Octavius was eager now, brimming with bloodlust. He didn't care what happened to either ship, he just want to kill some people. It would make him feel better about the way his life was going. He wasn't aware of exactly what he was getting into until it was visible from the bow, but at that point, it would have been too late, had his decision been ridiculous. As it was, unless the other ship met them head-on it was surely doomed. It was only mostly doomed if it managed to meet the pirates bow-first. Either way, no one would be leaving the ship alive unless they got the life boats well away before the carnage started. Luckily for the enterprising cowards aboard the freighter, they were already deploying their escape vessels.
Of course, his first mate saw fit to interrupt his fantasizing with questions about him steering his own ship. He turned to her with a raised eyebrow. "Go... fuck, yourself?" he asked in response, not sure what she wanted out of him. He was trying to de-stress at the moment, he didn't have time to be bothered with things like steering. "Are you asking a pertinent question, or just filling the air around my ears with sound to distract me?" he asked as a follow-up to his first inquiry. "I'm clearly trying to work on my stress-management skills right now. Steering is only going to get me riled up. You won't like me when I'm riled up." he sneered and then he started climbing up to the very furthest point forward on his ship. He hung onto a rope with one hand, and aimed his shotgun with the other. The ships were approaching one another rapidly now, with the merchant vessel now trying to turn and shield the life boats from the piratical onslaught. Such an act was noble, but those remaining behind were going to die horribly, despite their good intentions. Hopefully they believed in some higher plane of existence where the noble of heart could go to upon death, for otherwise their fate would be one most terrible...
- Last Seen: 8 yrs ago
- Old Guild Username: Sarpedon
- Joined: 12 yrs ago
- Posts: 1097 (0.24 / day)
- VMs: 2
-
Username history
- Sarpedon 12 yrs ago
Status
Recent Statuses
10 yrs ago
Current
I'M BACK! Hit me up!
10 yrs ago
Leaving 20 September until 30 October. Going to be a shitty time in the field. Probably going to be a week after that before I even think about writing again.
1
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10 yrs ago
Going on exercise as of 19 September. Not sure if I am going for 3 or 6 weeks...
10 yrs ago
Vacation time! Will try to keep posting, but can't guarantee anything, please be patient.
2
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10 yrs ago
RIP in peace, Bauble. We barely knew ye...
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Bio
ATTENTION:
Course is over! Whoop! Whoop!
I have no fucking clue what the fuck is going on.
Posting speed and availability is subject to change without notice, and I won't have internet when my vacation ends, which is tomorrow...
Thank you, have a nice day!
Course is over! Whoop! Whoop!
I have no fucking clue what the fuck is going on.
Posting speed and availability is subject to change without notice, and I won't have internet when my vacation ends, which is tomorrow...
Thank you, have a nice day!
Most Recent Posts
have fun!
Feeling burnt right now, course has been rough. I'll see if I can't get a post up this weekend. Not having much luck with inspiration right now though...
Oh neat, GM posts now have a label.
I like camping!
FATALITY!
Fuck yeah, achievements and shit!
Whoop whoop! I got my character in ahead of the GM!!!
character awaiting approval
Name: Hagok Tor'vuul, affectionately named "Jeff" by his closest friend. (Pronounced with a kind of gagging sound at the "g" and a whistle through the last syllable. "Jeff" is pronounced normally.)
Age: 29
Gender: Male
Race: Beastman (Satyr-esque with a Satanic Ram's head instead of a human head.)
Weapons: A massive black lance that is easily replaced and repainted each time it is damaged or destroyed in battle. The monolithic weapon is fitted with carefully carved, rune-etched cold-iron hardware designed to slay daemonic creatures and banish greater daemons and their hosts on contact. It also serves as a platform to display his pennant; a black triangular field with a silver fist in the middle of a gold pentagram. A shashka, a heavy steel mattock, a very simple, inelegant miséricorde, and a large fighting knife round out his arsenal. While he typically doesn't do battle with the mattock, it is a more than capable weapon, and he has no qualms about using it as such. His knives, on the other hand, are his go-to weapons when not mounted and fighting from lizard-back. His sword is typically reserved for fighting in the thick of battle while he remains mounted.
Equipment: Travels in chainmail hauberk beneath a heavy leather vest, with a quilted calico-and-wool undershirt to provide some extra protection. Matching leather vambraces protect his forearms, but he refuses to wear gloves, citing the same reason he refuses to wear pants. However he has never actually explained to anyone the reason he refuses to wear pants, beyond the obvious, but even that hasn't been stated. A black wool cloak rests on his shoulders, generally swept back out of the way, rendering it mostly useless, save as another platform to display his personal heraldry. The clasp of his cloak is almost always hidden in the folds of his bloodstained coyote-and-black shemagh. A ridiculously thick, double-wrapped swordbelt holds his collection of weaponry, as well as whatever other trinkets he currently believes are worth hanging onto.
Inventory: His lance, sabre, mattock, knives, cloak, and scarf, with a bundle of sundry survival supplies and extra clothes tied tightly to the back of his loyal steed.
Appearance: Standing at just over six feet in height, he's an incredibly muscular man, at least where parts of him are actually human. However the parts of him that aren't human still display remarkable strength. His goat lower half is covered in thick mottled black hair, and his hooves, shod in cold-iron, glint violently when people care to notice. His human torso possesses a kind of cut-from-stone appearance, which most attribute to the fact that he is just as likely to be a daemon as he is to be anything else. Charming is certainly not a word one would use to describe him, however he claims otherwise, joking that, were the person to simply stare deep enough into his alarmingly yellow eyes, they might see just how charming he is. Most do not understand that this is a joke. The ram's head sitting atop his incredibly strong shoulders is the very definition of daemonic, matching every description of a satanic symbol. He even sports the scars of daemonic battles, notably a wicked gash vertically across his right eye, the scar starting on his forehead, and running down over his cheekbone. Similarly, his left horn was severed at a quarter of the way down from the tip. It has since been spitefully resharpened, along with his right horn, though it remains so far intact, spiralling out horizontally and unbalancing his head thanks to his damaged horn. His steadfast refusal to do anything about it seems to indicate that he does not altogether disagree with his unpleasant image. Flesh-rending fangs can even be tucked away inside his ruminant jaws. Adding to his evil appearance is his large collection of tattoos that he has no problem showing off upon request.
Background: The earliest memory that he possesses, is a massive hammer being swung down upon his skull. Unfortunately, he can no longer visualize the face of the man performing the act, but remains convinced he could recognize the offender if presented with him. After that, he woke up in a citadel, a massive, square place. Everything chiselled straight out of a mountain, and cut perfectly square. It was a very bastion of order, and home to a collection of knights. These men of war helped the beastman get back on his feet, and provided him with much-needed training in the art of Chivalry. The only other beastman among their ranks was even kind enough to take the amnesiac under his wing, re-naming the warrior and doing his best to aid the beginnings of the goat-man's quest. Before he finally departed for the world, the order named him Knight Errant of the Order of Cold Iron, and presented him with his own heraldry to bear with him. From there he went questing, unsure if he even cared to progress through the ranks, but grateful for their aid. The only thing he was truly sure about, was that he would have to find the man who thought it imprudent to slay him. Whoever they were, he would be sure to correct their mistake as permanently as possible. His first task, as a knight errant, was to find a steed. An act easily accomplished amongst the mountains he found himself in. The mountain "lizards" were plentiful, and large enough and strong to bear a knight and all his gear. When properly trained, they could even be savage battle companions. Their greatest strength, however, had to be their warm-blooded nature. Technically, it meant they weren't lizards, but the knight wasn't about to argue with one about it. Indeed, after taming one, and training it to aid him in battle, no one else was willing to argue with the beast about what it was, either. It was a noble steed, and a vicious fighter, that was all that mattered.
Personality: Being a wanderer and more than happy on his own, he is often seen as a bit of a loose cannon, especially considering his appearance. However the cavalier is actually a perfectly co-operative sort, if a bit unyielding in his beliefs. Those who take the time to get to know him, usually people rescued by his endeavours, find the daemonic goat-man to be a bright, cheerful sort, if a bit slow at times. Certainly not the evil most picture when they see a daemonic creature riding toward them on an equally strange steed tamed in far-off mountains. He does have a rather antagonistic habit of cutting out the hearts of his enemies and holding them aloft while calling out "Hail Kha-Beleth!" in a rather disturbing, high-pitched voice(think South Park's Christmas Critters). Depending on his company, his mood, and the people he'd slain, he is also known to take bites of the harvested hearts, or even consume the entire thing.
Job: Wanderer, Cavalier, and Knight Errant. Perfectly happy as a Mercenary when times are tough.
Skills: Martial Weapon Proficiency, Small Weapon Proficiency, Light, Medium, and Heavy Armour Proficiency, Dual Weapon Proficiency, Light and Medium Shield Proficiency, Survival Proficiency, Riding Mastery.
Traits: Strong, Inspiring, Focused, Determined.
Magic: None.
Talent: Brilliant Tactical Mind
Strengths: Strong, focused, tenacious, can incite terror with a glance, a force to be reckoned with from lizard-back
Weaknesses: Stubborn, uncomprehending of the arcane, appears rather horrifying to potential friends, less talented on his own two feet. (Less, as in relatively. He's not fucking paralysed or some shit.)
Theme: Amon Amarth - Live for the Kill
Age: 29
Gender: Male
Race: Beastman (Satyr-esque with a Satanic Ram's head instead of a human head.)
Weapons: A massive black lance that is easily replaced and repainted each time it is damaged or destroyed in battle. The monolithic weapon is fitted with carefully carved, rune-etched cold-iron hardware designed to slay daemonic creatures and banish greater daemons and their hosts on contact. It also serves as a platform to display his pennant; a black triangular field with a silver fist in the middle of a gold pentagram. A shashka, a heavy steel mattock, a very simple, inelegant miséricorde, and a large fighting knife round out his arsenal. While he typically doesn't do battle with the mattock, it is a more than capable weapon, and he has no qualms about using it as such. His knives, on the other hand, are his go-to weapons when not mounted and fighting from lizard-back. His sword is typically reserved for fighting in the thick of battle while he remains mounted.
Equipment: Travels in chainmail hauberk beneath a heavy leather vest, with a quilted calico-and-wool undershirt to provide some extra protection. Matching leather vambraces protect his forearms, but he refuses to wear gloves, citing the same reason he refuses to wear pants. However he has never actually explained to anyone the reason he refuses to wear pants, beyond the obvious, but even that hasn't been stated. A black wool cloak rests on his shoulders, generally swept back out of the way, rendering it mostly useless, save as another platform to display his personal heraldry. The clasp of his cloak is almost always hidden in the folds of his bloodstained coyote-and-black shemagh. A ridiculously thick, double-wrapped swordbelt holds his collection of weaponry, as well as whatever other trinkets he currently believes are worth hanging onto.
Inventory: His lance, sabre, mattock, knives, cloak, and scarf, with a bundle of sundry survival supplies and extra clothes tied tightly to the back of his loyal steed.
Appearance: Standing at just over six feet in height, he's an incredibly muscular man, at least where parts of him are actually human. However the parts of him that aren't human still display remarkable strength. His goat lower half is covered in thick mottled black hair, and his hooves, shod in cold-iron, glint violently when people care to notice. His human torso possesses a kind of cut-from-stone appearance, which most attribute to the fact that he is just as likely to be a daemon as he is to be anything else. Charming is certainly not a word one would use to describe him, however he claims otherwise, joking that, were the person to simply stare deep enough into his alarmingly yellow eyes, they might see just how charming he is. Most do not understand that this is a joke. The ram's head sitting atop his incredibly strong shoulders is the very definition of daemonic, matching every description of a satanic symbol. He even sports the scars of daemonic battles, notably a wicked gash vertically across his right eye, the scar starting on his forehead, and running down over his cheekbone. Similarly, his left horn was severed at a quarter of the way down from the tip. It has since been spitefully resharpened, along with his right horn, though it remains so far intact, spiralling out horizontally and unbalancing his head thanks to his damaged horn. His steadfast refusal to do anything about it seems to indicate that he does not altogether disagree with his unpleasant image. Flesh-rending fangs can even be tucked away inside his ruminant jaws. Adding to his evil appearance is his large collection of tattoos that he has no problem showing off upon request.
Background: The earliest memory that he possesses, is a massive hammer being swung down upon his skull. Unfortunately, he can no longer visualize the face of the man performing the act, but remains convinced he could recognize the offender if presented with him. After that, he woke up in a citadel, a massive, square place. Everything chiselled straight out of a mountain, and cut perfectly square. It was a very bastion of order, and home to a collection of knights. These men of war helped the beastman get back on his feet, and provided him with much-needed training in the art of Chivalry. The only other beastman among their ranks was even kind enough to take the amnesiac under his wing, re-naming the warrior and doing his best to aid the beginnings of the goat-man's quest. Before he finally departed for the world, the order named him Knight Errant of the Order of Cold Iron, and presented him with his own heraldry to bear with him. From there he went questing, unsure if he even cared to progress through the ranks, but grateful for their aid. The only thing he was truly sure about, was that he would have to find the man who thought it imprudent to slay him. Whoever they were, he would be sure to correct their mistake as permanently as possible. His first task, as a knight errant, was to find a steed. An act easily accomplished amongst the mountains he found himself in. The mountain "lizards" were plentiful, and large enough and strong to bear a knight and all his gear. When properly trained, they could even be savage battle companions. Their greatest strength, however, had to be their warm-blooded nature. Technically, it meant they weren't lizards, but the knight wasn't about to argue with one about it. Indeed, after taming one, and training it to aid him in battle, no one else was willing to argue with the beast about what it was, either. It was a noble steed, and a vicious fighter, that was all that mattered.
Personality: Being a wanderer and more than happy on his own, he is often seen as a bit of a loose cannon, especially considering his appearance. However the cavalier is actually a perfectly co-operative sort, if a bit unyielding in his beliefs. Those who take the time to get to know him, usually people rescued by his endeavours, find the daemonic goat-man to be a bright, cheerful sort, if a bit slow at times. Certainly not the evil most picture when they see a daemonic creature riding toward them on an equally strange steed tamed in far-off mountains. He does have a rather antagonistic habit of cutting out the hearts of his enemies and holding them aloft while calling out "Hail Kha-Beleth!" in a rather disturbing, high-pitched voice(think South Park's Christmas Critters). Depending on his company, his mood, and the people he'd slain, he is also known to take bites of the harvested hearts, or even consume the entire thing.
Job: Wanderer, Cavalier, and Knight Errant. Perfectly happy as a Mercenary when times are tough.
Skills: Martial Weapon Proficiency, Small Weapon Proficiency, Light, Medium, and Heavy Armour Proficiency, Dual Weapon Proficiency, Light and Medium Shield Proficiency, Survival Proficiency, Riding Mastery.
Traits: Strong, Inspiring, Focused, Determined.
Magic: None.
Talent: Brilliant Tactical Mind
Strengths: Strong, focused, tenacious, can incite terror with a glance, a force to be reckoned with from lizard-back
Weaknesses: Stubborn, uncomprehending of the arcane, appears rather horrifying to potential friends, less talented on his own two feet. (Less, as in relatively. He's not fucking paralysed or some shit.)
Theme: Amon Amarth - Live for the Kill
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