Kassarock — Roleplayer Guild

I never finished an RP, although I did complete a character's arc in an RP over the course of like 4 or 5 years one time. That was probably the best (and also one of the hardest) things I've done in an RP before because killing off someone who's head you've lived inside for about a quarter of your life (at the time) isn't fun and I still miss writing as that character to this day.

However it was a great experience to take a character to their logical conclusion. They were always one of those more unstable asshole-ish characters that had trouble getting on with others in the group, and it was established during the narrative they were slowly sinking into a feral state as a result of degenerative disease (this was part of the main RP plot incidentally, not my down device). It was really sad because there would be periods where they would kind of warm to the others, then there would be some perceived slight or betrayal that would set them off and push them further away, and this built and built until my character ended up trying to kill the leader of our group. He loses, and is killed.

The thing that was so great about it was that it forced the group leader to also deal with a bunch of stuff and evolve and change as a leader, as well as completing my character's spiral into self-destruction. But still, all very bittersweet. I don't write as that character anywhere anymore because it doesn't feel right. I finished their story. Sometimes I would have liked to give them a different ending, because looking back there was a fair amount of me in there in many ways, but its never felt right.

Yeah so that's probably the best moment I ever RPed, the death of my favourite character.

There was a lot of stupid stuff as well, like the time me and friend got bored of a survival RP so spent a night whole replying to each other to build up an elaborate suicide pact death scene. Or one time a high school RP we were in died except for me and the same friend, so we highjacked it and introduced some Lovecraftian demonic characters we used to 1x1 with to slaughter everyone else. That was fun, but the best moment was still probably killing off Rolnak.

Jarl Uhtred of the Otr

A thunderous roar came up from the hills above the coastal village and Uhtred was struck with a pang of nerves and excitement. A battle this early into the spring’s raiding? This was uncommon, and not a good omen. They had hoped to fall a number of ports before the Maod had rallied warriors to meet them, it was not insurmountable, but they would no longer have the element of surprise and secrecy that the fleet normally operated under at the start of the year. 

“Someone find Axton! Bring me my arms!” He bellowed as the quayside swarmed in a confusion of bodies.  “Where are Jarls Magnus and Ormond?”

“Jarl Magnus took to the hills with his prisoners, he meant to offer them to Sil and have his Seiðr read their entrails for counsel.” A young man in a tunic stitched with the bear of the Bjarndýr called in answer. “My captain went with him, Jarl Uhtred.” 

Jarl Magnus was above the village this did not bode well. Magnus was a fierce warrior, but if he and his men were caught unawares in a cavalry charge they could be slaughtered. If Magnus was lost then this would be a sure sign the Red Tide (and by extension the Skrælingjar) had been forsaken by Lord Sil. Who knows what would happen if the men lost faith? For Clan to slaughter Clan was rare in the days of peace created by the Tinvaal, but tensions ran high, and the Melrakki and Ari were looking for any excuse to challenge the authority of the Jarls of the Red Fleet. 

“How many men did he take with him?” A boy had brought him his helm and shield, he threw his cloak off and donned his war-like garb as Ragnar readied the warriors from at least four captains in the village.

“Not many, Jarl Uhtred. It couldn’t have been more than sixty.” 

“By Sil’s wrath!” He cursed. “What is your name boy?”

“I am called Fenwick, Jarl Uhtred.” The Bjarndýr answered, he was young, not even into his beard yet and with an underfed and rattish cast to his face. But he looked calm, and there was determination in his eyes.

“Fenwick of the Bjarndýr, if you value the life of your captain, gather as many of men of your clan as you can and march them up that hill.” 

He turned away from Fenwick and towards the hills and the men assembled before him by Ragnar. There was at least two hundred men, mostly from the Otr, but he could make a few Bjarndýr and Kópr amongst the ranks as well. Of the other clans there was no sign.

“Ragnar, where is Jarl Ormond and the Hroshvalr?” 

They were fiercest warriors of the fleet, as well as its largest component, without their presence Uhtred was unsure if they would be able to secure victory against this unknown number of enemies. Ragnar turned to him, his beauteous face marred by a stern frown beneath his open faced helm. He held shield and spear in his two long fingered hands. 

“The Jarl leads his men down the coast to sack a temple or shrine he spotted when sailing into port. Axton went with him. It is not too far, I sent men to rouse them.”

At that the clash of steel on steel mixed in with the screams of men rang over the small cove, it came from a ridge above a small patch of woodland, directly inland from the village. 

Uhtred smiled sadly to his dear friend and drew his sword.
“It looks like we will have fight this battle without Jarl Ormond or my good cousin.” 

He raised his blade into the air and bellowed to the men before him.

“Sil demands the blood of these Moad-men! In His holy name, we shall take it! Follow me, and KILL THEM ALL!”

And will a war-like cry they began to march from the village into the pasture beyond, towards the treeline, leaving churned mud and drying blood in their wake.

Leigh of the Ari

“Land!”  Leigh cried as the ship sped forward through the waves of azure blue.  He was clinging to the top spar of his uncle’s great ocean going Knarr. Two days ago they had entered the inner sea of Irea, following Jarl Harlan the Old with the other Knarr. Now they drew near to the shore, to the Great Port of Whitbeach, the capital of the people known as the Nahrets. Leigh had heard his uncle and the other traders speak of the fabled city many times before, but this was his first visit to the great city.

He firmly grasped a rope and swiftly climbed down, gripping it with both of his bared feet. The days were warming, but it was still chill in the afternoon sun, and he was glad to return to the decks where he could wear his boots once more. Once he had them on he ran to the rear of the boat where his uncle, Nyle, stood proud, conversing with the rudder-man. 

His uncle had reason to stand so, he was a captain of the Ari, and more than that he was the captain of one the precious Knarr ships. The Knarr ships were not like other longships, they were much wider and with deeper hulls. Instead of mainly being powered by oars, they used the winds and had a much greater sail, meaning the crews were often smaller, only twenty or so men. But the great advantage of the Knarr was their ability to brave the wild and open oceans of the East without fear, they could cross vast waters when others kept to the coast, for this reason they were so valuable.

His uncle cut a striking figure, both tall and strong, with tanned skin and black hair pulled back into a long tail. His beard was neatly trimmed and shaved on the sides, his eyes were lively and had laughter in them. He was dressed in undyed linen and an open seal skin jerkin, with a magnificent indigo cloak thrown over them. A hoop of red gold was in one ear and a beautiful long dagger with an antler handle at his trim waste.  

Leigh was envious of his uncle in many ways, he had his uncle’s height, but was still a skinny and gangly boy.  His hair was a mousy brown and grew in tangled curls, unlike the smooth and silky waterfall of black Nyle sported. He had no beard, neat or otherwise, and in place of a fabulous cloak he had a worn coat of goat hide. His knife was old and nicked, its handle scales loose. He had not yet seen fifteen springs and this was the first voyage he had ever been on.

“Uncle Nyle! I saw land, I saw Whitbeach!” 

His uncle smiled back at him. He was the oldest of Nyle’s nephews and seemed genuinely fond of him, or was so in comparison to his mother’s sisters at least. 

“We should be there before evening at this rate. Sil be praised, He has given us good winds this year and Jarl Harlan’s memory of these waters are as sharp as ever.”

It was in Jarl Harlan’s fleet that they sailed. When the Red Tide had been announced, Leigh had first been disappointed that they would not sail with it. Jarl Harlan had only sent one of his raider boats to the Red Fleet, the rest he kept to sail south with, to trade with Irea and beyond. 

They had casks of salt-fish and whale oil from the Fiskr, lumber from the Bjarndýr, as well as furs and ivory that had gained from trading with the ice people of the far north. Jarl Harlan also had amber, gold, and Narwhal horns to trade. But the richest cargos of all came from the Melrakki Knarr that sailed with them, one captain had filled his hold with thralls to sell as slaves in the green lands, another had chained a white bear cub to his deck to sell as an exotic pet. 

“If His favour continues, we will have a good price for all these, then we can journey on south to the green lands, maybe Hemet this year if the winds are favourable.”

Hemet. The lands were near mythical in stature. It was so hot there that fruits withered on the vine and men’s skin turned black from the sun. The streets were paved with gold and even beggars wore silks so men said. If Leigh could go to Hemet on his first voyage, he could be rich man by the end of the year.

“But anyway, run along now and tend to the lines. We have work to do before we can dock.”

Over the next hour, Whitbeach came into sight. It rose above the white sands it was named for like a shimmering mirage. The city was a forest of close wooden docks, warehouses and ale houses, all raised up on piles and piers.  Of ships, there were few, mostly empty galleys and great oared ships of the south, military ships. The fisherman came and went as they did at any port, but only a handful of traders had arrived yet. 

The eight ships slacked their sails and drifted across the harbour, as the citizens swarmed along the docks like ants. This was it, Whitbeach, a real southern city. This was the first steps into his life as a trader. Leigh was ready.

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