Illogical Jim

The Bawdy Dog

Name: Ealdwine Silverstrings

Relationship to Edward: Ealdwine served the House of Hart-Ellington for several years as a musician and musical tutor, a position he received largely on the merit of being the son of one of the House's more notable retainers. Edward was his chief student, though their relationship was largely unproductive.

Needs: To write a song that will be sung for a thousand years after his death

Object: A finely-crafted lute, a gift from his departed father

Details: Well into middle age, Ealdwine's features still betray the handsomeness that marked him in his youth. His hair is light brown, streaked now with silver, and he is tall and lithe. Though often he broods on his poor fortune, now and again his blue eyes shine brightly with mirth. The rapier at his hip and the lute on his back show his profession as a bard and an adventurer, though he swears he is done delving into dusty dungeons, facing danger and pain for a mere pile of gold. But his tongue is sharp and his sword is sharper, and there is yet glory to be won.

He finds himself approaching the Bawdy Dog, fresh from a failed expedition into an already-looted tomb, hoping only for a drink, some company, and maybe a friendly audience for a song.

The Bawdy Dog

@ViolentViolet
Hmm... She doesn't seem like much of an adventuring companion for a human bard. Maybe she could be a former rival of his? Maybe they were exploring the same dungeon, or something?

The Bawdy Dog

Hello, everyone!

This looks like a pretty interesting RP, and I have an idea for a character- a bard and former adventurer, probably somewhere in the neighborhood of middle-aged. I was leaning toward choosing 'longtime adventuring companion' or some variation of which, but most of the characters thus far are a bit on the younger side.

@Strafe

My chief alternative idea was that he might be a distant relative of Edward, or perhaps a former retainer of his House, if that seems agreeable to you.

Land of the Chained

Very much a work in progress, but I thought I ought to at least post what I have so far. I should be done with the bio sometime tomorrow.

Name: Sir William Hastings

Archetype: Intellectual/Former soldier

Race/Ethnicity: White (English)



Background: WIP

Skills: Highly literate and multilingual, and has the rather useful ability to end up in places he is not exactly supposed to be. Capable of boldness and derring-do.

Talent: The Bavarian Fire drill
(I honestly couldn't think of a better way to phrase this talent than to link to TVTropes. He is, essentially, rather good at bluffing his way out of awkward questions regarding his activities by touting his status as a man of letters. Not to mention making up all manner of other applicable nonsense, sometimes on the spot.)

Flaw: Impetuousness, sometimes carrying 'bravery' to the verge of 'suicidal tendencies.' Additionally, though not properly a madman, he is utterly obsessed with the dark forces he is certain are at work in the World, and will go on about the subject at length to almost anyone who will listen.

Motivation: Hastings strongly suspects an occult connection with the Confederate victory over the United States, and is convinced that such a connection would be both diabolical and dangerous to the World at large. He is also a staunch abolitionist.

Behind the Legend

Apokalipse said So, I personally don't have a problem with this, but "dusky" is considered a racist term nowadays. Just thought you should know so, in the future, you don't accidentally offend someone.

I know. I used it specifically because Robert E. Howard (admittedly, a pretty racist guy) used it a lot, and I was sort of going for a corny, sword-and-sorcery pulp fiction feel.

I appreciate the heads-up, though.

The United States of Slavery

Count me in, as well.

Behind the Legend

Name: Corac (The Barman)

Age: 38

Gender: Male

Appearance: Tall, broad, and of a dusky complexion. His eyes are a warm brown, and his hair frizzy and black. His limbs are large and corded thickly with muscle, and move with an unexpected speed and agility in the midst of a tavern brawl. He smiles often, though many find his missing teeth to be off-putting.

Personality: Corac is friendly to those that treat him well, but is generally unwilling to suffer slights against his dignity. His impressment into military service was- to put it lightly- unwelcome. Though not terribly intelligent, and in fact nearly illiterate, he is possessed of a certain instinctual cunning. Additionally, he has an ear for language, and can speak several tongues with varying degrees of skill. He will fight to the bitter end to preserve his friends, his home, and his tavern. The rest of the World does not particularly concern him, as a general thing.

Back story: Born far to the south of Troporia in a small village, Corac knew little beyond his hills that were his home. Though he was intended to become apprenticed to a local warrior of some renown, Corac's future became somewhat uncertain when that particular warrior was disemboweled by an enemy tribesman in a battle that resulted in the destruction of his village. Fleeing north with other survivors, the young man made his way eventually unto the borders of Troporia. Taking up a job in an inn, he found the babble of strange tongues and even stranger tales from abroad intensely fascinating. In time, he moved up from his initial post (which chiefly involved emptying the chamberpots of guests) to become the designated 'fire-man,' tasked with keeping the fireplaces stoked with fresh wood, and eventually became one of the inn's barmen. Over the course of several years, he managed to save enough money to buy the inn from its proprietor.

Unfortunately, none of these experiences prepared Corac for life as a conscripted soldier.

Intergalactic Gladiators Raise Hell (High-Casual Sci-fi)

Oh, you tricked me with your intro! Very interesting idea, though- fresh.

Count me in.

The Outpost | Always accepting

Ezra is camped out in Wrigley Field, on the north side of Chicago. Just about everybody else is in the suburbs, I think.

The Hallows Inn

"Llyw, let us finish our conversation later, shall we?"

The apprentice nodded with vague assent toward his acquaintance. It would be good that someone look in on the barmaid, and all the better that the someone in question was not him. He did not even really know her, after all, but the spearman did. As Adrian turned and followed after Rosalinda, Llywelyn drifted toward the bar and procured a cup of wine before retreating toward a corner table.

Once securely seated, the apprentice produced a book from his satchel and laid it on the table. In the common tongue the cover read 'Vandar Brightmantle, his life and works, as recorded by his student Auredhel Hardfoot.' Flipping the book open, Llyw wished he had brought something a little more engaging to read. He was fond of his master, but the old elf had a tendency to drone on while speaking, and that tendency was if anything exacerbated in writing. The tome detailed, as one might imagine, the life of the human wizard Vandar, under whom Auredhel himself had once studied. Reading the book was important, the master said, not because he had written it, but because it shed light on the noble arcane traditions which they were being initiated into.

Even so, it was dreadfully dull. After a few moments of bumbling over the same paragraph, he turned his attention to the barroom around him. He sipped from his cup and watching the goings-on with keen interest. Truly, the Hallows Inn was a madhouse. All kinds of strange men and women, of races both familiar and fantastic, milled about in groups. Newcomers, such as himself, were not difficult to spot. They looked dirty, weary, or hungry. Most looked to be all three at once. He spied the blind maiden from before, chatting with a human near in age to Llyw himself. Not far away, a strange dog-headed man was shouting at a warrior, who appeared to be closing a wound with a firepoker.

How dreadful... he thought, staring a bit, He will have to have that looked at by a proper healer soon, or else it will surely become infected...

As Adrian returned, Llyw rose to his feet. Taking his cup and his staff in his hands and his book under his arm, he strode over toward him. He was the only person he had really spoken to, thus far, and that beside he was rather curious about the stranger. He said he was an adviser to a King- so where was the King? Not here, surely.

“Ah, my good man,” he began with a smirk, taking a seat across the table and setting his book beside the spear. “I was very much hoping that you would return. I feared that the lovely Rosalinda might have run you off...”

He trailed off, afraid that he might have been edging along a rather personal, emotional subject.

“But, ah- oh! You asked me how I came to be here, but I never had the chance to ask the same of you. How exactly does a king's advisor find himself at an inn in the Drakenwald, miles and miles from either King or Kingdom? Do tell, or I shall be forever curious.”