Clumsywordsmith

Avalon: A Tale of Arthurian Legend

Not sure when we'll be getting started, but I'll be out for most of this weekend -- so don't expect to see anything from me until late Sunday at the earliest.

Avalon: A Tale of Arthurian Legend

-Name: Arian Hydd

-Age: 31

-Appearance: Not of an especially great height, but broad shouldered and well-built nonetheless. He carries himself with a certain measure of grace and quiet confidence. Dark hair tied back, clothing plain and bearing little in the way of ornementation – save for a silver medallion he seems to always wear about his neck, upon which is engraved the spiraling shape of an antlered stag in constant motion. His lips seemed creased into a perpetual frown, and any smile he might make tends to end up masked behind a thick beard. Still, he wouldn't generally be termed unhandsome – if perhaps appearing more than a little dour at the outset.

-Gender: Male

Background:

Generally a rather taciturn individual, Arian is the sort who speaks only sparingly of his past – though perhaps a bit of drink and the right questions would loosen his tongue a little. A Welsh warrior hailing from one of the countless little towns buried amidst the sprawling moors and rolling mountains, he learned the art of his craft from the days of his early youth, a childhood spent battling the Saxons in countless skirmishes and engagements. His past has seen all those he once knew and loved passed on to eternity, and whatever the future might hold in store would appear just as bleak. Still, he seems to have found some solace in taking up service with Arthur's knights in Camelot: the cessation of war, one might find, does not always leave a warrior's heart at peace.

-Intro:

Plumes of breath in frozen air; soft crunch of hooves in the grass – and the boy crouches, grey eyes wide as he studies the creature before him. White on white – a monstrous stag of silver-white, sleek coat all but shimmering in the faltering twilight. The boy exhales, rises to his feet even as he stretches a cautious hand forward. Creeping, stretching. One foot, then the next. The stag eyes him cooly now, head tosses in uncertain gesture: wicked tines of branching antlers slice through the air, ears flap and twitch. But the boy presses on. Another step, and then another, until finally they stand a mere pace apart – the boy and the stag – and he reaches his hand forward, lays a finger against the soft velvet of the twitching nose...

(I draw my hands from the stream, splash the cool water against my face. Scrub at the blood and grime. Watch the red blossom take life, go swirling away downstream. I grit my teeth, clench my fists and feel the stubborn pain. Stagger to my feet and eye the clearing; hazy sheen of a midsummer's afternoon, vivid green of the forest's growth right up to the water's edge, and a quiet woodland stream murmuring quietly to itself amidst the droning hum of insects behind. I blink. The -heat-! And the bodies. Strewn here and there. Haphazard – the finality of death bringing a a strange kind of calm to their features. Soon the flies will come, buzzing thick – but... with an exhausted grunt I find myself, too, collapsing against the trunk of a nearby willow, stretching my legs toward the water and tilting my head skyward... thoughts wandering far, far away....

To a time of blood and fire – and I am running, now. Sprinting across the barren moor. That odd feeling of calm before the storm; that uncertain certainty of finding myself observing my own actions rather than participating. Like watching through a dream, from a distance. And then the first of the enemy appear over the crest of the further hill. A great cry goes up. They scream! I am screaming too, I find – screaming even as I tear past their further edge, the dust and heat driving me to a frenzy as we crash against the unprotected flank. Sword and axe alike are moving with a deadly grace – and yet it is not me, I think. No. I am quiet. Serene. The great white stag grazing in the midst of a forested meadow. Flash of light – screams of the dying – and then--

And then I come to myself again. Thoughts still disturbed – like searching for a lost trinket through the depths of a murky pool. Blurry confines of an old and ragged hut; no one there – just me – and the fire's last embers have fallen all to ash and smoke. I claw hands through my eyes, try to rub the smarting blur from my vision. The air... too thick to breath. I feel myself beginning to suffocate.

“A future, you say? Look then to the past!” The words come unbidden to me now, and with a gasp I spring to my feet, throw aside the hide covering to the hut's entrance and step outside. My horse is there, browsing quietly amidst the wildflowers. My axe and sword lean against the wooden wall. I could not say how long I had been asleep. I do not think it mattered. I know only that I am alive, and staggering to my knees I retch, spew some bile to the grass even as I clutch the back of my head; the pain of an iron spike driving into the back of my skull.

But I am alive. I gather my weapons, haul myself into the saddle and steer a course away from the hut. Away from the madness. There is a place, I have been told – a place where a luckless man of my gifts and talents might find himself of use. A place called Camelot. A man at his wit's end will try most anything, or so they say.)

-Traits of Avalon:

∞-The Stag’s Eyes: You possess a keen and heightened awareness of things. In combat, your spatial acuity is above that of an average knights, and you are able to adapt and overcome with ease.

∞-The Sparrow’s Wing: You are fleet of both foot and hand. The innate speed you possess allows you to move faster than an average knight in combat and beyond.

Avalon: A Tale of Arthurian Legend

Arian Hydd

-Name: Arian

-Age: 31

-Appearance: Not of an especially great height, but broad shouldered and well-built nonetheless. He carries himself with a certain measure of grace and quiet confidence. Dark hair tied back, clothing plain and bearing little in the way of ornementation – save for a silver medallion he seems to always wear about his neck, upon which is engraved the spiraling shape of an antlered stag in constant motion. His lips seemed creased into a perpetual frown, and any smile he might make tends to end up masked behind a thick beard. Still, he wouldn't generally be termed unhandsome – if perhaps appearing more than a little dour at the outset.

-Gender: Male

Background:

Generally a rather taciturn individual, Arian is the sort who speaks only sparingly of his past – though perhaps a bit of drink and the right questions would loosen his tongue a little. A Welsh warrior hailing from one of the countless little towns buried amidst the sprawling moors and rolling mountains, he learned the art of his craft from the days of his early youth, a childhood spent battling the Saxons in countless skirmishes and engagements. His past has seen all those he once knew and loved passed on to eternity, and whatever the future might hold in store would appear just as bleak. Still, he seems to have found some solace in taking up service with Arthur's knights in Camelot: the cessation of war, one might find, does not always leave a warrior's heart at peace.

-Intro:

Plumes of breath in frozen air; soft crunch of hooves in the grass – and the boy crouches, grey eyes wide as he studies the creature before him. White on white – a monstrous stag of silver-white, sleek coat all but shimmering in the faltering twilight. The boy exhales, rises to his feet even as he stretches a cautious hand forward. Creeping, stretching. One foot, then the next. The stag eyes him cooly now, head tosses in uncertain gesture: wicked tines of branching antlers slice through the air, ears flap and twitch. But the boy presses on. Another step, and then another, until finally they stand a mere pace apart – the boy and the stag – and he reaches his hand forward, lays a finger against the soft velvet of the twitching nose...

(I draw my hands from the stream, splash the cool water against my face. Scrub at the blood and grime. Watch the red blossom take life, go swirling away downstream. I grit my teeth, clench my fists and feel the stubborn pain. Stagger to my feet and eye the clearing; hazy sheen of a midsummer's afternoon, vivid green of the forest's growth right up to the water's edge, and a quiet woodland stream murmuring quietly to itself amidst the droning hum of insects behind. I blink. The -heat-! And the bodies. Strewn here and there. Haphazard – the finality of death bringing a a strange kind of calm to their features. Soon the flies will come, buzzing thick – but... with an exhausted grunt I find myself, too, collapsing against the trunk of a nearby willow, stretching my legs toward the water and tilting my head skyward... thoughts wandering far, far away....

To a time of blood and fire – and I am running, now. Sprinting across the barren moor. That odd feeling of calm before the storm; that uncertain certainty of finding myself observing my own actions rather than participating. Like watching through a dream, from a distance. And then the first of the enemy appear over the crest of the further hill. A great cry goes up. They scream! I am screaming too, I find – screaming even as I tear past their further edge, the dust and heat driving me to a frenzy as we crash against the unprotected flank. Sword and axe alike are moving with a deadly grace – and yet it is not me, I think. No. I am quiet. Serene. The great white stag grazing in the midst of a forested meadow. Flash of light – screams of the dying – and then--

And then I come to myself again. Thoughts still disturbed – like searching for a lost trinket through the depths of a murky pool. Blurry confines of an old and ragged hut; no one there – just me – and the fire's last embers have fallen all to ash and smoke. I claw hands through my eyes, try to rub the smarting blur from my vision. The air... too thick to breath. I feel myself beginning to suffocate.

“A future, you say? Look then to the past!” The words come unbidden to me now, and with a gasp I spring to my feet, throw aside the hide covering to the hut's entrance and step outside. My horse is there, browsing quietly amidst the wildflowers. My axe and sword lean against the wooden wall. I could not say how long I had been asleep. I do not think it mattered. I know only that I am alive, and staggering to my knees I retch, spew some bile to the grass even as I clutch the back of my head; the pain of an iron spike driving into the back of my skull.

But I am alive. I gather my weapons, haul myself into the saddle and steer a course away from the hut. Away from the madness. There is a place, I have been told – a place where a luckless man of my gifts and talents might find himself of use. A place called Camelot. A man at his wit's end will try most anything, or so they say.)

-Traits of Avalon:

∞-The Stag’s Eyes: You possess a keen and heightened awareness of things. In combat, your spatial acuity is above that of an average knights, and you are able to adapt and overcome with ease.

∞-The Sparrow’s Wing: You are fleet of both foot and hand. The innate speed you possess allows you to move faster than an average knight in combat and beyond.

Avalon: A Tale of Arthurian Legend

Oh damn! Looks like I'll have something to keep me busy tonight.

Avalon: A Tale of Arthurian Legend

I am totally on board with this.

Do you enjoy Larp,SCA,Dagorhir,or HEMA? Discuss it here!

I had a girlfriend who once said the SCA (Society of Creative Anachronism) is less of a hobby and more of a religion. It takes over people's entire lives sometimes. haha

@Garth

No kidding. It is a bit of a cult.

Do you enjoy Larp,SCA,Dagorhir,or HEMA? Discuss it here!

Yeah, I do SCA heavy combat a solid three or so times a week. HEMA I am interested in, but participation in my area is pretty slim. ACL I'm also somewhat interested in, but the potential for injury kinda makes me think twice about risking my job over a hobby. Never LARPEd, but being in the SCA means I hang around plenty of people who do/have.

Advanced RP

<Snipped quote by Ruby>

Well, I pointed out the 300 word thing because I've been to casual and a lot of people write very good quality posts that qualify for advanced anyway. That point was mostly aimed at someone that writes a quality post already and is thinking of stepping up.

@HeySeuss

Indeed. If a few of those casual players could migrate over to advanced, it'd be a much livelier place. There's more than a little talent hiding due, no doubt, to perceived ideas of elitism and lacking skill.

Advanced RP

Indeed. I would see it as quite difficult to manage much development or role investment without at least a few hundred words per post; storytelling is -- at its very heart -- roleplaying: the best storytellers are those who manage to fit so perfectly into the shoes of their characters that the words can truly bring them to life. Look at it like a small novel, with each character being written by a separate author over the course of several months or years. Even a mere three hundred words a day can make for a respectably long work in just one year! (And most of my roleplays that last more than a few months tend to quickly add up to around a hundred pages for just my character's perspective. Which really isn't that bad to keep abreast of, when you figure it means reading about 4-5 pages worth of writing a day if it's all spread out over a half dozen or so characters.)

What kind of characters have you been making lately?

Mentally deteriorating, substance abusing ones are the easiest to write about. Heheh... I think I just might know why.