Come one, come all...

[BreathTaker he/him]

  To the thrill of a lifetime... Welcome, to the land of monsters and magic. Our story begins with a single man at a tavern; he knows that something is going on in the world outside, something terrifying and disasterous, "But what can I do?" is the only thought in our hero's head. The answer: Alone, nothing; alone, the world will die along with every living species residing here; Ah, but only if our protagonist had help, maybe some kind of... team? Yes, a team of like minded individuals to help him stop this terrifying outcome.

Okay everyone, this is a pretty freestyle RP I want to do. The story is that a group of "Heros" are going to save the planet they live on. It will be mostly Sword and armor fantasy with your typical D&D kind of magic, basically I want to kick this old school. Anyone is welcome to join, I really don't want this to die so please let's make this EPIC!!!

Name: Zakk

 

Age: 35

 

Height: 6 feet 2 inches

 

Weight: 230 pounds

 

Race: Human with some dwarf in the distant past

 

Class: Warrior/Magic User

 

Features: Zakk is very muscular, covered in scars and tattoos. He has black eyes, is bald but has a long braided, black beard with red streaks that has gems and coins woven into it. His head has ruinic tattoos on the crown; on his left bicep he has the head, neck and shoulders of a woman wearing a skull mask and on his right stands the Ruinic sybol for Death. His hands are covered with mutiple runes, some dwarvish some are more mysterious. On his back there is a full back piece of some kind of giant crustacean rising from the ocean and destroying a ship (Yes, a greatshell but this isn't a Cosmere story). Zakk also speaks in a rough dwarven accent that gets stronger when aggrivated or angry.

 

Clothing: Zakk wears a very broken in leather vest under a cloak that covers his tattoos, black baggy pants, black fingerless gauntlets with steel plates on the back and black boots that have a steel cap over the toes which seem to have been taken from a set of half-plate armor. He also sometimes wears a black wide brim hat with the sides rolled slightly up (Cowboy hat)
Equipment: Several throwing knives in various places, a long black broadsword with runes coveing the blade, a long, wicked looking dagger with a skull on the pommel of some small carnivore;  he is also capable of summoning and almost any kind of weapon with his powers, most often it will be either a large sword, war hammer of battle axe.
Powers: mid-level Ice powers mainly, meaning the ability to use water and wind magic as well but it isn't as powerful as when they are combinbed, this power is USUALLY used to summon frost weapons. He is also a weapons master with the power of almost a meditative focus as well as a little bit of dwarf blood lust. Also, his dwarven heritage grants him a very small resistance to other kinds of magic. Being part dwarvish he has more of an affinity than power to the earth when either underground of in a rocky area resulting in a better sense of direction.

 

Story: Zakk was raised by his half dwarven father and human mother in the outskirts of a decent sized city in the eastern part of the main continent, nothing traumatic or emotinonally scarring happened to him while he was growing up. Of course, people died, but that was a simple fact of life when you lived near the forest. Once he grew up, he went off and joined the Defender, a large military group that protected civilization from the forces of darkness. Zakk was a unti leader (lead basically a group of squads) in several battles against orcs and other forces of evil a few years ago, since then he had gotten out of the military life and became a merchant's guard for about three years. In that time he traveled all over the world seeing several marvels and as many attrocities. He also studied with weapon masters across the world learning many different fighting styles with many different weapons. Zakk also spent two years at the Arcanum in Kaleron studying magic and it's application to battle on self-defense. Now, Zakk is an unemployed mercenary who knows the end is nigh but doesn't belive there is anything to about it. (Alright let's get this baby started)
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Zakk walked into the small dusty tavern near the front gate of Silari, a prt port city in the southern desert and ordered a beer. He looked around and chose a table in the back of the room, sat at it, took a drink of his beer and proceeded to light his pipe and wait.
 

[+Quitecontrary she/her]

A light wind blew inside the tavern as a woman in red sauntered in. She had straight black hair that was as airy as the way she walked and her slanted black eyes surveyed the place as she looked for the mercenary. 

 

The men in the tavern looked at the intriguing-looking woman. They don't get many women in that place, and they have had to make do with tavern wenches with bad teeth and unmentionable diseases. Someone as clean looking as the Asian woman was a novelty. She was wearing a red cotton kaftan with intricate white and gold embroidery along the hemsleeves and low neckline, and right between her breasts was a silver necklace depicting the Hand of Fatima, which was also matched as a tattoo at the upper part of her back. 

 

She walked over to the mercenary, sat down gracefully in front of him, and gestured a tavern maid for a drink. Zakk was assailed with the jasmine fragrance Xiaoli was known for, and she smiled as she saw him appreciating the scent. 

 

"It's been a while, Zakk. I heard from the grapevine that you were looking for a team. You're just in luck. I just finished a job.", Xiaoli said. 

 

I need a bit of time to write the RP details for this character, but I can't resist participating.

[BreathTaker he/him]

Zakk closed his eyes as he breathed in the familiar scent of jasmine, "Yeah, Xi, ye heard it through the grapevine because the last time I saw ye.... ye tried to bleedin' kill me!" Zakk chuckled as he glanced at his old friend, "How have you been Xiaoli? Get in to any trouble latley?" he asked, taking a drink and looking her in the eyes.

[+Quitecontrary she/her]

She laughed. A familiar husky, tinkling sound that felt like a memory of better days. 

 

"Nothing personal, Z. You were just in my way at that time. Who could've known the person I was trying to kill was someone you were hired to protect? All in the past now." She inclined her head and raised her mug for a toast. 

 

"So. What is this job? Or are we still waiting for others? I can't stay long here, Z. You know that the longer I stay in the company of these fools, the more you'll be in danger. You'd have to...defend my virtue before long."

 

At that, she drank deeply, seemingly unaware of stares coming from the tavern folk. Hungry stares coupled with knives being drawn were a bad combination.

 

She put down the mug. "I can command these louts with a word, you know. Men's minds are weak. That's why I always liked you, Z. You've always been immune to my charms."  

 

I haven't played D&D, so I don't know if you want us to adhere to its rules. Like you said, this is free form. However, is there a direction that you have in mind? Otherwise, things can go really far off and crazy, and this will look like a bigger version of Three-Word Story.

Edited June 23, 2014 by Quitecontrary

[Quiver he/him]

The sea spray moulded into her helm caught the sun as the trap dropped. Karya stared ahead, not really watching. She knew she should have been, but the ritual was all too familiar to interest her by now. The tumble as a floor went out from under them. The long, sawing note of rope running through the gallows and then; the crack.

The last one must have been no less than sixty, but his neck broke as easily as the rest.

It disturbed Karya that she knew that.

She released a breath she hadn't realised she'd held as the crowd dispersed. Apparently, it was tradition for executioners to wear heavy fabrics. She had balked at the idea at first, but now she was glad she had them. She didn't like the idea of a crowd seeing a paladin of the sea disturbed.

The last man had been Kanan, like her.

Was it worth it, brother? A few bits of gold, to die so far from home?

Though, speaking of gold... she reached into her pocket, and handed a small purse to the harbourmaster. These foreigners would sell you their mothers for half a piece, much less the corpse of a pirate.

Pirate.

It was an ugly word. Karya didn't like it. Back home, men who were hung for thieving were given a different name.

Brothers of the Broken Neck.

It didn't have the same meaning as it did home, but she found a certain poetry in it. It was the first thing that had made her believe her exile in these land-locked sink holes might be tolerable.

The Kanan man was cut down. She gave a short wave to the men who accompanied her... though the lewd comments she had heard tossed in the street may have said otherwise. For such an 'enlightened' people, these foreigners had a difficulty distinguishing between the strong feminine jaw and the slender male form that Karya had found amusing, then troublesome. Now she just ignored it.

"I'm going to get a drink," she said simply, speaking in the tongue common to these lands. Her guards nodded acquiescence, and she proceeded down the street.

She still had Serpent. Even in exile, the monk good hadn't dared take away her blade. She remembered the long hours spent forging it, as if it were yesterday, the many, many dawns when, after another nights work, she had plunged the nascent blade and herself into the waters if her isle.

Seeing the man hung made the Kanii woman realise something. She wanted to go home.

Instead she found a bar and went in to toast a broken brother with what these foreigners considered fine spices.

[BreathTaker he/him]

(this can be a glorified three worder, and btw HOLY CRAP QUIVER that was beautiful)

 

"Beleive me lass, if your honor needs defending I'll take car of it." Zakk looked at every drawn dagger and dark eye and smirked. Suddenly frost began to cover the table like a creeping vine, it spilled down like a waterfall to the ground. Spikes of ice began forming in Zakk's closed left fist and began to form in to a wicked looking blade."C'mon then ye bleedin fools, ye want a scrap, I'll give ye scrap." He stood up and  drew his long black blade in his right hand. "Let's go ye stone headed fools."

[+Quitecontrary she/her]

Xi raised one hand, palm open, which stopped the men from advancing to Zakk. A mischievous smile appeared on her lips before she closed her hand into a hard fist, starting a quickly expanding wave of power, throwing everyone out and away from their table. 

 

"Sit down, Z. You're too sweet. I was just kidding when I said I needed help defending my virtue.", she said, drinking calmly from her mug. "But I appreciate the gesture."

 

The mug in her hand stopped midway to her lips when she saw that Zakk's attention was elsewhere, trained to the door. A dirty mirror on the side of the bar told her who he was looking at. A Kanii woman by the looks of her.

 

"Karya...", she heard him breathe. She didn't move. Whether this woman is friend or foe remains to be seen. In the meantime, she will enjoy her drink. It's been a while since she had sat down in a real chair, with a real mug in hand. Too long had she spent in the forests scrounging. Too long had she been trying to survive the man hunting her down. 

 

I definitely agree with you, BT. That was a great first post, Quiv! Btw, do we need to have a PM thread to discuss the direction of the story or shall we just write whatever we want to write, and hope nobody contradicts what we say?

[BreathTaker he/him]

Haha I kinda like the off the cuffness that we could potentially have put a PM thread would probably be smarter... Votes?

[+Quitecontrary she/her]

I'm also ok with discussing it here in blue.

[Sir Jerric he/him]

I vote for the "discuss here in blue" mode, as that allows for new players to jump in without missing important details. If they take the time to read, at least.

Would anyone mind me using a custom non-human race? I designed it for a 1st Ed AD&D world some eight years back, but never used the setting.

 

---

Most Voted Backstory: (Total Votes: 1)

3) My race is a rumored group that very few surface-dwellers have encountered. There are some narrow bands of cultures that have economic relationships with my race, but none are at all local to this area.

My aim is to allow for the rest of you to be excusably ignorant of the details of a race that I haven't told you about, and to allow me to treat your errant guesses as by-products of rumor-mongering.

Name: Vhalin                           Drive: Finding magic experts
Age: 43                                Profession: Underworld ranger
Height: 2' 10"                         Specialty: Enclosed spaces
Weight: 64 lbs. (83 lbs. with gear)    Feature: Quick reflexes
Race: Lebaiym                          Personality: Stiff

Equipment: 
   Two glass swords
   Two glass daggers (balanced for throwing)
   Sling and pouch of shot
   Undisclosed number of glass-runes (for slinging or throwing)
   Night-camouflaged Ceramic Scale mail

Appearance: When Vhalin wishes to avoid speciesist antagonism, he wears a thick, sleeveless cloak of a simple, soft grey tone. The first notable feature is that his hood, instead of resting like the one in my profile image, appears to be supported in the back by a pair of ridges. When one comes close enough to see into the shadow of his hood, one can observe a veil is shielding his face from view, but there are signs of a short snout rather than a human face.

This cloak was full length, but was cut short in an early combat encounter. It now hangs only to his elbows, slightly above his waist.

Under the cloak Vhalin is wearing a long-sleeved knee-length tunic of dark grey, with matching leggings. Sleeves and leggings are tucked into gloves and soft boots respectively. Yes, this garb is literally to the point of no skin showing. Atop this layer is a suit of scale mail with a dull, mottled blue-grey coloring. A plated belt holds twin swords at his waist along with a bundled leather cord and a belt knife. Two other knife hilts show at his boots.

His gait is slightly unusual. He is always balanced on the balls of his feet--standing, crouching, walking, or running--necessitating the soft-style boots. This stance leaves his knees slightly more flexed when he is at rest. His fingers are slightly shorter than the normal proportions as well.

Story: Vhalin joined the army at age 17, and served for 9 years, primarily as a long-range scout. Following that, he began guarding merchant caravans, and quickly moved up to guiding them. He is an elite among those who travel the underworld, now having over twenty years of experience guiding caravans through the underworld between the dwarves, drow elves, and his homeland.

But for all of that, he is also dedicated to his religious principles. He has a rigid code of morality, one element of which is a rejection of all fermented drinks.

He is confident, and considerate of others. He has a great deal of common sense and practical experience. He is observant as befits a ranger.

He knows that offending people and picking fights is an impractical method of getting his way, beyond the chance of injury that comes with such behavior. He prefers not to waste energy on arguments and confrontations. He will step aside, or bow out, to avoid wasting time on people who aren't going to listen.

In a foreign society, he is not certain what behaviors are going to be taken the wrong way, so he tries to be careful about his words and gestures. People who observe this see him as excessively stiff and formal.

He is not intimidated by threats, or boldness, or much of anything. He is respectful of authority, and he is respectful of knowledge. He is willing to assume that unless he is the expert on the subject at hand, other people may know more and are therefore worthy of respect. People who act the fool, on the other hand . . .

Dialogue: The sloppy grammar in Vhalin's dialogue is deliberate. He started learning Common about eight months ago, and assuming it is anything close to English, his capacity might be considered impressive. If he gets to hang around the other characters enough, I plan to migrate his syntax to express their influence.

Edited July 18, 2014 by Sir Jerric

[Shivertongue he/him]

A cool breeze swept across her face, the scent of the sea caressing her cheek and upper lip in a way that never failed to stir a shiver within. Aesalyn smiled, closing her eye as she enjoyed the sensation. The prow swayed ever so slightly beneath her, but she held her stance with practiced ease, shifting her body weight in minute ways. Tightly-sealed jars jangled at her waist, and the numerous vials chimed within the small pockets of her jacket.

 

She could hear Silari now, the great port city that ran along the only livable stretch of land along the edge of the Great Wander. Ships casting off and coming in, fisherman boasting and threatening, dock rats rushing about for something to steal, or, rarely, honest work. She smiled, opening her eye and taking in the city in all of it’s cobbled-together glory.

 

“It’s been a long time,” she said softly. She squashed the slight pang in her chest at the thought, without even knowing what it was about.

 

“HEY!”

 

Aesalyn glanced over her shoulder, flashing a pretty smile at the sailor that showed off brilliant white teeth and prominent canines. The wind pulled loose a lock of strawberry hair, and she neatly tucked it back between her ear.

 

“How did you get on this ship?” The sailor demanded. A blocky elven man who looked as though he juggled oxen in his spare time. Behind him, half a dozen other sailors had noticed the commotion, and were forming up behind him. “How long have you been here?”

 

“Long enough,” Aesalyn said, smiling wide enough for the dimple to pop beneath the cherry-red patch that covered her left eye. “Long enough to know, for example, that your captain spends half the ale budget on ladies at the Golden Rose whenever he’s in port. You might want to turn that anger on him, rather than little me.”

 

“Stowaway,” a short woman in the back hissed. Aesalyn sighed; it probably wasn’t worth the effort to fight with them, and she didn’t have Zeith’s silver tongue to talk her way out of it.

 

They began to close the distance between then, anger in their eyes. With a flick of her wrist, a small vial slipped into Aesalyn’s hand. She bit the cork out, spat it aside, and threw the vial to the ground. There was a blinding burst of orange light, and then black-violet smoke began billowing from the bursting point. The sailors cried out in confusions, attempting to disperse the smoke with waving arms and blades.

 

At least, that’s what Aesalyn assumed they were doing. She’d gone overboard the moment her little surprise had hit the deck.

 

She hit the water with all the grace of a brick, gasping as pain swept through her. Shaking her head, she popped another vial from her glove and down the contents. The pain faded a moment later, a sigh slipping from her lips. The empty vial went back into her glove, secured.

 

What-

 

“Shut up,” she growled as she began swimming toward the docks. “I’m busy right now.”

 

* * * * *

 

Dripping wet, Aesalyn ignored the looks and leers as she pulled herself out of the water. Shaking her head, she wrung the water from her hair as she began walking with no specific direction in mind. There was always work to be found in Silari, and it mattered little where you went.

 

Walking past a deserted alleyway, she suddenly flinched, as if an insect had landed on her face. “No!” she snarled under her breath.

 

The hells! You’ve had three weeks! The voice was like an echo inside her mind. An insistent, annoying echo.

 

“Because you get seasick!” She flinched again; gritting her teeth, Aesalyn cast an eye around herself, then ducked into the alley. She leaned against the cold stone wall and squeezed her eyes shut as the flinch turned into a throb.

 

Doesn’t matter. The echo said. It sounded closer now, the cultured dialect of Manisha becoming prominent in the clipped words.

 

Aesalyn sighed. She grit her teeth again, and then released. “You KNOW this is a terrible idea. You don’t make friends in Silari.”

 

It began at her forehead, an almost imperceptible ripple. The smooth face lost it’s delicacy, becoming harder, jawline filling out, skin darkening from milky white to light copper. Full lips thinned ever so slightly. Her hair shrunk as if being sucked back into her scalp and turned a midnight black. Her vision began to fade, and she had the sensation of falling backward. As the ripple moved downward, her body blurred and shifted in a manner she always thought looked agonizing, despite the lack of pain.

 

Moments later, the ripple faded, and a tall young man stood in her place. A crooked smile slid upon his face as he looked himself over, a bare hand brushing some non-existent dust from the sleeve of the black longcoat that had replaced the dyed leather alchemist’s jacket. Dark grey slacks replaced the red leather trousers, vials and jars and bottles no longer hanging from the belt.

 

 

"I make friends everywhere, Aes," he said.

 

Fine, Zieth, you can have the body FOR NOW, Aesalyn said, her voice an echo in the back of his mind. But once you get into trouble - and you WILL get into trouble - you’d better ripple back to me.

 

“Of course, of course,” Zeith said smoothly, pulling out a hand mirror and checking himself over. Her carefully shifted a loose strand of hair back into proper alignment. Flashing himself a grin, he slipped the mirror back into his pocket and stepped out of the alleyway, turning -

 

- and stepping directly into path of a muscular woman. Zeith sighed, looking up at the woman who towered over even his tall frame. “Scat,” he cursed as she looked down at him, her mouth twisting into a wicked and altogether unpleasant smile. “Sallna, a pleasure…”

 

“Zeith…” the woman growled, and he flashed her one of his best smiles. “Momma will be so happy to know you’re back.”

 

77 seconds, Aesalyn said, and he could almost hear her shaking her head. I TOLD you you should have come out on the ship, get a little bit of bad built up before we got here, but no, you’re tender wittle tummy just couldn’t handle the big bad boat.

 

“Not helping!” Zeith hissed, dropping down as a massive fist filled the space his head had once been. He sidestepped another blow, grasping onto the forearm of the woman. Deftly, he pushed himself into the air, flipping over her head.

 

She turned, and Zane placed a hand on the top of her head and spun back the direction he’d started. Pushing in her back, Sallna howled in fury as she went face first into the ground. Zeith tossed a wave over his shoulder as he bolted down the street.

 

Where-

 

“Gate quarter!” Zeith interrupted, darting into an alley between two tall buildings. There was a wall at the end, but he pushed himself off one of the buildings, shooting upward and clearing the wall. “Momma’s Little Girls won’t go into Ssvarssii’s turf, and I was friendly with the lizards the last time I checked.”

 

* * * * *

 

I thought you were ‘friendly with the lizards’?!

 

“Not. Helping.” Zeith growled, leaping over the charging slyssin. He pushed his feet into the lizardman’s back, grunting as a small shock went through his legs at the impact with the hardened scales. It was enough to get him into the air, though, and he reached out to grasp the overhanging lamppost.

 

He felt the twinge before it happened, and groaned. His fingers clasped around the pole, and his grip failed utterly, slipping right off. Zeith grunted as he landed hard on his back with a hiss.

 

Majestic Formula, just let me out already! Aesalyn insisted yet again; he wanted to swat that voice into the ground. You don’t have the luck for this!

 

He ignored her, again. It was easy, when an angry lizardman was holding you by the collar four feet off the ground.

 

Even easier when you were suddenly flying through the air toward the main window a dusty tavern. Tucking into a ball, Zeith crashed through the glass, grimacing as he felt a chunk slice into his cheek. He heard several patrons cry out in surprise as shards rained down on them and he flew overhead, his momentum apparently unimpeded by the window.

 

Which meant the wall was really going to hurt.

 

It did.

 

Zeith slammed into into the thick wooden wall. He screamed as a splitting sensation tore through him, the scream in second joined by a higher, feminine one. Two bodies crashed to the empty table below.

 

“That was not what I wanted…” Aesalyn growled, pulling herself up, then roughly yanking Zeith to his feet.

 

“Oh, whine, whine, whine,” Zeith said, rolling his eyes. He swiped a vial from Aesalyn’s jacket - ignoring her protests - and downed it, his bruises and scrapes fading rapidly a moment later. It did nothing for the pain in his back, but that could be taken care of later. He glanced around the tavern, taking in the numerous weapons, magical tugs, and altogether quite dangerous looking people.

 

Mercenaries. Perfect. His luck twinged.

 

The lizardman leapt into the room, hissing, tail lashing against the floor.

 

He grimaced as he felt the tug, and knew without looking that the same expression was on Aesalyn’s face. Lovely. It was a short split. They didn’t have much time.

 

“Before you get angry at me,” Zeith said, shooting a wink at the pretty women in red at the back of the bar. He stepped forward, making sure to remain within reach of Aesalyn, and turned to the bartender. “I would like to bring your attention to the fact that I did NOT want to come through your window.” He gestured to the lizardman. “That was his idea.”

 

 

------

------

 

Okay. That turned out longer than I'd planned. Lemme know what you guys think. In short - I will make a post going into more detail on this later, if people wish - Aesalyn and Zeith are cursed to share a body. Impacts, like the one in the bar, can temporarily split them apart, but they have to remain close.
 

[Quiver he/him]

Harmony damnation it, Shiv.

 

That was awesome. I don't know about anyone else, but I really, really liked that. Okay, yes, quantity=/=quality, but still... that was awesome. That was awesome, and you should feel awesome.

 

You should also feel scared, because now, I'm going to set out to topple out by trying to write something better. Shouldn't be that hard, right?

 

But... yeah. Uh... I should be posting, I guess? But I'm not, or at least not yet. Because my next post must be a Shiv-buster.

Edited June 25, 2014 by Quiver

[+Quitecontrary she/her]

Wow, Shiv...you totally set the bar for this one. 

 

That should be an award: SHIVBUSTER OF THE YEAR.

[BreathTaker he/him]

Would anyone mind me using a custom non-human race? I designed it for a 1st Ed AD&D world some eight years back, but never used the setting.

I'm willing to roll with any of the following backstory options:

1) My race is from a deep underworld cave system, and has so recently come to the surface world that almost no one has ever heard of us before.

2) My character is a dimension traveller, and no one of this dimension has see the likes of me before.

3) My race is a rumored group that very few surface-dwellers have encountered. There are some narrow bands of cultures that have economic relationships with my race, but none are at all local to this area.

Any of these will allow for the rest of you to be excusably ignorant of the details of a race that I haven't told you about, and allows me to treat your errant guesses as by-products of rumor-mongering.

Please indicate your world-building preference, or if you'd rather I stick to Classic D&D mythos, I'll find a character to run with that instead. =)

I vote for the "discuss here in blue" mode, as that allows for new players to jump in without missing important details. If they take the time to read, at least.

I vOte for number 3.Shiv that was kick chull and Mary i think you're up lass because i want to post from a computer.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As Zakk was standing up to approach the woman who was walking through the door, a man came crashing through the window next to him and hit the wall upon which two people stood up and started talking. "...it was the lizard's idea" the man said pointing outside at a large creature.

" Well," Zakk said, looking at X with a smile, " Looks like it be time to throw some poor bastard around, don't it?" With that Zakk jumped onto the table and jumped, flying through the air at the lizard, his hands glowing blue, frosty mist rising from his eyes and a smile on his face.

Zakk tackled the lizard and the two rolled into the middle of the street in a confusing ball of muscles and scales. Zakk ended up on top and started to punch the beast is the face, small patches of frostbite were starting to form on his face and it looked like Zakk was going to end this pretty soon... that was until the lizard got his feet positioned onto Zakk's chest and pushed with it's massive legs. Zakk went flying into the air and into one of the upper rooms of the tavern he was just in.

Edited June 25, 2014 by BreathTaker

[Swimmingly he/him]

It's hard being ordinary, Korb thought. The pair of thugs - one tall and muscled, and incidentally blessed with claws, scales, and a tail; one thick as a slab of marbled meat - blocked the entrance to the alley. Muggings were not uncommon, of course, but Korb had managed to avoid this particular misfortune until today.

Korb carefully lifted his satchel over his head, trying not to look threatening. In his estimation, it wasn't difficult. Thin, short, Korb was a better runner than most and a worse fighter than many. While some seemed to take every day as a personal challenge to beat more noses flat than the previous one, Korb stayed unseen. It wasn't that he was stealthy, or even quiet. You just didn't notice him.

Of course, these two muggers had.

Korb finished with his satchel, moving slowly and deliberately. He turned his pockets inside out, spilling coins and jangling nicknacks onto the cobbles, and removed his fine leather jacket, dropping it over the satchel regretfully.

"Want anything else?" he asked the thugs.

The lizard looked him over.

"Boots," he growled.

Korb sighed, but did as asked. He pulled out the dull knife in the side of the boot by the blade and tossed it onto the coat, startling the two thugs, who seemed to be getting more and more nervous as Korb dragged out the mugging. Though they held long, nasty-looking brass knives and pockets bulging with a variety of small weapons, they flinched with every movement Korb made, as if they expected him to leap up and beat them senseless.

Korb sat down and began unlacing his boots. "What's the matter with you two, anyway? I walked through the Docks - I probably deserve this for being so stupid. You know there aren't any guards about."

This is a bad time to be flippant, something inside him said. Korb ignored it.

The lizard glanced at the thick man, who grunted. He looked back at Korb.

"Well, friend, you see, usually, after shoving a weak-looking man into an alley and demanding all his possessions, we've got, oh, twenty seconds of witty banter before they pull out a knife, potion, sommon something, turn their skin to stone, blast us with lightning, call a blazing rock to smite us from the sky or something worse."

"You've got a good vocabulary for a criminal."

"It's all the witty repartee, friend. I got tired of never understanding their terrible puns, so I robbed a linguist and read his dictionary."

Korb shook his head, laying the boots down on his coat and stepping back. "How'd a smart fellow like you end up robbing dishonest men in alleys, anyway?"

The thick thug grumbled, but Lizard waved his free hand in a dismissive gesture. "Jarlen, it's all right. This man's kindly provided us with meals for a month, if I'm any judge of quality. I owe him a conversation, at least."

Jarlen scowled, raising the knife towards Korb, but Lizard held his throatcutter with a relaxed gesture.

"Upbringing," Lizard said, turning back to Korb, "and the damnable speciesism in this city. I couldn't apply for a single school in the place just because I've got fangs and and a green tail. Terrible thing, it is. Jarlen here," he said, slapping the big man on the back, "seems to have been born for this, though. We work well together."

Jarlen smiled for the first time since the mugging had started, teeth, strangely, all white and clean. "It's a good life," he rumbled. "Pays for a roof and a meal."

Korb nodded, sitting down again and crossing his legs. Lizard followed suit, though Jarlen remained standing, moving into place behind him.

"Still, the speciesism really is something awful here," he noted. "I had a friend who knew a lizardman that worked in one of those specialty bars. Turned out the business was a front for some dark cultist blood sacrifice operation - not that he knew anything about that. Anyway, some musclebound idiot pranced in last month, killed everyone in the place, and smashed through the back wall until he found the secret passage. And do you think he got arrested?"

Lizard shuddered, flicking his tail. "I heard about that. The Bastard's Promise, right?"

Korb nodded. "Terrible, terrible thing." He leaned forward, flipping open the pocketwatch on his pile of former possessions. "I'm afraid, friends," he said regretfully, "that I'll be late for an appointment should I tarry any longer. If you wouldn't mind?"

He gestured at the mouth of the alleyway.

Lizard nodded, standing up, and shook Korb's hand with his left claw awkwardly, the main one still gripping the knife. "Glad to meet you, friend, very glad indeed. Best of luck in recouping your losses."

Korb smiled. "To you too, friend. May the marks be rich and the heroes unlucky."

Lizard chuckled, and, suprisingly, so did Jarlen. The thug nodded respectfully as Korb left the alleyway.

And Korb von Shwartmeyer, Duke of the city, walked down the street. It appeared that he would need to visit a tailor soon - he had very much liked that coat.

So, as you may have guessed, my character is the plain, human Korb von Shwartmeyer. He's no good in a fight, though he can run surprisingly fast when it's required. His strength, rather, is in connections, politicking, persuasion, and general manipulation. He's a slight bit eccentric and arrogant, too - he really should NOT have gone for a walk through the Docks. Still, he's athletic, and his lack of fighting skill is more a matter of never having learned. He has a good head for most things, though his grasp of languages beyond his native one is almost nonexistent. Being a rather sheltered aristocrat, he has never been more than a day's travel outside the city limits.

[dreamingofcheese he/him]

The angry mutters of the prisoners ripple through my core. Each voice was just soft enough to tell me of their discontent. Before I met Star's-Milk-Sister I could barely keep control. After her instructions I now can place myself between each soul to prevent consumption. Five of the most evil souls have realized a Darkness empowers them if they eat each other.

"Tool," Master's voice echos up to me from the deepest, most fortified part of my soul self. His soul voice matches his raspy overworked commander's voice he processed in his previous life. "Enemy." Master's voice withdrawals as did the mummers.

The common room hushed as the keepsake suit of obsidian and steel plated armor now stands infront of the Lizardman.

"My Master fought your kind. He made boots of your people's skin then gave them to his women. The beast's right hand shoots toward it's belt. My hand grabs the Lizard's elbow and directs the potion into it's mouth.

The trapted spell detonated. The smell of cooked meat fills the air.

I toss the Lizard's purse to the innkeeper. "Drinks are on my friend."

Deep in side a new voice howls.

Edited June 26, 2014 by dreamingofcheese

[Sir Jerric he/him]

The sunlight pressed down on the city streets, throwing sharp-edged shadows against the cobblestones. Vhalin felt the sun watching him; a hot glare that he could point to without having to remove his hood. Yet all around him moved humans and elves, dwarves and lizardfolk, all seemingly uncaring of the incredible presence in the blue dome above.

He walked steadily with the crowds, glancing over the wares on display in the windows of Silari's Crafter's Row. The name seemed rather inappropriate. Rather than a single row, the craft shops covered five blocks, and were thoroughly mixed with inns, taverns, and warehouses. If there ever had been a plan for the city, it most surely had been burned. And that by the hand of a frustrated noble, whose exasperation with these people was completely justified, if the modern populous was anything to judge by.

A display of fine leather work caught his eye and he turned. Immediately, he was struck across the head by a passing basket. Vhalin caught himself on the lip of the window, narrowly avoiding a second collision with the end of a swinging axe handle. He stood cautiously, the window ledge pressed against the small of his back. His ear smarted despite his unseasonable cloak, but he kept his hand at his side.

A stern voice brought his attention around to the leather crafter's door. The crafter was a stocky human with a bristled ring of whiskers surrounding his down-turned mouth. He stood with his arms folded, glaring down at Vhalin and clearly waiting for a response. Vhalin hesitated, and the man spoke again. This time, watching the crafter's face let him pick out the still unfamiliar words of Surface Common. "If ya have no business for me, halfling, get outta my window."

Vhalin turned to face the man and bowed his head formally. "Apologize, master crafter. Only sought a moment to catch my breath."

The crafter's brow furrowed. Whether at the odd accent or the odd proportions of Vhalin's hooded head was unclear, but his snarled words displayed no uncertainty. "Don't need loiterers getting in the way of my customers. Away with ya."

Vhalin attempted to walk away, but managed a single step before yet another passer-by knocked him aside. The crafter's harsh laugh almost drowned the words of the passer-by. "This isn't your part of town, little man." A casual shove, and Vhalin almost toppled into the brick wall of the next shop along. He reached out, but his gloved hands slid on the bricks.

He hit the cobblestone walk on his side, his mail absorbing the brunt of the impact, his cloak fanning out across the ground. He scrabbled to get his boots under him, and his trampled cloak caught at his neck when he tried to stand. He growled his frustration, yanking his cloak back around him at the next break in traffic.

A few moments later he had melded into the flow of the crowd, but he continued to growl at himself. A moment of attempted indulgence, and he had nearly been trampled. Foolishness. He had a mission to do, even if he had only the faintest idea of where to start.

The crowd thinned as Vhalin left Crafter's Row. He stopped beside a lamp post at the corner, looking around. He needed to find some leads; someone who knew enough of surface magics to give him some direction. Across the street, a bearded man crashed into a lizardman, causing a wagon to pull up short, the horses bucking in the traces. Vhalin thought the horses' shying rather excessive until the lizardman kicked his assailant into the air. The blue glow on the man's hands was just noticeable as he crashed through an upper floor window. Vhalin winced.

---

A few notes in case someone wants to describe Vhalin: He is swathed in a thick, sleeveless cloak of a simple soft grey tone. The first notable feature is that his hood, instead of resting like the one in my profile image, appears to be supported in the back by a pair of ridges. When one comes close enough to see into the shadow of his hood, one can observe a veil is shielding his face from view, but there are signs of a short snout rather than a human face.
 
Under the cloak Vhalin is wearing a long-sleeved knee-length tunic of dark grey, with matching leggings. Sleeves and leggings are tucked into gloves and soft boots respectively. Yes, this garb is literally to the point of no skin showing. Atop this layer is a suit of scale mail with a dull, mottled blue-grey coloring. A plated belt holds twin swords at his waist along with a bundled leather cord and a belt knife. Two other knife hilts show at his boots.

And this entire package stands at three feet tall. About. Vhalin is in fact measured at 34 inches, but who's counting? =) Edited June 28, 2014 by Sir Jerric

[BreathTaker he/him]

Dreaming of Cheese, did you just turn the lizard into a purse? That seems a little over powered to me and i was wondering if it was just me or of anyone else thinks that as well? It's who'll written for sure but I was kind of wanting to play that out so everyone has a chance to fight the lizard. Of course I did say let's play this how it goes so let's do that I guess. After this I think that maybe we should start rougher a pm thread or something so we can work it out. Basically, if everyone else thinks a Prada lizard man it's ok than let's leave it, otherwise a little bit of editing would make it prefect. I'm not trying to be a chullhole but I just think that this enemy is prefect for everyone to show off a little bit. -BT

P.s. I'm on a new phone and I'm getting used to Swype again so there are some errors.

Edited June 27, 2014 by BreathTaker

[Sir Jerric he/him]

BreathTaker:
My read was that a lizardman in the common room tried to pull an explosive potion vial from its belt to throw at Dreaming's character. But his character used some fast reflexes to redirect the explosive into the lizardman's mouth and slew it. He then pulled the lizardman's purse from its belt and tossed it to the bartender.

Easiest solution is that this is not the lizardman that Zakk tackled out in the street. Two locations, two lizardmen. I don't believe Zeith had only one pursuer. If he was meant to have but one pursuer, too late. Someone else fixed that for you. =)

[Shivertongue he/him]

Zeith did have only one pursuer when he was knocked into the bar, but Zeith has apparently pissed off every sslyssin (lizardmen) in the city. Zeith is good at that.

[Swimmingly he/him]

I gotta meet up with someone capable before my brains get pulled out my sternum by some angry thug of the common sort.

[Sir Jerric he/him]

Scene blocking update:

Xiaoli, Karya, Aesalyn, Zeith, and Dreaming's character are all in the tavern common room. With a dead sslyssin.

Zakk tackled a sslyssin through the common room window, wrestled in the street, and was kicked up through one of the tavern's second story windows (american labeling).

Vhalin is standing at a street corner, watching the brawl.

Korb was walking along a street away from the docks.

Vhalin doesn't look too intimidating at first glance, if Korb wants to approach him.

[BreathTaker he/him]

Zakk came busting through the door that lead up stairs blustering in Dwarvish and brushing all the debris off of himself. "damnation that Lizard had a kick," he chuckled, gabbing and abandoned flagon of beer and downing it in one drink. "X, was there another scaley slithering around here or was I just seeing double as I was being turned into a people-kite?" he asked, looking around at the dead Sslyssin laying in the middle of the common room. 

 

Hey, Dreamingofcheese, could you post a description of your character so we kn9ow who or what to adress?

[Swimmingly he/him]

Korb ambled out of the tailors' - the man had taken to keeping new clothes in his measurements at some point, generally updated to the just-past-latest style. A good tailor for the purposes, that man was. It was convenient, never needing to keep abreast of fashion oneself and still cultivate the exact image one required. Despite Korb's rank - barely lower than the city-king himself - Korb's title was more political than functional. His estates more or less ran themselves, producing a steady profit and rather nice wine, and he was left to politick, scheme, and generally make a fool of himself. He had carefully carved out a position for himself as the second-best at just about everything of importance in the city. He was second-best in title, second-best in fashion and bearing, second richest, second fastest, even, among the nobility at those Contests. The wine from his estates was even second best in the city.

Combined with his natural talent for being more or less unnoticed, this position left him just out of the public eye. Everyone knew him, and some chuckled over his eccentricities, but they didn't take undue note. However, as the other dukes, high barons, and merchant-lords jostled for position and respect, jumping up and down the ladders of aristocracy, Korb stayed quietly and occasionally frantically maintaining his ideal image at the edge of peoples' minds.

A few blocks away from the Docks - the worst of them, anyway - an averagely respectable winehouse perched on it's rundown street like a tarnished penny in a bed of coal. The Gods' Vinery was a relic of a past age, when the Docks had been a bustling depot of trade and commerce in a newly established colony. When Governor Ferl von Gudmannz had decided to become City-king SerFerl don Gudmannz I, at the violent protest of the Vrumeynan Empire, the war and trade embargoes had let the area stagnate, the entire region splitting into ethnic-speciesist ghettoes and black-market trading rows during the ten years of war. Somehow, the Gods' Vinery had weathered all that, and it was set to reap the rewards as gentrification on the outer edges of the Docks slowly crept inwards.

Korb walked into the blondwood building, new sword-cane with ostentatious handle- apparently it had been the fashion six months or so ago - tapping the ground genially. The man he had come to meet sat in a booth with a vinery board carved into the wood - dozens of small, circular indentations, each filled with a miniature flute of wine. The pattern made a parallel, each wine on the board matching its mirror - a two-person set.

"Count der Alucard," Korb nodded as he sat down, "I trust you are well?" The man was a native to the area, not descended from the old Vrumeyan colonials like the majority of the nobility - his grandfather had perhaps been a high-ranking officer in the revolutionary navy, elevated to a title in gratitude for his services - and to keep the humans native to the region from chafing at their now independent but still ethnic Vrumeyan rulers.

"Excellent," der Alucard answered, smiling. "Yourself, lord Shwartmeyer?"

"Well as a fine wine on a summer day."

Der Alucard smiled, plucking the first of the flutes from the vinery board - a light, bubbly confection, perhaps a ber Ferandrelz vintage? Korb nodded, smiling in turn, and lifted the matching cup from his side of the board. The drunk at the same time, letting the wine flow over their palettes, and set the empty glasses back into the vinery board.

"Now," der Alucard said, tone a little harder, "to business..."

Korb left the winehouse an hour and a half later, satisfied at the arrangement he had come to - giving der Alucard just a little more than he had too, arguing weakly at just the right points. The deal was profitable on both sides, and der Alucard now saw him, not as a fool, but not as a master of the mercantile arts, either. He would gladly deal again, even owe a favour or two should it come to it, because he saw Korb as neither dangerously stupid nor dangerously perceptive. And, should Korb ever see a need, he didn't doubt he could destroy the man financially. Not that he would, but it was nice to have insurance.

As Korb walked, the relatively nice, if run-down, outer docks district faded back into one of the less desperate lizard ghettos. Lost in though, he began to wander the streets, half expecting to get jumped and robbed again any moment. Miraculously, it didn't happen, and so Korb managed to wander in the gathering dark for a full quarter-hour, dressed in out-of-style gentlemen's finery, among the thin windows and chiseled stone ornament of a proudly sslyssin neighbourhood, poor and overcrowded though it was.

It couldn't last, of course. The thug leapt from an alley, knife drawn, and Korb made the split second realisation that this was not a man he could have a civil conversation with as he gave up his belongings.

Korb ran.

When Korb ran, he ran.

In his estimation, the nobility managed to both place far too much emphasis on the annual Contests and far too little time preparing for them. Some made an effort to exercise at the facilities scattered about the hilltop mansions, but most began their training only weeks before the Contests, if indeed they did join. The past seven Contests, Korb had needed to consciously restrain himself from winning each of the running events, coming second each time. That had been quite a blow to his ego, but he consoled himself by sprinting through the lower markets - the legitimate ones - at full speed each dawn, just as the fishmongers and butchers were beginning to set up their wares and shops.

So, as a result, Korb was quite possibly the quickest man in the city, excluding the magically assisted.

The thug stumbled, surprised, as Korb shot off like a greyhound after a hare. His swordcane clutched at the point of balance like a javelin, he bounded out of the sslyssin district in the direction he'd been walking.

Back towards the Docks.

The thug gave up, panting and heaving, but Korb kept going. First of all, he loved to run - a simple pleasure, one of the few left to a duke as carefully positioned as he. Second, you didn't just stop running through the Docks at nightfall. You found a crowd, and preferably someone who would follow you with a drawn sword for a few coins, then stayed with one, the other, or both until you were in the low markets at least.

Korb found both around the next corner, legs still pumping as he grew closer. A small crowd had gathered, watching an ongoing fight between some grotesquely muscled lizardman and a low-level magic user. The wizard, or magician, or whatever - Korb had never been clear on the differences - had set his fists glowing blue, and was crouching over the lizardman, dropping punches into his jaw - the flesh around each strike crackled with frost, scales curling and popping free as the blood in the skin beneath froze and expanded. From the gaping hole in the second story of the inn they fought next to, Korb guessed that the wizard had leapt down and hit the lizardman - or perhaps thrown him out of it? Beyond his magic, he seemed brawny enough. Hell, with the magic, it was barely a fight at all. Racist bastard had probably plugged the sslyssin for looking at him funny.

Korb hated people like that, but they had their uses. And, when carefully overused, they had a habit of expiring.

Korb would have seen more, except that, sprinting towards the fight, lamplight, and protection of the crowd, he rammed into a slight figure with a clank - pain blossomed in his chin - then a an ominous rattle, presumably weapons bouncing off the armour as the figure staggered for a step, then recovered. For his part, Kort tripped, tumbling head over heels and nearly cracking his skull on the cobblestones.

The figure turned, and growled something - too soft for Korb to hear, but in the Docks, intent could be assumed. It was swathed in cloth head to toe, complete with what seemed a veil and white cloth wrappings in the gap between glove and coat.

Perfect.

Korb picked himself up, felt around for his sword-cane, and noticed that the figurw was holding it, looking curiously at the engravings on the hilt. He saw Korb reach for it, froze, and dropped it -there was a distinct clack as it hit the stony ground.

"Good evening, friend," Korb said, hoping the abject terror wasn't making his voice too squeaky. He reached down with only mildly shaky hands and picked up his cane. "How do you feel about making a few coins tonight?"

First off, sorry for all the exposition. If anyone wants to change the worldbuilding I've done here, message me and I'll edit it. I just thought that, as it seems everyone else is a fighter or mysterious wanderer, it would be good to have a perspective acquainted with the politics and history of the region, which, again, are totally changeable.

Second, I hope the word count is okay. My posts will probably be shorter than that usually, but I had to establish the details of the character, the setting, and build it into a plottish event. Usually I'll be more restrained.

Third, Vhalin, you're up!

Edit: The fight should be more accurate now. Changed some characterisation details, as well.

Edited June 27, 2014 by Swimmingly

[BreathTaker he/him]

I love it Swims, I haven't really tried my hand at worldbuilding so this was exactly what I was hoping for. The Duke seems awesome and btw... I'm a MID LEVEL magic user   and I like how you used what you saw to kind of put together what happened even if it was a little off. It's just good storytelling if it's from one perspective, also, I LOVE text walls if they are driving like a Sanderson story  as opposed to a Mid-series Jordan book  .

Edited June 27, 2014 by BreathTaker