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    1. DeltaV 10 yrs ago

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Sometimes I partake in the computers.

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Name:
John L. Roberts

Age:
49

Appearance:
Standing at the reasonable height of five feet and nine inches, John is a lean man of pale skin and dark hair. His eyes are a dull gray-brown, not unlike two chips of flint, though they are somewhat distorted behind thick glasses. He keeps his raven-black hair well-maintained, though it is streaked with gray and beginning to bald. The true pride of John's appearance, of course, is the rather impressive goatee that he carefully trims and landscapes each day.

Perhaps even more striking than the facial hair to the first glance, however, is the pronounced limp with which he walks painfully -- a relic of the days of the Great War. He has a tendency to grimace and mutter under his breath with every few steps, but stalwartly reject any sort of assistance offered.

John usually dresses in simple clothing, porting in general jeans, a cotton shirt and practical boots under an old-fashioned brown duster.

Personality:
John is a somewhat gregarious man in general, fond of friends and lively conversation. He prefers to listen more often than he speaks as a general rule, but could not truly be described as solitary. Generous with his money when he still had it, he has since become a bit more closely-guarded.

John maintains a number of different dispositions dependent on the scenario -- if one were to find themselves waiting in the room with a loved one on the operating table, no doubt they would be surprised at the, well, surgicality (no pun intended) and solemnity with which John goes about the task. He takes to surgery as a man takes to breathing, as a habit more than a practice or a hobby.

History:
John Louis Roberts was born in Eastport, Maine in the year of 1885, to a reasonably wealthy family. His father had managed to distinguish himself a bit whilst fighting for the Union in the Civil War, and had since managed to hold down various odd-jobs as John's mother held down the home.

John led a rather normal, if perhaps not quite idyllic, life for the times. Always an intelligent boy, he exemplified a certain strong work ethic that propelled him to Harvard College at the age of eighteen, where John went into the medical practice. After graduating some years later, he acquired work at a Boston hospital.

John was thirty-two years old when America officially entered in to the Great War, and enlisted voluntarily despite being somewhat older than the average draftee. He managed to weasel his way into a position as a field medic after basic training, and proved to be rather good at it indeed. In early 1918, however, John took a number of bullets to the leg while attempting to retrieve an injured man from the battlefield and was himself rushed from the front-lines. He soon received medical leave and returned home, though not without his own share of shell-shock from working with men in various stages of death -- and nearly becoming one himself.

When John returned home he found himself traveling to his home-town of Eastport, where he established a reasonably successful medical practice -- tending in large part to various small check-ups, though with the occasional surgery that helped to keep his wits sharp. He managed to find himself on the good side of much of the town due to a number of factors, among them his veterancy; his generally amiable attitude; and the low costs which he charged for his services.

However, when the Great Depression reared its ugly head, John found that he perhaps should have charged a bit more after all. His meager savings lasted only about a year and a half before John was forced to sell his livelihood. Though it brought him considerable guilt, John cashed in his favors with a local well-off farmer -- and old friend via the local church -- by the name of Tackett. In exchange for providing general medical aid to farmhands and animals alike, John managed to secure himself a few hot meals a day and a roof over his head until he would be able to support himself once more -- which, with the advent of zombie apocalypse, perhaps will not be for some time more.

Speech Color:
Olive.

Traits:
Savant - John is a very skilled surgeon. - 5
Doctor - 4
Intelligent - 1
Local - 1
Veteran - 2

Churchgoing - -2
Bespectacled - -1
Lead-Footed - -2
Lame - -1
Shell-Shocked - -2
That's fine, but you'll run the risk of being somewhat confused and also potentially being spoiled as to some very major plot twists. I'll be running off of the book-canon, so it won't be exactly the same, but if you want to stay relatively clear of spoilers be warned.

Also, you're going to want to read the wiki. This is a good jumping-off point.
Name:
John L. Roberts

Age:
49

Appearance:
Standing at the reasonable height of five feet and nine inches, John is a lean man of pale skin and dark hair. His eyes are a dull gray-brown, not unlike two chips of flint, though they are somewhat distorted behind thick glasses. He keeps his raven-black hair well-maintained, though it is streaked with gray and beginning to bald. The true pride of John's appearance, of course, is the rather impressive goatee that he carefully trims and landscapes each day.

Perhaps even more striking than the facial hair to the first glance, however, is the pronounced limp with which he walks painfully -- a relic of the days of the Great War. He has a tendency to grimace and mutter under his breath with every few steps, but stalwartly reject any sort of assistance offered.

John usually dresses in simple clothing, porting in general jeans, a cotton shirt and practical boots under an old-fashioned brown duster.

Personality:
John is a somewhat gregarious man in general, fond of friends and lively conversation. He prefers to listen more often than he speaks as a general rule, but could not truly be described as solitary. Generous with his money when he still had it, he has since become a bit more closely-guarded.

John maintains a number of different dispositions dependent on the scenario -- if one were to find themselves waiting in the room with a loved one on the operating table, no doubt they would be surprised at the, well, surgicality (no pun intended) and solemnity with which John goes about the task. He takes to surgery as a man takes to breathing, as a habit more than a practice or a hobby.

History:
John Louis Roberts was born in Eastport, Maine in the year of 1885, to a reasonably wealthy family. His father had managed to distinguish himself a bit whilst fighting for the Union in the Civil War, and had since managed to hold down various odd-jobs as John's mother held down the home.

John led a rather normal, if perhaps not quite idyllic, life for the times. Always an intelligent boy, he exemplified a certain strong work ethic that propelled him to Harvard College at the age of eighteen, where John went into the medical practice. After graduating some years later, he acquired work at a Boston hospital.

John was thirty-two years old when America officially entered in to the Great War, and enlisted voluntarily despite being somewhat older than the average draftee. He managed to weasel his way into a position as a field medic after basic training, and proved to be rather good at it indeed. In early 1918, however, John took a number of bullets to the leg while attempting to retrieve an injured man from the battlefield and was himself rushed from the front-lines. He soon received medical leave and returned home, though not without his own share of shell-shock from working with men in various stages of death -- and nearly becoming one himself.

When John returned home he found himself traveling to his home-town of Eastport, where he established a reasonably successful medical practice -- tending in large part to various small check-ups, though with the occasional surgery that helped to keep his wits sharp. He managed to find himself on the good side of much of the town due to a number of factors, among them his veterancy; his generally amiable attitude; and the low costs which he charged for his services.

However, when the Great Depression reared its ugly head, John found that he perhaps should have charged a bit more after all. His meager savings lasted only about a year and a half before John was forced to sell his livelihood. Though it brought him considerable guilt, John cashed in his favors with a local well-off farmer -- and old friend via the local church -- by the name of Tackett. In exchange for providing general medical aid to farmhands and animals alike, John managed to secure himself a few hot meals a day and a roof over his head until he would be able to support himself once more -- which, with the advent of zombie apocalypse, perhaps will not be for some time more.

Speech Color:
Olive.

Traits:
Savant - John is a very skilled surgeon. - 5
Doctor - 4
Intelligent - 1
Local - 1
Veteran - 2

Churchgoing - -2
Bespectacled - -1
Lead-Footed - -2
Lame - -1
Shell-Shocked - -2
[Warning: Contains spoilers]

Concept:

The year is 298AC. Nearly three hundred years ago, Aegon the Conqueror brought fire and blood to the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros, and forged his Iron Throne from the blades of his enemies. Fifteen years ago, the Mad King Aerys II Targaryen brought and end to years of relative peace when the crown prince Rhaegar eloped with Lyanna Stark -- and, in response, Aerys executed Lord Paramount Rickard Stark and his heir Brandon, and called for the heads of the young Lord Paramount Robert Baratheon, betrothed to Lyanna, and his good friend Eddard Stark. With Rhaegar's defeat at the Ruby Ford of the Trident came the end of a dynasty spanning generations, and the so-called Usurper took his seat at the Iron Throne.

Now, a decade and a half later, all the carefully-forged peace teeters on the edge of a knife. His Grace Robert Baratheon is dead, gored horribly by a boar whilst hunting in the kingswood, and the King's Hand Ned Stark lounges in the black cells. Joffrey, Robert's untested son, holds an uneasy grip on the throne as the armies of the west sweep into the riverlands.

In the midst of it, of course, sits the somewhat lowly House Vypren, holders of the modest city of Fairmarket. Sworn to the Tullys of the Riverlands, they eye the growing hostilities with unease as the threat of war begins to creep nearer and nearer to reality.

---

Alrighty, with that out of the way, you've probably gleaned that what I'm aiming for is a character-based RP set in the world of George RR Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire series. Naturally, it will most likely contain overt spoilers for the entirety of the written material.

Currently, my idea was to center our interest around the people of House Vypern, a minor dynasty in the riverlands. With about three total mentions over the course of the series, there's plenty of room for people not to feel bogged-down by established roles. The proposal you see above places my idea of a setting at the very beginning of the War of the Five Kings, but I'm open to any other suggestion of setting and time.

There are a number of possible character roles to be filled:

House Vypern
- Lucias Vypren - Lord [of Fairmarket, though this is completely conjecture]. Middle-aged.
- Lythene Frey, daughter of the Late Lord Walder Frey and wife of Lord Lucias. Middle-aged.
- Damon Vypren, knight and heir to Lord Lucias.
- Elyana Vypren, daughter of Lord Lucias.
- Jon Wylde, landless knight and husband of Elyana Vypren.
- Any relatives

Other
- A maester
- A septon
- Landless knights, sworn shields, guard captains, etc.
- Smallfolk of various sorts

Anyone not claimed will be played as an NPC by yours truly. I also might pick up a main character depending on the amount of people that we get.

---

If you're interested, leave a post below, preferably outlining the type of character you'd be interested in playing. I'm all-ears if anyone has suggestions or comments. I expect everyone involved to have a decent knowledge of the books (or, at very least, the wiki). If you're completely new to the series but interested -- and not afraid of spoilers -- feel free to say so and I'll try to get you the basics.
Joren Volkov was a man fond of frowning, and often found himself frowning for one reason or another at any given time of the day. He grimaced in the mornings as he limped around his chambers, every step sending a jolt of pain through his leg -- the mornings were always the worst. By noon on even a bad day, Joren liked to think, he could outrun any other cripple in the Whitelands. In the mornings, though, he was invariably reduced to a slow shuffle on a good day or a cane on a bad one. As the years had passed, more bad days had started to come than good ones. He found himself frowning again by midday, drilling the paltry guard that had been left to garrison the castle since the late Duke had marched off. Mostly they were boys who had never left the village or fought someone with a body that wasn't made of straw, and Joren's frown would grow deeper as the men grew more tired. By the afternoon he would call off training and the guardsmen would go off to patrol -- or, increasingly, to drink in the village and chat with servants in the halls. Joren would continue frowning throughout the various council meetings and court sessions that he was able to attend, and that frown grew ever deeper on the day that the boy regent called the lords to him. It was a necessary formality, of course, but still one that might have been better off saved for when the new Duke, Joakim's brother Gregar, finally found the time to come back to his seat. A sixteen-year-old regent without a hair on his chin did little to inspire confidence in one's vassals. Regardless the day passed, and lords began to pour into the keep. Among those was an envoy of Joren's own family, some distant cousin or another, from whom Joren learned that his children were growing up well at home. He had often considered bringing them to the Wintershouse -- or perhaps even retiring from his position and going to them -- but the boy regent was in need of good guidance now if he ever would be, and so it was Joren's duty to stay. It was also his duty to keep one of his trademark frowns from becoming too apparent when Joakim had announced the army marching into the Whitelands, and Joren found himself even more taxed when the boy declared that he would be travelling to free a captured knight himself -- and that Joren would be accompanying him. It had been years since he had left the keep, to be completely honest, and he hadn't sat a horse in a good thirty years, with good reason. Regardless, he could hardly disobey, especially when Joakim had already managed to point out his leg and his horse issues in a single remark. And so Joren nodded in silence and resigned himself to a long trip on horseback to manage a garrison of unfamiliar soldiers who owed him no loyalty. With any luck the horse would fall to the right if it fell, and Lord Perris would not circle around to take the Wintershouse while everyone but the coin-counters and the drunken guardsmen were gone. After the meeting Joren met with his garrison, chose someone he was reasonably certain that he could trust to manage the guard, and then went off to see about finding a sturdy horse. One low to the ground, perhaps.
I should have a character made by this afternoon. I'd appreciate if you could wait for me.
Long Live King Joffrey.
Partisan's signature
You're a bit late on that one. Anyways, very interested -- I love these types of RPs. What kind of characters would you say are most needed at the moment?
So we're just letting this one die, I guess.
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