1 : an act of depressing or a state of being depressed: such as a)(i) : a state of feeling sad : DEJECTION anger, anxiety, and depression a)(ii) : a mood disorder marked especially by sadness, inactivity, difficulty in thinking and concentration , a significant increase or decrease in appetite and time spent sleeping, feelings of dejection and hopelessness , and sometimes suicidal tendencies bouts of depression suffering from clinical depression
2: a lowering of physical or mental vitality or of functional activity
3: a long and severe recession in a economy or market
Civilisation may have fallen but the American Dream lives on.
Think about it. The Great Depression didn’t wake us up. Black Monday didn’t wake us up. The 2008 housing crisis sure as hell didn’t. The Education Default didn’t, either. Did people really think that the Crash would end the markets?
The biggest trick the governments of the Recession ever pulled on the world was that the Blight led to the Crash.
We all know the Blight wasn’t the cause. It was the death knell, the straw that broke the camel’s back. Overpopulation, poverty, climate change, wars and an economic down-spiral of debts and power hungry corporate oligarchs fostered a Petri dish of instability, ripe enough for the Blight to proliferate.
We’re arriving at the sixth anniversary of the Crash and it’s a marvel at how many more euphemisms they can chalk up to cover their own sins. The mountain of bodies in the Mississippi? Human error. The nuking of our northern neighbours? Preemptive action. The harvesting and experimentation of individuals from the Loss? Scientific endeavours. Some survivors in the Loss I know act shocked but this is just the same crap they’ve been pulling on us. Only difference is that the scapegoat is the undead rather than poor people or some foreign country west of the Atlantic.
Ain’t that a fucking joke.
pg 42 of False Quarantine: A Taker’s Perspective On How Truth Became the New Disease
Dead in Depression is a forum quest that is set in the world of Red Markets and is run using Caleb Stokes proprietary Profit system.
The setting takes place in the aftermath of the Crash - a cataclysmic series of socio-economic and environmental crises bolstered by the arrival of a novel plague: The Blight.This caused the world to be divided up into quarantine zones known informally as the Recession and abandoned exclusion zones known as the Loss. The last remnants of old world governments maintain an iron-grip rule over the Recession to prevent outbreaks and protect their uninfected populace from the ravages of the Loss. On the other side of the wall lies isolated pockets of survivors - enclaves - who trade and squabble with one another over resources to survive and keep out those infected by the Blight. The new fuel of the post-Crash economy is Bounty: a form of capital that consists of identification documents from the previous citizens of America who now shamble around aimlessly in abandoned metropolises. Debit cards, doctor’s licenses, passports, job badges - if you have it, the governments of the Recession will pay you with ration cards. Thus began the creation of a new undead.
You are a Taker: a catch-all term for mercenaries and contractors in the Loss who take on contracts in exchange for payment in Bounty. Accumulate enough bounty and you can give yourself and your loved ones an all-expense guaranteed safe ride to the bowels of the Recession and life comfortably, albeit under the watch of the DHQS. It’s a risky gamble but the reward is enough to make most Takers risk it all. You’ve managed to travel all the way down towards the Crest - a community of coastal enclaves on the California coast in the hopes of securing enough Bounty to place yourself in a nice cushy position in the post-apocalypse.
Will you manage to successfully retire or take a permanent retirement in the ground? The choice is yours.
The quest is run using a version of Red Market’s propietary Profit System which will be explained piecemeal throughout the quest as we go along.
Aberrant - Catch-all term for casualty variants that exhibit unique abilities.
Bait - Term for citizens of the Recession who are believed to be casualty “Bait”.
Believer - Term for the various religious sects, philosophies and beliefs that rose up after the Crash.
Blight - A mysterious plague that defies any known scientific convention. It’s infectology consists of two phases: the Vector phase and the Casualty phase. Living Blight is extremely infectious, converting its hosts to mindless bloodthirsty Vectors in a matter of minutes and completely subsuming the host in seconds. After some time, the histology of the Blight becomes akin to a parasite, burrowing black tendrils into the putrefying corpse and puppeteering it.
Bounty - the currency between the Loss and the Recession. Bounty is provided by the DHQS for the retrieval of identity and property documentation dating before the Crash. Bounty is rewarded on delivery, based on the average value of a pre-Crash adult’s total property and financial holdings.
Casualty - A zombie; a cadaver puppeted by the parasitic nervous system characteristic of “cold” Blight. The term hails from bloodless, sanitized news reports during the early days of the Crash used to prevent panic, now used ironically by Takers. “Taking casualties” can now mean killing zombies for money or dying in the process.
Carrion Economy - generalized term for the world economy. While new goods and services are still in production, worldwide trade is largely focused on looting the corpse of the Loss to recover value and infrastructure.
Citizen - pejorative term for a person living safely in the Recession or one of its settlements.
Crash - the initial emergence of the Blight and the resulting panic, chaos, and death.
Crew - the collective noun form of Takers. Crews assemble to bid on jobs and brand their services.
DHQS - the Department of Homeland Quarantine and Stewardship, the new agency in charge of maintaining the United State’s borders and eventually reclaiming the Loss. They are responsible for the bounty system and the inept enforcement of the underground economy resulting from it.
Enclaves - pockets of surviving civilization not officially recognized by any of the surviving state powers, but large enough to have some economic impact. Allowed to survive because they draw casualties away from the borders of safe zones or maintain vital infrastructure points.
Free Parking - derogatory term for the shantytowns that developed in the wake of the evacuation, so named because of the numerous derelict cars that make up their dwellings.
Homo Sacer - Latin for “the accursed man,” the term refers to a person banned from civilized society and not afforded protection under the law. Anyone outside the Recession’s borders without expressed federal consent is considered Homo Sacer.
Immune - a rare person that, for reasons unknown, is completely immune to Blight infection. They are subject to “conscription into medical service” (read: kidnapping, medical torture, and bone marrow harvesting) in the Recession and its settlements, in order to produce Suppressin K-7864 from their bone marrow. Takers and certain enclaves often attempt to kidnap the Immune for a sizable reward.
Latent - a carrier of the Blight that somehow remains free of cannibalistic urges. It occurs when the virus infects a host but transfers too quickly into its undead state. Necrotic Blight sinews wind painfully through the victim’s tissues (making Latents instantly identifiable), but the dead strain cannot affect living brain tissue. Latency can be natural or achieved by injecting Supressin K-7864 shortly after infection. Those infected by a Latent become Vectors as if bitten by a casualty, as the Blight reanimates itself without the intervention of drugs. Due to this danger, enclaves, settlements, and nations often shoot Latents on sight or detain them in isolated camps.
Lifelines - the secured forum launched by Gnat to coordinate evacuation and survival for civilians during the Crash. It’s now an invite-only community for Takers and other inhabitants of the Loss.
The Loss - as in “written off as a Loss.” Everything outside a safe zone surrendered to the dead
The Recession - If someone is “from the Recession,” they live in a safe zone marked by geographical fortification and run by a surviving national government. Early government communications used this term exclusively to refer to symptoms of the Crash because everything except economic news was being censored to avoid panic. It stuck due to its ironic inadequacy after the American government abandoned many of its citizens and “receded” to the East coast.
The Red Markets - the underground economy exploiting the Loss as a resource and trading between enclaves and the Recession. The market is “red” because it is not legal, but as nearly everyone participating is considered legally dead already, the trade isn’t technically illegal either.
Supressin K-7864 - a drug cocktail derived from the bone marrow of an Immune human, extremely powerful antibiotics, and dangerously caustic antiseptics. Though it cannot kill infection, injection within a few minutes after a bite can cause the Blight to enter its dormant state and reduce a Vector into a Latent human. Supressin is the single most valuable substance in the Loss.
T-mins Never - slang for the day of reclamation, generalized to mean false hope or foolish wishes. Derives from the fact that DHQS has claimed reclamation would begin in 20 years from the date of announcement... for five years running.
Takers - name for the outcasts, smugglers, and survivors that work the Red Markets. Simultaneously references “undertakers” and a reputation for theft.
UBIQ - massive internet start-up responsible for the free global wi-fi network exploited by the Moths and the only reliable from of communication the global economy can rely on. Ubiq servers both enabled and sabotaged the Recession by providing a stable communications network during the Crash.
Vector - a recently infected human unhindered by decay or rigor mortis. They are fast, infectious, and deadly.
“ This is the Morgue Daily, live from the Lifelines. On today’s podcast, we’ll be featuring a very special Taker today on our podcast. It’s the one that all you Lost have been chomping at the teeth for. Gnat, the esteemed leader of the Moths herself! And as we always say here on the Morgue, remember, the Loss is your gaiiiiiiiinnnnnnnnzzzztttttttttt”
Your eyes flutter open at the tail-end of the broadcast. The radio begins to warble like an off-tune opera singer and then descends into a beehive of static. A flabby fist pounds it to no avail as the driver begins conjuring up a storm of swearing.
“ Stupid friggin’ wireless.” The driver grumbles, a hint of a fiery East coast accent that threatens to slip out from the veneer of civility he puts up. “ I swear this damn storm messin the signals up there. Cali’s getting wetter and wetter by the months”
Ah, that jolts your memory. You’d spent a sizeable portion of your Bounty hitchhiking yourself and your close ones from the North. Trying for the Mid-West was damn near imposssible thanks to the Rockies. The only choice was to head for the Golden State and hire a trafficker to bring them to the Crest. Travelling alone wasn’t a risk you were willing to take, even with your experience.
Luckily, it seemed like you picked the right smuggler. There was a sense of personality in the humid interior of the bus as it trucked alongside the pot-holed asphalt of California 1. Little scratches or grooves made with nails or spare pennies into the metal to spell out crude jokes or names. Damp paper adverts stuck to the floor of the bus. Duct tape and super glue had been used to patch up decaying bus seats and some of the cracked windows were plated with thick floorboards ripped straight out of a house.There was a sense of security to be had in its seeming insecurity. The tour bus had been repurposed into an armoured truck, welded parts of other vehicles and corrugated steel bolted onto the sides.
Shifting your head, you take a peek through one of the slits in the boarded up window. You can barely make it out but the blue is unmistakable. That roar of the waves crashing and gulls squawking combined with the sea salt permeating the air reminds you of the times when you stared eagerly in front of your Grandma’s oven. It suddenly occurs to your window that you’ve never seen the ocean before. In person. You’ve had a taste of it in public swimming pools and suspicious water parks but there’s a border to them. A limit that returns you to the hard Crash of modern life where you surrender for lesser. Out there, past what remains of Monterey Bay’s sunny beaches is a veritable expanse of blue that peaks past the horizon, sunlight pooling into little divots where the waves roll and crash into the beach, dissipating their energy into white froth. It’s hard to imagine that before the Crash, these beaches used to be filled with people who would laze on there just to get a tan. Now, such behaviour is bound to either get you labelled as Bait or a privileged member of the Loss.
“ Alright, we’re ‘ere.”The driver shifts stick and the bus slows to a lurching crawl. “E’rybody come up and fess up the fee. Otherwise, you’re welcome to disagree with Buckshot with that’s what you want.”
A man near the bus door - Buckshot, presumably - stands up straight from where’s he’s leaning. He’s cut like a football linebacker and wears a baggy poncho that hangs on his frame like a window curtain. Dark gimlets of green peek out above a sleek NBC filtration mask that covers up his entire mouth. He pumps his shotgun (Ithaca 37, your memory helpfully provides) in a show of intimidation and waves the barrel as if asking everyone to get a move on.
By the time you make it to the front and pass up the Bounty, the driver seeks to make conversation with you.
“ Hold up……” His features scrunch up in concentration, yellowed nicotine-stained teeth grinding together. You can almost hear the rusted gears in his brain turning. “ Haven’t I seen you around somewhere? You’re that Taker….ehhhh……Capuchin? Brero? Jarhead? Weren’t you with me on the Travajo Job?”
[] - Choose a reply.
[X] - “ Come on, bud. Don’t you remember reading one of my op editorials on the Lifelines about the Mid-West StopLoss sites last March? It was a hit all over UbiqNet!”
Begin as Beatnik, the Gonzo Taker Journalist
[X] - “ Nah, nah. You must be confusing me for some other thief - I mean, teeth! Tooth fairy! Yeah, that’s my name. Tooth Fairy. I...sell teeth for a living! ”
Begin as Mousetrap, Scavenger Extraordinaire
[X] - “ I paid your price already. I didn’t recall personal questions as part of our arrangement.”
Begin as EpiPen, The Immune Lone Wolf
“ Hey, relajante. I was only pryin’. You know how it goes ‘round these parts.” He cocks his head in curiosity, looking at your equipment with a hint of jealousy.
[] - What piece of item on you did he comment about?
[X] - “Dios mios, what I would do to finish the last season of Indomitable if I had those glasses of yours. ”
(Start with Ubiq AR Specs.)
[X] - “ Gosh, an actual Gerberman! You a mechanic of some kind çause I’m kind of looking for a guy to repair my toaster….”
(Start with Multitool)
[X] - “ Did you come here to bird watch? If so, you should have gone to Parajo Plains to see the blue jays instead of here.”
(Start with Binoculars)
Start by choosing an action for each prompt and post them in the OOC. For example, if I provided the following prompts:
[] - Choose an action
[X] - Kick
[X] - Punch
[] - Choose something to say
[X] - "Holy shit"
[X] - "Holy fuck"
You would post in the OOC.....
[X] - Kick [X] - "Holy fuck"
Whichever action gets the most votes by players automatically wins. Tiebreakers are determined by the QM (me) with a roll of the die.
1 : an act of depressing or a state of being depressed: such as a)(i) : a state of feeling sad : DEJECTION anger, anxiety, and depression a)(ii) : a mood disorder marked especially by sadness, inactivity, difficulty in thinking and concentration , a significant increase or decrease in appetite and time spent sleeping, feelings of dejection and hopelessness , and sometimes suicidal tendencies bouts of depression suffering from clinical depression
2: a lowering of physical or mental vitality or of functional activity
3: a long and severe recession in a economy or market
Civilisation may have fallen but the American Dream lives on.
Think about it. The Great Depression didn’t wake us up. Black Monday didn’t wake us up. The 2008 housing crisis sure as hell didn’t. The Education Default didn’t, either. Did people really think that the Crash would end the markets?
The biggest trick the governments of the Recession ever pulled on the world was that the Blight led to the Crash.
We all know the Blight wasn’t the cause. It was the death knell, the straw that broke the camel’s back. Overpopulation, poverty, climate change, wars and an economic down-spiral of debts and power hungry corporate oligarchs fostered a Petri dish of instability, ripe enough for the Blight to proliferate.
We’re arriving at the sixth anniversary of the Crash and it’s a marvel at how many more euphemisms they can chalk up to cover their own sins. The mountain of bodies in the Mississippi? Human error. The nuking of our northern neighbours? Preemptive action. The harvesting and experimentation of individuals from the Loss? Scientific endeavours. Some survivors in the Loss I know act shocked but this is just the same crap they’ve been pulling on us. Only difference is that the scapegoat is the undead rather than poor people or some foreign country west of the Atlantic.
Ain’t that a fucking joke.
pg 42 of False Quarantine: A Taker’s Perspective On How Truth Became the New Disease
Dead in Depression is a forum quest that is set in the world of Red Markets and is run using Caleb Stokes proprietary Profit system.
The setting takes place in the aftermath of the Crash - a cataclysmic series of socio-economic and environmental crises bolstered by the arrival of a novel plague: The Blight.This caused the world to be divided up into quarantine zones known informally as the Recession and abandoned exclusion zones known as the Loss. The last remnants of old world governments maintain an iron-grip rule over the Recession to prevent outbreaks and protect their uninfected populace from the ravages of the Loss. On the other side of the wall lies isolated pockets of survivors - enclaves - who trade and squabble with one another over resources to survive and keep out those infected by the Blight. The new fuel of the post-Crash economy is Bounty: a form of capital that consists of identification documents from the previous citizens of America who now shamble around aimlessly in abandoned metropolises. Debit cards, doctor’s licenses, passports, job badges - if you have it, the governments of the Recession will pay you with ration cards. Thus began the creation of a new undead.
You are a Taker: a catch-all term for mercenaries and contractors in the Loss who take on contracts in exchange for payment in Bounty. Accumulate enough bounty and you can give yourself and your loved ones an all-expense guaranteed safe ride to the bowels of the Recession and life comfortably, albeit under the watch of the DHQS. It’s a risky gamble but the reward is enough to make most Takers risk it all. You’ve managed to travel all the way down towards the Crest - a community of coastal enclaves on the California coast in the hopes of securing enough Bounty to place yourself in a nice cushy position in the post-apocalypse.
Will you manage to successfully retire or take a permanent retirement in the ground? The choice is yours.
The quest is run using a version of Red Market’s propietary Profit System which will be explained piecemeal throughout the quest as we go along.
Aberrant - Catch-all term for casualty variants that exhibit unique abilities.
Bait - Term for citizens of the Recession who are believed to be casualty “Bait”.
Believer - Term for the various religious sects, philosophies and beliefs that rose up after the Crash.
Blight - A mysterious plague that defies any known scientific convention. It’s infectology consists of two phases: the Vector phase and the Casualty phase. Living Blight is extremely infectious, converting its hosts to mindless bloodthirsty Vectors in a matter of minutes and completely subsuming the host in seconds. After some time, the histology of the Blight becomes akin to a parasite, burrowing black tendrils into the putrefying corpse and puppeteering it.
Bounty - the currency between the Lossand the Recession. Bounty is provided by the DHQS for the retrieval of identity and property documentation dating before the Crash. Bounty is rewarded on delivery, based on the average value of a pre-Crash adult’s total property and financial holdings.
Casualty - A zombie; a cadaver puppeted by the parasitic nervous system characteristic of “cold” Blight. The term hails from bloodless, sanitized news reports during the early days of the Crash used to prevent panic, now used ironically by Takers. “Taking casualties” can now mean killing zombies for money or dying in the process.
Carrion Economy - generalized term for the world economy. While new goods and services are still in production, worldwide trade is largely focused on looting the corpse of the Loss to recover value and infrastructure.
Citizen - pejorative term for a person living safely in the Recession or one of its settlements.
Crash - the initial emergence of the Blight and the resulting panic, chaos, and death.
Crew - the collective noun form of Takers. Crews assemble to bid on jobs and brand their services.
DHQS - the Department of Homeland Quarantine and Stewardship, the new agency in charge of maintaining the United State’s borders and eventually reclaiming the Loss. They are responsible for the bounty system and the inept enforcement of the underground economy resulting from it.
Enclaves - pockets of surviving civilization not officially recognized by any of the surviving state powers, but large enough to have some economic impact. Allowed to survive because they draw casualties away from the borders of safe zones or maintain vital infrastructure points.
Free Parking - derogatory term for the shantytowns that developed in the wake of the evacuation, so named because of the numerous derelict cars that make up their dwellings.
Homo Sacer - Latin for “the accursed man,” the term refers to a person banned from civilized society and not afforded protection under the law. Anyone outside the Recession’s borders without expressed federal consent is considered Homo Sacer.
Immune - a rare person that, for reasons unknown, is completely immune to Blight infection. They are subject to “conscription into medical service” (read: kidnapping, medical torture, and bone marrow harvesting) in the Recession and its settlements, in order to produce Suppressin K-7864 from their bone marrow. Takers and certain enclaves often attempt to kidnap the Immune for a sizable reward.
Latent - a carrier of the Blight that somehow remains free of cannibalistic urges. It occurs when the virus infects a host but transfers too quickly into its undead state. Necrotic Blight sinews wind painfully through the victim’s tissues (making Latents instantly identifiable), but the dead strain cannot affect living brain tissue. Latency can be natural or achieved by injecting Supressin K-7864 shortly after infection. Those infected by a Latent become Vectors as if bitten by a casualty, as the Blight reanimates itself without the intervention of drugs. Due to this danger, enclaves, settlements, and nations often shoot Latents on sight or detain them in isolated camps.
Lifelines - the secured forum launched by Gnat to coordinate evacuation and survival for civilians during the Crash. It’s now an invite-only community for Takers and other inhabitants of the Loss.
The Loss - as in “written off as a Loss.” Everything outside a safe zone surrendered to the dead
The Recession - If someone is “from the Recession,” they live in a safe zone marked by geographical fortification and run by a surviving national government. Early government communications used this term exclusively to refer to symptoms of the Crash because everything except economic news was being censored to avoid panic. It stuck due to its ironic inadequacy after the American government abandoned many of its citizens and “receded” to the East coast.
The Red Markets - the underground economy exploiting the Loss as a resource and trading between enclaves and the Recession. The market is “red” because it is not legal, but as nearly everyone participating is considered legally dead already, the trade isn’t technically illegal either.
Supressin K-7864 - a drug cocktail derived from the bone marrow of an Immune human, extremely powerful antibiotics, and dangerously caustic antiseptics. Though it cannot kill infection, injection within a few minutes after a bite can cause the Blight to enter its dormant state and reduce a Vector into a Latent human. Supressin is the single most valuable substance in the Loss.
T-mins Never - slang for the day of reclamation, generalized to mean false hope or foolish wishes. Derives from the fact that DHQS has claimed reclamation would begin in 20 years from the date of announcement... for five years running.
Takers - name for the outcasts, smugglers, and survivors that work the Red Markets. Simultaneously references “undertakers” and a reputation for theft.
UBIQ - massive internet start-up responsible for the free global wi-fi network exploited by the Moths and the only reliable from of communication the global economy can rely on. Ubiq servers both enabled and sabotaged the Recession by providing a stable communications network during the Crash.
Vector - a recently infected human unhindered by decay or rigor mortis. They are fast, infectious, and deadly.
How could it be? That one of the Great Blades vanishes into the aether?
We must trace our steps back to the Old Aeon. A place where the Gargantuans wandered the unending expanse of salt and glass aimlessly under a sun that never set. Under the command of the Malakim, the Gargantuans weaved the earth with their fingers, knotted the sky with their breaths and sewn the stars in with their wills. However, ennui grew into curiosity and soon, desire. Thus, the Gargantuans began to grow, threatening to unturn the Loom. Thus, it was that the servant turned on the master.
The battle shook the heavens and for every a hundred giant, a angel fell to the earth. Throughout this conflict, six Great Blades were forged from the primordial pandemonium. The land as we know it was shapen from their corpses and new life emerged from the corpses of the Gargantuans. It was then that the Great Blades found themselves new wielders.
Kamocek, the Miracle Sword, plucked from the stars.
Nandoka, the Joyous Kris, smithed from the enlightenment of free thought.
Shamshir, the Gibbous Scimitar, discovered by serendipity in the Burning Sea.
Calesvol, the Sovereign Spear, pulled from stone by Men and stolen by the Fin.
Skofnung, the Cerine Cleaver, quenched in blood by the Lutin Lords of the Fell-Lands.
And lastly, Durandal, the Enduring Scythe, wrought from the will and courage of the Gargantuan.
Together, the Great Blades seeded the foundations of the Occitente, used to commit great and terrible works. The New Aeon was born and the First Kingdoms, named after the Great Blades, were established.
When the blade is lost, the scabbard withers. Once tale spread of the blade being lost, the Roi attempted to forge a new blade to fill the scabbard, resulting in the Sundering. War soon spread, flooding the rivers with blood, and the kingdom of the Enduring Scythe, once mighty, became burdened with sorrow and strife. Beasts of all manner and make wreak havoc on peasant tithes. Armies of bandit kings roam the roads. Lawlessness had taken root in place of lords that fled their duties.
Who will be the one to save our kingdoms?
Frayed Tapestry is an epic medieval play by post RP of swords, sorcery and cannons that draws inspiration from the Soulsborne Franchise, Berserk and the Black Company.
Set in the far away lands of the Occitente, we set our eyes on Durandelle, one of the Blade Kingdoms that safeguards the Great Blade that earnt its namesake - Durandal, the Enduring Scythe. For generations, Roi Perriere Olander and his dynasty have been the sole wielders of Durandal, using its powers to bring an age of prosperity and peace.
Well, until it disappeared. Then, a kingdom suddenly became kingless and an empty throne attracts pretenders by the dozens.
For two centuries, the Curators of the Blade have been searching for the sword. Each year since its disappearance marks the descent of Durandelle and its territories further into chaos. Warlords, nobles, conniving Fin and Lutin lords, cults and many more factions have dueled over its principalities, splitting the land into multiple territories with uncontested blighted lands in between, ravaged by the taint of enochian magicks and rotting corpses. Bands of sellswords and mercenaries have gradually replaced armies of knights and squires as codes of chivalries have been replaced in favor of contracts of coin. Furthermore, the loss of a Great Blade has bred paranoia into the hearts of the Kingdoms of the Occitente as they seclude themselves further from one another.
As more searchers die, go mad or suffer ignoble fates in their quest to find the sword, the Curators have been forced to recruit from less worthier stock to supplant their dwindling armies of knights and royals , all of whom have decried the quest for Durandal to be a foolish one. This includes prisoners, brigands, thieves, cultists and all manner of men and women who would have been sent to the gallows without their intervention.
They are known as False Searchers.
You are one of them.
Whether you were innocent or guilty of your acts, the Blade Searchers have decreed that you be a part of their quest.
TL;DR: You're a medieval suicide squad that has been hired to get an item that is responsible for the political stability of a continent.
I am looking for a total of 4-7 players at the moment. I am also willing to have 1 or 2 more co-GMs depending on the number of players that sign up.
RULES
Everyone within this RP is expected to obey the clauses outlined in RPG’s official rules, along with the following to ensure that no problems arise.
1) Put On Your Grasses
- Be respectful to other players in this RP and avoid uncivil behaviour in the OOC that may cause others to be uncomfortable. Harassment and flaming will not be tolerated. - Don’t be a dick. Leave whatever baggage you may have at the door. If you continue being a dick, I’ll boot your dick and your ass from this RP. - The word of the GM is final. If you try and refute any of the GM’s decisions, you better have a good reason for doing so. - Please treat and discuss sensitive, controversial and or mature topics in a respectful and nuanced manner. In regards to portrayal of sexual themes in IC, all interactions that involve extreme explicit sexual imagery of any sort shall be conducted within PMs until the day that the Guild permits to allow showing of explicit NSFW content on its public site.
2) Jolly Cooperation
-Collaborations are heavily encouraged between two or more players, independent of GM mandated collaborations, in order to break up the monotony in waiting for someone to post.
-Discussion of the narrative, independent worldbuilding or providing narrative suggestions to the GM is also encouraged. I want criticism, dammit, so you better give me some if you think I’m messing up.
3) The Arbitrary Quality Formerly Known As Good Writing
- The general rule for writing is that quality matters over quantity, although having both of them in equal amounts is better.
- A minimum of two paragraphs is expected within your writing.
4) Rain Check
- There is no strict posting schedule which you must adhere to. - However, please do message me whenever you may have an IRL event that you are preoccupied with or whether you are disinterested in continuing. - If you are inactive for a period of 3 weeks or so in both the OOC and the IC, I will take it as a sign that you are no longer able to participate and you will be booted from the RP.
5) Have Fun - Make Fun. - Be the Fun. - Screw the No-Fun Constables. - Scream Fun - Worship Fun
LORE
Settlements of Durendelle
Races
Esoterica
Sanctioned
Thaumaturgy is a magical school of contradictions.
There exists 3 schools within the art of augury: haruspecy, astrapecy and
There exists 2 schools within the art of transposeance: bone-smithing and soul infusion.
Ctephesius prowled along the forest floor under the shadows of the smelly and stinky humans that had drunk the grape poison.
He was currently lost.
He was relaxing on his companion human’s shoulder but the other stupid humans began talking and ruined his nice nap. He ran off to find a better spot in a oak tree that he liked to sleep in. It was nice, high and the talking voices of the rest of the stupid humans in the companion human’s pride were barely heard. Now, he regretted his mistake and tried to find his companion human. Unfortunately, the mixture of smells were confusing him. His companion human was a snow human and finding him in this mixture of humans was like finding mice in a hay bale. Ctephesius softly meowed to get a human’s attention, to bring him to his companion human, but all they did was put their filthy hands on his head or stare at him creepily.
“ Ctephesius? Ctephesius?! Gosh darn it, where’s that damnable feline….”
His master’s voice! Ctephesius began to bound towards where he heard it but was blocked by a troupe of stupid, dancing radish-smelling humans. They seemed to be marking their territory by the way they were randomly stepping about. He pawed and meowed at them with all the ferocity he could muster. They only closed their eyes and giggled in response, waving their strange clear tubes at him. The voice of his companion kept growing softer and softer the more he allowed these humans to continue intimidating him. He crouched and then, seeing an opening, darted through the legs of these idiot humans. A swell of victory burst within Ctephesius’s heart. Finally, he could make it back to his companion human and receive his snacks -
Amidst his distraction, he failed to notice a leg which he collided with painfully. Ctephesius rolled off his back and shook his head to get rid of the dizziness. He would punish whatever human did this to -
Oh no, it was that icky human with the books.
Ctephesius stepped back, the hairs on his back raised and his ears furled back as his single moon-lit eye, wide like a dinner plate, stared up at Elara with apprehension.
“That’s not very nice,” the Breton mage said as she shifted to the ground, her right hand extending slowly in the direction of the cat. “I thought we were becoming fast friends, Ctephesius.”
Ctephesius narrowed his eyes and leaned his head back as though her hand was repelling him like a lodestone. His paw lifted out to meekly swat at the icky human’s hand. His eye flitted back between her open hand and her icky human face which smelt of ink and dried wood. He let out a loud warning growl. This icky human would pay if she dared touch him. He then heard his companion human’s voice again in the background.
“ Ctephesius? You seen a one-eyed cat around here? Yes, a one-eyed cat. No, I’m not a necromancer…..”
His voice was becoming louder and louder.If he was to find his companion successfully, then, he had to stay put. Running away from the icky human would only get him lost.
That didn’t mean he would trust this icky human with the books, though.
Reaching into her satchel, Elara pulled out a small piece of preserved meat, “Hissing is quite rude, Ctephesius. I only want to pet you. Look here’s some food, we will strike a bargain. You let me pet you and I will let you have this tasty treat!”
Treats. Ctephesius’s pupils widened as his nose twitched with a little sniffle. It smelled good. But not as good as what his companion human could make. His head neared it but he retreated backwards, hissing. He then decided to grumpily tuck his paws and tail underneath his body, sitting down and sitting his head down onto the forest floor.
“ Mreow,” he replied back with almost a note of petulance in it.
Elara frowned, carefully placing the meat in between herself and the one eyed cat. “I have all the patience in the world, Ctephesius. Do you really think that you can defeat me in a contest of wills? I have brought Daedra onto this plane and bound them to my will. Besides, I mean you no harm. I simply wish to pet you. You let Reyna pet you. So why not me?”
Ctephesius replied by merely reluctantly dragging the meat over towards him. He then took a lick of it, recoiled and with what seemed like a smirk on its face, grabbed the meat with his jaw and threw it back to Elara, splattering a greasy smear on her shirt.
“ Mrroewwww!,” he loudly exhorted in disgust.
“ Ctephesius! There you are!” Quintus came out of the dark, a look of genuine relief and a grin on his face as he scooped Ctephesius up by his bum and belly with two hands. The cat continued to look disgruntled, giving the stink eye towards Elara whilst Quintus rubbed his back.
“ Oh, you wee lil’ bugger. I’ve been looking all oér for you!” He then looked at Elara. “ Thanks for keeping an eye on him fer me. He’s an innocent little thing. I can’t imagine what would happen if I lost him forever.”
“Yes...about that...Quintus, I think your cat is broken. He refuses to let me pet him.”
Quintus chuckled. “ S’rry ‘bout that, ‘Lara. He’s a little skittish around you Bretons. I chalked it up to that clever craft you all seem to practice a few years ago but he gets along fine with that bark-eating Rimmenese.”
Ctephesius purred as Quintus continued to scratch his back, cuddling into Quintus’s chest. Quintus eventually sat down besides Elara, continuing to muse himself by playing with Ctephesius before coughing to break the tension.
“ Need anything to eat? Pot of stew’s still boiling oér there. I can get you a bowl if you like but all the rest of the men have taken the good parts. There’s still a chunk of venison in ére if I remember correctly….”
“A most generous offer, friend,” Elara began, smiling as if in thought. “Oh! I recall a recipe! The cooks at the Arcane University used to make the most delightful saffron peafowl soup. Do we have any saffron? And peafowl? It would be a welcome dish in these eager hours before we face the tyrant.”
“ Saffron? Peafowl? What’s next? Truffle? A suckling pig? Ye want me to serve you whale caviar or aged giant marrow?”
Quintus narrowed his eyes, setting Ctephesius down.
“ We’re a rebellion, not the Imperial gourmand’s kitchen, clever crafter. You’re getting stew I made, the bread our bakers made from the wild grain out here and the meat our hunters caught. I’m sure the nobles of Skingrad ‘ill be happy to fulfill your request once we break down their ‘oors tomorrow.”
The crease of a frown danced across mage’s face and she sighed. “It was merely a question, Quintus.”
Picking up a stick from the ground, Elara drew long, graceful letters in the dirt. Her expression had turned sullen and there was a look of irritation in her eyes. “I worry sometimes about your lack of vision, friend. Surely, you cannot be happy eating rabbit stew for the rest of your life? You must look beyond your farm.”
“ Where you see a farm, I see honest work and a life worth living.” Quintus threw a stick into the campfire, jostling the branches to stoke the dying flames. He was looking away from Elara, a scowl marking his normally jovial features. “ Ya think ye can lecture me from your high horse like I’m some ignorant seed-sower who doesn’t know who’s good fer him? I was satisfied and content with my life before my farm was burnt down by the Imperials. Can you say the same about your life?”
“I was content, happy even, before all...all of this ugliness,” Elara began, flinching as if she had been struck. Dark clouds soon seemed to swirl above her and her voice took on a bitter, angry timber with each word that she uttered. “I wrote books. I published papers. I gave talks. I had grant funding. I was so CLOSE to finding out the truth. I was so close to discovering something truly novel about Oblivion.”
“But I was betrayed. Like you, like everyone else,” Elara said, erasing the Daedric words she had traced into the soil with an angry wave of the stick she still held in her hand. “Abandoned by the ignorant. Hated by the fearful. Cast out by a council of petty fools content to die without presenting any answers.”
“ Don’t ya dare think we’re the same. You were born into luxury and royalty! I was a nobody who was born in a pig stye in the middle of Whiterun. I spent my life on the harvest whilst you spent your life flipping through scrolls and for what? You chose your fate. I didn’t - “ Quintus balled his fists together, stopping himself mid-sentence as he remembered the bodies strewn across Anvil on that day because of his decision. The extinction of the Farmer’s Guild on his foolish hands. He closed his eyes, tense with grief, before a sombre look came over him. He turned his back fully to Elara.
“ It always comes down to ambition, ain’t it? That’s the thing that brings us up and puts us back down. Ambition.”
“We all choose our own fate, friend,” Elara said, the smallest hint of apology lacing her soft words. “We have only attempted to achieve our deserved ambitions.”
“ Heh.” Quintus muttered, scratching the back of his head awkwardly as he looked back at Elara. “ You know, I wonder what my 2 brothers are doing right now. Verren’s probably somewhere in the Abecean right now. Gerold….” His voice trailed off, remembering the promises that he and his eldest brother made to each other in the wilds of Whiterun, carving their names on the pines and promising to venture out into the mountains, through ancient crypts in search of adventure.
Now, look at how it had all turned out. Ctephesius meowed out loud impatiently, crouching in front of Quintus and jumping in front of Elara to vye for his attention. With a chuckle, his fingers began scratching his head much to the cat’s pleasure as it crooned gently.
“ I’m….” Quintus struggled to get the words out as if the act of apologising was almost agonising for him. “ ….sorry for what I said just now. If you’ll take me up on my original offer of stew, I’ll be glad to oblige. Otherwise, I understand if ya ain’t in the mood right now.”
Jumping to her feet, Elara offered the large man her hand with a grin, “I, Elara Metrick, royal consort that I am, magnanimously forgive your slight against my person. Let us share food and talk of great things, such as how we can bring further liberty to the oppressed and saffron buns for all.”
“ Well, can ya settle for rosemary instead?” Quintus asked with a half-smile, accepting the academic’s hand with his grimy, dirt-coated ones. They stood there for a while before he looked over towards the communal cauldron where some peasants were still scooping pottage with a ladle. “ I should probably get over there before - “
Then, at that moment, Ctephesius chose to hack an hairball onto Elara’s shoe.
At 6 foot tall, Quintus looks more the part of a town guard or a sell-sword rather than a simple farmer. His towering physique and wide sloping bear-like shoulders are courtesy of his Nordic heritage and years spent toiling in his family’s farm. Yet, in spite of his intimidating size, Quintus bears a rather easy-going and unrefined disposition from a humble life of peasantry. Talking is less of a game to him and more of a tool, combining uncouth remarks and rude swears in a gruff, personable tone. He never quite stands upright, often looking as though he’s leaning on one side. His copper hair is uncombed, resulting in it becoming a wild, tangled mess interspersed with burs, straw and cat hairs. His warm blue eyes brim with a boisterous confidence, yet, are burdened with a strained grief. Throughout it all, his ever-present impish grin is framed by a thick bushy beard.
The fair northern skin of the Nords has been blemished by days spent out in Cyrodiil’s sweltering sun, where it has turned his complexion into a shade of boiled leather. His ham-sized hands are overgrown with clumps of calluses, popped blisters and faded scars that are a nostalgic reminder of more peaceful, honest days in the Gold Coast. Being thrust into the role of a small-time revolutionary hasn’t exactly been good for Quintus’s health either. An arrowhead can be found lodged deep within his left shoulder and his time hiding in the countryside from Imperial authorities without any methods to clean himself means he stinks of horker shit.
In terms of attire, Quintus is a firm believer of practicality and durability. He still wears the sodden, roughshod apparel of a farmer, albeit, with modifications made to suit his new lifestyle as an outlaw revolutionary. His work apron has been trimmed down for comfort, clasped with a wide belt, with a steel pauldron strapped over on his left shoulder for support. Thick fingerless gauntlets made of mammoth’s hide shroud his hands. His work boots and leather breeches are caked in dried mud and soil. Ctesphesius or Fair Rock can be usually seen occupying or lazing on his shoulders.
Personality
Contrary to his current reputation, Quintus is not a ‘crazed psychopathic radical’ but rather, is a humble, confident farmer who takes solace in simple pleasures. His intimidating stature and physicality belies a friendly and polite, albeit in his own coarse manner, personality who is willing to pass you a mug of mead and shoot the wind with you from dawn till dusk. Two decades of farm life and peasantry have mellowed out his Nordic sensibilities for anger and adventure, resulting in a lack of lofty ambitions. Now, with 5000 septims painting a target on his back, thanks to his own fool-hardy decisions, and his family farm burnt down to cinders, his ambitions have now included accidentally becoming a peasant revolutionary and joining Isobel’s group of rebels.
Under his friendly exterior, however, lies a bitter doubt that claws at him from the inside like a parasite. He harbors deep regret and grief for his role in galvanizing the short lived rebellion that led to the downfall of the Farmer’s Guild. However, he knows that as long as the shadow of the Empire stares down at them, his father’s vision of a pastoral life for him and the rest of his family cannot come to fruition. A constant battle is waged between his desires to seek retribution from the Empire and his (or his father’s?) wishes to live the simple life of a farmer.
When it comes to his perspective of Tamriel nobility and the merchant class. Quintus’s opinion on them can be summarised as, in his own words, ‘ a bunch of horker milk-drinking greedy sod-swallops who force us to eat their manure’. Thus, Quintus does not pay much attention to the court politics of the Empire or treat it with serious gravity. During casual interactions with them, he usually treats them with a heaping dose of passive hostility and laden sarcasm.
History
SPRING HARVEST
To understand Quintus, we first must begin with who the Gefjenssens are.
Firstly, the Gefjenssens, unlike the vast majority of Nordic families who are voraciously violent and head-strong, are known for being polite pacifists. This has earned them the enmity and respect of other Nordic families who are simultaneously in amazement at how a line has gone so long without producing a single warrior and disgust at their seeming weak-willingness to fight last, talk first. Secondly, It is a strict belief in the Gefjenssen family that adventure and all matters of wild escapades are nonsense. Gefjenssens were born on the farm, lived on the farm and died on the farm. Lastly, as a small mention, all Gefjenssens are habitually superstitious. For example, all family members were birthed on the First Seed, as an old family tradition to bless the harvest and ensure good future welfare of their family.
So, Quintus Gefjenssen nearly frightened his mom and dad when he was born at the bell’s end of First Seed, 3E420, nearly breaking their centuries old tradition. His father, Elbi, and mother, Sigund, were unsure of whether to take it as a sign of good or bad luck from Mara. The discussion was closed when Fair-Rock, the family’s century old heirloom chicken, was found closely guarding him by his crib. It was later discussed again when Quintus was discovered missing from his crib, only to be found chasing ravens in the wheat fields. And then another time when he wandered near a mudcrab nest. And when they had to stop him from trying to ride the back of a mammoth. Eventually, they finally decided that Quintus was a Gefjenssen and that his proclivities towards adventure would mellow out as he grew older.
Growing up, Quintus didn’t live a lavish life of luxury, learning firsthand to be grateful for what he had available. Being the second eldest amongst three children didn’t particularly allow Elbi or Sigund to pay attention equally to all of them. Whilst he was somewhat put-off by the fact that his parents didn’t dote on him in particular, this proved to be a boon as Quintus had a wealth of time to explore the wild fields of Whiterun by himself. His eldest brother, Gerold, encouraged him to follow his pursuits and live a life outside of the pastoral one Father was determined to set them on. Unfortunately, Elbi didn’t see eye to eye with his firstborn and nights of arguments escalated into Quintus waving goodbye to Gerold as he left for Winterhold College, never to be seen again.
With Gerold gone, Quintus began taking on more responsibilities at a young age alongside his second eldest brother, Verren. defending the chicken coop from wolves, spinning wool and flax into rope, making repairs to the barn, getting rid of mice infestations and accompanying his father to the market to sell their goods. Life settled into a restless monotony and Quintus was oddly enough content. The geopolitical events which shook Tamriel during this period such as the Oblivion Crisis were largely ignored by the Gefjenssens who continued to plow the fields and plant for the next harvest.
Disaster then struck one winter when Quintus turned the bold right age of 10. A nomadic giant colony had trampled all over the winter crops that Elbi had planted. By the time the local militia managed to fend them off, what was left was barely salvageable. The skyrocketing taxes enforced by the new Jarl of Whiterun wasn’t doing Elbi any favors and taking care of two children simultaneously was strenuous with the amount of gold they had. For the first time in the history of the Gefjenssens, Elbi took a gamble and sold his family’s long cherished farm in Whiterun. With the remaining savings, he bought the deed to a patch of arable land in Cyrodiil, in the region of the Gold Coast. Whilst Quintus was notably saddened to leave his childhood home, there was a spark of excitement in him as he looked outside the carriage towards new, foreign lands.
SUMMER HARVEST
Hot, sticky and insufferable. Those were the first 3 words that came to Quintus’s mind when he first arrived in the Gold Coast. Growing used to frigid winters and Nordic frankness had made him unprepared for Cyrodiil’s Nibenese who he encountered during their trip through the Jerall Mountains. They were like slippery eels to Quintus; unpredictable and alien in the charismatic disposition. Luckily, the Colovians in Sutch were more familiar and easy for the Nord farmer to interact with. Settling down in the Gold Coast was harder than the trip itself. Unpacking everything, building a new barn and re-ploughing the fields took the course of several months but by the time they harvested their first crop of millet and wheat, things were looking up for the Gefjenssens.
Determined not to let an incident such as what happened in Whiterun affect them again, Elbi reluctantly became a member of the nascent Farmer’s Guild, an budding organisation based in the west of Cyrodiil that was made up of former members of the Brewer’s and Vinter’s Guild and Colovian farmers who were eager to join the cause. The rebuilding of the guild arose from dissatisfaction within some parts of the guild that the regulations and rules brokered by the Guild Act of the Second Era was insufficient to the socio-economic needs of brewers and vineyard owners and that the current guilds only served to line the pockets of officials in the Empire. Elbi could care less about political ideology and was only concerned with the access to valuable trade deals and security that membership granted him. Quintus, however, found himself enamored with the ideals the Guild was espousing and soon found himself acquainted with Thessa, a young female Bosmer, who was part of a goat herding family and became quick friends, often debating with one another on the future of farmers in the Empire.
It was on his second trade trip to Skingrad that Quintus found Ctesephesius. His father was making repairs to the barn alongside Verren and encouraged Quintus to go along with Sigund, instead, believing it to be an opportunity for a mother and son bonding experience. Unfortunately for Quintus, Sigund used the trip to measure up her son’s “shoddy” alchemy skills. In the middle of another alchemy lesson, Quintus suddenly heard loud mewling outside in the tent that he and his mother had set up. Running out with a lamp, he discovered a small kitten shivering in the rain, a pool of dried blood around it, with its tail curled up around its almost skeletal body. Scooping it up gently in his arms, Quintus slowly nursed it back to healh over the next few days, feeding it milk from the sow they brought with them on their trip and curing the rot-infection that had plagued its right eye. It was only on the 7th day that they discovered a collar with a small-tag on it: “Ctesephesius.” When they returned back to the Gold Coast, Ctesephesius officially became a new part of the Gefjenssen family, much to the displeasure of Fair-Rock, who wrestled for territorial control with the feline for the next few years.
The next five years passed by in an instant. Quintus rose up the echelons of the Farmers Guild, eventually becoming a council representative which was a point of contention between him and his father. The Gefjenssen farmstead was thriving. Verren had parted with the family on more amiable terms than Gerold, attracted not by the lure of academic knowledge but of the high seas, becoming a fisherman. The friendship between Quintus and Thessa had blossomed into intimacy but things soured unexpectedly when Thessa’s father was severely injured at the hands of Imperial debt collectors. Thessa, in a fit of grief, revealed her plans to Quintus in private to kill them in kind and burn down the Count of Anvil’s house for attacking her father and asked for his assistance in brewing an undetectable poison for her.
Of course, like any good Gefjenssen, Quintus was horrified at the nature of her plans and quickly objected to it, believing that any altercation between her and the Imperial authorities would only result in severe tragedy and would not bring her the justice she desired. Thessa responded by throwing him out of her house. Quintus reported her to the guardsmen of Sutch, hoping that a few days in the dungeons would make her see the light again and that she would be unable to harm anyone.
However, he was unable to predict that he would play a role in Thessa’s death as the day of her execution was announced publicly, her crime being “sedition against the Empire”. Quintus watched as Thessa was forced onto her knees, for a moment, her eyes locking with his in the crowd, the surge of anger and fear in her bubbling away to resignation. The axe fell, the ravens crowed and the world, for a moment, in Quintus’s eyes seemed to fade in color.
Once every year, Quintus goes to her grave and drinks a glass of cider out of remembrance and grief for their friendship.
FALL HARVEST
Red Plague. That was what the healers told him. It was a benign plague amongst the young. However, with Elbi approaching the age of 80 and years of constant physical hard labor taking a toll on his body, it was a death sentence. Quintus felt that his ascendance to becoming the head of the Gefjenssen family was unearned, as if he had cheated himself of a victory. It was supposed to be ceremonial, a father granting his scion the right to lead his line. Quintus didn’t like unwelcome surprises and this would be one of the many portents that would fortell the doom of the Gefjenssen farm.
Tensions were beginning to rise between the Farmers Guild, now composed of several vital farms in the west of Cyrodiil, and the Empire, now under the direction of Thules the Gibbering. The Red Dawn had decimated Vvardenfell and its rich volcanic soils that supplied Cyrodill’s markets with untold amounts of fresh goods. Imperial decrees were legislated and issued out to every farmstead to increase production in order to ensure security in these new troubling times. It was only made worse with the arrival of refugees from Vvrdenfall in the ports of Anvil where most farmers, out of foolhardy altruism, decided to take them in.
At the same time, within the Farmers Guild, Quintus was receiving offers to become the head of the Senior Council, rejecting every request made to him, out of respect for his father’s wishes to not become deeply involved in politics. Eventually, he had to break his promise the moment Imperial tax collectors came knocking on his barn, informing him of the new tax laws and how it was only temporary to consolidate Thules the Gibbering rule.
That was the final straw for Quintus.
Soon, in unified protests, the Farmers Guild stopped all harvesting and sent a letter to the local imperial commander, Gaius Olen, of the Gold Coast Garrison, stating their demands and conditions for lower taxes, fair land ownership laws and punishment of Imperial officers for intimidating and physically flogging farmers. Olen replied back generously by sending a group of 20 imperial soldiers and the adjutant tax officer of Gold Coast, Dervis Plinian.
The mistake on their part was believing that they could take on nearly a hundred angry farmers armed to the brim with farming tools and succeed. Digging out pits filled with carved sticks and hiding under piles of hay, the force of farmers managed to ambush and capture them all alive, wounding some of them in the process. Quintus hoped that they could use the captured soldiers as a means of bargaining for some of their terms. Diplomacy slowly deteriorated over the course of several letters where Olen asked them to release all the prisoners at once or face certain death.
The constant taunting of Adjutant Tax Officer Plinian didn’t help with Quintus’s patience as he continued to jibe and berate them for their actions, stating that each and every servant of the Empire would be willing to die before they surrendered to a lowly group of peasants. The torrent of relentless insults came to a head one night in the middle of a frenzied discussion between Quintus and the rest of the Guild on which direction to proceed in.
“ You are nothing peasant, you hear me! You are just chaff! Straw!”
In that moment, Quintus saw Thessa’s headless body. His father’s chest-wracking coughs which kept him up at night. He stood up, his stony face inscrutable, before picking up the scythe resting by the barn’s wall and hoisting it over his shoulder. Facing the farmer, he spoke back in a casual manner, as if he was heading down for a walk to the tavern.
“ Aye, verily. For I am straw and yet, yer still scared of me. If that’s enough to preserve the field, then, a man of straw I shall be.”
Then, Quintus brought the scythe overhead and brought it down, steel singing in the air. Warm warm blood sprayed all over his skin as Plinian’s head was lopped off, eyes blinking aimlessly and his mouth slightly ajar. The fingers kept moving for over a minute before they went still. Quintus breathed, the metallic taste of iron on his lips, before he dropped the scythe and stumbled back in shock and relief for what he had done.
Now was the end of the beginning.
Olen, outraged by Quintus’s act of brutality, was determined not to fail this time and sent a group of 50 heavily armed soldiers, of which included an Imperial battlemage, to crush them for their insolence. This completely routed the short-lived rebellion and resulted in over dozens of farmers being slaughtered on the fields of Gold Coast. Seeing no other option, Quintus called for a retreat and along with other farmers, began the process of evacuating their farmsteads. The Imperials, however, were unwilling to give them any mercy for they lighted their torches and began burning down farm houses across the Gold Coast who had participated in Quintus’s folly. It was dawn by the time he arrived at his farmhouse, the Imperials an hour behind him on horseback and occupied with the destruction of other farming families.
His mother was there on the porch, stricken-faced. She’d heard rumors of what he’d done spread across the Gold Coast like wildfire, both literally and figuratively. He ignored her ceaseless demands and questions, as he hastily began combing through the house for vital supplies. Her safety was of more concern than her enquiries. She then asked one final questions in the middle whilst hoisting herself up on the family horse in the barn with a poignant tone.
“ Is this what your father would have wanted for us?”
Quintus didn’t even bother replying, keeping silent and watching her ride away from the house, the form growing smaller and smaller in the distance. Walking around the house, he looked at a painted family portrait his father had commissioned for them in Whiterun. Maybe, it was the fatigue that got to him but he could see his father’s face in the painting shift, stare at him with an unrecognizable expression. Was it anger? Disapproval? Sadness at what he’d done to their family? With Ctesephesius and Fair-Rock behind him, he departed from his family home and for the first time, the Gefjenssen barn was completely empty.
Life on the run from the Empire wouldn’t be difficult if it wasn’t for the enormous bounty that they’d placed on his head. Quintus was forced to stay within the forests of Anvil and Skingrad, never going to any well-populated towns out of fear that they might recognise him. Then again, why was he still fighting? Wouldn’t it be better if he’d give himself up so that he wouldn’t cause any more harm? For a time, Quintus battled with surviving in the elements and his own responsibility in the massacre he’d caused. It was only due to the company of his pets as well as his determination to see justice for what the Empire had done that kept his spirit alive.
Half a year later, in Skingrad, Quintus found himself resting by a communal campfire in the middle of the Gold Path, sharing company for the first time with other individuals who weren’t chickens or cats. Good, heartening conversation quickly turned into political debate as his ears pricked up at the mention of a group of rebels. Seeing no other course of action, Quintus joined Isobel’s band of rebels in the hopes of redeeming himself for his past failures and to earn back the quaint life that the Empire had taken from him.
Favoured Attributes
Major: Strength
Minor: Intelligence
Favoured Skills
Adept
- Spear
- Woodworking
- Alchemy
- Mercantile
- Provisioning
Journeyman
- Clothier
- Smithing
- Archery
Equipment
- A three pronged oak handle steel pitchfork. - A short bow nocked with boar sinew. - Quiver with 20 wood-carved arrows made from Fair-Rock’s feathers, flint and - Satchel of common herbs, reagents and ingredients used for brewing potions. - Separate leather jerkin of poisonous herbs used for brewing poisons. - Water pouch made from a deer’s stomach. - Woodcarving kit containing horsetail paper, a chisel, steel knife and a hammer. - A Draught of Regeneration
Belongings
- Gefjenssen family ring, inscribed with quote: “ Family is the greatest treasure of them all.” - Leather work apron - Rawhide boots. - 10 pound jade whetstone and a phial of whale oil. - Leather-bound journal containing various recipes and notes - Bottle of ink - Block of sheep cheese wrapped in dried lilypad. - Pound of smoked trout and deer fat - 2 pounds of dried wild assorted grain
Birth Sign
The Lord.
Miscellaneous
Fair Rock A white rooster and Quintus’s eternal companion. Said to have been passed down from his great grandfather. Said to have been present in his family for generations. Extremely flamboyant whilst also being protective of Quintus. Has a proclivity for hoarding small objects with no discernable pattern in his behaviour. Has a taste for barley, yet, despises oats.
Ctesephesius Quintus’s pet ginger cat. Found abandoned by his owners on the roadside during a trade trip from Anvil to Skingrad. Has a missing right eye due to flesh rot. Gets along well with everyone except Bretons for some unexplainable reason. Likes back rubs. Hates belly rubs.
At 6 foot tall, Quintus looks more the part of a town guard or a sell-sword rather than a simple farmer. His towering physique and wide sloping bear-like shoulders are courtesy of his Nordic heritage and years spent toiling in his family’s farm. Yet, in spite of his intimidating size, Quintus bears a rather easy-going and unrefined disposition from a humble life of peasantry. Talking is less of a game to him and more of a tool, combining uncouth remarks and rude swears in a gruff, personable tone. He never quite stands upright, often looking as though he’s leaning on one side. His copper hair is uncombed, resulting in it becoming a wild, tangled mess interspersed with burs, straw and cat hairs. His warm blue eyes brim with a boisterous confidence, yet, are burdened with a strained grief. Throughout it all, his ever-present impish grin is framed by a thick bushy beard.
The fair northern skin of the Nords has been blemished by days spent out in Cyrodiil’s sweltering sun, where it has turned his complexion into a shade of boiled leather. His ham-sized hands are overgrown with clumps of calluses, popped blisters and faded scars that are a nostalgic reminder of more peaceful, honest days in the Gold Coast. Being thrust into the role of a small-time revolutionary hasn’t exactly been good for Quintus’s health either. An arrowhead can be found lodged deep within his left shoulder and his time hiding in the countryside from Imperial authorities without any methods to clean himself means he stinks of horker shit.
In terms of attire, Quintus is a firm believer of practicality and durability. He still wears the sodden, roughshod apparel of a farmer, albeit, with modifications made to suit his new lifestyle as an outlaw revolutionary. His work apron has been trimmed down for comfort, clasped with a wide belt, with a steel pauldron strapped over on his left shoulder for support. Thick fingerless gauntlets made of mammoth’s hide shroud his hands. His work boots and leather breeches are caked in dried mud and soil. Ctesphesius or Fair Rock can be usually seen occupying or lazing on his shoulders.
Personality
Contrary to his current reputation, Quintus is not a ‘crazed psychopathic radical’ but rather, is a humble, confident farmer who takes solace in simple pleasures. His intimidating stature and physicality belies a friendly and polite, albeit in his own coarse manner, personality who is willing to pass you a mug of mead and shoot the wind with you from dawn till dusk. Two decades of farm life and peasantry have mellowed out his Nordic sensibilities for anger and adventure, resulting in a lack of lofty ambitions. Now, with 5000 septims painting a target on his back, thanks to his own fool-hardy decisions, and his family farm burnt down to cinders, his ambitions have now included accidentally becoming a peasant revolutionary and joining Isobel’s group of rebels.
Under his friendly exterior, however, lies a bitter doubt that claws at him from the inside like a parasite. He harbors deep regret and grief for his role in galvanizing the short lived rebellion that led to the downfall of the Farmer’s Guild. However, he knows that as long as the shadow of the Empire stares down at them, his father’s vision of a pastoral life for him and the rest of his family cannot come to fruition. A constant battle is waged between his desires to seek retribution from the Empire and his (or his father’s?) wishes to live the simple life of a farmer.
When it comes to his perspective of Tamriel nobility and the merchant class. Quintus’s opinion on them can be summarised as, in his own words, ‘ a bunch of horker milk-drinking greedy sod-swallops who force us to eat their manure’. Thus, Quintus does not pay much attention to the court politics of the Empire or treat it with serious gravity. During casual interactions with them, he usually treats them with a heaping dose of passive hostility and laden sarcasm.
History
SPRING HARVEST
To understand Quintus, we first must begin with who the Gefjenssens are.
Firstly, the Gefjenssens, unlike the vast majority of Nordic families who are voraciously violent and head-strong, are known for being polite pacifists. This has earned them the enmity and respect of other Nordic families who are simultaneously in amazement at how a line has gone so long without producing a single warrior and disgust at their seeming weak-willingness to fight last, talk first. Secondly, It is a strict belief in the Gefjenssen family that adventure and all matters of wild escapades are nonsense. Gefjenssens were born on the farm, lived on the farm and died on the farm. Lastly, as a small mention, all Gefjenssens are habitually superstitious. For example, all family members were birthed on the First Seed, as an old family tradition to bless the harvest and ensure good future welfare of their family.
So, Quintus Gefjenssen nearly frightened his mom and dad when he was born at the bell’s end of First Seed, 3E420, nearly breaking their centuries old tradition. His father, Elbi, and mother, Sigund, were unsure of whether to take it as a sign of good or bad luck from Mara. The discussion was closed when Fair-Rock, the family’s century old heirloom chicken, was found closely guarding him by his crib. It was later discussed again when Quintus was discovered missing from his crib, only to be found chasing ravens in the wheat fields. And then another time when he wandered near a mudcrab nest. And when they had to stop him from trying to ride the back of a mammoth. Eventually, they finally decided that Quintus was a Gefjenssen and that his proclivities towards adventure would mellow out as he grew older.
Growing up, Quintus didn’t live a lavish life of luxury, learning firsthand to be grateful for what he had available. Being the second eldest amongst three children didn’t particularly allow Elbi or Sigund to pay attention equally to all of them. Whilst he was somewhat put-off by the fact that his parents didn’t dote on him in particular, this proved to be a boon as Quintus had a wealth of time to explore the wild fields of Whiterun by himself. His eldest brother, Gerold, encouraged him to follow his pursuits and live a life outside of the pastoral one Father was determined to set them on. Unfortunately, Elbi didn’t see eye to eye with his firstborn and nights of arguments escalated into Quintus waving goodbye to Gerold as he left for Winterhold College, never to be seen again.
With Gerold gone, Quintus began taking on more responsibilities at a young age alongside his second eldest brother, Verren. defending the chicken coop from wolves, spinning wool and flax into rope, making repairs to the barn, getting rid of mice infestations and accompanying his father to the market to sell their goods. Life settled into a restless monotony and Quintus was oddly enough content. The geopolitical events which shook Tamriel during this period such as the Oblivion Crisis were largely ignored by the Gefjenssens who continued to plow the fields and plant for the next harvest.
Disaster then struck one winter when Quintus turned the bold right age of 10. A nomadic giant colony had trampled all over the winter crops that Elbi had planted. By the time the local militia managed to fend them off, what was left was barely salvageable. The skyrocketing taxes enforced by the new Jarl of Whiterun wasn’t doing Elbi any favors and taking care of two children simultaneously was strenuous with the amount of gold they had. For the first time in the history of the Gefjenssens, Elbi took a gamble and sold his family’s long cherished farm in Whiterun. With the remaining savings, he bought the deed to a patch of arable land in Cyrodiil, in the region of the Gold Coast. Whilst Quintus was notably saddened to leave his childhood home, there was a spark of excitement in him as he looked outside the carriage towards new, foreign lands.
SUMMER HARVEST
Hot, sticky and insufferable. Those were the first 3 words that came to Quintus’s mind when he first arrived in the Gold Coast. Growing used to frigid winters and Nordic frankness had made him unprepared for Cyrodiil’s Nibenese who he encountered during their trip through the Jerall Mountains. They were like slippery eels to Quintus; unpredictable and alien in the charismatic disposition. Luckily, the Colovians in Sutch were more familiar and easy for the Nord farmer to interact with. Settling down in the Gold Coast was harder than the trip itself. Unpacking everything, building a new barn and re-ploughing the fields took the course of several months but by the time they harvested their first crop of millet and wheat, things were looking up for the Gefjenssens.
Determined not to let an incident such as what happened in Whiterun affect them again, Elbi reluctantly became a member of the nascent Farmer’s Guild, an budding organisation based in the west of Cyrodiil that was made up of former members of the Brewer’s and Vinter’s Guild and Colovian farmers who were eager to join the cause. The rebuilding of the guild arose from dissatisfaction within some parts of the guild that the regulations and rules brokered by the Guild Act of the Second Era was insufficient to the socio-economic needs of brewers and vineyard owners and that the current guilds only served to line the pockets of officials in the Empire. Elbi could care less about political ideology and was only concerned with the access to valuable trade deals and security that membership granted him. Quintus, however, found himself enamored with the ideals the Guild was espousing and soon found himself acquainted with Thessa, a young female Bosmer, who was part of a goat herding family and became quick friends, often debating with one another on the future of farmers in the Empire.
It was on his second trade trip to Skingrad that Quintus found Ctesephesius. His father was making repairs to the barn alongside Verren and encouraged Quintus to go along with Sigund, instead, believing it to be an opportunity for a mother and son bonding experience. Unfortunately for Quintus, Sigund used the trip to measure up her son’s “shoddy” alchemy skills. In the middle of another alchemy lesson, Quintus suddenly heard loud mewling outside in the tent that he and his mother had set up. Running out with a lamp, he discovered a small kitten shivering in the rain, a pool of dried blood around it, with its tail curled up around its almost skeletal body. Scooping it up gently in his arms, Quintus slowly nursed it back to healh over the next few days, feeding it milk from the sow they brought with them on their trip and curing the rot-infection that had plagued its right eye. It was only on the 7th day that they discovered a collar with a small-tag on it: “Ctesephesius.” When they returned back to the Gold Coast, Ctesephesius officially became a new part of the Gefjenssen family, much to the displeasure of Fair-Rock, who wrestled for territorial control with the feline for the next few years.
The next five years passed by in an instant. Quintus rose up the echelons of the Farmers Guild, eventually becoming a council representative which was a point of contention between him and his father. The Gefjenssen farmstead was thriving. Verren had parted with the family on more amiable terms than Gerold, attracted not by the lure of academic knowledge but of the high seas, becoming a fisherman. The friendship between Quintus and Thessa had blossomed into intimacy but things soured unexpectedly when Thessa’s father was severely injured at the hands of Imperial debt collectors. Thessa, in a fit of grief, revealed her plans to Quintus in private to kill them in kind and burn down the Count of Anvil’s house for attacking her father and asked for his assistance in brewing an undetectable poison for her.
Of course, like any good Gefjenssen, Quintus was horrified at the nature of her plans and quickly objected to it, believing that any altercation between her and the Imperial authorities would only result in severe tragedy and would not bring her the justice she desired. Thessa responded by throwing him out of her house. Quintus reported her to the guardsmen of Sutch, hoping that a few days in the dungeons would make her see the light again and that she would be unable to harm anyone.
However, he was unable to predict that he would play a role in Thessa’s death as the day of her execution was announced publicly, her crime being “sedition against the Empire”. Quintus watched as Thessa was forced onto her knees, for a moment, her eyes locking with his in the crowd, the surge of anger and fear in her bubbling away to resignation. The axe fell, the ravens crowed and the world, for a moment, in Quintus’s eyes seemed to fade in color.
Once every year, Quintus goes to her grave and drinks a glass of cider out of remembrance and grief for their friendship.
FALL HARVEST
Red Plague. That was what the healers told him. It was a benign plague amongst the young. However, with Elbi approaching the age of 80 and years of constant physical hard labor taking a toll on his body, it was a death sentence. Quintus felt that his ascendance to becoming the head of the Gefjenssen family was unearned, as if he had cheated himself of a victory. It was supposed to be ceremonial, a father granting his scion the right to lead his line. Quintus didn’t like unwelcome surprises and this would be one of the many portents that would fortell the doom of the Gefjenssen farm.
Tensions were beginning to rise between the Farmers Guild, now composed of several vital farms in the west of Cyrodiil, and the Empire, now under the direction of Thules the Gibbering. The Red Dawn had decimated Vvardenfell and its rich volcanic soils that supplied Cyrodill’s markets with untold amounts of fresh goods. Imperial decrees were legislated and issued out to every farmstead to increase production in order to ensure security in these new troubling times. It was only made worse with the arrival of refugees from Vvrdenfall in the ports of Anvil where most farmers, out of foolhardy altruism, decided to take them in.
At the same time, within the Farmers Guild, Quintus was receiving offers to become the head of the Senior Council, rejecting every request made to him, out of respect for his father’s wishes to not become deeply involved in politics. Eventually, he had to break his promise the moment Imperial tax collectors came knocking on his barn, informing him of the new tax laws and how it was only temporary to consolidate Thules the Gibbering rule.
That was the final straw for Quintus.
Soon, in unified protests, the Farmers Guild stopped all harvesting and sent a letter to the local imperial commander, Gaius Olen, of the Gold Coast Garrison, stating their demands and conditions for lower taxes, fair land ownership laws and punishment of Imperial officers for intimidating and physically flogging farmers. Olen replied back generously by sending a group of 20 imperial soldiers and the adjutant tax officer of Gold Coast, Dervis Plinian.
The mistake on their part was believing that they could take on nearly a hundred angry farmers armed to the brim with farming tools and succeed. Digging out pits filled with carved sticks and hiding under piles of hay, the force of farmers managed to ambush and capture them all alive, wounding some of them in the process. Quintus hoped that they could use the captured soldiers as a means of bargaining for some of their terms. Diplomacy slowly deteriorated over the course of several letters where Olen asked them to release all the prisoners at once or face certain death.
The constant taunting of Adjutant Tax Officer Plinian didn’t help with Quintus’s patience as he continued to jibe and berate them for their actions, stating that each and every servant of the Empire would be willing to die before they surrendered to a lowly group of peasants. The torrent of relentless insults came to a head one night in the middle of a frenzied discussion between Quintus and the rest of the Guild on which direction to proceed in.
“ You are nothing peasant, you hear me! You are just chaff! Straw!”
In that moment, Quintus saw Thessa’s headless body. His father’s chest-wracking coughs which kept him up at night. He stood up, his stony face inscrutable, before picking up the scythe resting by the barn’s wall and hoisting it over his shoulder. Facing the farmer, he spoke back in a casual manner, as if he was heading down for a walk to the tavern.
“ Aye, verily. For I am straw and yet, yer still scared of me. If that’s enough to preserve the field, then, a man of straw I shall be.”
Then, Quintus brought the scythe overhead and brought it down, steel singing in the air. Warm warm blood sprayed all over his skin as Plinian’s head was lopped off, eyes blinking aimlessly and his mouth slightly ajar. The fingers kept moving for over a minute before they went still. Quintus breathed, the metallic taste of iron on his lips, before he dropped the scythe and stumbled back in shock and relief for what he had done.
Now was the end of the beginning.
Olen, outraged by Quintus’s act of brutality, was determined not to fail this time and sent a group of 50 heavily armed soldiers, of which included an Imperial battlemage, to crush them for their insolence. This completely routed the short-lived rebellion and resulted in over dozens of farmers being slaughtered on the fields of Gold Coast. Seeing no other option, Quintus called for a retreat and along with other farmers, began the process of evacuating their farmsteads. The Imperials, however, were unwilling to give them any mercy for they lighted their torches and began burning down farm houses across the Gold Coast who had participated in Quintus’s folly. It was dawn by the time he arrived at his farmhouse, the Imperials an hour behind him on horseback and occupied with the destruction of other farming families.
His mother was there on the porch, stricken-faced. She’d heard rumors of what he’d done spread across the Gold Coast like wildfire, both literally and figuratively. He ignored her ceaseless demands and questions, as he hastily began combing through the house for vital supplies. Her safety was of more concern than her enquiries. She then asked one final questions in the middle whilst hoisting herself up on the family horse in the barn with a poignant tone.
“ Is this what your father would have wanted for us?”
Quintus didn’t even bother replying, keeping silent and watching her ride away from the house, the form growing smaller and smaller in the distance. Walking around the house, he looked at a painted family portrait his father had commissioned for them in Whiterun. Maybe, it was the fatigue that got to him but he could see his father’s face in the painting shift, stare at him with an unrecognizable expression. Was it anger? Disapproval? Sadness at what he’d done to their family? With Ctesephesius and Fair-Rock behind him, he departed from his family home and for the first time, the Gefjenssen barn was completely empty.
Life on the run from the Empire wouldn’t be difficult if it wasn’t for the enormous bounty that they’d placed on his head. Quintus was forced to stay within the forests of Anvil and Skingrad, never going to any well-populated towns out of fear that they might recognise him. Then again, why was he still fighting? Wouldn’t it be better if he’d give himself up so that he wouldn’t cause any more harm? For a time, Quintus battled with surviving in the elements and his own responsibility in the massacre he’d caused. It was only due to the company of his pets as well as his determination to see justice for what the Empire had done that kept his spirit alive.
Half a year later, in Skingrad, Quintus found himself resting by a communal campfire in the middle of the Gold Path, sharing company for the first time with other individuals who weren’t chickens or cats. Good, heartening conversation quickly turned into political debate as his ears pricked up at the mention of a group of rebels. Seeing no other course of action, Quintus joined Isobel’s band of rebels in the hopes of redeeming himself for his past failures and to earn back the quaint life that the Empire had taken from him.
Favoured Attributes
Major: Strength
Minor: Intelligence
Favoured Skills
Adept
- Spear
- Woodworking
- Alchemy
- Mercantile
- Provisioning
Journeyman
- Clothier
- Smithing
- Archery
Equipment
- A three pronged oak handle steel pitchfork. - A short bow nocked with boar sinew. - Quiver with 20 wood-carved arrows made from Fair-Rock’s feathers, flint and - Satchel of common herbs, reagents and ingredients used for brewing potions. - Separate leather jerkin of poisonous herbs used for brewing poisons. - Water pouch made from a deer’s stomach. - Woodcarving kit containing horsetail paper, a chisel, steel knife and a hammer. - A Draught of Regeneration
Belongings
- Gefjenssen family ring, inscribed with quote: “ Family is the greatest treasure of them all.” - Leather work apron - Rawhide boots. - 10 pound jade whetstone and a phial of whale oil. - Leather-bound journal containing various recipes and notes - Bottle of ink - Block of sheep cheese wrapped in dried lilypad. - Pound of smoked trout and deer fat - 2 pounds of dried wild assorted grain
Birth Sign
The Lord.
Miscellaneous
Fair Rock A white rooster and Quintus’s eternal companion. Said to have been passed down from his great grandfather. Said to have been present in his family for generations. Extremely flamboyant whilst also being protective of Quintus. Has a proclivity for hoarding small objects with no discernable pattern in his behaviour. Has a taste for barley, yet, despises oats.
Ctesephesius Quintus’s pet ginger cat. Found abandoned by his owners on the roadside during a trade trip from Anvil to Skingrad. Has a missing right eye due to flesh rot. Gets along well with everyone except Bretons for some unexplainable reason. Likes back rubs. Hates belly rubs.
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[center][youtube]https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uZwzbA91Yno[/youtube][/center]
[b][u]ROLEPLAY BUCKET LIST[/u][/b]
[indent]
- [s]Walmart Apocalypse Roleplay[/s]
- [s]Nightmare Gas Station[/s]
- Underrail/Fallout/Post Apocalyptic Roleplay. Codename: Clausterclysm
- Anthromorphic Grimdark Animal Fantasy Roleplay. Codename: Fallowbrook.
- Eldritch Abomination Garfield Roleplay. Codename: Lasagna.
- Infinite IKEA Roleplay. Codename: God Morgon
- Roleplayerguild High School RP. Codename: Highschool Roleplay
-[s] Cyberpunk South East Asia RP. Codename: Straits of Malacca. [CURRENTLY HAPPENING][/s]
[/indent]
[b][u]CURRENT PROJECTS[/u][/b]
- FRAYED TAPESTRY - AN EPIC FANTASY RP (WIP)
- THE LAST DEPRESSION - A RED MARKETS QUEST/PLAY BY POST RP (UNDECIDED)
<div style="white-space:pre-wrap;"><div class="bb-center"><img src="https://66.media.tumblr.com/7a64638c692ce98d06043791ae728d6b/tumblr_njtqxjDtIf1tqptlzo2_500.gifv" /></div><br><br><div class="bb-center"><iframe src="//youtube.com/embed/uZwzbA91Yno?theme=dark" frameborder="0" width="496" height="279" allowfullscreen></iframe></div><br><br><span class="bb-b"><span class="bb-u">ROLEPLAY BUCKET LIST</span></span><br><div class="bb-indent">- <span class="bb-s">Walmart Apocalypse Roleplay</span><br>- <span class="bb-s">Nightmare Gas Station</span> <br>- Underrail/Fallout/Post Apocalyptic Roleplay. Codename: Clausterclysm<br>- Anthromorphic Grimdark Animal Fantasy Roleplay. Codename: Fallowbrook.<br>- Eldritch Abomination Garfield Roleplay. Codename: Lasagna. <br>- Infinite IKEA Roleplay. Codename: God Morgon <br>- Roleplayerguild High School RP. Codename: Highschool Roleplay<br>-<span class="bb-s"> Cyberpunk South East Asia RP. Codename: Straits of Malacca. [CURRENTLY HAPPENING]</span></div><br><br><span class="bb-b"><span class="bb-u">CURRENT PROJECTS</span></span><br><br>- FRAYED TAPESTRY - AN EPIC FANTASY RP (WIP)<br>- THE LAST DEPRESSION - A RED MARKETS QUEST/PLAY BY POST RP (UNDECIDED)</div>
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