Abstract Proxy

Rise of Rasalhague

Zohra

"No damage, all systems nominal, and nothing on my sensors," Zohra reported, keeping her eyes glued on the displays feeding from the powerful sensors of her Raven. She felt a pang of guilt, noticing the battered BattleMechs of some of her lance mates. Her Raven had been untouched as it flitted around the edges of the battlefield. She had been lucky. Ulrik had been wise to have her keep an eye open on their flank. Shooting at range had been a fruitful endeavor. She had whittled down the armor of the enemy BattleMechs. Armor taken from an enemy at no cost was always an excellent trade. It had kept her safe. At least until the battle became desperate and even then she had been lucky. In the haste of battle she had

Wiping the sweat from her brow, she whispered a quiet prayer, thankful to be alive and grateful that no one from her lance had been lost. It was hard to feel bad for the pirates, but she felt some sympathy, the sort of sympathy one felt for the dead, even if they likely had not been very good.

Zohra wasn’t sure what mercenary unit Alvin was talking about, but she hoped they had made it. She preferred happy endings. Mercenaries needed all the luck they could gather. The ragtag band of mercenaries that she found herself in, the game souls willing to gamble on the offer of the Rasalhagians were no exception. She wasn't sure if luck could be passed on from one mercenary outfit to another, but she sure hoped so.

Shadowrun: Lost Heir

Wildfire

---

---

"Here’s to not getting shot," Wildfire said, downing one of the glasses Frost had filled, with a gulp, and heavy exhale.

"By Frost or anyone else," she teased.

"Don’t worry adept," She added, "We’re just here for a payday, no need to concern yourself with the past. What’s done is done and always was."

Leaning against the drink cart, Wildfire twirled her empty glass, spinning it around as if it was some old Western revolver, rather than a fragile glass that would break if she dropped. Beaming with a smile that she felt thanks to the heat of the whiskey, she winked at the Technomancer, grateful for the show and distraction to keep Frost busy and off her back, "Rowdy sounds good, dirty sounds better, and you had me at cracks big enough for us to slip through."

Waving at the laconic Johnson, her voice was laced with sweetness, "Johnson-sama, what’s the budget for a ride? And somewhere to stay? As my sister so kindly pointed out, it would such a bother for her if she had to share a small bed with little ol’ me."

Planescape: Search for Tir na Og (DnD 5e)

I'm going to drop my WIP character sheet here in case some kind soul wishes to aid me (I am totally winging this).

I have everything else ready in note format, but I need to write it out.

myth-weavers.com/sheets/?id=2901153

Concept: Circle of the Moon Kalashtar who's a Plane-Tender faction agent.

Rerun: Blackguards!

Sariel

The moon above the grassland was the color of bone, charred by steady fires.

She had been there before. They all had. The Guards. The Prisoners. The Maw. And her. Always her. The Warden. And the dead. Always the dead.

Strange stars glittered in the sky. More stars than she could recall. More stars than she could count. Twilight beckoned, a dying pale blue light reaching out to touch her skin. Sariel shivered, feeling a cold wind. Revealed by starlight, untold grave markers emerged from the darkness. The names were faded, the symbols obscured. A ruined tower loomed in the distance, accompanied by great stones scattered across the ground. She did not feel unwelcome. And so Sariel lingered.

Whispers rose slowly.

Whispers grew into a sea of voices. She heard tongues long faded from the world. Words heavy with unspoken meaning. In the space between, she could hear magic woven. Subtle patterns of arcane threads, deft use of the high art, magic molded into gentle designs intended to persuade her. She listened. Pleased at the offered courtesies. Impressed by the skillful manner that they had summoned her. The dead spoke wisely. There was wisdom in what they suggested. There was truth in their ragged warnings. There was kindness, real kindness, in their offer. It would be easy to remain. It would be easier to stay. She could feel the thread that chained her soul to her body. It was a thin and fragile thing. She could cut it easily. She could escape. She had only to accept.

A mirror flickered into existence. Shattered even as it appeared. Midnight bending impossibly as light recoiled, fleeing the fragmented metal that drifted through the air towards her. Another voice spoke. Quieter than the dead. Quieter still, and yet overpowering. Unbearable, with each soundless syllable and unuttered word. The dead grew silent, with dread she thought, but did not know. Sariel felt a burning cold consume her, fog settling slowly across her eyes, scattering the fell apparitions that encircled her.

You have woken. That voice –

Sariel awoke to a graying darkness. The dim light that her elven eyes allowed her. How much time had passed since her last interrogation she could not say. Not reliably. Not by any valid measure. And not with any certainty. She could not divine the plane that she was on. She knew only that she was still in the Maw. Of this she was certain. There was no time to seek answers. Her questions were too many. Her need for answers did not matter. She could wait. The dead could wait. The Warden would not. She had grasped her situation. She had understood. She had been summoned by another. She had been called. Not just by the dead. Not thence.

The Warden was there. The stars were gone. The moon had fallen. Power swirled over the shadows. Sariel watched the Warden, enraptured by the wrongness that she felt, the dagger that slipped painlessly into her mind. It was an ancient feeling. A feeling that she could not recognize at first. Fear. An old reminder that she had once committed to memory. An old friend. And an older teacher. Amusement pulled at the corner of her lips. She had thought herself removed from such base emotions. Pathetic remnants of her discarded heart. Tasting the unwelcome sensation, Sariel shuddered with excitement. She felt alive. She felt renewed by the horror that overwhelmed her. Here was something to understand. Something to study. Something to learn. And something to channel. Power, true power.

She held no attachment to the righteousness of reality. Let the Warden twist the very truth of the world. That was magic. Real magic. High magic of the highest sort. The fear was a gift. The terror was a lesson. She would treasure it, no matter the intention. Sariel knew many things. She knew of magic. She knew of the undead. She knew of the planes of existence. She knew of what lay beyond. She knew of creatures that existed far removed from mortal eyes. And yet, she knew nothing of the Warden. She knew nothing of the nature of the creature that had imprisoned her. She knew nothing of the magic that had ensnared her. And she could not name the Warden.

Discerning that the restraints holding her had loosened, Sariel shifted steadily, permitting her muscles to awaken. The magic that had bound her vanished in angles she could not follow, splintering beyond the ether. The fragments of magic disappeared with bursts of power that Sariel found dreadfully delightful to sample. Her fascination did not leave her as her senses returned to her with each slow beat of her heart. There was a familiar weight in her arms and Sariel looked down to see an arcane grimoire in her hands. It was hers, she knew. Her fingers moved desperately over the inlaid silver, tracing the runes she had engraved in her own delicate hand. Her ornate silver dagger rested in a sheath on her hip, as if she had never been forced to relinquish it. The souls held within brushed against her, warmly greeting her once more. And she was dressed in her robes, her finest robes, not the tattered clothes that they had mockingly left her.

Curiosity stirred deep within her. Sariel suspected no kindness. She expected no mercy. She did not desire forgiveness. The Warden would not release her. The Warden would not arm her. The Warden would not awaken her. Not without a need. And not without a purpose. Sariel would not beg. She would not yell. She would not scream. She would not threaten. She would not fight against the Warden. Change loomed on the horizon and she did not need the gift of prophecy to see that she was outmatched. The Warden was strong. The Warden was stronger than all of the prisoners gathered in the Maw. It did not hurt her to admit it.

Patience, the Warden says, her voice like breaking glass. All in due time. They are waking.

Faint movements and angry words from nearby drew Sariel’s attention. She might have laughed once. Chortled to hear such misplaced arrogance. Instead she waited. She knew her place. She knew her role. She had no need to prove herself. She had no wish to lash out. The Warden was in charge. The Warden was all that mattered. Watching. Waiting. Perched atop the spider web she had woven through the Maw. Perhaps beyond the Maw as well. Outside of her cell, Sariel could think. She could study the situations arrayed in front of her. She could find answers. So long as she was free. So long as she was awake. So long as she had time. The Warden was right. Sariel needed to be patient. She needed to listen. And she needed to move slowly.

Lifting the hem of her robes, as if wearing a formal gown, Sariel offered a respectful curtsy to the Warden. There was no fear in her movements and no haste. She would listen. There was no need to speak. She would hear what the Warden had to say…or not to say. She wanted to, Sariel knew, recognizing without any anger that she had already chosen.

Planescape: Search for Tir na Og (DnD 5e)

<Snipped quote by Abstract Proxy>

Sure thing!

... was not expecting to get to seven players this quickly, I am shook.

@XxFellsingxX

I love Planescape as a setting A LOT and haven't ever had a chance to write anything for it, so this pitch was like sweet honey to me.

-

Can I make a Circle of the Moon druid who's part of the Plane Tender faction? (MAX DRAMA LET'S GO!!!)

Planescape: Search for Tir na Og (DnD 5e)

I need some table top in my life, can I be the seventh player?

Rerun: Blackguards!

<Snipped quote by Red Wizard>
(Still working on the CS but:) Honestly, whichever you'd find more fun/easier in the long run! Either is cool.

@Vertigo

I hold the same opinion, mostly I think it depends on what you are most interested in doing or what would be most fun for you, Red Wizard.

Both can work very well and make sense.

Sorry for a sort of non-answer, lol.

FALLOUT: ALOHA (RP)

I went in a slightly different direction that I had originally thought, but here's a CS that almost certainly needs some editing...

And I'll add an appearance image as soon as I find one that passes muster.

Galina

Name: Galina

Race: Human

Gender: Female

Age: 23

SPECIAL

• Strength: 5
• Perception: 8
• Endurance: 5
• Charisma: 5
• Intelligence: 5
• Agility: 7
• Luck: 5

Skills

• Unarmed - 0
• Melee - 0
• Throwing - 0
• Guts - 0
• Athletics - 1
• Guns - 3
• Energy Weapons - 0
• Explosives - 1
• Medicine - 1
• Piloting - 0
• Sneak - 3
• Lockpick - 3
• Science - 0
• Repair- 1
• Speech - 1
• Barter - 1
• Survival - 3

Personality

A criminal for as long as she can remember, Galina holds the enigmatic code of her brethren close to her heart. She has no qualms about stealing. She takes no issue with hurting others. And she does not trouble herself with contemplating the moral implications of murder. Burned into her mind are the ideas and the understandings of her fellow thieves. Crowned above all else sits the notion that no authority can be truly trusted or relied upon, especially not any that claims to be the sole source of safety. Distrustful of all, Galina is resigned to the state of the things, leaving her concerns centered chiefly on her own needs and survival.

Galina is meticulous and endlessly pragmatic. Her morality is flexible, bending easily rather than breaking. She is unflinching in the face of violence, holding herself to be well-acquainted with the ways of the post-War world and the many ill-deeds performed across the wasteland. Small acts of kindness are a balm to her soul, and she prefers to avoid needless cruelties. However, she knows just as well that often violent deeds, even great acts of violence, are the answer to difficult problems. Never reckless, she is nonetheless confident in her own abilities.

Shrouded in violence, Galina sees herself as more than just another post-nuke punk. She can be friendly, warm even, if not engaged in professional capacity or challenged. She is fond of conversation and stories. She carries a battered harmonica on her person and in peaceful moments is happy to play a song for her companions.

Background

"When atomic fire consumed the earth, some of those who survived belonged to the gangs of the old world. Freed from the constraints imposed upon them by society, they flourished in the lawless wastelands."

Born beneath the skeletal high rises of downtown Boston, Galina recalls little of her parents or siblings. Her earliest years were spent scavenging the burned out suburbs of Boston. Long days that drove her to desperation with danger and drudgery. She remembers the cold and hunger best. Looking for a way out, seeking an escape from her hellish life, she found her salvation in the remnants of the Old World.

Adopted by a local crime lord, she was initiated into an old order of thieves. The Russian mafia had survived the Great War. They had thrived in the chaos that followed. More than two centuries had passed and organized crime had changed with every absorbed ray of radiation, but it had endured, and it had grown stronger. Surrounded by scum. Tutored in villainy. Twisted as others had been twisted, Galina was taught to threaten, to steal, and to kill. She learned quickly and violence came easily, nourished by the anger that she had swallowed. She found friendship. She found a family. She found a purpose. And she didn't have to go to sleep hungry.

No longer a child, Galina clawed her way upwards. She rose to the illustrious rank of a mid level enforcer, living free from the threat of careless use and elimination at the hands of her superiors. Nothing is free and nothing is cheaply offered in the wasteland. Galina paid for her privileges with service and caps, always more caps. Sent afar, she traveled beyond Boston, collecting on old debts and solving problems for her fellow thieves. For months now, she has traveled westwards, ordered to sail to the Aloha Isles aboard the Green Horizon. Guiding her is a playing card, a tattered Ace of Spades with a sentence in cyclic scribbled underneath the half-scratched out A.

Equipment

• Weapons:
  
  • Handmade Rifle - A homage to a Soviet pre-War weapon, Galina’s handmade rifle is patterned after the legendary Avtomat Kalashnikova (AK-47). Sporting a short improved barrel, a collapsible stock, a large magazine, and a reflex sight, the handmade rifle is the tool for the job when Galina decides to start blasting. A bayonet lug allows Galina to use her combat knife aggressively in combination with her automatic rifle.
  • Makarov pistol (PB) - a pre-War weapon, the PB is a compact handgun with a dedicated detachable suppressor silencer attachment. An old handgun recovered, restored, and re-chambered in a more modern 10mm by a traveling Shi gunsmith, the PM comes from Russia with Love.
  • Combat knife - Sometimes a good knife is the best solution, be it for prying something open, bloodletting, or slicing up an irradiated apple.
  • Switchblade - As a last resort, Galina keeps a switch blade hidden on her person.
• Ammunition:
  • 150x 7.62mm, 5 x 30 magazines
  • 36x 10mm.
• Armor & Apparel:
  • Baseball Cap - Uninterested in sunburns, Galina has a black baseball cap emblazoned with the Nuka-Cola logo.
  • Traveling Outfit - Galina wears a faded gray t-shirt, black jeans, and well-fitting hiking boots.
  • Summer Jacket - Ready for the sun, Galina has acquired a breathable cotton jacket with a number of discreet hidden pockets.
  • Gas mask - All the cool kids have gas masks these days. Rads are bad and S.T.A.L.K.E.R taught everyone that "irradiated post apocalyptic wastelands" require gas masks.
• Consumables:
  • 1x RadAway.
  • 3x Rad-X.
  • 3x Stimpak.
  • 1x Med-X.
  • 2x tourniquet.
  • Pocket Flask - A battered pocket flask, currently filled with vodka.
  • 3 days of food and purified water.
• Misc:
  • Harmonica - Wrapped lovingly in a red silk bag, Galina's harmonica is one of her most cherished possessions.
  • Sunglasses - One pair of mint condition, orange tea-shade sunglasses that Galina stole before the Green Horizon left port.
  • Hiking Backpack - Galina has a large hiking backpack that sits comfortably on her shoulders thanks to the more over designed straps than she can count. Currently her backpack contains a spare barrel for her rifle, a whetstone, flint & steel, a gun cleaning kit, and a book.
  • 1500 Caps.

To prepare for this character, I also stole most of @Starlance's BB code.

FALLOUT: ALOHA (RP)

I shall endeavor to wrap up a traveling scientist with a cybercat (ty for this great idea, Bork) either tonight or tomorrow at some hour.

Rerun: Blackguards!

For a moment there it looked like it was going to be turning into a reverse harem lol

@Chrys

We were so close to a Riot Grrl squad. :'(

Obv excited to see more neat characters though, so the above is just a joke.