Fat Boy Kyle

Star Heresy

I'll catch up on the IC and OOC tonight, then get a post up shortly after. Sorry for my inactivity!

The Elder Scrolls: Corruption

I concur, really liking the posts. I'll give a chance for a couple more people to post before my next post.

Role-playing to one side, how is everyone doing? I like to get to know the people I RP with :)

The Elder Scrolls: Corruption

@Fat Boy Kyle Still though, perhaps you could provide like little tidbits for our characters, little motivation for a potential plot arc.

@DJAtomika

I will be. That's kinda what I mean by "pushing arcs". As well as providing events that characters might wish to get involved in (e.g. the Siege of Leyawiin), I'll also be posting tippets of information in the form of rumours/decrees/news/missions that your characters can then choose to pick-up from NPCs. For example I might post: "Rumour: Citizens of Makarth have been reporting sightings of a Daedra cult in the hills to the South-West of the city. Apparently the Jarl is willing to pay anyone for information they might have." Then, if that's relevant to a main story arc, I might PM you some classified info. The main story surrounding the nightmares and marks and stuff will be something that will eventually require players to come together so I'll give much more guidance then.

Also like I said to someone else in a PM: "All these events, from the siege of Leyawiin to the likely attack on Anvil, can and will be decided by player actions. If on the off-chance no one gets involved in the conflict, then I will decide events based on what I think will impact characters the most. So even being neutral will cause an impact."

Cause from what I'm seeing, everyone's spread everywhere. And I'm particularly limited cause my knowledge of the Elder Scrolls geography sadly is limited to Skyrim.

@DJAtomika

Most people won't know anything outside of Cyrodiil and Skyrim. And considering that the last game in Cyrodiil was set over two centuries beforehand and it has been ravaged by war since then, supposedly no-one has any real knowledge. Just look at some maps and wikis online and fill the gaps with your imagination!

The Elder Scrolls: Corruption

@Leidenschaft I'll be pushing arcs that can tie people together, but like I've said before this isn't a team RP and no one is obliged to meet. My hope however is that even if some players don't collide for a while, their actions will effect each other.

The Elder Scrolls: Corruption

IC is up! There is another post written up which involves the Elder Council and the Siege of Leyawiin, however I decided not to include it in the first post; I think it'll be better if the first round of posts just focusses on the nightmares, so that dreams and reality don't get muddled up.

The Elder Scrolls: Corruption

_{*click click click click click click*}

“Stop. Please. Stop. Just make it stop.”

The desperate plea of a tortured soul.

In the dark recesses of a narrow and murky cave there laid a short male Wood Elf, curled up like a newborn baby and shivering as if coated in frost. This elf, whose silvery white hair shone like the moon, wore no clothes upon his wiry beaten figure. Streaks of bloody mangled flesh riddled his body, the marks of a monster that liked to play with its prey. His once soft features were now terribly bruised and covered in streams of tears that had managed to escape his closed eyes. The air was here was thin and cold, and on it was a scent that would cause most to wrench – a mixture of rotting flesh, human waste and sulphur. This individual, whoever he was, had endured much pain and now clearly just wanted an end… any end. But it would not be given easily. Somewhere not too far from him, in the unlit abyss that surrounded him, the sound of scuttling began to intensify. A chorus of tiny clicks, pitters and patters, signified the approach of a predator that he did not want to meet. The elf tried to supress his tears and hold his breath, an effort he hoped would make him silent and undetectable. But it was in vain. The sound of the ever-approaching beasts grew larger until finally, two large spiked pincers sprung from the darkness towards him and began to feast on his flesh. Layers of black armoured scales lined the beast, with small appendages sticking out at every other row; spiked arms that were dripping in poison and would cling to anything that dared to escape it’s grasp. It was a chaurus reaper.

Screams of hellish agony echoed throughout the endless cave, reverberating off the damp covered walls and small insect filled crevices. The elf slowly began to be eaten alive until as if by some divine intervention, a bolt of furious lightening raptured the ceiling above him. The flash of intense white light burnt his iris’, leaving him blind, whilst the tremendous roar of thunder raptured his ear-drums and left him deaf to the world.

“Is it over?”

No.

There was no grasp of time for the elf, no measure of duration which he could attribute to the space between being blinded and opening his eyes. Even his memory failed him and he struggled to recall the events that had led him here. He had been at a party, then a war, then a cave? But where was he before that? How did he transition from one to another? What happened at these places? And where was he now? As his light hazel eyes slowly drifted open he found himself in a place he finally did know: home. He stood in the centre of a room that was encased in thick bark; it was in the centre of a tree after all. Mason jars filled with glow lamps hung darted about the room, affording dim but cosy illumination to his surroundings. Beds made of fur, bear, wolf and otherwise, lined the skirt of the room, but were empty. Chests made of chitin were left half open, revealing clothes and other personal possessions belonging to him and his family. Exquisitely crafted bone items adorned the walls, from make-shift shrines, to figurines, to practical weapons like bows and swords. But where was his family? Where were his friends?

The elf, who was now draped in light wolf furs, made his way towards the leather tarp which acted like a door to the natural tree burrow. Slowly, knot by knot, he released the small pieces of robe that held the stretched leather tightly to the tree, until it eventually flapped open and revealed the grove outside. His eyes widened, his mouth gaped, and his stomach began to twist and churn. Before him the Grove in which he called home was nothing more than a desolate graveyard. Smoke lingered on the air but did little to hide the dozens of charred corpses that littered the barren waste. Men and women, both young and old, had been put to the sword. It was only through the size and shapes of the bodies that the elf could recognise who the victims may have been, for any features they had were now melted away. The small of burning flesh was still strong and it would have been enough to bring tears to his eyes were they not already succumbing to grief. The elf turned around and went to retreat back into his home but the door was gone, and instead there laid a figure slumped against the great oak carrying a child. The elf found himself inching towards the body until he could see that it wore a locket that he recognised – a locket that he had made.

Without warning the seared woman’s head shot up and unleashed an unholy scream, causing the Elf to freeze in shock “Húrin! Húrinnnnn! You left me to die! You left your son to die! You left your whole family to die! Curse you!”

“Yasmin? No… this isn’t real. You’re not her. We never had a child…” his words were little more than a quiver as he struggled to process the unnatural sight before him. He began stepping backwards with speed, but in his haste quickly caught his heel on a branch and found himself on the scorched earth. He looked up to see that whilst Yasmin was not giving chase the creature that she held in her arms was beginning to move. The baby (if it could be called that) was shrivelled and ashen black, with lines of small razor sharp teeth and blood filled eyes. It let out a sound even worse than its mother; a demented wail that pierced ones ears and could strike fear into any man’s heart. In frenzied movements the infant sprung free of its mothers grasps and began to crawl after it’s father. Húrin desperately scrambled to his feet and sprinted into the forest. His legs carried him as fast as they could, sending him whirling past innumerable trees but whenever he glanced over his should it seemed like the grove was no further away and the undead child grew ever closer. It was only mere feet away when the mysterious figure appeared. A silhouette of pure golden light, wielding a hammer too large for any mortal man, walked out from a tree and cut off Húrin in his stride. There was no time to react as the hammer struck him in the chest…

---

Húrin awoke from the nightmare breathless and coated in sweat. In panic he found himself rolling out of his bed and onto the wooden floor of the room he had rented. “What in Y’ffre’s name was that?” he gasped to himself as he laid naked on the floor. He looked around himself and could tell that he was no longer dreaming; there was a clarity to the real world that could not be mimicked in one’s mind. The open window revealed that dawn was rising over the great forest, and Húrin was glad to see such a natural sight.

*KNOCK KNOCK*

A knock at the door startled Húrin, but it was the abrupt entrance that followed that really made him squirm. “Master Húrin, is everything all right?” asked the bust imperial tavern keeper as she made her way in. Her brown eyes quickly found their way to the exposed organs of her customer and she eeped in response. “Sorry! I just heard you making a commotion and thought I’d check in on you.”

Húrin waited a good ten seconds for her to leave before opening his mouth. “I’m fine thank you, just had some bad dreams. You can leave now.” tired of his privates being public, he began to quickly get dressed – starting with his briefs.

“Oh- Erm- Of course. It’s just…” The brunette, who was well into her fifties, pointed to his chest as she posed a query “What is that peculiar mark on your chest? You’re not diseased are you?”

The Elder Scrolls: Corruption

Prologue - Nightmares and Omens

The Elder Scrolls: Corruption

Still working on the post as I've been out most of the day. Should be up in the next few hours. In the meantime why not vote for your favourite banner? Vote here!

The Elder Scrolls: Corruption

Thanks y'all! Those near Anvil, might be seeing you.

Swanhilde Sea-Swift

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------


Measuring below average at a lean 5'9", Swanhilde is a comparative featherweight among Nords. The small deposits of muscle in her arms, legs and core evidence physical feats that are acrobatic in nature. Being lighter also has the advantage of moving around less weight when traipsing roof- and treetops, or creeping through hostile territory. Reaching the centre of her back are two tight braids that keep the golden mess from obscuring her dark, blue eyes, and sharp, pale features. Her everyday wear consists of leggings, tunics, vests and loose pantaloons, while on jobs she'll don light armour and a hooded cloak, favouring the style and functionality of hardened leather riveted to flexible hide. Either sets of attire are likely to show skin wreathed with scars.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
【Full Name】
Swanhilde Sea-Swift

【Alias】
Hilda the Swift, Swan (rare)

【Race】
Nord

【Gender】
Female

【Age】
28

【Sexuality】
Undefined

【Birth Place】
Brunvar Steading, The Rift

【Nation/Allegiance】
Independent Ex-Patriate of Skyrim

【Profession】
Mercenary Sentinel

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
【Personality】

An opportunistic soul, she prefers the quick gain over a long and drawn-out, planned approach, and therefore pursues business and pleasure with impetuous gusto. As reliably honest as she is blunt it can prove difficult to gauge her mood from under that ill-temper. Whilst she is resourceful, capable of talking her way out from under a blade and pacifying the ire brought upon herself through conflict, she is still prone to the pratfalls of hastily made, sometimes irrational, decisions. A bold and haughty tongue persists in compromising situations, and her tone rings with arrogance still when encountering loss, embarrassment or failure. At the very least the promise of a reward keeps rebellious airs in check when self-preservation fails to. If Swanhilde was to ever regret anything in hindsight, she is too possessed of stubbornness and pride to admit it. It takes a strong argument to persuade her loyalty, but once won over, her promises and efforts hold stronger than steel.

Surprisingly, her interests don’t all fall under a fixation on military culture or a love of the sea. Sketching land formations to assist a Pirate Sailing Master developed into a pastime, with her favourite subjects being ancient landmarks and people. It draws from her impeccable memory which unfortunately escapes her when pressed to reveal the entirety of what her keen ears and eyes catch. An awareness of regional events and politics is more of an occupational necessity than a chosen interest, but it arouses her curiosity all the same. She has the provisioning skill of an able apprentice, and a penchant for alchemy that is of practical use. Whilst acquired through experience rather than study, her knowledge has the potential to launch promising careers in either field, should she ever slow down.


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
【History】
Whilst her spoken accounts are far from fiction, they are not a complete picture of the truth.

Born in 4E 196, the fifth child of Brunvar, a self-made businessman of the respected Sea-Swift clan, and Jaedis, an advisor in Laila Law-Giver’s court, Swanhilde was to become a valuable asset in her family’s plans for expansion. Located on the southern shores of Lake Honrich, the family residence, small fruit orchard, and the vast crops of wheat, hops and barley surrounding it, comprised Brunvar Steading. It was the base of operations for Bruvar's export trade, helped along with the financial backing of Adelveig, Jaedis’ brother, and their Breton friend from the Great War, Ainmire.

The advantages of operating on the flanks of Skyrim’s trade gateway ensured steady growth at the cost of stability. Heated competition between rival breweries caused fluctuation in crop prices, and if people weren’t already too afraid to peddle his stock, the Dragon crisis and Civil War made transport alone a lucrative business. The steep rise in criminal activity would be the only remnant effect of the tumultuous period between 4E 201-202. Mercenaries profited from both their business and their predicament, filling the void left over by an apparently understaffed Town Guard. As their only daughter, Swanhilde was trained for her familial duty in seclusion, receiving private lessons in academia and etiquette that would mold her into a highly sought after candidate for betrothal.

Living out her childhood regime during events that would become legend, Swanhilde was taken captive by wild dreams of what lay beyond their heavy gates. She wanted what the bards sang about, to feature in a story that traded lute-tootling for swordplay, wound up tutors for mythical creatures, and a life sentence enforced by her mother’s “rule”, for a life questing with heroes of folklore. The growing weight of unmet desires would become increasingly difficult to reckon with as she grew older. Later she would learn how to harbour this restlessness and resentment, but until then she coped by wreaking discord from her ornate prison cell.

Unlike her elder half-sister, the uncounted sixth child born before her mother married, Swanhilde couldn’t settle for domestic, leisurely bliss and took every opportunity to exercise her free-will. She made a regular game out of hiding from her retainers and testing security perimeters by sneaking out, and her efforts only grew bolder by the year. At ten, she was baiting mercenary guards into teaching her how to wield a dagger and throw fists. At twelve, she was an able enough cook to avoid the never ending parade of dinner parties. Despite her mother’s strict disciplinary efforts, Swanhilde grew from a mischievous little girl into an increasingly reckless and inconsiderate youth. By her sixteenth birthday, her reputation was so widespread, private tutelage was no longer an option and she was barred from visiting Riften to see her father. She was confined to her own wing, with books and set exercises her only pastime between family engagements. For two years, she was virtually hidden from the public eye.

News of her father expanding the business into Cyrodiil reached her by courier, but the summons to join him was only extended to her mother and half-sister. By then, her brothers each had families and roles in the business to call their own, and her mother’s ambitions were focused solely on Signe, the daughter who hadn’t completely “ruined” her eligibility for marriage. The homestead was bequeathed to Brunvar’s youngest son, a strategic genius of a dandy, whose first order of business was to relocate Swanhilde to one of his apartments in Solitude. During the perilous ride she broke away with a portion of her allotted fortune and made for Markarth. In the three years that followed, she changed her name, learned to hunt, became a barmaid, and eked out an uneventful existence, until the day she ran afoul of some powerful figures. They were most likely advisors from the Jarl’s court, and were alerted to her in reports of an informant leaking town guard patterns to a skooma dealer. By miracle of jurisdiction, she and the dealer escaped head hunters into neighbouring Jehanna, where he hastily palmed her off to a band of scavengers he knew, promising to return later.

A year later, after amassing a humble fortune picking valuable dust particles and the occasional relic from abandoned mine shafts, she joined a splinter group that pooled their earnings together and invested in a small schooner. Their attempt at an honest trade in the fishing industry, however well-intended, was naive, and lasted only a season. As a result of political uprisings, resources were invested in the containment of chaos on land, leaving large stretches of Tamriel’s northwestern seas under light patrol, if any. Hardened by their rocky start, what remained of the crew adapted to the capriciously fickle circumstances, essentially becoming pirates, cutthroats and daredevils themselves. Through the salvaging of wrecks they applied upgrades to their ship, amassed a larger crew, and eventually developed an appetite for live prey once they acquired the “capabilities” to pursue it. Now a young woman, Swanhilde was competent in her role assisting the Sailing Master. Her new alias “Hilda the Swift” was given for her bird-like precision in spotting ships from the Crow’s Nest, and her swiftness in scaling the terrain, be it slippery spurs and masts, or treetops and slopes when surveying terraforms before landings.

Clearer than the path in front of her was the memory of being separated from her crew. From the islet Swanhilde washed up on, she managed to signal a small fishing vessel making its return voyage to the Gold Coast from Stros M’kai. A slave ship travelling in the direction of Valenwood was sighted not far from their destination. Outfitted with heavy cannons befitting its ambitious route into Dominion territory, it was given wide berth, yet on its upper decks Swanhilde spotted prisoners that resembled members of her crew. Once ashore, Hilda’s luck headed much in the same direction. Her determination to find passage eastwards was allayed by naval activity off the coast of Leyawiin, and a year later, the situation in Elsweyr compromised her livelihood, as work began drying up on the seas. The quest to reunite with her fellows was quickly suspended for the more pressing need to find her own means of survival. Rumours arose of a group operating out of a nearby smuggler’s den. At the time, she was harvesting rare alchemical ingredients, and signed on without hesitation. The work entailed guarding convoys that peddled their pilfered stores to all walks of life, from needy nobles to outposts and encampments cut off from military supply lines.


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
【Skills and Abilities
Speed and endurance are her flagship traits. An expert at evasion and sneaking, she can incorporate acrobatics to a make more difficult target of herself, and has the stamina to cover great distances on foot.

Short-swords and daggers facilitate a fluid fighting style where her fine footwork and evasive rolls are used to outmanoeuvre an opponent and strike from compromising angles. She is capable of pairing sword with dagger, and using either or, but favours dual shortswords, which she expertly wields with the only semblance of grace she possesses.

A light shield and sword are employed in larger-scale battles, where the targets are numerous, and there are less opportunities to gain distance in retreat. While only matching an apprentice’s level of blocking skill, she retains her competence with a sword, and uses her shield to lessen the shock and severity of blows that may find her blindside.

Growing up on a farm that supplied breweries, plus time spent exploring the wilderness, instilled her with an adept’s aptitude for identifying reagents and memorising their properties and uses. She is as proficient in alchemy as she is in provisioning, knowing how prolong the life of perishables through smoking, curing, pickling and preserving, as well as livening up bland staples using herbs and spices.

Vital to any survivalist is the knowledge of how to hunt, which Swanhilde possesses to the same level as an apprenticing archer. The use of a bow is only complimentary in battle, she can nock, aim and shoot, but under pressure these capabilities suffer. Being able to fish and trap small game means she hasn’t needed to rely heavily on archery off the battlefield, either.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
【Weapons/Tools and Magic
Weapons/Tools/Armour
Leather Armour
2 x Steel Daggers (alt: a shortsword and light shield from the den's armory)
Hunter’s Bow
Iron Arrows (x20)

A pack containing:
2 x waterskins
2 x red apples
Cured meat (three days’ ration)
Bandages and wadding for minor bleeds
A worn and dented hip-flask, three-quarter’s full of health potion (weak)
A repair kit for mending rips and dents, and polishing the blood from her armour and weaponry
Charcoal and a leather-bound journal
Flint and tinder
Whetstone

@Nyxella

It's been almost 24 hours and no-ones commented, so I think it's safe to say that you can add it to the bin without any complaints :)

Also guys, I'm about 75% through the first post. Taking me a bit longer than intended. Sorry for the hold-up. If you know anyone that'd be interested in joining, now would be the ideal time to rope them in (although I'm happy for people to join throughout the RP)!

Star Wars - Jedi Exile - Knights of the Last Republic

Rylos stood patiently as he waited his turn to jump down. With each passing second he knew the chances of an attack grew ever larger. He watched as the young girl, Lyla, squeezed the hand of her friend and spoke her temporary farewell. Even without his empathetic abilities, he could see something was wrong though; the young boy beside her just stood cold still and seemingly did not respond to her comforting. There were no emotions radiating off him either, as if his young mind had simply grinded to a halt. He was in shock, and understandably so.

"I'll see you at the bottom." the young girls words barely sunk it before Rylos witnessed her run off the edge after their master’s beacon. Rylos waited for her to leave before addressing the issue with the boy.

“T’ish, the boy’s in shock. We’ll have to sling him to Worror or carry him down.” A pained tone carried across his words, both from the physical pain and the emotional stress of the situation. The Jedi investigator took a knee besides the young boy and took a look into his horrified unresponsive eyes. Bloodshot streaks and a ring of ebony circled the boy’s irises as they stared off into nowhere in particular. It was unsettling to see and reminded him of the eyes of the victims he had seen in the temple only a short while before. This close he could also smell the faint smell of urine and some dark stains could be seen through the child’s filthy robes. “What’s your name champ?” Rylos asked in a vain attempt to snap the boy back into reality, “Come on kid, stay with us. We need to get moving. We’re going to get you somewhere safe – I won’t let anything hurt you.”

“Go.” came the familiar synthetic voice of his Kel Dor comrade as he felt a reassuring hand place itself on his shoulder. “Worror is signalling for the next person. You go. I’ll look after the boy.”

Rylos wasn’t in a position to argue with an elder Jedi, especially one that he knew and trusted. Besides he knew T’ish could look after the boy better than he could. Standing upright, Rylos gave his friend a nod and a return pat on the shoulder before going to join Worror and Lyla below. Gaining some momentum before the edge, Rylos more hopped off the side than dived off, making a conscious effort to remain upright as he fell. Cold wind brushed violently against his body, causing his loose brown robes to flap frantically and flay upwards. He shifted his focus away from pain management and towards his balance, preparing to use the force to land safely as he had done many times before. But this was different to the previous times. His mind was clouded, his body battered, and his control of the force weakened, and it was only by the assistance of Worror that he was able to survive the harsh landing. But even so, the pain from his injuries and a not so graceful landing caused Rylos to stumble as he landed and he found himself crashing onto the floor.