Parzivol

8 Days Late

Hello, howdy, etc.

I'm excited to fully remove myself from reality and sink into this fun new environment. My name is Parz1vol, though I left the one out this time around and made it an I. Personally I'm really irked by that but think that I should keep it for the sake of learning to get over stupid things, even though I know full well out to change my username.

According to my bio, I'm a nerd. No skin off my back.

In all seriousness: I've been roleplaying since I was twelve and writing since long before then. I enjoy writing, and I have a particularly peculiar style that often looks directly at common grammar and syntax and what have you and decides that it doesn't care about it. I'm excited to be on another forum after taking several years break from forum roleplay and more recently moving to Discord.

The Dark Ages...but in Space! (Space NRP, name pending)

I've got interest. I'm seeing a lot of cool ideas. The idea that instantly came to mind is a struggling series of systems operated by Humans. Basically space-ranchers and space-farmers. Something along those lines. There's a lot of visual stuff that I'm thinking about that can't properly go into words at the moment. Consider me among the interested if you manage to get this thing feet.

No More Heroes

_{Interacting with @Cerces22@MegaOscarPwn@Utrax@Lauder@LordOfTheNight}

Frederick was unhappy with the situation. This was a hell, for him. Powerful creatures and machines of all various makes and models and purposes and builds. Most of them were significantly more powerful than he, and at least one of them could input direct control over him. The girl with the ice wasn't too troublesome, and the speedster could be managed, but the dark looking human-suit would be more than problematic if its operator thought to push its will hard enough against Freddy's own.

When the Speedster had left, he had grabbed the stranger by the shirt and chest, pulling them up over his shoulder. The man wasn't unconscious, though his confusion and daze were keeping him largely manageable. Didn't matter. As soon as the man was over the Fisherman's shoulder, the shoulder became bristled in small spines that pierced the clothing and skin gently, before shooting up and out. By the time the stranger even had the ability to consider protesting or reacting to the pain, his central nervous system had been mangled beyond function. The process of pumping air into the man's lungs to mimic panicked breathing while the man's insides were slowly torn apart and reabsorbed into their base chemicals was quick but being done on an insignificant scale.

Slow, of course, but it was a process still. He ignored the commotion and slowed.

Since the Speedster was making small talk with the maniacs that ruled the place, he dipped into an alley and lost form for a moment. While obscured in shadow, it consumed the stranger whole. It remained in its natural state for just a moment, letting the broiling surface of eyes and mouths and teeth and claws and protrusions feel around the alleyway. It was calming, for him, to return to his birthed state every so often.

Once it was done with enjoying its food, a process that in the end took less than twenty seconds, it returned to a more decent state. Frederick chewed his nails as he stepped out of the alleyway. An actual Demon and a pretender Demon were playing about while a robot and a fast man busied themselves with existing and feeling inferior to their compatriots (respectively). Great. He wouldn't risk the suspicion of leaving just yet, but he'd be careful. No need to risk throwing his established cover off.

"Perhaps we should actively consider not making a show of this and moving on with things. We should really split up and stop congregating in one central area where we're all easily destroyed by something as simple as an orbital laser or a well cast spell calling on a Great Old One or by some high-powered Death Squad beyond even our own instantly destructive abilities and what have you." The way he said instantly destructive abilities was certainly a mocking one. Either he was making fun of himself or making fun of the others. "Hell, one of us is easily defeated by earplugs and basic magical warding. Damn foreigners is what it is. How many of you are actually Americans in a proper sense anyhow? I hate Ireland. I really do." His grumbling drifted into the profuse whinings of someone who knows far too much for their position and understands all too well why their position is a bad one to be stuck in.

No More Heroes

I'll respond here within the hour.

The Elder Scrolls: Witchhunters' Gambit

Additional question: Two of us have the Atronach starsign. It provides a fifty percent spell absorption passive, meaning half of the spells you're hit with turn into raw magicka rather than inflicting damage. How is that to be handled?

Skyrim does a full absorption on every 1 of 2 spells, but half absorption on all spells may be more reasonable given the medium we're using for play. I just want to be certain come time to be struck with whatever magic is likely to be slung at us at various points.

The Elder Scrolls: Witchhunters' Gambit

Got my first post up. I feel like a good entrance was necessary to breach the already established narrative course for proper insertion, so I went a bit overboard with the hunt.

Also: Working on the Skyrim-established idea that Reachmen are basically a branch of Bretons native to the Reach and the High Rock-Skyrim border territory. It's clear based on his dress that he's a Reachman, but he also looks Breton of lineage because he's a Reachman.

The Elder Scrolls: Witchhunters' Gambit

With no food and no septims, self-sufficiency would be the only answer that made any sense. No, he did not have a bow. No, he did not have arrows. There were always alternatives, however, and he knew one of his favorites to be good for these such circumstances. It took him about a half hour to clean up his camp, pack his bag, fully clothe, stamp out the fire, and pray. In that particular order. The only sign that he had ever been there was a smear of clouded funnel cap paste, drawn in a circle on a stone. The sun was not yet risen.

Then, he busied himself. He needed food, and this region was sure to be plentiful and rich with food. One way or another. The goal was meat, though he'd settle for something else if he needed to. Preparation was simple: a paralysis paste on the tip of the iron short sword he carried. Not the edge. He needed the edge to open a wound on his target, and the paste to keep the thing still after forcing it to turn its neck up. Keep the bleed out quick and efficient, and keep the hunt quick. The goal was to avoid exhaustion while also managing one's stores. He didn't need much paste, which was to his benefit as he hadn't been collecting much while he was coming down South. His goal had been to escape the chaos up North, so slowing himself down made little sense.

The next step for the hunt was the right disguise, followed soon after by the right knowledge. He took some time to coat himself in snow, especially on his shoulders and head. That would enable him to hide in a snow mound and wait, while not fussing so much over details. The information that he gathered next was a trail. He found fresh tracks, which took about a half hour, and then a mound along those tracks. He burrowed into the mound with startling efficiency, then used his hands to dig a little pit out for his eyes. Now, he was obscured and could see the trail. Touch it, if he really wanted to. Then, it was waiting.

When a large male Elk came into view, he could still feel his finger tips. The creature pressed its head into the ground, and pushed away snow. It came up with grass. When it went down again, the Reachman moved. He jerked forward in a practiced manner, he had frequently taken down bandits and Forsworn with this such method, and tackled at the thing. He aimed not for where its antlers were, but for where they would be.

His calloused, fur-clad hands found grip at the bases of the antlers. The animal immediately moved Southwest, while Bruoch pulled himself up onto its back. Twice he nearly lost purchase when the thing stopped and bucked. He, perhaps through luck or his own deep reserves of energy, had managed to maintain a grip while making progress all the same.

It carried him downhill, slamming its side into the occasional passing tree in an attempt to dismount the Reachman. He maintained grip, however, and finally managed to draw out his sword. With his left hand and his thighs he tightened his grip on the creature. Leaning forward, being wary of the antlers, he pulled the blade against the animal's throat. It coughed out a howl of pain. The sun was up, now, and casting light down onto the display. Downhill through the trees rode Bruoch, on the bleeding elk. He transferred his blade to his teeth, and scooted forward on the thing's back. While it jerked its neck around he found his right hand grip once again. Once obtained, he grabbed the Elk by the lower neck with his left leg. His right leg was raised up, pressing down on the Elk's right flank for support.

With his position secured by the odd but practiced lock, he took his blade in his right hand once again. Rather than stabbing down onto the Elk, he readied to stab downwards onto its back legs. In one movement he adjusted, jerking the Deer's head back and tripping it. As the pair fell, both now thoroughly bloodied, he plunged the iron sword's tip into the creature's ass. The rigidity was nearly immediate. It spread quickly, and the Creature lost control as its muscles went tight. Bruoch pulled himself in, hugging tight to the Elk's back, as it cartwheeled about thirty feet down the snowy hill and breached the treeline.

After bouncing once, the creature toppled a headstone. Bruoch, covered in blood and fur and snow, pushed away from the paralyzed deer and scrambled for the nearest stone. He settled on one from a Nord cairn, and moved on the Elk. With three swift strikes, he bashed its head in.

Its limbs began to slowly go limp, as the paralysis wore off of the dead body.

The Reachman looked around, assessing his new environment. When his eyes rested on an Imperial man, an elf, and the Breton girl, he laughed. The energy and flowing enthusiasm left him otherwise speechless. He kicked the deer onto its side, and pulled back his headdress. The ugly Breton-looking man was smiling, and his face had managed to smear itself a bit in the blood of the animal. From his fur belt he pulled a long, thin-looking dirk, and began to cut effortlessly through the deer. His goal at the moment, regardless of the strangers, was to ensure that the meat he wanted was covered with snow and in his bag. These folk looked like they were from one of the settlements in the area, or from settlements in general, but he could never truly tell when Hircine was going to send challengers following a particularly efficient hunt.

After he had made some of the major cuts and rubbed the blood on his face, as he did so often, he pulled his headdress back up. Perhaps rubbing the blood on his face wasn't the smartest idea. His face began to lose a bit of feeling, but he worked through it. The smear was going to wear out here soon anyhow, so he wasn't worried. He'd make due if these folks insisted on conversation. Worst case scenario he was forced to defend himself and hid their bodies out in the woods and claimed no connection to the deaths. Head and fingers would have to be removed. Heart for safety purposes.

No. That was planning ahead. Certainly they'd be more startled than anything. He hadn't been aggressive towards them. Unless, perhaps, they were game-keepers. With that thought, he looked up and scowled, before continuing to open up the deer. If they were game-keepers he'd definitely have to kill them. Hircine's blessing was always upon him, as he was a man of the Reach. There would be absolutely no reason to risk rubbing up against the law and losing supplies and time.

_{@SoulChrysamere@Mixcoatl}

No More Heroes

I love the character synergy here. Things seem like they'll be cool.

The Elder Scrolls: Witchhunters' Gambit

NAME: Bruoch Horntree

RACE: Reachman

GENDER: Male

AGE: Thirty-three

BIRTHSIGN: The Atronach

HEIGHT: Five Foot, Seven Inches

APPEARANCE: Bruoch is a toadish man with a broad, ugly face, and large lips. His sunken brow suggests to most that he is almost constantly perturbed, while his narrow brown eyes suggest something snake-like and inquisitive in him. Deep creases at the corners of his mouth and on his forehead make him seem a bit older than he really is, and early-balding hair has done little to aid against the illusion. His thick black-brown beard is braided into three thick, dangling ropes of hair. They give him, despite being high-effort hair pieces, a look of lacked refinement. His hair itself is receded back to the middle of his head. What hasn't been lost, however, is long and roped. The hair on his brow is, itself, rather thorough as well. His brow hair suggests something wild in his appearance, and most aids the illusion that he's just one of the more brutal Reachman like those that associate with the Forsworn.

In terms of shape, he is broad. His shoulders and chest are fit, and his long arms and legs are defined enough in musculature to keep him in proportion. Were he any fatter or any thinner though he'd look a bit off-shape. He takes little effort in the taming of his body hair, and is understandably quite ragged as a result. Several scarified symbols are visible on his back. Most notable is a depiction of the stars in the Atronach sign. He calls this, rather lovingly, his Golem. Beyond that, he frequently paints himself in the spiral symbols commonly found in giant camps, mixed with many of the symbols and signs more conventionally used by Reachmen.

EQUIPMENT: He is a more traditional sort, but not nearly as frivolous in decoration as his kinsmen. The result is a mix of basic hides and furs meant to warm and protect mixed with the various bone amulets and decoration pieces worn by Reachmen. His headdress is the most traditional thing on him, and clumsily depicts the deer-head of Hircine with bone, antlers, and elk-hide. He cares little for exposed flesh, especially in the harsh environment common in Skyrim, the Jerals, and the edge territories of High Rock. To facilitate his warmth then, he wears plenty of layered furs. Beyond that though, he has little else. His sandals are carefully designed to aid in his traversal of the rocky terrain of the Reach, and are rather uncomfortable on flat ground. The result is a lot of complaining.

In terms of arms, he keeps light. His work as a guide in the Reach has earned him access to some higher quality materials, including enchanting materials. The resulting tools were a climbing pick, an iron shortsword, and an enchanted knife called Butcher.

His supply pack is a large satchel in which he keeps alchemy ingredients, food, and other useful necessities. He keeps about fifteen feet of hemp rope with him at any one time (though this is often kept tied around his waist and shoulders rather than in his bag), and a fire drill (bow-drill). Out of habit he keeps a handful of soul gems on him, but he does not know the soul trap spell. Finally, he keeps enough extra furs to erect a small fur tent if he must during travels.

PERSONALITY: He's a pious sort, and will often leave offerings to Hircine. He's wary of being too pious, though. Nothing would make him happier than serving Hircine, but he does not want the Wolf Curse or the Bear Curse. He sees them as beneficial but doesn't like the idea of skin-changing.

There are plenty of ways to approach defining Bruoch, but two stand out. He is kind, and passive. He does what he sees as good for the sake of being good, rather than for reward. He is stoic in his emotional inclination, and values hard work above almost all else. His reasoning for becoming a guide for foreigners in Reach land is for those exact reasons: He thinks the Forsworn are too emotional, and sees them as taking the lazy path. He wants to be good, and as such guides people around Forsworn encampments and traps as a profession.

WEAKNESSES: Nothing of any particular oddity is to be noted. Most of his weakness is visible in his attributes, where he's consistently lacking in the luck, personality, and willpower. Beyond that is his lack of magicka regeneration due to his birth season. There's the constant persecution that has to be handled as well, given that few like the Reachmen. Then there's his issue with tech. Ever since he was a small child he's been largely incapable of being around Dwemer tech without things going terribly wrong. The stuff just makes him destructively clumsy when he's near it.

SKILL REPERTOIRE: (Also Attributes)
Endurance Focus, Speed Focus
STEALTH Character
Master: N/A
Expert: Cold Weather Survival, Athletics
Journeyman: Sneak, Medium Armor, Acrobatics
Apprentice: Short Blade, Alchemy

POLITICAL AFFILIATIONS: Informally he supports the Nords in their rebellion against the Empire. His vision of Skyrim is one that's unified. That means Nords, Reachmen, Hagravens, Giants, and the various other local sentients working together. He thinks that the rebellion against the Empire is misguided, however, and that following Ulfric is going to have no long term impact. Specific to the Markarth issue, he supports the Silver-Blood family and the local Nord populations. It's his opinion that forces like Madanach's are working against the well-being of the Reachmen tribes in the area and the well-being of the Nords. His family is from a South-Western pocket that lives on the edge of the Reach and Falkreath Hold, and as such he sees the leadership of those holds and their opinions as favorable to those in other holds. He prefers Dengeir of Stuhn's reign over Siddgeir, who he sees as childish. He is content with the current Jarl of Markarth, though wish the Silver-Blood Clan would simply be given the seat so that it could rule the city with more economic efficiency in mind.

GUILD AFFILIATIONS: None, though he has been contacted at one time or the other by the Companions to act as a guide for finding particularly secluded groves with righteous game to hunt. He does not know their secret.
---------------------

BACKSTORY: Bruoch grew up in the South-West Reach with a small tribe that was mostly his extended family. They kept to themselves, and remained distant from the conflicts that preceded the war. He himself has no children, but that's in part due to his choices. While his direct kin are more moderate considering their close relations with local Nords at Falkreath and in the southern Reach, they do not quite approve of Bruoch's decision to actively aid the Nords. Indifference is one thing, help is another. He was almost thrown out when he joined Ulfric's forces in toppling Markarth's brief period of independence. The only thing keeping him with his family was his closeness to his Grandmother, a powerful Hagraven which acted as the matriarch of the family.

When Bruoch was a boy, his cousins didn't hold his attention. His elder brother was a bore, obsessed only with the hunt and politicking about the affairs of the Reachmen and the Nords. He found himself no affection for his female cousins, as he thought of them too well as sisters and so took not to the idea of keeping the family in the family. With no one else around, he tended to his Grandmother. For much of his childhood she was a simple witch, enacting rituals and providing the family magical protections against those few mercenaries or adventurers that attacked them. She was, for much of his life, his idol. When she underwent the ritual to become a Hagraven, he became a tool to her. His willingness as a teenager to prove himself to her and seek her affection was and is easily abused. During this period though, she willingly taught him bits about alchemy. When he was away though, he was sent out to hunt and survey land and track the growth of particular groves. Little did he know, he was planning out an attack against the local Spriggans. His Grandmother needed the sap and taproots of the Spriggans, and so used her Grandson to do the heavy lifting of the information collection.

When sixteen, he was sent alone to kill and collect a Spriggan for use by his grandmother. He did so, though was maimed when one of the creatures cut deep against his chest. Half-bled out, he returned to camp. His grandmother took the whole mess as an indication that he would become the family's first briarheart upon his death, a hint from Hircine that it must be so. Carefully, in an attempt to maintain her nervous grandson's loyalty, she gifted him an enchanted knife. It was unique in its ability to hack through dead flesh and bone with ridiculous efficiency. He keeps and cleans it as a memento, though he has not seen his grandmother for quite the spot.

The plans to undergo such that procedure began and would unfold over several years. He's had difficulties accepting the ritual, however, and has homesteaded at a small site just West of the Whiterun Hold-Reach border, along the main road. His little shack there has been where he's operated for the past three or four years. With rumors of dragons about and other terrifying creatures though, he goes south to the Jerals. He has no real interest in returning to family, though he knows he must one day, and has grown exhausted with his environment. Surely a different set of cold mountains will help him with that? Surely.

Following a tough night just North of this Roxey village he's heard so little about. His stomach turned a bit as he felt through his empty pack. He needed food. And septims. That was a realization that hit him with a bit of weight. He found a bit of Elves Ear near the bottom of his pack and began to chew on it, content on letting that hold him over. Surely he was Stoic enough to last, yes? Most certainly.

It's always a good morning when your first concern is feeding yourself.

No More Heroes

Freddy ignored his surroundings rather single-mindedly, watching the machine with an intense lack of satisfaction. It was a thing, and he knew not what this thing's purpose was. "I'll make a point of finding the answer to my question through you. I want your purpose known." If it even had one (It most certainly had a purpose). The conclusion was simple, as far as Frederick was concerned: It didn't matter at the moment.

No, certainly not. Priority one was the avoidance of capture or death. The Mutes, for as long as they had lived, represented threats to those goals. So, he had given them his attention. When they had called for his getting down, he had obeyed. The Speedster had been ignored. Whether the man had a better sense for the situation than Freddy was uncertain, but at the moment our fisherman felt it best to do as he was told. It would be a simple matter to handle things afterwards. When the Mutes too had fallen to the ground, he remained, though his attention was towards the newcomer. Despite himself being of a more ancient cut of cloth, he had no extrasensory abilities at the moment. The only hinting towards the presence of a God-kith for Frederick was the speaking and the following suicides.

That was no small feat. Full biologicals were simple things, yes, but to have that much control over them was exceptional. It was no hallmark of humanity. That suggested enough for Frederick to become quickly disinterested in the situation. Nothing would disturb his old bones more than having to face something as old as himself, or older. So then, he pushed off the ground and moved with the Speedster. He caught up with a ghastly alacrity, and an off-putting speed of sprint. It was out of character for the otherwise reserved and set-back figure. Upon nearing the Speedster, Frederick extended his left hand down for the machine's offender.

"I'll take it. Focus on finding our way. He won't slow me down, with the flesh willing." The man's voice was warbley and cold, and reminded of the sound made by fish slapping against a cutting board or table, though sped up thousands of times and used to modulate something akin to a right proper voice. Perhaps it was the distance, or fear, because he had sounded fine enough only earlier. Matching his statement, he had moved to seize up the downed man by the chest. His left hand hovered about a foot over the man's chest, awaiting permission to pull the stranger up.

"And I'm Frederick. Freddy. Lead the way, yes? I've little interest in being around when more come and trounce those that remain." There it was. Normalized. Again that nondescript voice of a gentle American south-easterner.

Frederick felt again that certain draw to the machine. The idea intrigued him. He'd need to find it and toy with it given time. It had done more ill of the people in the penal colony that week through accident than most of the murderers had. With the rations closed, people would face pains not of their own wishing. What would drive something, apparently made in that clumsy human way. Perhaps it wasn't of human craft. That was always an option. The infinite horrors of the cosmos leaving a mechanical marvel in the middle of a worthless star in a worthless place.

Perhaps a hune was the answer. An escape. But this planet was so quaint wasn't it?

_{Interacting with @MegaOscarPwn, @Utrax, and to a lesser extent, @LordOfTheNight}