Oraculum

Create-A-Hero: A Superhero RPG (Closed)

@nitemare shape @Dedonus
Hoping I am not overly intrusive, would my character be approved, or does he require further amendments?

Create-A-Hero: A Superhero RPG (Closed)

And here is, at long last, my character sheet.

Character you have created: Johannes Schmidt

Alias: Türk Filmleri Adam

Speech Color: Saddle Brown(8B4513). (Note: italicised text from Türk Filmleri Adam and his companions is spoken in German in-universe).

Character Alignment: Walking the Line

Identity: Secret

Character Personality: It would perhaps not be entirely accurate to describe Johannes as a modern hedonist, were it only for the fact that he lacks most of the glaring traits and habits commonly associated with that archetype; however, upon deeper reflection, it becomes apparent that there is simply no better definition to be given of him. There is little he truly cares for beyond his own, unconditional enjoyment. That said, he is neither so egoistic as not to include those few who have attained the privilege of his friendship and esteem into this aspiration, nor so weak-willed as to let himself be entirely mastered by his lusts, or to allow himself any sorts of the latter beyond the tamest ones. He sets pleasure as foremost among his goals in life; yet he does not mindlessly crawl toward it as many other do, nor lash himself into a frenzy which he then strives to assuage at any cost, but is capable of constructing logical and sufficiently elaborate plans to reach that end.
His demeanour is, in spite of the latter trait, not quite affected. Honest to the point of bluntness, abhorring as he does misunderstandings and quid pro quos, Johannes shall never hesitate to face whatever situation he might find himself stumbling into, exhibiting a bravado bordering with foolhardiness and an often uncalled-for flair for the dramatic in any conceivable circumstances. Such perilous traits are compounded by an almost unnaturally unshakable indifference to stimuli which would normally cause fear or anguish, seemingly acquired by Johannes along with his powers.

Uniform/costume:

The Costume

Johannes has adopted as his makeshift costume a horrendous patchwork of scraps, cardboard and adhesive tape, completed by what seems to be a repurposed curtain and a clumsily glued-on false beard, to reflect his favoured pastime. He usually wields a short wooden javelin wrapped in colourful paper and a golden cardboard sword:

The Sword

When not donning his heroic paraphernalia, he appears as the very epitome of the average youthful Mitteleuropean type, with nondescriptly light-brown hair and vaguely greyish eyes; more often than not, he wears cheap, anonymous sport-style clothing.

Origin Info/Details:
Johannes Schmidt was born in Berlin as the neighbouring Deutsche Demokratische Republik was breathing its last, and the entire country whereof he was a citizen was clamouring for the long-awaited unification which was finally at hand. It might have been that these events occurred too early in his life to leave any lasting impression, or that he soon felt he had had quite enough of them; however it might be, never in his life would he display any measure of national pride, or any other feeling, for that matter, nor would he regard politics with anything but slightly amused bafflement at the importance attributed to such fundamentally abstract matters.

As the Schmidts were a moderately well-to-do family, their latest offspring lacked nothing in the way of basic necessities, and had the possibility to trudge his way through the education system up to graduating in History at the Freie Universität. Though he never displayed a particular aptitude for academic learning, he compensated for his lack of exceptional skills with a diligent, disciplined approach to study, fuelled by the belief that it would all pay off someday. Though such an opinion was not altogether unjustified, the reward for these years of application was not as swift in arriving as Johannes expected, and throughout his first autonomous years he found himself drifting from one clerk-level occupation to another, ever seeking a suitable opportunity to rise through the ranks and ever being met with an indefinitely long, blind routine which left him quite discontented with the world at large and the employment sector in particular. It was at that time that he met Nejat Gucli and Turan Ahmad, his peers in age and position, whose Turkish descent had grown largely diluted by generations of more or less steady integration, reaching, they averred, back to the times of Friedrich the Great himself. Sympathy, first comradely, then personal soon sprang up between Johannes and the pair, and it was not long ere they introduced him to the ruling passion which had first united them, and soon captured him as well - namely, the somewhat perverse enjoyment of turksploitation films. Sitting till late at night before a smudged screen in Nejat and Turan’s apartment, Johannes nearly laughed himself ill at the inconceivable gymnastics of clumsily costumed actors whose expressive repertoire consisted entirely of fearsome grimaces, and swore repeatedly that there never could be enough pictures of that sort in the world. This marked the beginning of an enduring friendship between the trio, who rapidly grew inseparable - a condition which, among other things, offered distinct economic advantages, as the rent was paid collectively.

Then, one night, the unexpected occurred. Upon returning from the last workplace he had established himself at, Johannes happened to be strolling through a park, which, fortunately enough, lay directly across his path. Catching sight of a small, glimmering object on the ground before him, he bent to retrieve what seemed to be a coin, and was surprised when the minute item proved unexpectedly heavy and unaccountably cold to the touch. Upon closer scrutiny, he saw what he had lifted was indeed a metallic disk of some sort, but certainly not a monetary unit of any sort he was familiar with. The shining surface was a of a cerulean-veiled white in colour, and bands of iridescent light ran across it without any regularity or, indeed, motive. At that moment, he became aware of a chilling numbness spreading through his arm, and had barely enough time to be afraid before a sudden electric shock enveloped his mind and senses with impenetrable darkness.

Of what followed Johannes has but a dim recollection. He recalls awakening and passing out again at brief intervals, almost intermittently, in an environment whose appearance he has described as vaguely resembling a grimy, long-abandoned airport in a severe state of disrepair. Large greyish-green shapes often flitted at the corners of his vision which he is almost certain were living creatures, and he could have sworn that he occasionally heard, among the humming, rasping and clattering of machinery, grunting sounds of distinctly organic origin. He frequently found himself strapped to flat surfaces (it was unclear whether they were horizontal or vertical) surrounded by spinning lamps of indescribable colours, or at the core of vast, thundering mechanical constructs of unclear functions. Finally, he awoke facing a screen whereupon there appeared, in a slow, laborious sequence, a series of sentences written in what appeared to be a curious form of semi-phonetic English. UMIN YUR OGGANIZMS MENTOTIC POTANSHUL AZ BIN ALTRT flared the letters before him, mingling monstrous spelling with outright nonexistent words, YU WL UZIT AN MEK UZ SI | YU KEN. Thereupon a shock identical to the one which had heralded his arrival into that nightmare shot through him again, and, when next he regained consciousness, he was in the park where he first had stumbled upon the fateful coin-like lure.

His return home was met with astonishment, and he was informed by Nejat and Turan that he had been missing for a full week. Having initially devised a feeble alibi involving a deceased uncle, he was soon constrained to disclose to his friends what had truly transpired upon beginning to manifest certain startling abilities. Although he did not perceive anything unusual even while doing so, he frequently found himself telekinetically manipulating distant items with a mere effort of will, often unconsciously and without being in the least surprised by it himself. Additionally, at times he uncontrollably blasted images he was mentally envisioning into the senses of others, with his companions being the first collateral victims of this nascent power. It was not long before Johannes, who had recovered from the shock of his experience in startlingly little time, discovered that, by exerting his will, he was able to harness these abilities and direct them coherently, as well as to modify their effects as he pleased. In particular, seeing as he had grown able to select what images he projected into the minds of his targets, he adopted the psychic display of his beloved Turkish abject-series films as the signature of the image he had been building for himself - Türk Filmleri Adam (roughly “Turkish Film Man”), Berlin’s first resident superhero.

As the city had heretofore never known the salutary influence of superhuman protection, this figure, zealously assisted by Nejat and Turan, who met the opportunity of becoming Türk Filmleri Adam’s sidekicks with nothing short of glee, was in no shortage of occupations. However, his intents were not so pure as to warrant his diving headfirst into action. Rather, his priority was to negotiate a deal with the authorities, by which he would track malfeasants and consign them to justice - for a reasonable price. Nor was this partnership exclusive: Johannes thought little of selling his services to the highest bidder, even when the latter was a company seeking to instil dread into trade unions or accomplish some similarly morally dubious goal. The treatment which had granted Johannes his abilities appeared to have made him strangely callous, insofar as even the deaths of his parents due to illness did not seem to affect him. His friends, already not being especially idealistic individuals themselves, took his new demeanour in stride, as it was not reflected upon their relations.

After a couple of years, however, business began to grow scarce, and the days dull. Those of the most significant criminals who had not been neutralised, such as the local cell of one Shroud Syndicate, had gone into hiding beyond Türk Filmleri Adam’s rather clumsy reach, and the discipline reigning in the private sector was exemplary. Johannes and his companions had grown accustomed to adventure, and, being deprived of it, they began to cast their gazes toward more promising lands. On the other side of the ocean they had often heard that superhumans abounded, and, when Turan discovered that the city of New Sardis was (roughly) quite close to the areas of highest interest and offered some of the cheapest real estate they had ever seen, all doubts concerning their plans for the immediate future were dissolved.

Hero Type: Psychic

Power Level: City Level

Powers:

Mental Projection
The favoured offensive ability of Türk Filmleri Adam, this application of his skills enables him to subject his targets to specially conjured mental images by psychically affecting their sensory reception neural nodes. Those in the grip of this power find themselves experiencing entirely life-like visions, perceived as though they were themselves an integrating part thereof. Projections do not render their subjects unconscious, but usually leave them unable to act due to severe mental and physical disorientation and a painful strain upon the neural network (not to mention shock at the horrid nonsense they are forced to witness); prolonged exposure may result in permanent neural and psychological damage. The visions' end is as abrupt as their beginning, provoking nausea and a reeling sensation. Türk Filmleri Adam may extend his projections upon any number of individuals within his field of vision; however, he must maintain concentration in order for the effect to last, and tampering with the senses larger quantities of targets demands a proportionally greater effort.

Rudimentary Telekinesis
With a mere exertion of his will, Türk Filmleri Adam is able to affect physical bodies at a distance, thrusting them away from himself, pulling them in his direction or lifting them from whatever surface they might be resting upon. While the raw potential of this capability is impressive, it is unsuited for any sort of fine manipulation or actions requiring a grip lasting longer than two or three seconds.

Kinetic Armament
Türk Filmleri Adam's costume and weapons, being composed of harmless household materials, are scarcely a combat asset in their own right. However, by surrounding them with a malleable telekinetic field of compressed force and air, their wielder can grant them lacerating edges and sufficient toughness to withstand impacts equivalent to medium-calibre gunfire, though without entirely suppressing the ensuing vibrations. These enhancements require a moderate effort to activate, and last for as long as their generator remains actively conscious of them (thus, rendering him unconscious or entirely distracting his attention would cause them to fade).

Dünyayi Kurtaran Adam
In critical circumstances where his powers should result insufficient to fend off danger, Türk Filmleri Adam may, with a potent application of willpower, temporarily refine his telekinetic capabilities, becoming able to alter matter at a sub-molecular level. While thus empowered, he can atomically translocate his body, effectively teleporting across brief distances, disrupt the structure of inorganic matter, causing items to violently explode, and even concentrate light into blinding flashes. Upholding such a state is tremendously exacting, and it is impossible for a human of average resilience to prolong its effects for more than ten minutes.

Attributes:

Height: 5’7’’

Weight: 172 lb.

Strength Level: Normal Human / Up to about 5 tons with telekinesis

Speed/Reaction Timing Level: Normal Human

Endurance at MAXIMUM Effort: Normal Human

Agility: Normal Human

Intelligence: Average

Fighting Skill: Untrained

Resources: Average

Weaknesses:

Human, All Too Human
For all his modified “mentotic potential”, Johannes remains a human being, and not an extraordinarily strong or clever one at that. He is no more invulnerable to wounds, diseases and various mishaps than any other person off the street.

The Limits of Faith
A curious aspect of the powers Johannes has been endowed with is the fact that they are fuelled by his own belief in what they can accomplish. Thus, any application thereof of whose success he is not entirely assured will prove ineffectual, even though it might have been theoretically plausible.

Power Tends to Tire
As mentioned, activating Johannes's psychic abilities requires an effort of will. Although the fatigue toll may initially seem negligible, it gradually waxes increasingly draining, and lengthy usage will often leave him exhausted.

Supporting Characters:

Nejat Gucli and Turan Ahmad: Johannes's long-time friends and, more recently, assistants in super-heroic endeavour, Nejat and Turan's characters seem to be pre-ordinately congenial to him and each other alike, sharing the same enjoyment-driven inclinations and cinematographical preferences. The main difference between the two's personalities lies in their attitudes: while Turan is usually more proactive (though this is a comparative term), Nejat bears a pronounced antipathy toward the very concept of effort, though, when hard-pressed, he has demonstrated a certain aptitude for lateral thinking.

The Experimenters: The mysterious beings responsible for abducting Johannes and endowing him with superhuman powers as a result of a not better described process (or “fiddling”, if one is less than lenient). Johannes himself knows nothing regarding them, though he suspects they might be of extra-terrestrial origin, if for no other reason than the outlandish appearance of their machinery.

Locations:

New Sardis

Located across from Newport, Rhode Island, across Narragansett Bay, New Sardis was once one of the most relevant portual cities in the region. However, failure to modernise and a gradual decline in its position’s commercial importance have led to its progressive decay, moderated only lately by a number of service-providing companies taking an interest in its few, yet noteworthy investment opportunities. Nowadays, New Sardis is infamous for its dramatically under-staffed and ineffectual administration and police force; nonetheless, its legal infraction rate is astonishingly low for mysterious reasons, and organised criminality is limited to a negligible handful of street gangs within its boundaries (though the occasional disappearance tends to arouse suspicions on this matter).
Architecturally, the city reflects its recent erratic and almost haphazard development. Towers of glass and steel are often flanked by anachronistic pre-Edwardian houses, and the few piers still in use lie alongside numerous promontories of decaying wood.

Notable Features:

Saint Albertus Magnus Cathedral: A Catholic anomaly among New England’s sober Puritan temples, this imposing Gothic structure stands in the very centre of the city. Though both the Cathedral and the vast adjoining graveyard ought to be periodically restored by the urban authorities, the latter’s prolonged inactivity has enabled them to fall into such a state of sinister decrepitude that they tend to be fearfully shunned. Upon the Cathedral’s façade one can still barely discern the curious inscription “SOMNVS RATIONIS MONSTRA GENERAT”.

The Docklands: Once the city’s greatest hub of activity, the Docklands have long since degenerated into a veritable open-air slum, where New Sardis’s homeless population gathers in abandoned warehouses and it is deemed unsafe to pass with any valuables upon one’s person, lest these valuables unaccountably disappear. The few intact quays seem to be used solely for Aegis industrial shipments.

Istvan's Dragon: Since the end of World War II, the only enduring criminal element in New Sardis was that of outlaw biker clubs, ranging from free-spirited rebels to brutal thugs. Though local and small in size, they were numerous and, with the gradual decay of the city's police force, their influence became anything but invisible. Somewhere around the late 60's, the notorious drive bar known as Istvan's Dragon came to be, founded by an Eastern European immigrant. Located near in the Docklands, at the back of a small unimportant harbor, said establishment commonly served as a place for negotiations between different clubs, as well as a melting pot of all sorts of characters from the fringes of society over the years, until the eventual bloodbath that occurred in the early 90's. The Istvan Massacre was sparked by the rising tension between two rival clubs, leading to thirty casualties, seventeen of them being otherwise innocent patrons. The bar never recovered, and was left abandoned ever since. Along with the surrounding dock, it is now a sort of no man's land, as unwritten rules render it a sanctuary, prohibiting any sort of violence within it. Even law enforcement is wise enough to respect this condition. Despite its seemingly useful nature, the area remains abandoned, sparking urban legends of hauntings.
(Contribution by @Turbowraith)

“Atlantis” State Aquarium: New Sardis’s only possible tourist attraction, the Aquarium, built on local State funds with the backing of certain private bodies, is fitted with some of the most advanced equipment in its field. This has allowed for some daring experiments, such as the rare success of keeping giant cephalopods in captivity. The investment has proved fruitful, yielding large sums in the guise of admission fees and the sale of assorted merchandise.

Aegis Incorporated Complex: At some distance beyond the suburbs, surrounded by a stretch of forbidding wasteland, lies the ominous black citadel which serves simultaneously as headquarters, production plant and research establishment for the shadowy Aegis Inc. This comparatively young company, specialising in bellic and defensive technology, is said to have rapidly acquired a redoubtable power base, and, despite taking no interest in New Sardis itself, is almost universally dreaded by its inhabitants.

Do you know how to post pictures on RPG boards?:

Image

Sample Post:

For days, the leaden sky which menacingly loomed over them, notwithstanding their steady motion - truth be told, at a velocity which would be deemed unacceptably low whence they had come, owing to the unfamiliar driving practices with which most visiting continentals were constrained to come to grips with - across the rather bleak landscape, had failed to deliver upon its threat of precipitation, which might have prompted them to jot down a note concerning the matter of “dispelling popular misconceptions about...”, had they been ever so rash in making assumptions (which they were) and actually interested in such an endeavour (which they were not). Notwithstanding the lack of sociological aspirations, they had unanimously concluded that the much-reviled Albionic climate might be better, or at least could not be quite so much worse than the only one they had hitherto known.

“Weren’t you thinking the same?” Johannes inquired, without, however, turning to face his companion.
“What?” the latter listlessly replied, in a tone dulled by a lengthy period of sitting and gazing before himself. One could, of course, argue that he had not been effectively doing anything beyond that, but that would probably elicited little more than genuine incomprehension.
“I say, that it has rained the entire time we were in Germany since we left, and some days before that, but not for a single hour while we have been here.”
“And Belgium.”
“What?”
“It’s also rained in Belgium.”
“Not in France, though.”
“A bit after the border, it did. What were you saying there, again?”
“No, I was saying, it seems to rain less here than in Germany, doesn’t it?”
“Could be. I think it also depends on the season. Don’t you remember we had a completely dry summer in Thüringen?”
“But that’s Thüringen.”

Having thus apparently exhausted their stimulating conversational subject, the pair finally exchanged a weary glance, then simultaneously turned backwards for a brief moment and eyed the sleeping Nejat with a hint of envy. The third member of their diminutive party lay all but sprawled on the back seat of the slightly battered automobile, amid rucksacks and satchels of varying sizes and colours, leaning toward the less tasteful end of the spectrum, with his feet a mere few inches away from resting upon an already abundantly scratched suitcase. His fellow-travellers found this all the more outrageous as he had not in the least contributed to their progress through virtually half of the (semi)continent, nor to the journey from Dover to Southampton, and yet was able to blissfully slumber for a length of time which would have put a sloth to shame, whereas neither Johannes, who steered the unreasonably crammed vehicle, nor Turan, who attempted to navigate their way by cycling through a series of maps, with the predictable result of frequently driving them to meander in such parts as they would never have dreamt of visiting, were able to enjoy a night’s rest without spinning about and repeatedly rising to raise or lower the blinds for some two hours beforehand. The final pause before the ferry boarding could have finally allowed them some respite before nearly a week of struggling against sea-sickness, yet even now they seemed to be unable to do anything but trade inconsequential remarks concerning the weather. How else could it be? The topic of their preliminary plans was already spent, and it was as yet too early to begin actually pondering their execution.

All of a sudden, a rap against the glass by his head startled Johannes from the slumber he had been, in spite of all, drifting into. Not a little irritated, he lowered it and turned to face the whiskered countenance of the customs officer peering from beyond it.
“What is it, my good man?” he asked, not immediately realising that his impromptu usage of a rather colloquial expression had yielded a potentially offensive result. Not that it would have concerned him, but it was somewhat embarrassing for being unintended.
“Excuse me, sir,” the man began quite civilly, probably not being altogether inexperienced in interacting with foreigners, “Your vehicle looks like it might be exceeding the weight limit.” Was its crammed state quite so visible? Most likely. Meanwhile, the boarding queue was beginning to move forth - and they were being detained by this overly zealous, or thus it seemed to him, fellow.
“I assure you that we have passed all necessary controls. Here, we have these tickets they give there. Turan, do you...”
But Turan had drifted away into a tranquil slumber. Curse him, could he think of no better moment? Johannes began hastily rooting through the sheaf of various printed pages - mostly maps - in his lap. Where could he have buried them? Before them, the path onto the vessel was now empty. Ah, that was quite enough. No more of this nonsense.

“Sir, do you have the...”
Johannes abruptly turned toward the mustachioed intruder and, gazing fixedly into his eyes, which made him stagger back in surprise, theatrically raised his right hand, with the palm stretched outwards. This gesture was functionally unnecessary, but what was life without a little flavour? He focused his mental energies upon the figure before him and, almost envisioning the outline of its psychic nucleus, hurled at it a brief sequence of visions - nothing especially astounding, but enough to serve their purpose.

The Projection

The man staggered, flailing his arms as though he had suddenly lost his sight and were attempting to clutch it before it flew away. Failing to grasp any solid object, he nearly collapsed, but was able to moderate his fall by crouching with what seemed to be a supreme effort. After about a minute, the expression of his eyes grew slightly less wild, and he saw that the potentially overloaded automobile had already vanished beyond the ascension ramp. Rising totteringly to his full height, he waved reassuringly at the other drivers, who were looking at him with some concern, and moved toward his position with quivering steps.

Aboard the ship, Johannes smiled to himself with a hint of triumph. Petty, admittedly, but was life not likewise composed of simple pleasures? His mouth still set in its twisted shape, he let his thoughts hasten forwards. Soon, he would have crossed the ocean, and then the true merriment would begin. A world of adventure lay ahead.

The Nightmare of Dunwick Manor

He could not have pinpointed any particular transitional moment, yet the tavern seemed all of a sudden to have grown remarkably animated, considering the quantity of its tenants. Indistinct mutterings began to reach Ectemund's ear, and soon afterwards two of the figures rose from their seats without having so much as raised their kegs and made for the door. One of them cast a glance at him as it passed, and it seemed to him that her eyes, for the brief moment they were within his sight, harboured a somewhat unnatural - clumsy a definition as that was for an innate anatomical feature, he could not conceive any more fitting one - hue, of the sort common among the Fae. Mildly unnerving as the look might have been, he perceived himself safe - no self-respecting royal enforcer would probably have employed a Fae as an agent. Such a prejudice was not altogether comprehensible to Ectemund, in whose view, as far as he was aware, these creatures were in their current state neither far worse nor far better than the average human peasant, and would in fact have been indistinguishable from the latter were it not for their physiognomic peculiarities. Curious as it might have seemed, their potential academic value was likewise roughly equivalent to that of a farmer: their cultural wealth of occult lore, frequently, he suspected, of more than hearsay quality, was often offset by their a reserve as unnerving as it was stubborn, and most of those he had himself spoken with had responded to his queries by gazing at their feet and mumbling some unintelligible gibberish. Nevertheless, the presence of a Fae in that forsaken town at that conjuncture was mighty intriguing. What business could she have had here, seeing as many of her kin seemed to have no business anywhere throughout the land?

The second departing figure Ectemund believed he recognised as the young scoundrel who, some time before, had seemed to try and intimidate him by shewing him some firearm. These devilish contraptions were a truly fearsome thing; that they might be so easy to procure as to place one within the grasp of such an outwardly unassuming individual was slightly alarming. Yet the chief conundrum concerning that character was not her possessing a singularly destructive weapon, but rather the fact that, as the Fae had done, she had stridden away without quaffing from the mug the innkeeper had set down before her. To his knowledge, those of her ilk often left without paying for what they had drunken; yet he had never heard of one leaving without drinking what they had paid for. Whilst the yellowish orbs of the first departing patron had reassured him, the unusual demeanour of the following one engendered a new train of suspicious thoughts within his mind. Had this one been a hired agent - the hired agent dispatched to track him, and had she gone to report to her employers, who were mayhap expecting her without that very door? Then again, this conjecture was opposed to reasonable intuition. A spy of that sort would certainly have acted in a less conspicuously odd manner. Although the ensuing conclusion assuaged his apprehension somewhat, it yet did not explain the event he had witnessed.

Then again, was he truly certain she had paid for what she had not drunken? Ectemund himself had, after all, been served his beverage without a price being demanded of him, in what he had assumed was some sort of display of "courtesy of the house". Had the offering been spurned owing to its deplorable quality? It seemed improbable. Or was it that...? He glanced at the crudely inscribed napkin in his hand, then at the vacated corner, but the shadows prevented him from seeing anything definite. He was about to stand up and approach the spot, but at that moment the man who had been muttering when the commotion began rose from his seat and, dragging what seemed to be his bare feet across the grimy floor, walked toward the window and peered through it. Unwilling to attract unnecessary attention by appearing to follow his example, Ectemund remained still, and reverted to pondering the meaning of the unorthodox missive he had received - as far as he knew, he could have been the only one, or the only one whose message was "Stable". And what, pray, was stable? The liquid in the mug? Though he was no aspiring alchemist, he was fairly certain that it could not be restless as quicksilver, and its stability was not one to require a label. What else, then, could it be? The promise of the expedition? That it should be confirmedly stable was, of course, a relief; yet why would anyone send such a confirmation without further instructions to accompany it? He resolved he would, in spite of all, verify whether such a note had indeed been bestowed upon anyone else.

Slowly and cautiously, yet firmly enough, Ectemund rose from the bench, and his left knee snapped once again. With a soft, though slightly shuffling gait he stepped toward the corner with as neutral an expression as he could convey, and, as he passed behind the bare-footed man, he casually directed his eyes toward the window, and was somewhat surprised to glimpse the Fae who had departed from the tavern beyond it. For some reason she stood in the middle of the muddy street, rummaging through her satchel before the ill-kept wooden shack which passed for a- Hark, now. It was a stable - nay, a stable. Why, the prolonged parsing of formally-worded documents must have occluded his linguistic clarity! Why had he so insistently considered the word "stable" as an adjective? Had he truly forgotten that it could designate a structure such as that which he now saw? Verily, he could only hope it was not a sign of the approach of one of longevity's more pernicious companions - the fading of one's acuity and memory, followed by a dramatic weakening of the mind altogether. To be struck by such a condition when he had yet accomplished so little would have been aggravating beyond words' expressive capacity. However, he was not quite so aged yet, was he? Having sufficiently rebuked himself for his oversight, he concluded that the most logical course of action would be to see whether the message was effectively an invitation to betake himself to the stable, as there seemed to be nothing to gain by remaining further in the tavern - and seeking other napkins would now have been an unnecessary occupation at best. Conscious of the fact that he had remained in a spot for what was probably a suspiciously lengthy interval, Ectemund quietly strode toward the door and stepped out into the vesper air.

The street's yielding consistence was not improved by the palpably nondescript temperature of the mud beneath his feet, which conferred upon it an unpleasant oozing sensation, promptly transmitted into his feet. Yet he heeded it little as he virtually slid his way through the decaying hamlet, lifting his beaten leather soles to a barely visible height above the soil, his attention being altogether drawn to the mysterious errand at hand. It occurred to him that the stable might have been the ideal site for an ambush, had a scheme involving one effectively been set in motion by his hypothetical persecutors, and his steps grew slightly slower. Then he reflected that, whatever the case might be, he would surely not be so reckless as to simply blunder in there, and would devise a plan to probe the ground in all safety. His right hand slid to the handle of the dagger he had concealed at his belt beneath the folds of some inconspicuous rags. Although the weapon's sinister appearance and the ominous conjectures concerning how it might have been employed before somehow finding its way into his family's chests, there was, beside the ever-compelling lure of shadowy mysteries it evoked in him merely by virtue of its existence, in it a strange soothing power that never failed to fill him with a vaguely impersonal boldness, nay, even pride, which he perceived to be more than the mere sensation of carrying a potential instrument of death.

Having reached the street which ran before the stable, he paused, seeing that the Fae was, oddly enough, still standing where last he had seen her. The other receiver of an apparently unsolicited beverage was nowhere to be seen. Ectemund was initially vaguely irritated at perceiving what seemed to be an obstacle upon his way; then, reflecting that the Fae might very well prove to be the diversion he required, he decided it were better to observe her motions, preferably without being apprehended himself. He therefore slid into a patch of particularly deep shadow upon a nearby wall and stood still, gazing in the direction of the stable.

Create-A-Hero: A Superhero RPG (Closed)

Thankee for the welcome. We shall then set to work upon our character sheets in short order.
I trust it is unnecessary to warn you to brace yourselves for the all the deranged antics to come...

Create-A-Hero: A Superhero RPG (Closed)

Greetings to all!
I hope I am not disrupting the ongoing discussions too severely with my humble query.
Seeing as I and a second player are quite eager to join this verily rather excellent role-play, would it be possible for us to leap in now and establish our characters somewhat before the second season begins, or would it rather be preferable that we should await the latter event before doing thus?

The Nightmare of Dunwick Manor

Although he had hitherto not perceived any indication of fatigue, despite having stood leaning against the wall near a dim corner for what seemed to have been the best part of the day, finally contriving to seat himself upon the segment of a bench vacated by a corpulent adventurer was for Ectemund a singularly relieving experience. Nor was the elation exclusively physical in nature: notwithstanding the undeniable fact that the fewer participants were eventually to set off upon this expedition, for such it seemed it would be, after all, the fewer assets its body would have disposed of, a lesser number of them would likewise have entailed less distracting and fundamentally unnecessary tangents, not to mention a lesser likelihood of provision shortages, which could certainly not be defined as an unwelcome development. Besides, the vast majority, not to say the visible entirety, of those present appeared to him to belong to such sorts as more often constituted an obstacle to one's endeavours than anything else, unconcerned as they were with anything beyond practical, palpable and often perceived benefits; not that such a stance was in itself more reprehensible than many others, he allowed, yet it was little more than a nuisance when encountered on a serious venture, similarly to stinging gnats and damp weather. Ah, as concerned damp weather...

Ectemund winced as he abruptly straightened his arms and right leg, which were beginning to wax torpid through their lengthy inaction, and their junctures snapped into place with what must have been an audible report, accompanied by a brief, yet pernicious burst of pain and an unpleasant sensation of brittleness in his limbs. The journey to Roses had led him into a swampy region whose exhalations, which a stouter and, perhaps, younger constitution than his might have shrugged off with comparative ease, had seeped into his bones, rendering them, it seemed to him, water-logged and prone to such rupture-like accesses. Truly, he had been assured by a physician some months before that such symptoms were the forerunners of some chronic ailment as inevitable as the end itself, which would have overtaken him no matter where he might have strayed; yet he was nonetheless convinced that the land he had now wandered into had at least precipitated its advent. Had Sigismund not mentioned rumours of some nefarious influence surrounding this place? Ah, the tricks blind fear of the unknown all too often played upon the imagination... There was surely nothing preternatural in the weariness of his frame, and he wondered just how great a part of those voices had been engendered by some outrageously prosaic cases of illness, as it had all too frequently been the case with "cursed" bogs and marshes he had encountered in the course of his studies.

He caught himself upon his own thoughts. Nay, sceptical jesting aside, there was, in sooth, something curious about the town and, as far as he had seen, the forest beyond it. The desolation and dilapidation he had witnessed were, in themselves, neither extraordinary nor interesting; however, from a number of minutiae he had observed in their appearance, there did seem to exist some particular set of conditions to them, the perfect likeness of which he did not recall having heretofore beheld. The local plant life was markedly bizarre, with such elements as black flowers, an abnormal proliferation of lichens on virtually any organic surface, including grass, and most inorganic ones as well, and misshapen horrors which might have been the distant, degenerate descendants of farm crops standing toe-to-toe, if such an expression was appropriate, with the hardiest of weeds. A mere glimpse of this forsaken stock would doubtless have rendered his esteemed botanical colleagues ecstatic, and had recalled to his mind a previous experience in the environs of a long-abandoned woodland shrine which, he had been told, radiated a dark corruption, and had proved a most fascinating find indeed. There was, of course, the possibility of all these splendid abnormalities being eventually discovered to originate from some perfectly explicable cause, yet was that not always the case? For now, the environs of Dunwick Manor shewed promise, and this was the utmost which could be hoped for at this stage.

Having reassured himself on this account, Ectemund cast a glance about the tavern, which by that time had grown largely deserted. The remaining figures seemed, in the evening penumbra, not to differ exceedingly from the majority of those who had gathered, with high yet fragile hopes, in the morning. Nonetheless, a sudden thought drove him to squint his right eye in alarm and attempt to repeat the survey as inconspicuously as possible. After all, what assurance did he have that one (or more, or all) of these shapes might not be intently scrutinising him, awaiting the most suitable moment to nonchalantly approach him and request "some moments of private conversation", perhaps fingering a hilt under their cloak to lend their low tones further emphasis? Had not both Erfried and Hulzen been accosted by such gentlemen within the last year, and refused to set foot without the University ever since? The warden's contact in Asterwatch was safe, of that there was no doubt; yet was there not a danger that, unbeknownst even to them, this invitation of sorts might have been a scheme to lure out the most zealous investigators of - he winced - "unsavoury" matters? Admittedly, the King probably had better occupations to fill his time than these. But the King had many subordinates, each of whom doubtless aspired to be rewarded for some display of initiative. And who, it may be asked, would be the ideal casualties of their ploys, if not the aforementioned investigators, who were of no use - no use! - to anyone either way?

Lost, despite himself, in such grim reflections, Ectemund barely restrained himself from gathering into a defensive posture when the grinning innkeeper approached him with a loaded tray and set down a mug before him. Somewhat mystified, inasmuch as he had not called for anything of that sort, he peered disconsolately at the mug's contents. It was not far worse than the usual University fare, especially now that funds were running low (they had been running low for as long as anyone could recall), but it was nonetheless not something with which he was impatient to make his throat acquainted. Thereupon he noticed a startling detail - a napkin. Not even in the most opulent taverns he had lodged in had he been treated to such a luxury, and its presence in such a forlorn place as this one was puzzling at the very least. Lifting the scrap of cloth to examine it, he saw that beneath it lay a petal of one of the curious black flowers which abounded about the town, and upon its nether side there was scrawled a word - "Stale". No, "Stable". More baffled than ever, Ectemund lifted his gaze and scanned the room once again, but could barely discern anything in the gathering darkness. Seeing no other alternative, he attempted to suppress his apprehension, which was far from being dispersed by the cryptic message, and awaited any further developments with as imperturbable a mien as he could muster.

The Nightmare of Dunwick Manor

Name: Professor Ectemund Aitherweld.
Age: Forty-two years.
Gender: Male.
Race: Human.
Position and Trade: Ectemund occupies the position of historian and - informally, for reasons which shall be made clear in his biography - Professor of Occult History at the University of Eltensbrook. This institution, founded in the wake of the beginning of the Free Era, has, despite its members' best efforts (though lately these have been less and less frequently manifested), remained, to this day, a marginal influence on the academic landscape, tending to focus upon matters pertaining to unorthodox and esoteric spheres of knowledge rather than scientific and technological innovation. This, along with vague and unconfirmed yet persistent rumours of questionable pursuits and practices (including, at one point, the vivisection of Fae and half-breeds and the reconstruction of certain ancient ritualistic paraphernalia of ill renown) held within the University's walls, has resulted in it receiving little in the way of positive attention - and financial support - from the throne, though it has attracted the inquisitive gaze of more than one Royal Censure official.
Ectemund's field of expertise comprises the recordings of magic use throughout known history, with especial care devoted to unearthing the modality of such events. Though such a shadowy, uncertain and unwholesome subject would offer little appeal to a serious scholar, by the means of both notes and works left by his predecessors and extensive individual research of documents such as chronicles, "arcane" grimoires of varying degrees of genuineness, records of unusual legal cases and field reports of the Traitor's War, as well as investigation of folk tales and various locations associated with strange happenings, Ectemund has pieced together a considerable body of lore. The specific details of the overwhelming majority of the cases he has encountered continue, however, to elude him, much to his frustration.

Appearance: Though he is not yet effectively old, years of dedicated labour have left their mark on Ectemund. His frame, though of average size, is slightly diminished by a stoop acquired by poring over numerous manuscripts; his complexion has grown almost sinisterly pale due to infrequent exposure to sunlight, and the skin on his brow and about his eyes is abundantly creased and furrowed as a result of the frequent squinting which has accompanied the steady deterioration of his sight. In other features, such as the unkempt, palpably receding hair of a discoloured chestnut hue and a chin which has seldom undergone more than a hasty shaving, as well as an almost alarming leanness brought about by the practice of allotting the bare minimum of necessary time, at irregular hours, to such a vital function as nourishment, age has been abetted in its consumption by ill-keeping and unhealthy habits. All of this combines to form a gaunt, almost spectral figure which it would be difficult to describe as anything approaching comeliness.

Personality: Being already endowed by nature with a rather secretive, solitary temperament, Ectemund's studies and profession have done little to temper these traits of his character. In fact, the pursuit of occult knowledge, fraught as it is with subtlety, as well as the antagonism encountered in these endeavours from the side of royal representatives and enforcers and common folk alike have contributed to their strengthening and proliferation in guises and mannerisms, causing him to grow so reserved and diffident as to seem almost misanthropic. On the other hand, years of inquiries and investigations have likewise taught him that valuable information may come from the most unexpected sources, if these are properly approached; therefore, when dealing with people from without the narrow circle of his colleagues, he takes care to affect at least some degree of interest in his interlocutors, subtly prompting them to reveal what they might know concerning the matters which he deems worthy of attention. Such expressions of sympathy as may come from him, however, are virtually never sincere. Though not actually hostile toward anyone in particular, Ectemund sees others, whether they be human or not, merely as potential research subjects or targets for interrogation; any consideration of them is inwardly overlooked, as it is not conductive to his research.
The latter forms, as could be inferred, the greatest focus of his intellectual abilities. Ever since his earliest youth, Ectemund has been driven by an insatiable, morbid curiosity to pry into the darkest, most recondite and forgotten secrets known to him, or indeed anyone. His fascination with magic and the occult arts seems to be the most coherent, structured and obstinate manifestation of this tendency to date. In its foundation there might be glimpsed the aberration pervading his innermost entity and defining his entire character: rather than view the most sinister aspects of the unknown and radically different with dread and suspicion, he sees in them a lure more potent than anything already within his grasp seems to offer, and raises their exploration to the state of his life's most exalted goal.
Vices:
- As mentioned, Ectemund is perpetually spurred on by his unwholesome curiosity, which renders him capable of fixating upon various details regardless of the inconvenience it might cause.
- His generally suspicious demeanour and unwonted interest in strange matters often make him appear untrustworthy to those with whom he interacts.
- His tendency to direct his attention exclusively toward those things which appear to him relevant to his endeavours often causes him to overlook factors of practical importance, impairing his ability to formulate plans and courses of action.
- He possesses an intense and irrational aversion toward high temperatures, and by extension fires, furnaces and all sorts of incandescent substances and locations. He is intensely reluctant to approach any such place and object, and lengthy exposure may result in an outburst of brief, yet violent fever-like mentally induced illness.
- In the course of his research and experiments he has grown, presumably by accident, addicted to a particular hallucinogenic drug reportedly used during ancestral shamanistic rituals. Failure to consume a portion of it at least once every fortnight will lead to him being wracked by painful spasms and his mind being clouded by a sensation as of an oppressive, nausea-inducing void.
Boons:
- Ectemund is as well-versed in his semi-academic discipline as any "professional" occultist, if not more so, and disposes of a wealth of knowledge regarding magic usage and its history.
- His observational and mnemonic skills, already notable at their natural extent, have been sharpened by his scholarly activities to attain great heights, and may serve him well in virtually any situation involving exploration and prying.
- Through analysing multitudes of documents, more or less intelligible, he has reached a remarkable skill in interpreting and employing linguistic intricacies, as well as connecting clues and hints.
- His nigh-obsessive thirst for occult lore often aids him in subduing fear and apprehension in the face of unknown menace and horrifying sights, and he is often unfazed by the most eerie and disquieting of locations and atmospheres.

History: Ectemund Aitherweld was born to a moderately wealthy merchant family which, having originally established itself in trade through logging activity, had long hence transferred its seat to the capital of the Star Kingdom. As he displayed, since an early age, a propensity toward prevalently intellectual pursuits along with the markings of uncommon mental capability, his father saw in him a possibility of raising the family's renown from the world of a nascent bourgeoisie of sorts into some more highly regarded sphere - for instance, the promising field of scientific research. It was with some dismay that he saw his son drawn to weird legendry and folk tales rather than "actually scientific" disciplines; however, being persuaded by the resourceful youth that even such things as those may be made the object of what would qualify as perfectly acceptable "science", he eventually acquiesced to allowing him to continue his studies in this direction in the best institution to be found to that purpose - the shadowy University of Eltensbrook.
In the latter Ectemund found an atmosphere of sinister secrets and furtive complicity perfectly suited for his inclinations and interests, and was promptly accepted into the local academic community after having, on more than one occasion, shown proof of his extraordinary dedication to his pursuits. The University was so much to his liking, in fact, that he elected to remain there until he had accomplished his goals, and possibly even afterwards. Its other inhabitants did not object to this design, and, even when Ectemund's dissertation was placed under ban by the Royal Censure for containing "undesirable materials", unofficially elected him a professor in his chosen field. Not even the passing away of his parents would have stirred him for long, were it not that, among the various properties he discovered he had inherited, there was a curious chest containing what was described as "family heirlooms": namely, several large tomes written in an indecipherable code composed of strange symbols, some of which he had already encountered in his studies in most fearsome connections, and a large dagger of strange make, with an angular, jagged blade seemingly designed for evisceration, other cryptic signs carved upon the hilt and forged from an alloy wherein iron was combined with an unknown metal, granting the weapon an extraordinary light weight and solidity and apparently preserving it from rust. Curious as to how such things should have come into his family's possession, Ectemund initiated a genealogical exploration, which eventually led to the discovery that the name of Aitherweld had once, the span of many generations before, been associated with an edict proclaiming the illegality of some forest-dwelling cult whose name and patrons had been lost to time. Beyond this, his research did not yield any further information, and the mystery of his ancestors' association with that forgotten sect has since woven itself into the scope of Ectemund's interest, promising, in his view, to prove of great assistance in the most daring of his endeavours.

Weapons / Equipment / Supplies:
- Ectemund carries the dagger he discovered among his inherited goods as a weapon, finding that holding it grants him a strange sense of boldness.
- He is clad in the travelling leather-bound clothes which have served him well on many a field expedition in the past.
- Along with himself, he carries some notes wherein is condensed the information he judged most relevant to his current enterprise, as well as some excerpts of the cryptic inherited volumes' code, and a supply of clean vellum and writing implements.
- Among his supplies there are provisions, mainly in the form of bread and cheese, to last for some two weeks if consumed sparingly.
- Finally, he bears with himself slightly over an ounce of the drug he must regularly ingest, in the shape of a fine powder. It is worthy of note that, if consumed by one not gradually accustomed to its use or introduced directly into the bloodstream, it will cause dangerous poisonings which, if not treated, might be fatal. This drug is made with certain rare materials, and a surrogate cannot be produced on the spot.

The Contract:
The pale light of the late afternoon shone through the library's high, somewhat narrow windows, falling upon the deftly positioned table strewn with scrolls grown ragged at their edges and volumes whose pages were yellow and faded with age and the man seated before it. In the bleak, colourless luminescence his twisted, bony finger, already gnarled and bloodless, seemed almost skeletal as it ran along the lines which had once been laboriously traced by some unknown hand, as though striving to scrape away the superficial semantics of the document's contents in order to uncover a deeper, esoteric import concealed beneath these tiresome and irrelevant memorials. Yet, as it reached the end of the page and slid off upon the table's coarse surface, borne more by its momentum rather than the strength of the hand seemingly driving it, it grew manifest that both this fantastic toil and its more prosaic counterpart performed by the eyes and mind of the reader had met with insuccess. Ectemund shook his head and, releasing a barely audible sigh, lifted his gaze from the writing, only to cast it into the shadows which had gathered in a corner of the imposing chamber. He had, in sooth, not expected these accounts to provide any especially illuminating insights, nor, for that matter, anything of interest at all; yet, until that moment, hope had stubbornly nested within him, fending off the meaningless words as though they were so many blows, ere the conclusion, just as meaningless, had finally constrained it to bow before factual evidence. If not else, he reflected, attempting to raise his spirits, he had determined that this document was indeed of no use to him, and the day could not be said to have been altogether wasted. Despite his best efforts, and the fact that this argument was as sound as any, he nonetheless failed to be convinced.

At that moment he was interrupted by a sequence of approaching steps, light and leisurely, which came from the direction of the door leading to the library's first room. Lifting his eyes, he saw it was Sigismund the warden – a curious sight in these regions of the University, as the portly yet diminutive fellow seldom visited the library, and in fact was almost never seen in the western wing at all. “Why, here you are!” he exclaimed, brandishing what appeared to be some sort of missive in his right hand as he approached the table, “The historians told they last saw you somewhere about the courtyard, but, as I know them, they might well have been referring to yesterday... Thus I had to seek you myself, and, as I wanted to avoid Montbach's spiders – the cursed beasts – for as long as I could, I thought I may begin from the western wing... Here, see what our correspondent in Asterwatch has heard. I dare say this will be a sufficient reward for interrupting your work.” He handed what he had been carrying to Ectemund, who had been gazing at him with a certain impatience and proceeded to swiftly peruse its contents. Having completed this, he glanced back at the warden. “A manor? What am I to do with this? This seems to be something for our antiquaries. Or for those people studying the excesses of decadent nobility, as they claim – those who filled half the southern cellar with their outrageous rack. Or even for Montbach with his “postulates of decay”, if it truly is in such a deplorable state. At least he would stop breeding vermin in his chambers... Why is it you shew this to me?” “You see, that is not any manor, but Dunwick Manor.” Sigismund replied, “For as long as I have known of it, there has been speech of strange doings, so to say, about it. It is said it has an effect – a mystical influence, even. It blights the land, and those living upon it... And, will you believe it, nothing has been heard of its owners for decades. Such a place does not simply become vacant... No, there is something very unusual and very wrong at work there, this I can tell you.”

Ectemund slowly stood up, leaning slightly upon the table to support the weight of his emaciated form. The light behind the windows had waned, and, before his eyes, the faint shadows of twilight seemed to spell out, in alien alphabets, enticing promises of darkling horizons awaiting his discovery so that they might unveil vistas he had been vainly seeking in the records scattered before him. In his worn eyes there had awoken the glimmer which sometimes slumbered, yet could never truly be extinguished. His voice, previously little more than a whisper, rose for a moment to a height reverberating with unyielding energy. “To Dunwick Manor, then.”

The Hand of Fate

A sudden waft of foetor overtook the figure, causing it to abruptly halt in its tracks. It had been marching through the woods for hours at an almost mechanically steady, regular gait, barely taking any notice of its surroundings beyond the least degree necessary to avoid the tree-trunks which occasionally rose to bar its way. It would have been apparent to an onlooker that its mind was quite far from the path it was following, the trees surrounding it and the forest altogether; whether it might have been conceived just how far it had drifted from path, trees and forest, however, was a somewhat more difficult matter to determine. Nevertheless, presuming that some intellect of outstanding quality should have succeeded at that endeavour, it would have been, perhaps, somewhat surprised by the fact that even the stench of a goblin, vile though it might have been, should have prompted the absorbed traveller to gather his thoughts from such distant reaches and restore them to their bodily vessel swiftly enough to act in the latter's defense.

Weary though they might have been after their flight through the aether, the being's thoughts spun and sped along their twisted pathways with remarkable celerity, prompted by the reflection that any encounter - especially those of the unexpected sort - might potentially result in the failure of his task, which event he had come to regard as a fundamentally cosmic impossibility whose advent would have entailed, at the very least, the annihilation of all that he could conceive, which included most things pertaining to himself. A goblin was near behind him, this was apparent. His experiences with goblins had, to that day, been rare, yet generally unpleasant. The impish creatures he had encountered were rapacious, bellicose and tended to adopt a reaction toward unknown dangers diametrically opposed to that of humans - as long as they did not know what exactly stood before them, they were as intrepid as any folk tale hero. The one behind him had apparently never encountered anything resembling him, and its attempt at a stealthy approach suggested a hostile intent. A display of power was the most appropriate response the figure could devise; whether it might have been harmful or even lethal for the goblin or anything else in the environs was none of its concern.

As this conclusion reached its conscious mind, the goblin had probably crept a few steps closer. The figure cast its left hand high into the air, its fingers bent into a claw-like form, and uttered words which, despite not belonging to any of the worlds that those possessed of lips such as its had ever inhabited, had grown familiar to it through years of eldritch invocations: Yiyakhul uer-dhathh!
The air around the figure's outstretched hand was lit with grey-greenish blaze as it seemed to writhe and fold upon itself, its unnatural movements deforming the space adjacent to it in an advancing avalanche of eye-searing contortions reaching at each other in what might best be described as a circle propelling its centre beyond its circumference. The roiling enormity tore and clawed at all that was caught in its way: grass and undergrowth wilted ad crumbled to strangely-coloured dust, trees snapped as they were bent in circular shapes and turned upon their tops, hapless woodland creatures were twisted into nightmarish shapes before noiselessly crumpling into themselves. Throughout all of its ravages, no sound rose either from it or from the land it touched, as though the latter were too fearful even to cry out in pain.

After what might have been instants or minutes, the nameless distortions faded away, leaving only a few curious stirrings, barely discernible in the darkness, in the air to mark their wake. The figure cast a glance about itself, its unseen eyes gliding over the desolation wrought by its incantation: within a radius of some fifteen yards not a thing stood, the now barren soil covered with a fine dust whose hue might have puzzled a painter or miniaturist. Within some feet from it the dust bubbled in an almost liquid fashion, small clouds of it rising into the night air and drifting away upon a soft breeze. Having spared this phoenomenon but a cursory look, the figure turned about itself to face anything which might have remained of its would-be assailant.

The Hand of Fate

My apologies for being slow at responding. My connection to the website has been behaving strangely of late, and I either was not notified of the last posts or could not access the page altogether at various times.

The Hand of Fate

Aye, we do happen to know each other, and I am as alive as ever. The motives for my inactivity mostly amount to my attempting to somewhat mirror my character's progress (he is travelling on foot, after all, and I fear that his journey would not be quite so interesting as to warrant regular descriptions) and not wishing to put too great a strain upon you, as you appear to be preoccupied with quite a few of the others at the moment. However, if it would pose no problems for anyone, I am ready to rejoin at any time.