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It's kinda high-casual but with the lax rule that you can write a million words if you want or a paragraph when the mood strikes. We like the wild west jumble of styles from back in the day the hobby was more popular. And don't be intimidated by all the bbcode I got carried away as I started figuring it out :')
Join usssss the rp is live and there are posts, delicious posts, ya like reading posts? I wanna read your posts
It's kinda high-casual but with the lax rule that you can write a million words if you want or a paragraph when the mood strikes. We like the wild west jumble of styles from back in the day the hobby was more popular. And don't be intimidated by all the bbcode I got carried away as I started figuring it out :')
Join usssss the rp is live and there are posts, delicious posts, ya like reading posts? I wanna read your posts
Agamen had taken his seat on the western side of the mess hall, away from Juno's dubious gambling ring, and further still from the accursed. Near him, some of the other new arrivals were nervously surveying their surrounds, apart from a veiled woman and her male companion possessing the same amber hues, both of whom had been brought in with Agamen and observed the chaos around them deliberately.
Being close to so much fur and fang caused him to subconsciously lean into his cellmate. Faithless he might have been, he still had the soul of a man, just a wayward one, unlike these demons. To think, he would no longer have a soldierâs burial, but his bones would lie with abominations. It almost made a flicker of righteousness scorch away his defeat.
His garrulous guardian was doing something heâd just advised Agamen against, and spilling his Great Sin like idle gossip. It was theatrical and clearly three steps removed from Marcellusâs heart as he regaled the man, something about seducing the wrong rich clientâs wife, then being framed for her murder when the husband slew her in a rage. ("There's a lot I've done for rich men like him that should've put us all here, but in the end, I was condemned for love." "Love?" Agamen probed. "A mythic ass," Marcellus amended.)
Whatever the true story was, Marcellus's lifestyle had condemned him, and Agamen held him to full judgement. Silently, as the slitted pupils on him had him in want of a friend. The commotion coming from the other side of the room had him distracted from thinking too deeply on his conflicted feelings about his guide. A wretched looking snake, his tail bent and dry, had his twiggy arms up trying to calm two behemoths, a man and that lion that had bumped him before. Marcellus leaned back on his stool and hummed.
"Mmm, there he is... Jaxon the Cyclops. Hey, don't repeat what I say if you want a chance of joining his little gang. He's sensitive," he advised, then squinted, "Don't know scales. Must be new. Oh, but her - that's Castor." His eyes brightened and Agamen knew why Marcellus deemed her worth remembering. "Weird one, that. She spends half her time in here praying. You don't see accursed communing with the gods often. Rumor has it, she casts miracles."
Agamen's jaw twitched. "It must be just that. The gods wouldn't permit it," he murmured, turning from the scene with disgust. Marcellus's lips curled.
"A lot happens down here that I don't think the gods are permitting."
A rough laugh rose above the rest of the crowd at Juno's table and beckoned Agamen's attention. Among the humans was a silhouette he had glazed over, either because it was smaller or... his mind had erased it, because it was too depraved to be true.
Being close to so much fur and fang caused him to subconsciously lean into his cellmate. Faithless he might have been, he still had the soul of a man, just a wayward one, unlike these demons. To think, he would no longer have a soldierâs burial, but his bones would lie with abominations. It almost made a flicker of righteousness scorch away his defeat.
His garrulous guardian was doing something heâd just advised Agamen against, and spilling his Great Sin like idle gossip. It was theatrical and clearly three steps removed from Marcellusâs heart as he regaled the man, something about seducing the wrong rich clientâs wife, then being framed for her murder when the husband slew her in a rage. ("There's a lot I've done for rich men like him that should've put us all here, but in the end, I was condemned for love." "Love?" Agamen probed. "A mythic ass," Marcellus amended.)
Whatever the true story was, Marcellus's lifestyle had condemned him, and Agamen held him to full judgement. Silently, as the slitted pupils on him had him in want of a friend. The commotion coming from the other side of the room had him distracted from thinking too deeply on his conflicted feelings about his guide. A wretched looking snake, his tail bent and dry, had his twiggy arms up trying to calm two behemoths, a man and that lion that had bumped him before. Marcellus leaned back on his stool and hummed.
"Mmm, there he is... Jaxon the Cyclops. Hey, don't repeat what I say if you want a chance of joining his little gang. He's sensitive," he advised, then squinted, "Don't know scales. Must be new. Oh, but her - that's Castor." His eyes brightened and Agamen knew why Marcellus deemed her worth remembering. "Weird one, that. She spends half her time in here praying. You don't see accursed communing with the gods often. Rumor has it, she casts miracles."
Agamen's jaw twitched. "It must be just that. The gods wouldn't permit it," he murmured, turning from the scene with disgust. Marcellus's lips curled.
"A lot happens down here that I don't think the gods are permitting."
A rough laugh rose above the rest of the crowd at Juno's table and beckoned Agamen's attention. Among the humans was a silhouette he had glazed over, either because it was smaller or... his mind had erased it, because it was too depraved to be true.
"HA! Hand it allllll over, suckers!" Clawed hands stomped across the table, swiping up the contraband and gold that had been gambled. "I could clean you lot out with my hands tied, miserable fucks. Ceci, what are you doing, I could smell your bluff before I saw it. Lay off the beans and bloodroot. I'm 'bout to pay the whips for you to gas up solitary."
A cocky laugh tore from a mouth of sharp teeth. The accursed's face was round and furry, a nasty scar running down it and tugging his lips up to show off a golden fang permanently. He jumped from the table, onto his chair, landing again on his hands. The accursed had no legs. "Any sore losers want your shit back, you arm wrestle me for it," he hooted, then settled back with satisfaction. Until his gaze caught someone across the hall. Human, ragged, his unruly hair and beard turned blood red from dust, dust that had settled in the harsh crags around his eyes. Eyes like The Sky Father's fury, blue as a sea storm, which were looking at the accursed... well, like they were asking to be torn the fuck out.
"Heyo, Juni," he picked up a bone from his meal, which had a notable bit more meat than any other plate, and crunched down. Shattering it and ripping right through to the marrow. "Who the hell is that?"
A cocky laugh tore from a mouth of sharp teeth. The accursed's face was round and furry, a nasty scar running down it and tugging his lips up to show off a golden fang permanently. He jumped from the table, onto his chair, landing again on his hands. The accursed had no legs. "Any sore losers want your shit back, you arm wrestle me for it," he hooted, then settled back with satisfaction. Until his gaze caught someone across the hall. Human, ragged, his unruly hair and beard turned blood red from dust, dust that had settled in the harsh crags around his eyes. Eyes like The Sky Father's fury, blue as a sea storm, which were looking at the accursed... well, like they were asking to be torn the fuck out.
"Heyo, Juni," he picked up a bone from his meal, which had a notable bit more meat than any other plate, and crunched down. Shattering it and ripping right through to the marrow. "Who the hell is that?"
collabs - none | interacts - none | @ThePigOrcEmpire
Iggi was still spluttering for air and out of embarrassment after his very public violation. If he were warm-blooded his grey scales would be flushing red. He flexed his jaw, sawing it back and forth, clicking it back into place. His throat felt strange and bent out of shape, and he tasted something acrid and powdery all the way down the back of it. There was no relief as Baneâs maned head took focus over Jaxon.
Ah, the money. The money in exchange for the Fanged Prideâs protection. The money that he needed to save himself from Jaxonâs Ironhands. The money that it was looking like if he did not have, he would need to pay somebody else to keep him safe from the Fanged Pride until he could get it. He was trapped in a circle of agony he could not buy out of, so again and miserably, he tried talking.
âI -cough, cough- have it! Bane, buddy, of course I have it! Most of it!â Truth finally started to trickle out under pressure. He slithered his way back, hands up, the scarring near his arms peeking from his shawl as he tried to appease the prowling lion. âItâs just⌠technically⌠he has the rest of it?â A shaky finger pointed at Jaxon, scared to accuse him, but also desperate to throw the heat onto someone else. âWeâre, aha, trying to work out an itty bitty payment plan for this shipment coming in- delayed, yeah, a little, you know, the sandstorms that have been coming through, my guyâs probably just escorting a prisoner caravan that got separated in the dust- Jaxon- JAXON-â He twisted to the approaching human quick, âAlright, maybe he didnât pull through, but Iâll figure it out! Iâll just need - maybe a little more grease for the wheel and- Iâm not pulling a fast on you, you donât pull fasts in places you canât get fast away from THATâS THE POINT OF IT JAXON PLEASE-â
âCan you assholes back off the kid?â The accursed beside Iggi rose to her hooves, disrupting the two shadows that were closing in on his head. Glowing yellow eyes flashed with unveiled annoyance beneath her twisted horns and mossy hair. A runed collar, heftier and inscribed with more etchings than the ones on Bane and Iggi, weighed down her neck. The woman - Iggi couldnât remember the name, though sheâd been brought in with the same batch as him, it wasnât like theyâd ever exchanged words - was half the size of the brutes. And yet she was sneering up at them, her silence broken and arms crossed with attitude. âSurely you two big shots have something better to do than shake down a nobody you could use as a jump rope. Like you couldnât get any more pathetic.â
Iggi closed his gawking mouth. He didnât know whether he felt more grateful or insulted, but he did know for sure terror trumped both of those, and this woman (whom he would wholeheartedly place the blame on for any further consequence) was getting them killed.
Ah, the money. The money in exchange for the Fanged Prideâs protection. The money that he needed to save himself from Jaxonâs Ironhands. The money that it was looking like if he did not have, he would need to pay somebody else to keep him safe from the Fanged Pride until he could get it. He was trapped in a circle of agony he could not buy out of, so again and miserably, he tried talking.
âI -cough, cough- have it! Bane, buddy, of course I have it! Most of it!â Truth finally started to trickle out under pressure. He slithered his way back, hands up, the scarring near his arms peeking from his shawl as he tried to appease the prowling lion. âItâs just⌠technically⌠he has the rest of it?â A shaky finger pointed at Jaxon, scared to accuse him, but also desperate to throw the heat onto someone else. âWeâre, aha, trying to work out an itty bitty payment plan for this shipment coming in- delayed, yeah, a little, you know, the sandstorms that have been coming through, my guyâs probably just escorting a prisoner caravan that got separated in the dust- Jaxon- JAXON-â He twisted to the approaching human quick, âAlright, maybe he didnât pull through, but Iâll figure it out! Iâll just need - maybe a little more grease for the wheel and- Iâm not pulling a fast on you, you donât pull fasts in places you canât get fast away from THATâS THE POINT OF IT JAXON PLEASE-â
âCan you assholes back off the kid?â The accursed beside Iggi rose to her hooves, disrupting the two shadows that were closing in on his head. Glowing yellow eyes flashed with unveiled annoyance beneath her twisted horns and mossy hair. A runed collar, heftier and inscribed with more etchings than the ones on Bane and Iggi, weighed down her neck. The woman - Iggi couldnât remember the name, though sheâd been brought in with the same batch as him, it wasnât like theyâd ever exchanged words - was half the size of the brutes. And yet she was sneering up at them, her silence broken and arms crossed with attitude. âSurely you two big shots have something better to do than shake down a nobody you could use as a jump rope. Like you couldnât get any more pathetic.â
Iggi closed his gawking mouth. He didnât know whether he felt more grateful or insulted, but he did know for sure terror trumped both of those, and this woman (whom he would wholeheartedly place the blame on for any further consequence) was getting them killed.
collabs - none | pc interacts - none | @ThePigOrcEmpire
Where is it?!... Was exactly the question Iggi himself had been asking hours ago when he was picking the scales off his poor scabby hands. But blubbering the truth - I don't know! I don't know where the delivery is, I can't ask around for the guard I bribed, do you think I'm some amateur? - seemed pretty unwise in the face of this furious, drug-hungry goliath staring him down. Everyone knew Jaxon One-Eyed hated whiners even more than he hated the accursed and having one eye. Which was already putting Iggi on an unavoidable two strikes in this confrontation.
So he made like a snake and lied.
"Safe! It's somewhere safe, Jaxon, my friend," the accursed spoke with a slight hissing lisp, voice crackling like a young fire sizzling tinder. His transparent youth spoiled his front of confidence and made him appear punkish and unbearably punchable. "You think I'm going to just walk around all these thugs (he made sure to gesture towards the accursed side of the mess hall. The accursed satyr sitting beside him gave a disapproving "ugh") with such premium product in my... pockets?"
He lifted his louse-bitten shawl. No pockets on the lad. Just smooth, dusty scales.
"Besides," he dared. Desperation was at the helm now. "I can't just be handing over product without... confirmation that there's any coin on the horizon for me, yeah? I haven't heard a jingle since we started talking business. I should be the one asking y- hnk!"
Iggi made the sound of a pufferfish inhaling air as a hand seized his thin, bony neck and crunched down.
So he made like a snake and lied.
"Safe! It's somewhere safe, Jaxon, my friend," the accursed spoke with a slight hissing lisp, voice crackling like a young fire sizzling tinder. His transparent youth spoiled his front of confidence and made him appear punkish and unbearably punchable. "You think I'm going to just walk around all these thugs (he made sure to gesture towards the accursed side of the mess hall. The accursed satyr sitting beside him gave a disapproving "ugh") with such premium product in my... pockets?"
He lifted his louse-bitten shawl. No pockets on the lad. Just smooth, dusty scales.
"Besides," he dared. Desperation was at the helm now. "I can't just be handing over product without... confirmation that there's any coin on the horizon for me, yeah? I haven't heard a jingle since we started talking business. I should be the one asking y- hnk!"
Iggi made the sound of a pufferfish inhaling air as a hand seized his thin, bony neck and crunched down.
collabs - none | pc interacts - none | @ThePigOrcEmpire
The grease sizzled off Agamenâs forehead as he rested his head on the bars. Heavy eyes gazed across the pit, where some act of violence was obscured by heat warping the air. For weeks he had been paraded through the Empire a pariah, now he was here, locked up and isolated from civilisation with the rest of the unseemly. It felt so inevitable, the solid ground of his cell came as a relief. Here, he would finally rest. Here, he would repent, until the final inevitability befell him. Sky Father, in your glory, I will burn the sullied clean.
âYou'll have better luck bartering with your cellmate than making any bargains up there,â a clear voice, too thick and melodic for the dry air, interrupted his prayers. Agamenâs head jerked just enough to catch honey-brown eyes glinting in the shadowed corner. The companion in his cell lounged on a cot, rags draping down from his shoulders with the dignity of formal regalia. His beard was remarkably well groomed for a desolate. Probably had something to do with the shiv he was using to pick under his fingernails. âWell, have you got anything on you?â Pure death carried on Agamenâs glare. An easy grin was returned. âFirst time, huh? Youâre supposed to bring the goods to barter, and the bribe for the guards to ignore it. Most first timers forget the second one, but, ah⌠youâre not looking to make friends here without either.â
"For what end?" Agamen's voice was coated in dust. He didn't look at the thug anymore. "We're here to die."
"You might be," the man said with a certain theatrical diction. "Seven months in, myself." A glance, an unspoken, how could that be? The man shifted up, and Agamen tensed as he felt his approach. âIf youâre smart and make their life easy while youâre here, sure, theyâll eventually kill you. Kick and writhe and curse your fate, theyâll get fifty lashes in before they kill you. Rise too high, piss off the wrong senator before you even make it through the gate? Theyâll still whip ya. But they wonât kill ya.â
Solid, limber musculature joined Agamenâs hunched form against the bars. The man had weight to him, but leaned delicately. He gestured up and towards the pit.
âYou see the shadow?â He asked. Agamen could not. âHeâd be pretty far up. Near the top, where the vultures nest.â Agamenâs imagination raced before the man could lean in and utter, âThey chain you up, ankle and wrist, and spread you buck naked. Hang you right in the eye facing The Sky Fatherâs judgement. He decides whether itâll be the heat, the exhaustion, or the birds that will drag you to hell.â
The traitorâs neck and hands were slippery. He saw the sun, heard the roar of it as he was thrust before its mercy, naked and bloodstained as heâd been born. He had seen horror before, felt it done unto him, but it had never made him braver. He was as mortal as any other. Yet⌠âMaybe thatâs what we all dese-â
âAnyway, if you see a corpse strung over your head out there, thatâs Pollux, my last cellmate. Spare him a prayer. Only thing you brought with you,â the man finished glibly, and produced a small leather pouch from seemingly thin air. It sloshed, betraying the fluid inside. His hand was open in offering. Driven purely by mammal instinct, Agamen snatched and swigged it. He choked on the burn of pure ethanol and doubled over. The man yelped and swooped in to save it. âWhoa- whoa, man! What did you think it was, water?â A laugh. âThatâs moonshine Cyclops made from the mushrooms growing out of the shit buckets. Do you know what I traded for this much?â He took a sip with little more than a slight wince and âahâ.
âThatâs fucking foul,â Agamen growled, banging his chest.
âMm. Well, you either live long enough to stomach it, or,â he whistled and pointed up. He slipped the pouch back somewhere in his rags and stepped back. Then something happened that made Agamen straighten, head lifting with memory of an old pride. This roguish peacock adjusted his posture and bowed, arm crossing his chest in a gesture that came naturally. âThe name's Marcellus Starr, you must be aching to know. At your service.â
âYouâre a soldier,â the former general said. He wasnât aware of how much his flipping opinion of the man was in his eyes, in the way they locked onto him. Marcellus slouched back into a stance of ease.
âOnce,â he said. âIâm not legion anymore. Mercenary. It was a path I took willingly, unlike⌠you, I presume. What were you? Not fodder⌠Centurion? Prefect? What the hell did you do to end up here?â Agamen shriveled back. An appreciative grin spread across Marcellusâs face. âGood, keeping your sin to yourself. At least youâre not that green. But, yâknow, before you hear anything - I didnât do it.â
He put his hands up as he paced backwards to his cot and flopped down, resuming his grooming with the shiv.
âKeep your prayers in your head and weâll get along just fine, captain.â
Agamen looked back out at the pit. The sands blurred and silhouettes of patrolling guards wobbled like shades. He thought of the man strung twenty stories above, being scorched and torn apart in the eye of The Sky Father. He shut his own storm blue eyes and prayed.
Sky Father, in your glory, I will burn the sullied clean. Sky Father, in your glory, I will burn the sullied clean.
âYou'll have better luck bartering with your cellmate than making any bargains up there,â a clear voice, too thick and melodic for the dry air, interrupted his prayers. Agamenâs head jerked just enough to catch honey-brown eyes glinting in the shadowed corner. The companion in his cell lounged on a cot, rags draping down from his shoulders with the dignity of formal regalia. His beard was remarkably well groomed for a desolate. Probably had something to do with the shiv he was using to pick under his fingernails. âWell, have you got anything on you?â Pure death carried on Agamenâs glare. An easy grin was returned. âFirst time, huh? Youâre supposed to bring the goods to barter, and the bribe for the guards to ignore it. Most first timers forget the second one, but, ah⌠youâre not looking to make friends here without either.â
"For what end?" Agamen's voice was coated in dust. He didn't look at the thug anymore. "We're here to die."
"You might be," the man said with a certain theatrical diction. "Seven months in, myself." A glance, an unspoken, how could that be? The man shifted up, and Agamen tensed as he felt his approach. âIf youâre smart and make their life easy while youâre here, sure, theyâll eventually kill you. Kick and writhe and curse your fate, theyâll get fifty lashes in before they kill you. Rise too high, piss off the wrong senator before you even make it through the gate? Theyâll still whip ya. But they wonât kill ya.â
Solid, limber musculature joined Agamenâs hunched form against the bars. The man had weight to him, but leaned delicately. He gestured up and towards the pit.
âYou see the shadow?â He asked. Agamen could not. âHeâd be pretty far up. Near the top, where the vultures nest.â Agamenâs imagination raced before the man could lean in and utter, âThey chain you up, ankle and wrist, and spread you buck naked. Hang you right in the eye facing The Sky Fatherâs judgement. He decides whether itâll be the heat, the exhaustion, or the birds that will drag you to hell.â
The traitorâs neck and hands were slippery. He saw the sun, heard the roar of it as he was thrust before its mercy, naked and bloodstained as heâd been born. He had seen horror before, felt it done unto him, but it had never made him braver. He was as mortal as any other. Yet⌠âMaybe thatâs what we all dese-â
âAnyway, if you see a corpse strung over your head out there, thatâs Pollux, my last cellmate. Spare him a prayer. Only thing you brought with you,â the man finished glibly, and produced a small leather pouch from seemingly thin air. It sloshed, betraying the fluid inside. His hand was open in offering. Driven purely by mammal instinct, Agamen snatched and swigged it. He choked on the burn of pure ethanol and doubled over. The man yelped and swooped in to save it. âWhoa- whoa, man! What did you think it was, water?â A laugh. âThatâs moonshine Cyclops made from the mushrooms growing out of the shit buckets. Do you know what I traded for this much?â He took a sip with little more than a slight wince and âahâ.
âThatâs fucking foul,â Agamen growled, banging his chest.
âMm. Well, you either live long enough to stomach it, or,â he whistled and pointed up. He slipped the pouch back somewhere in his rags and stepped back. Then something happened that made Agamen straighten, head lifting with memory of an old pride. This roguish peacock adjusted his posture and bowed, arm crossing his chest in a gesture that came naturally. âThe name's Marcellus Starr, you must be aching to know. At your service.â
âYouâre a soldier,â the former general said. He wasnât aware of how much his flipping opinion of the man was in his eyes, in the way they locked onto him. Marcellus slouched back into a stance of ease.
âOnce,â he said. âIâm not legion anymore. Mercenary. It was a path I took willingly, unlike⌠you, I presume. What were you? Not fodder⌠Centurion? Prefect? What the hell did you do to end up here?â Agamen shriveled back. An appreciative grin spread across Marcellusâs face. âGood, keeping your sin to yourself. At least youâre not that green. But, yâknow, before you hear anything - I didnât do it.â
He put his hands up as he paced backwards to his cot and flopped down, resuming his grooming with the shiv.
âKeep your prayers in your head and weâll get along just fine, captain.â
Agamen looked back out at the pit. The sands blurred and silhouettes of patrolling guards wobbled like shades. He thought of the man strung twenty stories above, being scorched and torn apart in the eye of The Sky Father. He shut his own storm blue eyes and prayed.
Sky Father, in your glory, I will burn the sullied clean. Sky Father, in your glory, I will burn the sullied clean.
collabs - none | pc interacts - none
@PatientBean The RP is in its early recruitment stages still, just shoot your ideas towards @ThePigOrcEmpire! ^^
O R P H E ________________________________________________________  Bloodline | human Age | 34 Faith | Non-Imperial Faith Great Sin | Birthing a clutch of Accursed snakes  | A P P E A R A N C E Pale from being restricted indoors, wears a blindfold, a headdress fashioned like the head of a cobra and white, gold and red robes with chain jewellery. Beneath all the wrappings, she is a woman of fiery hair and milky, scarred eyes. P E R S O N A L I T Y A daughter of the Free Marches, of a land that lost its name in the Empire's records, Orphe cuts a cold, mysterious figure of little words or humour. The most tragic strokes of her past are known to all in the Gaurean Empire's army as gossip and folklore, and thus, she has closed herself off from revealing anything more. She is kind to small things, things that could eat her, but usually doesn't give things that talk her ear. I N C L I N A T I O N Warfare: 0 Skullduggary: 0 Occult: 6 Miracles: 0 Occult 6 Orphe's gifts are prophecy and illusion. She is cursed/blessed with the ability to tell the future, which manifests in either dreams or sudden, seizure-inducing episodes. Many consider her a liar, and her prophecies to be curses she is in control of. They do not believe someone of the occult can possess a gift so divine. Her magical abilities can peer into and warp the minds of others and can be used to either soothe or drive the recipient to madness. She refuses to use the more cruel aspects of her abilities on monsters and Accursed. Her magic was divine in her homeland, but considered occult to the Gaurean Empire.T R A D E Charisma: 0 Plunder: 0 Lore: 1 Handicraft: 0 Lore 1 Orphe has knowledge of healing herbs and poultice creation from her time as a priestess.E Q U I P M E N T Robes Orphe is unarmoured. Bronze Ceremonial Dagger Gets little use beyond cutting herbs. |
A G A M E N ________________________________________________________ Bloodline | human Age | 41 Faith | The Sky Father, The Steel Sister Great Sin | Desertion  | A P P E A R A N C E Since awaiting his death as a disgraced naval general, Agamen's beard has grown and his unruly hair streaked grey. His body has not yet been sapped of strength and his corded muscles are roughed over by decades of scarring like barnacles on a hull. His eyes are blue-grey like the oceans he thought he'd never be sent to conquer again. P E R S O N A L I T Y Agamen is a by-the-books, honorable spirit who has recently been thrown into an identity crisis since becoming a traitor to his Empire. He still deeply aligns himself with the Gaurean Empire's gods and codes and is determined to not die a dishonorable man. This mission is his redemption, though he finds his pride as a general flare under the incompetent guidance of this upstart prefect, and is unnerved by the ungodly allies he's been banded with. I N C L I N A T I O N Warfare: 5 Skullduggary: 0 Occult: 0 Miracles: 0 Warfare 5 Agamen's abilities as a General in the Gaurean Army were commendable before he deserted, raising his lowborn status to that of nobility by his own merit. He's trained in the arts of mounted combat, shield and spear, and swordplay. What benefits his martial prowess the most is his mind, sharpened by years of study and practice in battle tactics. He spent the last ten years as a naval general and he is most accustomed to naval combat.T R A D E Charisma: 2 Plunder: 0 Lore: 0 Handicraft: 0 Charisma 2 Agamen is a natural leader, using his words to lead men into battle... or out of it.E Q U I P M E N T Lorica Segmentata It's worn, blemished, and in need of upkeep. He was lucky they tossed him it at all. Iron Longsword Unnamed. They didn't let him keep the more decorated equipment from his time as a soldier. Bronze Spear and Shield Reminds Agamen of his days as a lowly footsoldier. |
I G N A T I U S ________________________________________________________ Bloodline | accursed Age | 20 Faith | Faithless Great Sin | Kidnapping, murder, and cannibalism  | A P P E A R A N C E Ignatius, or Iggi, is a snake-like accursed who maneuvers himself on a long tail instead of legs, taking on the traits of a ball pit python. His scales are white and grey and his body twisted and emaciated. A piercing skewers through his nostrils and he lines his yellow eyes with kohl. He has heavy scarring beneath both his arms, like something has been cut from there. Most clothes slip right off but he keeps a ratty shawl over his shoulders. A tattoo signifying his gang alliance is etched into the softer scales above his right hip. P E R S O N A L I T Y Iggi is a small snake with smaller self-esteem, and this prison trip has been a forced rehabilitation for him that is wrecking his nerves. Underestimated by even himself, he's managed to keep himself alive in the depraved criminal underground since childhood by sticking to his boss's shadow. Finding the strongest hide to wrap around is his prerogative. C U R S E & W E A K N E S S Curse Curse of the Twin Moons. Currently, Iggi is unable to access his monstrous draconic form, for undisclosed reasons. Weakness Ice. I N C L I N A T I O N Warfare: 1 Skullduggary: 4 Occult: 0 Miracles: 0 Warfare 1 Iggi is fairly familiar with scrapping for his life on the street. He can hold his own in close combat against one or two matched opponents, but tries to flee against larger numbers or anyone specialised in warfare. In desperate circumstances, he bites. Skullduggary 4 Slipping away, detecting traps, sensing creatures via thermal radiation through the pits on his nose, and dislocating joints to fit in small crags are some of his abilities. He also has the neat trick of swallowing trinkets and hurling them up on command. It comes in handy more than you'd think.T R A D E Charisma: 0 Plunder: 1 Lore: 0 Handicraft: 0 Plunder 1 Iggi is a thief by trade and is talented at lockpicking and breaking into places.E Q U I P M E N T Twin iron daggers Have a curve to them, like his fangs. Lockpicks and trap disarming tools Tucked safely away somewhere in his very long digestive tract. |
B L O O D ________________________________________________________ Bloodline | accursed Age | 29 Faith | The Steel Sister Great Sin | Mass murder  | A P P E A R A N C E Blood is an assumed accursed that takes the visage of a wolverine. He stands at a squat three feet, his musculature making his shoulders almost as wide, on his hands. His legs have been amputated at his thighs. His face is scarred up and unpleasant to look upon, a particularly nasty scar tugging at his lips to show off his fangs permanently. He prefers it this way. Without all the maiming, his fuzzy face and stature would make him look cute. P E R S O N A L I T Y Foul-mouthed and short tempered, Blood despises being looked down on and will bite the face off of anyone who insults him. He particularly hates any attention being drawn to his animal likeness or disability. In between the cussing and brawling, he also laughs the loudest, and takes the piss out of everyone and everything (despite being incapable of copping it himself). C U R S E & W E A K N E S S Curse Curse of Blood. Weakness Poison. I N C L I N A T I O N Warfare: 4 Skullduggary: 1 Occult: 0 Miracles: 0 Warfare 4 A near-invincible berserker on the battlefield with his Curse of Blood regenerating his wounds within minutes, forgoing weapons to brandish tooth and claw. He has the strength of a beast three times his size. His favourite finisher has his opponent's ribs on the outside of their body. Skullduggary 1 Blood is a dirty fighter that uses everything in his arsenal, including his own little tricks and inventions, to come out on top.T R A D E Charisma: 0 Plunder: 0 Lore: 0 Handicraft: 1 Handicraft 1 Blood is deceptively clever and spends his free time tinkering to invent things that hurt people and help him get around.E Q U I P M E N T Claws Attached to his own person. He doesn't really use traditional weapons, and his claws can extend to the length of a shortsword. Andabatae equipment He was not afforded his Murmillo uniform from his glory days, but the humiliating Andabatae equipment after his injuries led him to fall from the audience's graces. Random junk It looks useless, but from this he creates things like caltrops, crude shrapnel grenades, and his favourite, deadly-spiky-thing-flailing-on-end-of-rope. |
In
Interest check for a Greco-Roman Dark Fantasy Suicide Squad roleplay.
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1 mo ago
Forum: General Interest Checks
Oh you well know that I'm ready for this
Bran had been told since childhood, yet only listened to months before her little sister would doom her to death, that the court was a chessboard. Thus when the invitation to the Valley of Kings came, she studied the game with a fervor she did not know she had for anything other than the field.
It turned out, she liked chess. Quite a lot. With its set moves and predictable patterns, she could sit and play out several different victories in her head after glancing a mid-game board. She did not not consider herself competent until she had challenged and defeated all nobility in Harrowfield, did not claim herself adept until she had bested her teacher twenty times consecutively, and would not take the title 'master' until she taught others with such finesse and clarity that they could best her. She had been interrupted before she could achieve mastery by the very thing she had started learning chess for, and forgotten about while her head was wrapped up in castling and the Albin Counter-Gambit.
So, now, she found herself here: in the King's court, sat at a loud table hearing a waterfall indoors and cutlery scraping all around her. A table with a seating arrangement that had surely been designed strategically but was nothing like a chessboard, where the people moved like people. Unpredictably, the way strangers always did.
She watched as the prince moved from the side of the Al'Seren noblewoman towards his seat. Two paces forward, three paces right. Much like a knight. She thought he'd be more a king. Or a fat, funnel-web spider that burrowed himself in grass and waited for his prey to approach him, as opposed to an active hunter. She supposed Araminth was more kingly, standing proud and only giving an inch under dire threat. She couldn't imagine being so stubborn with no direction to go in.
She was positioned to Dorian close, but diagonally, and she'd have to raise her voice a little to catch his attention, which felt a petite humiliation. At least she could watch him well from here. Watching him was the only thing she'd been permitted to do, after all. If she were a bishop she'd have his head, but she had always related to the rook - ah, there he went again. A queen? Spreading his influence all over the board, lunging for anything left vulnerable she had to stop thinking about chess. Nothing about this situation was like chess, they had lied to her, and she had wasted months obsessing over something that would not save her.
Varrow, Jårnbjørn, and Al'Seren. Those were names to watch. An inward sigh as she forced her attentions. They shared a pride in their stance and wore their House colours well, like they'd undoubtedly been born to don them. Apparently Velmorra and Tyrcell were agreeable matches but not preferable and she could disregard Ganasen and Kenra for now. She hoped the prince would be quick with choosing his bride, considering she had a tight window to get this done after being cursed.
Her curse. A destined death. It could not come more inconveniently. There was too much to be done, too much to secure, too much she could not leave her siblings to suffer from. People that needed to go. And mice, too.
"The mice," slipped from her gritted teeth unbidden, her fingers pressing to her temples. She was fond of the little things until they were in clusters a million strong. What was she going to do about the mouse plague? She could not believe she was going to die here when there were mice ravaging the north of Harrowfield. How could they take this invitation during a mouse plague?! Several images came to mind. Yellow teeth gnawing on seeds that would never come to sprout in the spring. Mice burning in a pile. Her straw idol shredded on rocks. A crab picking at her hair. Her uncle's yearly memorial held at the cliffside, her mother's black veil fluttering.
She hadn't noticed she'd been tapping behind her ear. The overlapping voices had tuned out into squeaks, and the rustling of skirts sounded much like rodents navigating the wheatfield. This feast was louder and put more pressure in her skull than they usually did. She thought if she looked around she would see big mice in dresses and regalia. Hers was a quieter insanity than Juniaâs, oft overlooked by the Wildlingâs destructive gestures. Discreetly, she rubbed at her ears beneath her hair, cancelling out the noise of the feast with a sound akin to rocks grinding together.
Calm yourself. Whatever her destined death would be, it was not going to be now at the hands of mice, polite conversation or a fork scratching silver. Blend in and stop thinking about dying. She took a bite of food, hurried it down with water to distract herself, and inhaled an olive down the wrong hole.
Solun's wrath didn't waste time, apparently.
It turned out, she liked chess. Quite a lot. With its set moves and predictable patterns, she could sit and play out several different victories in her head after glancing a mid-game board. She did not not consider herself competent until she had challenged and defeated all nobility in Harrowfield, did not claim herself adept until she had bested her teacher twenty times consecutively, and would not take the title 'master' until she taught others with such finesse and clarity that they could best her. She had been interrupted before she could achieve mastery by the very thing she had started learning chess for, and forgotten about while her head was wrapped up in castling and the Albin Counter-Gambit.
So, now, she found herself here: in the King's court, sat at a loud table hearing a waterfall indoors and cutlery scraping all around her. A table with a seating arrangement that had surely been designed strategically but was nothing like a chessboard, where the people moved like people. Unpredictably, the way strangers always did.
She watched as the prince moved from the side of the Al'Seren noblewoman towards his seat. Two paces forward, three paces right. Much like a knight. She thought he'd be more a king. Or a fat, funnel-web spider that burrowed himself in grass and waited for his prey to approach him, as opposed to an active hunter. She supposed Araminth was more kingly, standing proud and only giving an inch under dire threat. She couldn't imagine being so stubborn with no direction to go in.
She was positioned to Dorian close, but diagonally, and she'd have to raise her voice a little to catch his attention, which felt a petite humiliation. At least she could watch him well from here. Watching him was the only thing she'd been permitted to do, after all. If she were a bishop she'd have his head, but she had always related to the rook - ah, there he went again. A queen? Spreading his influence all over the board, lunging for anything left vulnerable she had to stop thinking about chess. Nothing about this situation was like chess, they had lied to her, and she had wasted months obsessing over something that would not save her.
Varrow, Jårnbjørn, and Al'Seren. Those were names to watch. An inward sigh as she forced her attentions. They shared a pride in their stance and wore their House colours well, like they'd undoubtedly been born to don them. Apparently Velmorra and Tyrcell were agreeable matches but not preferable and she could disregard Ganasen and Kenra for now. She hoped the prince would be quick with choosing his bride, considering she had a tight window to get this done after being cursed.
Her curse. A destined death. It could not come more inconveniently. There was too much to be done, too much to secure, too much she could not leave her siblings to suffer from. People that needed to go. And mice, too.
"The mice," slipped from her gritted teeth unbidden, her fingers pressing to her temples. She was fond of the little things until they were in clusters a million strong. What was she going to do about the mouse plague? She could not believe she was going to die here when there were mice ravaging the north of Harrowfield. How could they take this invitation during a mouse plague?! Several images came to mind. Yellow teeth gnawing on seeds that would never come to sprout in the spring. Mice burning in a pile. Her straw idol shredded on rocks. A crab picking at her hair. Her uncle's yearly memorial held at the cliffside, her mother's black veil fluttering.
She hadn't noticed she'd been tapping behind her ear. The overlapping voices had tuned out into squeaks, and the rustling of skirts sounded much like rodents navigating the wheatfield. This feast was louder and put more pressure in her skull than they usually did. She thought if she looked around she would see big mice in dresses and regalia. Hers was a quieter insanity than Juniaâs, oft overlooked by the Wildlingâs destructive gestures. Discreetly, she rubbed at her ears beneath her hair, cancelling out the noise of the feast with a sound akin to rocks grinding together.
Calm yourself. Whatever her destined death would be, it was not going to be now at the hands of mice, polite conversation or a fork scratching silver. Blend in and stop thinking about dying. She took a bite of food, hurried it down with water to distract herself, and inhaled an olive down the wrong hole.
Solun's wrath didn't waste time, apparently.
Junia's pout and pink cheeks were cupped like a flower as she leaned her elbows on the banquet table. For once her attention was off the prince her dazed eyes struggled to follow around the floor, and she was watching Branwen, whose face was pale and drawn tight with concentration as she avoided watching anyone.
Junia had not spent the months before the Summer Solstice doing any preparation one could perceive. She ran. She threw paint across her easel, splattering herself and the walls, etching nervous marks with a dry brush as she did anything to distract herself from this terrible upheaval. Anyone who came to check on her came away black, blue, or a vibrant yellow pigment derived from juniper berries.
"Mother, we must not go! Something horrible will befall us, I feel it! My mind is rupturing, Mother!"
In this state she went days without sleep and murals she had no recollection making appeared on her person. Soon she became convinced Solun himself was in her room spinning prophecy, and something great and golden emerged from her moody scribblings. Who, but she? Now, it was as if all that turmoil was just a storm she had to weather for the true Junia to emerge again. This Junia needed warmth, ravenously, and there was no brighter place to be than by the foot of the future king.
âIt's so unfair,â her thoughts spilled aloud, valuable but uninvited insight into her brain being spat on the table. âWhy does Bran get seated so close to the prince? She doesn't get things. I get things.â A clumsy, entitled, but ultimately true statement. Lord Tern always made sure the court swayed to the tune of his prettiest daughter no matter how frenzied a melody she played. Now the Wildling was pushed so far away from the prize that she was left mingling with the less desirable second sons. She slumped further, cheek on her forearm. Her lips trembled, probably about to let out another whine about this slight, âShe must hate it there.â
Junia's eyes, pupils shrunken to opiod-enduced pinpricks, were watering for her sister's perceived discomfort. She twisted to her brother, spaced a seat away from her, and stretched out a quick hand in complete disregard for the man between them. âCory, we should swap, don't you think? She's not even a firstborn daughter, it should not matter which of us takes that seat.â
Juniaâs proximity to Corbin's plotted future wife was making him nervous. He attempted a sagely reply that was half-mumbled into his goblet, âSomeone greater than us arranged it this way for a reason, sister. Let's not cause an upset over it.â
Her lips puckered and she slapped her hands on the table. âWell, whoever it was, hates our family, clearly, and I must give my retort.â Corbinâs eyes snapped up to his sisterâs mischievous smile. âOh, liven yourself,â she scolded, turning her attention to the man she'd reached over. Tsk, that JĂĄrnbjørn who caused all that fuss and overshadowed her Houseâs introduction.
âYou.â A whistle like the twitter of a bird. âYou, baby bird.â Her rude attention grab was followed by a conspiratorial lean forward, âIsnât this fun? Nobody wants to be here!â She grinned like it was the funniest thing in the world, "We're dining in the jewel of the Ninefold, I feel the Nine Forces breathe here, yet I havenât been inside a room so dour as - was it a funeral? Cory, do you remember when the servantâs quarters were blighted and we had to - oh, oh nooooo, it was Uncle Arrenâs betrothal to the young Lady Eula. Not one person was happy there. I bet my dessert someone will drown again. In that gorgeous waterfall. Itâs much better than - snort - getting so pissed you drown in a puddle before you can bed your child bride!â
Her voice ran up in pitch as it morphed into a laugh. She rocked, hands over her mouth and head lulling side-to-side, until she thought sheâd be sick. It was really bright in this cavernous, candle-lit room - for her - with all sources of light stretching and merging together. Corbin cocked an apologetic smile towards his neighbour.
âNo, donât play her game. She will throw herself in to win it,â he said, shrugging her behaviour off his puffed sleeves.
âAnd why shouldn't I? Itâs my destiny to now, is it not?â She snapped back, and while she held a smile, it was a little too sharp for somebody who had in full consciousness condemned herself. Corbin wasnât the most superstitious of his siblings, but the disposing of Juniaâs protection charm was unsettling. If not for the tempting of fate, for the clear indication of her mindframe.
"You're my sister, I love you, please eat something," he exasperated. She straightened up and beamed, shoulders shimmying, but went for her goblet instead of her plate.
Junia had not spent the months before the Summer Solstice doing any preparation one could perceive. She ran. She threw paint across her easel, splattering herself and the walls, etching nervous marks with a dry brush as she did anything to distract herself from this terrible upheaval. Anyone who came to check on her came away black, blue, or a vibrant yellow pigment derived from juniper berries.
"Mother, we must not go! Something horrible will befall us, I feel it! My mind is rupturing, Mother!"
In this state she went days without sleep and murals she had no recollection making appeared on her person. Soon she became convinced Solun himself was in her room spinning prophecy, and something great and golden emerged from her moody scribblings. Who, but she? Now, it was as if all that turmoil was just a storm she had to weather for the true Junia to emerge again. This Junia needed warmth, ravenously, and there was no brighter place to be than by the foot of the future king.
âIt's so unfair,â her thoughts spilled aloud, valuable but uninvited insight into her brain being spat on the table. âWhy does Bran get seated so close to the prince? She doesn't get things. I get things.â A clumsy, entitled, but ultimately true statement. Lord Tern always made sure the court swayed to the tune of his prettiest daughter no matter how frenzied a melody she played. Now the Wildling was pushed so far away from the prize that she was left mingling with the less desirable second sons. She slumped further, cheek on her forearm. Her lips trembled, probably about to let out another whine about this slight, âShe must hate it there.â
Junia's eyes, pupils shrunken to opiod-enduced pinpricks, were watering for her sister's perceived discomfort. She twisted to her brother, spaced a seat away from her, and stretched out a quick hand in complete disregard for the man between them. âCory, we should swap, don't you think? She's not even a firstborn daughter, it should not matter which of us takes that seat.â
Juniaâs proximity to Corbin's plotted future wife was making him nervous. He attempted a sagely reply that was half-mumbled into his goblet, âSomeone greater than us arranged it this way for a reason, sister. Let's not cause an upset over it.â
Her lips puckered and she slapped her hands on the table. âWell, whoever it was, hates our family, clearly, and I must give my retort.â Corbinâs eyes snapped up to his sisterâs mischievous smile. âOh, liven yourself,â she scolded, turning her attention to the man she'd reached over. Tsk, that JĂĄrnbjørn who caused all that fuss and overshadowed her Houseâs introduction.
âYou.â A whistle like the twitter of a bird. âYou, baby bird.â Her rude attention grab was followed by a conspiratorial lean forward, âIsnât this fun? Nobody wants to be here!â She grinned like it was the funniest thing in the world, "We're dining in the jewel of the Ninefold, I feel the Nine Forces breathe here, yet I havenât been inside a room so dour as - was it a funeral? Cory, do you remember when the servantâs quarters were blighted and we had to - oh, oh nooooo, it was Uncle Arrenâs betrothal to the young Lady Eula. Not one person was happy there. I bet my dessert someone will drown again. In that gorgeous waterfall. Itâs much better than - snort - getting so pissed you drown in a puddle before you can bed your child bride!â
Her voice ran up in pitch as it morphed into a laugh. She rocked, hands over her mouth and head lulling side-to-side, until she thought sheâd be sick. It was really bright in this cavernous, candle-lit room - for her - with all sources of light stretching and merging together. Corbin cocked an apologetic smile towards his neighbour.
âNo, donât play her game. She will throw herself in to win it,â he said, shrugging her behaviour off his puffed sleeves.
âAnd why shouldn't I? Itâs my destiny to now, is it not?â She snapped back, and while she held a smile, it was a little too sharp for somebody who had in full consciousness condemned herself. Corbin wasnât the most superstitious of his siblings, but the disposing of Juniaâs protection charm was unsettling. If not for the tempting of fate, for the clear indication of her mindframe.
"You're my sister, I love you, please eat something," he exasperated. She straightened up and beamed, shoulders shimmying, but went for her goblet instead of her plate.
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