SgtEasy

Star Wars: Shattered Galaxy Roleplay

Urr'argh Ak-Shaffi, the Wanderer

Personality ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ Hero. Outcast. Failure. Much scorn and praise can be contributed to this Ghorfa. The weight of burden rests heavily upon him. The bonds of servitude are latched upon his people. He must will himself to be strong against his growing desperation. To be the hope his united kurantt deserve. A wandering soul trying to find cause, gather strength, gain power to free his people. Savagery. Brutality. Cunning. All traits must be called upon to save the children of the Dune Mother. He appears churlish, overconfident and rude, many dismissing him as a mere upstart primitive. Beware those who underestimate him, for they will find krayt poison in their food and a bomb in their guarded safe spaces. Death comes for those who stand in the way of the kurantt. In the contrary, those who know him personally know him as honourable, in the Ghorfa sense. He does not lie, he does not hurt the young or frail. Fiercely determined to his cause, there is something to admire in this fierce primitive. Barbarism hides cunning, using the skewed views of the outsider to form a protecting image around him. They think him senseless, dumb, unable to grasp the greater scope of the galaxy. But he is a storyteller, the wisdom of his entire people is branded into his brain. Armed with the annals of history, a greater mind can be created from that of a primitive. One aware of shortcomings and strengths, patiently waiting for the time to strike. He is limited in this great galaxy and he is painfully aware of it. Notable Skills ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ Survivalist: Wasteful children the Dune Mother makes not. This one can utilise expert survival knowledge learned from years in the sands and stars to be self-sufficient from dreaded civilisation. Isolation makes people strong, lest they break under the pressure. Terrorist or Freedom Fighter?: Improvised explosive devices can be made out of wires, overcharged blaster packs and a simple trigger. A spiked fall trap can be hidden under carefully placed tarps and foliage. Ambushes can be set against supply lines or sleeping troops. People can be taken hostage for ransom, better supplies, better guns, to be turned against the oppressor. Torture is a tool wielded expertly to reveal movements of kidnappers and the kidnapped. Primitive gunsmith: The slugthrower is often dismissed by the wider galaxy as loud, inefficient and primitive. Can a regular blaster kill a man 1000 meters away? Can blaster packs contain poisons which drag a man's death out to hours and hours? Can it brutally take a chunk of alien flesh out of its torso, viscera splattering over its comrades? Many have dismissed his rifles and many have thus fallen to them. Primitive chemist: Taught by the shamans of the wastes, he wields a basic understanding of chemicals and poisons to inflict pain unto his enemies. Poisoned slugs, yellow-green gas lethal to sapients without rebreathers, flammable clear liquids which offer a strong drink to pass the time. Rudimentary, limited knowledge but wielded with deadly effectiveness. ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔	_______________________________________________ Urr'argh Ak-Shaffi 45 Ghorfa Average	Personal History ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ Storyteller. Wanderer. Chosen of Beyond Her Grasp. Chieftain of the Dune Sea. This one was once trained by a she-devil, an Ulia-ah deemed different from the others and thus separated, to be trained as a tale weaver. Hour after painstaking hour, he would recite the verbal history of his people. From the time they emerged from the gardens as Kumumgah to when they were struck down to Her Grasp in the sands, changed into the Ghorfa. Failure in his recitation would cause the pain of death upon him. He would take over his predecessor, the she-devil taskmaster taken to wander aimlessly in the Dune Sea, as he will do for his own successor. As is the way. The title of storyteller changes often, for the dunes are cruel as She is cruel. An elder storyteller can spell doom for a tribe, for an early death of a storyteller means a tribe falls to infighting, unworthy of the Ghorfa. He thus taught another young one swiftly after, following in his predecessor's footsteps and cast out into Dune Sea. As is the way. Star Wanderer he became, a Beyond, taken by an outsider as pet and subordinate. Taken beyond Her Grasp, further than the fighting twin brothers in the sky. He learned the ways, the tongues, the civilisation of the outsider. He saw naught but things to look down upon. They fought just as the Ghorfa, were just as greedy and just as cruel. They call him primitive but all he could see was folly, blinded by their arrogance in technology. He would escape when his master turned on his people, as any freethinking Ghorfa should as Her children do not kneel. He would return to Her children scattered from the heights he had seen them before, brought low by an enemy he had years to learn from. Hero they would call him, Chieftain of the Dune Sea. Failure, the outsiders would whisper later on. A primitive terrorist failing his primitive people. His people cast into the bonds of servitude, under the heel of civilisation. Justice has come for the lawless, as the outsiders would claim it. But still, the Ghorfa do not kneel in the starmetal hulls of their captors. Bound and bloodied, they plot and scheme, planning the excruciating deaths for those who brought them low. And he shall free them, stowed away in one of the starmetal ships. He will free his kurantt or die trying. Notable Possessions ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ Gaderffii: Traditional two-handed weapon of the Ghorfa, a favoured weapon of Her children. With one spiked end and a bludgeon on the other, it is a crude, simple tool. No adornments, only scratches and dents inflicted upon it by enemies laid low. His is customised, a barbed spike to rip the fleshy chunks out of poor sapients and frequently dipped in krayt venom. Custom Cycler slugthrowers: When resources were still aplenty for her children, he had fashioned two innovations for his people. One a shorter barreled, smoothbore Cycler with a lever-action loader and cartridge, a faster firing mechanism for shorter ranges. Another a longer barreled, scoped, traditional bolt action variant for sniping, effective for targets 800 meters away. As long as one can calculate trajectories with relevant gravitational acceleration, coreolis effect and wind speeds, this can extend to targets 1000 meters away. Poisons and chemicals: Brewed and wielded by the shamans, he has with him tools to make a sapient's death cruel and extended. Kill painfully so that your enemies flee. Inflict horrible chemicals gas and poisoned rounds so your enemies suffer. Or incapacitate them so they may suffer more personally. Stored within opaque glass vials upon his person, saner sapients would call him a madman. Witnessing the effects of these first hand, they would be madmen if they did not run away. ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔

_{Affiliations
^{▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔}
Urr'argh bows to no one. His only bond is one to his kurantt.}

Star Wars: Shattered Galaxy Roleplay

Forgive my eagerness but my muse cannot be stopped hehe. Here it is ->

Urr'argh Ak-Shaffi, the Wanderer

Personality ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ Hero. Outcast. Failure. Much scorn and praise can be contributed to this Ghorfa. The weight of burden rests heavily upon him. The bonds of servitude are latched upon his people. He must will himself to be strong against his growing desperation. To be the hope his united kurantt deserve. A wandering soul trying to find cause, gather strength, gain power to free his people. Savagery. Brutality. Cunning. All traits must be called upon to save the children of the Dune Mother. He appears churlish, overconfident and rude, many dismissing him as a mere upstart primitive. Beware those who underestimate him, for they will find krayt poison in their food and a bomb in their guarded safe spaces. Death comes for those who stand in the way of the kurantt. In the contrary, those who know him personally know him as honourable, in the Ghorfa sense. He does not lie, he does not hurt the young or frail. Fiercely determined to his cause, there is something to admire in this fierce primitive. Barbarism hides cunning, using the skewed views of the outsider to form a protecting image around him. They think him senseless, dumb, unable to grasp the greater scope of the galaxy. But he is a storyteller, the wisdom of his entire people is branded into his brain. Armed with the annals of history, a greater mind can be created from that of a primitive. One aware of shortcomings and strengths, patiently waiting for the time to strike. He is limited in this great galaxy and he is painfully aware of it. Notable Skills ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ Survivalist: Wasteful children the Dune Mother makes not. This one can utilise expert survival knowledge learned from years in the sands and stars to be self-sufficient from dreaded civilisation. Isolation makes people strong, lest they break under the pressure. Terrorist or Freedom Fighter?: Improvised explosive devices can be made out of wires, overcharged blaster packs and a simple trigger. A spiked fall trap can be hidden under carefully placed tarps and foliage. Ambushes can be set against supply lines or sleeping troops. People can be taken hostage for ransom, better supplies, better guns, to be turned against the oppressor. Torture is a tool wielded expertly to reveal movements of kidnappers and the kidnapped. Primitive gunsmith: The slugthrower is often dismissed by the wider galaxy as loud, inefficient and primitive. Can a regular blaster kill a man 1000 meters away? Can blaster packs contain poisons which drag a man's death out to hours and hours? Can it brutally take a chunk of alien flesh out of its torso, viscera splattering over its comrades? Many have dismissed his rifles and many have thus fallen to them. Primitive chemist: Taught by the shamans of the wastes, he wields a basic understanding of chemicals and poisons to inflict pain unto his enemies. Poisoned slugs, yellow-green gas lethal to sapients without rebreathers, flammable clear liquids which offer a strong drink to pass the time. Rudimentary, limited knowledge but wielded with deadly effectiveness. ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔	_______________________________________________ Urr'argh Ak-Shaffi 45 Ghorfa Average	Personal History ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ Storyteller. Wanderer. Chosen of Beyond Her Grasp. Chieftain of the Dune Sea. This one was once trained by a she-devil, an Ulia-ah deemed different from the others and thus separated, to be trained as a tale weaver. Hour after painstaking hour, he would recite the verbal history of his people. From the time they emerged from the gardens as Kumumgah to when they were struck down to Her Grasp in the sands, changed into the Ghorfa. Failure in his recitation would cause the pain of death upon him. He would take over his predecessor, the she-devil taskmaster taken to wander aimlessly in the Dune Sea, as he will do for his own successor. As is the way. The title of storyteller changes often, for the dunes are cruel as She is cruel. An elder storyteller can spell doom for a tribe, for an early death of a storyteller means a tribe falls to infighting, unworthy of the Ghorfa. He thus taught another young one swiftly after, following in his predecessor's footsteps and cast out into Dune Sea. As is the way. Star Wanderer he became, a Beyond, taken by an outsider as pet and subordinate. Taken beyond Her Grasp, further than the fighting twin brothers in the sky. He learned the ways, the tongues, the civilisation of the outsider. He saw naught but things to look down upon. They fought just as the Ghorfa, were just as greedy and just as cruel. They call him primitive but all he could see was folly, blinded by their arrogance in technology. He would escape when his master turned on his people, as any freethinking Ghorfa should as Her children do not kneel. He would return to Her children scattered from the heights he had seen them before, brought low by an enemy he had years to learn from. Hero they would call him, Chieftain of the Dune Sea. Failure, the outsiders would whisper later on. A primitive terrorist failing his primitive people. His people cast into the bonds of servitude, under the heel of civilisation. Justice has come for the lawless, as the outsiders would claim it. But still, the Ghorfa do not kneel in the starmetal hulls of their captors. Bound and bloodied, they plot and scheme, planning the excruciating deaths for those who brought them low. And he shall free them, stowed away in one of the starmetal ships. He will free his kurantt or die trying. Notable Possessions ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ Gaderffii: Traditional two-handed weapon of the Ghorfa, a favoured weapon of Her children. With one spiked end and a bludgeon on the other, it is a crude, simple tool. No adornments, only scratches and dents inflicted upon it by enemies laid low. His is customised, a barbed spike to rip the fleshy chunks out of poor sapients and frequently dipped in krayt venom. Custom Cycler slugthrowers: When resources were still aplenty for her children, he had fashioned two innovations for his people. One a shorter barreled, smoothbore Cycler with a lever-action loader and cartridge, a faster firing mechanism for shorter ranges. Another a longer barreled, scoped, traditional bolt action variant for sniping, effective for targets 800 meters away. As long as one can calculate trajectories with relevant gravitational acceleration, coreolis effect and wind speeds, this can extend to targets 1000 meters away. Poisons and chemicals: Brewed and wielded by the shamans, he has with him tools to make a sapient's death cruel and extended. Kill painfully so that your enemies flee. Inflict horrible chemicals gas and poisoned rounds so your enemies suffer. Or incapacitate them so they may suffer more personally. Stored within opaque glass vials upon his person, saner sapients would call him a madman. Witnessing the effects of these first hand, they would be madmen if they did not run away. ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔

_{Affiliations
^{▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔}
Urr'argh bows to no one. His only bond is one to his kurantt.}

Star Wars: Shattered Galaxy Roleplay

Nice ideas, I’m pretty keen. This seems pretty cool and a good way to exercise my writing. I had already worked on a Star Wars character before I swiftly left this aight some years ago. I got a little excerpt here showing a little insight to the character I’ll cook up for the RP. I think he’s fit in this post-apocalyptic type RP. Hopefully I’ll get a sheet out soon:)

Chieftain of the Dune Sea

Mother Dune did not make a loving mother and her children were vindictive and fiercely independent. Ghorfa do not kneel. They did not kneel to the Builders of old, resisting until the heavens split and Mother Dune wrapped all the gardens under her sand. They did not kneel to the outsiders, creators of civilisation which hunted their people like rats. They did not kneel to the Dune Sea, her waves swallowing whole villages. They did not even kneel to the Demon of the Sand with its glowing shrashkka, a vengeful ghost kept at bay by their sacrifices and totems in a now desolate village. It would take much for a single Ghorfa to kneel, much less its whole species.

But for when the sky split open and villages are razed. When water holes long revered by the sand dwellers be emptied. When their precious Uli-ah are taken away by monsters before they can even marry. That is when things change. When the tale begins anew, the creation of a chapter unforeseen by the Storytellers. Tribal chieftains, wizened shamans, raid-party leaders and the greatest story-tellers gathered in the empty cave of a hunted Krayt Dragon. Tensions were high, talons gripping rifles and gaderfii tightly. The Dune Mother let its whispers caress the fires of each group, carrying the tension around. Masseffi howled and barked at rivals, unbothered banthas tended to by jumpy riders. Only the shamans and the oldest storytellers sat calmly amongst the greatest gathering of this nomadic people.

In a rough circle around a small fire, light and shadow licking the tall walls of the cavern, sat the leaders of the Ghorfa. Urr’argh Ak-Shaffi sat among them, calmly shifting his rebreather to sit more comfortably on his face. The movement alerted most of the room, nervous glances and scowls passed each denizen of the circle. They had sat there for six hours now, ever since the Wanderer had stated his terms. If the situation was not so dire, they would have been killing each other for past insults and greed. The desperation was clear to all in attendance.

“We must unite.” Urr’argh stated again, as if recounting a proverb from the old tales.

More nervous glances broke out, small shifts and fidgets. To speak among strangers who could understand you is to show weakness. That is why many Ghorfa would neglect to speak the language of the outsiders, though they knew how to. The Ghorfa way was as isolationist as it was nomadic. Speaking their guttural tongue to people outside of your clan was taboo. Despite sharing the same cloth, the same blood, the same Mother, the peoples were still split by culture.

A shaman two persons across from him raised his chin. A challenge to his statement. Two chieftains followed promptly. An alliance perhaps? Who knew the Ghorfa could ally themselves even without his guiding hand. Urr’argh mused under their gazes.

“We have no choice. They are slaughtering us. Extinction follows. These are not ghosts of the Dune Sea. She is not responsible. These are not the Builders come again. Those devils are not responsible. These are outsiders. They pose a problem. You must kneel to me. I am the strongest.”

Hacking coughs of protest came from others of the circle. A raid leader stood, gaderfii held accusingly at Urr’argh. A visible show of defiance against his wisdom. Those broad shoulders shook in rage, the cloth coverings upon his head trembled. This was an insult of the highest order. A Ghorfa did not point at another Ghorfa with a sacred gaderfii unless they challenged something utterly wrong to them. In credit to the Wanderer, he merely pointed his chin forwardand flexed neck muscles, throat bobbing through the skin-tight cloth. A calming gesture, one of peace. Of surety. For one has to be sure of his own strength to expose his throat to the pointed end of a gaderfii.

Such calm assertiveness silenced the hacking coughs. The shaman lowered his chin and the two subordinates followed quickly after. The raid leader still stood, knees tensed and grip tightening. His raiders, cloths painted red from the blood of outsiders, were as tense as their leader, eyes shifting at the shadows looking for unseen enemies.

Urr’argh cracked his neck, bending it to an obscene angle for a human. The sound echoed in the cavern. A calm threat of violence, opposing the insubordination of the raid leader. The raid leader reluctantly sat back down, chin downwards in submission. An almost imperceptible nod came from the Wanderer, an act of acceptance. He looked back at the group.

“I was cast out of my clan, a storyteller surpassed by another, as is the way. I was ready to be eaten by the Dune Sea. To wander aimlessly with the Mother. I was instead taken from her grasp, from her nature by these outsiders.” The word was spat out, phlegm impacting against the inner world of the rebreather. The younger ones flinched. Inner Water was as sacred as the Outer Water. Such disregard must contain great hate.

Urr’argh continued with the green mucus dripping through a crack in his rebreather. “I am Wanderer for I have walked where no Ghorfa has walked before. Aside from our kurantt brothers and sisters, who have shed their old ways for that of the Ghorfa, none of our people have reached the stars. I was kept as pet, slave to the outsiders, trained in their inferior ways of raiding. I was taught their common tongue, told our tongue was primitive.”

The denizens of the circle sneered as he did, throwing sand into the air in protest. The Wanderer nodded in ascent. “They enslaved me to their ways. They do not have kurantt, they forced the terms of brotherhood upon me. But through this, I learned of the enemy. I learned their tales, their stories. I befriended them, as much a Ghorfa could pretend to befriend outsiders. I learned of the Great Beyond, of wars eternal, bloodshed greater than any Ghorfa has seen.”

“I wandered among the stars, beyond the struggling brothers and learned this all. I know more than any Ghorfa here has or ever will. I boast of killing green monsters, ten of whom could kill a krayt dragon with their fists! I boast of killing a shaman with glowing shrashkka, like the Demon of the Sands! I boast of conquering a metal beast, green fire spewing forth from its metal skin!” Urr’argh has stood, towering over the masses in passion. His shadow crept upwards into the upper darkness of the cavern, fingers drumming at his side with excitement.

“I boast, standing before you elders. Leaders of the Ghorfa. I come before you as the strongest. Against these raiders of the stars, only I am worthy as leader of our people. I know them, I have been with them, walked among them. I know how to defeat them.” Urr’argh bent down, grasping his customised cycler rifle and slammed its butt into the rocky ground. A challenge to authority. To not challenge it is to submit. He stood rigidly, weight shifted forward.

The first dissenter emerged from his left, lunging from the ground with a short, sharp shrashkka in hand. The Wanderer raised his strangely short cycler rifle one handed, cranking the lever mechanism while doing so. Grasping the rifle’s wooden barrel steadily, he fired point blank into the dissenter. A gaping hole appeared at their centre, the man crumpling to the ground.

Spurred on by the action, several other dissenters stood weapons in hand, silently running at the Wanderer. He swiftly placed a round through each Ghorfa, talons cranking the lever action with practised ease. As the last body fell, the sand shifted behind him.

Urr’argh twirled, the butt of his long rifle extended. He blocked the swing from an incoming gaderfii, ornate wood standing strong against scrap metal. He pushed, staggering his opponent backwards before punching a round through their head. Blood splattered on to the cavern wall.

Urr’argh turned, slamming the butt of his rifle on the ground. The sounds of the dying permeated in the silence afterwards, as if spread by the uncaring Mother. The others glances at each other, looking for other dissenters. The shamans rose and knelt, chins lowered in submission. Others followed swiftly after until all knelt before him. Before the crack of dawn, before the struggling brothers stood over the Mother, he was named Chieftain of the Dune Sea. And so the war began in truth.

---

The Tatooine Wars or the Freedom Wars as the Tusken held them, were a series of heated battles between several slaver parties and the tribes of Tusken Raiders on Tatooine. The locals of Bespin had long grown tired of the constant raids by the nomadic species of Tatooine. With the Massacre of the Farms of 186 ABY and the ever growing number of refugees to Tatooine, food supplies were running scarce. Violence and anarchy, already ever present on the desert world, threatened to spill over even the smallest bit of grain.

The eyes of the desperate turned towards the Tusken, a nomadic, primitive people which lived beyond the farms and the protective walls of civilisation. A group of savage specimen, wary of outsiders and fiercely protective of their young. They harassed and killed those they labelled outsiders, taking young children and inducting them into their barbaric lives. Few interacted with them without blaster fire and lived. Those who spoke of a proud, honourable people were dismissed as fools. They saw raiders, thieves, kidnappers and murderers. Unthinking monsters.

The years of shattering wars across the galaxy were favourable upon the children of the Dune Mother. They had raided with impunity, the lack of any real orderly response from the locals allowed them to spread and multiply. The Tusken peoples, or Ghorfa as they would call themselves, thrived in the chaos. No Empire, with Hutts too busy with fortifying their more profitable holdings, they had no authority to answer to. A lawless time awarding a lawless people. Populations thrived.

The locals grew envious. And so, several people of import among the Tatooine populace emerged with a solution. Slaver parties frequented the space around Tatooine, indiscriminate in their taking. As a backwater desert world, Tatooine was often regarded as a poor source of slaves and missed by these bands of slavers. Low population density and thus a lack of any real creds. But the locals, vying for primitive food and riches, green with envy, updated these slavers on the real local population.

More tribes had littered the Dune Sea than ever before, krayt dragon caves emptied out as permanent resting places for a nomadic people. More potential slaves, more potential creds. And thus, striking a deal with the devil, the locals pointed out the migration movements of the Tusken. When the twin suns were hot and high in the sky, they would sit in large tribal encampments hitching primitive tents to defend against the scorching suns.

This is when the slavers would strike, blasting the armed Tusken menfolk while swiftly capturing the women and children in their tents. Such exotic and strange aliens could sell nicely to the odd fetishists of high society. A shock collar can be an efficient tool of submission for even the most prideful. This would continue for months on end. Villages would be razed. Tusken warrior parties returning to the scorched remains of their brothers and the disappearance of their kurantt.

Scattered and separated, the Tusken could not do much. It was as if the Builders had come again, taking away their peoples once more, beyond the grasps of the Dune Mother. One Tusken would rise above the others however. Urr’argh Ak-Shaffi, the Star Wanderer, the Chieftain of the Dunes, the Beyond. In one night, he united the peoples as no other had before.

A storyteller, revered for his wisdom. A wanderer, cast out from the tribes. An outsider, one who has been beyond the grasp of the Dune Mother. An enigmatic, strange example of his primitive species. What a fascinating specimen. He would lead his people against a superior foe with expert knowledge of his foes. He knew how to fight the slaver for he had been the slaver, taken away years before as a pet of a slaving party. Returning to his people through unknown means, he would be revered as a fantastic warrior and great strategist.

Urr’argh wielded the raiding mind of the Tusken and the advanced knowledge of outsiders as his weapons. With zeal, he used poisons, natural chemicals, brutal melee weapons and slugthrowers to bite back against the invaders. Ambushes, feigned retreats, IEDs, artificial sinkholes, spike traps, bantha charges. All were utilised against the slaver enemy. But primitive tactics could not stand against the metal hulls of starships. Technology would win the day. Ambushes would be spotted by advanced scanners, IEDs triggered by unfeeling recon droids, bantha charges laid waste to by concentrated blaster fire.

Every victory was celebrated but every defeat was a crushing loss, a tribe defeated and scattered. Failure was imminent, the bonds of servitude closing itself upon the Tusken people, like their Kumugah predecessors before them. As though the uncaring Dune Mother had left them, Urr’argh would be captured once more during the fiercest battle of the Tatooine Wars.

The slaving of the Tusken people, the greatest war the primitive species had ever seen, would take a mere year. A blip in the annals of history. Another species forgotten among countless others. And Urr’argh, Chieftain of the Dune Sea, the Wanderer, would be cast out once more from the Dune Mother. Into the uncaring, shattered galaxy.

- Unknown Historian 191 ABY

Precipice of War - The Big Leagues of NRP (Only generous tippers need apply)

I come back and I found out the guild’s down and someone was crazy enough to rp Great Britain.

What a time to be back. I’m recovering from my bite but will work on posts when I get over my horrible jet lag

Is broccoli just a small tree?

Eggs are just 🅱oneless chicken

Give the avatar above you a Porn Name!

Tuckrasaurus Sex
(T-Sex)

Word association Game!

Fairy

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Just random books

"Stephan spoke no Inuit, and the Inuit spoke no Russian."

- Raise the Red Dawn, by comrade Bart Davis

Men vs. Women Race to 1000

445