Avatar of Dogematix
  • Last Seen: 5 yrs ago
  • Joined: 8 yrs ago
  • Posts: 226 (0.08 / day)
  • VMs: 0
  • Username history
    1. Dogematix 8 yrs ago

Status

User has no status, yet

Bio

User has no bio, yet

Most Recent Posts

@Gummy1295 I don't know for sure but if they try to back each other up in some way (given they're attacking the same guy, if He does attack) then they could maybe be processed together.

Obviously it's up to panda-chan but I would think it would depend on how you want Jeff to react.
Sam Fraser


Y'know when Sam leaped for the metal bar near the windows he did it in a mad rush 'cus he was scared of that weird pincer leg coming back in for round two. Seeing someone get wasted by something straight out of a monster movie could really light a fire under your ass. Which made it even weirder when he grabbed the thing and everything felt like it calmed down. Like, in a calming but creepy way. Everything outside felt just too damn calm. Despite how high up they were the air was totally still and stale. The silence was so heavy that it actually made Sam stop and notice the hammering of his heart in his ears.

None of this made any sense. Everything outside looked like the sky was having a bad acid trip, and those spider webs! Sam didn't know if he'd make it out of here or ever work out what was going on but now he had something like a weapon in hand he felt a little more like he could handle it. It was weird but the stillness was kind of zen in a way. Then he remembered the giant monster outside and it went back to being freakin' sinister!

With a fresh sense of purpose and capability Sam strode towards the end of the carriage and slammed the thin part of the bar into the seam in the door. Internally cursing himself for not going to the gym or working out more he strained with all his might, finally managing to pry the door open with the help of the Asian guy with the glasses. A little out of breath and too pumped up to feel chatty Sam gave him an appreciative nod and a grunt by a bro's way of thanks.

He didn't know whether to see the empty cart through the way as soul crushing or not but Sam kept on going anyway with nowhere to go but forward. He made for the far side and the next door, ready to lather rinse repeat on the new door. Until that voice stopped him dead in his tracks.

“Don’t run. She will find you. Don’t fight. Or I will kill you.”

“What the hell was tha-” Sam didn't get to finish that thought as the roof got torn apart like it was paper . That damn clawed leg thing came reaching in again and in a blind panic Sam flailed away at the thing with his broken bit of pipe.

He quickly learned it didn't do anything 'cus the one swing that connected with it bounced off the lib like he'd hit a brick wall. And Sam couldn't do anything but look on helplessly as it grabbed the smaller of the two girls in the group and leaving them all looking on in terror.

'Oh god... oh god no!' Sam couldn't speak, he couldn't make any sound at all! His blood ran cold, his legs felt weak. He was about to see someone die! Really die! As that sick monster leaned in close and Sam felt his eyes welling up yet he couldn't turn away. 'Please no...'

"ADAM!!!"


“What the hell is that!” Sam cried.

It was a sexy fox lady was the answer but Sam didn't quite get that right away. What did get was the dead air going cold like a gale swooped in and blew the actual cobwebs away. What looked like ice started springing up and Sam was left gawping as the monster above them recoiled like it was the one who should be scared.

That sexy fox chick was on their side! Holy shit!

That was good enough a hope for Sam to latch onto! It felt like their narrow prison was exploding into activity but they weren't alone on the ground anymore. There were more monsters now, one more at least. It looked like the thing was breaking in through the window and goddamn if Purple Hair wasn't trying to take thing thing on!

Hyped on seeing one of these monsters back them up and feeling a wave of fresh strength coming over him – kind of – Sam's brain went all 'Do or die' as he brandished his pipe and got ready to charge in.

“Okay...” He breathed in deep looking at the other guys still around him. “Let's fuck him up!” And he ran for the thing that seemed busy poking at Purple, and swung right for its head!

@Fury Pandaworking on my post right now.

There we go! Sorry again for the delay folks.
I'm on a nordic roll right now so here's some more on the gods I thought. Full disclaimer some of these guys are from a previous god RP I was in and those forms are the misrepresentations of them as created by a confused group of viking ice elves that were late to the game so if anyone wants to make more changes or add more stuff it's not going to step on my toes (In fact it would be deeply true to their origins). Here's the link to their origin for those interested: grandmythos.wikia.com/wiki/Stryfe

And here's some more stuff I made for those interested.

Yorven, Ormen, Grom and the Beginning
This is not the only story expalining the creation of the world in Azoth but it is a common one in the Crooked Isles.

In the beginning their were the gods who lived in their grand hold. Among them were spirits, demons and monsters who were so normal to the first gods. And there was man, who was weak, and small. Who was food and slave both to the things that made the grand hold their home.

King of these gods was Grom The Vast. He who was most powerful and strongest of all the gods! He was a tyrant and a warlord who loved to wage bloody war through the nothingness that was then creation.

Grom had two sons who each could almost rival him in power. Their names were Yorvengaand and Ormengaand. One born of fire, one born of ice. One made of mother's life, one of father's death. Oh what princes they were!

But Grom was a jealous and cruel god and he envied his sons, for he saw them as a threat. So when they became men among the gods and recieved the tools of their futures on their nameday, as all men do form their fathers, he played a cruel trick upon them.

To Yorvengaand who was light and warmth and loved all of life he gave the sword. A cruel weapon that unlike the axe or bow had no purpose but death. And he pushed this gentle hearted boy into the rings of the warriors and laughed as he was bloodied by cruel hands and blades, weeping as he was forced to shed blood.

To Ormengaand he gave the scythe of the farmer. The tool of the harvest and those that make that which gives life. To Ormen who was the blizzard given life, who brought nothiong but death in his wake and looked on all with cold eyes. How Grom laughed as his deathly son looked on his fields as they froze and wasted to nothing.

After suffering his cruelty for so long the young gods rebelled, leading an army of their own to overthrow their cruel father. In the end it came down to the three and with his fiery sword Yorven cleaved Grom's head from his shoulders, sending it spinning into creation. It was here that Ormen took his scythe to it and brought life in his own way. Grom's eyes overflowed and became the seas, his teeth the mountains, his hair the trees and his skin the soil.

The gods gave this world to the tiny thing called man as a reward for supporting them in the war for the grand hold (heaven to the northmen) in the promise that they would pay hamage to the gods who helped free them and in return those that lived their life true would return to the grand hold and feast with the young gods as equals. The dark things that fought alongside Grom were struck down and scattered becoming the monsters and red things of the world now.

The chaining or Ormengaand
For a time the gods walked the world and worked with men to make it grand, some say this was the time of the Old Ones. Yet it was not to last. For Ormengaand was a lord of death by nature despite his deeds and noble heart. Wherever he went ice followed and all met death before his endless cold. In time he threatened to end all of man's world. So came the sad time when the gods were forced to come together and imprison him.

With the help of Kaviken the trickster they lured him to the deep north and wrapped Ormengaand in chains made by the forge god. Yet even that was not enough! Ormengaand cursed them for cowards and traitors as he traded blows with his brother... until he saw the carnage he had wrought. With a heavy heart he submitted to the chains and asked of Yrven "If I am to be felled I beg it be by your hand, brother, for the love we share let my end come by a warm hand."

So with a cry of great anguish Yorven drove Ormen's grat scythe into his brother's heart. Yet that did not kill him, for a son of Grom is not so easily slain. Ormengaand yet lives, slumbering at the heart of his endless storm in the frozen north. Sleeping, waiting with one baleful eye open.

It is said that should the Red Gods ever be victorious then Yorvengaand will be the last thing to fall tot hem in battle and his last breath falling will be what finally wakes Ormengaand from his sleep. With a rage only love can bring Ormen will break free from his chains and sweep the world clean of demons once they have done so of all else. Only then, once all else is dead will Ormen be free to walk the world, finally able to breathe easy knowing he cannot spread any more death. What he will do with that world is known only to him.

Worship
Oremngaand is not actively worshiped in most places (Though some view him as a god of winter and not just death in certain parts of the world). He is still respected as a god among the northmen though the name Ormen does appear in many of their curses.

His most common symbol is that of a single red eye or a scythe.
We seem to have a few clans going for a heavy foreign influence. I think my clan may have to take great pride in their heritage of the "First men" or something like them. Depending on how many more nautical factions come up I might move them a little further inland too. I'm hankering for a culture of monster hunters each itching to forge their own heroic legacy. Troll steak anyone? They just regenerate so you can always have more :p

@Flagg Also Hagraven is a sick name I'm using that somewhere.
Funny I was going to include harpies in my sheet too though they looked more like this.

Sorry for the delay everyone, I've been doing some late nights at work this week. I'll be starting my post tonight and depending on how big it turns out will be trying to smack an existential nightmare in the face by tomorrow at the latest.
So work has eaten up most of my day so I'll quickly leave the basics of my god ideas here since it seems people are waiting on them for now.

Yorvengaand (sometimes shortened to Yorven)
The blade by the hearth.

Yorven is a warrior and sun god, often depicted as a strong male figure in glorious gleaming armour, often coloured like gold or brass, with fire burning from under his helmet. The only element of darkness about him is a black cape he wears that is said to be made of smoke. Yorvengaand is considered a "Bright God". A more benevolent counterpart of the "Red Gods". His followers often regard worshippers of the Gore Lord as rivals if not outright enemies as Yorven values honour and skill in combat over bloodshed. As a result his followers will try to follow his tenants and ethics to win his favour.

"Remember this, you are a shield before you are a sword. A man is only as great as what he fights for." - A Yorvengaand worshiper to the warriors under his training.

Within his tales Yorvengaand is always looking to slay a cruel monster or rushing to the aid of those in need. He vaules life and is thought of a defender of the weak, showing his blessings to those in dire need or fighting in defense of others. If his devoutees wish to pray to Yorven they must write out their prayer on a piece of parchment or wood and burn it, allowing the smoke to find him. Otherwise they must call on his name in the heat of battle or he may not hear them.

He is the fire of battle. The fire in each warrior's heart. He is the fire of home each should seek to return to and lay their sword down.
______________________________________________________________
Kaviken
The fox who runs wild.

A trickster spirit, often depicted as a fox with white or ice blue fur with red eyes. He is often shown wearing the skull of a wolf or larger fox as a mask. Kaviken's mind is unknowable to the sane man. He is neither good, nor evil but wild. His moods may swing him towards acting kindly and aiding travelers one day and send him on a savage hunt another. The one thing he can be relied upon to do is keep his more threatening tricks aimed at adults.

Kaviken is the patron spirit of children, being one himself among the other gods, and will always act kindly to the very young. Children will leave milk out for him at night in the hope the trickster will share his treats with them. Pregnant women will leave offerings out that the fox will bless their unborn babe and their house. Whether Kaviken actually answers these prayers is unknown though most shrug him off as a bed time story.

The only thing close to proof of him are stories from the deep forests of the isles where it is said those who have committed acts of violence against children have been found dead, their flesh savaged and looks of horror on their faces!

"The fox! The fox hunts me still! The eyes, the fangs! Every night he hunts me!" - Bergold the witch. Suspected killer of two women, five men and seven children. Took her own life in a fit of madness before the jarl's judgement could be served.

If you worship the fox do not hunt his kind on your lands, it invites bad luck.
__________________________________________________________________________________

Zasha.
The maiden of the fields.

All lands know at least one goddess of fertility and Zasha is one of the most prolific in The Broken Lands. She is thought to appear as a woman of other worldly beauty, always appearing in the distance, often obscured by summer rains. One thing all these wittnesses claim, she wears a flowing gown of white and sports a crown of curled horns. Whether it's an actual crown or something sprouting from her head is unclear. Many of the male gods have tried to win her favour and take her for their wife but all have failed so far.

"See you put a bit of everything you want her blessing in a stone circle... and then you do a little dance, like this see. No you don't sacrifice it! No blood, she hates that!" - A drunk druid of Zasha.
_____________________________________________________________________________________

There's three to start off with! If anyone wants to add more stuff to them like holy sights or rituals I haven't thought of much for that. Pondering the idea of giving Yorven an ice god sibling and making a forge god but this was all I have time for right now.
@Flagg I'm pondering my own ideas for a clan and some lore. Would it be alright of me to make a pantheon of "Bright Gods" representing noble and benevolent spirits? I've got a few names ones in mind already.

@The Wyrm I'm also aiming to make them a southern coastal clan so howdy neighbour!
Muscle, blood and bone... all of it brought together and honed into a killing machine of brutal strength and grace. All of it straining to escape from a prison of tweed! Oh but Oscar wouldn't have it. His feudal spirit was out in full force as he stared himself down in the mirror, mustache twitching as the tailor went about the final touches of sewing him into this latest suit. All while Oscar's bulging veins and heaving back muscles threatened to undo this very expensive piece of work.

"Mr Betteridge, If I may..." The hunchbacked old man piped up. "It's not that we don't appreciate your custom, Sir, but wouldn't it be easier for you if you were to simply allow me to take your measurement and have a suit made for a later date?"

"And allow myself to be dressed in something... BAGGY? Do you want me to walk the streets looking like some kind of unemployed street tough begging for his next half-spent cigarette? Dear god man, have you never worn tweed before?!" The buff Brit guffawed at the pittiful store owner.

This really was too much! Oscar was gracious enough to allow this peasant to busy himself around his superior form and allowed them a hand in crafting one of the finest feats of fashion humanity had yet to create and this was the thanks he got. Disgraceful! Honestly it was enough to make a man feel victimised, having to put up with such terrible service. Yet suffer Oscar did, gritting his teeth and allowing the cretin to finish the work they had begun together. He had an important meeting today with his fellow assassins and had to be sure to look his best! Oscar had no idea what it was about but one had to look one's best when going out into the murderous public. Especially if there was a strong chance of it turning into a deadly ambush!

Finally it was done! Once again Oscar could go out into the world as a picture of form fitting elegance.

"Now sir there is the matter of your tab to discuss..." The shopkeep said, quivering behind his cash register.

"It's rude to talk about money like that, Mulligan." Oscar snorted, his mustache flaring in a show of disdain. "You should know that as a proprietor of gentlemanly wares. I swear by thunder man each time you open your mouth it is as if you wish to push me into the arms of one of your rival tailors!"

"But Sir this is the fiftieth custom tweed you've had me make! What could you possibly want them all for?"

"As I've told you!" Oscar said, assuming a suitably noble and heroic pose. "Before each fight I must flex my physique in such a way as to to properly channel my killing spirit and intimidate my foes." Indeed such a thing made him look like a hero of old, one that no doubt made the Asian warlords who's techniques he had stolen perfected roll in their graves with shame.

"But is it necessary for you to rip each of your suits apart, Sir?" Old Mulligan whimpered.

"Each one died a warrior's death!" Oscar Roared back at him. Enraged hat the man could not see something so obvious. "And I shall hear no more miserly complaints from you!" And with that he stormed from the premises and headed off for his meeting.

Of course it didn't help that the wretched serf had raised a valid point. Oscar could get by on the free services that were owed to him by right of birth and strength for now but his funds were steadily depleting. Running a tea room and dojo combo wasn't cheap and although his muscular apprentices were willing to work for little pay and the chance of being thrashed by him... his need for supplies for the business and his personal life were a taxing him ever more. The contracts he was getting right now were petty things given his low ranking and it galled Oscar to stoop to such a level. yet what was he to do, give up on his love of combat? This lower ranking made him an entry point for would be assassins and he was fed a regular supply of challengers looking to get on the ladder by using his corpse as their first rung.

Still... perhaps it was time he set his sights on more ambitious rankings. Even if he couldn't get the quantity of opponents he wished it stood to reason he would receive a high quality one instead. Damn and blast but it was tough to be a wealthy aristocrat these days!

And they only got harder once he got to "The Dirty Babe"!

"Oh this is deplorable." Oscar groaned as he looked around the dark and grimy interior of the public house that he'd been called to for this meeting.

Indeed it looked as if the cleaning staff hadn't even looked upon its dust and grease soaked walls for nigh on a year! Now this was simply unacceptable. He had expected what ever passed for a delegate of the UAA to at least have a sense of class and style when it came to choosing their clandestine rendezvous spot. Dark and out of the way was one thing but making a place so vile that it repelled any dignified form of life was a low way of thinking. Indeed Oscar felt tempted to take out a handkerchief to cover his mouth lest he risk breathing in any particles of this unrepentant poverty. Honestly!

Yet after scanning the interior Oscar could not deny that the inhabitants certainly fit the bill for trained killers. Why some of the patrons even sported masks of varying design that no doubt fitted the wearer's sense of drama. The box hat struck Oscar as grotesquely unrefined but he'd learned to stop expecting much from the denizens of Santa Destroy. Then there were those sporting the usual flowing black long coats, an industry that must have earned at least half its profits from hired killers if Oscar's experience with them was anything to go by. At least one woman among the bunch seemed to be sporting armour! A choice Oscar usually forwent in favour of speed and maneuverability but one he could understand and respect in a theoretical sense.

Yes this was, unfortunately, the right spot. Since he was possibly going to be here a while there was no sense in suffering any more than needed. Oscar strode across the filth stained floor that dared to try and stick to his shoes and made his way to the bar. Slamming his fist down on the counter top to get the attention of the degenerates that worked it.

"Barkeep. A pint of stout, I say. I'll be needing some of the strong stuff if this is the standard our host sees to!" He didn't bother even trying to hide why he was there. Why should he? Oscar had nothing to be ashamed of! If any civilian cared to take offence then Oscar would simply defend the honour of his vocation from any uncouth lout that dared challenge him. They brought the drink in a chipped glass and drink was weak as tap water! Oh someone would pay for the frustrations that were being heaped upon him once he got back to the dojo if not sooner.

Indeed this was turning out to be a very unbully day for Oscar Betteridge!
© 2007-2024
BBCode Cheatsheet