Cube — Roleplayer Guild

The last large group RP I was in had around 15 characters and the start and after the first few rounds of posting there were 4 of us left. The one before that had 7 and there are 3 of us after the first few rounds.@Tsar Gatto

While I haven't been on this particular platform a whole lot, this has mostly been my experience in other places as well. I've been a part of a couple group roleplays that panned out to the very end, and they typically started with a group of 8 or 9 or so, and eventually dwindled down to 4-ish. So I totally get why you were hesitant to cut off character applications earlier on.

In the future, it might help to try and do a bit of a heavier screening process for the people who want to participate. Figure out whether or not they seem genuinely interested, or just want to make a cool character and dip. Not to suggest anyone here is doing that, but it certainly happens a lot. I figure anyone who has the patience to chat and build a rapport with the GM a bit prior to diving into the roleplay will be more inclined to stick around around to see the story through.

But, that's just an assumption. Maybe worth a shot going forward. I'd love to see this roleplay completed though, I'm a sucker for DnD-type settings so I'll for sure be one of those that stick around!

Ronan Argyle

The air around Ronan Argyle was heavy, and a thick fog made it impossible to see his surroundings beyond a couple of feet in each direction he looked. The more he tried to focus, however, the more he began to question whether or not there actually were any surroundings for him to look at. The Half-Elf’s head suddenly began to feel heavy, as though his neck could barely support it any longer, and any movement in his limbs were sluggish as though they were underwater. Soon, he began to realize that he truly had no idea where he was, how he had gotten there, and if he could escape. His feet remain planted to the ground, of which there was no true evidence of beside the fog building up around his feet; everywhere else was just black. Nothingness surrounded him. Fear began to set in. Panic. Worry. 

Then, off in the distance, a dark figure loomed forward at a speed his own body would have no hope of matching under the circumstances of his surroundings, or lack thereof. At first, the shape he saw was nothing more than a tall figure that loosely resembled that of the human form; at least, that was the closest thing Ronan’s mind could attribute to the shape he saw. But as it moved closer, that suspicion quickly became a reality as the shape took on more of a Human form as it forced its way through the fog with ease. Ronan’s eyes struggled to look away and even as he did, he realized there was nothing else to look at. Fog swirled around his feet, but did little to distract him from the figure that was fast approaching.

Before long, the black shape was only a few feet away from Ronan. At this point, the only thing abandoning the facade of it being a normal Human was its size. The figure stood a good three-and-a-half feet taller than Ronan himself, and when he looked up, the feelings of worry he felt moments prior had evolved into pure shock. Looking down at him was the face of Ran Tallore, bearing the same welcoming smile that had roped a young Ronan - known then by the name Traynor Valenti - into a life of crime. Even now, Tallore’s frame seemed to be akin to that of a giant, the same way he looked when Ronan was only 12-years of age.

“Valenti … Traynor Valenti …” the man’s face, fixed atop an otherwise shadowy frame, spoke in a tone so calm it bordered on unnerving. “You never seem prepared for our meetings. Why is that, I wonder?”

Ronan struggled to reply. Try as he might, his body was no longer cooperating with his brain, and although he had hundreds of questions floating through his mind that he felt the need to ask Ran, the most he could manage was to stare the man directly in his eyes; something he was afraid to do as a youth, before he was hardened by the world outside the city of Calimport.

“Silence, I see. As usual,” the face of Ran Tallore said in response to Ronan’s inner struggle. Surely he could see the fear in the Half-Elf’s eyes, but refused to acknowledge it, as he often did when Ronan was just a boy. “But, I suppose silence is an advantageous trait for a man such as you … a thief.”

Ronan watched Ran’s lips move as he spoke.

“A scoundrel,” the voice continued, now sounding as though it was emanating from sources all around the empty space the two were in. Ronan continued to watch, stubbornly maintaining eye contact with the man standing so tall before him.

“A traitor.”

With that, Ronan winced. He knew the voice to be speaking the truth. He was a traitor. He had not only abandoned his duties to Ran Tallore, but abandoned his family.

“And for what?” the voice chimed in, as if speaking the words Ronan thought in his own mind. “For fame? What good has that done you in the northern lands? You’ve nothing to call your own, aside from a name recognizable to peasants, and a few grand tales to tell drunken whores. That’s not even your own bow, is it?”

Ronan glanced back at the bow that he had not even known was slung over his shoulder. Its normally golden inlays were now red, and the longer he stared in confusion, the more those inlays looked like they were moving. Flowing. Soon, he realized that where gold had once adorned the bow’s limbs has turned into thick, viscous blood. Ronan’s own blood ran cold at the realization, and in the blink of an eye, the weapon had disappeared, dissipating into the fog that surrounded him.

He turned back to where the figure of Ran Tallore once stood. The face was now at eye-level with Ronan’s own, and the smile had grown sinister. The man’s mouth did not move, but Ronan could hear his voice all the same. It surrounded him, just as the fog did.

“You’re a traitor, Traynor Valenti. A traitor you are, and a traitor you’ll always be.”

Ronan awoke with a jolt. It was daytime, a clue he picked up from the faint rays of sun passing through the curtains of his room. He had not been drinking the night before, but nonetheless felt hungover. His head began to pulse with a pain, and some of his limbs ached. Already, the mental imagery that had awoken him so abruptly was a fading memory. For a moment, he thought he could hear a rather cynical voice, but it too faded with the memory of his dream. 

He may not have been hungover, but he knew the best way to cure one was with more alcohol. If that didn’t work well enough to cure whatever was currently ailing him, he didn’t know what would.
It was in the tavern that Ronan found himself more often that not, as of late. The locals, barkeep included, were growing tired of paying him to hear stories he had told before, but there was little else for drunks to do. So, they stood around, drink in hand, as Ronan regaled them with a tale they had all heard once, twice, or thrice before of the Half-Elf taking on two angry ogre shamans with nothing more than a bow and some poison-tipped arrows. The first time he told the story, it was just one ogre. The second time, it was two. Now, those ogres have moved up the chain of command once more in Ronan’s story, and he himself was no longer even sure which iteration was the correct one.

He grew tired of it, just as his audience had. Such is the reason why he was planning his departure soon, for the misty forest where he had heard the beckoning for talented adventurers to deal with what he understood to be a werewolf menace. Ronan himself had never knowingly come across a werewolf, but he was at least a somewhat skilled adventurer at this point in his life, and if he did not accept the job, he feared his life’s purpose would fade away that much more.

As far as he was concerned, he had to do this. The worst that could happen was that he be killed at the hands of some night-beast, but death was something he had been preparing himself for for decades now.

Just as he was beginning the arguably more exciting portion of his ogre-tale, Ronan spied what looked to be a young boy approach, glass of milk in hand. As Ronan spoke, he could tell he was quickly garnering the boy’s attention. Before long, the ogre shamans were not as dumb as the story was building them up to be. As the boy’s interest and participation grew, so too did Ronan’s white lies. The shamans in the story were now hulking beasts, much bigger than the average ogre, and armed to the teeth with spells and steel alike. Ronan smiled a sly grin when he finished, hearing an applause from the small crowd that felt a touch more genuine than they’d been in recent past.

As the crowd dwindled, Ronan came to get to know the boy more. So much so, that he came to learn this was no more a boy than the Half-Elf himself was. Not only was this a grown adult, but one that had seen the world, even parts of it that Ronan himself had not. Although Olo the Halfling seemed to be a little less used to danger, and a lot more of an innocent soul, he and Ronan shared one common trait: a passion for adventure.

Ronan admired the Halfling, so much so that the two spent the majority of the evening, well into the night, discussing the very topic over a round or twelve of ale - bought and paid for by Ronan, who would slip his new friend a drink when the stubborn barkeep wasn’t looking. The two hit it off, and with a bit of liquid compassion, Ronan invited the down-on-his-luck Halfling to accompany him on his travels to the misty forest. He hadn’t quite thought about the possibility that the journey could very well mean a premature end to Olo’s life, but for some reason or another, Ronan was confident that this would be the Halfling’s chance to prove his own worth to himself. He hoped so, anyway.

At the very least, the Halfling’s musical talents would serve to enhance his own tales of bravery. Mayhaps the travelling musician would even mock up a song or two about him. That, in and of itself, was enough to make the partnership seem worthwhile.

Ronan listened carefully to the words being spoken by Captain Lanniver. Dealing with the werewolves was of priority, and judging by the size of the weapons - and those carrying them - slaughter would not be an issue. Discovering the origin of the mist, however, seemed like it may pose a bit more of a challenge. Perhaps that would be where he could prove his own worth to his compatriots.

As the party departed from their employer and made their way into the Misty Forest, Ronan grew increasingly aware that their mission was bringing them into dangerous territory. The aforementioned mist brought upon flashbacks to the dream Ronan had been so quickly to forget. He grew tense as more and more images of Ran Tallore’s face atop a hulking shadow figure filled his mind’s eye. The mist, although rather calm, began to feel as though it were enveloping Ronan alone just as the fog did in his dream. The tracks left behind by the forest’s creatures should have been a loud, in-your-face clue to the rogue that trouble was afoot, but flashbacks of his dream, or perhaps just fear itself, clouded his senses.

Before he knew it, the party was set upon by a pack of wolves. Ronan snapped back into gear and looked around. His friend, Olo, was set upon by a number of them and the woman who had seemed wary of Ronan in the first place was guarding the grounded Halfling as he fiddled with his instrument. Alongside them was another of the women in the group, fending off a singed wolf that had just met the heat of a fireball summoned, and hurled, from her palm. With any luck, the three of them could fend off any incoming danger.
Behind him, a roar unlike anything Ronan had heard from a wolf erupted, and some of the beasts turned their attention as well. The Leonin, Everheart, was a ways back from the crowd, almost as if he too had been caught off-guard by his own inner demons and was only now coming to.

Ronan realized, then, that he had to stop observing and act. With a speed honed by years of adventure, he snapped his bow into place before his head, notched a sharpened arrow, and let one loose that embedded itself in the skull of one of the wolves that had begun approaching Everheart. It lost control of its bodily functions and flopped to the ground, lifeless. Ronan turned away from it to better observe the field and possibly find a vantage point, away from the thick of battle where he could make more precise shots. His carelessness before, however, had proved to make that impossible.

Two wolves, who either didn’t hear or didn’t care for the Leonin’s powerful roar had teamed up on Ronan. Their sharp teeth bared as they snarled at him, barking aggressively as if giving him one last chance to turn and run. But run he would not. He could not. Not at this point. These people would not know Ronan as a traitor.

Dropping the bow, Ronan unsheathed two of his twin daggers, staring the beasts in the eye as the two foes traced circles around him. The knives were just as sharp as the wolves’ teeth, and he could only hope he was the more dexterous of the three if he were to make it out of this surprise encounter alive.
They lunged, and he slashed. Both hits connected. The wolves were bleeding, but so was Ronan’s arm. They lunged again, and again Ronan slashed. He ducked this time, avoiding the powerful jaws of the wolves from latching on to his limbs and raised his dagger in hopes of slicing the creature from beneath. He felt some kind of connection between blade and fur, but doubted it would have been enough to fell the hungry animal.

As he stood, he was proven correct. Though one of the two was visibly weaker, he was still facing off against two drooling, crazed wolves. He felt blood staining the cloth part of the armour covering his forearm. Somehow, Ronan grinned.

“This is a good bit of fun, but nothing Ronan Argyle cannot handle!” he shouted, rather flamboyantly, between light panting as if the animals before him could understand any of the words coming from his mouth, or the taunting tone behind them. As he spoke, Ronan dodged once again, abandoning his focus on his weapons to ensure the wolves’ lunges were met with nothing but mist. If he could avoid them long enough, he could possibly escape. Two-on-one combat with a beast like this was not his forté, and he knew he needed a new game plan to handle his opponents. 

All he needed was a little time.

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