Posted! I'll probably toss in some more character questions soon, probably form some kind of little buffet of tough moral decisions, random shit, and snotty nobles.
EDIT: Also, does anyone else ever make RP characters for fun? Like, full-fledged, in-depth characters with huge character sheets and everything? I have a problem.
Robeatics Member
Codename: Fupa
STATUS: My Pathfinder character just hooked up with a sentient beam of light, txt it 11 yrs ago
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ChronicleMan
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My Pathfinder character just hooked up with a sentient beam of light, txt it
11 yrs ago
So I'm eating creamy peanut butter instead of crunchy and it's the worst decision of my goddamn life
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“Nobody plans to die.”
Urzoth picked at a loose metal scale on the thigh of her greaves, pressing it back into its place and making a passing note to check over her armor when they made it to Falkreath. The last thing she needed was a stick lodging in a place it shouldn’t or mud chafing against the joints of her armor in the middle of a battle. She studied Marassa’s features while the woman worked to stop the bleeding on a cut on Urzoth’s cheekbone. The pain in her face was gradually subsiding, and she knew merely by the feel of some of Blade’s clawmarks that they would become new scars. “They just end up doing it regardless when they don’t plan ahead.”
Urzoth wondered how many new scars Marassa herself had gained in the time since they’d parted ways. An unfamiliar, minute nick near the tip of her snout, trailing across where her fur and leathery nose met, barely noticeable until one was close enough. A faded scratch from a wolf, perhaps? The aftermath of an encounter in a tavern? She remembered that she was staring without talking again, and just as she poised to part her lips, Marassa spoke instead. She listened solemnly, accepting Marassa’s words. “…Anger makes people have outbursts and exposes glimpses of themselves through their defenses. It’s how I determined Sevari was more than just a typical assassin, it’s how I’ll find out if Coin Purse is going to be an effective alley or a disposable berserker. Given his reputation, I’m rather surprised he harbours any loyalty to people, especially when he barely knows them.”
The bleeding on her face had stopped, and Marassa moved to the dark bog-brown bruising that stretched from Urzoth’s left armpit and onto a portion of her pectoral muscle and shoulder. The ache gave way, letting the orc reflect upon the scolding with a little more lucidity. She shook her head. “I don’t think this is about loyalty. He wants to fight, he wants vengeance. Just as good motivators, if you know how to wrangle it down and point it in the right direction.”
She hummed at Marassa’s forewarning. The idea of leading Marassa or Cub or any of these strangers, some arrogant, some clearly more intelligent than Urzoth, filled her with an odd feeling. She could scarcely describe it, as there was little to compare it to. Pride at Marassa’s recognition of her technical authority, even if her role had been on a more personal level; the ice-cold in her chest at the prospect of leading yet another group of outcasts, the insecurity of relying upon her people skills to inspire others. She was not Zaveed—but, damn him and bless him, she didn’t need to be. The wind chilled her bare arms, but she felt it only vaguely.
She would surely grow attached to her potential charges, even if only to a few. Her old companions were one thing: she knew of their skills and trusted them to watch after themselves where she couldn’t. The breton woman was only a few years younger than Urzoth, but how young she looked! The human was sharp and could pick her way around a fight, sure, but Urzoth remembered too well the harrowing moments of many bandit encounters where Elayna had strayed a little too close to some thug’s wild axe as a result of a misstep.
Focus, Urzoth. You’re straying. “I’m going to find a stream to collect some water to clean off the blood.” Marassa was leaving; the bulk of Urzoth’s wounds mended or significantly made lesser. She flexed her shoulder, rolled it, and grunted at the ache present in the muscle. Healing aside, she would have to rest and stretch, lest she became sore. If I’m even given the chance to rest. Who am I to deserve respite when hundreds frailer than I need it more? No. If I stop it will kill them only faster. She buried her head in her hands. Exhaustion dusted away the remains of rage and pain and settled in smugly. You have miles yet to travel and feet yet to bleed. You can push onward, only a little more.
She glanced up from her breastplate and tasset to Cub, watching him and wishing Marassa would return quickly with the bucket so she could don her armor sooner. Even in a thick shirt and greaves, she felt all too vulnerable. Bad thoughts snuck in freely, but so too did…curious thoughts. Cub was not too bad to look at when he was crashing into Blade like a wagon down a slope. She looked away from him quickly. He also acts like a child with a Daedra’s temper. She sighed. There were moments when his thoughts seemed almost…alien. Neither orc nor anything else she could so neatly file away. Something you don’t understand. But you could learn.
Marassa was back, a furry smudge that burst from the sheet of rain and urgently offered forth a scrap of paper she’d crumpled in her fist to keep from getting soaked. Whatever the note said, it couldn’t be good. She didn’t carry her bucket, she’d left in a hurry. Filth be damned, Urzoth flung on her armor and fastened the straps with just enough carefulness to not make a foolish mistake. Muscle memory did half of her work for her, and she was shuffling her shoulderplates into place as she rushed for her hammer and helmet, both at the log by the fire where she left them. “What does it say?!” She demanded, furiously scrambling to find her sling. Damn you! Wasting energy on a petty power struggle! “What did you find?! What does it say?! Rrragh, dammit!” She stood tensely at the threshold of the tower, staring out into the darkness as if an army of Oblivion-spawn was poised to greet her at any moment.
Urzoth picked at a loose metal scale on the thigh of her greaves, pressing it back into its place and making a passing note to check over her armor when they made it to Falkreath. The last thing she needed was a stick lodging in a place it shouldn’t or mud chafing against the joints of her armor in the middle of a battle. She studied Marassa’s features while the woman worked to stop the bleeding on a cut on Urzoth’s cheekbone. The pain in her face was gradually subsiding, and she knew merely by the feel of some of Blade’s clawmarks that they would become new scars. “They just end up doing it regardless when they don’t plan ahead.”
Urzoth wondered how many new scars Marassa herself had gained in the time since they’d parted ways. An unfamiliar, minute nick near the tip of her snout, trailing across where her fur and leathery nose met, barely noticeable until one was close enough. A faded scratch from a wolf, perhaps? The aftermath of an encounter in a tavern? She remembered that she was staring without talking again, and just as she poised to part her lips, Marassa spoke instead. She listened solemnly, accepting Marassa’s words. “…Anger makes people have outbursts and exposes glimpses of themselves through their defenses. It’s how I determined Sevari was more than just a typical assassin, it’s how I’ll find out if Coin Purse is going to be an effective alley or a disposable berserker. Given his reputation, I’m rather surprised he harbours any loyalty to people, especially when he barely knows them.”
The bleeding on her face had stopped, and Marassa moved to the dark bog-brown bruising that stretched from Urzoth’s left armpit and onto a portion of her pectoral muscle and shoulder. The ache gave way, letting the orc reflect upon the scolding with a little more lucidity. She shook her head. “I don’t think this is about loyalty. He wants to fight, he wants vengeance. Just as good motivators, if you know how to wrangle it down and point it in the right direction.”
She hummed at Marassa’s forewarning. The idea of leading Marassa or Cub or any of these strangers, some arrogant, some clearly more intelligent than Urzoth, filled her with an odd feeling. She could scarcely describe it, as there was little to compare it to. Pride at Marassa’s recognition of her technical authority, even if her role had been on a more personal level; the ice-cold in her chest at the prospect of leading yet another group of outcasts, the insecurity of relying upon her people skills to inspire others. She was not Zaveed—but, damn him and bless him, she didn’t need to be. The wind chilled her bare arms, but she felt it only vaguely.
She would surely grow attached to her potential charges, even if only to a few. Her old companions were one thing: she knew of their skills and trusted them to watch after themselves where she couldn’t. The breton woman was only a few years younger than Urzoth, but how young she looked! The human was sharp and could pick her way around a fight, sure, but Urzoth remembered too well the harrowing moments of many bandit encounters where Elayna had strayed a little too close to some thug’s wild axe as a result of a misstep.
Focus, Urzoth. You’re straying. “I’m going to find a stream to collect some water to clean off the blood.” Marassa was leaving; the bulk of Urzoth’s wounds mended or significantly made lesser. She flexed her shoulder, rolled it, and grunted at the ache present in the muscle. Healing aside, she would have to rest and stretch, lest she became sore. If I’m even given the chance to rest. Who am I to deserve respite when hundreds frailer than I need it more? No. If I stop it will kill them only faster. She buried her head in her hands. Exhaustion dusted away the remains of rage and pain and settled in smugly. You have miles yet to travel and feet yet to bleed. You can push onward, only a little more.
She glanced up from her breastplate and tasset to Cub, watching him and wishing Marassa would return quickly with the bucket so she could don her armor sooner. Even in a thick shirt and greaves, she felt all too vulnerable. Bad thoughts snuck in freely, but so too did…curious thoughts. Cub was not too bad to look at when he was crashing into Blade like a wagon down a slope. She looked away from him quickly. He also acts like a child with a Daedra’s temper. She sighed. There were moments when his thoughts seemed almost…alien. Neither orc nor anything else she could so neatly file away. Something you don’t understand. But you could learn.
Marassa was back, a furry smudge that burst from the sheet of rain and urgently offered forth a scrap of paper she’d crumpled in her fist to keep from getting soaked. Whatever the note said, it couldn’t be good. She didn’t carry her bucket, she’d left in a hurry. Filth be damned, Urzoth flung on her armor and fastened the straps with just enough carefulness to not make a foolish mistake. Muscle memory did half of her work for her, and she was shuffling her shoulderplates into place as she rushed for her hammer and helmet, both at the log by the fire where she left them. “What does it say?!” She demanded, furiously scrambling to find her sling. Damn you! Wasting energy on a petty power struggle! “What did you find?! What does it say?! Rrragh, dammit!” She stood tensely at the threshold of the tower, staring out into the darkness as if an army of Oblivion-spawn was poised to greet her at any moment.
Another volley.
1. In your travelling down a lonely road on the way to Dawnstar, you come across an injured woman on the side of the road, saying she was attacked by bandits and barely escaped. She begs you to help escort her to Dawnstar where she may properly rest, and offers a thousand Septims she claims are kept in her home there. Should you accept: The walk is long, and the two of you speak sparingly. On the way, the two of you are stopped by a small, patrolling militia. A heavily-armored woman at the front speaks, her blade pointed at the both of you. “Step away from the vampire before I rip your throat out! She isn’t escaping this time!”
2. You are hired by the Count of Anvil to assist in the investigation of several kidnappings throughout the county, mainly of beggars and ne’er-do-wells, and after a time you settle upon the likely culprit: a lord by the name of Rimiir living in a lonely estate on the meadows. You may choose how you assault his estate to possibly rescue his prisoners—or perhaps simply speak with him—but either way, you discover that he has chained his victims up in his basement, where he regularly feeds them and forces them to drink the same fine wine as he. In a journal, and by the accounts of the victims (Rimiir himself is nowhere to be found), the lord had a morbid obsession with those he considered lesser and that “saving them from the cruelties of the world” was the only way to help them. A few victims insist that Rimiir was simply well-intentioned, while others claim he would beat them if they mentioned the outside world or complained about their lack of freedom. Just then, Rimiir returns, and while not openly aggressive, demands you leave him “to his holy work”. He has much power in the daily politics of Anvil and even has ties to the Emperor’s Court, and seeing as how his victims are all in the lower tiers of society, there is little hope they would even receive any justice for all the trouble of making a powerful noble your enemy should you choose to oust him.
3. (And now a more lighthearted one.) For one reason or another, you have been invited to a Cyrodiilic ball (or managed to sneak in). While you enjoy yourself (or perhaps morosely avoid all contact with everyone), a particularly ridiculously-dressed noble approaches, accompanied by his entourage. His tone drips with exclusivity. “You know, I realize that I have had yet to speak with you until now.” He takes a sip of the gluttonously overfull goblet he carries, smiling. “But I just had to warn you of the vicious comments I’ve heard flung about over your choice of dress. Quite unfitting for a ball of this nature, don’t you agree?” He and his gaggle of nobles break into a collective chortle.
1. In your travelling down a lonely road on the way to Dawnstar, you come across an injured woman on the side of the road, saying she was attacked by bandits and barely escaped. She begs you to help escort her to Dawnstar where she may properly rest, and offers a thousand Septims she claims are kept in her home there. Should you accept: The walk is long, and the two of you speak sparingly. On the way, the two of you are stopped by a small, patrolling militia. A heavily-armored woman at the front speaks, her blade pointed at the both of you. “Step away from the vampire before I rip your throat out! She isn’t escaping this time!”
2. You are hired by the Count of Anvil to assist in the investigation of several kidnappings throughout the county, mainly of beggars and ne’er-do-wells, and after a time you settle upon the likely culprit: a lord by the name of Rimiir living in a lonely estate on the meadows. You may choose how you assault his estate to possibly rescue his prisoners—or perhaps simply speak with him—but either way, you discover that he has chained his victims up in his basement, where he regularly feeds them and forces them to drink the same fine wine as he. In a journal, and by the accounts of the victims (Rimiir himself is nowhere to be found), the lord had a morbid obsession with those he considered lesser and that “saving them from the cruelties of the world” was the only way to help them. A few victims insist that Rimiir was simply well-intentioned, while others claim he would beat them if they mentioned the outside world or complained about their lack of freedom. Just then, Rimiir returns, and while not openly aggressive, demands you leave him “to his holy work”. He has much power in the daily politics of Anvil and even has ties to the Emperor’s Court, and seeing as how his victims are all in the lower tiers of society, there is little hope they would even receive any justice for all the trouble of making a powerful noble your enemy should you choose to oust him.
3. (And now a more lighthearted one.) For one reason or another, you have been invited to a Cyrodiilic ball (or managed to sneak in). While you enjoy yourself (or perhaps morosely avoid all contact with everyone), a particularly ridiculously-dressed noble approaches, accompanied by his entourage. His tone drips with exclusivity. “You know, I realize that I have had yet to speak with you until now.” He takes a sip of the gluttonously overfull goblet he carries, smiling. “But I just had to warn you of the vicious comments I’ve heard flung about over your choice of dress. Quite unfitting for a ball of this nature, don’t you agree?” He and his gaggle of nobles break into a collective chortle.
Okay, so my post hasn't gone according to plan. Expect one soon, though!
Speaking of vampires, what does everybody's character think of vampires, werewolves and daedra worshippers (like Molag Bal, Mehrunes Dagon, the big jerky gods basically), respectively? I will probably put up some more character questions before my post.
Speaking of vampires, what does everybody's character think of vampires, werewolves and daedra worshippers (like Molag Bal, Mehrunes Dagon, the big jerky gods basically), respectively? I will probably put up some more character questions before my post.
Working on a little post. Should be up hopefully by tonight or tomorrow.
Gorzath's got game. (Urzoth would totally root for the dogboy, good shit Cairo)
Hey Ant, any posts in the works?
Dervish said
OTP is a term that needs to burn in hell along with hashtag.
#rude
Voltaire said
I've got nothing against rap, but this video makes me sad for the music industry.
I guess you're just not a boss-ass bitch.
Dervish said
Naw. She's not into leather-skinned things that have more teeth than her and can breathe underwater. Never trust something that doesn't need to come up for air.
Dervs, you've ruined Marassa/Slaughterfish for me. RIP OTP :'(
Hmmmm. Seems everybody is busy or creatively exhausted. I've played this fun little character game thing with both Witty and Dervs, which is entertaining and also helps flesh out your character more (we all know characters' personalities are not fully defined by their character sheet). I've got a couple of good questions lined up, maybe others can add more to keep the circulation of the OOC going between posts.
1. Your character has come upon an incredibly powerful weapon/wearable item that seems like it was tailored specifically for them. However, before finding it, they found a notice from a poor family claiming the item as a lost family heirloom. They could offer no reward other than gratitude and a sizable portion of the gold they'd made from selling their harvest, maybe 50 Septims. The heirloom itself is well worth much more.
2. Your character has been hired, or picked up a bounty, to clear out a den of bandits and show the Jarl/Count the chief's distinctive ring for reward. Upon entering the den, you discover that the chief has convinced teenagers and children, orphans, to fight for him, and they are fanatical but very weak fighters. They could easily slow you down enough to let the chief escape into hiding if you do not mow them down, and if you sprint past them to go for the chief there is a chance they could flank you while you fight him.
3. Your character is wandering down the streets of Windhelm at night when a drunkard stumbles out of a nearby tavern, clearly smashed. He collides headfirst into you, and spills his ale all over your clothing. He barely acknowledges you, does not apologize, and prepares to continue lumbering on with his chortling, obnoxious drinking companions in tow.
4. A very noisy beggar in the Imperial City has been sitting in the Market District the past few days, crying out to any passerby about his aching leg or starving wife. A guard has been stationed in the same area as him, keeping a watchful eye for the opportunity to drag him off and cease his begging. Your character is browsing the Market District when you come upon the beggar, who resumes his usual moaning, and finally the guard approaches you, whether or not you have given money to the beggar, and whispers, "That man has been here for days, but I can't arrest him because all he's doing is making noise. I'll give you the gold he's made today if you give me an excuse to drag him off, say he hit you or something. You'll be doing the public a favor."
1. Your character has come upon an incredibly powerful weapon/wearable item that seems like it was tailored specifically for them. However, before finding it, they found a notice from a poor family claiming the item as a lost family heirloom. They could offer no reward other than gratitude and a sizable portion of the gold they'd made from selling their harvest, maybe 50 Septims. The heirloom itself is well worth much more.
2. Your character has been hired, or picked up a bounty, to clear out a den of bandits and show the Jarl/Count the chief's distinctive ring for reward. Upon entering the den, you discover that the chief has convinced teenagers and children, orphans, to fight for him, and they are fanatical but very weak fighters. They could easily slow you down enough to let the chief escape into hiding if you do not mow them down, and if you sprint past them to go for the chief there is a chance they could flank you while you fight him.
3. Your character is wandering down the streets of Windhelm at night when a drunkard stumbles out of a nearby tavern, clearly smashed. He collides headfirst into you, and spills his ale all over your clothing. He barely acknowledges you, does not apologize, and prepares to continue lumbering on with his chortling, obnoxious drinking companions in tow.
4. A very noisy beggar in the Imperial City has been sitting in the Market District the past few days, crying out to any passerby about his aching leg or starving wife. A guard has been stationed in the same area as him, keeping a watchful eye for the opportunity to drag him off and cease his begging. Your character is browsing the Market District when you come upon the beggar, who resumes his usual moaning, and finally the guard approaches you, whether or not you have given money to the beggar, and whispers, "That man has been here for days, but I can't arrest him because all he's doing is making noise. I'll give you the gold he's made today if you give me an excuse to drag him off, say he hit you or something. You'll be doing the public a favor."
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