<Snipped quote by Drag> Were the old cutscenes done in the English dub they did for the first game, or did they use subtitles like the rest of them? I had my eye on the series for a while, but I bought Yakuza 0 on the day it came out here in the west and I've really been enjoying it since then. I ordered the first game which came in the mail yesterday and I'm planning on getting my hands on the rest of the localized games in the series because I love these kinds of action games and I keep hearing about how good they all are.
They're subbed, as is the rest of the game. The only known English dub I can think of is for 3, which I recall hearing it and thinking it was surprisingly decent.
@lavulman It's not that... studies had my head go into meltdown mode because of too much exams in too little days. Posting is relaxing ^^
Preach. College is a pain in the ass cause of the travel, just fortunate I'm only there a few days out of the week but studying can be a hassle, it's good to relax a little with some writing
Ah right, Aki is in the 4th, sadly the only one I've managed to play (Though I do know the story thanks to the reminiscence function on the menu to watch all the old cutscenes and story.) but yeah the beatdowns are gnarly, especially the HEAT actions, many of which should technically kill a person but of course is a mere dust on the sweater vest for most goons.
The old man watched with pride as the blonde warrior gruffly walked away from him towards the market. Taking the knights and adventurer types down a peg was a game he all too often enjoyed. His fun over the old man began hobbling towards his home, a much more 'lived in' hovel than its surrounding neighbors but this was something the old man could care less about, though the weeds and moss were beginning to be a more prevalent problem even he couldn't ignore.
The old man stopped at his door and shakily placed the key in the lock, an audible creak softly emanating from the door's hinges as it gently opened. The old man took one step into his living room before realizing that something was wrong, the room was much darker than he'd left it and it seemed some of the dust on the less used pieces of furniture had been disturbed. A soft but noticeable thud then came from the old man's kitchen prompting him to frown. In a surely odd sight the old man lifted his cane like a club and began hobbling towards the Kitchen entrance.
As he reached the entrance the old man's face turned white and he dropped his cane. He faced a hooded figure standing in front of his stove, his face obscured by the shadows but his mouth very noticeably eating a small bowl of stew.
"C-Cain?" The old man said, his fearful tone juxtaposing his previous gung-ho attitude.
"Warm Greeting. Good morning Bafford. Saw window was open. Decided to let myself in. Hope you don't mind." Cain said in a flat monotone that never failed to get under the old man's skin. Bafford set down his cane and began walking towards the dining table where he shakily took a seat.
"Er, no, no. Not at all. Was there uhm, anything specifically ye wer lookin to find out?" Bafford asked, slightly more comfortable in his speaking but still clearly unnerved by Cain's presence. He placed his hands together and looked towards Cain who had set down the bowl and pulled his mask up.
"Dismissive. No. Just the usual. Have I been called on. Has anything interesting happened?" Cain said plainly, taking a seat adjacent Bafford. "Left you a bowl of stew. Apologetic. Had to take it out. Make room for my own. My mistake." Cain added, his voice and face not changing in the slightest.
"What? Yeah, uhm no, that's alright. Let me see urm... No contracts yet, I imagine the bridge has gotten everyone collecting their bearin's in the down time. I uhh did see some cat lookin' lady in the market, probably a hunter but she had some pretty nice lookin' gear. Uhhhh what else, Oh! I ran into some queer lookin' lady in a shiny golden lookin' affair, asked ME where to find MAGICAL trinkets, naturally I gave her the business an sent her on her way." Bafford leaned back with a smirk, his previous fear now dissipating into unashamed pride.
Cain simply grunted to himself began walking towards the front door, stopping just next to Bafford before he left. "Appreciative. Thank you Bafford. Always a pleasure doing business." Cain left a few gold pieces on Bafford's desk which seemed to delight the old man even further.
"Well might I say the pleasure is always mine Cain, you really oughta make me yer prime info gatherer, we could stand to make a whole lotta coin together eh Cain?" Bafford looked up to see the assassin gone confusing him momentarily "C-Cain?" he added to no one in particular. Eventually Bafford shook his head and resumed grinning as he sorted through his coin.
Name: Cain Age: Unknown, assumed mid-20's Race: Human Appearance: Cain's face is always covered by his hood and face mask, showing only his unflinching and seemingly unblinking dull gray eyes. The skin shown on his face and hands is ghostly pale and generally laden with scars, marks and specs of grime.
Cain is roughly six feet tall and very lean, his armour hugging to his body rather than hanging from it, though he has no real muscle mass or noticeable weight to him making him rather unimposing up close. Cain's hair is long and unkempt, whilst he generally ties it to his back to avoid it getting in his eyes a strand or so will usually rest against his forehead. Cain's face and posture rest in a perpetually neutral state, showing no indication of aggression or any other emotion for that matter.
Attire: Cain wears a set of relatively common black leather armour, many jest of it being that colour because he seldom takes it off, he also wears a bandolier across his chest containing several throwing knives. Cain's armour hugs his frame extremely tight granting him no detriment to his movement. Cain also has a plain black cloak with the hood attached to a black face mask allowing his identity to be concealed at all times even during high speed chases. His bow and arrows remain slung behind his back and his armour carries various other knives and daggers in case of emergency, such as his boots.
Bio:
The badlands of Piñura see activity almost solely for their iron rich veins and occasional hunting of the creatures deep in the desert. But there are those who call the dusty wastes home, the tribes who have embraced the civilized land's interest in their home and the natives who have shunned such involvement and stay in the deeper regions of the land.
One such group of natives thrived solely through strength and blood lust, lacking any true knowledge to sustain themselves with crops and water they resolved to attack and pillage travelers and other tribes to survive in the desert. The tribe's name has long since faded from history but their attacks and maniacal painted warriors are still talked of as a common tale around campfires. Their attacks would begin with a blood curdling screech as they would surround their prey and relentlessly attack until their targets surrendered and were killed or died before then.
One member was a young man with awkwardly cut black hair and the same paint as his brethren, though he preferred to take a calmer more strategic approach as opposed to his brethren who would charge into the slaughter with reckless abandon. Because of the young man's more mindful approach and far less bloodthirsty demeanor he was shunned as being weak or cowardly, it was not until he had turned eighteen that he was begrudgingly added to the regular group of pillagers, as a standard sword bearer who was more for canon fodder than anything else.
With a few close calls the young warrior seemed to adapt but his skill with a sword was never up to the standard of his comrades, a fact which eventually led to his near death. Whilst attacking a caravan the tribe was driven off after their prey proved to be surprisingly effective in combat, whilst some fell the majority managed to flee and regroup elsewhere in the desert, the young warrior was not so lucky, taking an arrow directly to his shoulder he had fallen to the ground and lacked the strength to preform the standard tribe response of ripping the arrow out and continuing the fight.
Through some miracle however the caravan of traders took some pity on the tribesman after he attempted to surrender in his native tongue. Whilst he was not welcomed with open arms they did treat and bandage his wounds as well as allowing him some of their food, though he was still closely monitored throughout his stay. After being shown kindness he had not received at any point in his life the young man stayed the night with the traders, his hands restrained for safety but he spoke with one of the night guards very amicably, where he learned some about the world outside of Piñura.
The experience was short lived however, during the conversation where the guard talked to the tribesman about his fondness and eagerness to see his family again a spear was thrown directly into the side of his head, surprising the warrior and covering him in the guards flecks of brain and blood. His tribe had returned, in greater numbers and resolving to attack at nightfall, the caravan was slaughtered almost effortlessly as the surprise left them unable to effectively defend themselves. The tribe ransacked the caravan and left their disgraced comrade bound and shivering on the floor, coated in the blood of the only people who and treated him with any decency.
For most of the night the warrior lay silently in the fetal position, the look of surprise still etched clearly on his face. Eventually however he struggled to his feet and hobbled over to the guardsman now half buried in the sand, he took the keys and undid his restraints. Like a zombie the young warrior shuffled into the direction of his tribe's encampment.
The sun had rose on the tribe's camp, but no one stirred. The rug floors and sand were coated in the blood of its inhabitants, the majority of which seemed to carry only a straight gash across their neck. Certain members however carried several vicious marks in their chest and stomach, but no member seemed to show any sign of struggle, it was as if a creature in the night had simply swept through and extinguished the denizens without hassle.
The camp and its tribe has since been claimed by the sand, another relic amongst the foundations of the desert. The warrior himself stumbled away from the deadlands without purpose, without vindication. Those who had shown him kindness were dead, those who had shown him hatred were dead. He himself had partaken in their raiding and had then slaughtered all of them, families and warriors alike. The young man had been shown firsthand that nothing truly matters in this world and that all anyone knows or values can be removed in nothing more than a few hours. He was changed, a husk that still breathed.
Years later rumors began about a living shadow that would kill without discrimination quickly and efficiently, as though the arrows were guided by demons he would strike down anyone, for the right price.
Referred to simply as Cain the assassin would be contacted by nobles of varying standing and class all for the simple task of bringing in or erasing someone that they needed dealt with. As an emotionless killer Cain's employers generally prefer not to speak to him for prolonged periods of time, some because they find his calm manner disturbing and some plainly find him describing his emotions very annoying. Even still he has proven to be worth the money and whilst relatively unknown in the underworld of hired killers his skills come highly praised.
Cain operates primarily in Falke where the bright banners and upstanding churches provides a much needed blanket for the assassin to operate in, after all who would suspect a masked assassin among the yelling in the market and the warm insides to family and noble homes. Whilst he can't be everywhere at once and does indeed miss contracts entirely due to the travel time it is knowledge among those who commonly call upon his services that the best way to contact him is through the shady underbelly of Falke.
When everyone is expendable including yourself, feelings tend to become an antiquated concept. It would be easy to assume Cain simply kills for the money and nothing else, but deep down he cares for nothing, killing only because it is what he has been bred to do and what he feels is the only thing he deserves to do until he is bested and shown no mercy the second time around.
Personality and Aspirations: Despite Cain's threatening appearance those who have dealt with him describe him as being extremely odd. The least of which being that he doesn't seem to wash. The man is seemingly emotionless, speaking only in ever a flat monotone voice and his face never flinching from a neutral setting, because of this Cain has developed the eerie quirk of simply enunciating the emotion of which he is speaking in prior to talking, it is solely for his employer's benefit but he does it so often it appears it's the only way he can talk these days.
Inventory: - The Blackwood Bow, a jet black bow custom fitted to allow for longer firing distances and a marker attached to the side for a slight assist to aiming a shot. the string is loosened somewhat to allow Cain to draw an arrow for longer than normal before his arms tire. - Four Steel Throwing Knives, attached to a bandolier on Cain's chest these knives are used only for mid-range combat or to incapacitate a fleeing target by being thrown at their legs. Whilst Cain favors his bow he is also an excellent shot with these, though he considers the knives more of an investment than a viable weapon - Quiver, segmented to allow differing arrow types to be held and separated to avoid misuse. Common steel arrows are kept on the far left, rope arrows are kept in the centre for aid in climbing and poison tipped arrows are kept on the far right, there is also a small segment at the centre bottom for a few silver arrows, mainly due to Cain subscribing to the superstition that silver harms the Undead much more effectively. The quiver carries fifteen standard and poison arrows, five rope arrows and five silver arrows (Though Cain generally swaps these for whatever benefits the job) - Two Daggers, kept strapped safely to the side of Cain's boots these are used solely for when someone has closed the distance between him and gotten in close - Plain bag, Strapped around Cain's waist and resting on the bottom of his back, this bag carries the rest of Cain's worldly possessions which happens to be a few spare and experimental arrows, the money from his jobs that he can carry, a waterskin and whatever food he's stolen for the night.
Skills: Assassin - Fighting with grace and finesse rather than strength and brawn Cain is trained in the art of dodging enemy attacks and whittling them down with daggers or preferably at long range with his arrows. He is also much more suited to stealth with his athletic skills and velvet tread. Emotionless - Whilst it may seem like more of an irritant than a skill, Cain's lack of any conveyance in emotion save for his standard pre-speech enunciation means it is near impossible for someone to tell when he is lying, telling the truth and most importantly, what he is truly thinking. His lack of visual cues make him an unpredictable foe both in battle and in simple conversation. Aim - Cain does indeed miss his shots on occasion but more often than not he will reliably hit what he's aiming for and has managed to utilize this to create alternate pathways with rope arrows and utilize choke points on larger groups of enemies Languages - Abbalic, Piñuran
Are there other alien type races in this universe? If so how radically different from other Sci Fi like Trek, Wars, Firefly etc. etc.
Mostly picked Keanu Reeves for the dark hair and pale complexion since he's from the Undercity and to juxtapose the majority of nobility... And because I'm excited for John Wick 2.
(I've read and re-read the backstory and lore but due to the depth there's a good chance I'll mess something up, if that's the case then I'll be more than happy to change it)
Name: Whitley Nickname: N/A Age: 24 Birth Date: November 8th, 25,633 Gender: Male Planet of Origin: Nova Terra Race/Species: Human Height: 6' 1" Weight: 220lbs Physical Description or Image:
Social Class: Affiliated with the Imperial Family Titles: Lieutenant (Groomed for a potential promotion to Captain) Occupation: Imperial Stormtrooper Hobbies/Pastimes: Though the famed Imperial training regime takes up most of his time Whitley greatly enjoys reading and learning about the History of the empire as well as other cultures Talents/Skills: Extremely capable marksman and overall combatant, untapped potential in military stratagem Religious Beliefs: Agnostic
Personality: For an Imperial Guardsman Whitley is more approachable than most however is extremely defensive of his organization and past exploits on other planets, leading to the impression that he is far more capable of the often morally ambiguous actions of a Stormtrooper than he at first may seem. Despite this Whitley is rather open and unfailingly polite, particularly to nobles from various other planets and naturally the Imperial Family itself.
Biography: Whitley was born in the Undercity of Nova Terra and as like most Imperial Stormtroopers, to parents that he'd never meet. Whitley was raised primarily by a small family who operated a salvage shop in one of the slightly less crime infested areas, however by the time he turned 13 Whitley was deemed too much of a burden by the financially struggling family and was sent out to make his own way on Nova Terra.
For at least a year Whitley would bed with some acquaintances he'd made as a child and sell any useful scrap he came across in the slums, though he would never make contact with the family that raised him again. It was around this time Whitley had encountered a small patrol of Imperial Guardsmen, their presence in a gloomy place like the Undercity giving them an almost heroic like aura to the young Whitley. The encounter stayed with him for the remainder of his days, though he never would find out that the Stromtroopers had been in the area solely to quell a particularly violent uprising amongst the syndicates of criminals, severely.
Feeling inspired by these larger than life beacons of hope and accompanied by the knowledge that Guardsman often took street urchins like himself into their ranks he had sought to join and was put through the extremely harsh and seemingly unending training process. Despite the enormous physical strain, particularly for a less nourished youth, Whitley showed fantastic promise as a Guardsman, excelling in many of their combat exercises and eventually adapting his body to the daily punishment the training entailed. By the time he turned eighteen Whitley was enlisted as a full Guardsman.
Since then Whitley has grown to become an extremely capable member of the Guardsmen and has earned the rank of Lieutenant. However the years of brutal enforcement by the Guardsmen with which Whitley has willing partaken in and the increasingly glaring cracks in the Empire have left Whitley much more disenfranchised. Whilst never being as fanatic as some of his brethren he had always held steadfast loyalty to the Empire and the Imperial Family, but many nobles have noted to themselves his much more conflicted mind on both the Empire and his own morality. Something that, in the hands of a more savvy noble, can become dangerous.
After all, the support of one of the previously unflappable and fanatically devoted Imperial Stormtroopers is not support to be ignored...
Glad to be here man, looking around all the potential RP's going on rn, though some of them have some pretty expansive lore so might take a lil bit to settle into one.
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