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Maybe the real plot was the friends we made along the way. [Last Updated: July 26th 2018]

I'm 22 years old, a blue-collar worker, and ready to start my first year of college to pursue my major in Psychology!

Obviously I enjoy reading and writing if I made an account on this website, and I like to think I'm not half bad at it. I first started writing and roleplaying at the start of 2010 and I've stuck with it ever since. I've had a couple of dry spells along the way, but I always seem to come back to it. I enjoy most genres, but if I had to pick a couple of favorites, they would be sci-fi and high fantasy, with the latter being the king. Some of my favorite and best characters have come from Elder Scrolls roleplays! What can I say? It appeals to the D&D nerd in me.

I've thought about this for a long while, and even now I still think about it. If I had to say I had a specialty, I would say it's the human experience (which might sound a little pretentious, but I'll explain). Ask any of my friends and they'll tell you that the history sections of nearly all my characters are obnoxiously long. I probably definitely have a problem, and it's because I get so carried away with telling their story. I want my readers to know how their story influences them as a person. I love creating tragedy and watching a character overcome those tragedies and finding themselves, watching their identities shatter and coming back together. I've always been a fan of characters overcoming their weaknesses and obstacles, showing their heart and soul, and I try to make that show in many of my characters. You could say that I even try to write my characters in such a way so that they can inspire me, as pretentious as that also might sound.

I also try to research whatever it is I'm writing about so that I'm not just pulling shit out of my ass - unless that's what my character is doing, in which case I try to make sure that's made clear in my writing. Just because I'm a melodramatic piece of shit doesn't mean I don't try to write a compelling story. I enjoy writing characters with a grey morality because evil is cringey and benevolence is exhausting, so anything in between I think is the sweet spot. Even in the characters with a "good" morality, I try my best to incorporate flaws so that they still feel human. Calen is a bard who loves being alive, is a compulsive flirt, and tries to see the beauty in all things. He is also a coward, a fool, and sometimes he's accidentally a thoughtless heart-breaker. Andrea is a humble and intelligent young woman who wants to do right by the world and help others as they've helped her. She also has depression after she dropped out of Yale due to a bad drug problem. She's been clean for a while now, but her past haunts her. Wylendriel is an elven priestess who has suffered through an immense trauma and while she is typically a soft-spoken and compassionate individual, her trauma manifests itself through her buried frustration and bitterness, which stems from her crisis of faith.

So there you have it. Hope we can write together some time!

Prime Rib Boneheads

@He Who Walks Behind
@Surtr Inc

These Tickle My Funny Bone

You can find me in:
The Elder Scrolls: Fruits of Contention (Chapter 2) by @Gcold
The Elder Scrolls: Vengeance of the Deep by @Dervish

Most Recent Posts

It's Such a Wonderful Thing to Love

Anvil, Cyrodiil 21st of Second Seed, Midday

Calen considered himself well traveled for the most part. Was this the first time out of Skyrim? Yes and no, he had occasionally brought his cart to High Rock's border halfway to Jehanna to drop people off, but he barely considered that an abroad experience as he always turned back to serve the people of Skyrim. Cyrodiil was his first experience truly traveling the international flight, and the Gold Road between Skingrad and Anvil was a long and arduous one, even with what little respite Kvatch provided for the weary travelers. Though most of the group fared rather well, Calen was suffering from a unique experience among the company.

“Oh Gods – oh Stendarr! It's so hot!

The home-grown Nord was having a lick of trouble adjusting to the warmer southern temperatures as they steadily inched closer towards the tropical line. He had long since shed his outer layer of clothing, and the white and blue shirt underneath helped to at least reflect some of the harsh sunlight, but his acclimation to the heat left much to be desired. Even his pony seemed especially spooky and more sluggish than usual, and trying to tend to Danish had put a strain on managing his own supplies. It put a bit of a damper on the mood of the trip as the one who was usually the sole bard responsible for the morale of his compatriots was too distracted by his own misery, however, even in his wallowing was he not entirely oblivious.

It was possible that said misery had tinted his perspective a bit, for he couldn't help but notice that the one friend he actually got to know on a personal level – and that was not to say he wasn't friendly with the others, but lacked the same kind of intimate understanding – was avoiding him. Out of sight, she was, and he was no stranger to casual affairs or one-night flings, but he couldn't help but wonder if perhaps he had overestimated the significance of their time together. It made an already uncomfortable man distracted and subdued, but he put his best smile up when questioned. Passed it off as hot and sweaty, not used to the climate – no one was none the wiser.

It was good they were going to Anvil. There were questions he wanted answered.

Like how its lighthouse was a beacon of hope and refuge to weary sailors, it's front gates were beacons to weary caravans. He was one of the few without the luxury to immediately rush into the safety of its walls, for he had to pay the stables and string Danish up himself, who was welcomed with cool water and plentiful hay. He helped the people he carried off of his wagon and collect their belongings, before pulling it into a neighboring storehouse.

When he was able to join the others inside the walls, however, he was met with a marvelous sight. The paved cities, the architecture of the buildings, fountains, the hustle and bustle of countless people – it nearly rivaled Soltiude in the culture and beauty it exuded, and he was very much tempted into setting a box down in the middle of the square and playing his music. But as the hot sun beat down on his head and shoulders, his mind turned towards visiting the local tavern for some shade and drink, as well as friends and music – but the thoughts of such revelry would've been the antithesis of what he intended to accomplish upon coming here. He wasn't much a man of resolve, but it had been too long since he gave a visit to a proper temple to his lady.

He laughed and smiled with acquaintances along the way, other refugees, familiar faces, members of the company, and gave a cheery hello to new faces as he circled around the city looking for where this temple would be.

“You mean the Chapel? It's over east. It's a big, tall building, you can't miss it.”

Making a beeline towards the Great Chapel of Dibella, he wondered how he ever could've missed it. It was like the size of a castle, towering high and proud into the blue sky with ornate windows and brickwork decorating it all along the way. It's size and beauty of its outward appearance had put the Temple of Dibella in Markarth to shame, and his mouth hung open and speechless in awe. It was fitting that the Goddess of Beauty had a chapel so encapsulating. As he pushed open one of the doors, he was greeted with a dimly candlelit interior, wide and spacious, with a long walkway leading up to a large altar before a tall statue of Dibella herself looking over her worshipers. Though the chapel was rather empty of patrons aside from one or two, there was a priest and priestess dressed in red, leading their followers in dance and song.

Calen smiled at them. Though it was clear that this was not the same kind of temple as the one in Markarth, they still practiced the arts.

Though as he walked on towards the altar, the rhythm of their Cyrodilic melody was tuned out from his ears as he thought carefully about what he was to say. There has been a lot on his mind lately, so perhaps... just to start from there, then? He sighed heavily and fell to his knees, then leaned forward as he pressed his head against the altar. The was weird. Strange. Usually he just prayed the usual prayers, be all happy and the like – they were usually laced with flowery words like poetry, it only seemed right given the Goddess he was praying to – he wasn't terribly used to being so... open and vulnerable with his feelings. He figured that's where he should start. Shame on him for breaking one of her rules.

“Blessed Lady... I ask for your forgiveness for not living and feeling honestly.” He muttered.

'No', he thought to himself, 'That's not it. I'm here now. I'm talking. Confronting this... I've been honest. Honesty isn't the issue. Oh, Dibella, why am I here now?'

Calen hesitated for a minute, then continued, “No matter the seed, if the shoot is nurtured with love, will not the flower be beautiful? Illia has told me you've said this, and I've done what I can to live true by your sentiments... but I've grown doubtful, not of you, but of myself. Past and present friends and lovers alike, I still hold them in great esteem, but I... the fire of my ardor remains stoked, but... I'm afraid. That of my fellows, their own would sizzle down to smoke and embers.”

An image of Rhona appeared in his mind, wrapped in blankets, but was quickly replaced by a moment of eye contact with her on the open road before she quickly moved deeper into the crowd and out of his sight. A twang in his chest made him wonder if this is what it felt like to be the lute he plucked at so often, but he quickly focused back on his prayer.

“This one was not the first time, nor I fear her to be the last, and it reminds me that I've often wondered if I left others feeling the same way. I wonder now if the path I walk is true – no, it's true – I just wonder if it's for me.”

The smoky smell of incense filled his nose in that moment, like rose and lotus. He looked up at the statue, and in the midst of his somber face did the corners of his mouth curl upwards slightly. He was faithful, yes, but not much of a holy man. He couldn't interpret the signs of the divine very well, or tell if they were signs at all, but he wanted to have faith that it was a message. He knew the smell well, and looking up at the statue took him back to the days in Markarth, in the days of the wagon, learning all he could of her doctrine. This was simply the way of love. Love sometimes hurts. That's part of what made it beautiful. He remembered what he told Rhona a few nights ago, "When I think about past loves, I don't think about what I lost. I think about what I gained. The love I felt in those moments were real, and those moments are valuable to me. So the memories don't hurt me that much. More than anything, they feel... fulfilling."

He chuckled to himself a bit, thinking, 'I can be such a hypocrite sometimes.'

The young bard stood up, smiling. He wasn't really sure about how much he has accomplished here, but he knew this place would comfort him. The sight and smell of his Lady, the other worshipers – despite it's differences, the chapel had the same atmosphere. It brought on memories which helped to remind him why he was here and why he decided to become a follower. Regardless of whatever misfortunes that were behind him and those that lie ahead, there was beauty and wisdom to be found in each of them. Besides...

He had history to record. The dwemer wouldn't likely return again for a while after Tamriel figures out how to send them back down to their skeever hole.

Though the walk back to the front gates of the city of Anvil was a bit of a hike, he made good pace in finding that spring in his step. The warm sun and beat down on his skin and the humidity in the air clung to his clothes, he was able to begin appreciating the difference in weather between southern Cyrodiil and Skyrim. As he circled around the stables to get to the storehouse where he kept his wagon, intending to procure some of his instruments and his journals, he was barked at by one of the refugees that had followed their caravan earlier. Apparently they still had problems with getting in.

“'Ey, Calen!” They said. “Where you been? Frolicking about in the tavern and the local girls, I reckon!”

Calen just laughed in response, yelling back, “Yeah, I guess you could say that!”
Eriadu, Docking Bay 6_

Shriek Hawk log 97; Year 3003 After the Conquest of Mandalore...”

A feminine voice echoed out from the cockpit of Plug-6 Heavy Fighter. The ship lay in the hangar completely dormant, silently as can be, with only the outside sounds of workers and arriving and departing ships to breaking what would've been a maddening silence. There was a brief moment of pause, as though the person inside the vessel was gathering their thoughts, before they continued their report.

“We have arrived on the planet Eriadu... as much of a dirtball this planet is, it's still a hub where we can resupply and replace the funds or finance them via contract. Zekha's modifications to the lateral and electromotive stabilizers actually worked. To say nothing of the previous fixes made to the navigation deflector system, we now less drag and turbulence in hyperspace and atmospheric entry, and landing has never been smoother. As much as I hate to say it, that shabuir really pulled through. A day of drinking at the local Ranosca cantina should've been a good enough reward.”

The woman leaned back in the seat of the cockpit, lifting up and draping over two long, blue tentacles over the back of the chair as she propped her booted feet up onto the console. The tall, blasé twi'lek woman sunk deeper into her chair toward one side, causing her tchin – one of her lekku – to fall back over her shoulder. She continued talking into a stick-shaped recorder that was in her hand.

“I'm on the opposite side of the galaxy as the planet Manda'yaim now.” She said. “Been as far and wide as a person could get at this point. But even as far as I am from home now...”

A smug little smirk creeped onto her face.

“I haven't had my fill yet. Woorah, signing off. K'oyacyi!

Silence enveloped the small freighter once more, and Woorah found herself relaxing in its tranquility. Leaning back and closing her eyes after a long journey through hyperspace and finishing all of her preparation before shutting down for the day. Despite Zekha's handiness, it was her ship, so it was her responsibility to make sure she fulfilled the same tired old rituals to make sure this thing keeps running. Though she had every intention of staking Ranosca out when they had first landed, the comfort of the darkness, silence, and cozy chair was just... so persuasive.

Then like a sudden, screeching mynock, her wrist-com crackled to life as Zekha's distinctive voice came through, but she only opened her eyelids slowly to show that her eyes were already rolling around in her head as if she was already anticipating whatever verbal diarrhea was about to come spewing from his upper asshole.

“Hey, Woosie, I think I found something you might be good at. Ever think of dropping in an application and giving me the ship?”


“I got us a few credits, in my benevolence I’ll be at the bar, first one or two are on me, depending on if you want something hard or one of those disgusting cocktails you fawn over.”

Unexpected. Though to be fair, he was probably having a pretty good day – get your ego stroked by a job well done, then be told to go out and play to celebrate. Heavens know they didn't have the money, so he probably stole it off some poor local saps in one way or another. Well hey, they both had their own funds. If he was willing to pay for one or two of her own drinks, then it was no skin off her back. Woorah lazily brought her wrist to her face and spoke into the device, “Ne'tra gal if they got it, Narcolethe if they don't. I'll be out soon.”

She didn't mention anything about how the drinks she fawned over would probably turn the Dug inside out – no need to make him feel small. Well, smaller than usual. Her eyes peered over to one of the lockers between the cockpit and the rest of the ship. Ever the wary and suspicious type, she judged that it would be best to go in armed and armored. After all, she knew the only thing she could expect in the Outer Rim was the unexpected.

Eriadu, Ranosca Cantina_

It took a few minutes to get armored, but minus the jetpack, it took half as long as it otherwise would have. Though she didn't have her entire arsenal with her at the moment, but that was okay; she wasn't wading into a battle or anything. She wore nothing that was too obvious or overt, and the only thing that was in clear sight was one of her blasters holstered to her thigh, but it was clear enough that she was packing enough heat to dissuade anyone from trying to pick a fight with her. It worked exactly as intended when she finally entered the cantina. Not so dramatic was everyone's reaction to her that everyone knew she entered the room, nor did she divide the crowd as she walk through to find her way to her partner-in-crime, but most of the people she brushed past certainly gave her the room she needed when stepping out of her way.

Her glance fell upon the dancers on-stage – 'Zekha, gar di'kut' – and figured he must've walked past the platform at some point. There was certainly a number of interesting people, many of whom she was taller than, so the few who were closer to her height or even taller were people who caught her eye. One such figure was a hairy one leaning back against a wall and observing the room. She visited Kashyyyk once or twice, so she knew a wookie when she saw one. It was just so curious to find one on their own here of all places. She made a mental note to herself to keep that one in mind while she moved through the crowd.

Zekha said he was getting drinks, so the bar...

… it was less a matter of looking for him, and more of a matter of listening for him. Particularly his “you” phrases, as it was only a matter of time until he got someone to either chase him off planet or provoke a cantina-wide brawl. Thankfully, it was obvious it hadn't gotten to that point yet. It didn't take long before she spotted him at one of the far ends of the bar. An empty glass or two stood before him, with another full glass at his side, untouched. Judging from the lack of color that Ne'tra gal had, he probably had Narcolethe waiting for her. Flanking around the bar, she strolled up to his side from behind.

“It's too hard to find some decent Ne'tra gal this side of the galaxy.” She commented, reaching for the glass in front of her. She smelled the drink in front of her and it nearly burned her nose – sure enough, it was Nacrolethe – and she took an eager swig from glass. It wasn't her first choice, but it still tasted like home. But then her nose caught a different scent, one that was much more unpleasant. She peered over and looked into the bowl in front of her partner.

“Chubas? Really?” She remarked disgustedly. She remembered smelling that garbage back in her slave days all the way from Kaburra's chamber. “Yoka to Bantha poodoo.”
Good luck on your future projects, then! @Sierra
By all means, @Sierra, post your concerns and perhaps we can address them. No reason why we should have anyone feeling unwelcome.
<Snipped quote by Dervish>


For the record I am NOT going to make a twi’lek Sith exile.

You're a better person than I am.
<Snipped quote by Dread>
The only TOR-era smuggler in my head is my human female. No exceptions!

If she's not a carbon copy of Asuka, I'm gonna hire some guys to gun you down.
I wasn't trying to dictate anything. I was just making sure that it was something everyone was aware of. I'd rather save all the fighting for the IC thread. :-)

You're not just welding two lightsabers together. It wasn't that nobody thought of it, it was more like nobody could get it to work until that time. It was created in 4,000 BBY, which is still relatively early in the Star Wars timeline all things considered.

Honestly tho, why would I lie?
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