Ti

Dispatch: Welcome to SDN!

Wow, time flies.

I hadn't thought of a concept which isn't simply stolen from some anime/marvel/tv show, yet. That plus, general business has kept me away. If worse comes to worst, I will simply sit out.

Though as a side-note, RIP with all the images being hosted on Imgur.

Dispatch: Welcome to SDN!

Quietly sweeps my magnet based dispatcher under the rug

It’s cool. I wanted to make a fire guy anyway.

@RisingRobin

Robin works well with the song!

(Damn, was beaten to it!)

Dispatch RP Anyone?

Been playing and loving Dispatch myself as well. Last two next week!

The real question is... are you BB or IG ?

Sword and Dungeon: An Adventurer's Guild-based Fantasy RP

Here is my character concept - Human Fighter (perhaps aspiring Paladin?)

Elswyth of Brackenford

Name: Elswyth of Brackenford

Nickname: El

Age: 21

Gender: Female

Race: Human

Rank: Iron-ranked Adventurer

Appearance:
Elswyth stands at 5ft 7, her posture poised from years of training and discipline. Her presentation is functional, reflecting a practical style. Pale golden hair is loosely tied back to keep it clear of her face and steel-blue eyes. She wears simple but well-tailored clothing, prioritising freedom of movement over protection. Her blouse is a natural ecru, homespun linen, embroidered with Reon’s stylised lily at the collar. She wears a dark leather tasset belt, gloves, and braces, with knee-high boots. A slitted black skirt allows ease of stride, with leggings underneath. When on duty, she is clad fully in leather, including a dark leather chest piece and pauldrons. She carries a well-used longsword, razor-sharp, etched with runic markings reminiscent of blades wielded by the paladins of Reon.

Personality:
Elswyth is measured and self-disciplined, striving to maintain this both in and out of combat to avoid succumbing to weakness. She carries a calm presence, even in the heat of battle, focusing on her technique and stances rather than brute strength. Outwardly serious, she nevertheless possesses a quiet warmth and compassion, guided by a strong belief in freedom. Her reliance on agility over strength can lead others to underestimate her resilience, a mistake that occasionally brings her faint, dry amusement when they discover their error.

Brief Backstory:
Elswyth was born in the small, picturesque village of Brackenford, nestled between Venne and Walverrest, named for the wild bracken thickets that grew along its gentle, meandering river. Her early life was unremarkable, filled with the routines and simple pleasures of rustic living. The shallow ford offered an easy crossing for travellers, and the steady traffic supported a modest market square where locals traded herbs, pottery, and handwoven cloth.

During a drought year, bandits attempted to pillage the village for supplies, but Ser Egbert, a retired Reonite paladin who had settled nearby, rallied the villagers in its defence. Curious, Elswyth often watched his drills with the townsfolk and pestered him with questions until he agreed to train her. Though she lacked the raw strength of traditional sword fighting, her natural quickness helped her excel in swordplay. Egbert taught her not only the forms of the sword, but fragments of Reonite technique, reminding her that true strength flowed from the divine.

As she grew older, she came to see that, for all its tight-knit community and rustic charm, her village could no longer contain her potential. Joining the Adventurers’ Guild, she set out to hone her craft, striving to become a true swordswoman, and perhaps, in time, prove herself worthy of the paladins of Reon.

Equipment:

Runed Longsword: A well-used blade that once belonged to Ser Egbert, a retired paladin of Reon. Kept in good condition and sharpened with a whetstone.

Light Adventuring Gear: A leather satchel and pack containing rope, rations, flint and tinder, whetstone, waterskin, journal filled with notes on sword forms, bedroll and cloak, coin pouch, small knife, oil and cloth for blade and armour care, needle and thread, and a spare tunic.

Set of Dark Leather Armour: Gloves, braces, boots, tasset, chestpiece, pauldrons, and cap, offering modest protection.

Keepsakes: A smooth river stone from Brackenford’s waters and a simple gold ring passed down from her family.

Skills:

Sword Stances:

• Fire Stance: Offensive and relentless, focused on applying pressure and breaking an opponent’s rhythm.
• Stone Stance: Defence-oriented, rooting the fighter to absorb attacks and control space. Emphasises stability and endurance.
• Water Stance: Fluid and adaptable, enabling smooth transitions between attack and defence.
• Wind Stance: Centred on mobility and speed, allowing swift evasions, rapid repositioning, and sudden strikes.
• Shadow Stance: Built on deception, relying on feints, misdirection, and unexpected strikes.

Runic Augmentation: Elswyth channels magic through her sword to shield herself, unleash bursts of force, and empower her strikes. The runes hum faintly when invoked.

Sword and Dungeon: An Adventurer's Guild-based Fantasy RP Interest Check!

Saw the main thread before this one, I always wanted to do an Adventure Guild based set-up. I am interested. I will start considering options.

Vradia: Tales of the Chosen Few

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Zahrat al-Kuthban

---

Zahra wore a poised smile as she surveyed the motley crew gathered around the campfire. As the great ogre Cormag introduced himself and his companions, she thought it fitting to do the same. “I am known as Zahrat al-Kuthban,” she said, turning to the Peacock Gryphon. “My entertaining companion is Samirah.” The bird had not spoken its name, though given the gaze of those present, it was clear that others would soon attempt to claim her plumage for themselves if they thought her unclaimed.

Her eyebrow arched ever so slightly at the elvish traveller’s curse concerning the arrival of a drunk nobleman. They had both travelled from Volenstul, the capital of the Empire. Despite their words to the contrary, they seemed strangely familiar to each other. It was a large city, but no surprise, a passing elvish girl would inevitably encounter the depravity and curiosity of the nation’s nobility.

Mari had shared her findings after scouting the area, reporting that the city was barred from the outside, a sign that a quarantine zone had been established for the outbreak. Zahra took a moment to flick through her notes, gathered from her own “research,” mostly hearsay and rumours from travelling merchants. The Ta‘affun al-Ghasaq, more commonly known as Duskrot, was a magic-born plague sweeping through Vradia. Its victims exhibited symptoms resembling pneumonia, yet their skin would swell, blacken, and necrotise, eventually shedding from the body to leave only grey flesh behind, transforming into one of the Qishūr (Husks).

Unlike the Qishūr Ṣaḥrāwiyya (Desert Husks) she knew from the deserts of her homeland, regional variations existed. In Somerset, the Qishūr Muta‘affina (Rotten Husks) moved differently. Locals referred to them as “Sluff” or “Slough,” for the wet, shuffling drag of decayed flesh across the floor as they moved. Records indicated that when infection pockets were contained, the victims would congregate and slumber, awakening only when disturbed, an almost voluntary behaviour, unlike the desert Husks, which were the bane of any opportunistic bandits seeking to pillage abandoned villages. These Khānaq al-Ta‘affun (Choking Rot), or “Rotpits” as locals called them, were easily identified by the nauseating, putrid stench that filled the air.

Azir, her falcon, cried from above, prompting her to whistle in response. With her attention elsewhere, she had not noticed the creeping fog beginning to obscure the once-clear skies, bringing darkness to the gathering.

“It would be unwise to proceed further this evening. May the light of day bring clear skies and opportunity.” She then used the following moments, once the others had spoken, to set up a canopy beside the camp, preparing for the night with careful deliberation.

Vradia: Tales of the Chosen Few

---

Zahrat al-Kuthban

---

The Zahrat al-Kuthban eventually made her way to Somerset, the great matriarchal gryphon shadowed her every step. More than once she had considered the temptation of riding such a magnificent creature, but the thought of leaving her horse behind, vulnerable, or worse, at the mercy of the beast was enough to dissuade her. Besides, there was something in the peacock gryphon’s steady watchfulness that suggested no saddle would ever be tolerated.

The rest of her journey had been mercifully uneventful, save for the sharp decline in her rations. She had no intention of trusting the creature to sustain itself solely on its own hunts, not with her horse, her falcon, and even herself all possible items on its menu. The price of its companionship was a steadily dwindling supply of dried meat and bread, yet for now it seemed satisfied to stalk at the edge of her path.

As the roads curved nearer to Somerset, she began to notice signs of others gathering. A knight led a band of warriors down the winding track, their torches flaring orange in the night, while smaller groups of travellers trudged along with companions of their own. Though she had a head start compared to many of them, she knew haste alone would not guarantee safety. Pausing, she let her falcon take flight, the bird spiralling upward to survey the surrounding countryside. What it revealed troubled her: the night was quieter than it should have been, the stillness almost oppressive, broken only by the faint rustle of leaves and the distant hoot of an owl.

It was that sound, the owl’s call, that drew her eyes toward a flicker of firelight. A campsite lay just outside the town, its flames dancing low, food boiled in a pot, and figures moving in its glow. With deliberate calm, she urged her horse forward, her posture tall and composed, even as the gryphon padded after her like a silent shadow.

She raised her hand in salute as she approached, “Greetings, fellow travellers,” she said evenly. “The road is silent tonight. Silence is either a gift of fortune or the echo of something hunting.”

Vradia: Tales of the Chosen Few

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Zahrat al-Kuthban

---

As the gentle breeze stirred, Zahra watched the elder creature hurl itself into the sky, soaring overhead in slow, deliberate circles. Its feathers spread wide, and she could not help but notice the absence of the rich purple plumage seen on the others still perched along the crumbling wall. She was no expert in exotic wildlife, but from what little she knew of peacocks, the gryphons’ namesake, this one’s plainer appearance might mark it as the matriarch of the ostentation.

It seemed she had caught the beast’s attention. She ran a hand along Azir’s feathers to calm him; if he took flight now, he might well become lunch. As she moved away from the wall, the others remained behind, still and watchful. She mounted her horse, reminding herself that beauty should never be mistaken for gentleness. With a subtle signal, she urged the mount into a trot, then into a sprint.

“If you’re to be my shadow,” she called over her shoulder, “you’ll have to keep up.”

The gryphon swooped down beside them, landing with a heavy thump. The horse whinnied and reared slightly as Zahra reined it in, bringing it to a halt. Yet the creature barely acknowledged them, its movements casual, almost dismissive, as though it hadn’t even noticed their presence. And still, as they moved forward once more, it followed.

“If you seek company, you’ll find mine measured,” she said evenly, eyeing it with guarded curiosity. “Or perhaps you simply want to see how far I’ll go before I stumble.”

She veered off the path, even circling back on herself, but the gryphon followed with lazy grace. On this side of the border, its green-toned feathers allowed it to blend effortlessly with the foliage. The idea of losing sight of the creature unsettled her. She guided the horse toward a clearer stretch of road, where she could better track its movements. Still, it trailed behind, quiet as a bored cat.

Near a crop of trees, Yasmin drew to a stop. She hoped the overhanging branches might offer some protection should things turn ill. Dismounting, she opened her pack and drew out a strip of cured meat from part of her rations for the journey. She placed it on the ground and stepped back.

If she was to reach Somerset, she would first have to puzzle out this unexpected challenge.
“If you mean to follow, you may as well make yourself useful.”

Vradia: Tales of the Chosen Few

---

Zahrat al-Kuthban

---

Yasmin slowly drew her horse to a halt as she approached the ruined wall. The fabric of her cloak fluttered in the breeze as she looked upon the mighty congregation perched along the weathered stone.

The Peacock Gryphons were magnificent, with their long green, blue, and gold feathers which draped across the stonework, their eyes, woven into each plume, seemed to always watch your movements. Their sharp talons gripped the ancient stone-masonry, as their aqua coloured eyes met Yasmin’s own with unsettling calm.

Azir uttered out a low cry and settled uneasily, as she landed on her shoulder, feathers ruffling, as the party moved to a slow pace as they proceeded cautiously. Beautiful though they were, these creatures could be dangerous, and fiercely territorial when provoked. If they were to flee now, the gryphons would give chase. One should never show their back to predators.

“It is a poor thing, to be expected.” Her voice was barely more than a hushed whisper as the horse shifted beneath her and neighed anxiously. She stroked her gloved hand along its neck, soothing it with a soft pat, before spurring it forward closer to the gap in the crumbling stones. “Perhaps it is not all ruin that guards these borders still.”

Sliding from the saddle, Yasmin stepped towards the wall. Her fingertips brushed against an old glyph etched into the stonework, but still faintly humming with residual magic. The whisper of the arcane residue felt fresh, as though another has passed through recently.

“Very well,” as she raised her voice to the gryphons, mustering confidence in her tone. “Watch if you must. I shall not trespass lightly.”

Gathering the reins, she returned to her steed and began to lead it carefully through the opening in the wall, never letting the gryphons stray too far from her cautious gaze.

Vradia: Tales of the Chosen Few

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Zahrat al-Kuthban

---

The falcon, Azir, soared high above the rolling dunes. From this height, the desert looked like a great sleeping sea, as each wind-sculpted crest glinted beneath the sun’s unforgiving gaze. For miles around, nothing moved, until a dark ragged figure stumbled across the sands below, limbs dragging as if they were injured and their legs had half-forgotten how to hold them upright. Lost and perhaps in need of assistance.

Azir wheeled sharply, as he gave a piercing cry as it began its return journey. Back at the camp of tents on the sands below, Yasmin Kashif, known by her alias of Zahrat al-Kuthban since her own journey, raised her gloved arm without hurry. The falcon swept down to perch upon her wrist, helping himself to the scrap of meat she offered. She whispered softly to him in the Regnad dialect, eyes fixed on the heat shimmer in the direction where the wanderer crawled.

Back at the traders’ tent, a heated argument simmered over maps and routes. They were thick in the intricacies as they moved placements to indicate their preferred routes, The two caravan masters hardly noticed her presence at first. She let them talk. When they paused for breath, she stepped forward and drew a clean black mark on the parchment with charcoal. An X, just northeast of the safe routes. The argument faltered to silence.

“That would mean it had made its way near Somerset,” one man protested, voice wavering. “That’s too close. We-”

“You will take your wares elsewhere,” she cut in, feeding Azir another morsel of meat.

“It could be a straggler,” the younger one insisted, though the tremor in his tone betrayed him. “We could just... avoid it.”

Her eyes met his, steady and unwavering. “You know the risk, it is not just one.”

A beat of silence passed between them, as the weight of the truth settled like sand in a grave. She had joined them as an escort for the journey, but this disrupted their plans. Now she had to part ways from them.

The elder man gave a stiff nod. “Zahra-” he started, but the words failed him. He pressed his palm to his brow instead. “May the wind bring you fortune.”

She inclined her head in graceful acknowledgment, then slipped from the tent into the searing light.

Her horse picked its way steadily through the dunes, its hooves muffled on shifting sand. She would have preferred a camel for this stretch under normal circumstances, but the sturdy Reganian mare would carry her well enough once she left the desert behind for the Ellezag Plains. Azir circled overhead, a pale shape against the brilliant sky, as it led her to its quarry.

When they drew near the place the wanderer had been spotted, she dismounted behind a low ridge and climbed to its crest, and moved with the quiet precision of a desert mouse over the sand. Below, the straggler stood motionless, rooted in place, like a statue. Its shadow stretching long in the late sun. Its skin looked grey and leathered, like an old pair of sandals. The wisps of sand clung to it, as if the straggler had already been half-claimed by the desert.

Zahra nocked an arrow, the air around her fingers prickling with a faint blue glow. She scanned the surroundings for signs of a further activity, such as drag marks or unnatural indentations, but the dune lay smooth, almost eerily untouched.

“One husk... alone.” Her voice was low with a hum, as if sharing to an unseen audience. Even then, still wary that there could be more.

She drew and then released. The arrow struck true, and a flame blossomed where it impaled its chest. The creature did not scream. It turned, jerkily, it’s soulless blind eyes stared toward her. It lurched with what seemed to be an inhuman burst of speed. She loosened two further arrows, pinning its limbs to the sands. The grey flesh charred, cracked, and then crumbled, as the fire spell caused it to collapse into ashen ruin, scattered by the desert wind.

She stood for a moment, listening, as her eyes continue to be fixed on her surroundings. There had been reports that caravans have been lost to ‘desert tombs’, where the dead seemed to spring to life in recounted tales of horror that chilled your soul. Only the falcon’s cry answered her, signalling an all-clear.

Without a word, she returned to her horse, giving the scorched patch a wide berth as she guided the mare’s reins northward. Somerset lay ahead

Perhaps there, in the tangled tongues of traders and scholars, the answers to her Uncle’s disappearance await her.