[OOC] Hellbent

[Blackbeard]

~ HELLBENT ~
~ Liberate te ex inferis ~

~ CLOSED ~


----------------------------------------------------------------------------------Introduction------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Hello and welcome to Hellbent, a tale of sell-swords and Necromancers. This will be a character driven dark and gritty role-play, hopefully with some playful wit thrown in. I'm looking for probably 3-5 people to play a group of mercenaries that will be hired by the Baron Tygrim to go out into the wilderness to collect a mans head. I'm looking for High-casual standards, I would like between 3-5 paragraphs per post any less is not really enough and any more gets tedious to read, at least for me. I like quality over quantity.
In other news this will be a low fantasy RP your characters will not have any magical ability nor will they be used to seeing it, they cannot tackle rhinos to the floor but instead will bleed out to sword wounds etc. Your human, act like it. I will not be forcing death on anyone obviously but I like it to be a possible outcome, if your character does die then feel free to make another but with the small size of this RP I'm sure it will be heavily discussed beforehand. The technology level will be medieval era, not so much full plate all round but leather and chain armour etc. I'm sure you get the idea.

If any of you were wondering I will not be playing as your fellow cut-throat. I will just be using NPC's and generally...GMing and, stuff. I'll at least try to steer you all down a cool and hopefully original story-line. Oh and feel free to suggest ideas, I'm not actively looking for one but If I find someone on the same wave-length a Co-GM would be nice.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Plot-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Being a mercenary your quite used to travelling from city to city. Whether your finding new contracts or cashing in on existing ones, none of you are strangers to the 'ins and outs' of the job. As fate would have it you find each other in the same city. Embedded into the mountain-side is the impressive city of Persk. Tall stone towers watch over the bustling hub of civilization. Walls are covered in white and blue, the colours of Persks patron. At first you do indeed think it odd to find so many others with whom you share a profession, gathered in the same place at the same time, but it soon dawns on you that the reason you personally came here will most likely answer the question.
An open invitation! to any and all mercenaries who find themselves in need of a contract, and whom can swiftly find themselves in Persk within the next few days. The Baron is in need of good men with fighting skills who can accomplish any task set before them, anyone who answers will be handsomely rewarded at quests end and will forever find themselves in the debt of Baron Tygrim.

A book, no, Tome was stolen from the Baron by an unknown person and you lucky few are tasked with its retrieval. We have a small amount of information as to where to find this person but for the most part you will be by yourselves. Of unknown origin and equally clouded intentions this man has been labeled as a traitor to the Baron and his household and you are permitted to dispatch him in any means you deem necessary.
Whilst it is not imperative it is greatly suggested that you each work together upon this quest as if this favor is completed quickly your rewards will only be greater.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Rules------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
1- The boring bit. No god-modding or manipulating other peoples characters etc etc. You know the drill, just don't be a dick.

2- I am the GM's and as such my decisions are final, whilst I don't mind people voicing their opinions don't drag things out into arguments with me as I will have 0% tolerance. I try not to bite but I will bite back.

3- Have fun, hopefully we can make something really cool. I would like this to last for a while.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------Character Sheets--------------------------------------------------------------------------

- Name -
(Self explanatory)

- Appearance -
(A picture is fine but a small description would be nice. Please no anime, try to find serious pictures.)

- Personality -
(A window into what your character will act like among the other Mercenaries)

- Excerpt -
(I would like a small 2 paragraph taste of what your writing style is like, I'm looking for good writers who can really enjoy using their characters as I think that will make this RP successful)

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Cast--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
-- Mustafa al-Everir -- Chapatrap --
-- Espen Dwyn -- Monster --
-- Alice Curnow -- Rtron --
-- Blake Hammond -- Bweoti --
-- Jagred Degray -- RedDusk --

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Map--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

This is the map to the land the RP will be set in, I'm not good at editing images in the slightest and that's why it has pre-existing labels on it for land names etc, if any of you who enjoy image editing would like to lend me some help in the map modification if would be greatly appreciated (also with the banner up there ^).
Anyway for the RP the city of Persk will be situated on the western front of the mountainous spine in the middle of the map, the part that almost makes a little alcove. That's where you begin.



----------------------------------------------------------------------------The long and short of it---------------------------------------------------------------------------
-- Act 1, The Path is laid --
The rag-tag group has been given a contract by the Baron of Persk, they must travel into the wilderness to find a man whom has taken something that does not belong with him. Collected together at the inn and ready to depart in the morning. How will they fare?

[Apokalipse]

Ottela Nog

- Name –
Ottela Nog

- Appearance –

Ottela has long, ragged red hair that falls to her back and sharp, blue eyes. She is tall, standing at 5’11”, and weighs 140 pounds. She is usually dressed in black and brown, with a tattered navy blue cloak resting on her shoulders. She has a scar on her left eye from carelessness during a swordfight when fetching the head of an assassin.
- Personality –
Ottela is a snarky woman who loves a good brawl. She lacks subtlety and patience, preferring a straightforward, blunt approach. The woman gets aggravated and exasperated when she has to wait for answers. Ottela loves to fight; she finds pleasure in releasing all her pent-up frustrations and going all out. However, she can be careless when fighting and it leads to injuries often, though usually nothing serious.
Ottela is greedy and loves money. She would do anything to get it and has killed countless people to become rich. However, she is much like a squirrel and never spends her money, but hides it for emergencies. When she needs something, or wants something, she is more likely to steal it than pay for it.

- Excerpt –
Ottela grinned, her legs widening into a stance as she crouched low to the ground. Her opponent squinted his eyes at her, readying his sword as he waited for her to make a move. Impatient, she leapt at him, swinging her sword at his throat. She left her stomach open and the assassin moved to strike her horizontally. Ottela danced away, though the sword managed to knick her on the side. The redhead licked her lips, tasting the sweat of adrenaline on her lips. Gasping, they parried and circled like vultures.
Leaving her guard behind, she darted towards him and brought her sword to his neck, slashing sideways. He managed to back away, slicing his sword upwards in an attempt to ward her away. His sword knocked hers away, her own sword almost slipping from her fingers, and the sharp edge gleamed as it neared her face. Shlick. A thin red line slowly deepened as it travelled up her cheek, until it ended in a gash at her eye. Clenching her left eye shut, she howled with pain and fell to her knees, clawing at her wound. The assassin stalked forward, smirking at the clear victory. He raised his sword high, preparing to decapitate the young woman. With aching muscles, Ottela raised her sword, gritting her teeth. Shlick! The assassin glanced down at the crimson spot that steadly grew on his abdomen. Ottela smiled, pulling the sword from his gut.

[Chapatrap]

Here he is. The first bloke so far.

Mustafa al-Everir

- Name -
Mustafa al-Everir

- Appearance -


A darker skinned tribesman from the deserts, he stands at five foot seven inches and has a slim stature. His clothing modifies depending on the geography of an area but he usually wears thick walking boots, loose-fitting breeches and a large backpack. His head is wrapped in a rough, white turban that he wears for cultural and practical reasons. If one were to remove it (and survive), they would see brown hair cropped close to his skull and darted with scars from wars in the desert. His eyes are a cold grey that starkly stand out on his brown, clean shaven face. Physically, his skinny frame and short stature make him seem rather unimposing but a frightful scowl and a cold look can make the bravest of thugs step aside. He is armed with a wicked-looking scimitar that hangs from one hip and carries only the bare essentials in his pack - a sleeping roll, some food, a skin of fresh water and small bag of coins.

- Personality -
Mustafa is a serious and impatient man who has little time for simple etiquette such as small talk or silly mistakes. Years spent in the desert have hardened his resolve and his deep dislike for merry-making and horseplay. He cares for few in the world and even fewer care for him. While others in his band would spend their nights drinking and womanising, Mustafa would sip water and watch from afar. He likes to be in control of his senses and mind altering substances have no place in goblet in the evening. His serious and unsocial demeanour can put people off and that's exactly how he likes it. The tribesman's only goal is to collect money for the jobs he does - emotional attachments are not on his agenda.

- Excerpt -
Ten years prior to current day
At the break of dusk, the desert was beautiful. The moon lit up the the miles of dunes and illuminated the way for many travellers. Tucked away behind a dune, a small collection of tents had popped up overnight. Skinny cattle were herded into a temporary corral's next to horses and they watched curiously as the nights events unfolded in the centre of the camp site. The men had huddled around a tiny fire to keep out the cold that had came from the sky so suddenly. Deserts were infamous for their freezing conditions at night and that night was no different.

'Mustafa' said Asama, his mouth full of meat. Several rabbits had been caught by the long legged dogs the men had caught and despite the fact the rabbits had very little meat on them, all men relished them. Mustafa looked up from his meal to his companion. 'Asama?' he said quietly, already tired of the man's boyish antics. 'D'ya wanna hear a joke?' Asama smiled darkly, his teeth stained with the grease of the rabbits. Mustafa glared at him and looked back at his meal. The other men elbowed each other, smiling. Mustafa was a fun target in their childish jokes.

Asama swallowed and then started his joke. 'So a pit-pony walks into a tavern and sighs. The barman asks what's wrong and the pony replies 'My only friend is my mother. What do I do, barman?' The men were giggling now, anticipating the row that would erupt between Asama and Mustafa. Mustafa stayed quiet but only poked at his food. 'So the barman replies 'Your only friend is your mother? That means you have one more friend than Mustafa!' The group of six men burst into laughter while Mustafa clenched his teeth in anger. 'Be quiet' he spoke suddenly and coldly. The men laughed even harder.

Mustafa stood, clutching his half eaten rabbit and glared straight at Asama. 'For two weeks, I have listened to your childish jokes, Asama. They're growing thin and tired, just like my patience' with every word he waved the rabbit leg at Asama over the fire. The laughter amongst the other men quickly died down. 'C'mon, Mustafa, I'm only making the nights go quicker with laughter' giggled Asama. 'Well, it is not funny' growled the angry tribesman. Mustafa sat back down on his log and looked at the men around the fire. He hated every single one of them. Even if they were within the same tribe, they were all horrible to be around. Things grew silent around the fire once more par from the messy sound of the men eating.

'Mustafa, when we get home, maybe we can find you a wife. Or a friend' Asama burst out laughing as he said this joke. The other men did not laugh. They knew better than to provoke his Mustafa's anger any further. Mustafa dropped his rabbit leg to the sandy ground and stood. 'I warned you, Asama!' he snarled. As he done so, he pulled his scimitar from it's sheathe. The smile on Asama's face was quickly wiped off when he saw the scimitar. 'Brother Mustafa, I was only joking. We do not want to fight, do we?' said Asama with a rather passive-aggressive tone. Mustafa quickly stepped around the fire and held the tip of his scimitar to Asama's throat. 'Br-brother, killing our tribesmen is a crime' whimpered a boy behind Mustafa. Asama's eyes bulged as he stared defiantly at Mustafa. 'I dare you, Mustafa' he sneered. 'I bloody dare you'. Mustafa's breathing slowed down slightly and his sword arm dropped to his side. He looked at his boots and murmured 'I'm going to bed'.

And with that, the future mercenary turned his heel and walked into his tent. Curled under the furs and clutching his scimitar, Mustafa cried that night. It was the last time he ever cried. For he knew that all those jabs about his loneliness were true. He had no friends, no lovers and most of all, no family.

[Monster]

Espen

|Name|
Espen Dwyn

|Appearance|

With jet black hair, and eyes of emerald, Espen stands proud. She has a statuesque quality to her, at a height of 5'8 and a weight of 124 Ibs, she is lithe and agile. With her years spent as a sword-for-hire, she has gained muscle, and a distinct look of confidence in her fiery green gaze.

|Personality|
Espen is patient, and very calculative. She hardly ever allows herself to express her agitation, as she believes it will only add further conflict to the situation. If something is bothering her, she will keep it to herself, unless it affects other's or the outcome of her mission. A skilled diplomat, she does not like to rely on fighting head on. Especially if it can be avoided. She may not be the strongest, but that never deters her. Courageous, Espen does not back down easily, no matter how dire the situation.

|Excerpt|
"It is finished..." The words are spoken through a voice smooth as silk. Though the woman who speaks them seems otherwise. She is still shaken from the battle, her right hand grasping the sword hilt just a little too tight. Espen hadn't considered the possibility of a fight. She had prepared for one, certainly. Still, she wasn't expecting it. Naturally, she was shaken. It had been her job to rid this tavern of these bandit pests, something she had accepted wholeheartedly. She had taken a day to study them, she was so sure of herself. And now, here she was. Looking down at the inn owner, defeat clear on her features. She had won this battle, but at what price?
Sure she had a bruised rib, which was screaming at her. Though what troubled her, was that the town was celebrating; they shouldn't be. This brawl would only pave way for the other bandits, feeling they had been robbed of their territory, or others wanting to sport their power. Taking a deep breath, and exhaling her worries in a deep breath, Espen swiftly made to exit the tavern. She would not accept a reward for this failure.

[Rtron]

Name: Alice Curnow

Appearance:

With sapphire eyes, Alice stands at 5ft exactly. She typically also wears thick leather gloves on her hands.

Personality:Alice is cheerful. Almost disturbingly so, given that she’s a mercenary who most people assume fights for money and who will kill anyone and anything. Which is only half true. She does fight for the money in any given job, but she also fights to help as many people as she can, and typically doesn’t take jobs that involve hurting those she deems as innocents. When collecting a bounty, she typically brings her target in alive, to face justice rather than being killed on the spot. It matters little to her that they often are killed anyway. They got a trial for their crimes, and everyone who they hurt was given assured closure. She has a strong sense of justice, and that doesn’t include murdering the target.

She also rarely swears, and never in casual conversation. Just one of her quirks that makes her an…odd mercenary to say the least.

Excerpt:

When the mercenary was done with her, he stood and retied his trousers. Grinning down at her, he winked. “I hope it was as good for you as it was for me.” Alice stared back up at him with dead eyes, huddling herself back up against the tent pole. The bastard shrugged and walked out of the tent that had been her entire world for the past six months, leaving a knife behind on the table. Outside of the tent, she could hear one of the mercenary’s friends ask, “Where’s your knife?” The bastard’s response was casual and unworried. “It’s in the tent with the whore who played at soldiering. I only wish more of them tried it. This is the best sex I’ve had in years. It’s free, and you don’t have to worry about keeping her around with gifts and being nice.” He laughed, while his friend commented. “Aren’t you worried she’ll get it?” If anything, this made the bastard laugh harder. “And do what with it? She can barely fight! Even if she could, she’s broken. She doesn’t have the courage to try and leave. She fears me. And besides that, she can’t leave. She’s in our camp, in the middle of winter, miles away from any help she might get. So no. I’m not worried at all.” The bastard’s and his friend’s voices receded, and Alice’s eyes locked on the knife.

It was pure bad luck that she fought for the losing side in that battle. It was worse luck that she was knocked out instead of killed. It was the worst luck of all that she was taken prisoner, stripped of her armor and weapons, dressed in rags, and sold to the highest bidder of the mercenaries to be used. Her luck continued to worsen as the months dragged on, as her rapist never died in battle, and every attempt she made to escape failed and was punished severely. Disobeying, resistance, or trying to escape, resulted in pain, she knew this in her very bones now. So what made her reach for the knife? She didn’t quite know. A death wish, perhaps. Maybe if she tried to kill him, he would go into such a rage that he would accidentally kill her. Or maybe purposely. Either way, death would be welcome. Maybe she still had some hope that it would work. Some hope that she could kill him and get away from this hell. For whatever reason, she took the knife and hid it in a small hole that she dug nearby. He wouldn’t notice it was gone. He always came back drunk in the night.

Old habits held when he came back. He was drunk again. If anything, this was the most drunk he had ever been. Stumbling, laughing, and struggling with his clothes. Alice watched him in a disinterested way. They way you might stare at a grotesque bug, stumbling its way across the ground in front of you. She was completely detached from the fact that the next few moments might decide the course of the rest of her life. When he finally beat the obstacle that was getting his clothes off, he came for her. Alice waited. When the opportunity came, she slowly stretched her hand towards the pit where the knife was, ignoring him, his stinking body, and his grunts. She dug gently into the loose earth, and wrapped her hands around the hilt of his knife. After that, it was easy. He was too drunk to notice what she was doing, and even if he had she was too fast for him to stop her in his drunkenness.

The blade sank up to the hilt in his throat, turning a grunt into a gurgle of shock and pain. In dumb surprise, he stared down at her. “Broken, am I?” Alice whispered, blood dripping from the blade onto her face and chest. She twisted the knife. “I don’t have the courage, do I?” She twisted it again, drawing a gurgle that may have been an attempt at a scream. “I fear you?” She hissed. Alice suddenly and viciously dragged the knife across his throat, bringing a spray a blood all over her face and body. She pushed him off of her before he could bleed anymore than necessary on her. Alice stood, breathing heavily. Then she began to strip him of his gear. It wouldn’t be a good fit. It wouldn’t even be a close fit. But if she was to have any chance of getting out of this hell alive, she would have to make it work. Before she left, she gave one departing kick to his dead ribs. “Burn in hell.”

[Blackbeard]

Three women? that's a first.

@Apokalipse - I will be giving priority to the people who inquired in the Interest check, I just want you to know that if more of them join I might want to close this off. If not though you will be accepted.

@Chapatrap - Accepted. Rather large excerpt but it was good to read. I like having a foreigner in the group! It's not really all that important but could he get a surname?

@Monster - Accepted.

@Rtron - Accepted. That writing example is what I would consider a really good post length, for anyone's reference. Even a paragraph less would be great. Also, as with Chap, any chance you could get a surname for your character?

It's looking good so far, I think we are missing the joker of the pack to lighten things up from time to time and tie everyone together, but great jobs all around so far! Based on the amount of interest I'll be wanting five people. There are three accepted and three still to show up from the Interest check, with one ready to fill in.

[Rtron]

In one RP, it's all males, in this one it's nearly all females.

Balance. It eludes me. XD.

One surname coming up.

[Chapatrap]

Blackbeard said
Three women? That's a first.

It's like an anime. *shudder*

I'll give him a quick surname now.

[Blackbeard]

Thanks guys, I don't know why they just seem a bit more...complete will a full name.

[Rtron]

Chapatrap said
It's like an anime. *shudder*

It'll be fine. I think.

[Skittlez]

I'm willing to try and make a guy to even this out. It's been a while, but I do think a guy needs to be thrown into this mix. Also, it'd be good practice.

[Blackbeard]

You don't have to, even though it would be nice. Looking forward to it.

[Chapatrap]

Skittlez said
I'm willing to try and make a guy to even this out. It's been a while, but I do think a guy needs to be thrown into this mix. Also, it'd be good practice.

Also, we need to make this less like a harem.

[TheEvanCat]

Chapatrap said
Also, we need to make this less like a harem.

You rang?

[Chapatrap]

TheEvanCat said
You rang?

Yeah, where's my damn pizza?

[Bweoti]

- Blake Hammond -

- Appearance -
Blake is a 5'11" male sitting at just over 200 pounds. Being a 32 year old mercenary, most of that weight is muscle, with a bit of beer pudge, but he will never admit it. He is very well tanned from a life on the road. His grey eyes are flanked by crow's feet (squint wrinkles, I call'em) and his head is shaved bald. His body has several battle scars, but nothing horribly disfiguring. He has no tattoos. He wears light leathers for breeches and a stiff heavy leather chest piece for protection. He has a longsword on his left hip, a main-gauche on his beltline to be drawn by his left hand, and on his lightly leather-armored chestnut horse he has a crossbow.

- Personality -
Blake is even-headed. He has been fighting for the bulk of his life, so combat rarely makes him lose his cool. He does like to drink, and recently his drinking has begun to catch up with his gut. Out of combat, he's NOT a social butterfly. He is verbally polite to a fault, though he gets tongue tied around women. He doesn't negotiate prices unless he feels that he's getting reamed with jacked a jacked up price. When it comes to a contract to fulfill, he attempts to complete them to the letter, with little leeway in straying from the contract. When he drinks, he opens up a bit more, being a 'happy drunk'.

- Excerpt -
Blake walked into the Lone Pine Bar, knowing that his bounty was supposed to be here. He was hired by some nobleman to bring back his son alive. And Blake's contacts have told him that he's hiding out here, posing as a traveling merchant or something. Anyways, his target should be here, somewhere. Blake slid up to the bar, one cheek on the stool and one foot on the ground. "Mead, please," he asked the person behind the bar. Once it was delivered into his hand, he took a brief sip, tasting the honey goodness. He then stood up from the stool and put his back to the bar, glancing over his mug around at the patrons.

His eyes skillfully glanced around the entire room, purposefully passing over his mark so that he doesn't give away his intention. He then began to wander around the room and started to flirt with one of the bar wenches. He got embarrassed and tripped over his feet, spilling a bit of his mead on another bar patron. "HEY!" the man argued at having a drink spilled on him. The man took a swing at Blake, which Blake ducked under. "My apologies, sir. I didn't see you there. Here, let me buy you a drink and let us forget this ever happened," Blake asked the man. The man asked for a double scotch and then sat back down.

Blake then walked over to his mark, put his hand on the noble boy's shoulder, and said, "Your father wants you home, sir. Time to go." The boy looked Blake in the eyes and started to mouth the word 'No', but Blake shifted his weight and slammed the boy's face into the table. "I'm sorry, sir, but it's time to go." Blake lifted the boy by one shoulder and helped him to his feet, keeping a hand on one of the boy's elbows while walking him to the door. As the boy tried to bolt, Blake tripped one foot into the other while shoving the elbow in the opposite direction. The boy again tasted wood as his head hit the door jamb. "I wish you wouldn't fight, sir. But, I've been told to bring you in." As he passed the fellow he spilled a drink on, he laid a coin onto the table, "Again, my apologies, sir." With that, he and the noble boy headed back towards noble district.

[Aldridge]

Are you still taking applications, or am I tardy to da party?

[RedDusk]

- Name -
Jagred Degray

- Appearance -

Standing tall at 6’0’’, Jagred could’ve often pulled off an intimidating loom if not for his lanky stature and the tendency to slouch. Rarely seen without his thread-bare cloak, Jagred usually wears leather armor and boots while travelling, his weapons strapped to his back along with a small backpack for provisions. An archer by trade, he also had a thick leather gauntlet on his left arm, adorned with metal plates for deflecting blades and breaking jaws of enemies that wandered too close. On his belt usually hung a short sword on one side and a hatchet on the other, even though no one has actually seen he fought with it.

- Personality -
At first glance, Jagred was surprising a normal guy, almost bordering on forgettable. He talks enough, drinks enough, smiles at all the appropriate times, and rarely, if ever, loses his temper. However, it is all part of his usual façade, the one he used to hide his distaste toward the people he has to deal with every day. Jagred one and true passion lies with hunting, and he cares for little else, sometimes not even his life. He makes a very good hunter though, determined and patient, with a healthy amount of bloodlust and a bit paranoia thrown in for good measure. As much as he relishes in the hunt, Jagred rarely went out of his way to either harm or kill. Those who were not his targets were often deemed unworthy of his attention, for better or worse.

- Excerpt -
It was raining again, fifth time this month.

The ground was muddy and littered with puddles, destroying any hope for footprints, but still, Jagred was certain that he was on the right track. There was only one place left Castair could’ve gone, the little bastard wouldn’t leave without his share of the loot. Though he didn’t think Cas would just take his share. No, he was too greedy for his own sake, and that gave Jagred just enough time to catch the scent. Bastard should’ve walked instead, since horses always left an absurd amount of traces. Guess he wasn’t as bright as they said, after all. Jagred half-smiled, his strides quickened.

It was long before he could spot Castair’s distinct shape among the trees, crouching by a mound of dirt. Wordlessly, Jagred nocked an arrow, aimed, then fired. It hit its target with a fleshly thud, and soon enough, Castair’s six foot frame dropped to the ground. Jagred didn’t close in immediately though, he stood and watched for a few more minutes, as the shape convulsed and groaned. Only once the movements had stopped did Jagred leave the cover of the bushes. He found his ex-best friend lying in a heap on the ground, an arrow protruding from his back. All of sudden, the stench of blood was sickening, and Jagred felt as if he could empty his stomach on the ground any moment now. But he didn’t. There was no time for that. He came here to fulfill a task, and that was exactly what he was going to do. With further ado, he removed the hatchet from Castair’s belt, its familiar weight was unsually heavy in his hand. Funny how he would now use Castair's favorite weapon to kill him.

As he lifted the hatchet, he saw pale blue eyes watching, and bloodied lips stretched into a rueful smile. –“I’m sorry. Please…Hold still.”-He mumbled breathlessly, just as the hatchet fell, and he chanted again and again every time it did. Blood trickled through his fingers, its warmth already lost in the pouring rain.

With the head safely wrapped in his cloak, Jagred turned around and walked back the way he came. The duke would be pleased. For now. Hopefully, that meant he could finally get an audience. The thought brought a smile to his lips, all white teeth and no humor.

[Blackbeard]

Hmm. Well with two new people along with the two from the Interest check coming back. Three already here and Skittles still to throw out her CS, that makes eight people for the four spaces I wanted, which I then bumped up to five.

Hmmm, how would everyone feel about a competition? I'll wait for the ones who have yet to post a CS, and I'll let anyone edit their CS it they want to. And then once all applicants are in I'll pick the best five?

[Bweoti]

This is your RP. Shouldn't you be the judge of who gets to join up? If those of us who were first to say 'me me me me' aren't good enough, then take others. I seriously doubt that you'll upset anyone that won't get over it. Fire away :)