Robeatics said
Working on a post, almost done. Should I wait a couple more posts before putting it up?
Go forth!
Dervish Member
Let's get volatile
STATUS: Remember, nobody actually enjoys roleplaying if there isn't at least five shameful fetishes uncovered by the 2nd page. 5 yrs ago
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Remember, nobody actually enjoys roleplaying if there isn't at least five shameful fetishes uncovered by the 2nd page.
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7 yrs ago
Somebody stole my mood ring. I don't know how to feel about it.
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7 yrs ago
Let's be honest, it's far more satisfying and challenging to actually imagine what a character looks like than paste a hundred gifs of a celebrity and call it good.
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7 yrs ago
So, a team of players who are good at playing as a team in a team-based game are individually bad players. Seems kind of silly when you put it like that, no?
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7 yrs ago
My goal these days is to have an RP that can actually finish, or the very least, last a few years. I see way too many die on page one to take chances
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Bio
Lowering the site's value since January 2012.
Most Recent Posts
Go forth!
"Don't get too distracted in here, Scotsman." Mabel cautioned MacNichols, whose eyes immediately met with a rather fetching wench serving some tankards to a table of appropriately drunk sailors. “Were it so easy.” He muttered to himself, entering the tavern and finding himself awash in the noise of revelry and the stench of far too much spilled ale and body odor. The dim lighting gave the strong impression of the dying embers of a fire, at odds with the energetic spirit of the establishment. MacNichols found his way to the bar counter and Bogart, the homely Reale-pinching proprietor of the establishment sauntered his way over to the Scotsman, his eyes narrow, like that of a cave creature. MacNichols rolled a coin across his finger tops before letting it fall on the counter. “Whatever the lads are having, Bogart.” He said, turning around while he waited. He caught sight of Reacher and Waylon, two of the more vocal of the crew who seemed in favour of mutiny but not quite decided on whether to act upon it or not. They’d be a good place to start swaying the favour.
MacNichols grabbed his tankard when it was presented with an affirmative nod before strolling over to the table Reacher and Waylon had set up, hunched towards each other as if conspiratorially but speaking far too loudly in their drunken haze to realize about everyone could hear them, even in the loud din of the tavern. The Scotsman sat down heavily on the wooden stool and looked at the two men. Reacher was an Englishman, although none would call him a gentleman. His nose might have been straight once, but after repeated fights and uncountable breaks and fractures, it never healed quite right and was rather crooked, giving the man a very slight nasal tone to his voice. His dark hair and blue eyes were accented by a scarred face and surprisingly nice teeth. Had he not looked like he spent most of his sailing career having his face bashed in by the mast of a ship, he probably would have been quite fetching in polite circles. Fortunately for him, women here could be won over by coin rather than an attractive face- or personality. Waylon, a Welshman, was rather comely in contrast, looking more like a man of royal blood than a gutter rat from some forgotten coastal city in Wales. Brilliant blonde hair and deep green eyes gave the man a rather rich quality that shined in the relative squalor of Nassau, and he was also blessed with a wondrous voice that had all but condemned him to being the Trident’s shanty man, a role he had once filled with such gusto it was impossible to feel like failure was a conceivable possibility, but now took on the quality of a contemptuous funeral dirge.
The Scotsman addressed the men by name. “So, I hear your rumblings still haven’t subsided. It’s getting to the point where you bellyache like you’re Spaniards. You sure you don’t wish to be left in Havana to sign on a ship with a captain whose name you cannot pronounce who dresses like a dandy?” he said, matching their belligerent tones. The glares he got back prompted a smile in return.
“Sod off, you sheep fucker.” Waylon said. Reacher simply glared.
“Of course, I stick their wee legs in my boots so they can’t escape. Still was better looking than the wretched creature you paid for last shore leave.” MacNichols replied, drinking from his tankard. If he had a Reale for every time someone made a sheep shagging joke at his expense, he’d be about to afford a frigate by now.
Neither man laughed. “Brailham’s gone soft, and we’re all going to starve or worse the course we’re heading.” Reacher said, draining his tankard before forcefully returning it to the wet mark on the table that designated its resting place. “I heard we don’t have provisions for more than a week this time out. I’m telling you, the man’s a menace and he needs to go.” He said.
“Aye, it’s true the Captain’s hit us a bit of a drought, but you’ll find that on any crew, and not nearly as many are as long lasted as our own little schooner.” MacNichols pointed out. “In case it failed your notice lads, the Spanish and the British stopped blowing each other out of the water long enough to decide to clean up their little pirate problem. What would you prefer, a Captain who is looking for a way to get around two of the world’s most powerful navies, or one who takes us up against a dedicated 56 cannons on starboard thinking they’re too war weary to waste their precious munitions against a wee ship like ours? I for one, care not for those odds.”
“So our choice is a quick death by cannon fire or a slow death by scurvy, malaria, or dysentery because we can’t get any fucking medicines.” Waylon shot back. MacNichols rolled his eyes, unmoved. “Are you too daft to see we’re done for unless we elect a captain with steel instead of whatever steer is standing at the helm at current?”
“Of course I see we’re in a rough patch, you ninny. What I’m saying is it happens to all crews and instead of causing a mutiny, let’s work together and find Trident some lucrative prey. The Captain’s one man, and you’d be daft fucks to not think he doesn’t realize what’s happening on his ship. It’s sods like you who are keeping him from doing his job and finding us prizes because he feels like he needs to not only watch his damn ship, but his own back.”
“Ain’t our job, MacNichols. That’s the Captain’s problem, it’s his business to find us business, understand?” Reacher said.
“You are aware that there’s other ships out there that successfully run off the concept that if a crewmember hears of something and brings it forth to the captain, that man gets a larger share separate from the rest of the crew, right? Like if the three of us found something together, something our hearty crew can pull off that’s daring, bold, and absolutely profitable, that we can dictate the terms to Brailham. The crew gets half the haul, and then the remaining half gets quartered off between you two, myself, and Brailham, for instance.” MacNichols said. The two men appeared to sober up somewhat, consideration in their eyes. “Let’s say we get leave to spend some time in Havana, under concealment, and happen to overhear of a Spanish treasure galleon moored off of an island nearby that’s waiting for an escort…”
“You know of one?” Reacher asked excitedly.
“No, it’s an example, man.” MacNichols said with exasperation. “But you get my point. Instead of drinking our livers away in Bogart’s shithole, we actually do something about our station before we lose our ship, our crew, and end up as a faceless bastard scrubbing the bottom deck under some rival shit bird’s sails, largely forgotten and lucky if we can afford stale bread. The good thing about Brailham is that he’s always looked after us, given most of us a fair chance when others wouldn’t look twice. There was a time we’d all die for him because he’d never lead us astray. He still hasn’t, so let’s not give up on him just yet.” He said, looking around the tavern. Several familiar faces were definitely looking his way, many of them with favorable expressions. The door caught his eye and lo and behold, it was Pegleg Jackham and two others of the Trident, three of the men he was genuinely concerned about, given how their mutinous words were said with the soberest and sternest of voices. Unlike Waylon or Reacher, who could be swayed over a drink and some form of reason, the grim bastards coming into Bogard’s were certainly a danger to Brailham’s well-being. The Scotsman hoped most of the crew would be behind his logic rather than the daggers of Jackham and his goons.
MacNichols grabbed his tankard when it was presented with an affirmative nod before strolling over to the table Reacher and Waylon had set up, hunched towards each other as if conspiratorially but speaking far too loudly in their drunken haze to realize about everyone could hear them, even in the loud din of the tavern. The Scotsman sat down heavily on the wooden stool and looked at the two men. Reacher was an Englishman, although none would call him a gentleman. His nose might have been straight once, but after repeated fights and uncountable breaks and fractures, it never healed quite right and was rather crooked, giving the man a very slight nasal tone to his voice. His dark hair and blue eyes were accented by a scarred face and surprisingly nice teeth. Had he not looked like he spent most of his sailing career having his face bashed in by the mast of a ship, he probably would have been quite fetching in polite circles. Fortunately for him, women here could be won over by coin rather than an attractive face- or personality. Waylon, a Welshman, was rather comely in contrast, looking more like a man of royal blood than a gutter rat from some forgotten coastal city in Wales. Brilliant blonde hair and deep green eyes gave the man a rather rich quality that shined in the relative squalor of Nassau, and he was also blessed with a wondrous voice that had all but condemned him to being the Trident’s shanty man, a role he had once filled with such gusto it was impossible to feel like failure was a conceivable possibility, but now took on the quality of a contemptuous funeral dirge.
The Scotsman addressed the men by name. “So, I hear your rumblings still haven’t subsided. It’s getting to the point where you bellyache like you’re Spaniards. You sure you don’t wish to be left in Havana to sign on a ship with a captain whose name you cannot pronounce who dresses like a dandy?” he said, matching their belligerent tones. The glares he got back prompted a smile in return.
“Sod off, you sheep fucker.” Waylon said. Reacher simply glared.
“Of course, I stick their wee legs in my boots so they can’t escape. Still was better looking than the wretched creature you paid for last shore leave.” MacNichols replied, drinking from his tankard. If he had a Reale for every time someone made a sheep shagging joke at his expense, he’d be about to afford a frigate by now.
Neither man laughed. “Brailham’s gone soft, and we’re all going to starve or worse the course we’re heading.” Reacher said, draining his tankard before forcefully returning it to the wet mark on the table that designated its resting place. “I heard we don’t have provisions for more than a week this time out. I’m telling you, the man’s a menace and he needs to go.” He said.
“Aye, it’s true the Captain’s hit us a bit of a drought, but you’ll find that on any crew, and not nearly as many are as long lasted as our own little schooner.” MacNichols pointed out. “In case it failed your notice lads, the Spanish and the British stopped blowing each other out of the water long enough to decide to clean up their little pirate problem. What would you prefer, a Captain who is looking for a way to get around two of the world’s most powerful navies, or one who takes us up against a dedicated 56 cannons on starboard thinking they’re too war weary to waste their precious munitions against a wee ship like ours? I for one, care not for those odds.”
“So our choice is a quick death by cannon fire or a slow death by scurvy, malaria, or dysentery because we can’t get any fucking medicines.” Waylon shot back. MacNichols rolled his eyes, unmoved. “Are you too daft to see we’re done for unless we elect a captain with steel instead of whatever steer is standing at the helm at current?”
“Of course I see we’re in a rough patch, you ninny. What I’m saying is it happens to all crews and instead of causing a mutiny, let’s work together and find Trident some lucrative prey. The Captain’s one man, and you’d be daft fucks to not think he doesn’t realize what’s happening on his ship. It’s sods like you who are keeping him from doing his job and finding us prizes because he feels like he needs to not only watch his damn ship, but his own back.”
“Ain’t our job, MacNichols. That’s the Captain’s problem, it’s his business to find us business, understand?” Reacher said.
“You are aware that there’s other ships out there that successfully run off the concept that if a crewmember hears of something and brings it forth to the captain, that man gets a larger share separate from the rest of the crew, right? Like if the three of us found something together, something our hearty crew can pull off that’s daring, bold, and absolutely profitable, that we can dictate the terms to Brailham. The crew gets half the haul, and then the remaining half gets quartered off between you two, myself, and Brailham, for instance.” MacNichols said. The two men appeared to sober up somewhat, consideration in their eyes. “Let’s say we get leave to spend some time in Havana, under concealment, and happen to overhear of a Spanish treasure galleon moored off of an island nearby that’s waiting for an escort…”
“You know of one?” Reacher asked excitedly.
“No, it’s an example, man.” MacNichols said with exasperation. “But you get my point. Instead of drinking our livers away in Bogart’s shithole, we actually do something about our station before we lose our ship, our crew, and end up as a faceless bastard scrubbing the bottom deck under some rival shit bird’s sails, largely forgotten and lucky if we can afford stale bread. The good thing about Brailham is that he’s always looked after us, given most of us a fair chance when others wouldn’t look twice. There was a time we’d all die for him because he’d never lead us astray. He still hasn’t, so let’s not give up on him just yet.” He said, looking around the tavern. Several familiar faces were definitely looking his way, many of them with favorable expressions. The door caught his eye and lo and behold, it was Pegleg Jackham and two others of the Trident, three of the men he was genuinely concerned about, given how their mutinous words were said with the soberest and sternest of voices. Unlike Waylon or Reacher, who could be swayed over a drink and some form of reason, the grim bastards coming into Bogard’s were certainly a danger to Brailham’s well-being. The Scotsman hoped most of the crew would be behind his logic rather than the daggers of Jackham and his goons.
Olook, a poast!
It was bound to happen eventually, Marassa thought as she impassively watched Blade lose his temper and storm out of the keep like an overgrown brutish toddler. It didn’t matter to her that men had chosen their own way to die; they died for a cause of their own, which was more than most could claim, as their lives were often ended shortly and in a rather purposeless and undignified manner. There mere act of dying for a cause wasn’t impressive in of itself. People had been doing it since time immemorial. The argonian couldn’t have been more wrong about her; she certainly wasn’t bragging about her recognition, although there was a certain pleasure about rubbing her rather unwanted title and recognition in Blade’s face. It wasn’t unlike how she treated Sevari in the earliest weeks, goading him on and prodding his emotional shortcomings to see if he would react for her own amusement. Whereas he sunk deeper into brooding until a surprising wit emerged, it seemed Blade only knew anger and indignation. She decided the lizard wasn’t even a fair target. He was far too easy to provoke, his pride easy to exploit like a chip in his scales exposing a soft underbelly. She suspected he wasn’t used to interacting with people outside of violent confrontration, and having the final word of threatening to rip out her tongue because he couldn’t emotionally handle her barbs very loudly proclaimed that he really didn’t know how to handle her. She decided it wasn’t even worth mentioning that she had fought dwemer before in Rihad, not unlike what this other group encountered in Hegathe. It wasn’t a contest and she certainly didn’t have anything to prove to him, or anyone for that matter. It also wasn’t worth mentioning that Zaveed was her half-brother whom she literally only met two years ago. Blood really was all they had in common, their upbringings couldn’t have been more different. The khajiit was about to bring the stew bowl to her lips once more when Urzoth stormed out after Blade, fuming. Marassa blinked. She never realized the big orc was that devoted to her past a comfortable familiarity. It came as a surprise that Urzoth would raise her fists in defence of the khajiit she once again called companion. “Huh.” Was all she managed to say as the tensions finally hit a critical point. Several others rose up and followed the two out, either to watch the skirmish or to interfere. The khajiit drank a bit of the broth quickly before following the others out, grabbing her sword in the process. Only an idiot ventured forth unprepared.
CUE MUSIC!
The small khajiit, Sion, stood ready with a spell, either looking for an opening or two intervene if the two titans needed to be stopped. She stepped beside Sion, placing a hand over his outstretched arm, pushing it downwards gently, if a bit firm. “Leave them. This is something they both need to do.” She said, turning her attention to the brawl and the altmer’s feeble attempts at intervening. He’d have better chances reasoning with a troll. This was less a brawl than it was about a force of nature, a storm, that would only pass when it had expended its energy. Heavy armour and a single weapon collided with ferocity, it was a primal fight where tactics were not afforded, it was pure instinct and emotion driving each of the hammering blows and grapples. Both were so fixed on destroying their foe that anyone else who had the audacity to interfere would easily find themselves sucked into the maelstrom, a position Marassa herself had no desire to be in.
When Blade lost his sword, the fight was more even and less concerning despite its savagery. Hammered fists and claws lashed out in heavy, damaging blows with no signs of tiring and the fury only built up. It was at this point that Marassa released Sion’s arm and stepped forward herself. Her tentative steps became a sprint when she saw the blade drawn. Neither would be satisfied with expending themselves in unarmed combat; things had taken a potentially lethal turn, and she wasn’t about to let a comrade die on her behalf. To her relief, Blade simply sunk the sword in the mud next to Urzoth’s head, an act that brought back a vivid flashback of the flash of an elven dagger with a sapphire pommel burying itself in the dirt beside her own head, Zaveed atop of her with a burning anger that turned his normally handsome features into something jagged and terrifying, holding the grip of his dagger with both hands and shaking. An anguished curse filled the air as the corsair bellowed out in rage and frustration. When his attention returned to Marassa, the fight was gone from her eyes.
Come home, Zaveed. she had pleaded. The memory was as vivid today as it was two years ago, the conclusion of years of searching for a ghost.
Cub was already throttling Blade, the poor bastard choking under the distressed orc’s crushing grips, Cub screaming that the argonian had killed Urzoth, who miraculously managed to call out to stop him and reach him, trying to get him to release his grip. Marassa joined her, placing a hand on the orc’s arm gently, like a big sister looking out for her little brother. “Urzoth’s fine, Cub. It’s okay. Blade and her had a disagreement, everyone’s fine.” She said soothingly. When the sense of recognition washed over the big orc’s features and his grip loosened, she offered him a comforting pat on the breastplate, as his shoulders were too high up for the reassurance to be a natural gesture.
Marassa glanced at Blade and offered him a shrug, as if it explained everything before she turned to Urzoth. “I’m not going to ask what that was about, but let’s not kill the people we’re travelling with. There’s already a lengthy enough list of people who are already trying to slay us to add more to it. Besides, if we tried to kill everyone I verbally sparred with, I’m pretty sure nobody would have made it alive across the Jerall Mountains on our way to Imperial City.” She pointed out dryly. “It’ll take more than words to besmirch my honour; I don’t need you to rise to my defense over words. The gesture is appreciated, however. Just don’t make it a habit.” She said, offering the slightest upturns of her lips. “It is nice to know that loyalty was built over the course of our journey that had nothing to do with my brother, however. Come, sit.” She said leading Urzoth to a large rock. “Get these armour pieces off so I can work on your wounds.” She said. It wasn’t a suggestion. She looked over her shoulder at Blade. “And if he is quite done moping, I’ll tend to him as well. I’d rather not listen to him bitch the entire journey to Falkreath. Also,” Marassa reached over and smacked Urzoth with a flat hand across the back of her head. “What in Oblivion were you thinking attacking an armed man without a weapon? I am not worth dying over, no matter how much of an unbearable shit Coin Purse is. We stopped the Emperor because we thought each and every one of our steps out, not because we rushed into situations rashly like a bunch of dogs.”
CUE MUSIC!
The small khajiit, Sion, stood ready with a spell, either looking for an opening or two intervene if the two titans needed to be stopped. She stepped beside Sion, placing a hand over his outstretched arm, pushing it downwards gently, if a bit firm. “Leave them. This is something they both need to do.” She said, turning her attention to the brawl and the altmer’s feeble attempts at intervening. He’d have better chances reasoning with a troll. This was less a brawl than it was about a force of nature, a storm, that would only pass when it had expended its energy. Heavy armour and a single weapon collided with ferocity, it was a primal fight where tactics were not afforded, it was pure instinct and emotion driving each of the hammering blows and grapples. Both were so fixed on destroying their foe that anyone else who had the audacity to interfere would easily find themselves sucked into the maelstrom, a position Marassa herself had no desire to be in.
When Blade lost his sword, the fight was more even and less concerning despite its savagery. Hammered fists and claws lashed out in heavy, damaging blows with no signs of tiring and the fury only built up. It was at this point that Marassa released Sion’s arm and stepped forward herself. Her tentative steps became a sprint when she saw the blade drawn. Neither would be satisfied with expending themselves in unarmed combat; things had taken a potentially lethal turn, and she wasn’t about to let a comrade die on her behalf. To her relief, Blade simply sunk the sword in the mud next to Urzoth’s head, an act that brought back a vivid flashback of the flash of an elven dagger with a sapphire pommel burying itself in the dirt beside her own head, Zaveed atop of her with a burning anger that turned his normally handsome features into something jagged and terrifying, holding the grip of his dagger with both hands and shaking. An anguished curse filled the air as the corsair bellowed out in rage and frustration. When his attention returned to Marassa, the fight was gone from her eyes.
Come home, Zaveed. she had pleaded. The memory was as vivid today as it was two years ago, the conclusion of years of searching for a ghost.
Cub was already throttling Blade, the poor bastard choking under the distressed orc’s crushing grips, Cub screaming that the argonian had killed Urzoth, who miraculously managed to call out to stop him and reach him, trying to get him to release his grip. Marassa joined her, placing a hand on the orc’s arm gently, like a big sister looking out for her little brother. “Urzoth’s fine, Cub. It’s okay. Blade and her had a disagreement, everyone’s fine.” She said soothingly. When the sense of recognition washed over the big orc’s features and his grip loosened, she offered him a comforting pat on the breastplate, as his shoulders were too high up for the reassurance to be a natural gesture.
Marassa glanced at Blade and offered him a shrug, as if it explained everything before she turned to Urzoth. “I’m not going to ask what that was about, but let’s not kill the people we’re travelling with. There’s already a lengthy enough list of people who are already trying to slay us to add more to it. Besides, if we tried to kill everyone I verbally sparred with, I’m pretty sure nobody would have made it alive across the Jerall Mountains on our way to Imperial City.” She pointed out dryly. “It’ll take more than words to besmirch my honour; I don’t need you to rise to my defense over words. The gesture is appreciated, however. Just don’t make it a habit.” She said, offering the slightest upturns of her lips. “It is nice to know that loyalty was built over the course of our journey that had nothing to do with my brother, however. Come, sit.” She said leading Urzoth to a large rock. “Get these armour pieces off so I can work on your wounds.” She said. It wasn’t a suggestion. She looked over her shoulder at Blade. “And if he is quite done moping, I’ll tend to him as well. I’d rather not listen to him bitch the entire journey to Falkreath. Also,” Marassa reached over and smacked Urzoth with a flat hand across the back of her head. “What in Oblivion were you thinking attacking an armed man without a weapon? I am not worth dying over, no matter how much of an unbearable shit Coin Purse is. We stopped the Emperor because we thought each and every one of our steps out, not because we rushed into situations rashly like a bunch of dogs.”
Voltaire said
Ugh, so jelly. Been a long time since I had me a good Smash Bros match.
Wii U Master Race lolololololol.
I can't wait for tomorrow. :D
Did you add me to your buddy list on Wii U? We should fo thst tomorrow.
Oh man that was great. :D I would like to get a post up tonight, if you guys don't object.
Also, I should have been keeping track of the trophies Egypt has made so far.
Also, I should have been keeping track of the trophies Egypt has made so far.
Dipper said
Hey guys. Sorry for my absence. My grandfather just passed away, and I've honestly lost the will to do a lot of things - RPing included. I don't think I can return to the RP anytime soon - He was one of the few great things in my life. I'm so, so -so- sorry.
I just saw this. :/ That is incredibly harsh... take the time you need, my friend. We'll keep you on autopilot until you feel ready to return. Don't be sorry! i wish we could do something more for you.
Robeatics said
Hopefully this is diffused with a nice bit of character development and doesn't turn into a full-out Batman vs. Superman civil war. We'll have to see how things pan out. :0Also just realized that Urzoth and Blade are actually sort of similar, both pretty much being and all.
Oh, can this please turn into a civil war?
I mean, everyone! Stop fighting. We're all a team!
*cough*
Leidenschaft said
Kind of regret having Francis go to bed now.
I'm pretty sure the sound of argonians getting Falcon Punch'd can rouse the dead, let alone a sad Breton man.
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