Interested. I don't know much about the traditional Marvel/DC heroes I'm afraid, so I might not know who a hero's personal nemesis is, but if we're creating new characters then I should be able to contribute something (I hope).
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Okay, let's see; I started roleplaying by post way back when that meant writing a turn down by hand, sticking it in an envelope and sending it to a GM through the plain mail, not email. Games I remember with fondness are Saturnalia, Amaranth, Absolute Heroes....
I'm a wannabe writer and love inventing and developing characters and worldbuilding. Fantasy, horror (supernatural) and superhero are probably my favourite genres. I'm not adverse to a bit of cyberpunk or space opera, but hard sci-fi with lots of technobabble leaves me cold.
I can be found lurking on the Nano site or YouTube when I'm not spending time exclusively in the real world and have the same username everywhere, so if you see a Shaitarn on another site feel free to wave.
I'm a wannabe writer and love inventing and developing characters and worldbuilding. Fantasy, horror (supernatural) and superhero are probably my favourite genres. I'm not adverse to a bit of cyberpunk or space opera, but hard sci-fi with lots of technobabble leaves me cold.
I can be found lurking on the Nano site or YouTube when I'm not spending time exclusively in the real world and have the same username everywhere, so if you see a Shaitarn on another site feel free to wave.
Most Recent Posts
Interested, but won't have 24 hour internet access until Friday. Would it be possible to play either a half-demon or a half-vampire?
Name: Maeon of Thebes
Age: 23
Gender: Male
Origin: Greek
Religion: Maeon respects all the gods, but favours Apollo and Hermes with the Muses coming second to them.
Appearance: Of average height, Maeon has the slim, lean-muscled build of an athlete. He has reddish-brown hair, worn almost to the nape of his neck and with a tendency to curl; in summer it bleaches to a more sandy shade and his eyes are a shade mid-way between grey and green (there are persistent rumours of barbarian blood in the family ancestry, leading to their fairer colouring). He has strong features that are pleasantly regular without being handsome, although his engaging smile gives him a certain attractiveness, as more than one woman has noted before now. He has a very pleasant voice. He wears a simple knee-length belted chiton and sandals.
Personality: Maeon is cheerful, good-natured and friendly. He has a mischievous sense of humour and apparently refuses to take life seriously – his music and his religion are the only things he treats with any gravity. He’s a natural wanderer, unable to stay in one place for too long – his gaze will inevitably drift to the horizon and he will start to wonder what lies beyond. He has a boundless curiosity for other people and their culture; he will happily befriend any ‘barbarians’ he may come across – he is particularly fascinated by their music. He is loyal to his friends, and though not a warrior he possesses a stubborn courage.
History: Maeon was born in Thebes. His family were members of the middle class, owning a decent sized farm just outside the city and making a good living selling their produce to the ever hungry city. Maeon was never interested in the farm, and with an elder brother and sister, stood little chance of making his living at it in any case. His father was able to afford a slave to teach his sons, Leonidas, and this tutor discovered the boy’s gift for music. After some pleading, Maeon’s father agreed that he could leave the family home to train at one of the musical schools in Athens. It was a long journey for a young boy and an elderly slave, but they made it and the seeds of Maeon’s love of travelling were sown.
Maeon blossomed at the school – he threw himself into the music and athletic training with enthusiasm and grew into an accomplished musician. He left the school at sixteen, but was unable to return home straight away as Leonidas caught a fever and was unable to travel. Maeon nursed his faithful companion, although it was doomed to do no good, and Leonidas died in his young pupil’s arms. Maeon insisted on spending what money he had saved on the funeral rites, and no one dared complain they were too elaborate for a slave who’d only been freed a few days before his death. He left Athens and started his wanderings.
Maeon worked as an itinerate musician and sometimes practised his dexterity with small pilferings, though that was mostly for fun, only from those who could afford it and he’d never keep the money, usually giving it to charity (he’s seen many hungry children in the streets of the cities), although he always donates some to Hermes. He is currently wandering after spending a while with a wealthy young widow; she was a generous patron, but Maeon sensed her determination to ensnare him in the bonds of matrimony and left with some haste.
Skills: Maeon is a skilled singer and lyre player.
He’s a fast runner – travelling for most of his life has kept him fit and limber.
Sleight of hand: he has very dextrous hands, able to make a coin dance back and forth over his knuckles and perform many minor tricks, as well as ‘pickpocketing’, being capable of swiping a carelessly tied money pouch or an item from a market stall without being noticed.
His memorising of songs and poems and messages has given him decent powers of recall – he doesn’t have a photographic or near perfect memory, but still good.
Equipment: His lyre, which he usually carries worn across his back, a sling with a pouch of ammo (both worn at his belt). He has some basic ‘survival gear’ – a waterskin, a couple of flints for creating fire and a knife (a general purpose tool rather than a weapon). The only other thing he carries is his money – a few coins in a pouch concealed under his clothing. He may occasionally cut himself a staff while travelling, either to lean on or use as a weapon.
Miscellaneous: nothing I can think of right now.
Age: 23
Gender: Male
Origin: Greek
Religion: Maeon respects all the gods, but favours Apollo and Hermes with the Muses coming second to them.
Appearance: Of average height, Maeon has the slim, lean-muscled build of an athlete. He has reddish-brown hair, worn almost to the nape of his neck and with a tendency to curl; in summer it bleaches to a more sandy shade and his eyes are a shade mid-way between grey and green (there are persistent rumours of barbarian blood in the family ancestry, leading to their fairer colouring). He has strong features that are pleasantly regular without being handsome, although his engaging smile gives him a certain attractiveness, as more than one woman has noted before now. He has a very pleasant voice. He wears a simple knee-length belted chiton and sandals.
Personality: Maeon is cheerful, good-natured and friendly. He has a mischievous sense of humour and apparently refuses to take life seriously – his music and his religion are the only things he treats with any gravity. He’s a natural wanderer, unable to stay in one place for too long – his gaze will inevitably drift to the horizon and he will start to wonder what lies beyond. He has a boundless curiosity for other people and their culture; he will happily befriend any ‘barbarians’ he may come across – he is particularly fascinated by their music. He is loyal to his friends, and though not a warrior he possesses a stubborn courage.
History: Maeon was born in Thebes. His family were members of the middle class, owning a decent sized farm just outside the city and making a good living selling their produce to the ever hungry city. Maeon was never interested in the farm, and with an elder brother and sister, stood little chance of making his living at it in any case. His father was able to afford a slave to teach his sons, Leonidas, and this tutor discovered the boy’s gift for music. After some pleading, Maeon’s father agreed that he could leave the family home to train at one of the musical schools in Athens. It was a long journey for a young boy and an elderly slave, but they made it and the seeds of Maeon’s love of travelling were sown.
Maeon blossomed at the school – he threw himself into the music and athletic training with enthusiasm and grew into an accomplished musician. He left the school at sixteen, but was unable to return home straight away as Leonidas caught a fever and was unable to travel. Maeon nursed his faithful companion, although it was doomed to do no good, and Leonidas died in his young pupil’s arms. Maeon insisted on spending what money he had saved on the funeral rites, and no one dared complain they were too elaborate for a slave who’d only been freed a few days before his death. He left Athens and started his wanderings.
Maeon worked as an itinerate musician and sometimes practised his dexterity with small pilferings, though that was mostly for fun, only from those who could afford it and he’d never keep the money, usually giving it to charity (he’s seen many hungry children in the streets of the cities), although he always donates some to Hermes. He is currently wandering after spending a while with a wealthy young widow; she was a generous patron, but Maeon sensed her determination to ensnare him in the bonds of matrimony and left with some haste.
Skills: Maeon is a skilled singer and lyre player.
He’s a fast runner – travelling for most of his life has kept him fit and limber.
Sleight of hand: he has very dextrous hands, able to make a coin dance back and forth over his knuckles and perform many minor tricks, as well as ‘pickpocketing’, being capable of swiping a carelessly tied money pouch or an item from a market stall without being noticed.
His memorising of songs and poems and messages has given him decent powers of recall – he doesn’t have a photographic or near perfect memory, but still good.
Equipment: His lyre, which he usually carries worn across his back, a sling with a pouch of ammo (both worn at his belt). He has some basic ‘survival gear’ – a waterskin, a couple of flints for creating fire and a knife (a general purpose tool rather than a weapon). The only other thing he carries is his money – a few coins in a pouch concealed under his clothing. He may occasionally cut himself a staff while travelling, either to lean on or use as a weapon.
Miscellaneous: nothing I can think of right now.
I'd like to create a wandering minstrel in the Orpheus mode with perhaps a little more of a trickster side to him (he probably venerates Apollo and Hermes above all others). Does that sound okay?
Suggested character; is he okay?
Name: John Stephenson
Age, birthplace & Nationality: 35, born in Whitstable, Kent; English (with some Scottish ancestry on his mother’s side).
Gender: Male
Appearance:
He stands a wiry 6'2" and generally looks more friendly than he does here.
Occupation: Surgeon
Biography: Growing up in an affluent family, as the only son (one sister, Elizabeth, three years his junior) John was pushed to excel in his studies by his parents, particularly his ambitious mother, and went into medicine, training at the Royal College of Surgeons in London. Not the most academically gifted, perhaps, he was stubborn and preserved where those more gifted lost interest and finally graduated as a surgeon in 1878; he currently works as a surgeon at St Bartholomew's Hospital (usually called St Barts). He is well-thought of by his colleagues and mixes with the higher echelons of society, though more with the intellectuals and nouveaux riches rather than any of the old money nobility.
He has been helping out part-time at one of the poor hospitals in the East End for the last eighteen months, mostly stitching up injuries from fights – an all too common sight, sadly. He keeps this a secret because he prefers to present a fairly cynical, faintly amused exterior to the world, and partly because if he mentioned to his friends that he was visiting the area they’d assume he was going for the squalid pleasures of alcohol and prostitutes (which a gentleman shouldn't mention in any case).
He’s attracted to one of the nurses at the poor hospital, but is hesitant to try courting her properly as he’s uncomfortably aware of the social gulf between them. He’s trying to pluck up the courage to go for it, and be damned to what society may think.
Misc. information relevant to plot: He’s known by sight by many of the locals who have been patched up by him at some time or other, and is usually greeted with a nod, or referred to as ‘Doc’ (in spite of the fact that as a surgeon his title is in fact Mister).
Name: John Stephenson
Age, birthplace & Nationality: 35, born in Whitstable, Kent; English (with some Scottish ancestry on his mother’s side).
Gender: Male
Appearance:
.jpg)
He stands a wiry 6'2" and generally looks more friendly than he does here.
Occupation: Surgeon
Biography: Growing up in an affluent family, as the only son (one sister, Elizabeth, three years his junior) John was pushed to excel in his studies by his parents, particularly his ambitious mother, and went into medicine, training at the Royal College of Surgeons in London. Not the most academically gifted, perhaps, he was stubborn and preserved where those more gifted lost interest and finally graduated as a surgeon in 1878; he currently works as a surgeon at St Bartholomew's Hospital (usually called St Barts). He is well-thought of by his colleagues and mixes with the higher echelons of society, though more with the intellectuals and nouveaux riches rather than any of the old money nobility.
He has been helping out part-time at one of the poor hospitals in the East End for the last eighteen months, mostly stitching up injuries from fights – an all too common sight, sadly. He keeps this a secret because he prefers to present a fairly cynical, faintly amused exterior to the world, and partly because if he mentioned to his friends that he was visiting the area they’d assume he was going for the squalid pleasures of alcohol and prostitutes (which a gentleman shouldn't mention in any case).
He’s attracted to one of the nurses at the poor hospital, but is hesitant to try courting her properly as he’s uncomfortably aware of the social gulf between them. He’s trying to pluck up the courage to go for it, and be damned to what society may think.
Misc. information relevant to plot: He’s known by sight by many of the locals who have been patched up by him at some time or other, and is usually greeted with a nod, or referred to as ‘Doc’ (in spite of the fact that as a surgeon his title is in fact Mister).
I'm interested; I'll have a rifle through the many character types crowding my brain and pick one.
@shaitarn if joined posts are a-OK'd then when Isaac returns hopefully it'd be a good time to do some of that workshop stuff, so if you'd be interested in a joined post that'd be great.
Sure, Nick likes to keep busy!
In
"From Hell. Signed 'Jack the Ripper'". Jack the Ripper-styled/themed roleplay, ideas are welcome.
→
9 yrs ago
Forum: Casual Interest Checks
Damn, I have no time for another RP, but then you spring this on us! I'm a sucker for Saucy Jack! Oh, sign me up *sigh*.
Just a suggestion, but if we're waiting for everyone to post, maybe we should bring in a rule about how long we wait before moving the story on? Like 'if you don't post within 4 or 5 days, your characters become NPCs moved by the GM until you get back'. I'm not suggesting killing any characters off, but I've seen games die before because one or two people dropped out and stalled the whole thing.
Annalise checked her equipment before heading to the gates: a SIG-Sauer P220 handgun, fully loaded, with a couple of spare clips of ammo, two cigarette lighters, both sparking a flame the instant they were clicked, and the all-purpose combat knife with the broad, 11 inch blade. Probably she wouldn’t need them, but better to have something you don’t need then need it and not have it, her old commanding sergeant had always said. With that in mind she picked up the chain whip she’d recently started practising with and looped it through her belt: no harm in taking it with her.
She scowled as Cassandra’s words echoed in her mind: people. Heavily armed, in procession of vehicles, hostile and tricky. Her time on the force, short as it has been, had taught her that there were always some people who would turn on others and take what they had, but still… “Fuckin’ traitors,” she muttered as she jogged to the gate.
At the gate, she returned Comet’s smile with a faint smile of her own; she liked the deceptively slight young woman. She nodded without speaking at her words, taking her place in Big Blue. She glanced around at the others in the van: DaVinci, Hax (what was he doing coming out on a run?) and Reaper, scrambling in just ahead of her.
She grinned as she overheard Hax’s comment about a sword, and Reaper’s response. She knew he creeped some people out, with his powers coming from death and all, but she quite liked him – he was a medic, former army guy (you could always tell) and clung to his ethical code like he was a fricking samurai or something.
She was unable to supress a small laugh as Hax mentioned his ‘electronic garbage’. “Yeah, right; and while you’re supervising the lifting of the panels, me and Reaper’ll be keeping the bad guys off ya with our inelegant guns.” She said. “Jus’ in case they don’t feel like duelling today.” Her tone was light, teasing rather than mocking.
----
Nick gave the last of the new knives a wipe with a heavy cloth, polishing the blade to a respectable shine, and turned his attention to the small scrap of metal on the table in front of him, brushing it with a light fingertip touch. it was the work of an instant to change the scrap into a figure, the lean legs and narrow but powerful body, long, curving neck and head lowered not in submission but in challenge. The spiral horn completed the figure. He studied it for a moment, absently reducing the sharpness of the horn so it was less likely to cause injury, and added a bit more of a flowing windswept look to the mane and tail.
He made sure it could stand before giving a nod of satisfaction and buffing it to a shine with the heavy cloth he'd used on the knife. Little Alice loved unicorns, and when she'd told him yesterday she was going to be eight today, nearly all grown up - well, he thought she'd be grateful for the present. God knows, it's not like she'll be getting much else, he thought.
"All Council Associates to the Assembly Room. Operations conference to begin in ten minutes." He stood up, pulling on his jacket and dropping the small figure into the pocket. He'd give Alice her present after the meeting.
***
As one of the supers generally thought of as more useful in the Citadel than out of it, he remained in the meeting room after the others had been given their orders. A troubled expression, not exactly a frown but not far off, settled on his face as Cassandra and Pariah spoke of the problems with the normal population, the district leaders stirring things up. It wasn’t anything he hadn’t heard before: the occasional civilian telling him that ‘Fletcher said-,' or ‘I don’t want to get anyone in trouble, but Cunningham was talking to the others yesterday, and-,’ All murmurs, nothing more, nothing definite, but combine that with the uneasy feeling he sometimes got of eyes on his back when he was chatting to the people, and he could see all too clearly what they were talking about.
But what to do? That was the $64,000 question, wasn’t it? How to take action without it playing in the hands of the trouble-makers; any attempt to clamp down on them would act as a spur to their complaints: we’re living in a meta human dictatorship! We need to stand up for our rights, not be ordered around by a bunch of freaks! He didn’t think many people would follow them, but even one or two was enough, and if blood was spilled… well, whatever happened, it wouldn’t be pretty.
Bringing forward the elections wasn’t an option either – if one of the district leaders got in, it would be a disaster – they’d try and change the order of things, run the Citadel as they saw fit, and that’d probably mean the mythics would be dumped outside, with the metas being sent to join them if they objected (never mind that without them the Citadel wouldn’t last – most leaders suffered from chronic short-sightedness). If a moderate leader was elected and kept things running as they were they’d be accused of being a puppet of the metas.
“I know it sounds damn stupid to suggest a charm offensive, but it might work,” he offered quietly. He leaned back in his seat, folding his arms behind his head. “Get some of the more presentable metas out and mixing with the people more – we’re still seen as ‘other’ – if we seem more familiar, they’ll be a bit more comfortable around us. Some of ‘Dozer’s team, maybe, to show them it’s possible to work with metas.” He gave a sort of shrug, elbows tilting up towards the ceiling. “I’ve heard a few people complaining about leaders causing trouble – I can have a quiet word with the people I trust, ask them to keep an ear to the ground.” He straightened up. “The last thing we can do is confront this directly.”
She scowled as Cassandra’s words echoed in her mind: people. Heavily armed, in procession of vehicles, hostile and tricky. Her time on the force, short as it has been, had taught her that there were always some people who would turn on others and take what they had, but still… “Fuckin’ traitors,” she muttered as she jogged to the gate.
At the gate, she returned Comet’s smile with a faint smile of her own; she liked the deceptively slight young woman. She nodded without speaking at her words, taking her place in Big Blue. She glanced around at the others in the van: DaVinci, Hax (what was he doing coming out on a run?) and Reaper, scrambling in just ahead of her.
She grinned as she overheard Hax’s comment about a sword, and Reaper’s response. She knew he creeped some people out, with his powers coming from death and all, but she quite liked him – he was a medic, former army guy (you could always tell) and clung to his ethical code like he was a fricking samurai or something.
She was unable to supress a small laugh as Hax mentioned his ‘electronic garbage’. “Yeah, right; and while you’re supervising the lifting of the panels, me and Reaper’ll be keeping the bad guys off ya with our inelegant guns.” She said. “Jus’ in case they don’t feel like duelling today.” Her tone was light, teasing rather than mocking.
----
Nick gave the last of the new knives a wipe with a heavy cloth, polishing the blade to a respectable shine, and turned his attention to the small scrap of metal on the table in front of him, brushing it with a light fingertip touch. it was the work of an instant to change the scrap into a figure, the lean legs and narrow but powerful body, long, curving neck and head lowered not in submission but in challenge. The spiral horn completed the figure. He studied it for a moment, absently reducing the sharpness of the horn so it was less likely to cause injury, and added a bit more of a flowing windswept look to the mane and tail.
He made sure it could stand before giving a nod of satisfaction and buffing it to a shine with the heavy cloth he'd used on the knife. Little Alice loved unicorns, and when she'd told him yesterday she was going to be eight today, nearly all grown up - well, he thought she'd be grateful for the present. God knows, it's not like she'll be getting much else, he thought.
"All Council Associates to the Assembly Room. Operations conference to begin in ten minutes." He stood up, pulling on his jacket and dropping the small figure into the pocket. He'd give Alice her present after the meeting.
***
As one of the supers generally thought of as more useful in the Citadel than out of it, he remained in the meeting room after the others had been given their orders. A troubled expression, not exactly a frown but not far off, settled on his face as Cassandra and Pariah spoke of the problems with the normal population, the district leaders stirring things up. It wasn’t anything he hadn’t heard before: the occasional civilian telling him that ‘Fletcher said-,' or ‘I don’t want to get anyone in trouble, but Cunningham was talking to the others yesterday, and-,’ All murmurs, nothing more, nothing definite, but combine that with the uneasy feeling he sometimes got of eyes on his back when he was chatting to the people, and he could see all too clearly what they were talking about.
But what to do? That was the $64,000 question, wasn’t it? How to take action without it playing in the hands of the trouble-makers; any attempt to clamp down on them would act as a spur to their complaints: we’re living in a meta human dictatorship! We need to stand up for our rights, not be ordered around by a bunch of freaks! He didn’t think many people would follow them, but even one or two was enough, and if blood was spilled… well, whatever happened, it wouldn’t be pretty.
Bringing forward the elections wasn’t an option either – if one of the district leaders got in, it would be a disaster – they’d try and change the order of things, run the Citadel as they saw fit, and that’d probably mean the mythics would be dumped outside, with the metas being sent to join them if they objected (never mind that without them the Citadel wouldn’t last – most leaders suffered from chronic short-sightedness). If a moderate leader was elected and kept things running as they were they’d be accused of being a puppet of the metas.
“I know it sounds damn stupid to suggest a charm offensive, but it might work,” he offered quietly. He leaned back in his seat, folding his arms behind his head. “Get some of the more presentable metas out and mixing with the people more – we’re still seen as ‘other’ – if we seem more familiar, they’ll be a bit more comfortable around us. Some of ‘Dozer’s team, maybe, to show them it’s possible to work with metas.” He gave a sort of shrug, elbows tilting up towards the ceiling. “I’ve heard a few people complaining about leaders causing trouble – I can have a quiet word with the people I trust, ask them to keep an ear to the ground.” He straightened up. “The last thing we can do is confront this directly.”
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