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3 mos ago
That feeling when you have a new character bouncing around your brain, dying to get out.
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K A S S A R O C K
30 | M | GMT
Greetings friends, partners, enemies, acquaintances, and strangers. I am Kassarock, or just Kass if you prefer, welcome to my profile. Anyway, I am a 30 year old 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

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Current Roleplays and Interest Checks

My 1x1 Interest Check Thread | Currently CLOSED

~ BLACK FLAGS ON THE ABECEAN ~ | Casual Fantasy TES | Set on the isle of Stos M'Kai in world of The Elder Scrolls franchise.

A Journey Of Recovery | 1x1 Fantasy Romance | A cursed knight and his mage companion travel the land in search of a cure.



Other Things

Current Avatar | Connor Fawcett

Check out my Character Archive for other/old character sheets.


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S A M I R A




Original Art by Shibashake

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C H A R A C T E R I N F O R M A T I O N

Name - Massatyra-Armalatu Samira yr Sadhara el Hakkam yi Athkatla, also known as Jhasina, the Sadidrifa, the Khamarnari, the Desert Rose, the Golden Widow, the Witch Whore.
Gender - Female.
Race - Human.
Age - Late Twenties to Early Thirties.
Height - Average, a little over five feet.
Class - Sorceress.

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S K I L L S & A B I L I T I E S

Magical
Samira is spell caster of great power and cunning application. She is a Sorceress, gifted with innate magical talent without the need to study the arcane arts. The raw power of Sorcerer's magic often surpass that of their more scholarly counterparts, but often at the expense of their versality, and this is indeed the case with Samira. Her gifts lie in three specific applications, Illusion Magic, Enchantment Magic, and Elemental Magic, in particular, Fire Magic.

However, her understanding of the arcane as a theoretical subject is generally poor. She never had to learn the basic fundamentals of magic, her powers were given to her by fate instead, therefore her grasp of magical theory is much less developed than for a wizard of similar capabilities.

Martial
While Samira has attained a mastery of a great many things, martial combat is most certainly not one of them. She prefers to shun physical fighting, opting to use her magical talents to target her enemies from afar. She knows a little of the use of short bladed weapons such as knives and daggers, but not much else. Do not think however that she is helpless in a melee confrontation, Samira has a few tricks up her sleeve.

Miscellaneous
Samira is a charismatic individual and possesses great skills in persuasion, flattery, seduction and deception. Her abilities to beguile and enchant others borders on the supernatural. She speaks several different languages, including Common, Alzhedo, and Chondathan.

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E Q U I P M E N T

Weapons
Curved steel dagger, encrusted with gems, fashioned in the Calishite style.

Armour
Samira relies on her magic for her protection, she wears no physical armour.

Enchanted Items
Periapt of Health - Grants the bearer immunity to diseases.
Amulet of Health - Increases the bearer's constitution.
Ring of Regeneration - Heals the bearer's wounds.

Miscellaneous Items
An expensive red and gold silk dress with matching veil.
Numerous pieces of non-magical jewellery.
A small pouch of magical reagents and components.
A gilded water canteen.
A bottle of felsul flower perfume.
A sun parasol.
A pocket mirror.
Coin purse with several hundred gold pieces.

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A P P E A R A N C E

Samira is the very image of beauty itself, or at least, that's what many of her admirers have told her over the years. Her appearance is a strange combination of North and South Faerun, that makes her seem exotic and desirable to inhabitants on both sides of the continent. For while her skin is sun kissed dark, like the Calishite people she claims kinship with, her long flowing hair is the colour of fairest gold, most often found in the northern climes of the Sword Coast.

In Calimshan particularly her hair is an asset, and she dresses to enhance its golden nature. Her clothing is often of deep and warm colours, maroons, dark reds, purples. The coloured silks and satins are juxtaposed with cloth of gold embroidery in order to better show off her own honey coloured tresses. Samira's appreciation for gold goes well past her clothing and is also present in her taste in jewellery. Around her neck are many expensive necklaces and amulets, bracelets and bangles hang from her wrists. Her adornment is often complimented by an almost see through silken veil, some have said this layer of obscurification only makes her seem more alluring.

Most alluring of all though is the face behind the veil, with its high wide cheekbones and its full and luscious lips, artfully painted with pigments and makeup. Under the delicate arches of her brow, Samira's kohl painted eyes gaze out wickedly, full of temptation and mischief. They are eyes that men can lose themselves in, and many have become snared there, like insects trapped in amber. For that is their colour, glorious, shining, amber. When she is angry their depths burn with a hidden fire, dangerous and intense, so much like the devastating elemental magic that she wields.

Sometimes, however, when Samira thinks no one else is watching, there's another look in those eyes, beyond the temptress, beyond the sorceress. There is fear. Absolute and abject terror. And loathing, so much loathing, a hatred that could swallow oceans, leaving nothing but a blasted salty plane, and still not be quenched.

But that particular mask rarely slips. That part of herself is well hidden under the faces she wears, the perfectly applied makeup and paint, the exquisite and expensive clothing, the rich and heady perfumes, all her power and her wealth and her status. But she never forgets that it is there, no matter how hard she tries.

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P E R S O N A L I T Y

Samira is a cut gemstone, a thing of many facets. All of them are brilliant in their own way, but not all them as pleasant as the face she wears would have you believe. The reflections they cast can be distorted and ugly, their edges hard and sharp. Who she is and how she acts often depends entirely on who you are, how you relate to each other, and what your position in society is.

To the wealthy and powerful, Samira is a gracious host, a delightful and witty conversationalist with a sharp sense of humour, and a fixture at many high society gatherings in Calimport. Her parties are the stuff of legends, her circle of acquaintances studded with some of the city's most celebrated inhabitants. She would be held in high esteem, if were not for her somewhat infamous reputation for seducing husbands and taking them as her lovers. She is a beguiling woman, and since the death of her own husband has had a rota of either influential or handsome bedfellows. The powerful men of Calimport adore Samira, and she adores them back, flourishing like a flower under their gaze and attention. But the wives of these men all despise her, and name her 'The Witch Whore' behind her back.

In return Samira is often more comfortable in the company of men than of women. In particular she does not like women who are younger or more beautiful than she is. Even more so, she absolutely despises old women as being hideous and weak, though she rarely says as much to their faces. Duplicitous would be one word to describe how she behaves around her social peers, rarely speaking a honest word, always dealing in half truths, praising one to their face, disparaging them behind their back. It is fortunate that she is an exceptional liar, otherwise everything would have come unravelled a long time ago.

Most slaves and common folk are largely beneath her attention. Though she has been known to lavish coin and favour on those who manage to please her, equally does she heap scorn and recriminations on those who fail her. Samira is undoubted a generous mistress, though she can easily be a cruel one. She is fickle in such inclinations as well, punishing those she rewarded only days before. When those she considers beneath her do not respond to her manipulations and coercions, she does not think twice of using force to compel them to her bidding.

Vulnerability is abhorrent to her. She tries her best to never reveal her true feelings about anything to anyone. The only time she ever speaks with genuine emotion is about her first husband, the one that she says died back in Amn. Even then the true story of what happened is one she has only ever divulged once, and that did not end well for either Samira or the man she was foolish enough to tell it to.

She still wants to be loved, even after all these years, and all the men she has been with... she needs to be loved.

But keeping her true feelings hidden has been growing more difficult as of late. She has become more reclusive over the last few years, keeping unorthodox company, adventurers and treasure hunters, cultists and witches. She feels crushed beneath the vast webs of lies that she has spun, and as the terror that lies underneath it all grows larger and larger, so to has her desperation and her desire to destroy it all and start again. But Samira knows she is quickly running out of fresh starts...

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H I S T O R Y

Calishite names are an exercise in history. While many foreigners find the extensive names of the region burdensome, for the inhabitants who understand its code, a name you can teach you a person's titles, what clan they belong to, who their parents were, where they were born, and many other things. Consider then the name that Samira bears, and learn from it, as a native Calishite would.

Massatyra-Armalatu Samira yr Sadhara el Hakkam yi Athkatla.

In Calishite names the titles always go first, and are listed from least important to most important. In Calimshan rank and power are of the highest importance, it is a grave offence to skip over the titles of a person when addressing them without appropriate the use of the Annuv, the hand gesture to signify that a title has been left out for the sake of brevity. Thankfully Samira only bears one title, 'Massatyra', the female equivalent to a Massatyr, a low ranked member of the old Calishite nobility. Compounded with the term 'Armalatu' (meaning widow) it designates that her title is derived from her husband, who is now deceased. The closest translation to Common would perhaps be Baroness-Dowager.

Samira is her given name, the one likely chosen by her parents. It speaks of a degree of arrogance and vanity on their parts too, for Samira is term in Alzhedo for a Princess. Clearly whoever named Samira thought highly of her, and believed that she was destined for great things.

The name of one these parents can also be known through Samira's own name, for next there comes the Matronym, the name of Samira's mother, which in this case is 'Sadhara', meaning Desert Rose. Generally speaking, Calishite women take their mother's name as a Matronym, while men take their father's name as a Patronym. This is not always the case, a man might refer to himself as the son of his mother, or a woman as the daughter of her father, if the parent was particularly famous or if the other parent was particularly infamous. Clearly Samira thinks well enough of her mother, or poorly of her father.

The family name comes next, 'Hakkam'. The Hakkam clan are a powerful family of Calishite nobility from Calimport, one that Samira married into almost a decade ago when she first arrived in the city. Prior to that she bore a different family name, Duwabir, a prominent family of human Calishite nobility were exiled during the rule of the Genasi Paschas. Women take the family names of their husbands when they marry. Considering that Samira freely says that the sadly now deceased Pascha Massatyr el Hakkam was not her first husband, she must have married an exiled Duwabir before she ever came to Calimport. Meaning she is a widow twice over before the age of thirty.

Lastly comes 'Athkatla' which tells what city Samira was born in. Athkatla is the capital city of Amn, a country to the north of Calimshan, past Tethyr, but south Baldur's Gate and the Sword Coast proper. It is another large wealthy city, the sort of place where one could see a woman like Samira growing up. Indeed it was also where a branch of the Duwabir family was exiled during the reign of the Djinn and their genasi subordinates in Calimshan.

But if you were to chase this thread further, some questions begin to raise themselves. The last of the Duwabir's died decades go in Amn, his line ending with him. Those that remember him recall he did marry a Calishite woman with dark skin and stunning golden hair, but she did not go by the name Samira, she was called Sadhara. Was this Samira's mother? Who then is this other man that Samira claims to have married? And why did she not bear his name when she came to Calimport ten years ago?

Calishite names are an exercise in history. But not all histories are straight forward... or fully revealed.
My girl is DONE!



>Go look for a weapon
*lurks intently*
>Go to the Police Station
Name: Willet

Age: 29

Sex: Male

Race: Human

Appearance: Willet is a small man. Not standing much over 5 foot 7 inches, but what he lacks in height in makes up for in brawn, he is of strong sturdy stock, with a broad chest and thick arms. He is tanned and has fairly weather beaten skin for his age, indicating a life spent mostly outdoors. His hands are especially worn, covered in hard skin and calluses.

His face is relatively attractive, though not exactly handsome. He keeps his hair reddish-brown short and sports a similar coloured beard that he crops closely too. His face is board and lends itself to a smile of good strong white teeth, with a broken, bent looking nose above them. His eyes are a green-y hazel.

His clothing consists of leather and hide mainly, hardy and pragmatic, in mostly hues of green or brown. Over this he wears a long green wool cloak with a hood, very useful for blending into a wooded area. The piece of clothing most important to Willet is his boots, good boots are essential if you live an outdoor life. He normally carries a leather pack on his back, along with his composite bow and a quiver of arrows. On either side of his belt hang a wood axe, and a dirk.

Personality: Willet is quiet but friendly, a tough looking man with a relatively soft heart, especially for the poor and children. He doesn’t like cheating, lying, stealing or killing and has a particular dislike to those who make money off of other’s misfortune. But neither is he idealistic, he most definitely understands that you do what you have to do to survive. He likes company, but believes that towns are corrosive to people and bring out the worst. He would much rather have company with honest working men and women than with a high lord or a king.

Magic/Abilities: He has a natural affinity to the forest, years of spending time there have taught him its ways, and years of listening to it have taught him its tongue. Whilst this might not constitute as true conversation with the forest, it grants significant advantages when it comes to encountering dangerous animals or demons, or navigating a dense and unfamiliar wood.

Weakness(es): Willet is a simple man. He cannot read or write his own name and is poor at anything academic. In combat, he is not the most skilful either, his melee tactics are poor and he is unsuited to fighting in open areas.

Background/History: Willet was born outside of a town, and he will die outside of a town. His parents were some of the few people to forsake the relative safety of a community to live their lives in the wilds. They led simple lives, partly maintaining a small hold, partly hunting and cutting lumber to sell to the local villages. They had only one child, Willet, and for twelve peaceful years life was good. Occasionally there would be a threat from the wilds, but Willet’s father knew the forest even better than Willet does now, so they were safe enough. But of course, in this world peace like that cannot last for long.

But it was not beasts or demons that shattered this peace, it was sickness. Willet’s father got seriously ill and quickly, had they been in a town they might have got a doctor, but it over half a day’s walk to the nearest village, almost a full day to the nearest doctor. He died shivering and vomiting in his own bed. After that, living in the wilds couldn’t go on, without Willet’s father they had no protection. And so they forced to move into a town, they couldn’t sell a property out there in the wilds, so they were poor, poorer than dirt. For another two years they tried to get by in a little back water town, hunting, fishing, begging, anything. Willet’s mother deprived herself of food for his sake, she grew weaker and weaker, until she caught a fever and died too. After that, Willet decided there was nothing left for him in towns, so he returned to the peaceful place he liked best, the wilds.

It was tough, but he had learned enough from his father, and what was left he managed to pick up from himself. He has a meagre existence hunting and trapping, living a nomadic lifestyle on his own. He is currently visiting Bitewind to sell his current haul of furs and to pick up some supplies, before he intends to return to the wilds.

Additional/Miscellaneous: Willet has killed very few people in his life, and only when he has been attacked first and forced to. He will always, always err on the side of mercy.


Thrall of Kings




I remember very little about this roleplay, but I do have a few posts for it saved, and I do known that it marks a relatively important point for me in terms of my development in how I created characters. Willet, my character from Thrall of Kings, was the first distinctly average character I ever made on the Old Guild. Prior to this I had always played quite powerful heroic or villainous types. Willet however, was different. He was just a guy who lived in the woods, trying to get by, not particularly heroic, but not a bad person. He just an average person, who wanted to live quietly. Unfortunately, adventure called.

I remember the GM being a little bit perturbed by the fact Willet wasn't super on board with the whole 'you are chosen heroes' plot he had concocted (and not told us about during character creation, if I recall correctly), especially after the bloodbath that preceded that particular conversation. Granted, we're all here to play the game, so when the plot train arrives we should always try to get aboard. But Willet never saw himself as a hero, never saw himself as anything special, and didn't see the fate of the world as his problem. He would have come round to it eventually, I imagine, but he needed some convincing.

This roleplay also featured a little set piece I have definitely reused a couple of times, often to highlight the non-heroic nature of characters and to knock them down a peg. A city chase in which the character only escape by leaping into a cesspit. Not sure if I stole that from somewhere. Anyway, read it below and steal it for your own games if you are so inclined!








I N T R O D U C T I O N S


1 5 T H O F S U N D U S K 4 E 2 0 5
F E A T U R I N G : D A R ' J H A N , E P E S O R N , & V E L Y N


Dar’jhan shifted on the hard, pillowless stool he was sitting on, trying to get himself, but mostly his tail, into a better and more comfortable position. His eyes looked at each of the other potential recruits of this resistance, his new comrades-in-arms if the older Nord wanted them. Though Dar’jhan had gathered already that the man could use all the help he could get. It was a curious thing, to be able to fight beside a man, a Dunmer and an Altmer and be equals in this endeavour. A curious thing indeed.

With a sideways glance he made sure for himself that no one was willing to be the first to speak, or perhaps they were still thinking about the words the Nord had spoken or the reasons why they wanted to be here and join.

The Khajiit cleared his throat and bowed his head in greeting as he started to speak in his Khajiiti accent:

“I have been given many colourful names, here in Skyrim but my name is Dar'jhan or Half-moon as the Khajiit from my caravan call me. Whatever you decide to call me, this one does not care. That choice is yours. I was on the road with a Khajiit trade caravan, assigned to guard the merchants from terrors of the wilds and any kind of...barbaric hostilities by both men and mer. Sadly I have lost the other Khajiit after we were attacked and do not know where they are or what has happened to them.” During this, he had closed his eyes with a frown, as if the thought was too painful to talk about but as he opened his eyes again, he stared straight at Brunwulf Free-Winter and tilted his head. “To ask us what brings us here to this resistance, is a very astute question. For me, it is simple to answer. I offer my services to you in the hope and believe that you can help Dar'jhan find out what happened to the caravan.” He spoke calmly in his warm voice. “You will find me experienced and quick both with mind and blade. With sword and shield this one stands ready, fearless of what the road will bring to him.” He gave a courteous nod and grinned.

Epesorn listened attentively to the first person to speak: the cat. This khajiit, Dar’jhan, looked quite capable to Epesorn. He did not know much about khajiit - in fact, this was the first he’d seen in Skyrim. There were a few he’d met in Alinor, of course, but they were often in the lower ranks of the Thalmor, so there was no extensive interaction. Most in Skyrim must have been driven out after Ulfric took power. The khajiit’s face unnerved him - it was harder to read expressions on a cat’s face. The grin, however, was unmistakable.

Next to speak was the old Dunmer next to Epesorn, who was perched cross legged atop the chair in which he sat. He was dressed strangely, in a battered set of chitinous armour, much scratched and worn. It made him look like some kind of ancient bizarre insectoid creature, with the head of a Dunmer grafted on top.

“Under sun and sky, I greet you all warmly, though you’ll see little of the former here in this frostbitten land.” His voice had that dry rasping quality of many of his kind, at least the older ones who still remembered Morrowind, a side effect of growing up in the ash. “My name Serjo Redoran Velyn Virith, but most here just call me Velyn now. I am a warrior-poet who’s lived a long life and picked up some useful skills along the way. The reason I am here is to help my people, amongst other things.”

His lips turned upward in the hint of a sly smile at the end of his cryptic words. Velyn’s blood red eyes switched from the Brunwulf Free-Winter who sat opposite him to the one amongst them who had not yet spoken, the young golden skinned Altmer. They rested on him expectantly, waiting for him to speak. When he did not, the old mer cocked his head to one side and continued anyway.

“And what about you, boy? I was not expecting to run into one of your kind in Skyrim.”

Dar’jhan smiled at the words spoken by the Dunmer, Velyn. There was honesty in them but also a certain degree of mystery that seemed to surround him. It made the Khajiit wonder what kind of skills he could possess. He could only guess. The attention shifted to the Altmer who had yet to speak a single word. Darj’han sat back with his arms crossed on his chest and narrowed his eyes, waiting in anticipation for the story.

The male Dunmer, Velyn, looked quite old to Epesorn. He was clearly the oldest in the room, while Epesorn was the youngest. The Dunmer’s age had taken him aback at first, but he did not doubt the mer’s ability. There was an air of confidence about him, a sureness that belied his years, one that Epesorn immediately envied once as he sensed it.

When Velyn finished speaking, the group turned their attention towards him, and he felt a spike of fear, as one might feel before public speaking. Epesorn lifted his chin, tapping his throat, then tapped his lips, and made a crossing motion with his arms. The meaning was obvious - he could not speak.

To compensate, he first raised a hand, holding up one finger, then patted the shortsword at his side. He held up a second finger, and with the other hand, Epesorn splayed and let a small flame flicker overtop his palm, snapping his fist shut when they’d all got a good look. His two combat skills - sword and magic. He grinned at the group, both out of nervous energy and excitement for whatever task was to be had for the lot of them. Epesorn would have felt as if his own introduction was lackluster compared to the others, were it not for both the trained arrogance his Justiciar instructor had endowed him, and the more natural kind which tends to emerge from the ignorance of youth.

“Well,” Velyn began, chuckling softly at the mimed performance of the younger Altmer. “I have been known to talk enough for two, I think we should get along just fine.”

A male Nord - or, at least, that was what Epesorn assumed the human to be - was the last recruit to speak. Glad to have the attention on someone else, he watched the man curiously. Epesorn fidgeted with his hands and feet to release the tension that had built in his gut the minute he stepped indoors.



Written in collaboration by @TheFox, @opticOpinicus, & @Kassarock
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