

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Big Game Hunting is known as a cruel sport, but with Samuel James Foster, the son of James Raymond Foster Jr., Hunting's a right of passage into manhood. Every year, his father would travel up to Northern States and hunt the Northern Game. The ones in California gave him wealth, but exotic ventures were never without their royalty. One year, Samuel had the honors. It was one of those moments that defined him as a person. One part of him died, while the other part of him flourished. He remembers wanting to cry at the way they were cruelly slaughtered, while the other part of him wanted to honor his father, the man his family missed every year when he left for Ashfork, only to come home with enough fur to make all of his absence a dream. There wasn't any way Samuel was turning around. He'd run from other things, like monsters in the Californian woods or his older sister's friend that never seemed to give him the right sort of mind like her other friends did. (Probably, because he was older and always had a scowl on his face.) Samuel choked back his childish fears, and he shot his first antelope. It was the worst and messiest job he ever did, at least with killing animals.

Around 1843 or 1844 (when the Mexican-American Civil War was just beginning to awaken), Samuel began friending some of the Russian fur traders during Hunting Season in the none other than Ashfork. These hunters and traders had some other thing about them that drove his curiosity. He supposed it was their way of life or he something, but more importantly, one of the guys Mikhail Nuchovich was good friends with some pretty Russian gal named Ester. She had not just a timeless look to her, but she was fluent in not just Russian and English but Greek, Arabic, and Latin, as well. He thought she was really pretty and quite a fine young gal if he ever knew how to properly recognize one, and right when he thought about getting serious with her, she disappeared with some mysterious Russian man named Ivan Kiglay, without a word. She left some cryptic note behind, but it made little sense and spoke more to his friend Mikhail, who at once took up his most of his personal belongings and left to Russia, leaving behind his wife, Olga and two children Sasha and Kisa in Samuel's care.

Mikhail's wife birthed Mikhail's third child Andrei during the man's absence. Of course, there was stipulation that the child was even his. Letters from Mikhail promised his return and his absolute loyalty to Samuel's word, despite rumors trying to spread against his wife. He wrote that he had been caught in business that would not allow him to return for some time. However, in 1849, almost exactly a year into the promising Gold Rush, Mikhail made his way back to the States for Russian Nativity. The man looked as if he had seen a ghost or been through some turbulent times. Although, when questioned, Mikhail explained the wonders of innovation that Rus was undergoing.

The Nuchovich family's life went back to normal upon Mikhail's return, despite Mikhail seeming strangely unstable mentally. He denied anything was wrong, and many of the folks thought it was the rumors revolving around the third child Andrei. Despite all, it was Samuel that Mikhail was found to trust the most with his intimate information, and Samuel made sure to make the best of what was left of their estranged relationship. However, it was the sudden death of Andrei that caused the biggest storm. The cause of the death was strange, and no one had any clear answers. It was assumed the boy wandered out and was murdered by whomever was murdering all the townsfolk. After the incident, Olga completely lost her use for the States and demanded that they go back to Russia. She claimed that if they had moved to the States for a more profitable life, they had now less than when they had arrived. Mikhail seemed more paranoid over the incident than at a tragic loss, but he agreed with his wife — the wild west was too wild.

Mikhail promised Samuel that he would keep in touch, and with that, Samuel was left to himself, again. To make matters a bit more devastating, Mikhail never wrote back, but Samuel decided he didn't really mind too much that he never heard from them. It was better to keep that door closed as he saw the prospects of other possible relations flourish and diminish with the mass migration and mass murders. He was beginning to suspect the Russians were behind this and not the Indians, but then again, what did he know? At age twenty-seven, he's just the goody two shoes Samuel J. Foster, single and free with no care in the world now that his only son had been stabbed dead in the middle of the night, right?

^{T L ; D R :}

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^{S a m u e l J a m e s F o s t e r}

^{27 ▪ Male ▪ Blonde ▪ Hazel Eyes ▪ 6'1"}

^{Hunter ▪ Positive ▪ Tepid ▪ Serious ▪ Modest}

@Calle

William McDougal

Name:

William McDougal

Age:

46

Occupation:

Bartender/owner of the saloon

Appearance:

William has a somewhat round face with black hair and a black beard which he keeps short. His body shows the evidence of a life of abundance. With a wife who can cook well, a love for strong alcohol, and a low physical activity, chubby is the word of choice.

He usually wears a light-brown waistcoat over a white shirt, with a silver watch in one of the pockets, secured to the waistcoat with a silver chain. His pants match the vest and his boots are of a fine quality leather. His eyesight has gotten worse over the years, so when he needs to read or write he wears spectacles.

Personality:

Sociable is one of the first things people would call him. William enjoys tending the bar at the saloon, listening to the patrons, talking to them, and laughing with them. He is generally a good-natured, calm and patient man, but every man has his limits and he keeps a revolver on his belt and a shotgun under the bar for when those limits are reached. And anyone laying a finger on his wife or daughter will soon learn his broad figure doesn’t contain just fat, he is capable to fight and will do so when his loved-ones are in danger. In a saloon with drunk men, and an increased amount of outsiders with different backgrounds, it regularly happens he must break up fights or throw people out.

Speaking of the different backgrounds, William will serve all customers, regardless of the colour of their skin or the shape of their head. As long as they can pay for their drinks, they are welcome in his saloon. His grandfather would certainly not agree with that attitude, but William prefers profit over xenophobia. As he likes to say “Money is money, it doesn’t matter what hand it comes from.”

Being good-natured and easy to talk to, the patrons often confide into him and he will keep whatever they tell him to himself. Breaking their trust is bad for business after all, although he is less worried about that with outsiders. Any information the miners share with him is available for other miners, for a price.

He accepts bribes when offered, depending on what they are for. If they don’t go against his own morals, he has no issue taking them.

When it comes to card games, they happen frequently in the saloon. When people get drunk and things get heated, he will intervene before they start breaking things. And while he can generally tell who cheats at cards, he usually only intervenes when he knows a victim really can’t afford to lose, or when the cheater is an outsider and the victim is a local. Maybe he doesn’t care what colour the hand carrying money has, but he does care more for the people of Ashfork than he does for the outsiders who are only interested in the riches of the volcano.
He enjoys playing poker himself, with a group of trusted friends, but they never play for money.

Bio:

The McDougals have lived in Ashfork for several generations. Williams father, Duncan Sr., owned the saloon before him, and before that the saloon belonged to his grandfather, who had bought the saloon from the old owner.

As a child William often went out with his older and younger brother, Duncan Jr. and Angus, playing in the area and riding on horseback to explore the surroundings, while his sister Mary stayed at home. When his brothers were old enough and had earned enough money, they left for the big city. William hasn’t heard from them since, he stayed at Ashfork, working at the saloon of his family.

While Mary never went to play with him and their brothers, he has a good bond with her. They trust each other and will turn to each other when they need help.

During his childhood he made many friends, but only a few good friends and those were still his friends when they reached adulthood. To this day he and his friends get together twice a week after the saloon closes for a friendly game of poker.
Thus far William hasn’t made any enemies.

William fell in love with the Sarah, daughter of the blacksmith and a year later married they got married. Two of their four children survived their first three years of life. Their oldest child, a daughter, is called Lily-Ann, combining the two names of their mothers, their son got named Robert after Williams grandfather.

After his marriage his father retired and left him the saloon. He died a year later. His mother died a few years after that, but was able to help Sarah through her first pregnancy.

His children are old enough to help in the inn, his daughter Lily-Ann helps her mother with cooking, cleaning, and playing the piano, while his son Robert assists at the bar. Both know how to use a revolver and a knife and carry those with them.
William is already preparing his son to take over the place and Robert is eager to learn all the tricks of running a successful saloon.

@Gwynbleidd

Kathryn E. Gamble

Name:

Kathryn Elizabeth Gamble

Age:

24

Occupation:

Saloon Girl

Appearance:

A smokey eyed temptress. Her raven hair is as dark as her heart, and sweet promises glitter behind an emerald gaze that burns with seduction. Such promises will forever be unkept. Men look upon her body as a curvaceous temple of desire, inspiring their lust with the most effortless of motion. She may be slight of stature, but adeptly hidden is size of mind, hidden behind fair skin and the distraction of long legs. There can be no doubt that she too has the voice of an angel, moving hardened men to tears during dark and lonely nights... but, a cautious man is wise. The Devil often hides behind spellbinding beauty.

Personality:

Elusive as the wind drifting through a clenched fist. Kathryn's mind is her own, and always her own. No man, or woman, shall ever enter past the gates of her spirit to understand the truths she keeps strictly locked. The door is closed, but mystery is welcomed.

Despite her distance, the lady of loose morals does not shy from conversation. On the contrary, conversation is her home, her kingdom, and her safe haven. It is land she owns without deed or title, territory that Kathryn knows like the hills and rivers of her Georgia homeland. The intimate secrets of desire, want, and dreams; she knows them. She knows their shape, and their form. Like a practiced musician, she plucks the chords at will. Sometimes kindly. Sometimes with malice. But, most often she does so in order to get what she wants.

Intimate with the tongue, and a stranger of the heart. A man never knows Kathryn, not truly.

Bio:

There was not a man who did not desire her, and there was not a woman who did not wish to be her.

Kathryn Gamble was the youngest daughter born into the Gamble family, and she was also the favorite. The reasons why were self-evident. She was beautiful beyond compare, as graceful as God intended women to be, and blessed with conversational skill that made her the delight of high society. In every manner, Kathryn was the true image of a Southern Belle. It was her destiny to live a good, long, and happy life.

Destiny, however, is not always agreeable.

When the Northern Aggressors burned their way south during the last years of the war, Kathryn's Georgian home was among the many that turned to ash. Her parents were killed, and she became separated from her sisters. Whatever wealth and status that she once had was as much rubble as her lavish estate. Death and loss was not all that scarred the young woman. The absence of her wealth, and her wealth alone would have been a kindness...

A soldier's touch is not remembered fondly.

In desperate straits, a woman of pleasant looks turns to the darker side of living. It was not so bad, or so she would say. Just men. Men she could predict. Men she could handle, and use. Sometimes, Kathryn felt as though life in a saloon was akin to life at an extravagant party. This time, though, there was less class and proper attire. It was what it was, and what it was was money for her purse.

When she acquired enough, Kathryn turned west with an eye on the promise of gold. She took residence in Ashfork, and went back to her Saloon ways. There were men of interest there, and men of means. Perhaps, with their help, the Gamble name would mean something again.

But first, Kathryn needed them in order to stay alive.

@ayzrules

Theodora Shockley

THEODORA SHOCKLEY

“Many a gentleman had likened his first meeting with her to downing a very strong cognac when one was expecting to imbibe fruit juice—that is to say, startling and apt to leave one with a distinct burning sensation.” -Gail Carriger

N A M E
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Theodora Shockley, neé Lorrazzo. Close friends, and close friends only, may call her Teddy.

A G E
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28

O C C U P A T I O N
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Well, technically, Teddy is unemployed, but anyone who has ever interacted with her knows that she's not the kind to just sit back and let her husband take care of everything. She's his partner in business, if anything (though "partner" might be too, er, friendly of a word), and is definitely not afraid to make her opinion heard on how dear Frankie ought to be spending her family's money.

A P P E A R A N C E
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Teddy is certainly not considered pretty, back at home in London-first of all, her father was Italian, meaning that she has a rather....swarthy complexion (honestly, though. Italian, of all things? Even French would have been better!). She is also taller than what is considered proper for a woman, at around five feet and nine inches, which is also something she suspects that she inherited from her godforsaken father-her mother is quite petite.

In fact, Teddy is fairly certain that all her physical characteristics were from her Italian father. She has an unruly mane of dark, curly hair that falls halfway down her back (which is usually arranged in whatever hairstyle is currently in fashion; typically the latest updo out of Paris. Updos, she finds, are quite convenient when one's hair has a tendency to get in one's eyes), expressive eyebrows, and a nose that is slightly too large for her face, which happens to be rather square-ish. Her features are more "strong" than "delicate", an effect that is certainly not aided by her olive-colored complexion. None of her three step-brothers have this problem, of course; all of them look like her mother, meaning that they are blonde and blue-eyed with milky complexions.

Well, whatever. Teddy doesn't dwell on what she can't change. She does believe in following all the current fashions, of course, as any proper Englishwoman should, even if she follows the current fashions a tad too closely (she's by no means a creative person, after all). Teddy favors darker colors and more sensible ensembles, and she has a somewhat peculiar love for parasols-they're quite useful for whacking people upside the head with, is her defense. She carries herself with an air of brisk authority, as if she were a self-righteous matron twice her actual age, and has the unfortunate habit of brandishing her parasol about as if it were a sword or some kind of weapon that actually had any effect on people other than her silly, foppish step-brothers.

P E R S O N A L I T Y
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Teddy is practical and pragmatic and gets things done. She values efficiency and a good work ethic, and she is not afraid to speak up in order to get her point across. Teddy is a veritable battle-axe of a woman-she will get what she wants, even if she has to constantly harangue an unfortunate soul to do so. Teddy never takes no for an answer; she is the indomitable Theodora Shockley, and she will do what she came here to do, albeit in the most polite way possible.

Ever the realist, Teddy has no patience for people with dreamy delusions of what life actually is. Still, though, she wouldn't say she believes that people are inherently evil, and she does, after all, have morals. She is a stickler for proper manners and etiquette, and will be very offended should somebody behave in an impolite way towards her...and really, Teddy tries her best to be as polite as possible, but sometimes it just doesn't work, you know?

Blunt and straightforward, Teddy says what she wants, when she wants to. Of course, the wording may be perfectly proper for a high society tea party, but the underlying meaning would be perfectly clear. She doesn't have time to deal with anybody's nonsense, and she has the unfortunate habit of interfering in everyone's business; she's quite the meddler. Teddy considers herself to be a rather logical and rational person; she has not one bit of creativity in her, which has never bothered her in the slightest. Instead, she tries to look at things objectively and analyze all the possible courses of action. Teddy can be surprisingly perceptive, despite her lack of subtlety, and quite observant-she'll always notice when somebody is wearing last season's fashions, for example.

Teddy is about as covert as a sledgehammer. She has no regard for one's "finer feelings" and "sensitivities"-she says what she means, head-on, without any subtlety whatsoever. She always insists on being perfectly civil, though, even if her civility is tinged with a bit of good old-fashioned sarcasm. She has a breezy, brusque way of going about her business, and she can and will order other people around with the expectation that they'll do as she says. Teddy is very grounded, and very matter-of-fact, and she hates feeling like things are out of her control.

Lastly, Teddy is very, very prosaic. Unimaginative, uninspired, whatever you want to call it-the fact of the matter is, Teddy has no creative skill whatsoever. She likes to dance, yes, but that doesn't mean she is going to be creating variations on the waltz anytime soon. She can't sing, can't paint, can't play a musical instrument...and if she's writing anything, it will be just as blunt and matter-of-fact as she is. Teddy can’t stand flowery metaphors and embellished allusions to ancient Greek classics; she would rather jump off a cliff than read some of the romance novels that are currently popular.

B I O G R A P H Y
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Theodora's father, a certain Rodrigo Lorrazzo, was, quite unfortunately, of Italian descent...an affliction that could not be cured, to be sure, though he did die. Teddy never met him; something about a carriage accident during the first months of her mother's pregnancy. Ah, well. Life goes on.

Her mother, now called Cecilia Lintwyll, was a proper young lady, in the most typical sense of the word, and she had the blonde hair and blue eyes and delicate features to pull it off. However, Teddy certainly did not take after her mother in neither appearance nor demeanor, much to Cecilia's chagrin. Teddy thinks her mother is a twit-why does that woman insist on complaining to her about her nose, and her complexion, and her general....Italian-ness? It wasn't Teddy who decided to marry an Italian and have a daughter, for goodness' sake.

It wasn’t long after Teddy was born that her mother re-married. It was not proper for a woman as young and pretty as Cecilia was to be already a widow, especially not during the London season, when she could have been mistaken for any one of the debutantes despite the fact she had already found (and lost) a husband. And so Teddy had a stepfather by the time she was three months old, and she had three stepbrothers (one was only a year and a half younger than her, and the other two were twins. Very irritating twins) by the time she was five.

Of her three stepbrothers, Teddy was the closest to Vincent (or "Vinnie"), who grew to be a bit of a dandy in his own right. Teddy finds the twins silly and foppish, even if the older of the two is more rakish than strictly proper. Teddy likes Vinnie, and she tolerates the twins. It could be worse.

As a child, Teddy was a voracious reader, and she took an interest into altogether unladylike topics such as science-imagine her mother's horror when she found her daughter reading such forbidden topics as geology! Teddy wasn't quite sure why Cecilia almost fainted at the sight of her studying a book on rocks; what were the rocks going to do, jump out of the pages and kidnap her?

Of course, when she was of the age to debut, Teddy's forceful personality immediately repelled any potential suitors...not that she particularly minded. A couple years passed, and Teddy became a spinster in her own right once she reached the wizened age of twenty-five. Contrary to her mother, Teddy found that she rather liked being unmarried. She was free to take tea wherever she pleased, with whoever she pleased, and heavens' forbid that she have children. Teddy was certainly not the mothering type, as any one of her acquaintances could tell you.

Throughout the years, Teddy's meddling nature earned her both friends and enemies. She likes to think that she's quite friendly with some of the dandies Vinnie knows, in all their high-heeled, frock-coated glory; and indeed, her brother's friends do love to give her invaluable advice on the newest fashions out of Paris. Teddy's mother thinks she's a little too friendly with them, of course, but Teddy has always waved aside her concerns aside.

"Mother," she once told Mrs. Lintwyll, gravely, "if you are worried that one of dear Vinnie's friends may try to make impolite advances on my virtue, you needn't worry. I should believe that they are too preoccupied with making impolite advances on each other to have any interest in me."

That had sent poor Cecilia Lintwyll into a fit of hysterics, giving Teddy ample time to escape her mother's dainty, well-manicured clutches.

Teddy finally got married when she was twenty-seven. Her stepfather had seemed quite proud of himself for arranging the match, and Mrs. Lintwyll was ecstatic...though perhaps a tad less so when she found out that Teddy's husband-to-be was a scrawny, balding seventy-year-old man (from America, of all places. America!).

Teddy, for her part, was nonplussed. The wedding was a fine affair, in Teddy's opinion-the food was quite divine-and Vinnie had found her the most beautiful Worth gown to wear at the altar. As for her husband? Well, Frank Shockley was a perfect twit, but Teddy didn't mind. He'd married her for her money (her Italian father had been quite wealthy, if a bit eccentric, and, well...Italian), that much was clear, but he was also a small, sniveling man who seemed to perpetually have a cold. He was so pathetic that Teddy almost felt sorry for him.

Teddy soon learned that dear Frankie's dream was to become a real estate tycoon back in America. Teddy wasn't sure why he was trying to accomplish such a goal at seventy years old, but she was perfectly fine with having the opportunity to explore America, even if it meant leaving her beloved tea houses all the way back in London. Teddy didn't know that much about America, besides the fact that they liked to fight other people-how gauche; why fight somebody when you could simply shame others into doing something?-but what put Teddy off the most about Americans was their utter lack of quality tea. Teddy didn't know how she would survive without her tea.

In any case, her dear husband has decided that Ashfork would be the location of his new luxury hotel (built using Teddy's money, naturally), and so Teddy has accompanied him to the tiny frontier town. It is not particularly to her liking; besides the fact that they have no tea, Americans are also quite impolite, and their accents are atrocious-but Teddy has agreed to stay in the States for the remainder of the year, so she doesn't really have a choice. The only thing she can do is hope and pray that her dearest husband succumbs to the cold that constantly plagues him-the sooner the better.

Character Contest #1: Wild West

@ayzrules We're not using pictures, so that will be removed before it is posted in the contest. But you did make it in time, haha!

And that's it folks! The voting thread will go up very soon. Thank you to everyone who participated!

Character Contest #1: Wild West

Yay, another entry!

Final reminder, anyone else who wants to enter has (less than) 24 hours to do so. You must submit your entry before the 19th, around 7-9 PM GMT. Only way it's getting extended is if I get home from work late.

Re: Zero: The High Council

Heroe's District

---

”Right, let’s get this over with” It was, at last, Alistair's turn to be interrogated. If everything went well, he and his companions would have all of the reinforcements they needed. But in order for that to happen. They needed to survive long enough for this interrogation to be over. Crunch pulled out a chair and sat in it, folding one leg over the other. ”I'm Captain Crunch. I oversee a fair portion of the king's naval fleet and am currently stationed here to make sure the waters remain bandit free.” She folded her arms. ”Aer and Wisp told me a little bit about what was going on, but I'd like to hear it from you now.”

Had the fact they were in a place far estranged from their own homeland not been made blatantly clear, Alistair would likely have thought this woman to be insulting him. But it would appear this woman's name was actually just a strange coincidence. That, or Quaker Oats had some explaining to do.

"A pleasure to meet you, Captain." Interrogations weren't exactly the ideal way to speak to another person, but for the moment, it was simply enjoyable to be able to speak without an immediate fear of being killed... again. Though for all Alistair knew, this could very well change. He decided to be a bit less rash in his dealings with this woman, at for as long as it benefited him.

He sat back in his chair. "I suppose it would be easiest to simply say that we were abducted by some strange individual, but that wouldn't explain everything, would it? It would be certainly be better to mention how different the land I hail from is, in just about every conceivable way. All it takes it a glance around to know that the place I appeared in was nowhere near the same as the one I had originally been in. Though more interesting was the fact that magic seems to exist, when it was considered nothing but fiction where I come from. So trust me when I say that spontaneously having the world go black and ending up in this pitch black void with some unfamiliar figure is not exactly a common occurrence in my home. All I can gather from this figure is that they wanted me to meet someone, with the implication of some sort of relationship starting. After that had more or less been made clear to me, I wound up in this city, completely out of place and confused."

She nodded. ”This strange individual, did you get a good look at them?”

"No," he replied. "I wasn't exaggerating when I said it was pitch black. Seeing my hand in front of my face would've been a commendable feat."

Crunch fret her brow. ”I see.” As soon as the woman stood up, she walked closer to Alistair. ”You aren't afraid of me correct?”

The only reaction Alistair gave to Crunch's action was a raised eyebrow, as if confused as to why she was even bothering. Almost dismissively, he sighed and claimed, "One such as myself is above fear, particularly from yourself."

He paused before adding, "The fault is not entirely your own though."

The captain walked closer to Alistair. The table was no longer between them, as she was standing just a few feet away now. ”You came here with some other people, correct?.” She held her chin and walked around Alistair's seat. ”Did you know any of them?”

At this point, even Alistair was a bit surprised he hadn't immediately been attacked. For some reason, lately he had been angering a bunch of people. He was glad to see she was a sensible human being. "None of them personally." he answered truthfully.

Crunch reaned over Alistair. It was hard to tell at first, but now that she was so close, he could see that she was sniffing. ”Hmmm...” She sniffed the air a bit more. ”Alright, the interrogation is over.” She stood upright and put her hands behind her back. ”You will both be given passports, which means you won't have to worry about the guards mistaking you for bandits. Were there any other questions that you had?”

Alistair stood up, taking very obvious notice to her uncomfortably close sniffing. "I suppose I should ask if you like what you see?" he asked rather casually, obviously mistaken it for some strange form of courting. Fuck, he didn't know how they did things.

She groaned. ”I do not, actually. You've lied to me once during the interrogation.” She the corners of her lips were curled into a frown. ”I wouldn't have thought much of it, but you have the faint smell of a cultist on you. Flame had no such smell on himself, which means there’s something off about you..” She paced behind Alistair. ”You wouldn't happen to know how that happened, would you? Is there a reason why you lied about seeing your abductor?”

Alistair clicked his tongue in annoyance, but otherwise remained calm. "A shame. Name aside, you are rather attractive yourself. But I digress." Alistair didn't seem to be taking the situation very seriously, as he appeared relaxed, likely in contrast to the others. "I can't exactly say much on that particular subject." he explained. Exactly what he could say regarding Talus was something he did not experiment much with before this point, so it would not be untrue to say he was hesitant on even indirectly speaking of him. Since she had caught him, however, he figured it better to at least try, lest he find himself in an unfavorable situation. Again.

His arms crossed, Alistair continued. "Aside from avoiding a nuisance, there really wasn't much of a reason. I am physically incapable of giving you the information you had requested, and even saying this much is something I wasn't sure of until this point. But it appears that worry was for not. I realize how that may make me look, but there simply were not ulterior motives behind the lie." he had turned to face her in this time, ensuring eye contact with the woman.

"But now you have me intrigued. I smell of a cultist? I can not say I understand what you mean by that." feeling somewhat self conscious of himself, he raised an arm to his nose and sniffed. The only thing he smelled was what you might normally expect a man to smell of after a bit of exercise in the form of not dying to a giant wolf and armed individuals earlier. Wasn't a very 'cultist-like' smell in his opinion. Wasn't exactly pleasant, either.

When Alistair was done sniffing himself, he noticed that Crunch was no longer looking at him. She was staring off into space with a finger on her smiling lips. ”It's not something normal people can smell. I'll tell you about it later.” She looked up in the air. ”But none of that was a lie, even when you said I was attractive.” She turned back towards Alistair. ”Since you're a legal visitor now, would you mind filling in for a dinner date?”

Alistair was certainly a bit caught off guard by the sudden change in mood that Crunch was displaying, for a moment his eyebrow found itself raising. He wondered if she was just overconfident in her ability to discern a lie from the truth of if somehow she was magically able to tell. The exact limitations of magic, were there any, were not known to him, so he could not be sure. He'd so little experience after all.

"I will hold you to that, then." he said. Alistair would love to have heard more about this cult right now, but given her proposal immediately after, maybe that would be a better time to speak of it? Assuming that the dinner date is real, with her, and not simply a euphemism for something unpleasant. Also that he didn’t reset before then. Which was likely, considering it was probably this would delay the reinforcements that the others needed.

Alistair realized completely just how selfish something like this would be. How dangerous it technically was, too. But there was things he wanted to know. And he could not say he did not like the implications of having this 'dinner date'. Maybe the others would be upset, knowing he was merely a man. A great man, but a man nevertheless, and even during all of this, men have needs. Wants. Though it should come as no real surprise. For at his very core, Alistair Archibald was a man who did anything to get what he desired.

"No," he said, looking directly at Crunch. "I don't think I'd mind it one bit."

And right now, he desired food.

---

”Seems your friend has other arrangements now that he's free.” Mono handed Flame a passport. ”Seems your story checked out, but only so long as you don't piss anyone off.” He waved his hand. ”Be on your way.”

---

Clinic

Quill took a deep breath. “Disappointed huh? If I'm the savage you make me out to be, can I really be disappointed by one more corpse?”

Hiro balled his hands into fists, but he didn't move from his position. ”I hope you know what you're doing. I have faith in it regardless.”

Chieko didn't have much time to respond before Quill took her hand and walked down the hall. It seemed like just a half an hour ago she was running away from Quill down these halls, an inferno chasing behind her. Now Chieko was walking with her hand-in-hand, though the mood was still tense. Quill's free hand was holding a flame that illuminated the path ahead. Blood stained sheets that trailed off into shadows. “Well, since we're not fighting, we can talk.” Her eyes shifted onto Chieko. “What would you like to discuss?”

Chieko was mostly silent as Quill led her down the corridors, trying to think of whatever it was she could say. Different things she could use to her advantage to make sure she got out of this.

"Mhm..." Ask how she knew about them? No, that would be a fool question to ask. She shouldn't ask many questions. Too many and it'd be obvious. She needed to make statements and certainties. Maybe start with an introduction? She just needed to act like she already knew many things, and this would go smoothly...right?

"...you should know that I am foreign to this place. I only know a little, what my clairvoyance has showed me."

“I hope it showed you the important bits then.” Quill took her eyes off of Chieko. “You won’t get a history lesson from me, if that’s what you’re hoping.”

Okay, good so far.

"It showed me the trouble with the Oni's and the humans." She replied with a growing nervousness. She was just working on what she had heard from Quill during her last run through. What the others had learned also helped slightly, but even still they were educated guesses more than anything. "...and I know you want a Clairvoyant for revenge."

Chieko had to resist the urge to hide her face in her scarf.

"Honestly, I have no desire to help those who skulk about in the shadows." Chieko sighed, her manner of speech defaulting to her normal nervousness. "But I am feeling generous and as a stranger in a strange land, I also find myself in need of help. So perhaps I could be persuaded."

Quill stopped. The gears were clearly turning. “Perhaps.” Her grip on Chieko got a bit tighter. “I feel like I need to remind you that we are going to test your ability very soon. But you've already made a mistake.” Quill turned her entire body towards Chieko. “I don't need a clairvoyant for revenge. That's something I get every time I put one of your kind in the ground. ” She chuckled. “But you have me curious now. Someone as powerful as yourself, one who can see an outcome to all things, what could I possibly offer you?”

Urf, that was a mess up wasn't it? She needed to choose her words carefully and it seemed like she had just done the opposite of that. She'd need to be more careful, but she was more curious as to this test of Quill's. It...probably involved something dangerous. Judging from their behavior and previous record, it was a high probability.

"Like I said. I am a stranger in a strange land. I don't own an ID...and aside from my clairvoyance I can't defend myself well. A situation any respectable hero-to-be needs to quickly rectify, obviously. No money either." Chieko frowned. "And I'd like my abilities to remain unknown. It tends to attract...problems."

The wild look in Quill's eyes faded, Like a fire being doused in water. “It makes you feel... Vulnerable?” Quill's grip on Chieko's wrist weakened. “What sort of problems could your powers cause you? Couldn't you just avoid them?”

"Use your head, you thick-brained fool." Chieko scoffed. How far could she push this? How much was she willing to believe Quill would be lenient? Quills grasp on her hand weakened. Should she make a run for it? Or should she continue on this path?

"Just because I can see the future a bit, doesn't mean I am free from being harmed if I am unable to stop it from happening. Clairvoyance doesn't help if there is no way to avoid being harmed, especially if I have to be in the middle of danger and have no skills or training otherwise."

Quill released Chieko's wrist. “You misunderstand.” She gripped the young woman's shoulders. The flame was hovering over Quills shoulder, illuminating the side of her face. “You said that your powers caused you problems. I wish to know specifics! Is this not the first time you've been hunted for your powers?” She raised an eyebrow. “Is having a thick brain an insult where you're from? Because if one has a thick brain here, they are most certainly not a fool.”

"Uhm, uhm-" Chieko blinked, a little stunned by the turn of events. That was unexpected. Not that she ever had a plan to begin with. "...S-sort of...?" She replied in a hesitant, quiet manner. Maybe that slip of the tongue would be good? Or was it bad? Quill seemed to think Clairvoyance was all powerful, and she most certainly neither of those. She needed to spin this in a way that was believable.

"...Once before." Chieko responded a bit more confidently. Not a lie, considering the situation. "What would you do, if you knew someone could know the future? Abuse the power for your own gain? Kill them so they couldn't be used against you?" Chieko gave Quill a smirk. "And uhm, yes, it's usually used for slow people and idiots too lazy to think."

“I guess that makes us both thick brained, since you already know what I’m doing with you.” Quill averted her eyes momentarily. “But the only thing I've been interested in gaining is revenge. Even just equaling the scales would be enough for me.” she raised her head. “But others, they might want that power for good. Not for a simple plan, but for all time. They'd need to befriend you, or even, force you for your cooperation. Force you to love them even.” Quill's intense gaze was returning, but her focus didn’t seem to be on Chieko herself. This was a deep hatred for something else.

"I am aware I am walking into the lions den." Chieko scoffed. "I probably won't live, but if I can help the others then I have no problem getting a little hurt or...dying..." Chieko's voice trailed off, wavering slightly. Shaking her head, Chieko pulled her scarf over her mouth. "And that's why I wouldn't want anyone to know. People are good actors and are rarely honest. Even doctors, apparently." Yes, she still wanted to smack Donovan.

"...mhm," Chieko frowned. This talking was getting annoying. Not much else she could say, either. If so far she couldn’t talk Quill down, then she doubted she could ever. "All I can ask is you let me go, and I will help you and your allies as long as there are a few conditions met. If you still want to go through with it, then fine, but If you do and I succeed...I never want to see you or your cohorts again."

“I'm still not sure if I can trust you, and I find your riddles irritating to sort out.” Quill's fingers tightened around Chieko's shoulders. “ But if you don't think you can survive, there's no reason to take this any further.” She sighed. “So name your conditions.”

Chieko blinked.

Huh? Did that work? That worked.

"...uhm, well..." She honestly expected to be dead right about now. Did she even have some conditions? She was just bullshitting. Completely. In fact about 90% of this conversation could be counted as such.

"...Don't get the others involved, for one. Hiro and Aerith have nothing to do with this. Two, I refuse to be a part of murder or any sort of underhanded operations such as this one. Three, as I said before I need Id's, money, and a place to stay. It would be easier to move around the city with those things." Honestly she still had reservations about this herself, but this was probably the best outcome. "...If you agree, then I will help whatever you want with my clairvoyance to the best of my abilities." This was just setting herself up for annoyances and bad times. She really didn't want to get involved with people like this, but if she could get everyone out of this endless loop then she would take one for the team.

“As long as you understand that there will be dire consequences if this is all a ruse, that should be easy to manage.” Quill ran her hands down Chieko's arms, which brought her face closer to the otaku. “Once the good doctor is done, you will come with me.” Quill stood up and snapped her fingers, and a cat came trotting out of the darkness. “We're going to leave soon. I can't recommend trying to break away from me but, well, you're the clairvoyant.”

---

Peppin's

It was a slow trek up the stairs. Ashton did not hear any second party, but he didn't hear Fritzi either. Stranger still was that the upstairs appeared to be quite clean. He hadn't spent that much time tidying things up downstairs, and it was hard to believe she was done already. Especially considering how accessorized the hallway was. There were several paintings, all in perfect condition. On a table there was a vase filled with flowers, and even the water inside showed no signs of being disturbed. It was a sharp contrast to the downstairs, which looked like it was in total ruins.

*Clunk*

It was a hard sound to place, something akin to a hard object being dropped on the floor. Ashton was able to navigate the hallway to the source of the sound, which was coming out of an open doorway. Since Ashton had come so far, there was no point in not taking a peak. And when he did, he could see a bedroom. The floor was littered with shoes, and Fritzi was standing among them. She was wearing black platform shoes, and was wearing a cloak that covered everything but her head. In the following moments though, she pulled up the hood and her flesh was shrouded in a black material. Fritzi turned towards a window and threw open the shudders. She looked like she was going to step out onto the roof, but the fox woman suddenly turned her head. Ashton could have stepped out of the doorway, but it was too late now.

”You shouldn't have come here.”

Character Sheets: Where do you stand?

@PrinceAlexus yea, I saw that too. I think hiding passwords in character sheets or OOCs is kinda retarded though. its usually pretty easy to tell if people read stuff anyway.

Character Sheets: Where do you stand?

@Karkinos I find personality sections work best when you give some direction and mention things that actually matter. If left unchecked, yes, it just becomes a collection of random facts. Your character preferring sweet drinks to alcoholic ones isn't really important to the RP. The fact that they build robots as a hobby means your character has a background in robotics, despite their occupation being an accountant or something.

Yes, good sheets do not always mean a good character. Just as a good resume doesn't mean someone is a good fit for the job. That's why interviews exist. Fortunately, it is very easy to look at a posters history to find out how they write characters, if they cause a lot of OOC drama, etc. The types of things they choose to focus on also tells you a lot about the direction they want to take the character in, or what they feel is important about a character.

Most importantly, as a GM, I just like potential story hooks to be exposed so that I can wrap the story around the characters. I don't need to know every last detail about your character's backstory, just "They use to work for the mob" is enough to let me know it's possible a mob NPC might know of your character.

I find writing samples are sort of unessisary, as I can just look at someone's post history. Everyone has that one epic post they want to share, but how does their writing look at it's worst, when they aren't working on something epic?

Danganronpa: Tower of Carnage (Finished!)

Adios. May we meet again someday. But for now...

Danganronpa: Tower of Carnage (Finished!)

The dialog between Davis and Thomas continued. As soon as the chicken dinner came out, Thomas's smile vanished, and he was momentarily at a loss for words. ”Well?” Davis set down his utensils. ”I'm waiting.”

Thomas regained his composure and placed his hands on the console in front of him. ”Very well, Mr Gallo.” His smile swiftly returned. ”As you've said, perhaps we are both flawed. Clearly one doesn't have to be perfect to take up the perfection moniker.” He spread his arms. ”I think I would make a good mastermind, don't you? You seem to be entertained by what I've been able to do. I think I could stand in for you and continue to run things.”

An audible “hmph” came over the speakers. ”I see.” He raised a hand to his chin. ”So you're holding everyone hostage because you know they play a significant role in the killing game. And the only way things can continue is if I surrender the game to you?” He nodded a few times to himself before standing up. ”Sounds logical... from where you're standing.” Davis paced around his chair and placed his hands on top of it. ”But you misunderstand. I do not simply have a few hundred infinites, or even a thousand infinites. I don't even have just a million infinites or even a paltry trillion infinites. I have an infinite number of infinites. Most would wonder how such a feat was possible, but a boy as brilliant as yourself must have figured it out already...” Davis closed his eyes and grinned. ”You have heard of the Phoenix Project, haven't you Thomas?”

Thomas scoffed. ”That's clearly not what's happening here.”

”Because the Phoenix Project was a farce, right?” Davis put his hands together. ”It's so absurd, but it was exactly what you needed to manipulate Denis into doing your bidding. So the Phoenix Project clearly can't exist. You know this. But what if your lie unknowingly had a basis in fact? Maybe the reason why this killing game can last forever is because I have the power to bring the dead back to life?” Thomas said nothing, so Davis continued. ”Surely such a thing isn't impossible? Not in the greatest hospital known to man. We're so good that we can even cure death.”

”Davis, are you really willing to let Denis kill them all?” Thomas had his arms folded.

”Fortunately Thomas, you are not a threat I have to deal with.” He turned his back to the monitor, and also everyone watching. ”You were very entertaining, and had things gone a bit differently you might have even taken my place. But at the end of the day, chess is just a game about examining strategies, and you need to be aware of every piece on the board to claim victory.” Davis folded his hands behind his back. ”And this, is checkmate.”

Thomas stood up and looked to his right, clearly reacting to something off screen. Then he looked forward and flashed a confident smile. ”Even mistakes are made.” He said before Justiciar appeared on screen and took a swing at Thomas. The camera feed cut out just as Thomas's head was hacked off of his body. Only Davis was on the screen now.

”The night of carnage continues.” Davis turned to face the monitor again.”And if you value your lives, you will get out of my room immediately.” And with that, the monitors cut out again.

Davis's room was exactly what everyone would expect a master of conquest – or carnage – to look like. The room was filled with trophies, everything was gilded in gold save the bed sheets. Everything but a very ordinary looking wooden chest. It was relatively small, a bit taller than Daimyon's knee and a few feet wide. There was a hasp in place, but the padlock was on the floor at the foot of the bed.

The group in Davis's room could hear people storming out of their rooms.

“We need to think this through.” It was hard to tell, but it sounded a bit like Cyrus. “Would they really let any of us go? Too many of us will die if we split up and attack them separately.”

“My sister is alone out there!” Everyone was pretty sure that was Calvin. “I don't like it, but this might be my only chance to see her again! All your leadership has done is get more and more people killed!”

“...If you're going to insist on thinking with you shit-laden brain, maybe leave your hammer so that we can nail your coffin shut.” That had to be “Ragerus” speaking.

It sounded like everyone was already scattering. What was everyone going to do?