Recent Statuses

7 mos ago
I forgot how bad colds were.
10 mos ago
When he says work at it, he means work at it. Hard. It's definitely not a problem that'll ever really go away. You'll just learn to keep it quiet, or force through it.
10 mos ago
Nothing makes me happier than seeing a sub notification.
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10 mos ago
Fallout 4 was certainly terrible in many ways, but some stuff like the fridge-kid can be overlooked through the less-than-serious attitude of the entire series. Yknow. Pistols exploding entire bodies.
10 mos ago
Gimp drains the lifeforce of those that download it. Be wary. If your soul is plentiful and grand, then surely you'll face not the gatekeeper of Gimp and be able to freely use the program.


Yo, Parzivol here.

Young, in that I'm young enough that I'm not yet considered an Adult. Been doing this since I was about twelve to some capacity or another. Of course, that means I started in Minecraft and another forum. Worked my way into Discord and then here. Excited to participate.

Primary Interests:
Dark Fantasy, Sci-Fi, Historical-Medieval (Periodic style insertion stuff, a la Kingdom Come: Deliverance). My stylistic preferences are on the side of mystery, rather than open-world adventure romps or conventional murder-hoboing.

Favorite Authors:
R.A. Salvatore, H.P. Lovecraft, David Eddings, Orson S. Card

Games Of Choice:
TES: Oblivion, Darkest Dungeon, FTL: Faster Than Light, Dark Souls 1, For Honor, Divinity: OS 2 (Haven't gotten to 1 yet, though I'd like to), and Absolver.

Out of that list, my favorite in terms of storytelling methods are DS1 and Absolver, which both use the light-touch item descriptions method. Take whatever you wish from that. FTL has engaging stories, and Oblivion is a fun FPS A-RPG with the heavy lean on action. Darkest Dungeon is the monster I'm yet to slay, while DS1 is the monster I love to curl up with on cold days. Divinity: OS 2 is interesting and I enjoyed what I played, but I wasn't all that engaged in the story. Personally doesn't feel like the kind of game that should have player-made characters. Perhaps the simple fix would be to play one of their legacy heroes. I'll find out this summer, in all likelihood.

Also, Music:
Weezer, Primus, MC LARS, Beastie Boys

Most Recent Posts

Kapti Van Ken

"Wai wai wait. I'll com with yu to thuh Lord. Can' just be doomin' worker-folk to behcuhm bag-head-things like that. Bridge ought to be a checkpoin whereuhn pikemen form a wall an execute targehts hated by thuh dogs or whutever wretched magicks yu need. Thehs town was meant to take siege. Et can handle this." He finished that with a flourish at the head being displayed to him. He had seen his fair share of wretched fetishes and idols, so this squirming dollish thing made little impact on the charcoal burner. In fact it intrigued him. He wanted to make an idol to the forest of it. That could wait, however.

"An thuh people can figh too." Kapti slid his splitting maul over his shoulder into its sling and rested a hand on one of the heads of his tomahawks. He planted his feet and puffed out his chest, making a rather firm display of gesturing townwards and churchwards. "We're of Kensfort, and we're stronger for it. Stronger than this squirming deadman." His accent faded just momentarily before picking back up. "We cuhn hahndol thehs if we work smart. Means doomehn no-on."

Kapti Van Ken

Kapti took a long moment to nod, "Fel like when yur climbbd up tuh the top of a tree an yu get that split second where yu want to jump, but yu don because that's foolish. Suicidal. Whispurs at me thuh grave did, said it needed me. That et'd be fine down in et." The call to the void as described by Kapti was certainly specific, if nothing else. Perhaps the feeling, the urge to call upon one's lesser decision making faculties and do something terrible was familiar, perhaps it was not. Either way, that description was what was provided. "The bag, though. What's en it?"

Kapti Van Ken

He held his ground as she approached, and broke when the smell hit him. First a scoff and a choke, before he quickly dropped his left hand from his weapon and used it to pull his own nose tight and closed. He wheezed, before slipping out, "Point pruven she-folk. G'till thuh Smithy at thuh keep t-put yur arms an armor cleanin on the Van Ken tab, if yur gonn have that handled proper-like. Poor soul. Nounder yur mood is all up an tweested like hells whores." He let his eyes meet hers, before turning his attention back now to the others.

"What ani-mal is in thee bag? Mole?" He enunciated carefully, perhaps over doing it. He gestured now with the head of his maul loosely, still remaining out of the way but dropping his stance.

Kapti Van Ken

The man turned his head away from the pit, and gripped his splitting maul in both hands with a ferocity that ramped suddenly. The whispers in the pit, the tracks around it, and the strangers that burst from the crypts. He barked very suddenly, and with an intensity that rivaled that of a raging mut. His words seemed monstrous for the first moment before the sound and shock twisted up into those hateful and inquisitive words:

"What goes on below the town? What queer majiks do yu employ to make thisere desecrated grave call for my company?"

His words gave themselves power as he seized forward with great steps that shook his gear and made it dangle with some amount of intensity. He planted himself adjacent to their path, not intent on blocking their progression. Instead he kept his maul extended gently so as to ensure he had the advantage of distance while he questioned the strangers with as much harshness as he could muster. The animal moving in the sack seemed altogether representative of their strangeness, and what the individuals themselves might have been up to.

"Dump the sack." He gestured, his right hand sparing a finger to point at the squirming vessel, before resettling his grip on his weapon and continuing to snarl while he spoke. "Whot's on. One o' yu tell me before I go'nd call for thee churchmen and the Lord's officiators of the law." There was an ambivalence in even the way he moved. He didn't recognize all too well this plethora of creatures in front of him: The dark one, the older fellow, the girl, the woman. These alien individuals. He would proceed with such uncomfortable presentation of himself for the time being. Not as though he had particular control over the moment. Something dreadful about the beckoning of the void, stronger than his normal urges, had brought him great and ferocious horror.

@LordOfTheNight@shylarah@Rosenrot@Overlord Thraka
Thanks for introducing me to Simon Stalenhag. I realize this post is two months old, but I'm interested if this ever comes to light.

Definitely interested, so count me in!

I'll DM you both briefly.
I'm still in it as well. Just waiting on ENVIRONMENTALS from Lord so Kapti can catch up with you all.
Kapti Van Ken

As the large man entered the church, he made a quiet point of removing his cap and taking it all in. The grandeur of it, while not necessarily elegant or excellent or exceptional in any way was something that drew Kapti in. Perhaps it was the holiness pulling on the heart of the old behemoth.

Once the business was tended to — Kapti of course being incredibly generous for the Bishop — he took the Bishop's words in rather seriously. His face grew sullen and tightened. His brow furrowed up and twisted into a million pieces before splintering off into a nod and a toothy shower of a smile, like a moldy piece of oak he spoke in those jovial tones that so defined his presence. Barky, growly, thundery, and calm. The lamb and the lion.

"Yessir Father. Just out in the yard then." Again there was contemplation in the form of a deeply rooted warping of the birch tree face, covered in the fallen leaves of both the most recent and the most distant falls. It were as if the whole world had taken the duty of being his face. The crust showing through in his brow as that thick wooded mass of a face began once again began to speak. "I'll be back here in a bit once I've talked t'them a bit." That face seemed all at once to unroot itself, revealing a deep system of obscured muscle and bone that turned and shaped to pull the lumbering figure out of the Church.

First, he left the now empty sack in his cart, tied his two horses and the cart down with a rather gnarly looking iron stake that plunged into the dirt and seemed to call it home as quickly as a mouse in the crevice of the house. Already armed and ready for such ventures as conversation, he made his way into the graveyard and began to patrol down the lanes in search of these individuals... Or any disturbances of any other note. When he entered the yard he kept his eyes sharp and his splitting maul in front of him held in two hands just above his waist, carefully. He didn't want to fall into a grave or anything of the sorts, after all.

Kapti Van Ken

Kenfort always felt so distant from the river that ran it through. So different and far from the people up and along. Not even the well-trodden dirt path connecting the charcoal burner camp not a half day's walk along the river to the town itself brought it home.

Unless the wind turned south, casting the faintest taste of roasting wood over the town. Not thick enough to make a smog, not recent or near enough to still be warm. Instead, the cold charred taste. It was not the smell of home for everyone, mind you. Those in the city most certainly still preferred their natural aromatic persuasion.

So it was perhaps just Kapti and Brook Van Ken that thought that smell was homely. It was Brook's home by all meanings. Kapti's less so. It was the hint of it that was home to he, who had found the woods so pleasant in his aging state.

It was down that well-trodden dirt path that he now road. Shifting and swaying with the cart and carriage, and the pair of horses that pulled it forward. A mile marker along here, a stick effigy there. These were all things well-known and recognized to the man. It was only two years ago that Brook set down the effigy to ward away ghosts that walked the same path as his father Kapti. And so Kapti now looked upon such little things with fondness.

Other things he saw, too.

Smashed branches and foliage, and a bush gone nearer to Heaven than any man. He saw a boar and suspected it went off along the distance.

Or days old scratch marks in a tree. Something sharper marking its home.

Even just the bare footprints of a child in the mud followed by a shoe-clad bowing pattern in the mud with a deep sole. Ghost stories and whispers written all along the path for the watchful to observe. The bored to learn. And so it was that bored and watchful Kapti made his way for that distant and ever near Kenfort. His namesake. When the land first became Ken, a small group called themselves Of Ken, and it remained.

When it came he finally reached Kenfort by the North gate he waved at the guardsman standing watch. Thomas, if he was remembering correctly. Either way the familiar face was waved in by a familiar stranger and they offered each other the respect of a nod. It was obvious by the ash stains on the cart what Kapti was here to peddle to the people of the town. The Coal Man had come to town with his fuel for the flames of society. When his cart had spun itself around the center of town once and settled into his position his first customers had already began to collect and wave at him small bits of coin and work.

Hellos and goodbyes were brief, and the material exchanged hands even quicker. Shaped for good charcoal. It was good. The day was restless and chilled as the refugees came through and, finally when his work was done and his cart nearly empty, he felt the compelling urge to tend to the church. When he arrived at the church the strangers had already engaged in their adventure, unbeknownst to he. He was not a religious man of any greater sort save for some old rites and rituals that he performed more out of habit than faith, but he had recently taken up praying at the church as a way to think and process when he was struggling.

So as he stood he grabbed his splitting maul, a trap, and two of his tomahawks, before placing each gently onto its place on his belt. He crunched down onto the ground from his seat on the carriage, and paused to pat the rump of one of the two horses. He had long forgotten its name, and it was old. Not withering. Well fed and fit, but still old. Its hair was bleached and ancient.

He turned around the carriage, and pulled a sack's worth of charcoal from the back and contained it in such a vessel before moving towards the church. Once at its steps he took it all in for a moment, the size of it. The grandeur and religiosity of it.

He stepped inside and offered a quiet, "'Ello, brought shum coals." Then awaited a response in the entryway.

I'm interested. If this gets feet consider me @able.
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