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4 yrs ago
Wishing a relaxing weekend for everyone. Take some time to be kind to yourself, to unwind, and to have some rest. <3
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6 yrs ago
I ate a brownie once at a party in college. It was intense. I felt like I was floating. Turns out there wasn't any pot in the brownie. It was just an insanely good brownie.
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6 yrs ago
There was an explosion at a cheese factory in France. De-Brie everywhere.
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Bio
that elder scrolls / mass effect roleplayer
I put a spell on you
I put a spell on you
“I am nothing in my soul if not obsessive.”
Most Recent Posts
Me, at the sheer thought of more responsibility.
Also me, at seeing a dedicated thread;
Thanks all <3
I am here for my fellow Guild Friends <3
Let's show what the power of community can really do.
Let's show what the power of community can really do.
Individual Notes in sheet*
@rebornfan320 *warm hugs*
First of all, I like your sheet -- and the effort you’ve made is clear. That said, overall the sheet feels very undercooked, and quite surface level -- and by that, I mean it still, to me, feels more like the first draft while you work through a concept for a character. That’s not a bad thing at all, by the way. You’re halfway there, to repeat a phrase I’ve been using an awful lot -- you just need to add the seasoning and bring everything together :)
When I’m trying to develop a character a bit, I think about the roleplay I’m applying for. I try to think up scenarios that are likely to happen, and then think of what my character would do. I think about what would frighten them, what kind of person they are likely to get along with, and who they may not.
I’d also suggest that you be conscious of the layout of your sheet; a good way to think of your sheet is that it's like the resume for your character. List the basic info - Name/Age/Race/Job first of all, then a paragraph on appearance with a picture too if you have one, a section for personality, and a section for background/history. These are the core sections of your sheet so don’t bury them under other information.
I would challenge you to keep at this sheet -- look at some of the questions I’ve jotted down in the notes, and see if you can answer them. Sometimes leaving a sheet or piece of writing to sit for a few days is super helpful - it allows us to look back with fresh eyes and that’s often how I take something that I thought was good, and make it into something that is much better. That has really been the best way I’ve developed my own writer’s voice, tone, and style.
Think about my feedback, and take another chip at it because I’d love to see the Cinder sheet again when you’ve had another go! Awesome stuff Reborn <3
*Free Hug*
Individual notes in the sheet**
First of all, thank you for posting your sheet. I’m sorry it’s taken me a while to get to it.
I really like what you’ve already got down for this character. There are some real great touches throughout this that I liked, including your choice of aesthetic, and your physical character description.
I do think you can take this sheet further, though. Particularly in the history/background section -- there are parts in there that to me, feel irrelevant and should be replaced with more history of Katie. I find myself wanting to know more about her lessons with her Grandma because I think that’s such a beautifully feminine subject matter - (think Moana and her Grandmother). I’m curious as to her relationship with her mother - were there any moments of tension that left an impact on Katie? In my opinion, these points and examples are worth more on a sheet than a run through of the parent’s relationship with each other.
Her twin is also mentioned only briefly -- you say that she was very different to him, did her lessons with her Grandmother put any kind of strain on her relationship with her brother? If you’re going to use twins, really drive it home that they have a ‘connection’; highlight the differences, give us an example of their differences too -- but also the similarities.
Twins are a huuuuuuuge minefield of writing material -- don’t gloss over that, really dig deep into what that means and you’ll make your character stronger for it.
Another question I have is whether the relationships she has with her family members influences in any way her treatment of Amelia?
This is a great job though, I’d love to see this sheet again if you had another crack at it :)
I really like your introduction, it definitely teases something -- but I think it could go a little further. Really paint the picture. I’ve taken a lot of flights, something that I associate with flying is the safety video, strangely enough. I’ve taken that many that I don’t watch it anymore. Could you maybe write something about the person here doing the same?
You skip over the safety presentation, remembering to stow your luggage in the overhead storage, pushing your seatbelt closed until it clicks, tugging on the band.
In fact, you could make the whole intro like a safety run through - just incredibly mundane and boring until you hit them with the whammy of what’s happening! Just a thought! What you have is nice, already -- but I think you can stretch it further and really play with your source material.
You could end it with a “The Safety Video didn’t tell us what happens next.” or something, because clearly the crash is the starting point for this -- the rest is a sandbox of opportunity. Imagine being in that scenario. The plane going down, the way that the change in altitude fucks with the pressure in your ears. For some reason, I can really clearly hear ice cubes rattling - I can see an air hostesses trolley flying down the aisle.
There’s just a few little things that would give it that touch of polish and not only be interesting and enticing, but being actually anxiety inducing to read as well.
I don’t particularly know how to go about critiquing someone else's rules or sheet, since mine are so basic hehe! But this is a great start -- I wonder if you may have sat on this OOC for a while and maybe when you take a look back at it, you have fresh eyes and new ideas that have formed with giving it distance.
Also apologies for the very long wait. I've been kept far away from my computer.
This is such a great concept though, Haley, I'd love to keep an eye on this RP because Desert Island Stranded stories are so great!
21st Last Seed,
A house, somewhere in Wayrest.
A house, somewhere in Wayrest.
A set of pliers sat askew amidst a pile of silver wire, coiled like a snake but bent and twisted unnaturally. A small vortex that was the circular frame for a diagram on parchment; tea stained, and tickled with cigar ash - smudged just so as to hide the design. The thick tracing that had been made with pencil was etched so confidently on the surface that it had also created an indentation, a river of charcoal creating the image of mastercrafted jewellery.
Holding down the corners of the parchment were crystal tumblers, slabs of solid paint, and a cigar box. Trembling fingers reached out to feel the current, stroking each precise line as a jaw quivered, droplets of a rich liquer clung to the dry lower lip of a mouth held ajar. The red that stained the bloodshot corner of otherwise beautiful eyes were the warning lines of danger at the situation.
A rasping breath heaved from the scrawny gentleman’s chest and he swallowed back another gulp of the whisky. He was long past feeling the burn rush down his oesophagus and into his stomach. All that sat there was a bleak emptiness that rumbled and that’s where the sting fell. “Did I…?” he wheezed, blinking down at the page as he tried to make sense of the words written before him, and the line-art of the Lover’s Knot, half buried under his clutter and stained with his mess.
“Did I do it? Did I steal it?” he whimpered, memories of holding the piece lingering only half there in the darkest corners of his mind, like a ghost. A spectre that elicited a sense of panic and a throbbing anxiety in his chest. His ribcage was too frail to hold such a thunderous heartbeat and he brought down the amber liquid again to drown it, to turn it slick and heavy and bring everything down to the floor. His legs obeyed the command, stop-starting in their movement so it appeared janky and broken. Like a newborn deer finding itself for the first time. His eyes too, were that of a deer as it stared headfirst into danger.
Njall pinched the corner of his sketch, dragging it and the crystal tumbler, the paint, and the cigar box down with it. A smash, and thud, and a clatter. All intrusive sounds that were not so intrusive to a lost and drunken mind, just the perfect kind of ambiance.
“I remember something… I remember something,” he muttered, staring at it closely, his pupils dilating into tiny dots the closer he brought the parchment to his face -- stopping it only when it grazed the tip of his aquiline nose. “Diamonds, glass… Something, something.” he struggled, desperately gulping down the last drops of his whisky. “I wasn’t in Evermore, was I?” he breathed.
Pale and unwashed, Njall could suddenly smell his own breath as it pushed back at him from the paper. A warm and intoxicating fume that it would be dangerous to bring close to a flame.
After a moment or two more of scrutinous inspection, the drunken Nord felt that the best course of action was to carefully fold, and fold again the drawing - before shoving it roughly under the leg of his table, and when he staggered back to his feet to place the items in a heap in the centre, the wobbled the entire structure. “Gone now, gone to someplace…” he mused, scratching his oily hairline with a finger. He turned his face this way and that, careful and suspicious of the shadows that flickered against the walls of his humble lodgings. “Like watchful demons tonight you are,” he spoke out to them, narrowing his eyes some. “Don’t eat my applause,” he cursed, wagging a finger at the moving darkness of a lamp that flickered.
Njall sighed, his shoulders drooping. His lids were heavy as his stupor continued to worsen. The paper under the table leg was all but gone to him now, and instead his focus turned to a canvas propped against the wall. The abstract shape of a feminine figure in black, topped with red like a plumed crown stared back at the palid Nord, at least from where her eyes should have been painted. “I know, I know-misbehaving again,” he slurred out, shrugging his shoulders. “Just that, well…”
With yet another sigh, it was clear the man had given up on whatever needed to be said. Instead, retreating once more to the floor, only this time taking to spreading out on the floor beside his mysterious woman. He seemed more relaxed there, the stillness briefly bringing colour back to his complexion. On the ceiling, more strokes of red adorned the beams and careful tiling. An invasion of an artist’s colour on an architect's best work. The tendrils and tentacles of red gave his mind something to focus on, and as his head began to spin around, and around, and around, he visualised them peeling away from the ceiling, spiraling down carefully to caress and blanket him.
They cocooned him from whatever it was that had been bothering him only minutes ago.
Njall fell asleep like that, as he so often did.
Holding down the corners of the parchment were crystal tumblers, slabs of solid paint, and a cigar box. Trembling fingers reached out to feel the current, stroking each precise line as a jaw quivered, droplets of a rich liquer clung to the dry lower lip of a mouth held ajar. The red that stained the bloodshot corner of otherwise beautiful eyes were the warning lines of danger at the situation.
A rasping breath heaved from the scrawny gentleman’s chest and he swallowed back another gulp of the whisky. He was long past feeling the burn rush down his oesophagus and into his stomach. All that sat there was a bleak emptiness that rumbled and that’s where the sting fell. “Did I…?” he wheezed, blinking down at the page as he tried to make sense of the words written before him, and the line-art of the Lover’s Knot, half buried under his clutter and stained with his mess.
“Did I do it? Did I steal it?” he whimpered, memories of holding the piece lingering only half there in the darkest corners of his mind, like a ghost. A spectre that elicited a sense of panic and a throbbing anxiety in his chest. His ribcage was too frail to hold such a thunderous heartbeat and he brought down the amber liquid again to drown it, to turn it slick and heavy and bring everything down to the floor. His legs obeyed the command, stop-starting in their movement so it appeared janky and broken. Like a newborn deer finding itself for the first time. His eyes too, were that of a deer as it stared headfirst into danger.
Njall pinched the corner of his sketch, dragging it and the crystal tumbler, the paint, and the cigar box down with it. A smash, and thud, and a clatter. All intrusive sounds that were not so intrusive to a lost and drunken mind, just the perfect kind of ambiance.
“I remember something… I remember something,” he muttered, staring at it closely, his pupils dilating into tiny dots the closer he brought the parchment to his face -- stopping it only when it grazed the tip of his aquiline nose. “Diamonds, glass… Something, something.” he struggled, desperately gulping down the last drops of his whisky. “I wasn’t in Evermore, was I?” he breathed.
Pale and unwashed, Njall could suddenly smell his own breath as it pushed back at him from the paper. A warm and intoxicating fume that it would be dangerous to bring close to a flame.
After a moment or two more of scrutinous inspection, the drunken Nord felt that the best course of action was to carefully fold, and fold again the drawing - before shoving it roughly under the leg of his table, and when he staggered back to his feet to place the items in a heap in the centre, the wobbled the entire structure. “Gone now, gone to someplace…” he mused, scratching his oily hairline with a finger. He turned his face this way and that, careful and suspicious of the shadows that flickered against the walls of his humble lodgings. “Like watchful demons tonight you are,” he spoke out to them, narrowing his eyes some. “Don’t eat my applause,” he cursed, wagging a finger at the moving darkness of a lamp that flickered.
Njall sighed, his shoulders drooping. His lids were heavy as his stupor continued to worsen. The paper under the table leg was all but gone to him now, and instead his focus turned to a canvas propped against the wall. The abstract shape of a feminine figure in black, topped with red like a plumed crown stared back at the palid Nord, at least from where her eyes should have been painted. “I know, I know-misbehaving again,” he slurred out, shrugging his shoulders. “Just that, well…”
With yet another sigh, it was clear the man had given up on whatever needed to be said. Instead, retreating once more to the floor, only this time taking to spreading out on the floor beside his mysterious woman. He seemed more relaxed there, the stillness briefly bringing colour back to his complexion. On the ceiling, more strokes of red adorned the beams and careful tiling. An invasion of an artist’s colour on an architect's best work. The tendrils and tentacles of red gave his mind something to focus on, and as his head began to spin around, and around, and around, he visualised them peeling away from the ceiling, spiraling down carefully to caress and blanket him.
They cocooned him from whatever it was that had been bothering him only minutes ago.
Njall fell asleep like that, as he so often did.
Dear Father,
I find myself in Wayrest now, and what a pitiful slum it has become. I am ashamed to confess to have found safest lodgings in the upstairs room of a brothel.
My journey here was immemorable, I have found myself the observer of a curious company of mercenaries, managed by a Nord gentleman whom I know only as Gustav. How it is that he has come to manage such a group of individuals remains to be seen. There is no order to be found, and from the little I have observed so far, a worryingly high turnover of underlings. It seems that this Gustav can be trusted only so far as he can be thrown. Judging by his stature, likely not far.
The exploits of his company are about the only entertainment I will allow myself to enjoy. I remain ever vigilant, as always, of that which would threaten us.
I hope to return to our home soon, but who knows where the winds of change will carry me.
Yours,
A backwashed current of people was huddling over the bent and broken spine of Wayrest, feet dragging over the cobblestoned vertebrae. A stark and cold relentlessness in dismal gray light.
Relyssa watched the seemingly endless string of poverty trailing though the maze of the city — from checkpoint to checkpoint as they hurried before curfew. Parasitical.
Her impenetrable gaze pointed down from behind the smudged and grime-slicked glass of her window. She was witness to the hunched and somehow sharp shape of a man in torn hempen clothing as he broke free from the sorrowed march to hock his phlegm to the ground, into a puddle of excrement and water and dirt that sloshed around in a dip in the path. Relyssa pictured the spittle falling in its viscous entirety to land with a dense splash into the putrid wastewater of Gustav’s sewer.
The mournful disease of defeat had filtered into the ground. Entrenched itself there and formed with what had been, then it drained into the soil that the plants took their life from. No wonder the colours of the flowers were so muted here, so pale, so diluted. Vibrancy had been stolen from them and in its place was simple uniformity.
The Breton could barely hear the sound of the streets at all. Either side of her was the music of lovemaking, only it was off-key. The womanly chirps of pleasure were sensationally fake, and the men were too involved in having their egos (amongst other things) stroked that they didn’t seem to realise. Power was power, and in the rooms they held the power. Cradling women in the iron grip of their lust and impetuous desire. A septim or two from their purse to feel like Gods for a mere few minutes. The crescendo was so dissatisfying and shallow that it nauseated her. There was no intimacy to be found in transaction. For why did women choose to make these men feel so special?
They did not deserve it.
Would Alim be trading a coin of his own this evening for the fleeting shadow of power to fill him? No, she thought, a finger stroking the brass of her goblet. He’d be where he was supposed to be. The exit point of the sewer.
When it came time for the silence between clients, Relyssa closed the curtain of her room, sipping from the glass of wine she’d found herself. A surprisingly deep red that, at room temperature, perfumed the air around her and pushed back the scent of sex as long as she held it in close proximity to her nose. As long as she held the taste in her mouth, the rising tide of impecuniousness could be held back by the smokescreen of her own opulence.
Behind closed doors, she let her anger and her true simmering rage seep out. It was the sight of her bare finger that made her so indignant. A persuasive word had not been enough — the emerald fastened in the centre of a custom-made gold band had been the next best thing.
Where gold bought men their feeling of power, it simply kept perversion from her door. Had she not have had the emerald, would she have been the woman on her back? Crying to the Divines in praise of a man for his less than mediocre performance?
She remembered his face— the guard, she remembered the foul words that he had so boldly whispered in her ear, his breath thick with ale that was fighting against his extreme halitosis. His teeth were black and rotted in the back of his mouth, his slack-jawed laugh had said as much. Relyssa assumed that sickness had taken him. How could it not in this city of depraved indulgence?
Not today, and most likely not tomorrow either... But she would get her ring back. She’d seize her power back from him, one way or another. It would be her grip, and her desire that would win over. Relyssa was judicious in her pursuit for revenge — even revenge as petty as this.
And so the tired song began its encore.
I find myself in Wayrest now, and what a pitiful slum it has become. I am ashamed to confess to have found safest lodgings in the upstairs room of a brothel.
My journey here was immemorable, I have found myself the observer of a curious company of mercenaries, managed by a Nord gentleman whom I know only as Gustav. How it is that he has come to manage such a group of individuals remains to be seen. There is no order to be found, and from the little I have observed so far, a worryingly high turnover of underlings. It seems that this Gustav can be trusted only so far as he can be thrown. Judging by his stature, likely not far.
The exploits of his company are about the only entertainment I will allow myself to enjoy. I remain ever vigilant, as always, of that which would threaten us.
I hope to return to our home soon, but who knows where the winds of change will carry me.
Yours,
A backwashed current of people was huddling over the bent and broken spine of Wayrest, feet dragging over the cobblestoned vertebrae. A stark and cold relentlessness in dismal gray light.
Relyssa watched the seemingly endless string of poverty trailing though the maze of the city — from checkpoint to checkpoint as they hurried before curfew. Parasitical.
Her impenetrable gaze pointed down from behind the smudged and grime-slicked glass of her window. She was witness to the hunched and somehow sharp shape of a man in torn hempen clothing as he broke free from the sorrowed march to hock his phlegm to the ground, into a puddle of excrement and water and dirt that sloshed around in a dip in the path. Relyssa pictured the spittle falling in its viscous entirety to land with a dense splash into the putrid wastewater of Gustav’s sewer.
The mournful disease of defeat had filtered into the ground. Entrenched itself there and formed with what had been, then it drained into the soil that the plants took their life from. No wonder the colours of the flowers were so muted here, so pale, so diluted. Vibrancy had been stolen from them and in its place was simple uniformity.
The Breton could barely hear the sound of the streets at all. Either side of her was the music of lovemaking, only it was off-key. The womanly chirps of pleasure were sensationally fake, and the men were too involved in having their egos (amongst other things) stroked that they didn’t seem to realise. Power was power, and in the rooms they held the power. Cradling women in the iron grip of their lust and impetuous desire. A septim or two from their purse to feel like Gods for a mere few minutes. The crescendo was so dissatisfying and shallow that it nauseated her. There was no intimacy to be found in transaction. For why did women choose to make these men feel so special?
They did not deserve it.
Would Alim be trading a coin of his own this evening for the fleeting shadow of power to fill him? No, she thought, a finger stroking the brass of her goblet. He’d be where he was supposed to be. The exit point of the sewer.
When it came time for the silence between clients, Relyssa closed the curtain of her room, sipping from the glass of wine she’d found herself. A surprisingly deep red that, at room temperature, perfumed the air around her and pushed back the scent of sex as long as she held it in close proximity to her nose. As long as she held the taste in her mouth, the rising tide of impecuniousness could be held back by the smokescreen of her own opulence.
Behind closed doors, she let her anger and her true simmering rage seep out. It was the sight of her bare finger that made her so indignant. A persuasive word had not been enough — the emerald fastened in the centre of a custom-made gold band had been the next best thing.
Where gold bought men their feeling of power, it simply kept perversion from her door. Had she not have had the emerald, would she have been the woman on her back? Crying to the Divines in praise of a man for his less than mediocre performance?
She remembered his face— the guard, she remembered the foul words that he had so boldly whispered in her ear, his breath thick with ale that was fighting against his extreme halitosis. His teeth were black and rotted in the back of his mouth, his slack-jawed laugh had said as much. Relyssa assumed that sickness had taken him. How could it not in this city of depraved indulgence?
Not today, and most likely not tomorrow either... But she would get her ring back. She’d seize her power back from him, one way or another. It would be her grip, and her desire that would win over. Relyssa was judicious in her pursuit for revenge — even revenge as petty as this.
And so the tired song began its encore.
I’m good. Missing the arrpee though
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