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15 hrs ago
Current Excuse me, I prefer dying to the private sector over the gubermint like a REAL American PATRIOT
3 likes
1 mo ago
The bad news: Any manner of Persona RP would inevitably attract weebs who both know nothing and have no interest in this aforementioned setting.
3 likes
1 mo ago
The good news: I have a genius new idea for a Persona RP, with the perfect setting in mind for fully fleshing out all of Persona's themes and symobolism in the human mind.
1 like
1 mo ago
Ah, Guild. I have good news, and I have bad news.
2 likes
2 mos ago
The only NPC in Oblivion that doesn't look like a melted wax figure is a fucking Redguard who looks like Obama
2 likes

Bio

“And then, after five minutes of silence, almost inaudibly, the old man sighed and said, more to himself than to Artyom: ‘Lord, what a splendid world we ruined . . .”

― Dmitry Glukhovsky, Metro 2033

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Name and Title of Vassal State: Kingdom of Asceria

Ruler: Illyrin Kaçadere

Race: The native elven peoples of the Sceri Basin, Ascerians are a hardy folk. Derivative from their nomadic ancestry, Acserians typically possess a more tightly-built frame, typically amassing tone over raw mass as they make the most of every muscle. They are also noted for their complex set of pupils - ordinarily green or blue in color - Ascerians are gifted with very keen eyesight, able to discern objects with greater clarity at extreme distances. Most Ascerains possess skin tones that range from snowy pale to dark redwood, though the most common tones which are expressed stand with a distinct, reddish hue. Likewise, their hair most commonly manifests itself from shades of bone-white to blonde or bloody crimson, with black or brunette hair being quite rare. Though gifted with famously long elven lifespans, it's more typical that an Ascerian first die to disease or violence before coming close to the end of their natural dotage - a fact no doubt coupled with their cultural propensity for conflict and adventure. On average, an Ascerian will stand at approximately 190cm, with deviations being based more heavily on ancestry as opposed to sexual dimorphism.

Location:
History:

From beyond the Eastern Ranges, the elf-folk of the Sceri Basin

Aptly, the description to fit the relationship that the Ascerians have toward their overlord is one of acceptance, and little besides. Above all, Ascerians are nothing short of proud, and the aptitude from which the Gaulletics have routinely subverted or thwarted both the efforts of not just Ascerians - but of their friends and foes alike - has earned them something of a...begrudging respect.

Respect and cooperation are not always two sides of the same coin, however, and that is a fact that is a painfully omnipresent statement as to be seen whenever one walks through the lands of the Ascerian. The Mycorian language is only spoken in the most absolute of circumstances, regulated only unto middlemen and adjudicators for Móirens. Metropolitan Mycorian fashion is discarded and disrobed for the native cloth and pelt of Asceria's sparked artisanship, from the ornate stone-and-wood, jagged architecture of Asceria displacing any mention of Mycorian masonwork, such that any Merchant Guild or Embassy shall stand out in the Ascerian settlement as to display it like a zoo. Even the Imperial Cult has been ritualistically cannibalized, butchered and carved before Ascerian totem-poles and prayer flags as saints become spirits and prayers become majicks.

But alas, an Ascerian likewise has long known the . While Mycoria has earned a their respect, the same certainly cannot be said for their friendship.
Here's my CS, much later than it should've been.



The sheet looks nice, but just as a heads-up, the image link you've used for their flag seems to be broken.
It took forever, but here it is.



Nice work, you're in the clear from what I can see.
Have been having a Fallout itch lately, but I don't want to stretch my time too thin. I might do a stupid. Yam knows. I got some ideas. Might need to adjust some things due to neighboring factions but I am very collaborative. Promise.

But you know me, there's always a place for my home city in my heart... so soon, there will be...





Looks fine to me. You get the thumbs-up from yours truly.
I do imagine there'd be some weird shit happening. But like, no children from it.


You can probably describe Gaülletic colonial policy as, "any hole's a goal"
I have to ask just how a toxin-filled world would even be capable of anthropologically supporting the steps upwards to an industrial revolution. Even fluctuations in weather conditions on a weekly basis could likely lead to a lot of "coastal" settlements along the miasma sea to become virtually depopulated just because of a stray wind pattern. You can't really make the comparison to our own oceans, because the oceans themselves were a symbiotic part of human development. You can't fish or sail from a gaseous sea of aerosol poison. Realistically, it would make virtually anything that would have a remote chance of coming into contact with the miasma sea virtually unnavigable, which itself would stifle most forms of travel beyond the largest and tallest of mountain chains. This is to say nothing on what could come of errant weather's effects on agricultural development. If the peaks of mountains are above the mist, the soil is going to be very rocky and not particularly conductive to anything other than grasses, mosses, and shrub-based plants, as well as some very hardy trees. Couple this with the fact that almost any form of precipitation would result in Acid Rain On Steroids, and I think that all of this immediately rules most forms of agriculture viably.

If anything, the human populations of the world would practically be constricted to - generously speaking - isolated, semi-nomadic tribes that would need to constantly relocate due to shifting wind currents that might threaten to wipe out entire permanent settlements. Barring serious advances in architecture that would likewise require incredible mega-projects - i.e. self-sealed buildings that would be required to have their own virtual atmosphere to be sealed from the miasma - I can't particularly see the justification in any civilization larger than hunter-gatherers, or perhaps even ancient slave-based societies like you might see in Mesopotamia or Anatolia. But I can't envision any society gathering much traction beyond that - nevermind the myriad of advancements that is required for anything beyond nomadic societies: Any serious mining or metalworking operation requires permanence, and when the world as a whole is threatened by stray breezes of miasma that could depopulate whole towns, I don't see any serious advances in technological progress, barring some, "Aliens came and gave us airships" shit.
The email she got, the client who sent it, and the place she was meeting at were all the usual amount of suspect. But the tape recorder? That's when Maëlle started to wonder if she was walking into a plot of a new episode of Serial Killers.

Getting killed off by a serial killer who really had it out against biker chicks? Maëlle kinda chuckled at the idea. Hell of a way to go, she thought. Even the place was just run down enough to pass for the cover. Not run-down enough to give anyone the impression that the store owner had to run heroin to pay the landlord, but this place wasn't paying for the owner's yacht, either. Just the right mesh of mess and maintenance to live up to the impression of desperate living. Maybe the inconspicuous nature was helped that Maëlle threw on a set of clothes that ran the bill for your usual townie this time of the year: Really puffy rain jacket, and whatever passed for yoga pants.

Parking was always a real shitshow in places like New York, or...well, actually, almost city in America, Maëlle remembered. NYC wasn't as bad as a lot of places in the States - at least this place had a nice little lot around the corner to keep her bike. Always helped to have a quick getaway in situations like this. In Chicago or Detroit, though? Yeah, she'd run around those bends a few times before, and getting anything into or out of anything resembling a parking spot was a big of a pipe dream as American banking coming back. The whole ordeal wasn't something that Maëlle easily shook off in her head, especially when it was almost like the ancient recorder in her hand had almost felt like it was sapping out head from under her while she held it. But there was something there, something that drove her there. She guessed it was the money. Or the times. Maybe the stories? Or...

Well, it was thinking about Detroit that gave Maëlle the reassurance she needed to at least be convinced this wasn't a complete trap.

Pressing open the front double doors, Maëlle did have the glorious storefront reveal itself unto her, with all the secrets of everything a zeroth-year art student could ever want all in her reach. Incandescent fluorescence flooded around her, the artificial brightness of the little paint shop drowning out the evening's dusk of the city's streets. Faint blues from above washed every painting on display into a deep drab, nicely complimenting the chipped floor tiles and dust-speckled wall paint in its air of decrepit depression. And all while she admired it - as one did admire the 50-something flasher in the junkie park - Senior's voice went off without a hitch.


-Mr. Cheng, the shop runner, is an associate of mine. He's in the know about our business ventures, but we need spare him the details. The back room is where you'll head. There's a panel at the back of the freezer - leads to a basement.

('Mr. Cheng', huh?) Old guy, too. Was even paging through a yellowed-out physical magazine. The sight made Maëlle's eyebrows raise; She hadn't even seen a magazine that wasn't a cringe-inducing tabloid on the grocery store shelves that were several years out of print by the time they were put up. She always thought that all they all had gone digital for anyone who really cared about them by now, but as it turns out, the world always had a few surprises in store for old Maëlle. When Maëlle had reached her hand toward the backroom doorhandle, Mr. Cheng hardly exchanged a passing glance over, just as nonchalantly turning his eyes back over toward his late-day reading.

With each step of his instructions, the place was starting to turn from "backroom kickover" to "mastermind lair" with every step. The keypad? Okay, Maëlle had seen a couple in her lifetime before - all in the hands of some real old-school types. They were tried and tested, and at least she could say that they worked for 90% of the time, 25% of the time. That wasn't real out of the place, especially not for a guy like Mr. Cheng. But, the sliding wall? Staircase to a basement? Handprint security, but without the guy to put his hand on the scanner, she-


(Wait, the fuck?!) Maëlle almost shouted, her reaction sending her into a silent shock. The machine hummed to light, opening up the door to what could only be described as a virtual bunker, which reverberated throughout with the electric hum of computer after computer.

(How the Hell did he get my handprints...?)

It was here - at this moment in an ultra-tech basement in a no-name paint store somewhere in New York - that she knew that Senior wasn't just the regular fixer. This guy meant business. He had to know someone to get all of this - and more than likely, probably knew more people than Maëlle had ever met. But, who did she to meet?

Two other women. Every one of them were about the same age. All pretty well-dressed for the occasion. Same expertise too, she imagined. She looked over at her accomplices - first at the blackhead, then at the blonde - put her hands on her hips, and conjured up a look of sarcastic impression.


"Yeah," Maëlle announced, "This is how I end up on one of those serial killer shows."
Alright, it's done. @Bartimaeus Good to go?
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