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Mahz finally picked up the milk.
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K A S S A R O C K
29 | M | GMT
Greetings friends, partners, enemies, acquaintances, and strangers. I am Kassarock, or just Kass if you prefer, welcome to my profile. Anyway, I am a 20 something male roleplayer from the UK and a long time user of the site, although I have come and gone a fair bit over my time here. I used to be more active on the old site, and I still am relatively active in the off topic sections today, as well as in the guild's discord. So you might see me around.

I generally consider myself to be an advanced writer, I pretty much always write multiple paragraphs, and will drop walls of text if the mood takes me. My grammar is okay, but not formally perfect, so I do not expect that from my partners either. I normally like quite dark and dramatic themes in terms of content in my roleplays, regardless of genre. Unless I have got an interest check up, or have messaged you, I am not usually looking for new partners to write with.

I think that covers just about everything. Message me if you want to know more.
Original Join Date: 07/04/2009

Advanced, Casual, 1x1, Nation, Tabletop

Historical, Fantasy, Sci-fi, Romance, Drama

Writer, Archaeologist, Cymro

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My girl is DONE!



>Go look for a weapon
*lurks intently*
>Go to the Police Station
Name: Willet

Age: 29

Sex: Male

Race: Human

Appearance: Willet is a small man. Not standing much over 5 foot 7 inches, but what he lacks in height in makes up for in brawn, he is of strong sturdy stock, with a broad chest and thick arms. He is tanned and has fairly weather beaten skin for his age, indicating a life spent mostly outdoors. His hands are especially worn, covered in hard skin and calluses.

His face is relatively attractive, though not exactly handsome. He keeps his hair reddish-brown short and sports a similar coloured beard that he crops closely too. His face is board and lends itself to a smile of good strong white teeth, with a broken, bent looking nose above them. His eyes are a green-y hazel.

His clothing consists of leather and hide mainly, hardy and pragmatic, in mostly hues of green or brown. Over this he wears a long green wool cloak with a hood, very useful for blending into a wooded area. The piece of clothing most important to Willet is his boots, good boots are essential if you live an outdoor life. He normally carries a leather pack on his back, along with his composite bow and a quiver of arrows. On either side of his belt hang a wood axe, and a dirk.

Personality: Willet is quiet but friendly, a tough looking man with a relatively soft heart, especially for the poor and children. He doesn’t like cheating, lying, stealing or killing and has a particular dislike to those who make money off of other’s misfortune. But neither is he idealistic, he most definitely understands that you do what you have to do to survive. He likes company, but believes that towns are corrosive to people and bring out the worst. He would much rather have company with honest working men and women than with a high lord or a king.

Magic/Abilities: He has a natural affinity to the forest, years of spending time there have taught him its ways, and years of listening to it have taught him its tongue. Whilst this might not constitute as true conversation with the forest, it grants significant advantages when it comes to encountering dangerous animals or demons, or navigating a dense and unfamiliar wood.

Weakness(es): Willet is a simple man. He cannot read or write his own name and is poor at anything academic. In combat, he is not the most skilful either, his melee tactics are poor and he is unsuited to fighting in open areas.

Background/History: Willet was born outside of a town, and he will die outside of a town. His parents were some of the few people to forsake the relative safety of a community to live their lives in the wilds. They led simple lives, partly maintaining a small hold, partly hunting and cutting lumber to sell to the local villages. They had only one child, Willet, and for twelve peaceful years life was good. Occasionally there would be a threat from the wilds, but Willet’s father knew the forest even better than Willet does now, so they were safe enough. But of course, in this world peace like that cannot last for long.

But it was not beasts or demons that shattered this peace, it was sickness. Willet’s father got seriously ill and quickly, had they been in a town they might have got a doctor, but it over half a day’s walk to the nearest village, almost a full day to the nearest doctor. He died shivering and vomiting in his own bed. After that, living in the wilds couldn’t go on, without Willet’s father they had no protection. And so they forced to move into a town, they couldn’t sell a property out there in the wilds, so they were poor, poorer than dirt. For another two years they tried to get by in a little back water town, hunting, fishing, begging, anything. Willet’s mother deprived herself of food for his sake, she grew weaker and weaker, until she caught a fever and died too. After that, Willet decided there was nothing left for him in towns, so he returned to the peaceful place he liked best, the wilds.

It was tough, but he had learned enough from his father, and what was left he managed to pick up from himself. He has a meagre existence hunting and trapping, living a nomadic lifestyle on his own. He is currently visiting Bitewind to sell his current haul of furs and to pick up some supplies, before he intends to return to the wilds.

Additional/Miscellaneous: Willet has killed very few people in his life, and only when he has been attacked first and forced to. He will always, always err on the side of mercy.


Thrall of Kings




I remember very little about this roleplay, but I do have a few posts for it saved, and I do known that it marks a relatively important point for me in terms of my development in how I created characters. Willet, my character from Thrall of Kings, was the first distinctly average character I ever made on the Old Guild. Prior to this I had always played quite powerful heroic or villainous types. Willet however, was different. He was just a guy who lived in the woods, trying to get by, not particularly heroic, but not a bad person. He just an average person, who wanted to live quietly. Unfortunately, adventure called.

I remember the GM being a little bit perturbed by the fact Willet wasn't super on board with the whole 'you are chosen heroes' plot he had concocted (and not told us about during character creation, if I recall correctly), especially after the bloodbath that preceded that particular conversation. Granted, we're all here to play the game, so when the plot train arrives we should always try to get aboard. But Willet never saw himself as a hero, never saw himself as anything special, and didn't see the fate of the world as his problem. He would have come round to it eventually, I imagine, but he needed some convincing.

This roleplay also featured a little set piece I have definitely reused a couple of times, often to highlight the non-heroic nature of characters and to knock them down a peg. A city chase in which the character only escape by leaping into a cesspit. Not sure if I stole that from somewhere. Anyway, read it below and steal it for your own games if you are so inclined!








I N T R O D U C T I O N S


1 5 T H O F S U N D U S K 4 E 2 0 5
F E A T U R I N G : D A R ' J H A N , E P E S O R N , & V E L Y N


Dar’jhan shifted on the hard, pillowless stool he was sitting on, trying to get himself, but mostly his tail, into a better and more comfortable position. His eyes looked at each of the other potential recruits of this resistance, his new comrades-in-arms if the older Nord wanted them. Though Dar’jhan had gathered already that the man could use all the help he could get. It was a curious thing, to be able to fight beside a man, a Dunmer and an Altmer and be equals in this endeavour. A curious thing indeed.

With a sideways glance he made sure for himself that no one was willing to be the first to speak, or perhaps they were still thinking about the words the Nord had spoken or the reasons why they wanted to be here and join.

The Khajiit cleared his throat and bowed his head in greeting as he started to speak in his Khajiiti accent:

“I have been given many colourful names, here in Skyrim but my name is Dar'jhan or Half-moon as the Khajiit from my caravan call me. Whatever you decide to call me, this one does not care. That choice is yours. I was on the road with a Khajiit trade caravan, assigned to guard the merchants from terrors of the wilds and any kind of...barbaric hostilities by both men and mer. Sadly I have lost the other Khajiit after we were attacked and do not know where they are or what has happened to them.” During this, he had closed his eyes with a frown, as if the thought was too painful to talk about but as he opened his eyes again, he stared straight at Brunwulf Free-Winter and tilted his head. “To ask us what brings us here to this resistance, is a very astute question. For me, it is simple to answer. I offer my services to you in the hope and believe that you can help Dar'jhan find out what happened to the caravan.” He spoke calmly in his warm voice. “You will find me experienced and quick both with mind and blade. With sword and shield this one stands ready, fearless of what the road will bring to him.” He gave a courteous nod and grinned.

Epesorn listened attentively to the first person to speak: the cat. This khajiit, Dar’jhan, looked quite capable to Epesorn. He did not know much about khajiit - in fact, this was the first he’d seen in Skyrim. There were a few he’d met in Alinor, of course, but they were often in the lower ranks of the Thalmor, so there was no extensive interaction. Most in Skyrim must have been driven out after Ulfric took power. The khajiit’s face unnerved him - it was harder to read expressions on a cat’s face. The grin, however, was unmistakable.

Next to speak was the old Dunmer next to Epesorn, who was perched cross legged atop the chair in which he sat. He was dressed strangely, in a battered set of chitinous armour, much scratched and worn. It made him look like some kind of ancient bizarre insectoid creature, with the head of a Dunmer grafted on top.

“Under sun and sky, I greet you all warmly, though you’ll see little of the former here in this frostbitten land.” His voice had that dry rasping quality of many of his kind, at least the older ones who still remembered Morrowind, a side effect of growing up in the ash. “My name Serjo Redoran Velyn Virith, but most here just call me Velyn now. I am a warrior-poet who’s lived a long life and picked up some useful skills along the way. The reason I am here is to help my people, amongst other things.”

His lips turned upward in the hint of a sly smile at the end of his cryptic words. Velyn’s blood red eyes switched from the Brunwulf Free-Winter who sat opposite him to the one amongst them who had not yet spoken, the young golden skinned Altmer. They rested on him expectantly, waiting for him to speak. When he did not, the old mer cocked his head to one side and continued anyway.

“And what about you, boy? I was not expecting to run into one of your kind in Skyrim.”

Dar’jhan smiled at the words spoken by the Dunmer, Velyn. There was honesty in them but also a certain degree of mystery that seemed to surround him. It made the Khajiit wonder what kind of skills he could possess. He could only guess. The attention shifted to the Altmer who had yet to speak a single word. Darj’han sat back with his arms crossed on his chest and narrowed his eyes, waiting in anticipation for the story.

The male Dunmer, Velyn, looked quite old to Epesorn. He was clearly the oldest in the room, while Epesorn was the youngest. The Dunmer’s age had taken him aback at first, but he did not doubt the mer’s ability. There was an air of confidence about him, a sureness that belied his years, one that Epesorn immediately envied once as he sensed it.

When Velyn finished speaking, the group turned their attention towards him, and he felt a spike of fear, as one might feel before public speaking. Epesorn lifted his chin, tapping his throat, then tapped his lips, and made a crossing motion with his arms. The meaning was obvious - he could not speak.

To compensate, he first raised a hand, holding up one finger, then patted the shortsword at his side. He held up a second finger, and with the other hand, Epesorn splayed and let a small flame flicker overtop his palm, snapping his fist shut when they’d all got a good look. His two combat skills - sword and magic. He grinned at the group, both out of nervous energy and excitement for whatever task was to be had for the lot of them. Epesorn would have felt as if his own introduction was lackluster compared to the others, were it not for both the trained arrogance his Justiciar instructor had endowed him, and the more natural kind which tends to emerge from the ignorance of youth.

“Well,” Velyn began, chuckling softly at the mimed performance of the younger Altmer. “I have been known to talk enough for two, I think we should get along just fine.”

A male Nord - or, at least, that was what Epesorn assumed the human to be - was the last recruit to speak. Glad to have the attention on someone else, he watched the man curiously. Epesorn fidgeted with his hands and feet to release the tension that had built in his gut the minute he stepped indoors.



Written in collaboration by @TheFox, @opticOpinicus, & @Kassarock
>Making a mad dash for your bike and driving you and Lola to safety.
>Run for the security room
>Look for something to defend yourself with
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