Well the GM's last post was on this roleplay, so let's hope they'll return to here.
Orlan
Member
- Last Seen: 8 yrs ago
- Joined: 9 yrs ago
- Posts: 723 (0.23 / day)
- VMs: 1
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Username history
- Orlan 9 yrs ago
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Bio
So for some odd reason you want to read a summary of the git you see the said summary of before you... Well aren't you bored if that's the case?
Orlan, the name itself was an odd little thing I came up with in a dispute with a Dutchman based on the place in France; Orleans. Just take the e and the s out and you've got Orlan... The name I use. Never actually visited the place bizarrely enough. That Dutchman was later caught robbing the bank I had just closed down my old and empty account in, even said hello to the unlucky git on the way out.
Notes:
Do not bother me with Anime, manga or whatever else fits in that group, not a big fan of the art styles. Just give me traditional artwork and I'll be happy.
I quite like science fiction, especially star wars because I met David Prowse, poor bloke signed his name as Prowsf on the signed picture I have... He was the last person I expected at that flower show.
I tend to make up little tales and stories, which some people find to be true for some strange reason because of how well I lie according to a few friends and colleagues, the Dutchman Bank tale about the name is actually true, so is the David Prowse autograph event as well, met him in a local town's flower show at the beginning of the reasonably large event.
During my childhood I went on forty holidays, seven of them going to Paris... and I honestly cannot tell you the exact number of how many of them I've been on across Europe... A lot of them to see art and history museums because I cannot help loving the world's beauty in an odd way to most.
I have this strange instinct not to trust or listen to anyone who has tattoos, my own brother's an exception on the listening half, I dissaprove of such things naturally, and nothing has managed to change my views or opinion on it.
End of Notes
That's all you're getting, can't be arsed to fail at describing myself accurately and I have nothing else to share... Off you go now and do something more interesting, find intreaguing people, after all it is your important time I am wasting, drivelling on about my holidays and my improvisations which are almost identical to the truth at times.
Orlan, the name itself was an odd little thing I came up with in a dispute with a Dutchman based on the place in France; Orleans. Just take the e and the s out and you've got Orlan... The name I use. Never actually visited the place bizarrely enough. That Dutchman was later caught robbing the bank I had just closed down my old and empty account in, even said hello to the unlucky git on the way out.
Notes:
Do not bother me with Anime, manga or whatever else fits in that group, not a big fan of the art styles. Just give me traditional artwork and I'll be happy.
I quite like science fiction, especially star wars because I met David Prowse, poor bloke signed his name as Prowsf on the signed picture I have... He was the last person I expected at that flower show.
I tend to make up little tales and stories, which some people find to be true for some strange reason because of how well I lie according to a few friends and colleagues, the Dutchman Bank tale about the name is actually true, so is the David Prowse autograph event as well, met him in a local town's flower show at the beginning of the reasonably large event.
During my childhood I went on forty holidays, seven of them going to Paris... and I honestly cannot tell you the exact number of how many of them I've been on across Europe... A lot of them to see art and history museums because I cannot help loving the world's beauty in an odd way to most.
I have this strange instinct not to trust or listen to anyone who has tattoos, my own brother's an exception on the listening half, I dissaprove of such things naturally, and nothing has managed to change my views or opinion on it.
End of Notes
That's all you're getting, can't be arsed to fail at describing myself accurately and I have nothing else to share... Off you go now and do something more interesting, find intreaguing people, after all it is your important time I am wasting, drivelling on about my holidays and my improvisations which are almost identical to the truth at times.
Most Recent Posts
"My my, what impressive displays there good Gutsy and... Boy I never caught your name in the pub although you probably caught mine from all that blundering... I blame the mutant for smashing that glowin' one's innards right in front'a me." Lewellyn bumbles, Ol'Com then awakens, going for a little walk around the clearing.
"Adorable little fella ain't he? Found him knawing on a Brotherhood Paladin's corpse, turns out a Mr Gutsy opened the tin can with a buzzsaw and enough patriotism to motivate an army, at least that's what the glorfied scavenger recorded... Fought with another mr gutsy over in some old base against the Brotherhood of Scavengers again... How long were you there mister tin can the almighty lord?" Lewellyn declares, completely unaware of the Paladin Lord standing in the same clearing up to the end where he then mocks Crane, going into more detail of the two battles with the goal in mind of both getting SLAG's appreciation and annoying The Paladin Lord to breaking point while attempting to get the fire going.
"Adorable little fella ain't he? Found him knawing on a Brotherhood Paladin's corpse, turns out a Mr Gutsy opened the tin can with a buzzsaw and enough patriotism to motivate an army, at least that's what the glorfied scavenger recorded... Fought with another mr gutsy over in some old base against the Brotherhood of Scavengers again... How long were you there mister tin can the almighty lord?" Lewellyn declares, completely unaware of the Paladin Lord standing in the same clearing up to the end where he then mocks Crane, going into more detail of the two battles with the goal in mind of both getting SLAG's appreciation and annoying The Paladin Lord to breaking point while attempting to get the fire going.
I meant on the OOC specifically. I cannot do too much I'm afraid, just continue it on a bit.
Mind if I join in with an old codger sitting on access to Civil War era bases?
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Almost a week, and stagnation.
There are some good oppertunities running through my head for this.
Oh I now want to read 1984 again, and keep an eye on this too.
"You hear that tosser on the telly? He wants to fight a ghost story for chrissakes!" "Yeah, must think he's hot shit eh? Saw the TV studio in a mess as well, was helping old No Knob pack up the Gem Store on the corner, paid well but I heard this god-awful music comin' from one of the vans goin' by. People need taste in music again." Two grunts converse, their voices like gravel and their smell as good as a rubbish tip. No knob? Is that a nickname you want on your criminal record? Maybe old Greg got them, ah good times with this beauty. Ah hell time to go into action.
"Ey lads, what is this of a van with bad music leavin' an area of death?." The Tempest groans, mocking the two criminals as they turned to get a close shave from the Cult Classic. The room itself is a ground floor living room, open window with boxes around a sofa and TV set playing a repeat of some reality show. The only other thing of interest is a walk-in cupboard-like alcove.
"Who the fuck are you?!" The first victim of the Tempest hollers in surprise and fear, his bald head quivering. "You don't know him?! Heard of the Knifeman? He slaughtered Big Little Hemmy in the Blood Red Exhibition! What is it?!" The second thug whimpers in a terrified quiver, a face of emotion and a shaking body. "Did you not hear me? Oh you pathetic little things, I asked about the van that played music, I also want to know more of this No Knob." The Tempest taunts, nutting the first sod with a swift knee, which forces the target on his knees in a sobbing growl of pain. "It was a van I think, decent enough thing... Oh my... How much for the..." The slightly wittier second thug realizes, being cut short on his negotiation with another low kick. "Tell me now, and you'll live, don't and I'll get the information my own special way." The Tempest demands, a hint of boredom in his voice as the masked bloke begins fiddling about with the butterfly knife, putting the Cult Classic away carefully.
"The van might've had the telly bloke in it! No Knob... She's a new gang leader, pays well in... ye needn't worry about where but she's striking crystals, thinks they'll go up in price or somethin' 'bout economics... Just please let me go!" The criminal begs, crying on the beer-stained carpet. "Both of you enter the cupboard now. Chop chop!" The Tempest encourages, booting the first bloke to the nearby cupboard alcove. The unwilling captives obeyed, as soon as the door locked the Tempest drags two stacks of boxes down from the sides of the alcove down, trapping the two inside. Then the Tempest proceeds to go through the small flat, taking anything of value before calling the police with a knock-off phone made in Mongolia to mimic a popular brand. With the police called the Tempest escapes by the front door.
After a few hours spent gathering more information on No Knob Sarah Hamish retires to his normal life. At midday the antiques dealer is sitting in a pleasant park, one short mile away from the alley of conflict between the three vigilantes a while ago, behind the park is a known auction house and hall, where at two o'clock in the afternoon there will be an auction on antique knives. So, the money's in the sales account, there should be some real bargains in there if it's locals, hope they haven't spoken with a professional yet or that's a steal gone instantly. Hamish thinks to himself, getting used to the new crisp cream suit and hat he bought a few days ago and is now wearing.
"Ey lads, what is this of a van with bad music leavin' an area of death?." The Tempest groans, mocking the two criminals as they turned to get a close shave from the Cult Classic. The room itself is a ground floor living room, open window with boxes around a sofa and TV set playing a repeat of some reality show. The only other thing of interest is a walk-in cupboard-like alcove.
"Who the fuck are you?!" The first victim of the Tempest hollers in surprise and fear, his bald head quivering. "You don't know him?! Heard of the Knifeman? He slaughtered Big Little Hemmy in the Blood Red Exhibition! What is it?!" The second thug whimpers in a terrified quiver, a face of emotion and a shaking body. "Did you not hear me? Oh you pathetic little things, I asked about the van that played music, I also want to know more of this No Knob." The Tempest taunts, nutting the first sod with a swift knee, which forces the target on his knees in a sobbing growl of pain. "It was a van I think, decent enough thing... Oh my... How much for the..." The slightly wittier second thug realizes, being cut short on his negotiation with another low kick. "Tell me now, and you'll live, don't and I'll get the information my own special way." The Tempest demands, a hint of boredom in his voice as the masked bloke begins fiddling about with the butterfly knife, putting the Cult Classic away carefully.
"The van might've had the telly bloke in it! No Knob... She's a new gang leader, pays well in... ye needn't worry about where but she's striking crystals, thinks they'll go up in price or somethin' 'bout economics... Just please let me go!" The criminal begs, crying on the beer-stained carpet. "Both of you enter the cupboard now. Chop chop!" The Tempest encourages, booting the first bloke to the nearby cupboard alcove. The unwilling captives obeyed, as soon as the door locked the Tempest drags two stacks of boxes down from the sides of the alcove down, trapping the two inside. Then the Tempest proceeds to go through the small flat, taking anything of value before calling the police with a knock-off phone made in Mongolia to mimic a popular brand. With the police called the Tempest escapes by the front door.
After a few hours spent gathering more information on No Knob Sarah Hamish retires to his normal life. At midday the antiques dealer is sitting in a pleasant park, one short mile away from the alley of conflict between the three vigilantes a while ago, behind the park is a known auction house and hall, where at two o'clock in the afternoon there will be an auction on antique knives. So, the money's in the sales account, there should be some real bargains in there if it's locals, hope they haven't spoken with a professional yet or that's a steal gone instantly. Hamish thinks to himself, getting used to the new crisp cream suit and hat he bought a few days ago and is now wearing.
Internet conked out unfortunately, I'll finish that off then move him over.
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