Epsir

The Island That Died

The rain beat down on the deck around her, waves broke over the bow causing the deck boards to creak and groan as the ocean was poured out over them. Crew members ran back and forth amid the rigging, barking orders over the wind's shrieks. The noise was enough to make her light headed, but pounding over all of it was the sound of her own heart drumming incessantly in her ears. Iris Lackeye had no idea why she remained outdoors. The navy blue rain cloak buttoned around her had already been soaked through by water running down her neck and spraying up from below. The smell of saltwater had long sense drowned out. As an officer, even aboard a ship that had no affiliation with her, it felt only right to be at the front. There were a few other passengers who shared her sentiment, dark shapes standing around the deck differentiated from the white shrouds borne by the ship's crew. She herself stood at the railing, holding on to the metal fixture as she watched the decks below. The Crosswind pitched wildly, even as it was set against the wave. Across from her, the large island that blocked their way passed slowly. In its own right, it was innocent, but she couldn't help but feel resentment towards it for essentially dooming them. In the open sea, there was a chance of battening down and dealing with wind damage, but here there was nothing. Jagged, rocky teeth protruded from the base of the cliffs, visible even over the raging, foaming waters at the coast. It was difficult to take her eyes off of them, thinking that they were going to be the ship's final resting place. Little else was visible to begin with. A terrible fog had blown in alongside the downpour, and visibility was down to a startling low. Keeping so close to the island was no doubt a matter of simply having something to navigate by. The ship bucked suddenly, out of time with the constant rolling with the waves. Her thoughts fell silent as she was pressed against the railing. The water below had become much closer as the Crosswind began to list to one side. She froze, unable to back away as her side of the ship tilted steadily downward. A gurgling noise started up somewhere underneath her, and by the time she recognized the sound of water being rapidly displaced the ship was in motion again. It careened back on itself, the depressed starboard side shooting up into the air as the Crosswind rocked its way to stability. The leather of Iris' glove creaked as her grip on the railing tightened, she was almost thrown back but remained fixed with awe and confusion. A mast snapped overhead, with a snap much clearer than the thundering storm could offer and a chorus of wailing, severed cables joining it on its way down. She expected screaming, or some frenzy of communication amongst the crew, any indication of activity from the command deck above but nothing came. The rest of the ship seemed locked in the same awestruck stupor, or racing to understand what was happening first before reacting. Footsteps sounded on the sloshing deck, and her head turned to find who dared to move on the unstable vessel. The white uniform of a crew member was all she could make out before everything rolled again. The Crosswind shook in the water, the sound of splintering wood and screaming steel drowned her senses, and Lackeye felt herself lifted from the deck. She fell into the railing, buckled over it, and then fell into the railing. She held fast to the slick rail all the while, and as she was flipped around it felt something tear all the way down her arm. Hot pain replaced the frigid, sapping feeling of ocean water as she fell the short way down into the eddying waves.

The Crosswind continued to roll under, hull creaking all the way as the stresses exerted upon it began to overpower metal and wood. Before the ship could capsize it shattered along its keel. Down its length, hull ribs popped inwards and the boat was sheared into segments. The sea swell carried the dismembered chunks of the Crosswind away from each other. Some were crushed along the island's cliffs, but most of the ship found itself slowly deposited in the shallows. The creaking remnants of the hull were left on soft sand beds, gradually buckling under their now unsupported weight and the constant, violent ministrations of the storm. It was the sound of wood crunching was what roused her from waterlogged stupor. It may have just been her amazement continuing on through the night, but Lackeye's tired mind had only started to process her survival. She sat up, peeling away a layer of the moist sand that clung to anything unfortunate enough to be on the beach, like her now useless rain cloak. The stars that should have hung above were invisible behind the clouds. The only light on the beach came from the few surviving lanterns on the wreckage. Faint lights, made bright by the supreme darkness around them, hung from broken masts and disfigured approximations of the ship's features. It was as if a shanty town had been washed ashore, illuminated in eerie orange by dangling lights and the flashes of crackling lightning above. Every now and then, cries of human suffering were carried to audibility by the wind. Already, still shapes bobbed where the water was lit. Bodies fortunate enough to be washed ashore, like her, instead of out to sea. Wood continued to break, no doubt the sound of those fortunate enough to ride within pieces of the boat and survive the ordeal. Somewhere in the back of her mind, her damaged arm continued to throb and ache, but the agony to her right seemed wholly inconsequential in the face of the shipwreck. Her daze resumed as the officer resigned to watching corpses wash ashore, and faint indications of living movement within the night.

The Island That Died

Character example and NPC booklet:

I'll be placing NPCs here when they are encountered, and also as an example of tone and format. There is no requirement for character sheet length, but descriptiveness is always a plus.

Name: Iris Renee Lackeye
Age: 24
Gender: Female

Appearance: Standing at 169cm (5'6") tall, Iris' height is average and her weight follows suit. She has a slim build, with just enough muscle on her frame from training to disguise her thinness. She has about her a feminine elegance that complements a womanly figure. Her skin is pale by nature, but tanned a lively and warm peach color. It can be quite sensitive, and she bruises and flushes at the slighest provocations. Iris bears only one notable scar, a thin pale line slashing her left temple that reaches down to her cheekbone. She has an oval shaped face, with a defined but gently shaped jawline. Her button nose is on the small side, and it matches a dainty set of lips with a disposition towards smiling. She has soft, almond shaped eyes with an easygoing bearing. She often appears joyful as a result. They are a pale violet blue coloration, a striking color that is similar to a certain species of iris that grows in her homeland, for which she was given her name. They often make her appear relaxed or sleepy regardless of her actual feelings, and much like the rest of her face they carry a faint spark of happiness. Her hair is long and sprawling, hanging past her shoulders and down over her forehead in gracefully curling tendrils. It is darkly colored, with a soft glossy texture. Not quite black, Iris' hair has a subtle tinge of blue that has been mixed in amongst her snaking locks.

Clothing (Uniform): Iris wears an Army Officer's uniform of the Pomrian Republican Army, typically in full dress and always the female variant. It is fairly standard military regalia, consisting of trousers and a jacket worn over a standard dress shirt. Her trousers are black in color, woven from a durable material intended for a harsh life of service. Despite a dressy, creased exterior they are reinforced at the knee and possess robust belt loops compliant with the belts used by Pomrian military uniforms. The fit of their legs is slim, but their cuffs are wide enough to be worn over boots. Her shirt is white and secured by small silver buttons. Its neatly folded collar is held firm by a bright red tie, always hidden underneath her jacket. The sleeves end in frilled lace cuffs, with a pattern that is also repeated on its breast pocket. Iris' officer's jacket is navy blue and double breasted, lined with broad black buttons. It has a subdued design, with a low profile collar and only twin black bands above either wrist for decoration. Her is devoid of ribbons or decorations other than the silver badge of a propaganda officer over the left breast. It bears a pocket at either hip, for utility. For footwear, Iris has a pair of stock standard black boots. Their soles are made of hardened rubber, etched with a pattern of repeated chevrons favored for performance on slippery surfaces like a ship's deck. They ride at just under knee height, with forward facing laces done up in a no-nonsense crossed pattern. They are securely tight, and obviously worn from use despite the fresh polish.

Belongings: Iris carries very little on her person. A billfold containing her identification papers and travelling documentation is kept in her pants or jacket pocket, but the leather carrying case serves little other practical purpose than holding whatever spare change she has.

Personality; Iris has a tendency towards rambunctiousness. She has an easygoing bearing towards others, which she often unthinkingly assumes will be reciprocated. The result was, for most of her life, a girl too inclined towards mischief and tomfoolery for her own good. Age has mellowed her only slightly, as she retains a healthy appreciation for sharing a laugh and her unabashed openness has lead her to rapidly establish relationships with those around her. Working in public relations has only honed that tendency of hers, and what she once unconsciously did as a matter of personality and perhaps interpersonal longing has become a tool for winning hearts and minds. There is little differentiation in the way Iris acts around new acquaintances and her close friends, as she often has little time to differentiate either to herself. Despite her outgoing transparency and social habits, it is true that Iris is only well experienced in superficial relationships and she finds herself at a loss for expressing things that are not necessarily 'working the crowd.' She gets along well with people she can play off the personality of, such as those who are driven enough to set their own pace in a conversation or people like her, coasting through life, who are willing to have one set for them. While her capacity for hate is exceedingly low, a matter of job-training and her own whimsical nature, she dislikes people who take things too seriously and sees them as stifling the atmosphere she thrives in. Her primary strength is in her adaptable character, she loves interacting with people and in doing has gathered a passable understanding of them, if not herself.

History: Iris was born and raised on the island republic of Pomria, a prominent trade power and sole occupant of what would better be termed a miniature continent. As a historically independent nation and an island at that, it boasts an impressive navy maintained by a practice of compulsory service. She attended school with the intent of studying politics and securing herself a role as a diplomat in any country other than the one she had lived in for all her life. As with most youthful plans, her interests changed. During her conscription in the Republican Army, which she spent in academy seeking an officer's commission, she decided to stay on with the military. Without much of a head for strategy and without the stomach to be a sailor, Officer Cadet Lackeye was destined for service within the massive backend of the military. As a charismatic young woman, Iris found herself whisked into recruitment and public affairs without much of a choice in the matter and a comfortable paycheck for someone whose job was to be happy about her job. Her task was to serve as one of many public faces for the military, doing essentially what was done to her and gathering long term enlistees to fuel the professional components of the military as well as appearing before the press. It was not exactly what she had imagined she would be doing. Lackeye had been anticipating combative service as a company officer, but as someone who had prepared to be a capable soldier she had no trouble adapting a capable soldier's persona in front of the world. She is moderately well known in her homeland, though more by face than name, and has steadily crept into favor with the vast majority of her colleagues. In a remarkably roundabout way, her devout service to the Public Relations Group of the Republican Army has allowed her to realize her childhood dream. As a seasoned spokeswoman, she has seen herself deployed as a propaganda officer to distant embassies and garrisons more and more often. Iris boarded the Crosswind under routine orders, joined by two other civilian military personnel unaffiliated with her to be sent to some facet of Pomrian government property overseas.

The Island That Died

The thread is up, everybody. More detailed information is available there and here's a link.

The Island That Died

The Crosswind had run the same route countless times before in its life, across captains and crews, the storied vessel had always connected the same continents across the same oceans and islands. It was a massive ship, carried aloft by four masts and an army of square sails. The entirety of its leviathan hull was painted snow white, and from the lettering on its prow to the finish of its deck the ship had been painstakingly maintained. So to was its schedule, as it had the privileged of servicing three dozen separate island nations on its voyage and for some of them it served as their only contact to the greater world. It carried passengers and cargo between all of them, across the seas and to everything in between, or so its management liked to boast. On its last day, three hundred and twenty seven passengers had placed their faith in the Crosswind and its crew. Most of them had paid their way, but with them came the usual margin of stowaways and refugees. Some of them were fleeing their homelands, some were simply going home. They were drawn from all the corners of the world, their only commonality laid in their unfortunate fate. Storms had driven the route of the Crosswind since its departure, and the white ship had fled from the clouds all the way. The route was often plagued by such tropical squalls when the seasons changed, but among the myriad of atolls and isles along the way there was never want for a place to hide and await safe passage. The new captain, however, was not a hiding man. Faced with storms and bearing nothing but a strong vessel and a freshly minted badge of command, he chose to race the clouds and dare to find an opening in the front. With sextant and compass in hand, he charted the way to the Crosswind's last folly.

Each narrow escape followed another, and before long the Crosswind found itself caught out by the oncoming storm. Before them laid the island of Jedea, a verdant, jungle covered place that bore none of the scars associated with human habitation. Moss covered cliffs surrounded by lethal outcroppings sealed most of the island from conventional landing, only a few beaches were noted on the charts, and it was known to be utterly without harbors. The catamaran vessels of local island traders could always be found in the shallows. Their accounts as well as those of travelers told of a secluded, peaceable people that had simply been passed over by the world. It was upon them that the captain decided to lay his hopes, as well as those of his passengers, as he decided to beach his ship. The winds had risen and the sea swell had already made maneuvering difficult, returning to open water was impossible and remaining around the stone fingers protruding from the water was suicidal. One of the island's beaches, a spill of beautiful white sand, was within sight directly off the bow. The ship could be unstuck in the shallow waters, but it could not be unsunk if its bottom were scraped away.

The vessel never made it to the shore. Heavy winds and rolling waves carried the ship beyond control, and like a child's toy it was smashed against the rocks and torn into pieces. Whatever circumstances contrived the disaster were lost in the dark, as few aboard ever made it onto the island and even those who had been on deck at the time saw little in the haze. The captain and most of his officers never reappeared from the twisted remains of the storied white ship. In pieces, it was discarded along the shore. Some went straight to ground, others were swept downwind and all in general were scattered across the entire beach. The impenetrable canopy of the storm and the setting sun left nothing but blackness on the survivors, and over the roaring of the waves screams filled the night for hours as the lucky were swept to shore and the unfortunate trapped in the frigid sea. Separated into individuals and small groups by the storm and its dense fog, cold and lost, and only sometimes informed that the island was inhabited, the survivors of the Crosswind were left with no other choice but to seek salvation in the silent jungle.

Rules:

1: General roleplay etiquette is a must, avoid things like godmodding and powerplay as a rule and please respect your fellow roleplayer.
2: There is no requirements for the length of your character sheet but I always like to encourage descriptiveness.
3: Remain active in the thread. I won't penalize people for not being around and there isn't a hard and fast requirement for posting, but don't be a stranger or at least inform me if you can't be around in the case that we're waiting on your post to continue.
4: This thread will not close, feel free to put a character up any time and I'll get you situated with the thread.

Character Sheet Format:

Name:
Age:
Gender:

Appearance:

Clothing/Armor:

Belongings/Weapons:

Personality:

History:

Feel free to add or combine sections as you see fit for your character's description.

Character list:
Name / Player / Post Link

Oliver Rennalt / DrowsyPangolin / Post Link
Deacon Marconi / Gentlemanvaultboy / Post Link

The Island That Died

Glad to hear it! More than likely I'll have the thread up tomorrow and it will start whenever we have a handful of people.

The Island That Died

The island of Jedea was an anonymous entry in the history of civilization. Local traders moving between islands did their business there, but otherwise the inhabitants of the island, shielded by dense jungles, rarely concerned themselves with the outside world. In turn, and perhaps in good fortune, the rest of the world remained uninterested as well. To those who traveled there, it was a peaceful and scenic place run by a communal culture not uncommon among the larger tropical nations. At its heart, far from observation, several great cities even stood as a testament to the age and success of their society. Mud brick buildings and shingled roofs defined the streets, architecture that most of the world would have thought primitive but also architecture of proven longevity. Even in an age of re-exploration, Jedea and many islands like it remained little more than chart entries whose primary interest to the world lay in their dimensions and effect on sea currents. Others had not been so fortunate, some countries had the misfortune of standing by minerals the rest of the world thought too valuable to leave to their original owners. The Jedeans themselves were grateful for this isolation, and in expression of their thanks never so much as sent diplomats from their verdant hideout. For sometimes months at a time, no news came in or out of the island until a merchant or traveler arrived.

The Crosswind, an independent merchant vessel carrying over three hundred passengers and an untold amount of goods, was wrecked off the shores of Jedea as it attempted to outrun a terrible storm. Surrounded by impenetrable fog and a gale that only seemed to grow worse, the handful of survivors and their splintered ship were left on the beach. No life came from within the jungle to greet them, no sign of civilization existed along the shore. Even in the chaos of the storm, the lush jungle was gripped in unnatural stillness. Outsiders to an unfeeling land, they were left with no option but to forge inland. If assistance could not be found, at least for shelter. Whether concerned or not with it, they had become involved in the island's ongoing melodrama. Whether they wanted survival or answers, they would have to search for either.

---

This is a low fantasy thread set primarily on a single tropical island. It centers around a group, or groups, of survivors following a shipwreck under mysterious circumstances. Any number of players will be suitable for the thread. We don't have a hard and fast bottom line for the amount of players we need, but always the more the merrier. This thread will not close to entry, and we don't run slots, so if you have an idea for a character you want to submit or ask a question about always feel free to.

As far as atmosphere and setting, this thread is more of a mystery than it is a survival thread, or more aptly put the environment itself will be very low on the list of threats. I'd like to keep the use of magic to a minimum, although the thread centers around paranormal events, it functions better as an obscure, mostly hidden rarity to the world. Technology and culture are quite capable and developed, but firearms have yet to see mainstream proliferation. The world itself is vague outside of Jedea, as it bears more relevance to character backstories than (currently) any events in the thread, so this is done to afford greater freedom to character design. The text above is more of an introduction to the premise, and there will be two other introductions for the OOC and IC segments of the thread to put forward more specific details on the start of the thread.

If you'd like to participate, drop your interest (or a question!) here or shoot me a PM. When the thread is up, there will be a link to it posted here.

Edit: We're live!

Between the Elms

@ravenDivinity

Accepted! Welcome to the thread. You can jump in however you like, things haven't progressed too much so the introduction is still relevant as far as where everyone is.

Between the Elms

Karcine would have been at least satisfied to continue shooting glances over at the duo across the road. The details of their conversation ultimately meant little, she just needed it to end. She swayed softly as she waited, only to freeze mid bend as her peripheral vision caught the larger man waving in her direction. In the smallest increments she could manage, Beffelet turned to face the duo. All the while, she checked over her shoulder to make sure the man wasn't referring to someone who had escaped her notice. Seeing no one there, she scrounged up her resolve and looked to the calling soldier. The younger man whispered something to his companion, and the sight worried her. Over the roar of the crowd, standing across a road, it would have been easy to say anything and she wouldn't have heard. However, there was something now between them that she was explicitly not to know. Was this a meeting? The friendly smile on the swordsman's face suddenly looked just as benevolent as a crocodile's. She stepped forward, crossing the road as quickly as she could towards the new conversation.

"Nothing that I wanted to intrude on your conversation with," she said, bowing her head slightly by way of greeting. "I am Karcine Beffelet, and I apologize for disturbing you." Her eyes wandered between the two of them, narrowing a hair at the younger of the two. Her scrutiny was almost unconscious. Deep curiosity for what exactly she had just wandered into manifested in her search for some sort of hint upon the being of the one person she couldn't explain. The clothes he wore were unique, and she realized that, but the connection to any occupation didn't quite make it through. The swordsman should have been just as boggling, but in her head he was already understood to a degree she was comfortable with. People with swords tended to be soldiers or mercenaries, and there was - in her experience - less to fear of a sword carried in display than one hidden away. Figuring she still owed an explanation of some sort for her snooping, Karcine continued. "It is only a matter of interest with some certain mercenaries, but please, continue, I wish to wait my turn." It wasn't speaking entirely truthfully, but she smiled her practiced smile none the less for it.

Between the Elms

Beffelet rounded one last wagon, slowly lifting her head as she studied it from top to bottom before crisply turning away. Her cadence faltered at last, as the chipper heiress's shoulders fell into a slump beneath the heavy weight of her coat. A forced smile remained on her face as she walked away, taking up a more normal spot on the sidewalk where most pedestrians not lurking the marketplace took themselves. As she walked by the odd couple sharing a morning or the ubiquitous newspaper bearing observer, a sensation like being judged began to set in, an odd and discomforting warmth. Whether or not she was comfortable with the fact, there was no private army awaiting her in the marketplace. Her more pragmatic mind was quick to provide explanations for her. Public dissent was not yet at an acceptable level, mercenaries favored taverns over markets... The rest of her simply wanted to crawl away and sit down for a moment.

That simply wouldn't do. She stopped, holding her head up for a moment to look around her at the crowded city. A smile dashed her face almost instantly as her eyes settled on something utterly unmistakable. A large man bearing a large sword. There was something oddly familiar about his countenance, some feature of his that brought out absolute revilement within her, and that gave her pause. She stood on tiptoe to get a better look, staring across the street with tightly narrowed eyes at the armed man and not caring a bit what the people sitting at tables nearby thought. She scoffed at her own reaction as soon as she had a better look, unable to make any connection and thoroughly taken by the prospect of finally having found a mercenary. She had no proof of that, but he was armed and had an eye patch. That counts for something, she assured herself, looking him over once more for security. He'll at least know someone. Decided, Beffelet took a preparatory step back and brushed off the outer layer of her jacket. With a firm adjustment of her collar, she began to stride forward towards her newfound future. Her stride faltered instantly and unintelligible wailing filled her thoughts as a dark haired youth engaged her mark. Beaten to the punch? He was implacable, hopefully a simple merchant but the apparent age of the newcomer left her with the impression of an errand boy. She restrained herself across the road, crossing her arms and watching the duo with occasional glances in the hopes of spotting an opening. No matter what conduct a mercenary was used to seeing, she had an obligation to maintain a certain sort of image. Interrupting a matter of business wouldn't do, even if it meant losing her chance. Ah, don't grind your teeth.

---

The carriage came to a gentle stop, and the driver began to stow his things for their stay. A multicolored bill was thrust into his vision from beside him, and he froze momentarily before accepting the payment. His eyes wandered up from the reigns to the provider. It was one of the few times his riding partner was awake. The man sitting next to him was dressed like some kind of office worker, in well cared for black pants and a pristine white collared shirt. A blue tie added the only color to his accoutrements, although the same couldn't be said for the man himself. Medium length brick red hair, and eyes the greenish blue of shallow, clear water met his eyes. He had boyish looks, with a slight pout to his features that spoke of high birth and clashed with the unregulated cheer in his demeanor. A slight flush colored his face, because he was a pale man whose red-toned skin responded poorly to everything. "Treat yourself, and keep safe too," the man said, shaking the money at the driver, who finally took the bribe. His contract already stated the method of payment for his government service, and given the nature of the work being paid on site struck him as bizarre. Rudolph Traugott, however, was in a good mood. They were safely to Geltreis, and his lengthy time riding mostly alone with the Prestons was over. They were good company, or so he thought, but he wanted to be on with his job. Turning away from the driver, he dropped from atop the carriage to the ground and nearly buckled. It was the first time the ground had been beneath his boots that day. With a stretch and a sigh of relief, he looked around them. The streets of Geltreis were busy, almost as busy as the capital he'd left behind, but Lieda was orders of magnitude larger. His work, and the work of his fellow scouts, was cut quite nicely for them. The civilians had slowly stopped paying them so much mind, going about their lives and disappearing into crowds, but a few fellows in blue coats caught his eye. The trio of gentlemen stood at a corner, watching them from afar but without much engagement in their postures. That's cute, they dress like the capital gendarmes, he mused, before rounding back on the carriage. Gingerly, he opened the door and motioned for the man inside to depart with a broad wave. "We have arrived, Mister Preston. Our lodgings are only a few blocks away, if you'll come with me."

Between the Elms

Alrighty then, we can get started and hopefully as introductions are rolling also hear from Raven and Sightles.