Hank is a Co-Admin that helps run the Guild.

Status

Recent Statuses

12 days ago
Current I think it's a good thing that movies like 1917 are trying to give an accurate portrayal of the horrors of war. Keep that image in mind and never support another war in the future. It looks like that.
3 likes
12 days ago
What's going on with the gaming community is that loads of eagerly anticipated games turned out to be FUCKING SHIT CUNT GARBAGE upon release.
3 likes
24 days ago
Happy new year!
4 likes
2 mos ago
For the oldfags among us: my name is from an old Flash animation series on Newgrounds called Madness. Used to be the full thing (Hank J. Wimbleton) but Hank is what stuck.
6 likes
2 mos ago
Ripping out the floor of the nursery-to-be with my bare hands is a remarkably effective way of feeling like a manly man for a moment.
11 likes

Bio

Original join date: August 2008
Moderator since: 20 January 2016
Co-admin since: 5 May 2017

26-year-old Dutch guy living in Amersfoort, NL, with my girlfriend. I love Italian food and German beer. Also Belgian beer. And Dutch beer... just beer, really. Other than roleplaying my favorite pastimes are playing videogames, going on roadtrips through eastern Europe and scrunching up my face when the DJ drops Russian hardbass.

In the old version of the Guild I was the record holder for 'Most Infraction Points Without Being Permabanned'.

My primary roleplaying genres are fantasy and science fiction. Big fan of The Elder Scrolls, Warhammer 40,000, Mass Effect, Fallout and others.

Most Recent Posts

A man and his horse emerged from the woods, the sound of hooves moving slowly on the main road announcing their arrival. The horse was large and black, a stallion and a war-horse of excellent breeding -- Zerrikanian, perhaps. He trotted along at a leisurely pace, his head proud and high, and his eyes were free of blinders. Their absence spoke of the steed’s fearlessness. The saddlebags across his flank, clearly well-worn but expertly maintained, were crafted from fine and sturdy leather and they suited the horse’s rugged spirit. Odd, however, was the antlered skull of a dead monster that was strapped to the horse’s rump with a few strands of rope. It bounced gently with the stallion’s tread, but the animal did not seem to mind.

The man was cloaked and armored, his face hidden in the shade of his cowl against the warm sunlight, leaving only black wool and grey steel of to speak for him. Two swords were sheathed across his back -- of expert craftsmanship, judging by the pommels, both incorporating the majestic and scornful countenance of the griffin into their designs -- beneath the unmistakable wooden frame of a lute, the instrument’s strap diagonally stretched across his cuirass. His belt was lined with a variety of pouches, a few glass vials filled with strange and opaque substances, and the scabbard of a Redanian dagger. Another one was strapped to his boot. Anyone who knew anything about anything would recognize the man for what he was at first glance, and the medallion on his chest, suspended on a chain around his neck, would confirm it for sure. The man was a witcher.

And the witcher’s name was Morgan. He had been told to look for an upright stone, the size of a man and the shape of a boot, but he had no need to look for the stone anymore. He’d smelled the meal roasting over the campfire from a mile off and picked up the idle chatter of the men not long after. He guided his horse away from the main road and after a few dozen yards the trees parted for him, revealing a small path that led up to the meeting place -- with the promised stone standing proudly in the center. Smoke wafted up and lazily drifted away from the campfire and men were scattered about it in the inimitable way of people waiting for something. More important, however, were the individuals immediately in front of him.

Morgan eyed them all in turn. A woman with dark skin and darker hair, curly and wild, and a spear in hand. A Nazairi, if he had to guess, who he knew to be fierce and unruly people -- but capable warriors, if anything. Next was the man he expected to be Balidvar, the king’s bastard. Such associations and pedigrees were meaningless to Morgan, who had precious little respect for the so-called lords and rulers of mankind, and he instead evaluated the man as he saw him. He saw something hard and tough in his eyes, and the skewed set of his nose betrayed that he was no stranger to violence. A cunning bastard with something to prove. Morgan exhaled slowly through his nose -- he knew the type, and could only hope that Balidvar wouldn’t try to boss him around… for his own sake.

Last but not least was the sorceress, for she obviously was one. No other woman would have been dressed like that for such an expedition. Morgan had met a few of them throughout the long decades of his life and his relationship with them had been… complicated. On one hand, their mastery of magic intrigued him, as all Griffins are wont to do, and they were capable and intelligent individuals. On the other hand, he didn’t trust any of them any further than he could toss a cyclops. They were schemers and manipulators of the highest order, and his piercing, feline eyes lingered on her the longest before he tore his gaze away and dismounted from his horse, boots dropping onto the forest floor with a heavy thud.

The witcher grabbed his horse by the reigns and walked past the trio, black cape trailing behind him, to carve out a place for himself in the temporary camp. He caught Balidvar’s gaze in passing but said nothing to the bastard. They both knew why Morgan was there. If their glorious leader had something to discuss, he’d wait for the man to approach him and not the other way around. Morgan’s eyes flitted from one worker and soldier to the next. Invariably, they looked at him with suspicion, wariness or disgust. The witcher was used to it.

“Here, Charlie,” Morgan murmured to his horse and tied his reigns around the stump of a tree before straightening up and running his hands down the sides of the horse’s face. “Some nice grass for you. Maybe one of the cooks has a treat for you later, eh? How about that?” His voice was hoarse and gruff from disuse, but his tone was soothing and Charlemagne -- having felt the hostile energy of those already gathered there -- nickered quietly as he relaxed. “Good boy.”

Morgan turned around to find most of the camp still staring at him and he sighed. “Go on, back to work,” he called out, his beard hiding most of his grimace. Only his eyes, the irises aglow in the gloom of his hood, were clearly visible, and their intensity was enough to avert everyone’s gaze as they hurried themselves to look busy. Morgan growled something unintelligible and sat down on the same stump he’d tied his horse to, unburdening himself his lute, and pulled one of his swords free from its sheath. The silver blade gleamed in the sun, except where black blood stained the precious metal. Morgan produced cloth and some oil for his pouches and started wiping down the blade with slow and methodical motions, eyes cast down and focused on his task.

One of the two witchers had arrived.
The city was on fire.

Soldiers marched all around him, swords and shields at the ready, their formation flawless and their steps steady, but Rhillian could see the uneasiness in their eyes. He felt it too. Every time the dragon overhead swooped low and dove out of the clouds for another strafing run of blistering hellfire, the air itself bowed and supplicated to make room for the beast’s massive form. The soldiers could feel it, the bow-wake of the displacement, and they flinched every time another street or row of homes ahead of them went up in flames. The dragon was on their side. They all knew that. But it was still a dragon. All of their most primal instincts were telling them to run.

“Steady, soldiers!” came the cry from their commander up ahead. The plume on her helmet was a fierce splash of red against the grey backdrop of the stones of Windhelm and it danced furiously in the wind, spurred on by the heat of the inferno that surrounded them. She was just as unsettled as the rest of them, Rhillan knew, but she was putting on a brave face all the same. That was what good leadership was. The chaplain admired her.

A hand touched his shoulder and he looked aside to see Lucius looking at him expectantly. He was a young man, forced to grow beyond his years, and defaced by a long scar that split his face in twain -- the souvenir of a Nordic greataxe. “It’s going to be alright, won’t it?” Lucius asked.

Before Rhillian could say anything, the clouds above them parted and the great dragon Odahviing burst forth, his wings trailing wisps of condensation. Sat stride his shoulders was the Dragonborn, clad in bone armor from head to toe, a shining blade held aloft. The weapon slashed through the air, like a general signaling his archers to fire, and the maw of the dragon opened to unleash a stream of fire that raked across the Palace of the Kings, looming dark and unforgiving ahead of them. Archers positioned on the roof went up in flames and fell, screaming and writing, to their deaths below, or collapsed in a charred heap where they stood, the flesh on their bones melting into ashen sludge. With a few powerful flaps of its mighty wings, Odahviing ascended back into the clouds, out of range of the Stormcloaks’ ballistas, and it was gone.

“Yes, it will,” Rhillian said, forcing himself to tear his gaze away from the awesome spectacle. He smiled and his eyes softened and he raised the amulet of Akatosh he wore around his neck for the soldier to see. “The son of the gods is with us today.”

---

Bruma, Cyrodiil
20th of First Seed, 4E213


He shot awake abruptly and gasped for breath. The Imperial blinked hard to clear the mist of sleep from his eyes, the afterimages of dragonfire still burned into his retinas, and slowly the guest quarters of the chapel’s rectory coalesced into form. Windhelm was long gone, he remembered now, and placed a hand on his chest to find his amulet of Arkay there instead, as it should be. The quick wipe of a hand across his brow confirmed the presence of cold sweat and Rhillian swung his legs out of bed, the mercifully cool touch of the stone of the floor against the bare soles of his feet anchoring him to reality and helping him pull the last vestiges of his slumbering mind out of the realm of his dreams and nightmares.

“Gods, give me strength,” came the familiar whispered prayer, barely audible and little more than a breath from between chapped lips. His amber eyes looked down on his hands and he saw that his fingers were trembling. Lucius’ scarred face came to him again, the image unbidden and unwanted, and Rhillian clenched his fists. The past should stay in the past.

He was in Bruma, and today was the day.

Rhillian got up, washed himself and slipped into his robes and armor, mouthing prayers and mantras as he went through the morning routine. The guest room was sparsely decorated and pragmatically furnished, as proper quarters should be, and Rhillian found comfort in the sensibility of the space’s arrangements. Windows set into the high walls, leading up to a vaulted ceiling, let in bright shafts of sunlight when he swiped the curtains aside and Rhillian basked in them for a few moments, his eyes half-closed against the light. He took another deep breath and exhaled slowly. His fingers were no longer trembling. The light, and the muffled birdsong that came from the church gardens outside, had cast away the darkness. Rhillian smiled as he slowly pulled his gauntlets over his hands.

Francis turned around in his seat when Rhillian stepped into the rectory proper and the old priest inclined his head in greeting. “Sleep well, my son?” he asked and put down the papers he had been reading next to the plate of breakfast in front of him. The living room had the same high ceiling as the sleeping quarters and was dominated by a large oaken table in the middle of the space, large enough to seat a dozen guests, that made Francis seem almost diminutive as he had his breakfast by his lonesome. The walls were lined with bookshelves and display cabinets that contained ecclesiarchical and theological texts, priestly attributes and sacred mementos. It was a beautiful room and Rhillian almost envied Francis.

“Yes, thank you,” Rhillian lied and bowed to emphasize his gratitude. The two priests knew each other from their time in the Legion and the old man had been gracious enough to allow Rhillian to stay overnight after his arrival in Bruma. “This place is wonderful. You must be comfortable here.”

The Breton chuckled and shrugged. “As comfortable as anyone can be at my age, I suppose.” He inspected Rhillian more closely over the rim of his half-moon glasses and frowned slightly. “Are you sure you must go? You look like you could do with some more peace and quiet. My doors are always open for you, you know.”

“Well, the guild will announce their recruits today,” Rhillian said and made sure that his steel claymore was fastened properly across his back. “If I have not been selected, I may call upon your hospitality once more. But just until I have planned my next move. I cannot stay for long, and I wouldn’t want to impose myself on you.”

Francis waved dismissively. “Bah. This chapel runs itself. Sigmund and Fryra are good people, but boring. Nords make terrible conversation. You, at least,” he said and jabbed a finger in Rhillian’s direction that was almost accusatory, “have interesting things to say, hm? Think about it. Now go.” The priest turned back to his papers and pushed his glasses back up on his nose. “Leave me to my reading.”

Rhillian smiled. That brusqueness had always been Francis’ way. He nodded and made his way outside, his chainmail clinking softly as he walked, the door to the chapel gardens swinging open with a loud creaking protest from its hinges. “Should get that looked at,” Rhillian called over his shoulder and smirked when he heard Francis grumble something unintelligible in response.

The fresh mountain air of Bruma greeted him and he drank it in gratefully. A few twists and turns through the streets of the city brought him to the town square. From there, the bulletin board was not hard to find, given that a sizable crowd had already gathered around it. Several people caught his eye; a towering Argonian, first of all, that looked to be almost more dragon than beastman, followed by an excitable female Khajiit and even a Nord woman that looked even wilder than a Stormcloak. Rhillian waited politely at the edge of the crowd until a navigable path to the notices opened itself to him and he stepped forward to scan the list for his name.

There it was. Rhillian of Drakelowe. “Title and all,” he mumbled to himself and smiled again. Truth be told, he had expected to find his name there. Adventurous healers were always hard to find. The Imperial glanced sidelong to see another Nord woman with dark hair strike up a conversation with the Khajiit and he realized that these people would be his comrades for the foreseeable future -- his comrades and his flock, in fact. He stepped back to let someone else look at the notice and looked up at the giant Argonian, lifting a hand against the stark sunlight of the morning. He had already memorized some of the other names on the list and one stood out.

“Lifts-Many-Boulders,” Rhillian said to himself and laughed. “I can see why.”

MORGAN
The Witchman



Art by William Paré-Jobin | Playlist


If they put that, they're wrong. Every Witcher knows there's still plenty of monsters. It says so in one of the first chapters of "The Last Wish."


Based on this (and our conversation about it), I have edited Morgan's sheet to reflect this. He no longer believes that witchers are unnecessary but struggles with humanity's widespread notion that they are.
@Hank Morgan is fukken great. He is accepted after you clear something up.

It's somewhat confusing to me on why, after he was saved by a Witcher and given the opportunity to become one, he believes it's a good thing that Witchers are dying out, and that he wishes he could have lived a normal life rather than be a Witcher. Isn't the fact that his family was brutally killed the reason he couldn't live a normal life, and that vengeance/prevention of further butchering worth the Witcher trials as well?


Soldiers and magic could've done that job, but kings and sorceresses alike were too busy plotting against each other instead of against the monsters in the land to bother with it. Instead humanity relied on witchers while also actively persecuting them, destroying their homes, erasing their culture and spitting in their faces wherever they went. Morgan no longer believes that humanity deserves witchers to protect them. If humanity no longer deserves witchers, then he didn't have to become one. Arthur could've brought him to an orphanage and Morgan could've been a blacksmith or a farmer or a poet and married a pretty lass and had a whole bunch of babies, and he would've been blissfully unaware of just how undeserving humanity is.

Or at least, that's what he believes. It's a nugget of self-pity and misanthropy that lies at the core of his being. It developed over the years; when he set off on the Path, he saw things the way that you described. Then humanity beat that naivety out of him. Unlike Aidann, Morgan has no memories of the heydays of the witcher caste to cling onto, back when they were treated with respect and gratitude and humanity was too weak and ill-established on the Continent to defend themselves. He only knows xenophobia and ignorance and the few exceptions he encountered along the way weren't enough to balance the scales.

It's pretty hard to explain because it's so contradictory. Morgan is a complex guy and it took me quite a few days to work through his mindset while writing.
Alright, here we go. Final version. Pinky promise.


With the aid of @Stormflyx, I have settled on the School of the Griffin and adapted Valker into a more knightly and honorable sort, complete with cape and pet falcon. The sheet is progressing nicely but I don't have an ETA for its delivery just yet. Should be well before the 18th, however.
@Hank I can't exactly not allow female Witchers for canon and then allow a non-canon school. Would your character not suit the Viper, perhaps?

The problem is I've always given people leeway and I am attempting to not give too much this time.


No problem! The Viper School is an interesting suggestion, but perhaps a little odd given what Letho of Gulet eventually does to Foltest. It's interesting, though. Maybe I'll make a different witcher entirely and go for the School of the Cat. They have lots of potential for a complex and dynamic witcher-turned-mercenary. I'll think about it some more!
Do you allow non-canon Witcher Schools as well?
© 2007-2017
BBCode Cheatsheet