Call For Broken BBCode!

[LegendBegins]

Do you love BBCode? Well I sure don't!

All jokes aside, I'm doing what I've been putting off and I need swaths of complicated (but valid), unintuitive, and downright broken (and invalid) BBCode. The more complex the better. If you want to help make the Guild better, leave your craziest BBCode tag combinations in this thread. Just mark at the top of your post [works] or [broken] to indicate whether the BBCode is valid (and to save me the headache of validating by hand).

Thank you!!! And as always, new things coming soon™

[Carlyle]

@LegendBegins I'd suggest looking at RPs known to use table sheets. @Lord Wraith's, for instance. Alternatively, @Exit might be a good choice to look at as well. It's all complicated CS code that can easily break by deleting the wrong thing.

[BrokenPromise]

[works]

DID SOMEONE SAY BROKEN- Oh you're looking for code.

Here's my attempt at recreating the forum with BBC code for part of a post I did a while ago. It's pretty easy to force break too, since it's all tables. Like if you put parts of the code on a different line, it can create a space above the table.

Forumception

Cradle.net	Chat room # 4
Veronica Admin 8 posts in 2 days Last seen 2 hrs ago	New chat room. As usual, discussing ongoing operations is off limits. That's what the magicoms are for. Remember to treat everyone with respect, Trixy.
Trix N Traps Agent 1024 posts in 2 days Online	Hey! HEY! This forum was all my idea! This is a great way to show people outside of CC what we are all about. That, and getting all you cute girls in one place so that I cat with you all day long is good too!
Medi Girl Agent 32 posts in 2 days Last seen 1 hrs ago	Are you Implying our Magicom conversations don't do the exact same thing?
Blair Agent 97 posts in 2 days Last seen 4 hrs ago	Typing is such a drag too. It's a lot easier to just have a group over coms.
B3H Agent 312 posts in 2 days Last seen 2 hrs ago	It's nice to have a log of our conversations though. We can also talk to people outside of CC. I see the benefit of having a forum.
Trix N Traps Agent 1024 posts in 2 days Online	That's the spirit! Now who wants to talk about their favorite flavor of ice cream?
B3H Agent 312 posts in 2 days Last seen 2 hrs ago	I think all ice cream is great. But I like strawberry most.
Trix N Traps Agent 1024 posts in 2 days Online	I've been meaning to get a lick of Betty myself.
Veronica Admin 8 posts in 2 days Last seen 2 hrs ago	You've been warned on multiple occasions not to make advances on Betty, Trixy. I have spoken with the others, and we all agree that this has become little more than your personal hangout. I'm pulling the plug immediately.
Trix N Traps Agent 1024 posts in 2 days Online	Wait! Give me another chance!
Faith in Bananas Member 1 posts in 1 Hours Online	Strawberry and banana flavored ice cream is my favorite!

The test forum has quite a bit of BBC code to look through too. Can confirm Exit tries a lot of crazy stuff.

[Kassarock]

[works]

I'm not really a true BBCode Wizard, but I make some sheets that are more complicated than average. Here's a few:

Sheet 1

U R K H A S H ' A S H ' S K U L L S P L I T T E R

Original Art by mellifera38 ____________________________________________________ C H A R A C T E R I N F O R M A T I O N Name - Urkhash Skullsplitter, goes by Ash. Gender - Male. Race - Half-Orc. Age - 19, born 1476 DR. Height - Short for a Half-Orc, an inch under six feet. Class - Valor Bard. Alignment - Neutral Good. Birth Place - Triboar, Savage Frontier, Northwest Faerun. Languages - Common, Orc, Dwarvish. ____________________________________________________ S K I L L S & A B I L I T I E S Martial While not quite a frontline fighter, Ash can more than hold his own in melee combat. He is relatively proficient in the use of most types weaponry and armour, although he favours the longsword and medium armour. The increased strength and hardiness his orcish blood grants him makes him a tougher opponent than his young age and skill level might suggest. Magical Ash is a magic user, specialising in healing magic and abilities which enhance and inspire others. However, most of these abilities are innate rather than learned, and hence he has a poor theoretical understanding of the arcane arts. In addition, sometimes his control over his magic isn't the best, and it can lash out in surprisingly destructive forms when he is angry, afraid or upset. Miscellaneous Being a bard, Ash is a skilled musician, his preferred instrument being the lute. Despite having some residual shyness and nerves, he is an adequate performer, and his earnest and slightly naive personality makes him hard to say no to. He knows something of surviving the wilds from his time on the roads and in the mountains, but is by no means an expert. ____________________________________________________ S P E L L S Cantrips Blade Ward, True Strike, Thunderclap. First Level Cure Wounds, Healing Word, Heroism, Thunderwave. Second Level Aid, Calm Emotions, Shatter. Third Level Mass Healing Word. ____________________________________________________ E Q U I P M E N T Weapons An ugly looking utilitarian longsword of orcish design with a nicked blade. A plain but finely made elvish dagger. A leather sling, and a pocket full of stones Armour A strange mixture of a Dwarven chain shirt of black iron with hide bracers, furred mittens, and boots with fur wrapping. Miscellaneous Items A hooded fur lined travelling cloak. A battered troubadour's lute. A grey woollen scarf. A hide pack containing several days rations. A waterskin. A flint and steel. A bedroll. A spare set of clothing. A coin purse, containing mostly silver and copper pieces. A golden locket, worn around the neck, and under his clothes. ____________________________________________________

A P P E A R A N C E Half-Orcs have a reputation in the more civilised lands of Faerun as being giant intimidating barbarians, bigger, stronger, and meaner than the vast majority of their human counterparts. Capable of killing their enemies with a single blow and lifting what it would take four lesser men to carry. This is not the case with Ash. Despite his fearsome name of Urktash Skullsplitter, Ash stands at just under six feet tall and is only slightly more bulky than a well developed human. He's still muscular, but, not that strong. Not the whole, lifting trees, throwing boulders, wrestling giants strong that most people think of when they see an Half-Orc adventurer. There's an undeniable level of extra humanness about his features as well. Sure, he might have the grey-green skin that people associate with the rest of his kind, but Ash lacks the porcine or upturned nose that his kin often bear. His brow os light and raised, not the low furrowed masses one normally sees on a Half-Orc. He has a few scars, though none are particularly impressive or noteworthy. And most glaring of all perhaps, were his tusks. Ash's tusks were tiny, diminutive, little things, barely even sharp. Certainly no good for goring people, crushing bones, or splitting skulls. In truth, Ash might be one of the least intimidating Half-Orcs most people will have ever laid eyes upon. He compensates for it perhaps with how he dresses, the blackened armour that he wears across his chest, the crude and heavy longsword that hangs at his side. The traditional orcish nose ring that he wears through his septum and way he shaves the sides of his head. All of these things seem to enhance the 'orcish-ness' of his appearance. And yet... If you were to catch Ash while he was playing in a tavern, or relaxing in private, you would find that he prefers the soft and brightly coloured wools of the pleasant green lands found further south down on the Sword Coast, cut in the styles popular in Waterdeep and its environs. ____________________________________________________ P E R S O N A L I T Y People are most often a product of their upbringing and their environment, for better or for worse. Most commonly, people conform to the environment they were raised in, being shaped and moulded by it into the forms that it encourages. Even when someone rebels against how they were raised, or defies their heritage, they are still influenced by these experiences, just in the opposite direction. What then if someone is the product of two different contradictory heritages, environments, and upbringings? What contradictory feelings for conform and rebelling would take seed in their heart? How would they understand their place in the world? These are the questions that trouble Ash Skullsplitter most of all. Ash is a Half-Orc, he has one foot in the civilised world, and one foot in the savage world of the wilds. To some this might seem an advantage, a skill that allows them to move fluidly between different worlds. But it does not feel that way to Ash, instead of belonging to two different worlds, Ash feels like he has no real place in either. Too weak and soft for the harsh trials of Orcish culture, too ugly and savage for the gentle civilised folk of the green lands. He never knows quite how to behave around people, whether they expect him to be a brute or a boy. At heart he's inclined to kindness and gentleness, but time in Orcish society, and the unfriendliness he has received at the hands of humans makes him much of reserved and guarded. There's a shyness about him, a reluctance to expose himself. But when he does open up, there's wellspring of sweetness and child like naivety that flows from deep inside of him. There's an earnestness about him as well. Beside being a troubadour minstrel, he doesn't have much of the sly guile and glibness associated with the profession. In fact Ash is a terrible liar, having a tell tale stammer and blush when caught trying to conceal something. He's not a complete paragon of virtue however, there is a darker side to Ash, a mix of confused residual emotions about his family, his life, and his place in world. There's anger there too, and a young, confused, angry boy with the power to wield magic can be dangerous thing indeed. But above all else Ash is looking for the place that he belongs, where he can be loved and accepted, without fear of repercussion. ____________________________________________________ H I S T O R Y Ash was born in the town of Triboar, where the Long Road that runs between Waterdeep and Mirabar meets the Evermoor way that leads to Yartar and onto Silverymoon, in the year of 1476 DR. It was a trading town, busy and bustling with caravans and merchants. It wasn't a great city like Waterdeep or Baldur's Gate, but it wasn't some wild far flung outpost on the edge of the world. It was settled, it was civilised. His father worked there as a guard for the caravans heading north. That's how Ash's parents had first met, the gentle beauty from Waterdeep being swept off her feet by the ruggedly handsome Half-Orc who had been escorting her carriage. They had eloped years previously, when it had become clear her father would have never consented to such a match, and they had settled in Triboar to raise their son. It was somewhere that his father could easily get work, and was far enough away from Waterdeep for them to live in relative anonymity. His father had been a fierce and proud Half-Orc who had been raised in the far north, in the Orcish Kingdom of Many Arrows. He had insisted on a traditional name for his son, hence Urtkash Skullsplitter, his mother however made sure that her husband picked a name that could easily be shortened into something less... well... Orcish, and so that's how Ash got his nickname.

Life in Triboar was good, and Ash remembers much of his childhood as a happy one. His father was often on the road, so he was closest to his mother. Not that his father was cold or distant in any way, he always returned to with smiles and gifts from far off cities. But Ash spent most of his time with his mother, so it was only natural perhaps that, of the two of them, he took after her a little more.

It was from his mother that Ash picked up his musical abilities. She was an excellent singer, and would sometimes perform duets with a local bard in the taverns and inns of Triboar for a little extra coin. It was on these outings that Ash first handled an instrument, and learned the scales and chord that made up the songs he loved to listen to. He thinks his magic may have also come down through his mother's side, though he's not certain about that. Certainly she was no great mage, but Ash remembers her touch as being... well... healing.

But wouldn't any child robbed of his mother at an early age think that way?

The illness struck when Ash was only nine. His father had been on the road at the time, perhaps things might have turned out differently had he been there, perhaps not. She had faded quickly, and by the time her loving husband had returned, she was cold in her grave. A golden locket round young Ash's neck all that was left to remember her by. Something died in his father that day too.

With no else to look after him, Ash's father took him on the road with him. Lucky that he did, because that year, in 1485, war erupted in the Silver Marches. They waited out the war further south with the caravan they had been travelling with. When they returned to their home, they found a burnt out ruin. Triboar had been sacked by an army of Orcs, and suddenly their remaining friends and neighbours seemed cold and hostile to the notably Orcish widower and child living in their midst.

They tried to carry on as best they could for a few years, but the caravan work his father relied upon began to dry up in the wake of the war. The caravaneers and merchants seemed more reluctant to employ someone of orcish heritage to guard them on their journeys north. Eventually it became intolerable, so his father did what he thought was best, and took his son to somewhere he thought they would be able to live in greater freedom, without being looked down upon.

The Kingdom of Many Arrows.

That... was a bad time in Ash's life. He was not prepared for what life was like amongst true orcs. He did not fit in, not in the slightest. He was a gentle, music loving boy, who disliked violence and didn't have a cruel bone in his body. His father tried to help in his own way, lessons to help his son 'toughen up' and gain respect amongst his peers. While it may have taught Ash a few combat skills (and given him a few scars), it mostly just soured their already strained relationship.

They had falling out. Ash left, his father stayed.

Alone for the first time in his life, Ash had to survive making his way out of the Spine of the World, and eventually made his way to the city of Mirabar. It was there he became reacquainted with someone from his past, his mother's friend the minstrel that she had sung with so often in Triboar. She remember the young boy that she had taught scales to many years ago and took Ash under her wing, teaching him about music, magic, and the life of a travelling bard.

For a while they travelling together, hoping down the coast from Luskan, to Neverwinter, and Waterdeep. It was there that Ash remember that his mother had been from Waterdeep, and first thought that perhaps he could find his grandparents or other relatives in the city. He tried to track them down, but he discovered that his grandparents had already passed. But there was a trail that they had left behind. Apparently his grandfather's family had originally come from the Silver Marches, the small town of Deadsnows to be specific. While Ash might not have family in Waterdeep, it was possible he still had relatives there...

The possibility of familial warmth proved too strong of a lure to the young Half-Orc. He parted ways with his mentor and set out for Deadsnows. On the road north he stopped at Triboar... but it didn't feel like home any more to him.

After Triboar he struck out east to Yartar and Silverymoon. What a city that had been, he felt like he learned more about music from one week in Silverymoon, than three years in Dark Arrow Keep. Sundabar had given him a particularly hostile reception, it wasn't surprising, the city had suffered worst of all in the war. Nonetheless he had not stayed there long.

And after Sundabar... there was only Deadsnows... and hope.

Sheet 2

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V E L Y N V I R I T H

Original Art by Minttu ____________________________________________________ Character Information Name - Velyn Virith of House Redoran Gender - Male Race - Dunmer Age - 36, born 3rd of Sun's Dawn, 3E412 Faction - House Redoran (former), Buoyant Armigers (former) Class - Spellsword Birthsign - The Lady ____________________________________________________ Skills and Attributes Major: Agility Minor: Personality Expert: Spear Adept: Light Armour, Speech, Acrobatics Apprentice: Sneak, Short Blade, Alteration ____________________________________________________ Spells Alteration Shield, an arcane shield that protects the user from harm. Water Breathing, the ability to breath underwater. Water Walking, the ability to walk upon the surface of water. Slowfall, the ability to float instead of falling. ____________________________________________________ Character Equipment Weapons Chitin Glaive, fashioned in the traditional Dumner style. Twinned Steel Wakizashi and Tanto, worn at the waist. Armour Full set of Light Dunmeri Chitin Armour. Enchanted Items The Chitin Glaive bears a minor flame enchantment on its blade. Miscellaneous Red Travelling Cloak. Kagouti Hide Travelling Pack. Spare Clothing. Paper Lantern. Few Days Rations. Jar of Sujamma, a potent liquor of Morrowind. Dunmeri Lute, similar to a Shamisen. Skooma Pipe. Three Vials of Skooma. Books and Scrolls, mostly the teachings and poetry of Vivec. Carved Guar Tooth Amulet, containing Ancestral Ashes. ____________________________________________________

A P P E A R A N C E Velyn Virith is a young male Dunmer. The Dunmer age slower than their human counterparts after they reach physical maturity, and hence he has a touch of boyish youth about him still, despite having seen three decades. He is of an average height, but slender and long limbed, with the lithe musculature of a dancer or acrobat. The comparison is even more apt when you see him in move, his steps are light and quick, his motions fluid and graceful, at least they are when he is sober. His face is handsome, the features sharp and angular like many of his kind, but not to the point of harshness, the bloom of youth softens them still. The skin is ashen grey, the narrow eyes blood red, between them sits a high aquiline nose that leads to a lightly arched brow. There's something sad about those eyes, when caught unguarded, the look in them verges between desperate hunger and utter despondency. But there's another look they take on too, with increasing regularity these days, the glazed half aware stare of the skooma addict. Ceremonial Dunmer tattoos mark his face and body. A scarab sits on his throat and neck, it curves up to cup his jaw, its forelegs peaking out onto the point of his chin. A pattern of waves adorns his left cheek, it marks him as one of the Buoyant Armigers and curves up from the side of his neck to caress the side of his high wide cheekbone. He wears the Hand of the ALMSIVI Tribunal over his heart, and a depiction of a seated figure, flames about their head, on his back. When they cast him out from the Temple, he cut his hair free of the topknot its warriors wore. The shorn locks have grown since then and they now hang around his face once more in loose black strands. Through the dark hairs you can make out his pointed ears, from which dangle a few golden rings, several empty holes indicate they were once adorned with many more than are currently on display. Other than the chitinous armour and the red cloak that wraps around it to keep out the ash of his homeland, Velyn has few clothes with him. That which he does own are of fine quality, rich in colour, but poorly maintained and cared for, near threadbare in places. Around his slender neck hangs a carved pendant or amulet, a hollowed out Guar tooth sealed with resin, containing a fragment of the ashes from the funerary pits of his family's ancestral tomb. P E R S O N A L I T Y What is remains when a person has nothing left to believe in? One of the many answers to that question, is Velyn Virith. Like a ship thrown against the rocks, or a tower built on unstable foundations, he finds himself tumbling down and shattered into a thousand pieces. All that he thought he knew and loved is gone, and in its absence nothing makes sense to him anymore. From the swirling chaos of his doubt and despair, pieces of who Velyn Virith once was sometimes emerge. He is still exceptionally courteous in his speech, stringing words together like poet, in either Imperial Common or his native Dumeris. He writes little, but some nights he still plays the lute he brought with him when he left Morrowind. In the darkness, he sings to the slow sad music, keening ballads that echo with wails of lost lovers and sundered hearts. When he fights he is reckless, fighting with no shield, and with his head bare. He often allows his opponents to strike the first blow, a long standing tradition of the honour duels of the Dunmer people, especially of the Redorans. While perhaps a noble sentiment in the honour bound house Velyn hails from, on the battlefield it is a foolhardy tactic, one that will likely end up getting him killed one day. He does not seem to care. He still says that he wishes to fight for what is good and noble, that he cares about protecting the common people, and living up to the ideals of his faith. But there is no passion to those words, they are learned by rote. To Velyn, gallantry is a routine, he does it because he does not know what else to do. Velyn is not unfriendly, but neither does he pursue any form of closeness to the other rebels he finds himself associated with, content to wait out his time alone in between their battles. If approached he is companionable enough, if not for the somewhat bitter edge to what passes as his humour. He still laughs at lot, frequently at himself, but not in a pleasant way. There's something harsh about it, as if he considers himself the butt of some great and terrible joke. The only time his spirits truly seem to lift is when the sweet smelling smoke of Skooma hangs in the air around his tent and on his threadbare clothes. Those nights he does not play or sing, he prefers to lie insensate, and dream of times long gone. In truth the emotion he most commonly seems to elicit in others is a mixture of pity and disgust. Pity because who does not know the feelings of loss and heartbreak. Disgust because Velyn seems to have given himself over to wallowing in such feelings. All of his pain, all of his loss, his doubt, his yearning, his love, and his grief can be found in one word, one name, one letter written in uncertainty. Vivec.

_{H I S T O R Y}

Velyn Virith was born on Vvardenfell on the third day of Sun's Dawn in the four hundred and twelfth year of the Third Era. He was the son of Theldyn Virith, Kinsman to the Great House Redoran, Hetman of the fishing port of Ald Velothi. Most of Velyn's childhood was spent between the Redoran district capital of Auld'ruhn and his family's ancestral estates in the West Gast. Like his brothers and cousins, he was bonded to his house from birth, and was expected to follow in his father's footsteps as another proud Redoran warrior, but fate had other plans for Velyn Virith.

He couldn't have been more than five, perhaps six, when the course of his life was irrevocably changed. His father had business with a clan of fellow Redoran nobles, the Saren clan of the city of Vivec, and he brought young Velyn with him on the long journey down to the greatest city on Vvardenfell. While his father conducted his business, he left young Velyn with a retainer to show the young boy the sights of the city.

It happened the second morning they were there, as he passed over one of the high bridges that linked the upper plazas of the cantons. A crowd had come out to line the waterways, and being a curious young child, Velyn pushed his way through to the railings to witness the cause of the excitement.

A regatta was being held on the grand canal. Barges of beaten gold, wreathed with floral garlands, floated upon the shimmering waters. The oars of each barge were manned by a host beautiful maidens and comely youths. Groups of troubadours and musicians filled the air with the sound of lutes, and pipes, and drums. From the gilded decks, knights clad in iridescent glass laughed and sang as they threw roses to the adorning crowds. And there, hovering above them all, a seated figure, half gold, smiling, and radiating the light of Heaven itself.

This was the first time Velyn saw a God. He vowed that day that it would not be the last.

He would not forget what he saw that day. On the long journey by strider back to their home it was all he could think about. He wanted to live in that light, and bathe himself in its warmth. The Redorans were one of the more pious of the Dunmer Great Houses, but even amongst them, Velyn's single minded dedication to the faith and in particular to Lord Vivec, struck many of his kinsmen as being unusual.

As soon as he was old enough he pledged himself as novice to the Temple, the first step in what he thought would be a lifetime spent in that glorious light. Once he had proved himself in feats of arms, exhibitions of arts, and generosity of alms, Velyn was apprenticed into the Buoyant Armigers. That order of iridescent knights he had glimpsed upon those gilded barges many years ago.

But the he order in found himself in was somewhat different from how he had imagined it. In those days the fear of the Sharmat hung over Vvardenfell, and recently the ALMSIVI had receded from the outside world. Rather than spending his time at the side of the Lord he had adored from far, Velyn was dispatched to the fortress of Molag Mar in the magma strewn wastes of Molag Amur. There he began his work as an Armiger, hunting down the blight of the Sharmat, slaying Sixth House Cultist and Corpus Monsters.

That was the year that the Nerevarine returned, and by his hand, the fall of the Dagoth Ur. There was upheaval in the wake on St. Nerevar's return, the amnesty on the Dissident priests, the events in Mournhold where it was rumoured that the Tribunes Sotha Sil and Almalexia were both slain. To many it was a time of uncertainty and fear. But to Velyn those few years were glorious.

Vvardenfell was freed from the threat of the Sharmat and his monsters, and Velyn's Lord was freed from his ancient duty of maintaining the Ghost Fence. For those precious few years Velyn bathed in the light of his Lord. There was time for music and poetry in those years. There was time for dancing, and nights where they would join their Lord in rituals that had been long neglected. It was in those years that Velyn learned the secrets of carnal exultation, it was everything Velyn had ever dreamed of.

And then it was over.

It was when the Gates of Oblivion opened that everything began to go wrong. Portals opened up across Morrowind, and Tamriel beyond. The Imperials sat behind the walls of their fortresses, on the mainland some even marched back through the passes of the Velothi Mountains to defend Cyrodil while Morrowind burned. The Armigers were dispatched to keep the city of Vivec safe from Daedric incursions. The city held, but elsewhere the situation was dire.

In Ald'ruhn, where Velyn had spent much of his childhood, where he had first served as a temple novice, the fighting was the worst. The city was practically destroyed, its defenders going so far as to resurrect the great Emperor Crab Skar, demolishing the council halls and manors of their most powerful citizens in the process. Once the city of Vivec was secure Velyn had fought his way north to meet up with a Redoran army from the mainland. But they too late. By the time they arrived there was little left by corpses and rubble.

Theldyn Virith, his father, was among the dead. Velyn was left to burn his body and make sure his ashes were interned with his ancestors.

In all this madness there was no sign of Lord Vivec, the Living God had disappeared around the time the Crisis. There was no sign of the Nerevarine either, who it was rumoured had travelled to the continent of Akavir. The people of Morrowind did their best to pick up the pieces, and rebuild their shattered lives and cities, Velyn was amongst them. For though their Lord had disappeared, though his father was dead, Velyn had the support of the Temple and of his sworn brothers. That was enough.

Besides, Velyn could not forget what it meant to see a God in all their glory. He never would. So he kept his faith, as best he could.

Those were trying years for Morrowind, there was fighting amongst the houses as the Hlaalu lost their place of preeminent and were expelled from the Grand Council. Imperial authority collapsed with the lack of an Emperor on the throne. While the Dunmer simultaneously tried to rebuild and fought amongst themselves, an even greater threat loomed. One that had been hanging over them for a long time.

Baar Dau, the Ministry of Truth, Lie Rock. It had floated above the City of Vivec for millennia, suspended there by the Living God himself and held in place by his power and the faith of people who lived beneath. But it appeared the Crisis, the deaths of the Tribunes, and the disappearance of the God had weakened that faith. In truth, those years were first where Velyn felt his own waver. Sometimes at night he wonders if he too is partly to blame for what happened when Baar Dau fell.

He had not been in the city. If he had, he would not be here today. The Palace and High Fane were directly beneath the impact, none who were there survived. Instead Velyn was at the Armiger's fortress at Molag Mar. All they saw was a burning light on the horizon, a terrible shaking in the ground, and the roaring hot winds of the blast wave when it finally reached them. It was only when that the mountain had answered with ash and fire, filling the Foyadas with lava and trapping them in their stronghold.

When boats from the mainland finally reached them he had tried to go to the city to search for survivors. They had told him there was no point, the city was gone and waters where it had once stood boiled. They call it Scathing Bay now. He had thought then to try to reach Ghostgate, to find the other chapter of their order, but that fortress had sat upon the Foyada Mamaea, and had been incinerated in the eruption. So, with no other option, he had gone to the mainland.

It was a good thing that he had, for soon the mainland would have need of every warrior Morrowind could provide. In the moment of their greatest ever weakness the Argonians invaded. The lizard men sacked every city they came upon, even as the ash and fire rained down still. No where was spared, not even Mournhold, a holy city of the Tribunal and the capital of all Morrowind. The jewel of their province which had somehow miraculously escaped the ravages of the Red Year was reduced to another smoking ruin.

That's what Morrowind was those days, a land of smoking ruins, refugees, warfare, and death.

And somehow, Velyn kept his faith.

He fought with his sworn brothers, with his fellow Redorans, with anyone who would defend Morrowind. Perhaps that's what allowed him to keep his faith, he had no time to think about what was happening around him, he was too busy trying to survive. So went on as he always had done, being an Armiger, doing his deeds of Love and War in the name of his Lord, Vivec.

The war was terrible and it was long. The Argonians made it as far East and North as Port Telvannis, they even made it onto Vvardenfell itself. Their armies fell most heavily on the Dres and the Telvannis, but no where was truly safe from their wrath. Over the years more and more of his brothers fell, but the Redoran led armies slowly routed the Argonian warbands from much of their lands. Mournhold was recovered, even if it was a ruin, and new fortified borders and lines of defence were drawn up between these two new independent powers.

Suddenly there wasn't anymore fighting to be done. So Velyn went back to the Temple. Only to find there was no Temple for him to go back to.

While he had been away at the front, the balance of power in the Temple had changed dramatically. With the loss of the traditional centres of orthodox Temple power, Vivec and Mournhold, there were new Archcanons at the head of the faith, and they had very different ideas about the status of the Old Tribunal. The Dissident Priests and the New Temple, as it later came to be called, had emerged triumphant from the rubble of their nation and they decried Vivec as a false god.

He should have just accepted it. The evidence was plain enough, Vivec had not protected them, and he was gone. But Velyn couldn't forget. He couldn't forget what it was to see a God in the flesh. To see the light of Heaven itself. To touch it.

Velyn kept his faith. And won himself exile for it.

Bereft of his Lord, his Land, and his Love, it was only then that Velyn finally broke.

Spurned from the homeland he had fought for, he fled to Cyrodil, following in the footsteps of countless Dunmer refugees across the Velothi Mountains. There he found a province also lost to chaos and war as the Stormcrown Interregnum unfolded. In the camps outside of Cheydinhal he fell into low company and discovered something which could take away the pain that felt in every waking moment. Skooma.

He frittered away what money he had left, when it was gone he began to sell his possessions. When he started to run out of things to sell he began to offer his services in exchange for a fix. That was first time he had killed in cold blood, without a higher purpose, in those days he was little more than drug addled thug. He acted without the Will of Love.

He left Cheydinhal when he argued with a dealer over a payment he had been owed, it became physical, and when the dust had settled the other man was dead. Velyn took every vial the man had on him and ran. It was no longer safe for him in camps there, so he decided to go overland to Bravil, where he had heard Skooma was cheap and plentiful. That had been the main concern on Velyn's mind at the time.

Going overland to Bravil however, meant travelling by Skingrad.

There were always refugees on the road, looking for somewhere safe, so he had travelled on the edge of convoy. He had not truly been a part of them, but when a patrol of the Count's men fell upon the refugees he found himself unable to turn away. These were cruel men, who subjected the weak and desperate to harassment and depravity to satisfied their own base needs. In that moment Velyn had felt some old instinct reawaken in him, and before he had fully known what he was doing, the bloody tip of his spear was protruding through the chest of one of the soldiers.

Singlehanded he had slaughtered the patrol, taking a few grievous wounds in the process. Many of the refugees fled the scene, only a few remained to tell the band of rebels who emerged from the woods what had happened. They took the wounded Dunmer in and nursed him back to some degree of health.

That was how Velyn Virith met Isobel Aurelia.

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Bonus Short Story:

How do you forget?

29th of Last Seed, 4E14.

He had been on his way to pray when the youth had accosted him.

It had become Velyn's habit to pray every evening at the makeshift temple that some of his people had erected on the edge of the refugee camps at Cheydinhal. The shrine was at the top of the sloping road that left the eastern gate and led to the ruins of Fort Farragut, before then winding its way onwards through the Velothi Mountains, to the star wounded East, to Morrowind, to home.

To reach the shrine from the city proper you had to walk through the entirety of the camp, something the good law abiding imperial folk who lived inside of the walls were increasingly fearful to do. When the Dunmer had first arrived to squat outside their city, many thought it would not be for long, the ashes of the Red Year would pass and the camps would empty when stability returned to their own lands. They had not counted on the war, of course, no one had. As the years dragged on more and more had arrived, and those that stayed built more permanent shelters, until a great slum sprawled east of the city, like some kind of cancerous tumour, clinging to its host.

That's how they see us now. Parasites. Tumours. Filth. When once we walked in the company of Gods.

But even Velyn realised that was a long time ago now.

He was not dressed in his armour. He had the coin still for a room in the city, one with a stout door and lock, so Velyn had left the majority of his equipment there. Only the curved short sword, his Wakizashi, did he wear in the colourful waist sash that held his robes in place against the breeze. That same breeze played through his dark hair, spiky and uneven, so recently shorn. The evening sun caught one side of his fine featured face, warming the dun coloured skin, light glinting off of the golden studs and rings pierced in his pointed ears. The other side of his face however, was cast in deep shadow, obscured in darkness. That must of be why he called to Velyn, he had not seen the Armiger Tattoos.

"Muthsera! Do you need company for tonight? The nights grow colder, and I could keep you warm. A septim for just a touch, five if you want my mouth or below. You have a place in the camp? There's a clean bedroll in my tent if not, we can go there if you have the coin."

He was a vulgar thing, younger than Velyn himself. Shirtless and half starved, with mess of rust coloured hair pushed over to one side. A gauzy piece of cheap fabric was wrapped around him, as if to make him more enticing. There were bruises on his face, and a cut to the lip. The orphans of the camps looked to earn money in many ways, prostitution often chief amongst them.

He was vulgar and young, and dirty, but in that moment he looked at Velyn like he wanted him. And Velyn wanted to be wanted. He knew that it was just another lie, but Velyn was more than used to those by now. Strange, how he had adored and delighted in them once. Lies to him had once been entangled with Love, but now they only seemed to herald pain and betrayal.

"I... I thank you, but I think not." Velyn turned his head to the speak to the boy, the red sunset spilling over both sides of his face as he did so, illuminating the markings that he wore. "May your Ancestors guide you, sera."

Besides, how could he compare? How could anyone ever compare? There will never be another, I will never bathe in that Love again.

He turned to continue his journey to the top of the hill, and the business that awaited him there, thinking that was the last of it. But the boy was not finished. He called out again, this time his tone was less inviting.

"I know you, your face. I know those... you were an Armiger. One of Vivec's."

Velyn stopped in his tracks. Few had commented on the marks he bore since he had left Morrowind, the Imperials knew nothing of them, and most of the Dunmer here the camps... they what things to leave unsaid. An servant of the temple in exile from Morrowind, hair shorn, striped of their regalia, could only mean one thing: disgrace. He swallowed, and answered:

"I... I still am."

At first the youth said nothing. Since Velyn had walked further up the hill their places were reversed now, Velyn squinted into the sun, and the boy was silhouetted in the shadows it cast. He could read nothing from that silent that black oval.

"I came from the Canton of St. Olms, my mother was there when the Ministry fell. I hate the Tribunal, I hate that bastard, Vivec, and I hate you too."

The boy spat at the ground, phlegm congealing into the dust beside his bare blacked feet. They stared at each other for a moment. But Velyn realised he had nothing to say in return, nothing that would help either of them. So he said nothing, and turned away again, to walk up to the top of the hill.

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The shrine was as simple as could be. An open clearing of flat hard packed dirt that was swept clean by those who still held faith. There was a rainwater trough to wash in, a sunken pit for the burning of the dead and three wooden posts, rough carvings of the Holy Tribunal on each side.

Velyn washed his hands and feet with the cold water in the trough first, towelling them off with a rag thoughtfully left under an upturned bucket. Then he wet his forehead and went to the ash pit, dipping one finger tip in the remains of the Holy Ancestors it contained. He made the triangle signs of the ALMSIVI, touching himself lightly on each shoulder before anointing himself with blessed ash, smearing a line of it down between his brows. He was ready.

He unfurled the woven prayer mat he had slung over one shoulder and set it before the altar of his Lord, who's sphere is Mastery and who rules the Middle Airs, Vekh and Vekh, the Warrior-Poet. Vivec. Knelt upon the floor, face pressed into ground, he began to pray, quietly chanting the words of the Seven Graces.

<sub>"Thank you for your valour, Lord Vivec. I shall not quail, nor turn away, but face my enemies and my fear."

Thank you for your daring, Lord Vivec. I shall not shun risk, nor hide behind the mask of cautious counsel, for fortune favours the bold."

"Thank you for your justice, Lord Vivec. I shall be neither cruel nor arbitrary, for fair dealing earns the love, trust, and respect of our people."

Thank you for your courtesy, Lord Vivec. I shall speak neither hurtful nor harsh word, but shall speak respectfully, even of my enemies, for temperate words may turn aside anger."

"Thank you for your pride, Lord Vivec. I shall not doubt myself, or my people, or my gods, and shall insist upon them, and my ancient rights.

"Thank you for your generosity, Lord Vivec. I shall neither hoard nor steal, nor encumber myself with profitless treasures, but shall share freely among house and hearth."

"Thank you for your humility, Lord Vivec. I shall neither strut nor preen in vanity, but shall know and give thanks for my place in the greater world."</sub>

When the prayer had finished Velyn sat there, waiting. Waiting to feel it, something, anything.

Nothing.

He turned his face upwards to the altar and saw what had been done to it. The simple carving of the face of his Lord had been cut out, someone had taken a hatchet to the wood and left it a splintered mess. The doubled sigil of Vekh was crossed out, a new name had been carved below it in its stead. Mephala, the Webspinner, the Reclamation.

Silently, tears began to fall from his eyes.

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It was dark by the time Velyn made his way back down the hill. The camp was quiet in the night, there were few lights on, and only the faintest sounds of murmured conversation coming from the shelters and tents. But as he reached the same spot as before, a figured called out to him in the darkness. His hand went to blade at his side, before the heard the words and realised who it was.

"Muthsera! Do you need company for tonight?"

It was him again, the same young catamite from before, still out plying is trade on the pitch black hillside path, still looking for someone to share the night with. Just as Velyn was still looking for... well, something. They were both lost orphans now, desperately in need, of comfort, or sustenance. Velyn hated that thought. He cut him off before he could finish the rehearsed speech of how much it would cost to fuck him any which way.

"You don't want me. I'm the one from before, the Armiger. You hate me, remember?" The words were unkind, bitter.

The was a pause, before boy burst out into laughter in response. It was a high pitched giggle, slightly unhinged and delirious.

"Did I say that, sera? I do not hate you, not anymore, I have forgotten it all. Come, spend the night with me, a septim to touch, five if you want to do more."

Velyn was dumbstruck. There was no venom in that voice anymore. The hatred was gone. The bitter pain he had heard there when this orphan had laid the tragedy of his life at the feet of Vivec was gone. How could that be? How could he just forget? Because Velyn couldn't forget, as much as he wanted to. He wanted to forget the ache he felt in his soul, the gaping hole in felt in his chest. He didn't want to feel it anymore, the betrayal, the abandonment, the loss. He would trade it all, even the memory of Love, if he didn't have to feel that way anymore.

"How? How can you forget? How do you forget it? Please..." His voice shook as he spoke, he could feel the tears welling his eyes again.

"You want to forget? I can show you sera, come with me and I'll show you... as long as you have the coin?" Velyn nodded in response, and the boy held out in hand to him, gingerly he took it. It felt warm.

He led him through the maze of the slums that butted up against the city walls, leaping over makeshift gutters and squeezing between lean-tos and shanties, practically skipping as they went. Twisting and turning, ever deeper and deeper, where no self-respecting Imperial would go, where no guards ever dared to venture. And then suddenly they were out of the maze and standing in front of an tent, larger than its neighbours, from which inside of which a dim light emitted. There was also a smell... strangely sweet.

"We are here, sera." The boy said, letting go of his hand. "Bring out you coin, you have to pay the sugar-cat." He reached over to the tent flap and held it open for him, inviting him into the dim space beyond. Velyn stepped inside.

Inside, the tent was divided up into smaller alcoves by hanging blankets. There were more blankets and old pillows strewn across the floor. The light came from a few paltry lanterns, the smell from the clouds of smoke that seemed to emerge from alcoves that were occupied. Next to the entranced there was a hulking figure sat on a stool. They looked up as Velyn and the boy entered. It was a Khajiit, their eyes glowed unnaturally in the half darkness as they caught the light of the lanterns. One of their ears had been torn off, and they wore a spiked cudgel at his side.

"Back so soon young Salas? And who is this one you have brought with you?" The large muscled Khajiit purred at them, revealing a smile of sharp yellowed teeth.

"He wants to forget, and he has coin enough for two." The smile on the Khajiit's face grew wider, they named a price, and Velyn handed the Septims over. He had come too far now to turn back.

The cat led them into the back of the tent, past alcoves full of men and women, some in groups, most alone. A few of them were laughing like Salas had earlier. Some of them looked like they were sleeping. One of them was weeping uncontrollably. In each of the alcoves there was one constant, a small contraption, like two bottles with a candle suspended between them, connected by a series of pipes and tubes. These were water-pipes, used for smoking.

This was a Skooma den.

The Khajiit sat them down in an empty alcove upon some dirty floor cushions. There was a unlit pipe on the floor between him and Salas. The Khajiit got to work, deftly kindled a candle and slotted it into the pipe, explaining as they did so.

"It heats the sweet sugar syrup in the upper chamber, this one pulls the fumes down into the water bowl, to cool them, and then the breathe the smoke through this pipe. This one understand yes?" He shook his head mutely. "Young Salas can show you how it is done."

Finally they pulled a vial out from a pocket of his waist coat and measured out several drops of thick viscous liquid into the smaller upper chamber. The cat smiled one last time, and pulled away, closing the curtain behind them. They were all alone now. Sitting in darkness but for the light of candle that heated the Skooma pipe. Velyn waited for Salas to make a move, but the boy just gestured to the pipe, a hazy smile on his face.

"You first, sera. It's your coin."

"I don't know... How... how do I?" He laughed at that.

"Let me show you."

He reached out and took the long mouthpiece of the pipe and sucked on it, making the water in the lower half bubble away, drawing the fumes through the water and into his mouth. All the time his eyes, half glazed half sultry, never left Velyn. Did he want him? Did he want only this? Did it matter? The prostitute leaned over, so that their faces were close, almost touching.

"Open wide." He whispered.

His lips planted against Velyn's, and he breathed the smoke into his mouth.

As he took it down into his lungs, the bitterness began to fade away, replaced by something... sweet.

Velyn laughed.

And began to forget.

Sheet 3

I S H I Y A R Y U T A R O

To uphold the legacy of the Ishiya clan is both a duty and an honour

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___________________________________ P R O F I L E Age 19 Race Honfokun Sex Male Height 5'8" Weight 142lb Level 1 Health Points 22 ___________________________________ I N V E N T O R Y - Traditional Honfukun Lute - the Shamisen. - Several changes of fine clothes. - Porcelain tea set. - Flask of plum wine. - Large pouch of gold. - Parchment and Calligraphy tools. - Lacquered and Gilt Sword Case, sealed. ____________________________________ E Q U I P M E N T - Two handed Honfukun katana, highly decorated. - Matching wakizashi. - Close fitting Lamellar of lacquered iron plates. ____________________________________ A T T R I B U T E S Might: 10 (+0) Dexterity: 14 (+1 racial, +3) Perception: 14 (+2 racial, +2) Wisdom: 15 (+2 racial, +3) Charisma: 14 (+4) Constitution: 11 (+1 racial)

____________________________________________________________________________ A P P E A R A N C E Ishiya Ryutaro is a young Honfokun of relatively small and slight stature. Like the majority of his kind, his complexion is markedly different from the Folk of the Yongcun Empire, in this case a dark shade of dusky blue. His hair is similarity dark, black with the very faintest hint of an iridescent sheen, like that of a crow's feather. From beneath his short wavy locks a pair of slim curved horns emerge, which while well proportioned, would not be considered particularly impressive headgear by most Honfokun. His face is more pretty than handsome. There is a delicateness to his features, which though none could doubt to be aesthetically pleasing, could also be seen as slightly too effeminate on a man. The softness of youth is still very much in evidence in Ryutaro's face. His skin is smooth and supple, his cheek and chin still hairless. The eyes that gaze out from this youthful visage are of a bright and brilliant crimson, a colour that Ryutaro clearly favours in his choices of clothing. Several of the silken robes he has with him of this hue, as well as the lacquer that coats his armour. ____________________________________________________________________________ P E R S O N A L I T Y In social situations Ryutaro's youth belies his conduct, he is smooth and confident, having an excellent eye for the finer points of etiquette and appropriate behaviour. He is an engaging conversationalist, with knowledge on a great manner subjects and topics, but without a hint of arrogance or self-aggrandisation. In general he is pleasant, likable, friendly and humble. He has an excellent level of control over his emotions, rarely appearing visibly angry or upset in any situation. This self control can at times make Ryutaro feel as if he is somewhat evasive, or opaque. He is so good at disguising his own emotional state and behaving appropriately at times he struggles to reveal in his inner feelings. There is also an element of cautiousness, or perhaps even timidity to his person. He is never one to talk over another, and is quick to yield the centre of attention whenever it happens to fall upon him. Ryutaro is someone more focused on pleasing others above himself. An unusual trait in an heir apparent to a great and powerful noble house. ____________________________________________________________________________ H I S T O R Y The Ishiya clan can trace their lineage back as far as any of the great Honfokun families of Karitu. There were Ishiya who walked the ancient isles of Mosati, who fled the wrath of the yaoguai, and were amongst those two thousand weary souls who landed upon the shores of the Empire half a millennia ago. In the years since then, they have built a legacy that places them as one of the foremost clans of Karitu. Three Ishiya clan leaders have reigned in Cimanu as Seshkyo, elected rulers of the Honfokun people. And though they do not currently bear this particular dignity, Ryutaro's grandfather, Ishiya Tamotsu, is still considered a Tochihai, one of the feudal lords who command wealth, respect and power in Karitu. The Ishiya are noted amongst all Honfokun clans for their martial legacy. They were one of the families who brought the teachings of Senshodo with them when they travelled across the sea, and to this day the influence of these teachings runs strong in them. There is even a style of swordsmanship named after the family, the Ishiya style, which focuses on aggressive attacks and powerful static blocks. Ishiya Tamotsu was a noted warrior in his youth and is a highly respected fencing master and teacher. In addition many Ishiya have served as soldiers and commanders of Imperial armies, including Ryutaro's own father, before his untimely death. Sometimes Ryutaro wonders what his life would have been like had his father survived. Would the pressures placed upon him by his grandfather been lessened? Or would his father just been another elder who's expectations Ryutaro felt he was continually falling short of. Ryutaro was raised by grandfather. His father died when he was a small child, and his grandfather separated him from his mother when he decided having too many women around little Ryu was having a bad influence. He had always been small, weaker than his many cousins, and painfully shy as a child. But he was his grandfather's only male heir, and so Ishiya Tamotsu tried to make him into an heir worthy of the Ishiya name. In part he succeeded. Ryutaro is cultured and intelligent, he overcame his childhood shyness even if he still is a little timid and reserved. He trained diligently at swordsmanship and is a competent fighter, but no more than competent. Where his skills shine are in his poetry, music, and dancing, all desirable skills in the scion of a noble family. But there are still those who see him as unworthy within his own clan, and his grandfather has never formally acknowledged Ryutaro as his heir and successor. ____________________________________________________________________________ M O T I V A T I O N & O U T L O O K Ryutaro want to live up to the expectations that others have placed upon him. He wants to be the diligent grandson, dutiful heir, and great warrior his grandfather has trained him to be. At the same time he feels stifled by it all. The weight of the Ishiya legacy his heavy, and he worries that it will crush him beneath it. Deep down part of him wants to live his own life, free of what others think of him, and able to choose his own path.

There was also a 1x1 I did that I experimented with using tables to get text to wrap around images, so you can have that as well:

Post 1

Several nights later...

"What are you thinking about, Amir?" The question startled him from his reverie. Amir had been leaning against the marble balustrade of a terrace balcony that overlooked the gardens. The voice came from an open archway behind him, an archway that led into the upper stories of the secluded harem of his great house, from which drifted distant sounds of laughter and music. The voice had been that of a woman, though low and husky. He recognised it instantly, Farah, first amongst his wives and concubines. It appeared she had come to find him. She was like that, her and Aisha, they had always been quick to intuit things. They were smart women, they had to have been to survive that chaotic regime change this house had seen only a few years ago. And they had done more than survive, they had thrived, just as he had. Although in the end it had cost Aisha her life. Strange, how one could come so far and be struck down at the final hurdle. The night air was cool compared to the scorching heat of the day that preceded it. Beyond the walled garden, Rakim glowed with the light of a thousand lamps and torches, mirroring the star strewn sky above them. Somewhere in the darkness below him, Deor Lavein slept in a cage. "What makes you so sure I am thinking about something?" Amir answered with a question of his own, turning briefly to glance at Farah as she approached. He could barely make out her features, silhouetted as she was in the light that spilled through the open archway. They were of an age, with her perhaps having a year or so over him. Her hourglass figure had always inclined towards plumpness, something that motherhood had only exacerbated.

Art by Leon Carre ........................................................................................................

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That was not to say that Farah was not unattractive, a degree of softness could be very becoming for some women. But beyond the shape of her figure, he knew she possessed a heart shaped face, pale for a Zadri, set with full lips and a pair of quick and lively eyes, all framed by long dresses of black hair, thickly curled and coiled. Amir could well understand why his predecessor had chosen her for a wife. She joined him at the edge of the terrace and slipped an arm around Amir's waist companionably, keeping it low so as to avoid touching the scarred expanse of his upper back. She had learnt to keep her hands away from that in the early days of their marriage, when Amir had made an effort to visit her and Aisha's beds with some degree of regularity. Though Amir supposed that had been some time ago now... "You clearly have something on your mind, you haven't been paying attention to any of the girls tonight. Normally you at least pretend to be interested." Amir laughed, there were few secrets anymore between him and Farah. Their alliance pre-dated their marriage and they both knew that it functioned best when they could trust one another. After all, the things they knew had the ability to destroy each other as well. "Is it that obvious?" "To me maybe, but I know you better than most. I'm sure Nadia has her suspicions. Is that what this is? Don't tell me you're up here mooning over some boy that you've found in a brothel somewhere." At her words the smile fell from his face and his look turned severe once more. "Something like that. I'm thinking about Deor." Farah made the sign to avert evil and spat to one side, a look of distaste visible on her features. "I don't understand why you keep him here, after what he and his family did to you. You should have left him to die in that cage, or finished off him yourself. It's what most people would have done, what I would have done." Farah had been a slave once too, and though she had ended up the mistress of a great and rich household, she had never forgotten how her life had begun. But Amir shook his head slowly, sighing as he did so. "I don't want that. I want to make him mine." Farah raised an eye brow at him. He snorted in disgust in return, of course her mind would there, innuendo seemed to be the common second language amongst the women of the harem. "Not like that, I want to break him. I want to make him my slave. If I can do that... maybe I can put it all behind me." There was a thoughtful pause in their conversation, as they both stared out into the night. Though he and Farah rarely shared a bed anymore, she had seen Amir awake from enough nightmares to know that the things he had been through had left scars deeper than the ones he wore on his back. "Well I despise him regardless, after what he did to my dearest husband." She leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. Amir could not help but laugh softly to himself again. "I am sure the feeling is mutual. Do you know what he said last I saw him? He threw a drink over me and said pouring drinks was all that my wives were good for." "Did he really? If only he knew..." Farah was thinking, a sly smile was playing across her lips, the beginnings of a plan hatching in her mind. "He certainly is pretty though. I saw him when I was out in the gardens the other day, not close, but near enough to see how he looks. He's more feminine than some of the girls, and with fairness some of them would kill for. He wouldn't look out of place in the Harem, you know? But he is a man, such a shame." "A shame?" "It would be a shame wouldn't it? For him, I mean, for you to place him in the Harem, as a man. Even a slave has his place as a man. What's lower than a male slave? A female slave." There was a bitter edge to her voice. "You know I don't think that way." He reached out and stroked her shoulder. It was true that Zadri society limited to role and importance of women, as many others did. But Amir owed a lot to this particular woman, and to Aisha as well. He wouldn't be where he was today without them. "I know you don't think that way... but does Deor Lavein?" Farah began to explain her plan fully. Amir listened to her carefully, and began to smile. When she she had finished he found himself astonished by her devious ingenuity. "And he thought all you were good for was pouring drinks."

The next day...

Art by Leon Carre ........................................................................................................

The next day, they did not come at first light to take Deor from the tiger cage. They had put him to work at clearing the irrigation ditches that watered the gardens and orchards since he had sent outside. But today, they let him sleep and then left him to stew in the heat until the sun was high in the sky. When they finally did come, he found himself led through a series of twisting paths behind blooming Rhododendron bushes, aflame with crimson flowers. Until he was brought before a small covered pagoda that sat in front a lily filled pool. Amir sat beneath the shade of the covering. There was a single table, set with two chairs side by side. The other was left vacant. There was no other shade in around the pool save for that cast by the pagoda's roof. With a wave of his hand, Amir signalled for him to approach. "Would you care to sit with me, Deor?" He gestured to the empty seat beside him. "I'll even do the pouring this time." Amir filled two glasses with water from a silver pitcher at his elbow. He then added

[LegendBegins]

Thanks all!

As a side note @BrokenPromise, I adore those pseudo Guild posts in the table.

[Mae]

Wish I kept whatever experiment I recently rage quit on but I can't find it :(

Hider

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NAME the TITLE Class || Allignment || Level Age || Gender || XP HP || AC

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__________________ A T T A C K T H R O W || 10 __________________ I N I T I A T I V E || +1 __________________ STR 12 || +1 DEX 12 || +1 CON 12 || +1 INT 12 || +1 WIS 12 || +1 CHA 12 || +1 __________________ S A V I N G T H R O W S _______________________ P&P || 13 P&D || 13 B&B || 16 S&W || 14 SP || 15 __________________ M O V E M E N T _______________________ Base || +1 Combat || +1 Charge / Run || +1 Climb || +1 Stealth || +1 Daily || +1 __________________ A C T I O N S _______________________ Open Door || +1 Secret Door || +1 Hear Noises || +1 Find Traps || +1	__________________________ A P P E A R A N C E / / __________________________ "Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit, sed do eiusmod tempor incididunt ut labore et dolore magna aliqua. Ut enim ad minim veniam, quis nostrud exercitation ullamco laboris nisi ut aliquip ex ea commodo consequat. Duis aute irure dolor in reprehenderit in voluptate velit esse cillum dolore eu fugiat nulla pariatur. Excepteur sint occaecat cupidatat non proident, sunt in culpa qui officia deserunt mollit anim id est laborum." __________________________ P E R S O N A L I T Y / / __________________________ "Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit, sed do eiusmod tempor incididunt ut labore et dolore magna aliqua. Ut enim ad minim veniam, quis nostrud exercitation ullamco laboris nisi ut aliquip ex ea commodo consequat. Duis aute irure dolor in reprehenderit in voluptate velit esse cillum dolore eu fugiat nulla pariatur. Excepteur sint occaecat cupidatat non proident, sunt in culpa qui officia deserunt mollit anim id est laborum." __________________________ H I S T O R Y / / __________________________ "Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit, sed do eiusmod tempor incididunt ut labore et dolore magna aliqua. Ut enim ad minim veniam, quis nostrud exercitation ullamco laboris nisi ut aliquip ex ea commodo consequat. Duis aute irure dolor in reprehenderit in voluptate velit esse cillum dolore eu fugiat nulla pariatur. Excepteur sint occaecat cupidatat non proident, sunt in culpa qui officia deserunt mollit anim id est laborum."	___________________________________________ Physical Summary Height | Weight | Build | Face Shape | Hair | Eyes Posture | Walk | Resting Expression Points of Interest Everyday Attire | Sentimental Possessions | Paraphernalia Quirks | Fears | Ideal Bond | Flaw Languages Language 1 • Language 2 • Language 3 ____________________________________ P R O F I C I E N C I E S ——————————————————————————— ▃▃General Slot ▃▃Class Slot ____________________________________ C L A S S & R A C E A B I L I T I E S ——————————————————————————— ▃▃General Slot ▃▃Class Slot

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W E A P O N S & A T T A C K S / /}
^{__________________________}

The Destroyer Battleaxe - 1d8 [10 GP][1 Weight]	Devil's Kiss Crossbow - 1d6 [30 GP][1 Weight]	Pointy Carl Dagger - 1d4 [3 GP][1/10 Weight]
A worn well loved weapon.	Stick em with the pointy parts.	Because sleeping with a battleaxe is hard.

Ammo & Armour

[2gp]Leather Tunic, AC 2
Case of 20 Bolts

_{__________________________
M A G I C A L I T E M S / /}
^{__________________________}

Boots of Travelling Quality - Effect [Worth GP][# Weight]	Cloak of Mastery Servicable - Effect [Worth GP][# Weight]	Potion of Snuggling Quality - Effect [Worth GP][# Weight]
These boots give the wearer +1 niftniness which increases opinions from HD <3 Peasants while used within a 60ft hot air balloon.	A cloak of particular importance, allows the user to cast Snazziness at a +3 modifier.	Delicious. Tastes mildly of elderberries and voidsharks.

Special Components

• •
•

_{__________________________
S P E L L S / /}
^{__________________________
Magic Research || Library Value || Workshop Value || Congregant Value}

_{Spell Signature: Unique to your spellcaster. The sensory effect created when casting your spells. A necromantic spellcaster's Sleep spell could send the target into a nightmarish hellscape while one interested in nature may cause their target to dream of lush forests and wildlife.}

Level 1 - # Per Day	Level 2 - # Per Day	Level 3 - # Per Day
Light	Continual Light	Haste
Charm	Detect Evil

Edit: today I put the [table][/table] tag in the wrong place and it did something weird. Looks to me it still made the cell/row without it nested in a table.

Hider

Assasin Fighter / Thief	Any armour, prefer leather for stealth Any weapons Move Silently (in leather Armour only) Backstab(in leather Armour only) Hide in Shadows(in leather Armour only) No magic	Cutthroat Bounty Hunters Pirate Bravo Betrayer Infiltrator Cult Deathbringer

Proficiencies

Acrobat, Alchemy, Alertness, Arcane Dabbling, Blind Fighitng, Bribery, Cat Burglary, Climbing, Combat Reflexes, Combat Trickery (disarm, incapacitate), Contortionism, Disguise, Eavesdropping, Fighting Style, Gambling, Intimidation, Mimicry, Precise Shooting, Running, Seduction, Skirmishing, Skulking, Sniping, Swashbuckling, Trap Finding, Weapon Finesse, Weapon Focus

Here's the wee bab having a meltdown over it. Bless:

[Mae]

Nested Tables Breaking:

Hider

---

▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃

---

▃	▃ NAME the TITLE Class: || Allignment || Level #. Age # || Gender || XP * + % HP/HP || # AC	----

STR CON DEX INT WIS CHA	Proficiencies Equipment
	LEVEL 1 SPELLS # a Day ▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃ test Test Test LEVEL 2 SPELLS # a Day ▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃ test Test Test

[LegendBegins]

@Mae

Perfect, thank you!

[Zmija Sebastian]

Usually I'm like a Mercenary online when it comes to Websites with Communties, but it doesn't feel so rogue anymore with having been correct in trying to survive, to be rogue >.> <.<, *Zmija tongue* I've killed yet another slime, score! Yo, I have never been binary just a role-player deflecting beauracrats|guild-types, there're nothing on internet. lol. So, Yo, I been about places like accomplishing 44 Key to the Wiki Badges out of 120 Fandom Wikis - LOL not for the feint of heart of BBCode Signatures, but there's some code if you can accomplish that, but what I was getting at is just a Website throw-down. Am getting at. Neopets.

[Lord Wraith]

Once again:

@Kuro

@Kuro

[LegendBegins]

I've got to hand it to you guys, your BBCode powers are incredible. They've also allowed me to pretty strongly validate these parsing rules, so thank you!