BurningCold

Blood of the Crown (Medieval Fantasy, Royalty, Magic)

This seems like fun! Anything drawing even a little inspiration from Oblivion is probably on the right track, if you ask me.

Pokétopian Dreams: Uncharted Waters

Really enjoying how varied the submissions are so far!

Pokétopian Dreams: Uncharted Waters

_{[ ❇ ] C H A R A C T E R S H E E T}

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Auggie

_{[ ❇ ] N A M E}

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August "Auggie" Fairweather

_{[ ❇ ] O C C U P A T I O N}

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Renowned Artist and Supernatural Investigator/Paranormal Pokémon Specialist

_{[ ❇ ] B A C K S T O R Y}

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August was born to two ranchers of no renown eking out a humble but respectable living in Sinnoh’s own Solaceon Town. An early childhood spent with other children racing through forests and fields, rolling around in the mud, and learning how to treat pokémon with care and respect set him up for a happy life, if not a particularly notable one. Things would change one day when on a dare, he spent a night in the Hallowed Tower south of his town.

Something changed in August that night.

What was once a well-meaning if rowdy kid became reclusive and mischievous, sometimes even cruel. At the same time, reports began to arise of a dangerous pokémon, or perhaps even a ghost itself, terrorizing the surrounding area after sundown. After weeks of misbehavior and pranks that bordered on dangerous, his parents hired a specialist all the way from Lavender Town in the Kanto region to see if there was any connection between these sightings, August’s strange behavior, and the night he spent in the Hallowed Tower.

The expert was able to materialize a connection between these things and set the trouble to rest by defeating the raging spiritomb and reuniting it with the missing wisp that had joined with August’s consciousness. After that, the confusion had finally settled, though he was changed by the experience. Chiefly, he developed an interest in art as a way to channel feelings over the event that a young child couldn’t easily verbalize, and he was good at it too. He also developed a consuming fascination with paranormal-adjacent pokémon and supernatural phenomena that would shift the course of his life.

Setting off on his own kind of pokémon journey at the age of 12, the family Rapidash acting as his guardian, August began to explore the reaches of Sinnoh for more inspiration. He developed a bit of a following online where he would log his experiences and upload the art they inspired, and this only blossomed into a linked set of careers as a famous artist and paranormal investigator. Ten years later and whether its consulting on the mystery of the unown at the Ruins of Alph, having his art displayed in galleries the world over, or nearly dying because he thought it would be funny to pose for a photo-op while wielding a honedge, August shows no sign of slowing down.

In fact, the last thing he’d done before accepting the invite sent his way by the Pokétopia Foundation was revisit the site of his first ever case, and solve it once and for all. The spiritomb, cheerfully nicknamed “Pizzaface”, now sits in begrudging comfort within a luxury ball. Only the best for the worst, after all.

Now August sets off to face something scarier even than spiritomb: being around other famous people. It’s not really something that comes up in his line of work. Who knows? Maybe some of them are also traveling alongside a shipping container full of priceless, original artwork and carry around the embodiment of their childhood trauma with them everywhere they go. That’d be nice.

_{[ ❇ ] P E R S O N A L I T Y}

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Auggie never quite got back to the version of himself that existed before spending that night in the Hallowed Tower. He’s nice! It’s not that he isn’t nice. He’s just a lot of other things too. Things like overly mellow to the point of occasionally failing to exhibit what would be considered a proper amount of distress during dangerous situations. That wouldn’t be so bad if it was a calm that came about as a result of something normal, like, confidence. Auggie isn’t confident so much as he’s unconcerned, due to what could be described as an almost cosmic level of assurance that things will just sort of turn out alright or otherwise go how they’re supposed to.

However, Auggie is also empathetic and caring towards others, if a bit clumsy in his attempts at comfort. He also struggles when faced with interpersonal conflict, usually unsure of how seriously to take those kinds of things and prone to discomfort whenever he can tell when something is a big deal. Ultimately he just wants peace within himself and those around him.

As a final note: do not get between Auggie and a platter full of poffins.

_{[ ❇ ] P O K È M O N}

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• Colonel the Rapidash - Old and proud
• Shuppy the Banette - Dislikes change
• Einstein the Slowking - Smarter than he looks
• Houseware Department the Rotom - Goes by HD
• Inflatable Tube Man the Wobbuffet - Not giving up his secrets
• Pizzaface the Spiritomb - Paying the piper

Pokétopian Dreams: Uncharted Waters

@Carlyle This is giving call of Cthulhu meets Pokémon vibes to me, very cool

Is 6 Pokémon just the maximum or do you want everyone to have a full party?

Star Wars - Fires of Exaron [5BBY]

the bothan

The Everyman

Name: Manutko “Manny” Takaduron
Species: Bothan
Age: 35

Appearance:

Manny stands somewhat taller than the average of his species, at 1.7 meters or about 5 foot 5. His build is naturally lean and athletic like most of his species, although he is no exemplar in that field. Matching his eyes, his fur is colored in hues of dark slate and charcoal, deepening into black where it grows into his well groomed hair and sideburns. Liking to keep himself well put together, partially as a means to stay sane, he puts care into his personal grooming and often dresses in snappy, professional attire.

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Equipment:

A Nice Briefcase: Part of Delva Racine’s “Galactic Man” line of male fashion accessories. It holds things. Equipped with a biometric lock, baffleweave lined interior, and a moonstone embossed Delva Racine logo on the handle. Not the most prudent purchase.

A Thermal Detonator: Currently jostling around inside the briefcase. Hidden from scanners thanks to the baffleweave lining.

A Ministerial Government ID Badge: Mostly useless at this point.

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Skills:

Official Demeanor: Working as a civil servant filling various functions within the Ministerial Government - as a secretary, a data analyst, an aide, an event coordinator, the list goes on - has conditioned Manny well on how to keep his emotions in check and assess situations levelly. At the very least, his mind has always been keen.

King of the Termites: Manny is a hard worker, and knows how to knuckle down and get things done. He will focus tirelessly on a project either physical or cerebral until it has reached completion. Perhaps most importantly, he’s happy to work in teams and is comfortable in both leadership and support positions.

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Weaknesses:

Entirely Untested: Manny is a civilian in every sense of the word. He has never touched a weapon or even gotten into a physical altercation of any kind. He understands nothing of criminal underbellies and couldn’t tell a vibro-blade from a deathstick.

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History:

Manny was a young, single father struggling to make ends meet when the Jedi came for his son. He wasn’t ready to raise a child on his own, and he was reeling from loss. He was scared. The Jedi told Manny his son would be a keeper of peace and justice. They didn’t mention anything about child soldiers.

For years he worked at himself, worked at his career, and simmered quietly with resentment as an uncaring Republic squeezed his planet dry. Tensions did what they do, and grew. War was declared. It didn’t affect him much. The Jedi would knock some sense into both sides and the stagnant Republic would learn a lesson in allowing itself to be ruled by greed and corruption. The woman Manny gave his child to was older and wiser than he, and with people like that in power, maybe things wouldn’t be so bad.

So far, Manny has been 0 for 2 in turning to optimism in times of trouble.

It wasn’t long after the war began that it became public knowledge on Exaron that the Jedi had thrown their lots in with the Republic since the beginning, and that they had padawans marching into battle. To many, that small detail was lost on them entirely. The Order was mythical to the galaxy at large and their lexicon wasn’t one that you picked up by chance. To those that did understand, opinions were divided any number of ways.

“How awful!”

“They’re supposed to be supernatural, right?”

“Callous but necessary.”

“As long as it isn’t my child.” Well.

As the war dragged on, Manny found himself in a haze. He was intrinsically motivated to prefer that the Separatists win, but how could he? His child was being used as a tool. Being indoctrinated to serve oppressors. Whenever news of battles won and lost reached his ears he simply lacked the ability to feel anything other than numb. The first time he felt hope in years was when word came that Supreme Chancellor Palpatine was reorganizing the old, decayed government into a new Galactic Empire. Maybe an iron fist was needed to force society back onto the correct course. Maybe one man with the best intentions could do what thousands of corrupt politicians failed to.

Then, the announcement was made that the Jedi were apparently violent dissidents destined for extermination. He doesn’t know if the great purge took the life of the son he never knew, and he tries not to think about it.

0 for 3.

Life, in all this time on Exaron, has not changed much for its people. Nor for Manny himself. For nearly 15 years he has waded through life as purgatory, caught in a miasma of feigned indifference and barely constrained rage. Ever since his wife died, leaving him alone with a child he could not hope to care for, he has been in a fugue. The Clone Wars. The Jedi Purge. The Rebellion. All this time, Manny has avoided ever truly considering the weight of the galaxy around him. Sitting on the fence. Whiling away the days in performative professionalism underpinned by an anger and an anxiety so consuming, in a universe so terrifying, that this Bothan could not afford to look outward or within. So he has squeezed his eyes shut to it all.

Now, all hell is breaking loose over some random crash landed ship, the imperial garrison has swarmed the capital, and his job is probably in jeopardy. So far anyways, they’ve let him keep it.

These days, Manny carries an explosive with him everywhere he goes. Buying it was the scariest thing he ever did, and he’s still not sure what he’s going to do with it now that he has it.

Manny has been pushed to the edge, further than ever before. Furious and close to a breaking point, he’s exactly one employment termination notice away from exploding. Probably literally.

(at least he wasnt a dug with a drinking problem amirite?)

Hello! This seems like it could be a lot of fun. His age is on the younger side for the background I've given him, but all the research I can find suggests that Bothans mature mentally and physically about 10-15 years earlier than humans. If you know anything that contradicts that I'll happily age him up. :)

The Elder Scrolls VI: Sentinel

Love Talos. Love my Empire. Don't much like the Thalmor. Not in a racist way, but I just don't like 'em.

Count me in.

Pokétopian Dreams: Uncharted Waters

Looking to get back into roleplaying on this site and this seems like it could be pretty fun!

Our Final Nights: A World of Darkness Roleplay

Is this open to all applicants? Even neophytes of WoD?

The Night Shift - Supernatural Horror Gas Station Simulator

I am very very interested in this roleplay! It gives me a real Courage the Cowardly Dog vibe, but with underpaid workers that probably live off of ramen.

𝙴𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝙾𝚗 𝙷𝚒𝚐𝚑 - 𝙷𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚛 𝚂𝚕𝚞𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝙸𝚗 𝙾𝚛𝚋𝚒𝚝

Mort

" M O R T "

_{M O R T I M E R K R A K O W S K I
◄ 24 ▎ MALE ▎ 5'10 ►}

_{P R O F I L E}

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Cool; like a cucumber. Or some other genetically modified variant. It's all the same to Mort. No sweat to him one way or the other. The point here is that, at least on the surface, this is a young man that exudes an aura of absolute zen. In fact this is a fellow that is so chill it's a wonder that the room doesn't ice over when he enters it. That's what it looks like, at least. Sweet, sweet indifference. There's a lot roiling beneath that frosty exterior though. Mort's seen things, you know. He knows things that other people don't. You should try talking to the guy, actually. Maybe if he likes you he'll tell you a secret. Don't worry about him, really. He doesn't bite. Unless provoked.

Mort is not a fan of people getting their jimmies all up in a twist over minor issues. It's just so totally not the way that people ought to be. If an individual can't keep their calm over some of the smaller hurdles that may crop up in their daily routine, how could they ever hope to deal with the real, higher stakes issues that may befall them? Just do as Mort does. Practice mindfulness, be grateful that you even exist at all, and if all else fails, roll up a joint of space dust and smoke the edge off. This tactic has yet to fail our king of cool.

Oh, and what a king he is. Young Mortimer Krakowski is well known throughout the neutral zone for hosting some of the wildest ragers and raves the glitter clubs have ever known. In the underground party circuit, he is second to no one.

Especially dressed for success as he is, decked out in all the hippest neo-retro-futurewave gettup, from his steel tipped jump boots to his custom made lime green visor and top end wireless headset constantly playing the soft sounds of ocean waves lapping at the distant earthen shore. Mort assumes the sound file is genuine anyways. Not that it matters. What does matter is that with absolute zen comes the right disposition for making true friends.

Now, friends are something that Mort loves having around. The right people can make any room brighter, or any task less daunting to face. In his usual haunts, you know, clubs and bars and the like, Mort is surrounded by friends. His absolute best buds, Rosco, Teacup, and Gloria, he shares a nice flat with in one of the more posh enclaves. So. We've established that Mort is an absolute social butterfly. How does one go about befriending this charming fellow? Well, beyond keep it cool, it's not too tough.

Be real. Be comfortable with what and who you are. Mort's spent enough time around liars and self haters to know one when he sees one, and he also knows that it's not often that those folks ever want to change anyways. He would help, sure he would. If they ever actually asked. You know what they say about the horse and the water and all that though.

_{D A Y S - G O N E}

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There's a lot of rumors about Mort's past. Who he was and where he came from before arising from obscurity as the king of space dust and all the wonders it can provide. Some of them even come close. He knows what some people say about him you know. The nasty things about the way he looks and acts and carries himself. He usually doesn't care. I care though. So I'm going to tell you the real story of Mortimer Krakowski, no holds barred. And it will make you blanch.

Enter young Mortimer, destitute and alone, scrounging through the grit and grime day by day just to feed himself. No parents, nobody on the entire surface of Mars that even knows who poor young Mortimer is. Now enter the Children of Mars. Enter Chekkon Zeffra. Wealthy man of middling age buys a defunct factory and refurbishes it as a home for the poor and destitute of the Kion-Za Enclave. The caretakers? Fellow men and women of faith like Chekkon himself. Mortimer is among the most eager of the young converts. For the first time in his life, he found something to believe in and was surrounding by a loving family that seemed to believe in him too. It was something like a miracle.

Say nothing of Chekkon's draconic methods of discipline. The beatings and starvings and threats of expulsion from the sanctuary should Mortimer not get his act together. At least someone was paying attention to him. And as it pertains to the next segment of this sad tale, he did get his "act" together. He became an exemplary disciple of the Children. Sometimes he even believed the lines that Chekkon and the other priests made him repeat. Such a fine pupil was he that at the age of sixteen he was chosen to go on a pilgrimage to the nearest Happy Pets enclave and spread the good word.

Hang on, let me roll up a puff. This part's even worse than the last.

So Mortimer goes on this mission to Happy Pets, eager as they come to further his search for the Ultimate Truth. Two priests traveled with him, and as they crossed the boundary into the enclave, it was one of those two priests that screamed out in agony as automaton gunfire ripped through him. The other one followed shortly after. For reasons unknowable, Mortimer they chose to capture rather than kill. Maybe these were some of Happy Pets' infamous malfunctioning bots. Then again, maybe not. Screaming to 𝚃𝚣𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚐𝚘𝚛𝚐 for protection and to Killgore for rescue, he was dragged off and away from his dead compatriots.

The automatons kept him in a cell most of the time. He did see nor hear any sign of human life on his way into the facility, and for the nearly two years that he was trapped there, it remained as such. Usually, Mortimer was left alone. When he was not, the things done to him were strange and awful. The robots would feed him odd, foul smelling slime sometimes, strapping him to a chair until the horrendous meal was completed. Other times they would hook him up to unfamiliar machinery and shock him, stick him with needles, or flash bizarre strobing images before his eyes for hours at a time. It was torturous. The stress and isolation began to eat at Mortimer's mind, like so many rats nibbling upon a stinking, rotten corpse. His sanity unraveled.

He began to see and hear things that were not there. At first, just brief flashes at the corners of his eye or unintelligible whispering beyond his ability to understand. Eventually however, as most things tend to do, it got worse. Mortimer came to believe the old gods of Mars were speaking to him; reaching out to him and making him their chosen. He believed that they were teaching him the Ultimate Truth. I've asked him to explain it to me before, and either he is incapable of articulating or I am incapable of understanding.

The essence of what he believes is the only important part anyways.

Mortimer, or Mort as he would here on begin to call himself, came to believe that the old gods were rising, likely very soon, and that all would become awash in cosmic retribution. Mort believed that the end of all things was coming.

Armed with this new knowledge, he felt invincible, and began to plan his escape. As it happens, however, such a plan would be unnecessary. One day when he awoke, the door to his cell was open, and all of the automatons were simply gone. Mort left that day, and returned to his sanctuary. He lied about his experience, elaborating in grim detail upon the more horrific elements while leaving out the more enlightening aspects of his imprisonment. Mort knew the Truth, and he knew that it would not serve them. Young as he was, the others all began to seem like children to him. He wished to spare them from the harsh reality of their lives. He did not believe that they would take the Truth which as much grace as he had. Not but two days after his return, Mort stole away into the night, as much of Chekkon's wealth stowed away on his person as he could carry.

How Mort got into the drug dispersal business is probably the least interesting part of this story. He met the right people, had the right attitude, and was no stranger to hard work. That's how he made it. When you believe that nothing really matters in the end, things don't tend to hold you back as much as they once might have.

So that's it. Mort's story. Satisfied?

_{M E M O R I E S}

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None yet...

_{E Q U I P M E N T & L O Y A L T I E S}

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A cool high tech visor that grants nightvision, can detect heat signatures, and offers protection from the sun.

Some sick kicks that are also the latest in jump boot technology. If it's high in the air, he can get there. Cushy soles and some other techno stuff lets him land on his feet without breaking his legs.

A badass belt buckle that also happens to have a personal defense shield built into it. Press the button, green energy surrounds you, suddenly it isn't as easy to blast, pummel, or otherwise harm the user.

An actual freaking raygun that isn't good for much more than melting circuits or paralyzing organic life forms. Still, it's gotten Mort out of more than a few jams.

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The Children of Mars are a bunch of jokers that desperately need to do something more productive with their lives. He feels bad for some of them, sure. But the ones at the top can be downright sinister sometimes.

Happy Pets Food Group is full of bad vibes. Does not come highly recommended.

Everyman Equity is alright. Some of their jobs are boring, some are more interesting, and most pay pretty damn well.