LouLou

After the End (Post-Apocalyptic with a twist)

I was thinking tribal as well. Were you thinking a number tribes or everyone from the same?

After the End (Post-Apocalyptic with a twist)

Interested!

The Battle for Astrea III [Always Open]

<Snipped quote by LouLou>

Accepted, but i would like to see a post example

@Crimson Lion

Done!

The Battle for Astrea III [Always Open]

Hopefully you're still accepting.
I may have taken one sentence from the post and run with it a bit far. So here's what I have so far so you can tell me to get out if I took too much liberty with 'technology' before I make up an example post.

Hider

Name: Margaret 'Maggie' Bonn
Age: 25
Gender: Female

Appearance: Due to her masculine and rather isolated upbringing, Maggie doesn't give much thought into the way she presents herself. Years of toying in workshops has left her posture lacking and skin pale but for a faint dusting of freckles over a slightly too-wide too-upturned nose. Her hands (the right notably missing the last two fingers) are stained black which no amount of scrubbing would be likely to remedy, if she bothered with such things. Her hair is a soft brown, cut unevenly and always held back, if not completely covered. The rest of her features are simple and plain, brown eyes with high eyebrows, a small mouth and jutting chin. Lastly, what clothing she does own is just as ragged as herself, that which is not stained or torn is at least singed in some place.

Kingdom: Earth Kingdom
Persona: In the midst of fighting a war that has already claimed the lives of her father and mentor, Maggie appears unperturbed by the demons knocking on her homeland's door. If anything she's eager for the vast testing grounds of the battlefield and plentiful resources of a combined effort. Her lack of solidarity and experience alienates her from most other soldiers. Not that she cares or in fact notices. She has an ingrained distrust of magic, and the people of both Sky and Water kingdoms, which comes from her judging them a primitive rather then politics and ancient grievances.

Sample: Base camp was disappointing, to put it in a word. Maggie may not have actually entered yet, but if the sentries greeting her and the dodgy view offered behind them where any indication, this was going to be an upward battle. She shifted the weight of a very heavy pack to another shoulder as the tall man looked over her papers for the third time. The only weapon he seemed to carry was a great broadsword. Maybe he was from one of the other kingdoms, or a tribe. That gave her pause, did soldiers from such parts read? She opened her mouth to offer assistance when the towering warden spoke.

"I'm not entirely clear as to your purpose here"
Maggie dropped the pack, huffed in exasperation and took a step forward to point out lines in the paper.
"-replacing the valuable assistance previously provided by Mr. Lucas Bonn after his unfortunate demise." A quick glance upward showed a glare intense enough to make her step back. She forced a grin at the man anyways, picking up the pack again. "May I enter?"
"You don't look like a soldier." He grumbled eying her pack skeptically. Maggie didn't respond, there wasn't much to say to that. She wasn't a soldier, but she knew her way around a gun well enough and was one of the few people of the Earth Kingdom who both knew how to make gunpowder and would give it to the army free of charge. Provided they gave her resources, plenty of resources. The silence continued as Maggie rolled on the balls of her feet, impatient.  He would have to let her in eventually, or a superior with some sense would come around and -
With a grunt the man stepped aside.
"Thank you" she replied curtly, giving a small but exaggerated bow as she passed not breaking eye contact until she did so.

It took another hour to find anyone who would direct her to her bunk, then half again for the  gentleman to understand there was a workshop as well which she should be lead to. But by the time the sun was just barely touching the horizon she found herself in a small tent with room only for a person stand, a small uncomfortable looking chair in one corner, and a large desk still cluttered with various tools and papers. This put a genuine smile on Maggie's face, the place stilled smelled of burnt sulfur. In a matter of moments she was fondly regarding the notes her father left behind, absorbed enough to forget about thanking the soldier that helped guide her. After a few uncomfortable seconds he left anyways.

It wasn't until it grew too dark to continue reading that Maggie took in the rest of her shabby workplace. Candles where the first thing she found, and lit one with a grimace. An open flame wouldn't help so much as hinder. Or take out this quarter of the camp. No, the serious work would be restricted to daylight; so she began to unpack. Yes, she had a bunk in an over crowded tent with Earth Kingdom soldiers, which was likely cleaner but this was her perpose for being here, and if she was going to be in the field, time would have to be spent wisely.
Tools and supplies went to the workbench, clothing and her newly made armor underneath. She left everything unorganized, giving herself more time to search through everything else left behind by her father. He had barely been in the place a month, yet the drawers were still filled with dedicated notes. Finding a blank sheet and piece of charcoal, Maggie wrote a hasty requisition order for spare or scrap iron. There wouldn't be a chance to get new supplies until morning she was sure, but best not risk forgetting.

She pulled the sole chair to the bench and the papers close as she dared to the dim candle light. The sounds from outside, soldiers on and off duty as well as the various other camp workers quickly faded. It wasn't until her candle burnt out that Maggie looked up from her reading. She yawned and stretched,  hands brushing a wetness on her cheek. Odd, when had she been crying? The thought was dismissed quickly as it had come.
"Well Vivian," She said placing the over sized firearm on the bench, followed by her uncovered feet, "welcome home."

Equipment: A single-shot pistol of her own design, affectionately named Vivian, nearly the size of her forearm. It has remarkable accuracy considering alternatives available, but a meager range of 9 feet, limiting it's usefulness in Maggie's ranged combat style.
Her 'tool belt' which, when not in the workshop, holsters not only her gun but half a dozen grenades and an assortment of other powders.

Ability/Magic/Technology: High intelligence in sciences and engineering, no magical aptitude.
-Grenades; self explanatory. For practicality the ones carried on her person need to be lit rather then being pressure sensitive, though she can produce land-mines and other varieties.
-Smoke powder; what it sounds like, stored in vials which release thick smoke making it difficult to see and breath. Released by breaking vials.
-Incendiary powder; similar to the gunpowder used in the grenades without shrapnel and saturated with other ingredients allowing it to burn for much longer. Works as the grenades, requiring flame to start.
-Corrosive powder; toxic powder which can dissolve flesh, wood, and tempered fabrics. Released by breaking or opening vial.

The Scarlet Masks

Jeez I'm rusty. But something's up at least.
Sorry again for the wait.

The Scarlet Masks

There were few things that could compare to a hot bath. A hot clean bath at that. It hardly seemed more than a few minutes before the knocking on the door started. Moira submerged her head one final time before stepping onto the cold stone floor, steam rising from her hair and skin. A muffled shout came from the hallway.
“Just give me a moment” She replied calmly, wrapping herself with a warm if not soft grey blanket. Moira was feeling particularly relaxed this evening, which was irrational, everything considered.

Her remark went unheard or ignored however as a girl, equally naked opened the door anyways. Outside where four others, all waiting their turn to use the bath. There was a twinge of guilt in Moira’s stomach, the water would be barely warm now, and cold for the last two girls. But it wasn’t enough to stop her from pushing past without a word of apology. There were more important things to worry about.
The note waiting on her desk for example. Amongst the other loose pieces of paper it could easily have gone unnoticed by anyone else, but Moira had been expecting it. Still, it did lurch the first wave of anxiety. The sanctuary may not be guarded, but not just anyone was aloud in the living areas, especially so late. Forcing her hands to stay steady, she unfolded the paper: Two street names and two numbers.

She dressed in a very faded red dress that had seen its share of tears and mending and donned a grey scarf over her wet hair and face. Lastly she took a thin vial, no larger than her thumb filled with a deep red liquid. After one last look at the door, she stole out the window and into the night.

It wasn’t cold, and the streets where abnormally clear, even for night. Barely two streets away from her destination, a mock bird-call sounded. Back the way she came, it would have to wait. Pace quickened, Moira reached the corner of the two streets. The first number was the building, the second the number of bricks towards the center, then the same number upwards. Reaching just above her head, she dug her nails into the mortar to work it loose; then froze. There was screaming close by. Different than the nightly dark-alley cries that happened far too often: This was unison of voices, bordering on a chant. The brick felt to the ground with a sharp clamor, and yet another folded note fluttered after it. Moira snatched it before it could touch the ground and squinted to read the ink by moonlight.

-Unexpected change, update by dawn, leave payment-

It was written in a foreign tongue, as they had agreed, but there was no signature. Not that would have given and reassurance. She pulled the vial from under her scarf and fingered the glass carefully. This wasn’t the deal, yet all the other information had been good. Whether now or in the morning it was too good an opportunity to ignore, even with the ever growing chance it was all a ploy. Holding a breath she placed the vial on the ledge and pushed the brick back in place, careful not to break the glass. The hardest part was walking away, and trying not to think what that delivery was going to be used for.

Moira began to retrace her steps in hopes of reaching the meeting before it ended. At the time of the signal its origin had seemed obvious, but as she drew closer she became less sure. The shouting was louder here, and the sound of hooves on stone. That worried her more than screams. Was it urgency or chance that prompted a meeting so near a Fireblade patrol? There wasn’t much time to question as she came upon the crowd that they were punitively trying to disperse. Death stained the air, more than one commoner lay in his own blood. More where being marched or dragged, likely for display on the morrow. And, in the center; the reason for such show of force from both sides. The body was disfigured horribly, thick blood still oozing out of now pale cold flesh. Someone had even gouged out the man’s eyes; more had looted everything from the corpse, including his underclothes. Only his large stomach and thick limbs depicted him as anything different from the starving commoners. Moira turned away from the wretched scene and was careful not to look away from the ground until after turning the last corners.

Her eyes passed over each over her allies, only two where obviously armed.
“Who do we have to thank for the tactful display?” She didn’t bother with any form of greeting. These where potential allies at best, not friends.

The Scarlet Masks

Eeek. Sorry guys un-foreseen real life things. I'm still here though!
Making first post, but if you have one at the ready Bing, don't wait on me. Moira's going to be late anyways.

The Scarlet Masks

*Slaps self - You had to remember one thing Lou. One thing.

& Edited.

The Scarlet Masks

I'm just going to put this here in hopes you're still accepting...
Not exactly a WIP, but I will need to read it over eventually. I'm tired though so not now. Just want to get something up. If I added/changed too much just let me know and I'll change or scrap it.

Moira Edited

Name: Moira Valmer
Alias: Viper
Age: 27
Gender: Female
Appearance:


Personality: Moira’s life is one of duty and servitude to her king, and her god. There is little she wouldn't do in the name of loyalty, despite her own straight moral compass. It is not vengeance that drives her but the hope of moving forward, she prefers to worry about avoidable future struggles than the certainty of the past. More than she would like to admit, it is Moira’s nature to be kind. Old habits die hard though and she still has a tendency to manipulate those more trusting than herself, for information and favours to better the order rather than personal gain; but even that gives her little solace.

Skills:
Inconspicuous; Moira knows the manners required for each level of society. She can blend in with gossiping noble women, or farmer’s wives bartering in the market. While she can’t become invisible, it would be difficult to pick her out of a crowd.

Well Versed; Moira can speak, sing, write and understand numerous languages, a handful she can even understand from reading lips.

Alchemy; Moira has acquired a great deal of knowledge about herbal mixtures. From the most venomous poisons she learned during her short time as a spy, to miraculous remedies gathered from her religious studies.

Trained; while not talented in combat, Moira can hold her own in a fight against a poorly skilled enough opponent. Her weapon of choice is a thin wooden staff matching her height, lightweight but inflexible and prone to snapping.

Bio: Westbell was not always ruled with so just and open a hand as the most recently deceased King Stargale. There were times of war and strife, with rulers cruel and insane. King Darien, whom reined nearly two centuries prior, was said to have been paranoid enough to have his servants poison guests he thought where conspiring against him. These servants not only assassinated his enemies, but gathered information, reading their letters and revealing secrets with wit and tongue. Of course, such fanciful tales drifted to legend after only a generation.

By the time Moira was born, under the gentle rule of the most recent king, there was little need for assassination, but fair rulers have just and many enemies as the bad. Moira’s father was a simple stable-hand, it was her mother that taught her the arts of deception and manipulation. Her education flourished, and by 9 Moira could read and speak more languages then most noblewomen. She was shown to make poisons, but told no servant had ever been asked to poison a guest for the past three rulers. How much the royal family knew of their own spies was a mystery to Moira, her mother was the only one she dared speak of it to.

At the age of 15 Moira was given as a gift to a noble house in the far eastern kingdom of Elis. The Westbell armies had attempted to conquer the mountainous islands no less than four times in five generations, only to be repelled by the cursed waters and rocky cliffs each time. There was at the best of times an uneasy peace, something which King Stargale wanted to make more secure; through marriage of his son to the Duchess of the isles.

In her years of service there Moira quickly became a favourite of Dutchess Seyl, gaining a place as one of her four personal handmaids, and eventual confidant. The only contact Moira had with Westbell was when reading the letters that where brought, all of which she went through and carefully resealed. There was little information to send home and on the rare occasion there was reason to, response was received or expected. For this it wasn't until the revolution was over that Moira heard what had happened. She quickly left Elis to return to Westbell, arriving four months after the revolution and when Dragonmaw already had a firm grip on the city.

There was nothing left for her at home. Those whom she had dedicated her life to serving where dead, and her own family nowhere to be found. There were only rumors of the hidden prince. If he was hidden well enough that no had been able to find him, even with such a large bounty, there was a chance Moira’s mother could be involved. But that was a small hope, and meant nothing in a city that had nothing to offer. The Fireblades of course had already closed the gates by then.

Moira found solitude in The Holy Order of Sev. In the early years of the rebellion’s aftermath the order resigned itself to help those suffering the most, no matter the resentment held over the change in rulers. But as more of the order’s sanctuaries where shut down on charges of harboring criminals, and even the servant’s of Sev being arrested for selling stolen goods, or poisoning the poor, it became clear they could not continue passive resistance. It was in one of the city’s few remaining sanctuaries that Moira learned her martial training. By that time all weapons that hadn't been hidden well where seized by the Fireblades, leaving nothing to train with but wooden staffs.

Weapons: A staff ranging from 5’-5’6”, usually by fashioned herself from rosewood, it is the only type weapon she uses, to pacify rather than kill an enemy. While it cannot hold up for long against a decent blade, it alows for a more acrobatic fighting style. A large knife nearly the length of her fore-arm is the only ‘weapon’ always on her person, though with no real knowledge of blade combat it is more a tool to her.
Other: I am one of them.