What happened to all the people who expressed interest that haven't made a CS yet?
Also the people who made sheets in the interest check but haven't posted in the IC?
Gelatinous Cube
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One among the Fence
STATUS: Rest In Peace Akira Toriyama. A huge part of so many childhoods. His legacy lives on stronger than ever. 9 mos ago
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Rest In Peace Akira Toriyama. A huge part of so many childhoods. His legacy lives on stronger than ever.
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4 yrs ago
Better yet, make a new game somehow bringing Halligan and Briggs from Limbo of the Lost together
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"I'm bleeding, making me the victor."
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Well, I posted.
I imagine we'll either meet up in Engels or somewhere on the road to.
I predict some friction between Vikas and the others that's going to be a lot of fun to play out.
I imagine we'll either meet up in Engels or somewhere on the road to.
I predict some friction between Vikas and the others that's going to be a lot of fun to play out.
Lunge. Thrust. Parry. Dodge. Lunge. Thrust. Parry. Dodge.
The two fights danced in the flickering torch light of the undercity chamber. The stench of sweat, blood and mildew was so heavy in the air it was almost nauseating.
His opponent adhered to this predictable pattern like a code of ethics, though he fought like his life depended on it.
In all honesty, it really did. Beads of sweat dripped from Vikas' beard and several strands of hair had wriggled free from his loose braid. Dark, wet stains spread outwards from his underarms, but he remained outwardly collected. He didn't even blink when the sweat ran into his eyes, accepting the sting as a constant reminder of the stakes.
His pulse raced until he heard the blood rushing in his ears, and nothing else save for the song of steel on steel, blades clashing and scraping on one another. The crowd jeered, spat and roared, some calling for his death and others calling for his opponents, depending on who they had bet on.
His opponent worked hard, he seemed to put more concentration into his repetitive moves then he did in the man he was actually dueling with. Some buck from the streets who fancied himself a killer, no doubt. Perhaps trained by a local guild master or just someone who watched too many sword fights and took away too much confidence from it.
Though, far be it from Vikas to underestimate any opponent. Any mistake could lead to his death, and he had always had the notion that he would decide whose hand he would die by. Yet he had to remember that this lads sword was just as real and deadly as Vikas' own. Only his hands weren't. Nor were his eyes as keen, his instincts as sharp and his heart as accustomed.
Vikas had killed men before, oh yes, both as a soldier, part-time mercenary and as an illegal duelist. He never claimed to do it for anything else but the money and the rush, a bastard he may be but a liar he was not. At least in a duel a man fights as an equal and is rightfully struck down by whoever the melee should determine was the better of the two. Strict rules were placed down to ensure that no man could cheat.
Vikas was growing weary of the combat, letting himself become too accustomed to the pattern his opponent followed, and soon found himself following the motions as well.
He attempted a play, backpedaling at his opponents lunge he attempted a stroke to the mid-section only to have the other fighter spin away from the blade and place himself at Vikas' back, on his right flank.
Even the seasoned duelist had to admit it wasn't something he'd anticipated. Likely the young swordsman's strategy was to stick to his routine and bide his time, ever vigilant for the move Vikas would no doubt make in impatience. Just another lesson learnt.
The young fighter betrayed his cunning with over confidence. Thinking the fight won through one clever ruse he took a wild swing at Vikas' head. The veteran duelist just managed to duck beneath it and spring up to close the distance between them, and as he did plunged his sabre into the young fighters heart. After only a few moments, the twitching stopped and the blood began to run and pool at the young fighters feet before Vikas withdrew his blade. The body slumped to the floor.
Vikas was handed a towel to wipe off the sweat and clean the blood from his blade.
"The winner is Tyr!" Came the rumbling voice of the announcer, and all of a sudden the din and ruckus of the crowd came rushing in to fill the silent space of his concentration.
Vikas accepted his prize money, a hefty fist-sized sack of gold coins that would see him through the next month of travel. He collected his cloak and scabbard and left without saying a word.
Perhaps a drink for the road and then he'd be gone by dusk. Perhaps to Engels? He knew a woman there and in spite of himself was yearning for her warmth again. He smiled as he ascended back to the city, the stuffy tainted air of the undercity warrens gradually being replaced by sweeter, cleaner air. He welcomed the road back with an open heart.
The two fights danced in the flickering torch light of the undercity chamber. The stench of sweat, blood and mildew was so heavy in the air it was almost nauseating.
His opponent adhered to this predictable pattern like a code of ethics, though he fought like his life depended on it.
In all honesty, it really did. Beads of sweat dripped from Vikas' beard and several strands of hair had wriggled free from his loose braid. Dark, wet stains spread outwards from his underarms, but he remained outwardly collected. He didn't even blink when the sweat ran into his eyes, accepting the sting as a constant reminder of the stakes.
His pulse raced until he heard the blood rushing in his ears, and nothing else save for the song of steel on steel, blades clashing and scraping on one another. The crowd jeered, spat and roared, some calling for his death and others calling for his opponents, depending on who they had bet on.
His opponent worked hard, he seemed to put more concentration into his repetitive moves then he did in the man he was actually dueling with. Some buck from the streets who fancied himself a killer, no doubt. Perhaps trained by a local guild master or just someone who watched too many sword fights and took away too much confidence from it.
Though, far be it from Vikas to underestimate any opponent. Any mistake could lead to his death, and he had always had the notion that he would decide whose hand he would die by. Yet he had to remember that this lads sword was just as real and deadly as Vikas' own. Only his hands weren't. Nor were his eyes as keen, his instincts as sharp and his heart as accustomed.
Vikas had killed men before, oh yes, both as a soldier, part-time mercenary and as an illegal duelist. He never claimed to do it for anything else but the money and the rush, a bastard he may be but a liar he was not. At least in a duel a man fights as an equal and is rightfully struck down by whoever the melee should determine was the better of the two. Strict rules were placed down to ensure that no man could cheat.
Vikas was growing weary of the combat, letting himself become too accustomed to the pattern his opponent followed, and soon found himself following the motions as well.
He attempted a play, backpedaling at his opponents lunge he attempted a stroke to the mid-section only to have the other fighter spin away from the blade and place himself at Vikas' back, on his right flank.
Even the seasoned duelist had to admit it wasn't something he'd anticipated. Likely the young swordsman's strategy was to stick to his routine and bide his time, ever vigilant for the move Vikas would no doubt make in impatience. Just another lesson learnt.
The young fighter betrayed his cunning with over confidence. Thinking the fight won through one clever ruse he took a wild swing at Vikas' head. The veteran duelist just managed to duck beneath it and spring up to close the distance between them, and as he did plunged his sabre into the young fighters heart. After only a few moments, the twitching stopped and the blood began to run and pool at the young fighters feet before Vikas withdrew his blade. The body slumped to the floor.
Vikas was handed a towel to wipe off the sweat and clean the blood from his blade.
"The winner is Tyr!" Came the rumbling voice of the announcer, and all of a sudden the din and ruckus of the crowd came rushing in to fill the silent space of his concentration.
Vikas accepted his prize money, a hefty fist-sized sack of gold coins that would see him through the next month of travel. He collected his cloak and scabbard and left without saying a word.
Perhaps a drink for the road and then he'd be gone by dusk. Perhaps to Engels? He knew a woman there and in spite of himself was yearning for her warmth again. He smiled as he ascended back to the city, the stuffy tainted air of the undercity warrens gradually being replaced by sweeter, cleaner air. He welcomed the road back with an open heart.
I am still here, I just don't think it's the right moment for Vikas to enter yet
Son of a-
I was excited to see a post in the IC...and then I saw the post.
Anyway, as requested:
Name: Vikas Tyr
Age: 36
Appearance:
Nature: An odd case, is Vikas. On one hand he is a man of several vices, alcohol, women and killing, yet on the other hand he is loyal to a fault and holds the few he deems friends in the highest regard. However, being something of a nomad with no land holdings or permanent residences, he is often looking for paid work and has been known to sell out one employer for a larger reward. He may not be the worst man, but he is far from being the best.
Personality: Vikas has a measured demeanor about him, so long as he's sober. Once the drink gets in him though, he finds the voice to lead an entire tavern in a row of bawdy verses and the energy and stamina to lead a dance and bed a wench or three. In a fight, he keeps his cool and stays focused, only really speaking in order to psyche out an opponent.
Job: Vikas is known more famously as a wandering Bard, who has dabbled in the life of a courtly Troubadour. What he is less well known for is his track record in illegally sanctioned underground dueling. All fights are to the death, so one need only witness Vikas draw breath to know how good he is.
Small biography: Born an orphan in Shere, Vikas found his love of swordplay at a young age as an escape from the drudgery of orphanage life and it eventually led him to joining the local garrison, tasked with routing out local bandits or assisting in secret missions across Bor. During his time traveling with the militia, he picked up an Oud for the first time after hearing a man in the streets of Perm playing one.
He practiced the instrument until his fingers bled, and soon found himself an adept player, and able to entertain his brothers in arms. While in Perm he and his militia brothers took on jobs with mercenaries, bloody affairs that saw some poor soul dead for his perceived betrayal of another. Vikas soon learned through this lifestyle that the men with the most money were often the ones still living and breathing...more importantly, the ones hiring.
Once his militia contract expired he took to the road rather than renegotiate another one, as he grew to detest the rigidity of life in a garrison, and found working with mercenaries to be tasteless. With his sword at his hip and Oud on his back he traveled the length and breadth of Bor, selling either his voice or his sword for enough money to fill his belly and his bed.
Being so well-traveled, he has made several firm friends in each continent, including an intimate on-again-off-again romance with a Mage in Engels.
Physical Strength:
Strength: Average
Endurance: High
Hits they can take: Slightly above average
Body type: 6', tall build, not quite broad but hardly stick skinny.
Defense: Average
Magical Strength:
Has developed resistances to certain magical attacks.
Mental Fortitude: High
Spells: Knows none.
Speed: High, years of dueling have given him fast reflexes, but years of learning have left him with the scars to show for it.
Luck: Vikas likes to think he makes his own luck, and considers his fortunes balanced with his misfortunes, though some may see it differently.
Motivation: Motivated by the nomadic life of a drifter, he covets the open road and money most of all. However, he has a slim interest in the peace of the land being maintained so he won't have to give up his freedom for the soldier life. He'd much rather tread a dry dirt road than one slick with blood.
I was excited to see a post in the IC...and then I saw the post.
Anyway, as requested:
Name: Vikas Tyr
Age: 36
Appearance:
Nature: An odd case, is Vikas. On one hand he is a man of several vices, alcohol, women and killing, yet on the other hand he is loyal to a fault and holds the few he deems friends in the highest regard. However, being something of a nomad with no land holdings or permanent residences, he is often looking for paid work and has been known to sell out one employer for a larger reward. He may not be the worst man, but he is far from being the best.
Personality: Vikas has a measured demeanor about him, so long as he's sober. Once the drink gets in him though, he finds the voice to lead an entire tavern in a row of bawdy verses and the energy and stamina to lead a dance and bed a wench or three. In a fight, he keeps his cool and stays focused, only really speaking in order to psyche out an opponent.
Job: Vikas is known more famously as a wandering Bard, who has dabbled in the life of a courtly Troubadour. What he is less well known for is his track record in illegally sanctioned underground dueling. All fights are to the death, so one need only witness Vikas draw breath to know how good he is.
Small biography: Born an orphan in Shere, Vikas found his love of swordplay at a young age as an escape from the drudgery of orphanage life and it eventually led him to joining the local garrison, tasked with routing out local bandits or assisting in secret missions across Bor. During his time traveling with the militia, he picked up an Oud for the first time after hearing a man in the streets of Perm playing one.
He practiced the instrument until his fingers bled, and soon found himself an adept player, and able to entertain his brothers in arms. While in Perm he and his militia brothers took on jobs with mercenaries, bloody affairs that saw some poor soul dead for his perceived betrayal of another. Vikas soon learned through this lifestyle that the men with the most money were often the ones still living and breathing...more importantly, the ones hiring.
Once his militia contract expired he took to the road rather than renegotiate another one, as he grew to detest the rigidity of life in a garrison, and found working with mercenaries to be tasteless. With his sword at his hip and Oud on his back he traveled the length and breadth of Bor, selling either his voice or his sword for enough money to fill his belly and his bed.
Being so well-traveled, he has made several firm friends in each continent, including an intimate on-again-off-again romance with a Mage in Engels.
Physical Strength:
Strength: Average
Endurance: High
Hits they can take: Slightly above average
Body type: 6', tall build, not quite broad but hardly stick skinny.
Defense: Average
Magical Strength:
Has developed resistances to certain magical attacks.
Mental Fortitude: High
Spells: Knows none.
Speed: High, years of dueling have given him fast reflexes, but years of learning have left him with the scars to show for it.
Luck: Vikas likes to think he makes his own luck, and considers his fortunes balanced with his misfortunes, though some may see it differently.
Motivation: Motivated by the nomadic life of a drifter, he covets the open road and money most of all. However, he has a slim interest in the peace of the land being maintained so he won't have to give up his freedom for the soldier life. He'd much rather tread a dry dirt road than one slick with blood.
I'd like to poke a hole in YER MAM!
jk
I just want to bump this and keep it alive.
jk
I just want to bump this and keep it alive.
Name: Vikas Tyr
Age: 36
Appearance:
Nature: An odd case, is Vikas. On one hand he is a man of several vices, alcohol, women and killing, yet on the other hand he is loyal to a fault and holds the few he deems friends in the highest regard. However, being something of a nomad with no land holdings or permanent residences, he is often looking for paid work and has been known to sell out one employer for a larger reward. He may not be the worst man, but he is far from being the best.
Personality: Vikas has a measured demeanor about him, so long as he's sober. Once the drink gets in him though, he finds the voice to lead an entire tavern in a row of bawdy verses and the energy and stamina to lead a dance and bed a wench or three. In a fight, he keeps his cool and stays focused, only really speaking in order to psyche out an opponent.
Job: Vikas is known more famously as a wandering Bard, who has dabbled in the life of a courtly Troubadour. What he is less well known for is his track record in illegally sanctioned underground dueling. All fights are to the death, so one need only witness Vikas draw breath to know how good he is.
Small biography: Born an orphan in Shere, Vikas found his love of swordplay at a young age as an escape from the drudgery of orphanage life and it eventually led him to joining the local garrison, tasked with routing out local bandits or assisting in secret missions across Bor. During his time traveling with the militia, he picked up an Oud for the first time after hearing a man in the streets of Perm playing one.
He practiced the instrument until his fingers bled, and soon found himself an adept player, and able to entertain his brothers in arms. While in Perm he and his militia brothers took on jobs with mercenaries, bloody affairs that saw some poor soul dead for his perceived betrayal of another. Vikas soon learned through this lifestyle that the men with the most money were often the ones still living and breathing...more importantly, the ones hiring.
Once his militia contract expired he took to the road rather than renegotiate another one, as he grew to detest the rigidity of life in a garrison, and found working with mercenaries to be tasteless. With his sword at his hip and Oud on his back he traveled the length and breadth of Bor, selling either his voice or his sword for enough money to fill his belly and his bed.
Being so well-traveled, he has made several firm friends in each continent, including an intimate on-again-off-again romance with a Mage in Engels.
Physical Strength:
Strength: Average
Endurance: High
Hits they can take: Slightly above average
Body type: 6', tall build, not quite broad but hardly stick skinny.
Defense: Average
Magical Strength:
Has developed resistances to certain magical attacks.
Mental Fortitude: High
Spells: Knows none.
Speed: High, years of dueling have given him fast reflexes, but years of learning have left him with the scars to show for it.
Luck: Vikas likes to think he makes his own luck, and considers his fortunes balanced with his misfortunes, though some may see it differently.
Motivation: Motivated by the nomadic life of a drifter, he covets the open road and money most of all. However, he has a slim interest in the peace of the land being maintained so he won't have to give up his freedom for the soldier life. He'd much rather tread a dry dirt road than one slick with blood.
Age: 36
Appearance:
Nature: An odd case, is Vikas. On one hand he is a man of several vices, alcohol, women and killing, yet on the other hand he is loyal to a fault and holds the few he deems friends in the highest regard. However, being something of a nomad with no land holdings or permanent residences, he is often looking for paid work and has been known to sell out one employer for a larger reward. He may not be the worst man, but he is far from being the best.
Personality: Vikas has a measured demeanor about him, so long as he's sober. Once the drink gets in him though, he finds the voice to lead an entire tavern in a row of bawdy verses and the energy and stamina to lead a dance and bed a wench or three. In a fight, he keeps his cool and stays focused, only really speaking in order to psyche out an opponent.
Job: Vikas is known more famously as a wandering Bard, who has dabbled in the life of a courtly Troubadour. What he is less well known for is his track record in illegally sanctioned underground dueling. All fights are to the death, so one need only witness Vikas draw breath to know how good he is.
Small biography: Born an orphan in Shere, Vikas found his love of swordplay at a young age as an escape from the drudgery of orphanage life and it eventually led him to joining the local garrison, tasked with routing out local bandits or assisting in secret missions across Bor. During his time traveling with the militia, he picked up an Oud for the first time after hearing a man in the streets of Perm playing one.
He practiced the instrument until his fingers bled, and soon found himself an adept player, and able to entertain his brothers in arms. While in Perm he and his militia brothers took on jobs with mercenaries, bloody affairs that saw some poor soul dead for his perceived betrayal of another. Vikas soon learned through this lifestyle that the men with the most money were often the ones still living and breathing...more importantly, the ones hiring.
Once his militia contract expired he took to the road rather than renegotiate another one, as he grew to detest the rigidity of life in a garrison, and found working with mercenaries to be tasteless. With his sword at his hip and Oud on his back he traveled the length and breadth of Bor, selling either his voice or his sword for enough money to fill his belly and his bed.
Being so well-traveled, he has made several firm friends in each continent, including an intimate on-again-off-again romance with a Mage in Engels.
Physical Strength:
Strength: Average
Endurance: High
Hits they can take: Slightly above average
Body type: 6', tall build, not quite broad but hardly stick skinny.
Defense: Average
Magical Strength:
Has developed resistances to certain magical attacks.
Mental Fortitude: High
Spells: Knows none.
Speed: High, years of dueling have given him fast reflexes, but years of learning have left him with the scars to show for it.
Luck: Vikas likes to think he makes his own luck, and considers his fortunes balanced with his misfortunes, though some may see it differently.
Motivation: Motivated by the nomadic life of a drifter, he covets the open road and money most of all. However, he has a slim interest in the peace of the land being maintained so he won't have to give up his freedom for the soldier life. He'd much rather tread a dry dirt road than one slick with blood.
Let's do this.
dayum Dayum DAYUM!
dayum Dayum DAYUM!
I know I've posted this one before a while back, but it truly is one of the greatest epics, if not just one of the greatest songs ever written.
It's a must listen for any Prog fans around.
I need to pry myself out of this creativity killing funk I'm in, and I have a character I can pledge to this in one way or another.
Count me in.
Count me in.
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