Loving the posts so far! Just to let people know I'm currently beyond the reach for WiFi for the week, so while I'm reading everything and working on my own post, it might not appear until the weekend.
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|Greetings friends, partners, enemies, acquaintances, and strangers. I am Kassarock, or just Kass if you prefer, welcome to my profile. Anyway, I am a 20 something male roleplayer from the UK and a long time user of the site, although I have come and gone a fair bit over my time here. I used to be more active on the old site, and I still am relatively active in the off topic sections today, as well as in the guild's discord. So you might see me around.|
I generally consider myself to be an advanced writer, I pretty much always write multiple paragraphs, and will drop walls of text if the mood takes me. My grammar is okay, but not formally perfect, so I do not expect that from my partners either. I normally like quite dark and dramatic themes in terms of content in my roleplays, regardless of genre. Unless I have got an interest check up, or have messaged you, I am not usually looking for new partners to write with.
I think that covers just about everything. Message me if you want to know more.
Original Join Date: 07/04/2009
Advanced, Casual, 1x1, Nation, Tabletop
Historical, Fantasy, Sci-fi, Romance, Drama
Writer, Archaeologist, Cymro
Original Art by mellifera38
C H A R A C T E R I N F O R M A T I O N
Name - Urkhash Skullsplitter, goes by Ash.
Gender - Male.
Race - Half-Orc.
Age - 19, born 1476 DR.
Height - Short for a Half-Orc, an inch under six feet.
Class - Valor Bard.
Alignment - Neutral Good.
Birth Place - Triboar, Savage Frontier, Northwest Faerun.
Languages - Common, Orc, Dwarvish.
S K I L L S & A B I L I T I E S
While not quite a frontline fighter, Ash can more than hold his own in melee combat. He is relatively proficient in the use of most types weaponry and armour, although he favours the longsword and medium armour. The increased strength and hardiness his orcish blood grants him makes him a tougher opponent than his young age and skill level might suggest.
Ash is a magic user, specialising in healing magic and abilities which enhance and inspire others. However, most of these abilities are innate rather than learned, and hence he has a poor theoretical understanding of the arcane arts. In addition, sometimes his control over his magic isn't the best, and it can lash out in surprisingly destructive forms when he is angry, afraid or upset.
Being a bard, Ash is a skilled musician, his preferred instrument being the lute. Despite having some residual shyness and nerves, he is an adequate performer, and his earnest and slightly naive personality makes him hard to say no to. He knows something of surviving the wilds from his time on the roads and in the mountains, but is by no means an expert.
S P E L L S
Blade Ward, True Strike, Thunderclap.
Cure Wounds, Healing Word, Heroism, Thunderwave.
Aid, Calm Emotions, Shatter.
Mass Healing Word.
E Q U I P M E N T
An ugly looking utilitarian longsword of orcish design with a nicked blade.
A plain but finely made elvish dagger.
A leather sling, and a pocket full of stones
A strange mixture of a Dwarven chain shirt of black iron with hide bracers, furred mittens, and boots with fur wrapping.
A hooded fur lined travelling cloak.
A battered troubadour's lute.
A grey woollen scarf.
A hide pack containing several days rations.
A flint and steel.
A spare set of clothing.
A coin purse, containing mostly silver and copper pieces.
A golden locket, worn around the neck, and under his clothes.
|A P P E A R A N C E|
Half-Orcs have a reputation in the more civilised lands of Faerun as being giant intimidating barbarians, bigger, stronger, and meaner than the vast majority of their human counterparts. Capable of killing their enemies with a single blow and lifting what it would take four lesser men to carry.
This is not the case with Ash.
Despite his fearsome name of Urktash Skullsplitter, Ash stands at just under six feet tall and is only slightly more bulky than a well developed human. He's still muscular, but, not that strong. Not the whole, lifting trees, throwing boulders, wrestling giants strong that most people think of when they see an Half-Orc adventurer.
There's an undeniable level of extra humanness about his features as well. Sure, he might have the grey-green skin that people associate with the rest of his kind, but Ash lacks the porcine or upturned nose that his kin often bear. His brow os light and raised, not the low furrowed masses one normally sees on a Half-Orc. He has a few scars, though none are particularly impressive or noteworthy. And most glaring of all perhaps, were his tusks. Ash's tusks were tiny, diminutive, little things, barely even sharp. Certainly no good for goring people, crushing bones, or splitting skulls.
In truth, Ash might be one of the least intimidating Half-Orcs most people will have ever laid eyes upon.
He compensates for it perhaps with how he dresses, the blackened armour that he wears across his chest, the crude and heavy longsword that hangs at his side. The traditional orcish nose ring that he wears through his septum and way he shaves the sides of his head. All of these things seem to enhance the 'orcish-ness' of his appearance.
If you were to catch Ash while he was playing in a tavern, or relaxing in private, you would find that he prefers the soft and brightly coloured wools of the pleasant green lands found further south down on the Sword Coast, cut in the styles popular in Waterdeep and its environs.
P E R S O N A L I T Y
People are most often a product of their upbringing and their environment, for better or for worse. Most commonly, people conform to the environment they were raised in, being shaped and moulded by it into the forms that it encourages. Even when someone rebels against how they were raised, or defies their heritage, they are still influenced by these experiences, just in the opposite direction.
What then if someone is the product of two different contradictory heritages, environments, and upbringings? What contradictory feelings for conform and rebelling would take seed in their heart? How would they understand their place in the world? These are the questions that trouble Ash Skullsplitter most of all.
Ash is a Half-Orc, he has one foot in the civilised world, and one foot in the savage world of the wilds. To some this might seem an advantage, a skill that allows them to move fluidly between different worlds. But it does not feel that way to Ash, instead of belonging to two different worlds, Ash feels like he has no real place in either. Too weak and soft for the harsh trials of Orcish culture, too ugly and savage for the gentle civilised folk of the green lands.
He never knows quite how to behave around people, whether they expect him to be a brute or a boy. At heart he's inclined to kindness and gentleness, but time in Orcish society, and the unfriendliness he has received at the hands of humans makes him much of reserved and guarded. There's a shyness about him, a reluctance to expose himself. But when he does open up, there's wellspring of sweetness and child like naivety that flows from deep inside of him.
There's an earnestness about him as well. Beside being a troubadour minstrel, he doesn't have much of the sly guile and glibness associated with the profession. In fact Ash is a terrible liar, having a tell tale stammer and blush when caught trying to conceal something. He's not a complete paragon of virtue however, there is a darker side to Ash, a mix of confused residual emotions about his family, his life, and his place in world. There's anger there too, and a young, confused, angry boy with the power to wield magic can be dangerous thing indeed.
But above all else Ash is looking for the place that he belongs, where he can be loved and accepted, without fear of repercussion.
H I S T O R Y
Ash was born in the town of Triboar, where the Long Road that runs between Waterdeep and Mirabar meets the Evermoor way that leads to Yartar and onto Silverymoon, in the year of 1476 DR. It was a trading town, busy and bustling with caravans and merchants. It wasn't a great city like Waterdeep or Baldur's Gate, but it wasn't some wild far flung outpost on the edge of the world. It was settled, it was civilised.
His father worked there as a guard for the caravans heading north. That's how Ash's parents had first met, the gentle beauty from Waterdeep being swept off her feet by the ruggedly handsome Half-Orc who had been escorting her carriage. They had eloped years previously, when it had become clear her father would have never consented to such a match, and they had settled in Triboar to raise their son. It was somewhere that his father could easily get work, and was far enough away from Waterdeep for them to live in relative anonymity.
His father had been a fierce and proud Half-Orc who had been raised in the far north, in the Orcish Kingdom of Many Arrows. He had insisted on a traditional name for his son, hence Urtkash Skullsplitter, his mother however made sure that her husband picked a name that could easily be shortened into something less... well... Orcish, and so that's how Ash got his nickname.
Original Art by Minttu
Name - Velyn Virith of House Redoran
Gender - Male
Race - Dunmer
Age - 36, born 3rd of Sun's Dawn, 3E412
Faction - House Redoran (former), Buoyant Armigers (former)
Class - Spellsword
Birthsign - The Lady
Skills and Attributes
Light Armour, Speech, Acrobatics
Sneak, Short Blade, Alteration
Shield, an arcane shield that protects the user from harm.
Water Breathing, the ability to breath underwater.
Water Walking, the ability to walk upon the surface of water.
Slowfall, the ability to float instead of falling.
Chitin Glaive, fashioned in the traditional Dumner style.
Twinned Steel Wakizashi and Tanto, worn at the waist.
Full set of Light Dunmeri Chitin Armour.
The Chitin Glaive bears a minor flame enchantment on its blade.
Red Travelling Cloak.
Kagouti Hide Travelling Pack.
Few Days Rations.
Jar of Sujamma, a potent liquor of Morrowind.
Dunmeri Lute, similar to a Shamisen.
Three Vials of Skooma.
Books and Scrolls, mostly the teachings and poetry of Vivec.
Carved Guar Tooth Amulet, containing Ancestral Ashes.
|A P P E A R A N C E|
Velyn Virith is a young male Dunmer. The Dunmer age slower than their human counterparts after they reach physical maturity, and hence he has a touch of boyish youth about him still, despite having seen three decades. He is of an average height, but slender and long limbed, with the lithe musculature of a dancer or acrobat. The comparison is even more apt when you see him in move, his steps are light and quick, his motions fluid and graceful, at least they are when he is sober.
His face is handsome, the features sharp and angular like many of his kind, but not to the point of harshness, the bloom of youth softens them still. The skin is ashen grey, the narrow eyes blood red, between them sits a high aquiline nose that leads to a lightly arched brow. There's something sad about those eyes, when caught unguarded, the look in them verges between desperate hunger and utter despondency. But there's another look they take on too, with increasing regularity these days, the glazed half aware stare of the skooma addict.
Ceremonial Dunmer tattoos mark his face and body. A scarab sits on his throat and neck, it curves up to cup his jaw, its forelegs peaking out onto the point of his chin. A pattern of waves adorns his left cheek, it marks him as one of the Buoyant Armigers and curves up from the side of his neck to caress the side of his high wide cheekbone. He wears the Hand of the ALMSIVI Tribunal over his heart, and a depiction of a seated figure, flames about their head, on his back.
When they cast him out from the Temple, he cut his hair free of the topknot its warriors wore. The shorn locks have grown since then and they now hang around his face once more in loose black strands. Through the dark hairs you can make out his pointed ears, from which dangle a few golden rings, several empty holes indicate they were once adorned with many more than are currently on display.
Other than the chitinous armour and the red cloak that wraps around it to keep out the ash of his homeland, Velyn has few clothes with him. That which he does own are of fine quality, rich in colour, but poorly maintained and cared for, near threadbare in places. Around his slender neck hangs a carved pendant or amulet, a hollowed out Guar tooth sealed with resin, containing a fragment of the ashes from the funerary pits of his family's ancestral tomb.
P E R S O N A L I T Y
What is remains when a person has nothing left to believe in? One of the many answers to that question, is Velyn Virith. Like a ship thrown against the rocks, or a tower built on unstable foundations, he finds himself tumbling down and shattered into a thousand pieces. All that he thought he knew and loved is gone, and in its absence nothing makes sense to him anymore.
From the swirling chaos of his doubt and despair, pieces of who Velyn Virith once was sometimes emerge. He is still exceptionally courteous in his speech, stringing words together like poet, in either Imperial Common or his native Dumeris. He writes little, but some nights he still plays the lute he brought with him when he left Morrowind. In the darkness, he sings to the slow sad music, keening ballads that echo with wails of lost lovers and sundered hearts.
When he fights he is reckless, fighting with no shield, and with his head bare. He often allows his opponents to strike the first blow, a long standing tradition of the honour duels of the Dunmer people, especially of the Redorans. While perhaps a noble sentiment in the honour bound house Velyn hails from, on the battlefield it is a foolhardy tactic, one that will likely end up getting him killed one day. He does not seem to care.
He still says that he wishes to fight for what is good and noble, that he cares about protecting the common people, and living up to the ideals of his faith. But there is no passion to those words, they are learned by rote. To Velyn, gallantry is a routine, he does it because he does not know what else to do.
Velyn is not unfriendly, but neither does he pursue any form of closeness to the other rebels he finds himself associated with, content to wait out his time alone in between their battles. If approached he is companionable enough, if not for the somewhat bitter edge to what passes as his humour. He still laughs at lot, frequently at himself, but not in a pleasant way. There's something harsh about it, as if he considers himself the butt of some great and terrible joke. The only time his spirits truly seem to lift is when the sweet smelling smoke of Skooma hangs in the air around his tent and on his threadbare clothes. Those nights he does not play or sing, he prefers to lie insensate, and dream of times long gone.
In truth the emotion he most commonly seems to elicit in others is a mixture of pity and disgust. Pity because who does not know the feelings of loss and heartbreak. Disgust because Velyn seems to have given himself over to wallowing in such feelings.
All of his pain, all of his loss, his doubt, his yearning, his love, and his grief can be found in one word, one name, one letter written in uncertainty.
P R O F I L E
I N V E N T O R Y
- Traditional Honfukun Lute - the Shamisen.
- Several changes of fine clothes.
- Porcelain tea set.
- Flask of plum wine.
- Large pouch of gold.
- Parchment and Calligraphy tools.
- Lacquered and Gilt Sword Case, sealed.
E Q U I P M E N T
- Two handed Honfukun katana, highly decorated.
- Matching wakizashi.
- Close fitting Lamellar of lacquered iron plates.
A T T R I B U T E S
Might: 10 (+0)
Dexterity: 14 (+1 racial, +3)
Perception: 14 (+2 racial, +2)
Wisdom: 15 (+2 racial, +3)
Charisma: 14 (+4)
Constitution: 11 (+1 racial)
A P P E A R A N C E
Ishiya Ryutaro is a young Honfokun of relatively small and slight stature. Like the majority of his kind, his complexion is markedly different from the Folk of the Yongcun Empire, in this case a dark shade of dusky blue. His hair is similarity dark, black with the very faintest hint of an iridescent sheen, like that of a crow's feather. From beneath his short wavy locks a pair of slim curved horns emerge, which while well proportioned, would not be considered particularly impressive headgear by most Honfokun.
His face is more pretty than handsome. There is a delicateness to his features, which though none could doubt to be aesthetically pleasing, could also be seen as slightly too effeminate on a man. The softness of youth is still very much in evidence in Ryutaro's face. His skin is smooth and supple, his cheek and chin still hairless.
The eyes that gaze out from this youthful visage are of a bright and brilliant crimson, a colour that Ryutaro clearly favours in his choices of clothing. Several of the silken robes he has with him of this hue, as well as the lacquer that coats his armour.
P E R S O N A L I T Y
In social situations Ryutaro's youth belies his conduct, he is smooth and confident, having an excellent eye for the finer points of etiquette and appropriate behaviour. He is an engaging conversationalist, with knowledge on a great manner subjects and topics, but without a hint of arrogance or self-aggrandisation. In general he is pleasant, likable, friendly and humble.
He has an excellent level of control over his emotions, rarely appearing visibly angry or upset in any situation. This self control can at times make Ryutaro feel as if he is somewhat evasive, or opaque. He is so good at disguising his own emotional state and behaving appropriately at times he struggles to reveal in his inner feelings.
There is also an element of cautiousness, or perhaps even timidity to his person. He is never one to talk over another, and is quick to yield the centre of attention whenever it happens to fall upon him. Ryutaro is someone more focused on pleasing others above himself. An unusual trait in an heir apparent to a great and powerful noble house.
H I S T O R Y
The Ishiya clan can trace their lineage back as far as any of the great Honfokun families of Karitu. There were Ishiya who walked the ancient isles of Mosati, who fled the wrath of the yaoguai, and were amongst those two thousand weary souls who landed upon the shores of the Empire half a millennia ago. In the years since then, they have built a legacy that places them as one of the foremost clans of Karitu.
Three Ishiya clan leaders have reigned in Cimanu as Seshkyo, elected rulers of the Honfokun people. And though they do not currently bear this particular dignity, Ryutaro's grandfather, Ishiya Tamotsu, is still considered a Tochihai, one of the feudal lords who command wealth, respect and power in Karitu.
The Ishiya are noted amongst all Honfokun clans for their martial legacy. They were one of the families who brought the teachings of Senshodo with them when they travelled across the sea, and to this day the influence of these teachings runs strong in them. There is even a style of swordsmanship named after the family, the Ishiya style, which focuses on aggressive attacks and powerful static blocks. Ishiya Tamotsu was a noted warrior in his youth and is a highly respected fencing master and teacher. In addition many Ishiya have served as soldiers and commanders of Imperial armies, including Ryutaro's own father, before his untimely death.
Sometimes Ryutaro wonders what his life would have been like had his father survived. Would the pressures placed upon him by his grandfather been lessened? Or would his father just been another elder who's expectations Ryutaro felt he was continually falling short of.
Ryutaro was raised by grandfather. His father died when he was a small child, and his grandfather separated him from his mother when he decided having too many women around little Ryu was having a bad influence. He had always been small, weaker than his many cousins, and painfully shy as a child. But he was his grandfather's only male heir, and so Ishiya Tamotsu tried to make him into an heir worthy of the Ishiya name.
In part he succeeded. Ryutaro is cultured and intelligent, he overcame his childhood shyness even if he still is a little timid and reserved. He trained diligently at swordsmanship and is a competent fighter, but no more than competent. Where his skills shine are in his poetry, music, and dancing, all desirable skills in the scion of a noble family. But there are still those who see him as unworthy within his own clan, and his grandfather has never formally acknowledged Ryutaro as his heir and successor.
M O T I V A T I O N & O U T L O O K
Ryutaro want to live up to the expectations that others have placed upon him. He wants to be the diligent grandson, dutiful heir, and great warrior his grandfather has trained him to be. At the same time he feels stifled by it all. The weight of the Ishiya legacy his heavy, and he worries that it will crush him beneath it.
Deep down part of him wants to live his own life, free of what others think of him, and able to choose his own path.
Several nights later...
|"What are you thinking about, Amir?" |
The question startled him from his reverie. Amir had been leaning against the marble balustrade of a terrace balcony that overlooked the gardens. The voice came from an open archway behind him, an archway that led into the upper stories of the secluded harem of his great house, from which drifted distant sounds of laughter and music.
The voice had been that of a woman, though low and husky. He recognised it instantly, Farah, first amongst his wives and concubines. It appeared she had come to find him. She was like that, her and Aisha, they had always been quick to intuit things. They were smart women, they had to have been to survive that chaotic regime change this house had seen only a few years ago. And they had done more than survive, they had thrived, just as he had.
Although in the end it had cost Aisha her life.
Strange, how one could come so far and be struck down at the final hurdle.
The night air was cool compared to the scorching heat of the day that preceded it. Beyond the walled garden, Rakim glowed with the light of a thousand lamps and torches, mirroring the star strewn sky above them. Somewhere in the darkness below him, Deor Lavein slept in a cage.
"What makes you so sure I am thinking about something?" Amir answered with a question of his own, turning briefly to glance at Farah as she approached.
He could barely make out her features, silhouetted as she was in the light that spilled through the open archway. They were of an age, with her perhaps having a year or so over him. Her hourglass figure had always inclined towards plumpness, something that motherhood had only exacerbated.
Art by Leon Carre
|That was not to say that Farah was not unattractive, a degree of softness could be very becoming for some women. But beyond the shape of her figure, he knew she possessed a heart shaped face, pale for a Zadri, set with full lips and a pair of quick and lively eyes, all framed by long dresses of black hair, thickly curled and coiled. Amir could well understand why his predecessor had chosen her for a wife. |
She joined him at the edge of the terrace and slipped an arm around Amir's waist companionably, keeping it low so as to avoid touching the scarred expanse of his upper back. She had learnt to keep her hands away from that in the early days of their marriage, when Amir had made an effort to visit her and Aisha's beds with some degree of regularity. Though Amir supposed that had been some time ago now...
"You clearly have something on your mind, you haven't been paying attention to any of the girls tonight. Normally you at least pretend to be interested."
Amir laughed, there were few secrets anymore between him and Farah. Their alliance pre-dated their marriage and they both knew that it functioned best when they could trust one another. After all, the things they knew had the ability to destroy each other as well.
"Is it that obvious?"
"To me maybe, but I know you better than most. I'm sure Nadia has her suspicions. Is that what this is? Don't tell me you're up here mooning over some boy that you've found in a brothel somewhere." At her words the smile fell from his face and his look turned severe once more.
"Something like that. I'm thinking about Deor."
Farah made the sign to avert evil and spat to one side, a look of distaste visible on her features.
"I don't understand why you keep him here, after what he and his family did to you. You should have left him to die in that cage, or finished off him yourself. It's what most people would have done, what I would have done." Farah had been a slave once too, and though she had ended up the mistress of a great and rich household, she had never forgotten how her life had begun.
But Amir shook his head slowly, sighing as he did so.
"I don't want that. I want to make him mine." Farah raised an eye brow at him. He snorted in disgust in return, of course her mind would there, innuendo seemed to be the common second language amongst the women of the harem. "Not like that, I want to break him. I want to make him my slave. If I can do that... maybe I can put it all behind me."
There was a thoughtful pause in their conversation, as they both stared out into the night. Though he and Farah rarely shared a bed anymore, she had seen Amir awake from enough nightmares to know that the things he had been through had left scars deeper than the ones he wore on his back.
"Well I despise him regardless, after what he did to my dearest husband." She leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. Amir could not help but laugh softly to himself again.
"I am sure the feeling is mutual. Do you know what he said last I saw him? He threw a drink over me and said pouring drinks was all that my wives were good for."
"Did he really? If only he knew..."
Farah was thinking, a sly smile was playing across her lips, the beginnings of a plan hatching in her mind.
"He certainly is pretty though. I saw him when I was out in the gardens the other day, not close, but near enough to see how he looks. He's more feminine than some of the girls, and with fairness some of them would kill for. He wouldn't look out of place in the Harem, you know? But he is a man, such a shame."
"It would be a shame wouldn't it? For him, I mean, for you to place him in the Harem, as a man. Even a slave has his place as a man. What's lower than a male slave? A female slave." There was a bitter edge to her voice.
"You know I don't think that way." He reached out and stroked her shoulder. It was true that Zadri society limited to role and importance of women, as many others did. But Amir owed a lot to this particular woman, and to Aisha as well. He wouldn't be where he was today without them.
"I know you don't think that way... but does Deor Lavein?"
Farah began to explain her plan fully. Amir listened to her carefully, and began to smile. When she she had finished he found himself astonished by her devious ingenuity.
"And he thought all you were good for was pouring drinks."
The next day...
Art by Leon Carre........................................................................................................
|The next day, they did not come at first light to take Deor from the tiger cage. They had put him to work at clearing the irrigation ditches that watered the gardens and orchards since he had sent outside. But today, they let him sleep and then left him to stew in the heat until the sun was high in the sky. |
When they finally did come, he found himself led through a series of twisting paths behind blooming Rhododendron bushes, aflame with crimson flowers. Until he was brought before a small covered pagoda that sat in front a lily filled pool.
Amir sat beneath the shade of the covering. There was a single table, set with two chairs side by side. The other was left vacant. There was no other shade in around the pool save for that cast by the pagoda's roof. With a wave of his hand, Amir signalled for him to approach.
"Would you care to sit with me, Deor?" He gestured to the empty seat beside him. "I'll even do the pouring this time."
Amir filled two glasses with water from a silver pitcher at his elbow. He then added
((Sorry for the wall of text; I just saw in Eskel's relationships hider that he noted Peter "was destroyed", and I decided to come in and say, "well, aCTUALLY-" xD))
But, anyway, back on a lighter note: Do you guys think that the whole party has seen Crow outside of their plague doctor outfit, or just a few of them/no one at all?
<Snipped quote by Hyyde322>
I never really specified where Gideon had set himself up or where the adventurers guild was located, but I think it would make sense for it to be in Bradena. Casperus was likely his home nation and the city is obviously where he met everyone else, so I think he would have returned there after everything happened.
We could say that he was the one to send out the letters to everyone else to come and reunite back where it all first started. He can use some of the adventurers from his guild to track down the people who are a little more out of the way or whose locations are less known; giving the letter to a party heading out to the nomadic lands and asking them to keep an eye out for an Orc ranger would probably work better than using a courier.
If everyone is okay with that then people can come find him at their leisure, either heading straight to him or meeting up with each other in the city before going to him last.