• Last Seen: 8 yrs ago
  • Joined: 11 yrs ago
  • Posts: 159 (0.04 / day)
  • VMs: 0
  • Username history
    1. SlowPlow 11 yrs ago

Status

User has no status, yet

Bio

User has no bio, yet

Most Recent Posts

The Ater race and their nation. Will update details in the future.



"Let me get this right," the shopkeeper said in a way which made it clear the words would be followed by something ludicrious. "The crate you were supposed to deliver to me, the crate filled with valuable merchandise from West Blue, the crate I have already paid a considerable sum for, was stolen from you while you were transporting it from the harbor by a gang of circus performers?" His employee nodded awkwardly. His employee, named Boy Barnes, had felt his own recounting of the events to have been more colorful. Unfortunately, the shop-keeper had no sense of drama, and found his story difficult to believe.

A few minutes later, Boy found himself in the street one job poorer, totaling his number of jobs to zero. The crate had been stolen, and it hadn't been his fault. Everyone were thieving now-adays. Even circus performers. Yet Boy strolled around in the street carelessly. Losing a job felt strangely fantastic. It was a relief of sorts, to be freed from the restraints of work. He never could remember what had made him take the job to begin with. That was, until he became hungry, which by the growling sound erupting from his stomach was just about now. No job, no money, no food. Living in a dump of a city didn't help, either.

Maybe he should start thieving too, he mused. Seeing as everybody else did it, one more scoundrel in the mix couldn't hurt. The honest citizens were the suckers, really. They just stood around, waiting for pirates and the like to steal their stuff. What good was working if it was all ultimately in vain? Boy had never stolen anything, but then and there it felt like the right thing to do. He looked around for the closest possible thing he could steal. Preferably food, his stomach added.

He leaped at the closest food stand and grabbed a foot-long piece of bread. The merchant shouted something Boy couldn't hear, but Boy was already running down the street with the bread in hand. On his heels, though, was the merchant's guard. All merchants had to have guards in this town. Much taller and with longer legs than him, the guard soon caught up to Boy, pulling him up by the scruff of his neck. Panicking, Boy yelled out. "Help! He's trying to take what I've rightfully stolen! I'm just an innoccent pirate!" He didn't know why he added that last bit, but it had felt right.
Here are both an application for a race and their nation. Will update details in the future.



"Choose wisely", Mongke told his son. Bayar looked up and down the short row of women. They were all around his age, but some were visibly more woman than the others. But he had to choose as his father said; wisely. This was the girl he would be married to, and spend his life with. Bayar was nervous, but he didn't let an inch of it show. His father had taught him properly to never show emotion in public. How one carried himself could often mean the difference between surviving and not surviving, in the tribes. The man was hard, he had to be hard, or else he could not be counted upon as a worthy ally. The steppe did not respect the soft. The steppe killed the soft, and so did the tribes, who were as much a part of the land as the grass itself.

Looking up and down the line, Bayar focused on appearing strong and wise. Whoever he chose, he would look like a man when he did it. His father had lectured him in what to look for in a girl, but he had also said that appearances could be deceiving. However well built a girl looked it was ultimately the inner strength that mattered, and only the eyes could speak truth. And so Bayar, with a large audience from both tribes present, decided he would look deeply into each and every one of their eyes.

The girls looked more nervous than him, but they didn't flinch at his attentions. The first in line was taller than he was, and looked more like a woman than a girl. Her broad hips and voluptuous chest beckoned his interest, but he looked into her eyes. And there, he saw truth. They were empty. Her blank eyes revealed no fire, no passion or strength. Bayar stepped away from her and looked back at his father, who nodded in agreement. This would not be the one. The next was about his age, but looked weak. There had been tears at her cheeks. He stepped further without a second thought.

This one, however, caught his interest. She was about his age, maybe a bit younger. She was pretty, but not in the way the first one had been. He looked into her eyes, seeing that she was nervous, but it wasn't of lack of strength, but there was an openess about her; an air of honesty. He felt he knew her already. "What is your name? I am Bayar", he said to her.
Here it is.
bumpity
Tentatively interested.
In the name of Allah, I bump this thread.
I bump thee
Tom was lying in his soft, safe bed in Portsmouth, England. A feeling of complete tranquility and relaxation was in him. It wasn't the most comfortable bed, only a cot really, but today it felt deserving of a king. It was strange, being back in Portsmouth after all this time. He hadn't been there for several years. He'd been too busy making a living for himself. And they were hard times, too, in his line of work. One couldn't just shuffle on home any time one wanted to, no sir. He never did take any useless vavations. He wondered what had gotten him to do so now. The reason eluded him. In fact, he couldn't recall having traveled home at all. It certainly wasn't like him. Something was off. A restlessness came over him, and his bed suddenly felt weird to lie in. The textures weren't at all right. It was grainy, like corn, or uncooked rice. He couldn't recall his bed being this hot, either. Portsmouth wasn't what one would call a warm town any day of the year, yet the way he sweated it felt like he was inside someone's forge. Some bird squacked, snapping his train of thought in half. He opened his eyes, and couldn't understand a thing. Had his old 'ma taken it upon herself to paint the ceiling blue? No. With her bad leg, that wouldn't do. Something was definitely off. Tom jerked up-right, and a sea of realization washed over him. Well, it wasn't as much realization as it was sea; the sensation knocked the breath out of him as he felt salt water engulf him. Reflexively gagging and spluttering once it receded, he stumbled onto two legs. He shook his head and water flew every which way from his tangly, black hair. Having collected himself somewhat, he looked around. This was definitely not Portsmouth. Portsmouth consisted of a mish-mash of houses crummed together near a harbour, with more drunkards than traders or seamen. It didn't, as far as he recalled, contain sunny beaches.

Before him, the deep ocean blue stretched endlessly, the waves rolling lazily up and down the shoreline. Cluttering this view was an assortment of junk he could only call ship debris. Logs, planks, barrels, crates; anything that could float and could be found in or onboard a naval vessel had apparently made its way to that beach. Where he had lain just a moment ago, the water was already washing away the marks in the sand. No, it wasn't Portsmouth. But where was it? How had he gotten there? Visions flashed before him, of a ship. He'd been on a ship. The ship. His ship. Well, it wasn't his ship, but after numerous voyages he had begun feeling possessive of it, like any real sailor would. Another picture came to him; of him lying on a bed of planks in the middle of the ocean. Then it hit him like a wave. His whole body hurt. His head ached, his stomach growled, his joints creaked and his muscles yawned. He'd probably been out for a long time. He should probably be dead.

As Tom was counting himself lucky, something pushed him roughly. Of considerable force, it made him fall heads over heels down to the sandy floor. His face hit the ground with a thud, and Tom remarked sand to be considerably more solid than he'd have thought. Without thinking he span around to see his aggressor. Six feet tall if he was a man, with the sun at his back, a muscular, dark body loomed over him. Covering his eyes against the glaring sun, Tom quickly recognized the man before him. At the same time, he felt his doom approaching. "No", he tried to yell, but his voice failed him. "nou jy sterf", Adebese yelled in turn, and through himself at Tom. Instantly reacting, Tom met the charge, and they ended in a wrestling tumble in the sand. Adebese was stronger than Tom by a life-altering amount the way this situation was headed. He fumbled and scrambled for purchase, but Adebese simply overpowered him. Ending up flat-out and out of breath, hands encircled Tom's neck, and squeezed. He flung his arms and legs, hitting, scratching and clawing, but nothing would lift the weight of his neck. A familiar piercing sound echoed through his head, followed by an agonizing scream. A warm liquid flowed onto his face and chest. Then suddenly the weight was gone. Tom cracked open his eyes, to see Adebese stagger to his feet, wildly flailing his arms, before finally collapsing with a shuddering thump. Around them, the sand had been painted red. He gulped for breath, and scanned the vicinity for whoever had intervened. Some way over, he caught sight of two silhouttes. He couldn't make them out through the brightness. Whoever they were, he owed them his life.
© 2007-2024
BBCode Cheatsheet