Recent Statuses

24 days ago
sorry, I thought that was a different tab. the ACTUAL truth about mahz is in my bio now. sic semper tyranus
24 days ago
the secret about RPG mahz doesn't want you to know in my bio
4 mos ago
deadbeat for mod 2k16
1 yr ago
Like the cow of norse mythology feeds on the salty ice of Ginnungagap, so too do I feed off of salty rejected applicants.


join my fuckin mouse RP I need more mice I beg of you this is a serious cry for help
EDIT: if you fell for these clickbait ass statuses twice in a row and u ain't submit a mouse you a mook fr

Most Recent Posts

Watchguard Fenn - @Deadbeatwalking
Watcher Cedric - @Sloth
Greenband Bernia - @Asura
Greenband Oliver - @vietmyke
Greenband Willow - @Lady Selune
Greenband Athelstan - @Inkarnate
Greenband Erian - @Superboy

The recruits descended through the elevator shaft with a deep rumbling, going past the face of a long stone chasm in complete darkness, and then past torchlit levels of the Redfort, so far numbered up to nine; The Hall of Watchers, The Redwatch Bureaucratic Chamber, The Redfort Maintenance Floor, The Kitchen, and several progressively less well-lit levels after the aging Watchmouse decided he wasn't going to name all of the floors for "a bunch of green-boned recruits". They seemed mostly residential, with varying degrees of affluence. The recruits passed another stone wall, enshrouding them in darkness yet again, before opening up to another level. This one was dark red stone, barely kept lit by the torches along the uncarved cavernous walls. Dripping stalactites hung from the ceiling, shimmering in the torchlight. This was the only floor where the nearby Watchmice bothered to acknowledge them -- Mice in boiled leather helmets, brandishing pickaxes and shovels, waved at the mice as they passed.

"Those are the miners of the Redfort. You'll see those smiling faces again if you survive."

There was a hush of whispered talking at the furthest corners of the elevator platform, which were hushed by the Watchmouse slamming his canetip on the floor with a low thud

"Aye, survive. Here is not the place for questions. You'll be asking them when you reach The Deep."

The elevator remained surrounded by nothing but stone for some time, longer than the elevator had taken to reach any floor. They continued descending in silence for minutes, until the platform opened up not to another doorway, but a rush of cold air. The elevator platform had descended into a massive, pitch-black cavern -- The untrained ears and adjusting eyes of the recruits were still attuning themselves to their surroundings, though it was the cold, dank cave winds that caused them to instinctively step away from the unfenced platform edge. The recruits who bothered to sniff out their surroundings would notice a faint stench of meat clinging to the air.

The platform slowly descended down, hundreds of feet to the cave floor, where they reached a set of stone steps. At both sides of the platform, there were teams of Greenbands surrounded by several torchwielding Watchmice, all holding onto great wooden cranks like the one the Greenbands in the armory room had turned.

"You'll be met by Watcher Cedric at the bottom of the stairs. Best of luck to you, go for the eyes when you can."

These were the final words of encouragement offered by the Watcher, as the platform began to rise with the turn of the cranks. The recruits descending the stairs, even in the feint torchlight provided by the crank-guarding Watchers, failed to see the end of the stairs in the darkness, or the beast that loomed therein.

Watchguard Myrtle - @Lady Selune
Watcher Flint - @Irredeemable

True to its name, Stormreach seemed to be the rainiest place the two Watchmice had traveled to, despite it only being a two-day travel up into Westercroft. In lieu of a forest path, as many they traveled were, the path to Stormreach was mostly through cold, swampy meadows. Early that morning, their second day of travel, it had only been drizzling a weak mist of rain, which Flint had assured Myrtle would die off as the day progressed, or remain a drizzle at worst. This was no drizzle, but a downpour that threatened to wash the mice off their feet and into a roadside gulch. Fortunately, they had passed the Stormreach border minutes before, and seemed to be at the end of the dirt road leading up to the village. They reached not a stone wall, or even a wooden border, but a shallow, knee-high moat around the town. From a distance, it looked like someone had simply drawn a line around the town in the soil with a stick. To be fair, the town did not look ripe with resources that would make them want to build a wall. If the town were any fruit-based descriptor, ripe would be the last. Perhaps low-hanging, or bespoilt, but certainly not ripe.

The village was made up of dozens of dirty looking thatch-roofed cottages, with a sole tower at the other end of the town, visible due to the sharp left curve around a forest of untamed thyme -- The Watchmice assumed it to be the Redwatch outpost, which was their destination. Despite being a bordertown, no guard stopped them at their arrival, nor did a stationed Watchmouse greet them. The luxury of the Spoorwall kept out predators, though it seemed this village's strategy to avoid Gnasher raids was to be, as the mouse who chose to greet them,

"Shiiiiiiiiit!" shouted an aging tawny mouse. "Muck! Scum! Bullies and shit-mongers!" He approached them from around the corner of a cracking building's frame, staring them down with one blind eye, wiggling a cane at the Watchmice. He hurried towards them at a meager pace. "We have enough Watchers in this town! No more! To hell with the both of you, and bugger the Redwatch!" By now, he had drawn a small crowd of three, who had poked out of a nearby pub to see the commotion.

Watcher Ramekins - @71452K
Watcher Aleria - @Inkarnate
Watcher Godric - @Captain Jenno

There were few castles more unimpressive than Taproot. It was surrounded by four short walls, just taller than a mouse on a second mouse's shoulders, with two Watchmice guarding its one entrance -- On this day, Watcher Aleria and Watcher Godric. They had been stationed at the gates not to protect the castle, but to properly greet, guide, instruct, and quarantine the caravan of young mice arriving. These were not the Greenbands the castle was overdue for, but the last of the survivors from a small, plague-ridden village in Westercroft. It was not their place to treat them at least. That duty fell on the furry shoulders of one Watcher Ramekins, who had been hard at work preparing the castle's infirmary for the influx of patients. Along the horizon, the two Watchers saw two lizards emerge over the hill, wrapped in leathery reigns. A few moments later, the wagon they were pulling came into sight over the horizon as well. An orange-cloaked Watchmouse whipped them onward. From the looks of it, the wagon was big enough for a dozen, perhaps even two dozen mice. Soon, the wagon was not a bump on the horizon, but close enough to the castle for the Watchmice to call for the gates to be opened. Lizards, after all, did not pull wagons like beetles or turtles, who each tarried along as if on their way to tea. Lizards pulled wagons like the wagons were chasing them.

"Hail! I am Watcher Edwin of Thatcherton. I have been assigned with the transport of the survivors of Vinehold to the nearest village with a Redwatch outpost. Is this the castle Taproot?" He asked, giving the meager fort a befuddled look, as if halfway unsure as to whether or not he stood before a heavily fortified barn. One of his lizards grumbled a disagreeable whine, as if to concur with his master.
Accepted! The messenger bag doesn't need equipment points so sink them into your sword, or maybe a dagger or something. Otherwise, pop Godric into the Characters tab and give the discord a look. Glad to have you here.
Mice don't do tunics, and cloak colors are chosen based on color psychology and their mentor's opinion of them, but the sheet otherwise looks great. Once those edits are made and you've completed part two of the sheet, you should be good to go.


Dr. Xiril Poxx
(Zeer-uhl Pocks)

The Cephanians are an aquatic humanoid species from the planet Cepha, that have evolved into two distinct groups; Alpha-Cephanians, a hard shelled, crab-like humanoid species, and Beta-Cephanians, their subjugated fish-like cousins. Hailing from a completely submerged planet, all Beta-Cephanians have mucous-producing skin, gills, webbed fingers, and other characteristics suited to an aquatic environment, while their crustacean cousins have a thick exoskeleton and mandibles over their mouths. Whereas Alpha-Cephanians are usually boisterous and warlike, Beta-Cephanians are a quiet, private people known for their humorlessness and brevity, which are moreso results of their neural biology and selective breeding than of any cultural, learned philosophy. Despite being a warp-capable civilization, Cephanians have a very primal culture with little room for sentimentality -- Elderly or injured Beta-Cephanians are usually devoured to support their colony's sustenance, for example, whereas Alpha-Cephanians frequently murder one another over perceived slights.


Terran Republic

Chief Medical Officer

Though he comes off as cold, Commander Poxx's lack of emotion help him remain calm under pressure and make logic-based, split second decisions other officers would struggle with, particularly during the heated moments of patient transport and diagnoses. The Cephanian brain -- particularly that of a Beta-Cephanian -- has far fewer receptors for emotion than a human, and more for memory and problem solving; By human standards, Poxx would be considered a multi-tiered genius. Aside from his intelligence, Poxx is a skilled Judoka, a skill that fostered his initial interest in human culture. Being Cephanian, Commander Poxx can use sonar to maneuver in complete darkness, as well as a protective measure in combat to stun most bipedal humanoids. Underwater, this instead acts as a method of communication, though it is only useful talking to Aquatic Humanoids, of which the Terran Republic recognizes a grand total of six.

Personality Profile
Doctor Poxx's mannerisms and personality are fairly standard for his race. He keeps most interactions as brief as possible, spends most of his time off alone in his quarters, and has little patience for galas and ceremonies. He frequently goes out of his way to seek out advice from other nonhumans on human culture, a subject he finds fascinatingly foreign, though even in these interactions he keeps a quiet distance. Other than his work, Doctor Poxx has three hobbies; swimming, underwater horticulture, and Judo, the latter of which earns him a spot on many away teams. As Cephanian culture is extremely different than human culture, with Poxx only ever having served previously on The Highlander, a ship with very few humans, Poxx is one of the aliens aboard the crew that experiences a great deal of culture shock. Hot beverages, for example, are a subject surrounded by mystery to Doctor Poxx, as well as things like figures of speech, most forms of artwork, and the human fascination with domesticating dangerous animals.

Xiril Poxx was hatched on Cepha, spending his youth absorbing the culture and knowledge of his people while working on one of his planet's many algae farms, an unexceptional life shared by three fourths of Beta-Cephanians. His father, Luril Poxx, had slowly saved enough to buy his family's freedom from their master by the time Xiril was eleven, bringing his family to the Terran Republic. Under New Terra's Intergalactic Law 20315, the Poxx family were brought in as asylum-seeking refugees from a planet of slavery, given a stipend to live off of while Xiril's parents were trained for useful work. Xiril, an ever-thankful son of two immigrant refugees, went on to join the Starfleet Academy when he became old enough, and was put onto an expedited path to becoming an ensign aboard the USS Highlander after graduating third in his class. Though originally eager to become a tactical officer, Xiril switched divisons to Medicine during his first year, and has proudly worn the white-and-red uniforms of the Medical unit ever since. After serving aboard the USS Highlander for several decades, during which he did little more than smoothly coast through his career to a Lieutenant Commander Medical Officer, he was transferred to the USS Hawking, where he now serves as the ship's Chief Medical Officer.

Xiril has very little knowledge of the culture he is surrounded by, try as he might to study it. It could be said that his greatest flaw is his bedside manner -- or lack thereof -- and his inability to relate to those he treats in the sick bay. He understands "Ow" as a vocal projection of pain, though that is about as far as his understanding of the patient psyche goes; He views his work as a practitioner of medicine much in the same way that an engineer would view the reparations of a ship's battery core, while topics such as psychology, patient interviews, and rehabilitation are typically handled by his subordinates.

You non-watchers GREENBANDS will be getting a mission tonight -- sorry for the radio silence on my end. This is not usually an excuse you hear for lazy GMing, but get this, I have not slept in three days. I have been getting up eight or nine times a night and have basically been forgetting that I have friends on the internet I'm writing a story about mouse mice with throughout brief moments of lucidity. So, categorize this cop-out under the "health" excuses.

EDIT: I mean, non-greenbands. sleep?

Erian and Athelstan are accepted. It is good day.
As the last of the Greenbands entered the fort, the Watchmice shepherding them followed steadily, metal doors slamming behind them with an eerie finality. The hall they walked was brightly lit on either side with torches, reflecting light off of the many shields, axes, and swords displayed on the walls between tapestries and portraits of Redfield's past monarchs. All around them, Watchmice scurried between halls and doorways, as if every mouse present was late. Some hurriedly made their way through the halls single file, carrying cauldrons of stew or trays of bread, while some slowly carried construction materials or stretchers of the infirmed in groups of two. The Redfort buzzed with sights and sounds of work, which appeared fairly routine to the Greenbands. Despite the cacophony of entire armies of mice trotting up and down the halls, none of the Watchmice surrounding them seemed like there was anything out of the ordinary. The greywhisker leading their group seemed less formal than he did during his speech, trotting along with his walking stick at a smoother cadence, waddling to and fro as he discussed some private matter to the ear of a Watcher beside him. The Watcher nodded, and without missing a beat, turned the next corner and broke off from the group of Greenbands.

Eventually, the old Watchmouse led them to a door, dismissing the rest of the Watchers with a clenched fist in the air, signalling them to scatter themselves down different hallways, marching to some other obligation.

"First thing's first. There'll be no talking while I'm talking, so shut the hell up." The Watchmouse said to the crowd of silent Greenbands. He unlocked the door, opening it to reveal an empty room -- no tapestries or swords adorned its walls, or anything else for that matter. On one end of the room was a set of wooden double doors, with two mice stationed at either side. In front of them was a large crank built into the floor like a millstone, and in the center of the room, a pile of weapons and armor.

"Those of you who weren't dropped off with pappy's sword and a kiss on the cheek should arm yourself here." The old Watchmouse said, making his way to the double doors with a steady tap of his cane. "If you fight over a sword, fight with your hands. You don't want to start the trials with a gash, believe me." He chuckled softly. Reaching the double doors, he swung them open to reveal not a room, but a wooden platform. If the Greenbands had seen an elevator, they would know what it was, though there were still only two of its kind in Gnaw.

"When you're done, come over here, and don't dilly-dally."
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