Recent Statuses

2 days ago
Current Imagine having mods that didn't ban people for having different political views because said mods were spiteful, hyprocritical and all around petty excuses for human beings. Bango did nothing wrong.
1 like
13 days ago
Rock on, Gold Dust Woman, take your silver spoon and dig your grave.
23 days ago
Bango is my favorite person named Bango
24 days ago
What'd be really cool would be if said dieselpunks mechs also had giant hammers, chainsaws, shields and such. Let them fight yo.
3 mos ago
Imagine caring about the Hobbit films enough to actually watch them.
1 like


So ... I really liked it here once. The site was fun and then ... then we got mods and members who liked to treat others like shit because they disagreed with them on certain aspects of well, life in general. This led to these mods and toxic members mistreating and condescending to those around them.

They banned people for disagreeing because they were so insecure they needed to salve their own inadequacies by going on a little power trip on the internet. And yes, it's exactly as pathetic as it sounds.

And yet, these same toxic people wonder why the site traffic and membership keeps declining. Surely it couldn't have anything to do with them, right? Surely all is well in the supercilious little echo chamber they've created? Could it be that most of us came here to enjoy themselves and escape from daily life and all its demands? Not to be insulted and demeaned for having different or differing views.

Could it be most of us feel uncomfortable with certain topics and would not rather not see that kind of thing or read that kind of talk? Yet, the same individuals who complain that some of us misinterpret things or are somehow prudish are the same ones that choose to be very selective when it comes to what jokes and topics upset them. It's almost as if double standards and preferential treatment tends to alienate people.

It's ok for anyone who's in good with certain mods to sexually harass people and write explicit and degrading "poetry" about them and then try and deny they were writing about a member who did nothing wrong or harmful to them.

And so the above reasons (and a host of others) are why, I, among so many others chose to leave. If you're someone I've had the honor and privilege of RPing with and would like to do so again, please look me up. But other than that, I am done with this place and the individuals who run it and seem bent on running it into the ground.

If you're one of the mods who feels that I've stepped on your toes, I make no apologies for that. That's exactly what this was meant for. Remember, Ruby was a far better mod and human being than any of you will ever be. I don't hate you or wish you ill, but I am done with you all and I certainly owe you nothing and you deserved every single bit of what was written.

Most Recent Posts

Smoke rose from the foundries and smithies over a mix of thatch and wood-tiled roofs. The white plastered homes beneath seemed to hunch over the worn cobblestones of the narrow streets like a herd of soot-stained animals seeking shelter from the cold.
Through these crowded lanes the men and women of the Empire strode, bargained, argued and fought.

Students furiously debated their rivals from neighboring colleges right next to market stalls purveying every manner of food and drink that this part of the world had to offer. Wealthy merchant’s wives rode past the controlled chaos outside in their opulent carriages. Wealthy lordlings sauntered arrogantly through the busy streets, sporting their overly ornamented weapons and looking for any kind of trouble.
The air was rife with clamoring voices of the crowded thousands and carried the mixed scents of garbage, poorly built sewers, spices, dung and cooking meats.

In short, to the mind of the lone rider now making his way through the bustling crowds, it was like any other Imperial city. Loud, overly crowded, brash and rife with crime, treachery and every other manner of lucrative employment opportunities.
He rode with the seemingly lazy grace that comes from a lifetime in the saddle. Despite the teeming mass of humanity, he had no trouble with any of them making way.

For he was clad in the deepest black over a suit of plate in an older design. The armor too, was enameled in black as were the caparisons that hung over his midnight steed’s barding like funeral shrouds.

From his saddle hung the darkened steel of a great helm and a shield bearing the curious device of an uprooted tree on a grey field. On the other side of the old warsaddle, never far from hand, hung a Warhammer once wielded by a man of the Empire.

The big steed under the darkly clad rider surged through the milling citizenry with a slow pace as his scarred hide ripped over his heavily muscled frame and the animal’s dark eyes held a wicked gleam of barely restrained fury. The stallions that Bretonnians favored for their Destriers were not the most well-tempered steeds at the best of times and to the old warhorse, the congested streets brought to mind past clashes and masses of shouting men in armor.

For his part, the rider paid no mind to his restive steed, he knew how to control his mount. Instead he lightly touched a golden spur, the only splash of color in his otherwise somber dress, to his horse’s thick flank and the warhorse turned on the spot with trained ease and stepped down a shadowed street.

The rider’s face, though unhelmed, was still largely hidden by both his dark cloak’s hood and the unlaced black of the mail aventail that extended from his coif, but a pair of green eyes flickered keenly down the street and the narrow windows in the buildings that rose above the worn pavers with the force of long habit.
Hopefully, there weren’t any ratmen lurking in the sewer tunnels below the paved lanes. The Bretonnian shuddered slightly beneath his armor. Apparently, these Imperials didn’t believe in them. Which he found oddly amusing, and to think the Imperials considered his sort to be epitome of mounted arrogance.

At last horse and rider emerged from the tunnel-like cluster of buildings and onto an equally narrow intersection. On the left was a somewhat ramshackle looking tavern front with a battered looking sign. Nothing for it, this must be the place.

He dismounted with a clack of steel plates and checked the twin pistols that hung in his belt, in an odd contrast to the chivalrous ways of those who wore his kind of harness. He flipped a coin to the lad that came running out from the stables to lead his horse away.

That done, the rider stepped inside and let his eyes grow accustomed to the change in light. The aventail slid back in with clash of metal links and the woman who called herself Jehan le Cordelier smiled thinly at the thought of what the patronage might say if they knew who she really was.

Neither a whore nor a practitioner, they would undoubtedly chivvy her out of the place as quickly as she’d entered. “Ladies” had no business in such a place. And to her mind, they had a point. But then again, she was a far cry the Bretonnian noblewoman she’d once been.
In many ways, that kind-hearted young maid had died in blood and fire as had all-

She squelched the thought with the ease of long practice and frowned irritably. No doubt it was simply the long days spent on the road that had her in such a pensive mood. She eased her left hand from the polished gauntlet and slung the steel glove in her belt beside her pistol. She had best keep alert, she had more important business than the old memories of a life long since past.

Jehan or Jehanette as she’d once been known stepped through the archway of the tavern entrance and nodded politely to the muscular man at the door. The rowels of her spurs, coin-sized things in the Estalian style rang cheerily in marked contrast to the wearer. The man looked her over, glanced at the invitation and then jerked his clean-shaven head towards the stairs in the back.

Aside from a shiny-pated old man, absently polishing the bar, the dark-paneled place was largely empty. Less a tavern and more place where people came to conduct certain kinds of “business” when they needed privacy and discretion, then.

The black-clad Bretonnian walked past the silent guard and made her way up the winding narrow steps. She found it odd doorman hadn’t asked for her weapons. Either the security in the establishment was of the lowest quality or the owners had other, more decisive, means of ensuring the guests kept the peace.

She crested the stairs and saw a heavyset man waving her over. A pale eyebrow arched, this man didn’t seem to be the same sort as the warriors she’d encountered in Tilea, but then, appearances were often deceiving in the old world.
She handed him her invitation and slid into the seat opposite without waiting for an invitation. It wasn’t that she maintained some pretense of not caring what the lesser orders thought as she once had. She was simply tired from the long journey and not getting any younger.

She glanced at the selection of different drinks to the side and then dragged a bottle of a very old vintage from Bretonnia over with an appreciative glance. It wasn’t often you found decent drink in the Empire’s corner of the world. But this would do. She glanced idly at the crest on the rippled glass and saw it was from a cadet branch of the … other side of the family. Yet another reminder of her old life.
She smiled grimly and pulled the cork with her white teeth before spitting it onto the floor and taking a long pull of the dark, heady wine. Far be it from her to drink from the old family’s stock for free. She set the bottle down and waited patiently, without saying a word.

If the man before her wished to speak, well there was nothing stopping him. For her part, she had little to say at present.
@TyrannosaursRex the format of CS I created was to give me the bare minimum of what I as a GM and your fellow players would need demanding only said minima, but you went above and beyond; I'm honoured to have that sheet in the CS tab. That said, I think most DMs including myself prefer to first see the sheet and give it the okay before getting it posted to the CS tab.

With that said a few thoughts. Though few among them would have any reason to divulge this there would be those who quickly bite through the disguise; older Elves, Witch Hunters, and magic users for the most part.

Oh, sorry, my bad man. I got excited and jumped the gun lol. Won't happen again.

Second, with such detail at my disposal I'm curious if you would be ok with the appearance of people from Jehanette's past in the story given the almost 100% chance we will eventually make our way to Brettonnia (I've already written it into three different plot lines). Most likely members of Alison's family, perhaps the same Greenskins for a cool revenge arc, maybe a few folk who recognize the unique heraldry especially when combined with the Knight's appearance.

Absolutely! I'm totally down for all of that.

Third, does Jehan travel light with just the full plate for protection or is there chainmail and/or cloth armour beneath, etc.

There would be mail gaussets to cover gaps and quilted gambesons and leggings underneath the armor, yes. Sorry, I should covered that.
@Andreyich And done!

I'll have a CS up tomorrow
I mean, I'd be down to play, as a Bretonnian
I have a mole
I'd be down if you got room!
Beneath the thin space between the splintered oak door, he could make out the flickering play of lantern light and shadow. Behind the ancient stones of his impromptu setting he could hear the hurried skittering of mice and other vermin. Even through the old rock, they could sense his presence as surely as he could theirs. Unlike his human captors, they had the sense to be afraid of him and what he could do.

He leaned his head back against the cool stones and listened idly to the steady drip of water somewhere in the dim confines of the old storage room. Built upon the old city, which had in turn been built upon the work of the long-vanished Romans and an ancient hillfort before that, this place was almost as old he was. He smiled grimly at the thought, perhaps he'd raided the place. In certainly wouldn't have been the first time he'd fought on this damp little island.

And apparently not the last either. He gently reached up to feel the silver ring that burned bright over the leather liner they'd thrown around his neck. A shame really, they should have killed him when they had the chance. If not, he wouldn't have minded slumbering away the untold years in silence. To forget and to be forgotten.

But his plans it seemed had been disrupted by humans. The baffling thing was why on Earth they hadn't killed him yet. God knew he'd done plenty to deserve it. In his long years, he'd done his best to hold to a twisted sort of honor, but his cold hands were still coated in blood, so to speak.

He'd gone by many names in the past, including Rene, but recently he'd favored that of Wesley Dallam. Today it seemed as though he might simply become yet another corpse. He wondered absently if his remains would shrivel up as the long-denied centuries at last took their toll on his pale flesh or if he'd simply rot like any other mortal. Would the normal means of killing a vampire even work on something as old he was? In truth, he'd little inclination to try and grasp the silver that bound his neck, but then its presence was more annoyance than it was agony.

In another time he might have even decided to let the humans see if they truly could end him, but even in his disoriented state, he'd caught their mention of his sister's name when they breached his tomb. What could they possibly want with her? He'd avoided her as best he could after their bitter parting.

But he would see himself damned for certain before he let another harm her. Perhaps it was blood, as so many other things that governed vampires, that still determined his familial bonds. Or perhaps he simply had no wish to see her harmed, despite all she'd done. He growled under his breath and wished, not for the first time, that he were an unthinking and unfeeling brute like so many other warrior vampires he'd encountered in his unnaturally long "life."

He stood, hunched low by the length of silver chained that bound him to the wall. Perhaps because of the noise the gleaming links made, the moldy oaken door slowly creaked inwards and four of the same hunters that had rousted him from his tomb strode. They each held lanterns and stakes and all moved with the same caution one might give a wild beast.

He ran a dry tongue over cracked lips and there was sound like crackling leather as he had to remember to force his ancient lungs to move in order to give voice to his scattered thoughts.

"Why … why all this, humans?" He gestured at the silver binding.

"I do not understand why your kind would come after me. I've not dealt with any hunters for a very long time. Those that would remember me are long since dead, either by the line of work you all choose or the hand of time." He said.

Silence, punctuated by the steadily dripping water.

He shrugged with a clink of metal and tried again.

"I do not think you were after me. But that begs the question of who you were looking for and why?" He said.

They glanced at one another and after a breathless pause charged him as once. There were no brazen battle cries or roars of defiance, merely the desperate silence of assassins trying to end a foe far more dangerous than they'd bargained for.

The creature that called himself Wesley Dallam stepped into their onslaught and his gnarled fingers closed on the closest stake as it stabbed towards his chest with finality of a vice grip. He wrenched the length of wood from its shocked owner's hand, reversed it and slammed the blunt end into the man's diaphragm. The first hunter curled up in a ball and spewed his breakfast across the smooth flagstones.

The other three drew back at the sudden speed of the vampire's attack and that was their mistake. Dallam slammed the blunt end of his captured stake between his neck and the silver collar. There was an ugly crunch like dry wood being crushed and his entire neck distended to the side. He ignored the injury he'd just inflicted upon himself and wrenched the thick length of oak again. The silver ring slowly gave way around the lock, just enough for someone of immense strength to grasp it.

He launched the now splintered stake at the middle of the three hunters still standing and the man dived to the side as the wooden missile ricocheted off the stone walls with bone shattering force. Wesley took advantage of the extra seconds he'd bought himself, reached up and grasped the now fractured silver piece with both hands.

There was an evil hiss and a sound like meat in pan. He roared in pain and fury and slowly pried the metal loop apart until it fell to the floor with a metallic clang.

By then the hunters had reformed and with a desperate glance at the open door, they threw themselves at him. None of them imagined he could use the same device that had so grievously injured his palms. He kicked the metal collar up in the stomach of the middle man and like his still prone comrade, he too collapsed in agony, his lantern rolling away into the darkness.

That left two men who were still able to fight him. Both of them continued their assault, their faces grim. Wesley shrugged and struck like a shedding snake. He was past their guard in a split instant and both of them were flying across the room to fetch up against the unforgiving walls with twin thuds.

They fell to the hard floor, clutching their sides and groaning softly.

All that had taken place in the space of a few heartbeats. Yet for all the swift and decisive violence that they'd been shown, the vampire hadn't killed any of them, or dealt a single crippling injury.

He made a show of adjusting his tattered finery and pulled the closest of the vanquished hunters to his feet. His companion was slowly regaining his feet, but a warning look from Dallam and he slowly backed away, his hands raised.

"Now, I've fed on many a human, but never without cause. You try and follow me and that will change." Wesley said softly.

Yet, there was no mistaking the threat in his voice. He considering questioning them, but even as tired and starved as he was, he could tell that their minds bore no real information that would be of any use. They were just puppets wielded by a far more sinister master.

He dropped his would-be killer and stalked away into the darkness. Alone and uninterrupted.

First things first, he would need to find a place to reconvene and then find those wicked souls to bring to bay. God knew this city certainly had no shortage of them.

The Macarena is my favorite guilty pleasure song.
Character Sheet/Application

Face claim:

Character First and Last Name (pronunciation optional): Tarald
Characters Alias, Title, or Quote: Wesley Dallam
Character Age - Gender - Member Group: 2,000+ years old, Male, Vampire
Wanted or Original character? Wanted


Tarald's or Wesley's hair is the color of sand, shot through with strands of silver. His rawboned features might have been handsome once upon a time, but years of self-imposed deprivation and wounds from a silvered blade have left his face scarred and drawn. His eyes, once bright and full of joy are now as cold and gray as the north sea.


At one point, Wesley was known as Tarald, born to the chieftain of his tribe in the far north. He had his mother's kindness, but his father's somber demeanor. He grew up fast, perhaps too fast. He'd always looked for out for those in his family and the tribe. In those days and that part of the world, wars were still fought with bronze and flint. Savage fury and strength were the only shields between life and death. Yet, he had compassion for those who needed his aid. From an early age, he always protected his sister Katla. Despite his soft heart, he was never one to flinch from violence. In his time he proved his worth as a warrior and a leader of the same. He slew a great white bear and a white wolf with his bronze-headed spear and painted himself with their hot blood in the pale light of the midnight sun. Things that were said to be good omens.

He'd proven himself as a man of the tribe, yet he'd still not taken a wife. If things had gone differently, then perhaps he might have lived long enough to as last choose a woman from the tribe. Then Katla lost her child and then her husband. Those took their toll on that once vibrant woman. So it was that he turned his attention to her care. The winter snows ended for a time and it seemed the sun would shine again. But instead the cold, the hunger and the sickness came. He ranged farther and father afield, searching for food and always hunting, as the game grew scarce. But a man as strong as he was, was still only human. Tarald's memories of that time are fogged with pain and the slow passage of time, but he remembers the cold and the darkness claiming him.

Then … awakening in Katla's arms. In that horrific moment, as the thirst took him, he knew exactly what she'd done. He bitterly cursed her name and flinging her away. He tried to end his life at first, but found he lacked the courage for suicide. The sun, while it brought great pain was not enough to end his unnatural life. So he wandered.

He traveled south, through time and across the bloody pages of history. He wandered across the battlefields of Europe, the far east and Asia. He stood his ground on battlefields that were lost to antiquity. For it was in battle that he could feel as though he wasn't slaking his terrible thirst at the expense of innocent lives. His honor, twisted as it might have been, was all he had left of his former humanity. In the press and chaos of the carnage, he could feed without any knowing.

He stood his ground in the phalanx, he rode down the sea peoples from his chariot and went across the steppe to leave fire and blood in his wake.

In those moments, there was brutal kind of clarity, he could forget and focus on what was before him.

It was somewhere in the vast ages between the fall of Egypt and the rise of Alexander that a spark was rekindled in his dead heart and something he thought was long since lost was found once more. He found Katla again, riding away from one lost war to find another master. He paused outside the village where an angry mob was preparing to seize the "night witch" who dwelt in the woods. Out of idle curiosity, he followed along at a distance until he came to a bend in the forest path and saw the silver-haired woman standing outside her burning hut, desperately fending her attackers off.

Tarald gave them all one chance to leave, those who didn't paid in blood.

He nodded to Katla and a after a moment's breathless pause, he rode away. But something was re-kindled that day. A kind of understanding, in the centuries that followed he made sure to always be there for the silver-haired woman who'd killed so many.

So it was that he slowly found himself back in the land of his birth, it was the dawn of a new world. A world where the White Christ had replaced the gods his ancestors had worshipped and were his followers were slowly making their way north. He took to the seas and led bands of warriors, raiding up and down the coasts of lands once ruled by the fallen Romans.

It was there he met a priest, who stood bravely in his church and didn't beg or shrink from the threat of violence. Even after Tarald revealed his blood thirsty nature, the Priest merely responded with kindness and counsel. Tarald led his warband from the village, feeling puzzled, but oddly comforted.

He tried to continue his blighted existence, but found that even the savagery of combat merely left him cold. Then one evening, he found new purpose. The clock and printing press had been invented and man had sailed to the new world. It was there, in the smoking ruins of an Aztec city that he found a creature with red eyes and long fangs feeding on those wounded by the conquistadors he'd arrived with.

Over the centuries, he'd encountered such creatures. Some were little better than beasts, but all bore the same telltale signs of Katla's bloodline. He killed the blood-crazed fiend and swore a seemingly hypocritical oath. He might not be able to kill every vampire, but he'd make sure that the rest of his cursed unlife was spent making sure there were fewer than there could have been. He became a figure of terror and dread to both humans and vampires a creature. An almost legendary creature that was only spoken of in hushed whispers.

At last came the dawn of the Victorian age and the rise of science. For the first time in his grim existence he felt a flicker of hope. Perhaps this new system of learning could aid him where magic and superstition had failed him. He'd lost all hope of ever slaking his thirst, but he began to wonder if perhaps he might live long enough to find both a cure and a way to atone for all the wrong he'd done over the long years.

But that hope is now pressed for time. His steadfast insistence on only feeding when he had no other option has left him strained and his mind fragile. He catches himself lost in his clouded memories, having conversations with people who have long since crumbled to dust. But his steadfast pride and terrible resolve will not let him give in to fear.

Now, he resides in London, once again looking for Katla. For he has determined that if he should find a cure, she will be one of the first to undergo it. He's taken up the name of Wesley Dallam, a somewhat reclusive dilleante and now he begins what he hopes will be his last quest.

He's gathered a handful of trained vampires to his darkened halls, they serve as his fanatical loyal servants and warriors. But in truth, he views them as little more than pawns, despite their slave-like devotion to him.

During the day, his home is held to be one of the finest salons, a collection of laughter, music, art and the finest minds alive. But that is a mere front, something to keep him amused as he races against time to find his salvation.

For he has seen the future in other vampires, who were starved of blood. In truth that's the one thing he fears, and he will be damned before he sees himself reduced to such a bestial state.


Even in life, he was a always a cold and aloof sort. One who had little regard for making friends. Time has done little to change, but the character he's made in Wesley Dallam, is one who's a kind, if foppish sort of man. He's found such that such an unassuming demeanor leads people to underestimate him and that has led to their demise at his hands on more than occasion. But perhaps with time and restoration, he could again regain something of the good man he once was.

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