>watch "Phantom of the Opera" on Broadway one time >"omg i'm suuuuch a theatre nerd xDD" >watch a big-budget Marvel movie or two >"omg i'm suuuuch a comic book geek xDD" >read LotR and watch Game of Thrones >"omg i'm suuuuch a Fantasy nerd xDD"
What is the appeal of using normie dilettante pop-culture as part of your personal identity?
What is the appeal of using greentext and verbage like 'normie', 'an hero', and 'kek' as part of your personal identity?
@Iuniper@Dismas I wasn't implying that you'd need to be an Olympian to shoot a bow of that weight. I've known a few people who can shoot that weight easily and are not in the best shape. What I'm saying is, Alaron is skinny is he not? Typically, it is easier for thin people to do pull-ups/chin-ups even when they're not muscle bound because they don't have to lift as much weight. While I can believe that even with sporadic practice, Alaron could become decent with a bow, I find it hard to believe that he could not pull himself up.
In addition to this, a bow that is designed to kill Man or Mer (based on the English Longbow) is anywhere from 70-90 lbs of draw weight. OR, if we were to base the draw weight on the infamous Mongolian bows, 100-160 lbs (Insanely powerful).
So the real question here, is what type of bow does Alaron typically use? If it were a hunting bow (50-60) I could believe him not able to do many pull-ups/chin-ups, but I insist he would be able to do at least one. If he uses bows designed for war, he would definitely be a lot stronger. But from what you describe of him, it seems he favors the lighter hunting bow.
As someone who can't do a chin/pull-up and shoots 50lbs, I beg to differ, as much as I hate admitting that I'm weak. (For science!) English longbows were as heavy as 180 lbs of draw weight, though I don't know anyone personally that shoots more than 125 just because it is incredibly exhausting and kind of dangerous. From my experience, most modern Mongolian Horsebow users only shoot 40 to 60 lbs which is still pretty powerful.
In my opinion, Alaron probably uses a standard barebow given that that's the only type available in the game.
@Dismas So, I just want to ask something about Alaron. You say in his CS that he's a decent shot with a bow but struggles with a chin up. Assuming the type of bow he's using is powerful enough to kill an elk, the draw weight would be 50-60 pounds (22 - 27 kg). Now as I'm sure you're aware, the bow is a weapon that requires the use of shoulders and back. Being a decent shot with a bow (meaning more often than not, you hit what you're aiming at) would require hours of practice, building the muscles in the shoulders and back to comfortably fire the weapon. So when you say Alaron would have trouble with a chin-up, I seem to find myself disagreeing. Now there is a difference between a chin-up and a pull-up. A chin-up engaging the biceps primarily, with palms facing towards you. A pull-up engages back and shoulders, with palms facing outwards. So it could be believable he can't do a chin-up, but I find it very hard to believe. He can definitely do a pull-up. Just something to think about, I'm not trying to harp on your character in any way. I just like talking about fitness and weapons in RPs
I shoot a 50 lb bow as a rather small, scrawny girl (just got back from range shooting, actually). I haven't tried pull/chin-ups in a while but am pretty certain I couldn't do one. So it is unlikely, but definitely possible, speaking from personal experience. .. Hahaha. :/
Appearance: Having spent most of her life at sea, Ashenne's appearance is variegated by her travels along the coasts and inlets of Tamriel. Well, her clothing, at least - various loose-fitting vestements obtained along between the Imperial City, Soulrest, Anvil and Helgathe. Her skin is marred with light, puckered scars and studded calluses which stand out against her deep, brown-red skin. Slender and tall with arched feet, her frame seems naturally built for seafaring - limber and swift among a mess of moving parts. Her bones protrude quite visibly from her long limbs, and she is missing half of her left ring finger.
Ashenne's face is made up of angles, with arched, expressive eyebrows, prominent cheekbones and an angular jaw. Her dark hair is cut short so that the ends barely clear the bottom of her skull, and this only serves to emphasize the hard angles of her face. Her eyes are a dark amber, picking up some of the red undertones of her skin, and her lips are perpetually chapped. She has wrinkles at the edges of her mouth, laugh lines, and there are slight creases under her eyes.
Biography: Ashenne was born in Port Hunding on Stros M'kai, a small island off the coast of Hammerfell. Postitioned between the Summerset Isles, Hammerfell, and Cyrodiil, it served as a small port until its incorporation into the Empire, after which it became a strategic base for the Colovian West Navy. In the following centuries, Stros M'kai persisted as an important hub of scholarship and mercantilism in addition to exerting pressure on the Summerset Isles - and by extension - the Aldmeri Dominion. Ashenne was born to a small mercantile family that historically maintained an apothecary in Port Hunding. As Redguard strong valued familial ties, Ashenne spent much of her youth a child beloved by a large throng of aunts and uncles. One uncle, who ran the apothecary, showed her the different plants that were endemic only to Stros M'kai, whose existence sustained the viability of alchemical trade. Another would try to watch over her and a group of cousins as they played hide-and-seek in the central bazaar. Her father was a sailor, and would needle her mother into allowing Ashenne to come along on a trip to Hegathe. And so Ashenne lived a relatively peaceful childhood.
In 4E 171, the Aldmeri Dominion makes its move and the Great War begins amidst civil war in Hammerfell. Ashenne's father is conscripted into the Colovian West Navy, ally to what unorganized forces Hammerfell has. Much of the family flee to Anvil, as there is a mass exodus of Redguard as the Aldmeri take much of the southern coastline of Hammerfell. Over the next few years, a few relatives dare to return to Stros M'kai, which is now under Aldmeri control. Ashenne, her mother, and a few relatives attempt to live off of money earned before the Great War, and find some small amount of work. Aldmeri forces suss out a victory at the northern city of Skaven, but have much more limited resources after the journey through the Alik'r Desert. Their prescence is still strong in Stros M'kai, which now holds the shell of an Imperial Navy base, now just a somewhat defunct port city. It is again ruined by the prescence of the Aldmeri.
As a young teenager, Ashenne finds work as a ship hand on small trade vessels in Anvil. The journeys are not incredibly arduous in any sense, and circumvent the trappings of war - trade is always necessary. Claiming much more experience based on cursory knowledge of the sail, Ashenne learns a great deal about sailing and trading, as well as some combat skills. She finds that she is extremely nimble and can easily make her way in tight quarters. Another ship hand, seeing that she quivers while carrying around her knife, has her carry a dagger with her at all times - while eating, climbing, conversing, and sleeping. She becomes comfortable wielding a blade and does so in small skirmishes with pirates - many Redguard. Though the White-Gold Concordat brings temporary peace between the Empire and the Aldmeri Dominion, it spells a more direct war between the Redguard of Hammerfell and the Dominion, and new tension with the Empire. Stros M'kai feels like a bittersweet memory, lost on an ocean breeze. Some of Ashenne's relatives return to Hammerfell to fight against the Aldmeri, unwilling to cede the new Redguard homeland to the Dominion. Upon becoming of age, Ashenne ignores the opportunity to join the Redguard forces at the apex of the war. Some of her relatives die in their efforts off of the southern coast. Unable to continue working as a shiphand out of guilt, she throws herself into learning alchemy - and by extension, some Restoration magic - through the local guild, supported in part by her aunt who remained in Anvil.
Two years later, the Second Treaty of Stros M'kai is signed, and the Aldmeri withdraw from Hammerfell. Ashenne remains in Anvil and continues to work for a year or so with her aunt, who now owns a tiny apothecary in the city. Amidst the chaos of the Aldmeri-Redguard conflict, members of Ashenne's family lose contact, and the shop in Stros M'kai is seized. Ashenne returns to work as a shiphand, and over the course of her early twenties becomes a boatswain. Eventually, she is entrusted to captain a trading vessel that connects Anvil with some of the ports in High Rock. And then she takes another contract that brings her to inner Cyrodil. Much of her life, at this point, has been spent under the Empire. The scattered knowledge gained when she'd thrown herself into learning alchemy and the like becomes slightly useful aboard her vessel, which skirts along the coast of Valenwood and Elsweyr, into the waterways of central Cyrodiil. She forms an abundance of connections with the Imperials that work alongside her and is seen as trustworthy.
While lacking her own ship, Ashenne makes somewhat of a name for herself among those more familiar with the dangerous waters at the mouth of the Topal Sea. She is successful in a wide variety of skirmishes with pirates, and is known among prominent traders along the inner Cyrodiilian waterways. In her mid-thirties, she is encouraged by a contact to join the Imperial Navy, the complement of the Legion. The Civil War in Skyrim has become much more concerning to the Empire, and there are fears that impending intervention and the draining of Imperial resources will create a window for the Aldmeri. Given that the Aldmeri were so successful in the Great War at penetrating the Cyrodiilian heartland by sea, and at battles at Bravil and the Imperial City itself, this need becomes increasingly pertinent. After some consideration aboard familiar trade vessels, Ashenne joins and steadily climbs the ranks as General Tullius is sent to end the Civil War, and Cyrodiil becomes vulnerable. In many ways, the experience is very much similar to work on a trade vessel, except that it is much more consistent, and skirmishes are much more hostile. There are more rules, but formalities are generally eschewed with time and experience. The pay is very nice, and consistent, which is the major draw. There is increased pirate activity at the mouth of the Topal Sea, more border patrol, so to say. It is generally a nice change of pace. The war drags on. Direct conflict with the Aldmeri never comes, though there is increased tension with the Altmer as well as the Nords. Ashenne, feeling unfulfilled, takes leave a year after the war finally concludes, and goes to Anvil.
.. Except she cannot find passage by ship back to Anvil from Bravil, finding that all companies she speaks to now refuse to traverse Valenwood's southern coast. In the meantime, she takes short jobs along the inner coast of Cyrodiil, putting off the land-journey to Anvil that may never come. There are whisperings in the taverns she frequents to drink sun-warmed rum, and tales so specific, so outlandish that it's not clear whether they're fact or fable. A Khajit from Lenchal murmurs something about a daedra setting fire to a caravel, a Breton mentions something about a fabled tower, an Argonian whispers about a blood-filled river. She stays in Bravil some time longer and tries to learn more, feeling almost personally offended that she cannot find safe passage, even on a neutral trade vessel. There are a few Imperial contacts, and many more people that she had met during her time in the service of the Imperial Navy and as a ship captain, that she could contact. Hector Sibassius is one of them, a person she'd met several times through her travels without really meaning to. He contacts her first.
Personality: Having developed a thick skin in the metaphorical and literal sense, Ashenne notably has a good sense of humor - a sailor's humor, perhaps. Sarcastic and sometimes crude, she is rarely malicious and is genuine in her dealings with people, leading others to view her somewhat amicably. She carries a sense of weariness about her, but - especially after her service in the Imperial Navy - this has abated somewhat in recent years.
Ignoring the call to arms amidst the war between the Aldmeri and Hammerfell following the White-Gold Concordat, Ashenne carries guilt over her lack of real allegiance to Hammerfell. While she had some sustained interest in alchemy and a very slight interest in Restoration magic, it was fear and cowardice that led her to study these after becoming of age. After taking to sailing in youth, she had always felt that she would be an adept swordsman, like her father, and finding work as a sailor as a teenager only strengthened this resolve. But the danger of war felt all to real, and so she chose to ignore it; study was more of an excuse to herself, as remaining a sailor would have forced her to confront the feelings of desertion. When she had returned, to eventually become a boatswain, she felt guiltier still, to be surrounded by Imperials and actively seek out their companionship. She should hate or distrust them, as a Redguard, but found that doing this would force her to tacitly confirm her identity. And what an awful Redguard she was, having escaped much hardship following the Redguard exodus. With little regard for her family - so much for ancestor worship. Much of her family was dead, her father having died somewhere between the Empire acting as a Hammerfell ally and then a betrayer. Though such feelings have quieted over 30 years, Ashenne finds herself drawn to conflict and is much less willing to simply ignore reality. As a result, she can be quite bitter, and at times comes off as glib.
That said, she is only critical of the willfully ignorant and possesses a good-heartedness that comes across to those that require her help. However, like many that grew up amidst the Great War, she is extremely distrustful of (if not outright hostile towards) the Altmer, and generally distrusts the Bosmer and Dunmer as well.
Skills: Ashenne is very nimble, almost feline in her ability to easily scale the masts of ships to reach the topmsails and topmasts. More important, is her sense of ease in maneuvering and contorting her body as the environment around her shifts - deftness learned from years on a ship, utility. She is steadfast in her decisions and is a naturally solution-oriented, able to break down problems and find solutions among limited available resources. Quick on her feet, so to say, even if lacking the type of grace more expected upon the higher ranks of the Imperial Navy.
She has very real survival skills developed from her life aboard, having been subject to chance and misfortune a handful of times at sea. Skilled with her hands, Ashenne is capable of fashioning a variety of knots and rudimentary tools, catching and preparing food. Similarly, she is proficient with one-handed weapons like daggers and shortswords, but not much else. Her fighting style depends on her nimbleness as she is unfamiliar with shields and the like - a dance. She is not too well-read, and her writing often contains errors though it is generally illegible. Her knowledge of alchemy has worn away over the years, and she can't manage anything terribly complex without extremely detailed instruction. She only knows one Restoration spell by heart, and it is the only spell that is really necessary, she thinks.
Equipment: Though she forgoes deep attachment with most physical items, Ashenne has kept a few items with her through various posts. Close to her hip she carries her father's original sailing knife, which - while quite worn and with a new blade - still has its original Redguard engravings. Her shortsword was nothing too special - double-edged with a slightly ovoid pommel. Her other arm was a slightly shorter steel dagger, usually stored in a shealth she'd pieced together out of Horker skin.
In a leather, drawstring pouch, she carries a map of Tamriel printed on vellum that has notes scribbled into the empty spaces, folded into a tight rectangle. A small, rather beat-up guide to Tamriel's star patterns contains various names and notes jotted in the margins, seeming to serve as a makeshift journal of sorts. Additionally, there is a small roll of linen, a glass jar filled with rum, another jar filled with rum, a roll of wire, and a bar of soap. At the bottom of the bag is a handful of septims, a pencil, and some scrawled notes scattered randomly.
e: I notice the status is set to "Full". If the current number of people is at the sweet spot, that's totally cool too.
Sorry, this stupid library computer has just revoked from me more than an hour of work on my post, and now I need to nearly completely rewrite it. Damn bloody piece of rubbish. Even as I write this bloody update the accursed piece of s**t is freaking out, because F this computer! Bloody hell...
I'm sorry, I'll get my post up tomorrow, hell and high water today makes it painfully impossible. And let me tell you, formatting invisible text is hard enough when the text field isn't constantly being unselected somehow and the page goes unresponsive. Damn this computer.
Awww. That's quite alright, I think there are a few others that don't have their post or entire post up either. I'm sure it'll be great. I just switched to using Google Docs after similar happened to me a few times over.
Her deft fingers slid under the woolen underclothes as she buckled in the small cot that held her, legs tangled in the soft sheets. Back arched, the silken tendrils of hair bobbed underneath her as she pushed herself into a more comfortable position. A small cry of relief erupted from her lips as her fingers slid into place in the deep crease in her back, drawing the blood into her shoulderblades.
The discomfort of the quarters provided by the Legion did not bother her as much as it did others, but it did nothing for the knots and aches that developed from pulling the longbow day after day. The exercise in blood magic had the side benefit of soothing her mind - quite a serene state to arise in, probably. In a fluid movement, her legs bent over the edge of the cot, and her torso twisted until her entire body stood erect in the Legion’s tent.
She pulled on the leather thing and the gambeson as well as some linen pants, which lay at a puddle at the end of the cot. Surely, no one really gave two aces about what she wore underneath the heavy, padded jacket, but Legion had their own dumb rules that Aeudla was in no position to question or disobey. Easily, she set about her usual tasks - the longbow was set against a corner of the huge, linen tent, a slice of morning sunlight warming it, making the wood soft and pliable. Her tentmates were mostly still asleep, or gone for a morning meal, maybe a meditative piss in the woods. The shaft of wood easily moved in her hands, now, the end-loop easily fitting into the horny nock as she strung the bow. In doing so, the light caught her eyes and she swatted a hand across her face to shade herself.
The order forced its way into her brain: Job to be done. Voice's orders. Meet at the Weeping-Gate within the hour. Pack light.
She nearly keeled over, her hand now ripping hair out of her scalp with the unwelcome invasion. Aeudla shivered a moment, pausing in the soft light afforded by the tent. Thankfully, everyone - regardless of rank - was subject to such creepy and unwanted behavior, and this was oddly reassuring.
It must have been Tarkus.
One foot crossed the other as she hobbled out of the tent, one hand reaching out to part the linen fold of the tent’s opening, the other fastened around her bow. The quiver full of freshly-spined arrows was flush to her back, though she could not feel it through the thick padding of the gambeson. They were beautiful arrows, with hawk’s feathers she’d threaded onto the shafts of wood. They rustled together pleasantly alongside some of the Legion’s arrows.
The puddle of mud right under - around - her foot yielded a curse. One of her stupid bedmates probably got drunk and pissed right outside of the tent. Aeudla very, very briefly wished she was an officer of some sort, with her own tent. Archers weren’t really leaders, given that they stood back all safe and rained hell while the real warriors did all the work, out of honor and glory. She was a competent blood mage, sure, but she didn’t really care about turning water into wine or whatever other stupid hound tricks the others did to curry favor. Blood magic was ethereal and sacred. Or so she imagined.
Aeudla went.
At Least 24 Hours After the Fall of Aveless
Soft plumes of smoke meandered through the battlements and did little to temper the harsh smells of blood, ichor, and salt carried in by open air. The smell of smoke persisted deeper and deeper into the Keep, throwing a sedative shroud over the throngs of people scattered through the tower. It eased itself into the lungs, as a beloved cat does, pressing into the crevices of the brain and inducing an artificial sense of calm. The immediacy of the tang of blood in the mouth was lost, momentarily, in the cloying odor of smoke.
It felt calm in here - safe, even - as if the last day or so had ceased to exist. As if the Keep had never been sundered, as if they were not in the torn-open heart of Aveless. As if the sharp, metallic tang of blood didn't bite at the fringes of smoke, as if there were no dead and dying scattered between smashed doors and crumbling walls. All in a moment, one could simply close their eyes and choose to ignore it if they wished, let smoke tease the oxygen from their lungs and feel some sense of safety after all that had transpired.
The sound of soul reverberating through the hall was truly deafening, as bodies wavered between dead and dying. Some persisted. One's own heartbeat was the only consistent meter in the mess of things, and only so in this moment. Silence melded into soft murmuring, into shouting, into cries of pain and sorrow. Explosions in the distance punctuated the mess of sounds, echoing across the Black Mountains. The ebb of sounds echoed in the massive, stone hallways, in the barren parapets.
The sounds hurt her head, already wracked with fatigue accumulated over the last few days. An incredible amount of raw soul permeated the air around her head, and the sharp edge of burning flesh among the scent of smoke kept her from drifting into sleep. The sense of euphoria from using blood magic was mixed up in all of the noise, still lingering in the back of her head, like warm tendrils of smoke. She was somewhere in between conscious and asleep, an easy medium, and the rustling of activity around her seemed to suddenly awaken her. Her brain was numb, overwhelmed by the sounds around her, by the smells, and the pains that bit at parts of her body, places where gambeson and leather did not hold against iron or blood-shards. She had managed, through it all, to stop the bleeding, to clot the blood. But she was no magician, and there were still open gashes which stung with each and every movement.
Aeudla vaguely recognized that her hands were still a deep crimson with dried blood, likely her own. Drowsily, she unfastened the dark-colored gambeson now decorated in deep patches of oil, blood, and flesh. The gambeson opened, revealing the hardened leather worn underneath, and her woolen underclothes, now stained with sweat. Unthinking, she absentmindedly began to unwrap her right index, middle, and ring fingers. The linen wraps had been necessary in the close quarters they had been in, as in such tight quarters, longer pause had to be given with each arrow. And longer pause with her longbow meant more direct strain on her ruined fingertips, which were similarly strained through use of blood magic. While the bow at three-fourths draw was enough to kill or incapacitate most that came her way, it was not a close-range weapon, so blood magic was necessary. And exceedingly easy, in the small quarters where there seemed an endless amount of it.
She remembered, dimly, that the longbow must still be drawn, and that was not good for it, to be open so long. That it must be unstrung, that the leather stringer was in a pants pocket, and that the warmth of the space around her would make the task easy. She reached around for the longbow, which sat besides her, lain across the barren stone floor.
The wood disintegrated in her hands. The natural light that streamed in through a high window contorted around the wood grain, reflecting the silvery hues of the yew into her hands and she stared at this for a moment. Everyone around stared at her, gazes boring through their heads like water through a leak in a boat, and the light reflected back into their eyes. A brief moment passed as a breeze rolled lazily through the hall, chasing away the prowling plumes of smoke.
She blinked, and the yew moved under her fingers as she tested the string, which hugged the edges of the bow. Her fingertips still dribbled blood, which stained the yew a deep shade of red, and the blotches of blood spread as ink does in water, wrapping around the wood. A line of glossy, delectable cherries, then a mound of cherries with curled, leatherwhite stems. Untasted and sweet-looking, gladdened by the light streaming in. The group around her seemed to draw closer though she dare not draw her gaze away from the sight in front of her, which was - in that moment - completely and utterly perfect. The light of their gazes seemed to penetrate her in a way that was somehow physical, as if the brightness of their eyes could contort her form as the sun did.
A thought entered her brain - she still needed to unstring the bow. It was too warm in the room and the voyeuristic gazes of her companions had drawn her thoughts back to the perfect mound of cherries. Which had, for no reason at all, suddenly become discrete drupes: that one had a deep purplish bruise, another was dried up around its stone, one was completely hard and unripe. Another thought entered her brain as quickly as the other had left and she swiped madly at the image until it disintegrated into a small mass of pits and folded back into the light which now shone bare across the stones.
The bow was already unstrung, with a leather hood secured over the string nock, Aeudla discovered, as her eyelids stretched. This satisfied her, though a chill still ran across the back of her head at the thought of the eyes around her. There was a small group around her indeed, though perhaps not really around her, but around the small fire that separated them. Resting, hobbling to one side or another as if they might tip over, or murmuring to each other. Minutes passed, and she stared intently at the flames which licked the small pile of tinder, turning brown into black into white into grey into the smoke which rose into the depths of the hall.
There was no bow in her hands to steady her brain amidst the rolling fog that obscured any sort of cognizant, coherent, conceivable thought, the words muddling together and chattering endlessly away in her brain as the soul seemed to - and there was soul everywhere, especially with the Undying who were veritable walking battlefields, different shards of soul cobbled together nonsensically, unending and impenetrable, like the smoothstones that made up the huge Keep which was now crumbling around them, crumbling as Aveless was, as the mountains were, as her thoughts were.
