>try to make a joke about amnesia being an incredibly cliche plot device, in an attempt to cheer yourself up by making a witty remark in regards to your current situation. fail horribly and proceed to cry, realizing that you don't have a single answer to any of these questions.
Vordak Member
STATUS: In Soviet Russia we kick American Capitalist until they turn Red 4 yrs ago- Last Seen: 1 yr ago
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- Vordak 12 yrs ago
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4 yrs ago
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In Soviet Russia we kick American Capitalist until they turn Red
7 yrs ago
In Soviet Russia we kick American capitalist until they bleed
8 yrs ago
Triborg or Johnny main?
Bio
mein CS storage: roleplayerguild.com/topics/80043-vorda..
Most Recent Posts
ayyyy lamo
i promise my posts will be much more enjoyable of a read as the tournament goes on
plz forgive
i promise my posts will be much more enjoyable of a read as the tournament goes on
plz forgive
The cliffs were lush with trees and greenery, fat, heavy branches drooping in the humid air and silhouettes if bushes peering through the thick, warm fog. It was a serene place, untouched and pure; a small lake hidden in the crevice of a giant mountain, where only a few dim rays of sunlight peered in through the dense foliage. There, at the trees' roots, almost invisible in the darkness save for a faint orange glow emanating from his chest, sat the Grand Master of the Aether Storm Monks, Gartenga Nanka Ijok.
He was immersed in contemplation, entering an almost meditative state as he cut himself off the present and turned to the past. Whenever he felt his mind was ripe enough for it again, filled with fresh food for thought, he would halt his nomadic travels across the multiverse and settle down a in a place where he could spend his time in peace and solitude, relishing the new experiences; savoring the knowledge. He had been under the skies of thousands of planets and witnessed the lives of the civilizations they birthed, imprinting them into his memory. If one were lucky, they could ask him, and Ijok would them tell a long, rich story, stitched together from his countless journeys; one filled with epic battles, in which entire nations were born and defeated, tales of dreadful beasts, walking in the skin of both man and animal alike, and the kind of lessons only life itself can tell.
But this story has reached the ears of very few, the Grand Master being very reluctant to share his knowledge: when not even a century old, he was still glad and eager to share his wisdom, but it always fell on deaf ears, history taking its toll, and the cycle of life turning round despite the best of his efforts. Even when Ijok managed to make himself more than just a grain of sand stuck on the multiverse’s cogwheels, any rise he brought was always followed by a plummeting downfall. Since then, it became a rare privilege to receive guidance from him.
And then, there is fighting. Gartenga loves it with a burning passion, putting his skills to good use by beating the crap out of anybody he doesn’t like. Instead of resolving conflicts with words, he most often does so with violence, thoroughly enjoying the process; for a monk, his gross indulgence in bloodshed is indeed surprising...
Ijok's muscles bulged from underneath his torn garb, a thin film of blood spread across his body. "You're not the first, and you're not the last, Hanuman. Need i say more?" - he growled, posture conveying all: a shouldered axe, his free arm slightly bent and fist clenched, back slightly hunched and chin tucked in. Hanuman laughed, ripping off a battered, bent pauldron of his shoulder, and brought his sword's tip in line with Ijok's conduit. "I know your kin well enough not to fall for any cheap tricks. If i were you, i wouldn't be so certain i'd survive this fight." Taking a step closer, the warrior pressed his blade into the Grand Master's chest.
Ijok twisted his hips around, bringing the sword parallel to his body, and slid past its tip, slinging his axe down at his opponent's neck - but Hanuman evaded just as deftly, drawing the blade and cutting deep into his armpit. Ijok ignored what would've been a grievous wound for any human warrior and grabbed the weapon with his hand, pulling it's wielder closer. His axe rammed into the armor, liquifying upon contact and slipping in through the gaps, wrapping itself around Hanuman's chest.
The fool was arrogant, thinking too much, too much of himself. Maybe his conquest had been successful so far, but soon enough, his army would loose their leader. No matter how strong it was on its own, what had driven this force had been this man, and without him, it would scatter, falling easy prey to numerous enemies. Yes, Ijok always knew how to be at the right place and at the right time. What once had been his axe - now a complete extension of his body - solidified into a band of muscles, ready to crush Hanuman's ribs and drive them through his heart and lungs. Pulling his enemy even closer, he spoke, staring him in the eyes with his blank, featureless face: "Before seeking power, temper your mind for it. I'm sick of seeing buffoonish twats that have no other goals but their inane glory fantasies."
Suddenly, his attention went elsewhere, the Grand Master sensing a disturbance in the aether, a concentration of power so intense it seemed to rip apart the fabric of time itself. This sort of intrusion was certainly unexpected, but nonetheless intriguing. Standing up, he observed as from the rift, a skeletal being emerged, its amethyst energy seeming vaguely familiar.
“I am Skallagrim, and you are a skilled and worthy warrior, you are invited to attend the Nexus of Worlds Tournament. When you are ready merely call my name and I shall open the gate to the Nexus of Worlds.”
The being spoke, and Ijok finally recognized a Dreamer in him. Folding his arms behind his back, the Grand Master gave him a respectful bow.
“I am ready now, Skallagrim. Please open the gates for me.”
He was immersed in contemplation, entering an almost meditative state as he cut himself off the present and turned to the past. Whenever he felt his mind was ripe enough for it again, filled with fresh food for thought, he would halt his nomadic travels across the multiverse and settle down a in a place where he could spend his time in peace and solitude, relishing the new experiences; savoring the knowledge. He had been under the skies of thousands of planets and witnessed the lives of the civilizations they birthed, imprinting them into his memory. If one were lucky, they could ask him, and Ijok would them tell a long, rich story, stitched together from his countless journeys; one filled with epic battles, in which entire nations were born and defeated, tales of dreadful beasts, walking in the skin of both man and animal alike, and the kind of lessons only life itself can tell.
But this story has reached the ears of very few, the Grand Master being very reluctant to share his knowledge: when not even a century old, he was still glad and eager to share his wisdom, but it always fell on deaf ears, history taking its toll, and the cycle of life turning round despite the best of his efforts. Even when Ijok managed to make himself more than just a grain of sand stuck on the multiverse’s cogwheels, any rise he brought was always followed by a plummeting downfall. Since then, it became a rare privilege to receive guidance from him.
And then, there is fighting. Gartenga loves it with a burning passion, putting his skills to good use by beating the crap out of anybody he doesn’t like. Instead of resolving conflicts with words, he most often does so with violence, thoroughly enjoying the process; for a monk, his gross indulgence in bloodshed is indeed surprising...
Ijok's muscles bulged from underneath his torn garb, a thin film of blood spread across his body. "You're not the first, and you're not the last, Hanuman. Need i say more?" - he growled, posture conveying all: a shouldered axe, his free arm slightly bent and fist clenched, back slightly hunched and chin tucked in. Hanuman laughed, ripping off a battered, bent pauldron of his shoulder, and brought his sword's tip in line with Ijok's conduit. "I know your kin well enough not to fall for any cheap tricks. If i were you, i wouldn't be so certain i'd survive this fight." Taking a step closer, the warrior pressed his blade into the Grand Master's chest.
Ijok twisted his hips around, bringing the sword parallel to his body, and slid past its tip, slinging his axe down at his opponent's neck - but Hanuman evaded just as deftly, drawing the blade and cutting deep into his armpit. Ijok ignored what would've been a grievous wound for any human warrior and grabbed the weapon with his hand, pulling it's wielder closer. His axe rammed into the armor, liquifying upon contact and slipping in through the gaps, wrapping itself around Hanuman's chest.
The fool was arrogant, thinking too much, too much of himself. Maybe his conquest had been successful so far, but soon enough, his army would loose their leader. No matter how strong it was on its own, what had driven this force had been this man, and without him, it would scatter, falling easy prey to numerous enemies. Yes, Ijok always knew how to be at the right place and at the right time. What once had been his axe - now a complete extension of his body - solidified into a band of muscles, ready to crush Hanuman's ribs and drive them through his heart and lungs. Pulling his enemy even closer, he spoke, staring him in the eyes with his blank, featureless face: "Before seeking power, temper your mind for it. I'm sick of seeing buffoonish twats that have no other goals but their inane glory fantasies."
Suddenly, his attention went elsewhere, the Grand Master sensing a disturbance in the aether, a concentration of power so intense it seemed to rip apart the fabric of time itself. This sort of intrusion was certainly unexpected, but nonetheless intriguing. Standing up, he observed as from the rift, a skeletal being emerged, its amethyst energy seeming vaguely familiar.
“I am Skallagrim, and you are a skilled and worthy warrior, you are invited to attend the Nexus of Worlds Tournament. When you are ready merely call my name and I shall open the gate to the Nexus of Worlds.”
The being spoke, and Ijok finally recognized a Dreamer in him. Folding his arms behind his back, the Grand Master gave him a respectful bow.
“I am ready now, Skallagrim. Please open the gates for me.”
ay don't bury me alive
i've already got the bulk of my intro, so i'll have something to post by the deadline either way. it's just a matter of fleshing it out by now.
i've already got the bulk of my intro, so i'll have something to post by the deadline either way. it's just a matter of fleshing it out by now.
<Snipped quote by Vordak>
Why not just play off that fact and use your intro post to show his mentality? Perhaps have him recall one or two memories of various times he was "dicking around," and make it a bit more lighthearted and amusing rather than "epic," or whatnot. It could still be quite interesting that way.
Just my suggestion.
Yeah, pretty much what i was thinking. Though a humorous narrative would conflict with the stern savant character i want to portray him as, so i'll just stick with the 'epic' part.
And no. This isn't an excuse to rush out a short post in time and cockblock Des.
@Vordak, Ruchette, my character, doesn't really know her true goal either, feeling kind of empty and aimless at the moment, but I feel she may find something valuable out of this experience. Your character can also find something, so not to worry.
Nah, my character has found his thing - being a nomadic hermit monk that likes to muse over the multiverse's fate and occasionally show off his mad skills. The thing is that doesn't make for an interesting backstory, since he just dicks around in his free time and does next to nothing productive, aside from using his brain as a melting pot for the various experiences he gathers throughout his travels. He has nobody to avenge or protect, no duty, no concrete goal, not even a desire to fuel - and he is absolutely happy with it.
I'm kind of struggling to write a meaningful intro post, since there isn't really any great backstory to my character: for several decades, starting since his adulthood, my character trained as a monk and mage, attaining great control over the aether. And once he manage to traverse the barrier between the spirit realm, from which he came, and the physical realm, all he did was just dick around and observe the multiverse's happenings, occasionally exiling himself to spend a few years in solitude and contemplation. Anything that happens with him is just like dust on the road to him, the guy paying taking his whole life as a spiritual journey - and the result is that he really has no concrete goal that could make for an interesting story. Though that was intentional, since i intended his story to be more of an epos, consisting of various separate deeds and adventures of his, rather than a continuous narrative, thus, the actual tournament being much more of a central theme for my character than his backstory.
So yeah, tl;dr, my post is probably going to be the shortest of all.
So yeah, tl;dr, my post is probably going to be the shortest of all.
I need to see posts by 6am EST ('Murrica time) otherwise I need to substitute because the matches will be set tomorrow.
No problem. I'm not letting my usual procrastination have me miss such an event.
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