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Watch out.

The gap in the door... it's a separate reality.
The only me is me.
Are you sure the only you is you?


DON'T TOUCH THAT DIAL NOW, WE'RE JUST GETTING STARTED

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It definitely seems like the majority of you are more interested in living through the active decline, rather than picking over ruins.

However to preserve as much plausible mystery in the plotlines, I will most likely look towards characters who hail from neighboring lands or at the very least from small towns/villages/communities within Vassidia that affords little familiarity with any of the major cities. A character who has spent most of their life in a city and among its people may end up becoming a wrinkle for some of the plots.

That said, at least one of you has already approached me with some concepts already, and there haven't been any real issues thusfar, and I am always willing to work with people to find suitable solutions.
Oh, also, question:

Do the tribes in Eerum have their own beliefs? Their own gods? Furthermore, if they did, would the Barbed Church have something to say about it or do they only hold power in Kafaara?

In order words, is there religious tension?


The Barbed Church is the dominant dogma of the kingdom and the only practice officially recognised by the capital and the royal family. However scattered pockets of other belief systems, or no belief systems, still exist, and are not outlawed by the state. Those who do not subscribe to the Barnes Church are not welcome in Kafaara, however.

Little remains of the original tribes of Eerum and the Sychan Desert, and what is remembered is more folklore and mythology than any serious religion. Mornfell-on-Mountainside has little to no religion, but do have their own cultural system of patronage and worship to the Mountain-Brave, a particular caste of citizens in Mornfell who have overcome an age old trial of tradition.
Curious as to how magic works in this.


Magic runs through everything and your average human is a little hardier, a little longer-living, and little more enduring than the humans we know in our world, and wildlife is similarly affected. With practice even peasants can perform some aided sleight-of-hand or very simply cantrips; however actual mages take years of dedicated study, both practical and theoretical, and any established sorcerer worth their salt will agree that oftentimes magic on any grander scale is either too dangerous, too costly, or both. Mages are closer to scholars than active practitioners.
Are we doing this more sandbox style or playing a group?


Honestly, depends on the preferred setting of the game. Players unpicking the knotted history of a fallen land allows characters to approach each city individually; however a ‘final quest’ scenario suits a more structured, traditional approach, with the characters working as a team answering the king’s summons and venturing forth in search of answers.

In either case I will guide each city’s individual plot thread and govern the overarching story, but I encourage players to pursue their own character arcs as well, of course.


T H E B L I G H T E D K I N G D O M



P R E M I S E:

Vassidia is a plagued land.

The people are not unfamiliar with sickness; under the Garland lineage, the kingdom has already suffered and survived the Wailing Death, the Red Plague, the Ursine Pox. The cities know how to quarantine, how to detect, how to treat and experiment with cures. Vassidia is not unfamiliar with sickness; but this is not a mere sickness.

The citizens see it every day; cracked statues, eery in their accuracy of form, mottled ruby chunks bursting from cracks that run across their entire surface. They depict agony, despair, rage and resignation. In the first weeks, before word spread and knowledge grew, the rubies were stolen, chiselled, even thought to be lucky. Now, with wisdom of terrible truth, they are avoided, demolished, known to be cursed. The statues are no depiction; they are the last living moments of those victim to the Stone Blight, captured forever in petrified rock.

Across the continent, beggars and barons alike are developing blisters and boils that burst into encrusted maroon gemstones, fat and dewy rubies that begin to spread lethargy and dullness as quickly as they do a cracked, hard black skin rash that grows to encase the victim as the metamorphosis continues internally. Nearly every resource the kingdom possesses is now dedicated towards a cure for the accursed blight that has seized the kingdom.

The High Lord Jocun is running out of hope, and his subjects moreso. From his seat, he has called for adventurers, mercenaries, academics, peasants, nobility - anyone willing to travel the continent in search of answers. Many have departed; few have completed their journey. Fewer still have returned.

Vassidia is a plagued land. How will you fare against the blight?



M A P O F T H E R E A L M:


VASILIUS, THE SEAT OF THE KING


Vasilius is unquestionably the kingdom's capital city, and the center of the realm for all major trade, academics, and political players. A vast and proud city, its streets and boroughs stretch forth from a focal point at the High Throne, which stands at the very center of the royal palace within the Garland Citadel. From here, High Lord Jocun presides with his wife, Queen Vesindra, his infant son, Prince Dahtun, and his many advisors, chief among them the Royal Warlock, Aborran.

Jocun is the fifth of his bloodline to rule the realm, and while many would admit him to be a strong and fair king, many others would question his conflictingly brazen and mysterious manner, some even citing arrogance and a blasé nature due to his family's long-uncontested rule.

What everyone can agree on, however, is the sheer toll that the Stone Blight is taking on the kingdom, with swathes of dead across the continent, and the psychological damage to the citizens by the unassuaged dread. Whether Jocun and those close to him are near a cure or not, no one can say - but every day that passes with the palace's silence is another day of growing unease across the kingdom at large.


EERUM, THE ARID BURG


Eerum, far south and deep within the Sychan Desert, was the first city to be discovered and assimilated into Vassidia and the kingdom of the Garland Lineage, rather than settled by Vassidian citizens proper. Originally a simple shared camping grounds and makeshift marketplace for the few aboriginal tribes of the desert, the tribal identity of the natives was worn away as trade routes and supply lines were opened, feeding barons and couriers into the desert, and allowing Eerum to become a township proper, rather than a few tents propped up around a vital spring of water.

Life in Eerum remains not without its hardships: the heat scorches the ground, making farming exceptionally difficult; trade routes bear caravans rarely, as few are capable of or willing to brave the desert, and fewer still make successful enough journeys to justify the expenditure versus the profit; water is scarce, and the single spring of freshwater that lies within Eerum's central square seems to run lower than ever. Those that 'make it' out here are barely more successful than a modest farmer in the mainland, and those than don't are beggars, dying beggars, or dead.

There is a growing unrest in Eerum - an anger in the people that surpasses anything felt in Vassidia proper. The palace has promised more frequent supply caravans, but the Stone Blight takes its toll on the kingdom, and Eerum is far from the only suffering community in need. The Sychan Desert, it seems, is set to swallow the city whole, like many before it - if the Stone Blight, or Eerum's own citizens, don't spell its downfall first.


KAFAARA, HOME OF THE PIOUS


Kafaara is the seat of power for the kingdom's dominant religion: the Barbed Church. Believers that the world, and all that inhabits it, are children of a great font of Magick, their first priests settled here long ago and built their first altar, which soon grew to a village, a town, and eventually an outright city centered around what was now a great cathedral.

For those who do not subscribe to the lessons and sermons given by the Church's many ministers, including their chief Pontiff Silvene, the First Thorn, and her Circle of Barbs, their practices can seem cultish, violent, and taboo; but for the Church's many followers, the rituals involved are a harmless, day-to-day appreciation of life and those who live it.

Kafaara is a wealthy city - no small thanks to the numerous donations made to the Church - and rich in culture, with many foreign followers of the Church making pilgrimages at least once in their life. It is a center for research against the Blight, though recently far more has been going into the city than has been coming out...


FERROS, THE IRON CITY


Ferros was first settled by a prolific blacksmith who discovered rich iron veins in the hills behind, and quickly seized the opportunity to begin a mining operation and become the early kingdom's nearly sole source of quality forged iron. Eventually the blacksmith's settlement grew and grew, and the iron was used to turn a hamlet into an armoured citadel, with great iron walls and gates and watchtowers.

The great iron city became a beacon for all ambitious and enterprising individuals, many would-be entrepeneurs trying - and often failing - to begin their fateful climbs to Vassidia's capital heights. The day-to-day proceedings of the city are guided by the Iron Council, a select group of rich and powerful individuals who lend a steady hand to the city's - and through it, the kingdom's - economy.

Recently, however, a usually booming hub of commerce has closed its gates and shut its markets - and more worryingly, its mines. The Council remains stubbornly silent to envoys and messengers, and the King grows impatient...


MARISMA, HEART OF THE MARSH


Marisma was founded by a small sect of zealous druids who has exiled themselves out of disgust for what they viewed as 'hedonistic excesses of man's machinations'. They traveled deep into the far south-west of the continent and had discovered there a sprawling marsh that encompassed an entire county's worth of land. It was in the heart of this marsh that they constructed their first homes amongst the trees and the swamp, many of them fashioning living spaces from huge, naturally-formed hollows with the trees themselves.

In the present era, Marisma is a naturalist's paradise, never really moving on from its forest-worshiping roots, and its inhabitants enjoys a straight-forward, if at times meager, living; simple survival within one of Vassidia's largest natural wonders. The people are friendly, provided you respect their beliefs and rules, and understanding of those who choose a life beyond the borders of the Great Marsh - though they still spurn most modern advances in smithing, economy, and agriculture.

There are rumours of a resurgence - perhaps reappearance - of those ancient druids, and more presently of unexplained disappearances. The Marsh feels thicker and more cloying than ever, and its previously open citizens grow more paranoid about each other and more fearful of the swamp every day - though everyone still staunchly refuses to leave...


MORNFELL ON MOUNTAINSIDE


Mornfell-on-Mountainside is potentially the oldest city of Vassidia, perhaps even out-dating the capital; although such rumours are easy to spread, given its relatively recent discovery on the far side of the Eastern Border Mountain-range, and difficult to quell, given the city archivists' reluctance to share their history with 'foreigners'.

Unquestionably the most inhospitable city of the kingdom, it owes its ruthless reputation to both the brutality of its mountainous location, and the xenophobia of its people. At its core is a towering, colossal bonfire - sustained by massive quantities of fuel and closely-guarded magick - out of which the city proper spirals its streets, channeling the fire down its main causeways to be siphoned into homes and buildings to supply the people with the heat vital to their survival. Many in the city blame their misfortunes on the opening of their gates to the rest of the kingdom - blame they do not spare the Stone Blight of either.

Lately, an already icy city has grown colder still, and its gates - once open in defiance of its people - are now closed in defiance of its High Lord. Still, scouts consistently report that its fire burns hotter, larger, brighter than ever, and many are left to wonder who remains within the mountain to tend to the flames.



Hi! Welcome to my interest check for The Blighted Kingdom, a Dark Fantasy roleplay with a bit of magic, a bit of horror, and a lot of player adventuring. The kingdom is vast and so very open to exploration, with dark secrets and the downfall of a long lineage to uncover. The cities - states in their own right - all suffered their own individual fates at the hands of this insidious new disease, and it is up to the players what they will do. Seek a cure? Rescue survivors? Or merely loot what remains?

I will use this interest check to field questions, assuage fears, and generally chat about things I have in mind for the direction of this roleplay, and any potential direction about characters and concepts. The history and problems of the kingdom are deliberately vague to allow organic discovery throughout the game, and hopefully each city will work as its own episodic trial that will link into the overall arc of the kingdom at large.

I will also use this thread to field some questions of my own, the very first of which will be which chronological period players may prefer: a kingdom in the last throes of its plague, with the players being a last hope for the land, summoned by the King for a final quest to save the people? Or a kingdom post-fall, with the players swarming in from neighboring lands picking over ruins in search of treasure or knowledge? Each scenario has its own ups and downs and particular arc to pursue, and each suits a different numbers of players.

I'm also looking for a Co-GM, preferably with some experience in running their own games. Ideas, plots, story direction, all very much my forte. Organisation, deadlines, fine detail stuff, not so much.

Let me know what you think!
<Snipped quote by Roman>

Gave me a lot to think about. Obviously I still have much to learn from you o'mighty master in regards to wherever the syntax issues are coming from. AS honestly a lot of the time, even on re-reads, I'm not seeing them.

In terms of the Loki subplot there's more to come, just you wait and see.


Retired used to recommend reading posts out loud a lot, which I think sometimes work but often when you write you know the rhythm you're chasing, so sometimes reading your own writing just has you putting that rhythm in unconsciously and not seeing the issues that an outside observer sees. I'd be happy to take some passages that feel especially awkward and try to demonstrate what you've done and the ways it could be broken up to make the flow of the read a little more pleasant.
Jesus christ I'm finally up to date, so here's the next batch and now you can all SHUT UP while I work on my OWN post.

If you're after a more cohesive train of reviews, my first batch is Here, and my second batch is Here.

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All The Rest Of Us
Issue Three: Storm



John twists and turns and rolls beneath his blanket as he tries to get comfortable stretched across Chas’ sofa. He has a pillow, which is an immediate improvement to his past sleeping arrangements, and the blanket is thick, and heavy, and keeps him warm against the cold morning air. He takes these small blessings and uses them as a shield against his sore back and stiff neck. He curses beneath his breath and gives up, sitting up proper on the sofa and gathering up his blanket around his shoulders. Morning light drifts lazily through half-pulled curtains and John takes a big deep breath of cool, fresh air, free from the stink of rubbish, dirty laundry, cigarette ash and stale beer. He feels awake, more rested than he has been in weeks, and the clarity of his consciousness strikes him unprepared. John realises the difference slowly, but with deep remorse when he does: he is not hungover.

From the kitchen he hears metal and ceramic clattering and then low, harsh swears. He stands from the sofa, clinging to his blanket as his modesty’s only protection, and slowly pads across the living room to the doorway. He peeks around the wall and is greeted by the back of Chas, rooting around in a feral, feverish manner. He tears through drawers and cupboards with animalistic abandon, while occasionally rubbing at his wet hair with what John can now see is a tea-towel. Chas is obviously searching for something. John clears his throat and Chas jumps and swears louder, but turns around to see John giving him a small, awkward wave with one hand while the other holds up his blanket.
“You alright there, chuck?” John asks, giving a nervous half-smile. Chas turns around to continue searching while he replies.
“Lookin’ for the damn kettle. Can’t start my day without a decent cuppa down my gullet. But uh, the missus appears to not be here anymore, along with a bunch of my STUFF!”
John jumps as Chas suddenly yells in frustration.
Including the kettle, which I know she only took to spite me. And all the lamps. And all the towels!” He pulls on the damp tea-towel hanging around his neck as he explains. John can’t help but smirk.
“Why’d she run out on ya? You seem a nice enough fella.”
Chas gives up looking, and instead pulls out a metal cooking pot and fills it with water from the tap.
“Petty squabbles, mostly. Fightin’ over this and that, and then over fightin’. Big one was my mother, as the hag always is. Disagreements on how much participation in her ongoing care we should have.”
“I’m sorry about that. Can’t be easy to choose between family and romance.”
Chas shrugs, turning the stove on and setting the pot of water on top.
“Ah, she made it clear well enough before I left that she wouldn’t be here when I got back if I went. God knows what made me choose me mam over her. Spite. Same as why she took the kettle.”
“Spite is a strong motivator.” John agrees, half-musing. Chas just nods, and then takes two mugs and sets them on the counter-top. He fetches two tins, one filled with coffee and one with teabags, and points them both at John. John points at the teabags, and Chas prepares both mugs.

Chas talks as he waits for the water in the pot to start bubbling.
“I took the liberty of chucking your stuff in the tumbler while you was sleepin’. Don’t mean to be rude but, I noticed the stains.”
John rolls this around in his head, deciding if he’s offended or not. He isn’t. He does gesture to the blanket that’s still covering him, though, and Chas waves it away.
“Don’t worry about that - I put some clothes out in the bathroom you can borrow. Probably be a bit big on your scrawny bum but should suit you well enough for now. And here-” Chas throws John a fresh tea-towel, which he catches in one hand while nearly fumbling the blanket in the other- “feel free to take a shower if’n you want to. Cuppa’s’ll be up soon enough.”
John chuckles and thanks Chas, feeling that warm swell in his chest again towards this man who is quickly becoming the closest companion he has ever had, and turns around to hobble off down the hallway in the direction of the shower. The time he spent at home among his and his father’s shared filth managed to numb his somewhat to the grime and dirt that had built up around him; but now, as he walks down the hallway and takes the first left into the bathroom, he locks the door behind him and can feel the grease and sweat coming alive across his body, crawling up and down his skin and matting his hair to his scalp. The thought of scalding water to viciously blast away this slime feels divine.

John drops the blanket in the furthest corner of the bathroom from the shower and steps over the rim of the bath, pulling the curtain across behind him. He stares at the knobs, spends a moment to work out which does what, and then twists and pulls and is assaulted by ice-water upon his forehead which cascades down his chest, gives him a shiver as it passes by his nether regions, and then slowly dribbles down his calves as it warms up and flattens the goosebumps on his arms. The room quickly fills with steam as John enjoys the hot water bouncing off his scalp and forming rivulets down his back. He pushes his head back and lets the water fill his vision with myriad psychedelic patterns and colours through closed eyes. The shower cleanses him physically and spiritually; he wiggles his toes as memories of Ravenscar swim in and out of his mind.

Showers as punishment, dirt pressure-scrubbed from skin via an icy hose, flesh pink and raw after the staff had turned the torrents upon you; the battering only ceasing once the fun had run out. The first shower John had ‘taken’ within that catacomb of a building made him weep from the soreness and cold. The second had been a half-hour later, to ‘wash the tear-stains from his scrubs’. He had not cried again. Only sat in silence, staring at the wall and thinking of happier times as the still air was pierced by the steady drip-drip of cold water from his clothes, soaking into his bunk. He slept upon a damp mattress for three days, on the fourth electing to sleep on the floor instead. On the fifth day his mattress was taken and his sheets were changed, but he slept on the floor regardless, a silent protest that only served as self-sabotage. Day six he went without food, as he showed no gratitude for the amenities the hospital granted to him.

John pushes the heels of his palms into his eyes as he wills these memories away. It does him no good to dwell on dark times. He has done too much of that already. He grabs the sponge and washes his body down in the warm water, feeling that old bubbling despair in his belly but not letting it take advantage. The water washes away his grime and grit and takes some of his anguish for good measure as well. He survived the darkness, and he will not allow himself to be undone by its echoes.

John exits the shower feeling like a man wading towards the river banks. The tea towel, though inadequate for the task at hand, still performs admirably despite its shortcomings, and John is only lightly moist as he slips on the clothes Chas left for him atop the toilet cistern: a pair of simple dark gray slacks, and a plain white button-up shirt. The trousers fit him around the waist, although are an inch or two too long in the leg, and the shirt hangs off his malnourished frame in a conspicuous manner. John tucks it in tight to the trousers and rolls the sleeves up until they rest comfortably at his elbows, but as he looks at himself in the mirror - gaunt face with cheekbones sticking out and eyes shadowed, his hair back to its natural spiky stark blonde with all its grease washed out, and the shirt loose around the collar with room in the gut - John is struck with the image of a boy wearing his father’s suit to a funeral. He cuffs the trousers, which haphazardly resolves the length issue, and decides to be grateful for the shirt, rather than bitter that the borrowed clothes of a man maybe a foot taller than him do not fit like a tailored suit.

John leaves the bathroom, wet tea towel in hand, and re-enters the front room. The curtains have been pulled back to allow the light fully in, although a familiar pit-pat upon the glass signals yet another day of rain. Chas sits on the sofa sipping at a cup of dark tea from a stained mug, John’s mug next to him on the table. Steam drifts lazily up. Chas’ free hand is wrapped in the tea towel he had been using to dry his hair. John points at it, arching an eyebrow instead of verbalising the question.
“Spilled some water as I was makin’ the tea. Cooking pots aren’t traditionally used for cuppa’s. Yours is all made up - no milk or sugar though, I’m afraid. Think the missus took those too.”
John waves the apology away and takes a seat next to Chas on the sofa. He cups the mug of tea in both hands, enjoying the warmth radiating into his palms, takes a deep breath of the vapours as he brings the ceramic to his lips. The tea is earthy and pure and opens up his sinuses, and the taste splashes across his tongue as he gulps it down, warm and grounded and calming. John is blown away at how wonderful the flavour is, and realises that it is because this is the first liquid past his teeth in the last fortnight that is neither lukewarm lager or pop that’s more voddy than cola.

A wave of self-loathing washes over John and he gags silently, masking the dry-heave in a throaty cough to save face in front of Chas. He left Ravenscar with Cheryl’s memory like a crystal bauble hanging in his mind, a reminder to do right and do better, to look after himself, to believe he deserved to be cared for and loved. Instead he’d gone home via the local offy and spent his meager release bursary on the most efficient alcoholic-units-for-money he could muster and drank away the rest of the day shut up in his childhood bedroom. Thomas was aware but he simply didn’t care. He had wasted 2 weeks engaging in below-petty crime to avoid sobriety at all costs. He hadn't even thought of his sister until he rediscovered the photo two days ago. He failed himself. He failed Cheryl.

It’s not failing if you learn, Johnny.

John whips his head around at Chas, anger and disbelief in his eyes.
What did you just say to me?!John demands. Chas is frozen mid-sip, eyes wide and carefully considering the situation. He puts his mug down slowly before he responds.
“Nothing. I didn’t say anything.”
“You just called me Johnny. No one calls me Johnny.
“I didn’t call you anythin’! I didn’t call you, simple as!”
John pauses and Chas studies his face.
“You okay there chuck? You’ve come over all dewy-eyed…”

John turns his head away and fiercely rubs his eyes with the backs of his hands, pushing tears away before they fall.
“I’m fine. I’m fine. John stands up, jostling the table in his haste. He quickly scans the room, not sure what he’s looking for. His breathing and heartbeat are high tempo and getting out of control and he can feel his cheeks blushing from the rush of blood to his head; he kneels down, pushing a hand beneath the sofa and coming out with the pills he had stashed there last night, out of sight from Chas for fear of stigma and shame. John sits back down and quickly takes his dosage with the dregs of his tea, trying to calm his mind. He startles when Chas lays a firm hand on his shoulder. John looks at him for a brief moment, and then takes a few deep, racking sobs before ceasing just as sharply, head buried in his hands as Chas delivers a few reassuring pats.

“You’re alright lad. Just a passing storm.”
‘Working class’ Batman. Basically just non-billionaire bats. Identity unknown - just a man who grew tired of the oppression of the 99% and the impotency of ‘protests’ and ‘movements’ and decided to take a far more head-on approach. His concern isn’t particularly the petty crime that riddles Gotham’s seedier neighbourhoods, but more the punishment of the men responsible for the systemic oppression that has created neighbourhoods such as these in order to line their already grossly fattened wallets. Sort of a Robin Hood take on batman but far less charming and far more violent.

His main ‘villain’ for the first arc will be one particular Fortune 500 CEO who will find his life and luxuries torn down around him as The Batman - emphasis on The, as this bays is more a force of nature than a singular individual - tears his assets asunder and redistributes his wealth among those who have actually earned it. The CEO should have a semi-sympathetic angle but still portrayed as an ultimately callous, compassionless, and pseudo-sociopathic man who would rather see the masses starve and suffer than risk losing the extra ‘0’ from the end of his annual octuple-figure bonus.


C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T P R O P O S A L
' T H E B A T M A N '


? ? ? V I G I L A N T E G O T H A M F O R T H E P E O P L E
C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T:


"Witty Quote"

This is a Batman who decidedly does not come from the immeasurable fortune at Bruce's disposal, and had to come about his tools and skills in a far more realistic way; hard work and luck. He didn't train with the League of Assassins; he didn't fund his arsenal through a global industry company's R&D department; he can't house his lair in a spacious cavern beneath his castle-like property and outfit it with the most complex and intelligent computational equipment. He doesn't even have a car.

This is a Batman devoid of the origin that has been plastered upon the collective public psyche; indeed, this is a Batman devoid of any concrete origin whatsoever. This Batman feels more like a force of nature, the result of a terrible imbalance finally righting itself, an incorrect equation breaking its own shackles to produce its own solution. Batman has always been a protector, but never one who has taken up war against the systemic roots of the crime wave he rails against night after night. Bruce always felt to me like he came from the top and worked at the bottom level to build a better city from the foundations; my Batman will come from the bottom, and strike at the top, to collapse a corrupt ruling class and set the dominos falling.

C H A R A C T E R M O T I V A T I O N S & G O A L S:

I want to play a Batman who feels like a mythical figure or an urban legend rather than a costumed superhero. In the era of late stage capitalism becoming increasingly dystopian and the public awareness/conversation of societal conditions growing and morphing into righteous anger, I felt like the timing was appropriate for a Batman who was less iconic comic-book superhero, and more walking avatar for the coming class revolt. The infallible and incorruptible sense of Justice that is so core to the character remains intact, as does the concept of protecting the city he loves to rekindle the flame of Gotham’s heart, but the well-trodden origin story is gone to afford an extra dose of mystique, and the mission at hand is one that takes aim at a far wider-scope problem.

C H A R A C T E R N O T E S:
















S A M P L E P O S T:

A sample post that can be used in the IC if you so desire upon acceptance. This post should provide an example of your vision for the desired character. This sample post should meet all standards outline in the rules and additionally include dialogue, mannerisms and other actions representative of your intended portrayal.

P O S T C A T A L O G:

A list linking to your IC posts as they're created. This can be used for a reference guide to your character or to summarize completed arcs and stories.
I'm back from holiday, I'm fully caught up on IC, and here's the next batch of my reactions before I go back to work and back to wanting to THROW MYSELF FROM THE ROOF.

Link to my previous reactions: roleplayerguild.com/posts/5080727

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