There's an RP thread here.
Stairdweller Member
it's all black and white
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The Continental - Assassinations, Mercenaries, and Crime Syndicates
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10 yrs ago
Forum: Advanced Interest Checks
So I just noticed that I ignored @BartlebyWhale's character. (I think your post went up while I was still writing mine.) That wasn't actually intentional, so I just edited to fix it.
Observatory
Zosime wasn't consciously aware of being gently shaken, but it was probably what started her on the path to wakefulness. Half in a dream, she was vaguely aware of the wrongness of her surroundings. Lying on her stomach, her face buried in the crook of her elbow, Zosime was sleeping aware that she shouldn't feel the texture of bark under her hand, shouldn't be gently rocking, and shouldn't be able to smell salt in the air. She should have been in her quarters in the temple of Sekhmet, sleeping on her hard pallet, incense lingering in the air from last night's ritual, when the chosen among the priestesses had consumed huge amounts of wine to turn aside Sekhmet's wrath.
But she was more asleep, and these glaring contradictions didn't immediately trouble her somnolent mind. Her hand idly fiddled with a small cluster of leaves growing out of the deck beside her, rubbing the smooth surfaces between forefinger and thumb, and tucked her face tighter into her arm, shielding her eyes from the light.
What jolted her awake was the sound of a man's voice. She did not understand the words, which was worrisome in itself, but it was clearly a male voice, and men were not supposed to be in the female quarters. Ever. With a yelp, she scrambled to her feet, stumbling when she realized she had been lying on the floor instead of the slight elevation of her pallet. She whirled around, taking in the bizarre surroundings - a gently rocking room full of weird things and made of apparently living wood - before taking in the people who were present.
Two were asleep, like she had been; a male and a female, both dressed in incredibly strange clothing. The other two, clearly her captors, were standing. Both were very tall men, both were bearded, and one was tattooed. This did not seem to be good news. She crossed her arms in front of herself, noting that she seemed to be fully dressed - did she even remember returning to her quarters after the ritual? - and levelled her very best glare.
They looked pretty disreputable, and hairy, so Zosime decided to speak in aramaic when she demanded, "Who are you? Where am I? Why have you brought me here?"
Zosime wasn't consciously aware of being gently shaken, but it was probably what started her on the path to wakefulness. Half in a dream, she was vaguely aware of the wrongness of her surroundings. Lying on her stomach, her face buried in the crook of her elbow, Zosime was sleeping aware that she shouldn't feel the texture of bark under her hand, shouldn't be gently rocking, and shouldn't be able to smell salt in the air. She should have been in her quarters in the temple of Sekhmet, sleeping on her hard pallet, incense lingering in the air from last night's ritual, when the chosen among the priestesses had consumed huge amounts of wine to turn aside Sekhmet's wrath.
But she was more asleep, and these glaring contradictions didn't immediately trouble her somnolent mind. Her hand idly fiddled with a small cluster of leaves growing out of the deck beside her, rubbing the smooth surfaces between forefinger and thumb, and tucked her face tighter into her arm, shielding her eyes from the light.
What jolted her awake was the sound of a man's voice. She did not understand the words, which was worrisome in itself, but it was clearly a male voice, and men were not supposed to be in the female quarters. Ever. With a yelp, she scrambled to her feet, stumbling when she realized she had been lying on the floor instead of the slight elevation of her pallet. She whirled around, taking in the bizarre surroundings - a gently rocking room full of weird things and made of apparently living wood - before taking in the people who were present.
Two were asleep, like she had been; a male and a female, both dressed in incredibly strange clothing. The other two, clearly her captors, were standing. Both were very tall men, both were bearded, and one was tattooed. This did not seem to be good news. She crossed her arms in front of herself, noting that she seemed to be fully dressed - did she even remember returning to her quarters after the ritual? - and levelled her very best glare.
They looked pretty disreputable, and hairy, so Zosime decided to speak in aramaic when she demanded, "Who are you? Where am I? Why have you brought me here?"
IRL, I used to work at a place where there seemed to inexplicably be dozens of Davids. We used to just call any male "David" by default if we didn't know his first name.
I think I'm going to keep the contents of Abby's mysterious backpack of mystery a mystery for now.
Huzzah.
Captain Vossef ver Niklös was not bothered by crowds.
As he strode across the dockyards, the crowds melted out of his path. Between his stern gaze, the confident, almost aggressive arch of his wings, and not least the thick gold braid on his shoulderboards, it was pretty clear that Sef wasn't an individual who could be expected to waste time slowly picking his way around revellers and onlookers. Sef did not like his time to be wasted in any capacity, in fact. A lifetime of military service and his own rigid self discipline made for a very punctual individual.
Therefore, he was more than a little bit annoyed to find himself on the edge of being late for his own airship launch. The day had begun smoothly for the most part - wake before dawn, breakfast, kit up in dress blues, say goodbye to Klothilda - until he reached the dockyards. Then his carefully prepared schedule had been neatly slashed down the middle by a series of minor emergencies involving quartermasters, the port authority, some sort of journalist, the quartermaster again.... Well. On the bright side, it seemed to be over.
A thick sheaf of papers held carefully at his side in one clawed hand, Sef approached a small grouping of gentlemen standing near one of the boarding ramps. Sonne, his senior order agent was there, along with Lord Gearheart and another order representative that Vossef had not been introduced to. He had nearly reached them when a young woman, dwarfed by her wide metal wings, landed with them in a page-fluttering backwash of wind. Sef tightened his grip on his papers. Ah, the Valkyrie. That explains the other Order man.
Another man arrived, not an Order man and not know to Sef, grumbling after one of the stevedores. The captain couldn't really blame him; he had not been particularly pleased with the dockyard staff so far today either. Working with civilians was not on the list of "Things That Make Vossef ver Niklös Happy and Comfortable."
"Good day Lord, gentlemen, and miss," he said in his resonant voice. The captain clicked his heels together and bowed formally. "I am Captain Vossef," he introduced himself. It wasn't necessary - surely his identity was made clear by his decorated uniform - but formalities were important. "I believe we have some business to attend to?"
As he strode across the dockyards, the crowds melted out of his path. Between his stern gaze, the confident, almost aggressive arch of his wings, and not least the thick gold braid on his shoulderboards, it was pretty clear that Sef wasn't an individual who could be expected to waste time slowly picking his way around revellers and onlookers. Sef did not like his time to be wasted in any capacity, in fact. A lifetime of military service and his own rigid self discipline made for a very punctual individual.
Therefore, he was more than a little bit annoyed to find himself on the edge of being late for his own airship launch. The day had begun smoothly for the most part - wake before dawn, breakfast, kit up in dress blues, say goodbye to Klothilda - until he reached the dockyards. Then his carefully prepared schedule had been neatly slashed down the middle by a series of minor emergencies involving quartermasters, the port authority, some sort of journalist, the quartermaster again.... Well. On the bright side, it seemed to be over.
A thick sheaf of papers held carefully at his side in one clawed hand, Sef approached a small grouping of gentlemen standing near one of the boarding ramps. Sonne, his senior order agent was there, along with Lord Gearheart and another order representative that Vossef had not been introduced to. He had nearly reached them when a young woman, dwarfed by her wide metal wings, landed with them in a page-fluttering backwash of wind. Sef tightened his grip on his papers. Ah, the Valkyrie. That explains the other Order man.
Another man arrived, not an Order man and not know to Sef, grumbling after one of the stevedores. The captain couldn't really blame him; he had not been particularly pleased with the dockyard staff so far today either. Working with civilians was not on the list of "Things That Make Vossef ver Niklös Happy and Comfortable."
"Good day Lord, gentlemen, and miss," he said in his resonant voice. The captain clicked his heels together and bowed formally. "I am Captain Vossef," he introduced himself. It wasn't necessary - surely his identity was made clear by his decorated uniform - but formalities were important. "I believe we have some business to attend to?"
Andrewsarchus is boss.
Carboniferous had the best plants; Devonian is probably my favourite overall, though. But I think the Eocene was the best time for monstery mammals. Hoofed carnivores for the win.
I've been thinking of making a second (zone 2) character. If I do, it's going to be based off of something that lived in the eocene.
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