Bork Lazer

The Mithril Chef [QUEST]

CHARACTER SHEET



Name: ???

Background: ???

SKILLS

PSYCHE: 5

Raison D’Etre : ???

Experimentation: ???

Brigade De Cuisine : ???

Showmanship: ???

Syntheasia:???

INTELLECT: 3

Connoseuir:???

Management:???

Technical Rudiments :???

Enterprise:???

Gastro-Alchemy: ???

SENSE: 3

Palette:???

Visualization: ???

Texture: ???

Awareness:???

Timing:???

The Ingredient Shelf

INVENTORY

- A Kauldron-brand cooking wok

The Mithril Chef [QUEST]

>UPDATING MITHRIL CHEF FROM 3.5 EDITION TO 5th EDITION

The idea of drinking your sorrows away with a mug of ale sounds promising as does having the opportunity to taste local Benin cuisine. However, the street food appears to be the perfect balance between expenses and expectations.

SYNTHESIA : How could you turn up your nose to street food? That raw smell that brings you back to simpler times, the hubbub of children chattering together, adults conversing together while waiting? It is the glue that binds a village together in times of dismal hope.

CONNOISSEUR (SUCCESS): During the aftermaths of the 4th and 5th Iridescent Wars, street food blossomed in popularity as eateries and taverns closed down in the wake of King Arlo’s tariffs on grain, meat and other imports from the East Twilight Principality. If you wanted to eat cheap, hawkers were more likely to be your friend than the local garrison.

ENTERPRISE (SUCCESS): It’s the life of the hustle, baby. The glorious financial arithmetic of coin for food is in front of you as of this moment. No special offers. No discounts. No guild inspections or certifications. Just the dreams of an individual bunkered under the need to survive.

The line is slow and long as you trudge forward at the pace of an eptileptic slug. A lumbering troll and a dwarf squeeze you enough that it’s almost suffocating. This all better be worth it.

ENTERPRISE: A street vendor’s life lives or dies by the quality of their food. If there’s this many people lining up, you know you’re in for a good time.

PALETTE: You could have experienced better flavors if you were more willing to be frugal….

ENTERPRISE: A decent meal costs 20 silver kings. Tavern food is overpriced anyway. Being conservative with our culinary investments is the only logical route at this point.

DIRTY STREET FOOD STALL: After a long period of waiting, you make it to the front of the line. The stall is clumsily built together from bell iron and worm-eaten planks of oak. The letters “ N” have been scratched 4 times on the upper most plank. Racks of foul meat, vegetables and stale food hang from flaxen rope. A jar of floating eyeballs in brine squint at you as you come closer.

NIM NOM: Behind the stall, you spot a cloaked tiny figure standing on top of a bag of flour. A stained apron is wrapped around his torso. He’s currently stirring into a wok aggressively with an oversized ladle over a charcoal fire.

TECHNICAL RUDIMENTS (SUCCESS): A spatula would be more suitable for this type of operation.

PALETTE: Each toss brings new flavor. It isn’t just for show. The flecks of aroma that cloy onto every granule of food. The sear. The heat. It’s like smelling a campfire.

He turns around. Bright yellow eyes stare out at you from under a ratty brown hood. He jumps off the bag of flour and waddles towards you.

NIM NOM: “ Welcome to Nim Nom’s Num Num’s. Your order?”

The chef speaks so fast you barely have time to decipher his words.

VISUALIZATION (FAILURE): You can’t quite figure out who this chef is. A goblin, maybe?

“ Excuse me?”

NIM NOM: The chef shakes his head in annoyance and slaps a furry clawed hand on one of the front facing planks to catch your attention. A series of names is written alongside a table of prices. This must be his menu.

“ You hungry, you buy.”

At his insistence, you peruse the list, thinking carefully about what to buy.

[X] - Flochian Flambe

[X] - The Garbage Chest

[X] - Stoned Aboleth

Mechwarrior: Disposable Heroes

“ Goddamn, they folded already,” Takka murmured into the crew comm, staring out into the burning remains of the small storage facility. Aroxy was inclined to agree. The small firefight had gone surprisingly well with little casualty on their side. Such was the nature of a shock and awe attack. They also owed their victory to the relatively small size of the garrison. The small little patrol gorup of vehicles had been completely demolished as the Mechwarriors mopped up after the initial spearhead that Merry Go Round had provided.

“ Alright, Helma. Park us a little closer so we can put them out of their misery,” The VOX 225 gave a throaty roar as the treads of the Merry-Go-Round sped up, ratcheting up their speed by a few miles or so. It was enough to keep up with the light mechs which were beginning to outpace them by quite a bit. Aroxy scanned the distance before spotting the last remaining Scorpion. The Scorpion was awkwardly struggling to scramble away to a better firing position, but it was impossible with the near catastrophic damage Merry-Go-Round’s AC had done to its fuselage. Aroxy could see the large divot where the round had penetrated clean through. Thick clouds of smog were pouring out from the cracks.

It was a dead tank walking.

“ Alright, Takka. It’s a fish in a barrel. Make sure to kill it this time. Helma, slow down a bit so he can aim properly.”

Aroxy could hear Takka quietly harrumph at his coddling. The turret slowly aligned with the retreating form of the Scorpion, the barrel dead-centre on target.

“ Ready.”

“ Fire.”

“ On the way.”

The cannon erupted. Instead of an explosion, though, Aroxy watched in confusion as the round exploded in a pyroclastic bloom, showering the Scorpion in a bath of scorching napalm. The entire wreck became a bonfire as Aroxy began to hear high-pitched screams in the distance. Within seconds, the damaged tank became an oven as the crew inside were roasted alive by temperatures hot enough to melt through plasteel.

“ Goddamnit, what was that, Takka?!”

“ Whoops, must have loaded the wrong type of ammunition,” Takka replied innocently. “ At least, we saved the HE, right, cap?”

“ You and I are going to have words about insubordination later, Takka.” Aroxy murmured in fury. He watched despondently, taking his eyes off the Scorpion once he saw a crew member jumping off, his uniform half-burnt. Half of his body was cooked, his skin bubbling like tar, before he collapsed onto the grassy field.

The Mithril Chef [QUEST]

YOU: At least, they didn’t steal your wok. You gently hold the master-crafted implement in your hands. The smooth ebony handle grips nicely to your calloused hands. Whorls of runes are etched on glossy steel. You flip it around to examine the bottom. The sigil of a pot filigreed in gold with two cherubic angels on either side of it. The mark of Kauldron Emporium.

CONNOISSEUR [EASY: SUCCESS]: Kauldron Emporium is the foremost smithery of dwarven forged cookware in the Western Occident, their specialty residing in heat sensitive equipment. Its creator, Roil Belloweather, became frustrated after being forced one too many times to repair their family’s communal pot from his wife’s horrible concoctions. Thus, a profitable venture was born.

YOU: You trace the bottom. The lack of charring from extended use is a testament to the craftsmanship of the western dwarves.

TEXTURE [EASY:SUCCESS]: Your body heat leeches away from your skin like a sponge. You can almost feel the currents of cold and hot pumping within the wok, an intricate web of heat dissipating through it like a tidal wave.

TECHNICAL RUDIMENTS [EASY:SUCCESS]: Light, accurate and deadly for frying. Just the way you like it.

YOU: You take care to tie the wok carefully around your bindle and take stock of your other belongings. All your bare necessities are still there: spare clothing, a waterskin made from goat vellum and your trusty grease-splattered apron.

Staring wistfully back at the door, you think for a moment that maybe, there’s a chance you could go back in and ask them for your belongings back.

ENTERPRISE [FAILURE]: Who do you think you are? Every tavern cook here has more reputation in their left pinky than you have here. After that miserable performance, you’re lucky that they still left you alive as it was.

RAISON D’ETRE: Didn’t you listen to what we said before? We. Don’t. Need. The. Guild. D’Cuisine.

YOU: But -

RAISON D’ETRE: No but’s. The mark of a true chef is to persevere through pain. This is just one of the many trials you’ll have to go through in order to reach your precipice.

YOU: I don’t get much of a say in this, do I?

RAISON D’ETRE: You were insane enough to become a chef. Why stop now?

YOU: Signing longingly, you trudge off the steps of the entrance and into the bustling city of Benin around you.

CONNOSEUIR [SUCCESS]: Benin is a humble trade port on the outreaches of the Bruised Steppes, the Azure Mare scything through and dividing it into three halves. It is perhaps the greatest hidden confluence of cuisines from all across the Occident where a burgeoning gastronomic revolution bubbles underneath the cobbled streets…….

Abruptly, a wagon rolls past by you, filled with its quarry of pungent seafood from the riverside harbor. The driver gives you an apologetic wave. The streets are modestly bare around you. A guardsman in the streets takes out his lantern, reminding you that noon is on its way soon. Your stomach then growls to grab your attention.

Palette: It’s in the air around you. A cornucopia of delights. Gnomish pastries, elvish sommeliers, dwarven fare, smoked hydra……

YOU: Letting your palette guide you as you walk around on the streets, you decide to sate your appetite at….

[X] - An inn. Smoke billows out of its chimney in thick fumes and the rowdy noise of brawling customers can be heard from far away.

[X] - A street side stall. A queue of hungry customers stretches outs like a snake.

[X] - A eatery. The tables are bare like a desert oasis and you can spot a white drabbed figure milling about aimlessly, sweeping the litter of autumn away with a broom.

The Mithril Chef [QUEST]

CHEF GIRARD HEARTHSPICE: “ What is this pile of bugbear shit?”

YOU: Those are the last words you hear as you are escorted out of the headquarters of the Guild D’Gourmet. A pair of burly half-orcs take you by the shoulder and toss you out without ceremony. As you stand up and brush yourself off from the dirt, the wide gates slams shut. Even though it's closed, you can still hear muffled peals of laughter at your expense.

CONNOISSEUR [EASY: SUCCESS]: Gaining membership into the esteemed culinary authority of the Occident is no small feat. The selection process is strict and consists of three phases. You made it halfway through the first which is better than most chefs can say.

YOU: The head examiner, a geriatric gnome, barely even tasted your dish before deciding it was the worst sin since well-done unicorn steak.

RAISON D’ETRE: Who needs the advice of a couple of old dinosaurs anyway? You’ve managed to get this far on your own.

ENTERPRISE: No restaurant in the Occident can open without their say-so. Perhaps, partnering with another guild will be of benefit.

RAISON D’ETRE: Who needs partners? Let’s be in charge of our own restaurant!

SHOWMANSHIP: The world needs to know your flavor, and we don’t need the Guild to cramp our style.

ENTERPRISE: Intriguing. An independent venture? We can finally manage our salaries!

YOU: I can get more than 10 imperials an hour?

SHOWMANSHIP: Think of the decorations! We don’t have to deal with rotting oak planks anymore or those unsightly barmaid uniforms!

YOU: The price for entry was steep, though. You begin to search through your pockets and the bindle which you carried with you on your back.

TEXTURE [EASY: SUCCESS]: A smattering of small metal coins clinking is familiar to you. You have at most 50 golden imperials, 35 sliver kings, 10 bronze paupers and an eclectic collection of pennies and nickels. You have a few clothes on your back, but where are your kitchen tools?

CONNOSEUIR: As a price for your failure, the Guild D’Cuisine requisitioned all of your remaining kitchenware for their use. It was written in the contract that you signed before the selection process.

YOU: There was one thing they didn’t manage to take though.

[X] - A heirloom knife made of a mithril and adamantium alloy.

[X] - A Kauldron brand, enchanted wok, perfectly smithed to distribute heat evenly.

[X] - Your bottle of toasted spirit cooking oil from the Celestial planes. It’s half empty.

Melsborow Nights II- A sequel to an interactive horror story

The customer

Why I Roleplay Female Characters (As a Cisgender Man)

The gender of the character doesn't really matter per se whenever I think of a concept. It always comes secondary compared to whatever I conceptualize. If the character's identity, race or ethnicity plays a factor in how I roleplay that character, then, I take consideration of that.

Your concerns are far more valid for 1x1 RPs whereby the individual who makes a interest check specifies that they want the character to be of a specific gender (Or hell, in worst cases, the player to be of a specific gender). I often find the latter to be more annoying given the anonymous nature of the internet. Don't ask me to do a psychological analysis of why the heck anyone would want to RP with someone of a specific gender.

Mechwarrior: Disposable Heroes

Dammit, they’d seen them. Aroxy cursed as he watched their turrets begin to rotate. Just a few more seconds and they would have hit them while they were still blind.

Oh well.

That made the rules of the engagement much easier.

Aroxy grinned as he heard the sound of Takka’s voice shouting exuberantly in the comms.

“ On the way!”

Underneath him, he felt the internal cracking of steel as the autoloader fished a shell into the main firing chamber. The turret beneath Aroxy bucked like a wild horse as the barrel erupted in a flash of bright fire and smoke. Aroxy watched through the telescope as the round sailed in a hypersonic arc towards their target. The column barely had a second to react as the Merry Go Round sank its fangs into its first kill of the day. The first round sliced the main turret of the Scorpion, sending it tumbling off the hatch in a fiery blaze. The round then slammed into the hull of the other Scorpion beside it. A sonorous shriek of plasteel echoed throughout the clearing. The painful pitch made Aroxy’s back shiver as he held up his telescope to survey the situation.

Shit. He was hoping for a vehicle kill at least. The Scorpion was moving slower than before but its turret was still operational. The first Scorpion had deviated the round enough that it only caused damage to the fuselage. The Strikers remained untouched. The shock would only buy them five seconds before their mental discipline would set in.

“ This is Steel Rain reporting. The first Scorpion is down. Second one got tagged but the Strikers are still mission capable.”

Aroxy turned off his radio for a moment and switched to crew comms.

“ Takka, how’s it looking?”

“ I can’t get a clear line on the Scorpion but I can just manage to get a hit on one of those Strikers.”

“ Alright, they’re still trying to wiggle around the wreck. Plant a round in his engine and smoke out those son of bitches.”

“ Roger that,” Aroxy heard the clunking of a shell as one of their last remaining HV rounds entered the chamber again to wreak havoc. “ This is Steel Rain. We are engaging the pair of Strikers now. Repeat. We are engaging.”

“ Fire!,” Aroxy shouted into the comm radio.

“ On the way!,” Takka replied back, throat hoarse.

The cannon erupted again and Aroxy swore as the shell missed by seemingly just a inch, bouncing off the LRM rack. The round smashed through the thick ferrocrete wall, a small section caved in from the force of the impact.

“ Fucking A, Takka. I thought you said you had it!”

“ The wind threw me off!” Aroxy heard the frustrated slamming of a fist against a console. “ If only they turned the ECM on just a little later - “

“ Don’t give me excuses, give me results!”

Mechwarrior: Disposable Heroes

The mist reminded Aroxy of looking into a thick bowl of soup. Back during his time in the civil war, the infantry units often used to throw a c-bill into your gruel and pray that you would survive tomorrow. They believed it was better than eating what amounted to a tasteless gruel that had the consistency of concrete. Now, Aroxy believed he could have thrown a hundred c-bills into the fog and it wouldn’t make a difference. Luck wouldn’t achieve victory. Tactics and strategies did

Eddies of gray swirled around in the dawn’s chill, beads of dew clinging to the turret of the 120mm cannon he was currently situated on. A gale came in from the south and the morning mist briefly parted to reveal the base on the horizon. It was well fortified for a base of that size but it was easy pickings for their company, even at a quarter of their strength.

Aroxy didn’t even need to bark an order to his crew as the cannon swiveled on his command towards the small tank column. They needed to get closer to ensure that the round didn’t swerve off too wildly but Takka knew the gist. Cripple the tank in front of the line and the rest would come to a swift stop. It was as simple as that.

A Von Luckner like Merry-Go-Round could take on those four tanks for breakfast.

If they had enough ammo.

Aroxy switched on his comms and spoke into the radio in a firm voice.

“ This is Steel Rain. We got our sights lined up on the column. Ready to fire in ETA 30 seconds. Awaiting response. Over.”

One Universe: Unlimited - A Marvel/DC Comics Roleplay

---

…………On the 60th anniversary of D-Day, we take this time to recount a folktale from French villagers who were present during the invasion. Whilst accounts vary, one consistent element remains. A man in golden armor on a white winged horse soaring in the skies. There have been scatter-shot anecdotes of locals supposedly seeing the same horse for the last half century, although historians have chalked this up to seaside illusions or hallucinations from dehydrated sailors …….”

---

Shining Knight

Fellowship 2.2.2

---

Justin curled his fists, legs bowed in a half-squat, as he watched Victory paw the straw with his hoof. The horse’s sloping shoulders were raised. Justin knew that behind that matted fur was over 500 pounds of pure muscle that could snap his spine in half. Justin inwardly marveled that Victory was still in peak condition after all this time. He looked the same as he had fifty years ago and bore no signs of the damage they both took during the landing on Verdun.

Bitterness then rose up in his cheek as he shook his head, signing to himself. Why did he expect any different? Victory had been with him for over nine centuries. He was one of the original horses that drank from the shores of the sacred lake. The same curse of immortality that had anchored him to the Earth for millennia had stricken him as well. How foolish had he to be to believe that Victory would die like any other horse?

No, he’d left him to rot at Verdun.

But, was fighting truly the way to settle their differences?

Justin opened and closed his palms, trying to relieve the tension in his fingers, before letting his arms fall back to his sides. Victory tilted his head to the side, confused at what his former master was planning.

“ This is stupid,” Justin crossed his arms, ignoring the horse’s braying as he walked closer. “ Do you really think that I’d let you goad me into a fight that easily? This isn’t going to help the both of us, Victory.”

Victory chuffs and leans his sinous head forward. Justin doesn’t blink at the sensation of the horse's breath, warm and humid, on his cheek. He can hear the grinding of jaws rubbing together like saw teeth.

They both stand there for a while in silence. Justin with his arms crossed and Victory’s head leaning over his shoulder, trying to see any fear within him.

Justin gives him none.

So, Victory gives him a hoof.

Stars dance in over his head as Justin bowls over. It takes a moment for him to realize that he isn’t dead and a few more seconds to figure out how his limbs work again. The pain then hits, throbbing and dull. His fingers scratch his dome, checking to see whether anything is cracked. It’s hard for him to read Victory’s expression but Justin can’t tell whether the horse is grinning at his misfortune.

“ Got that out of your system?” Justin asks wearedly.

“ Right. Let’s figure out where you’ve been all these years.”

Victory replies in a chortling neigh.