TaintedMushroom

♤ THE CURSÈD WEST ♤

The sun leered down upon the land like an oppressive deity whose anger radiated upon its subjects whom had no freedom to escape its fiery anger. It beamed down onto a harsh and open landscape that offered little to no reprieve. It was far from Maston’s first time in the domain of the sun god, but taking one look at the secondary caravan guard trotting along with him and he could tell that the man hadn’t many seasons under his belt. The thin patchy stubble on his face also made it evident that he was still pretty young in his years. Maston sighed to himself, just another sign that it was time to move on. He’d been traveling with a small caravan for the last handful of weeks and as time had grown long the crew had slowly started to become more and more familiar with Maston. This, as always, led to questions like ‘Where ya from? Got any family? What’re them there fancy medals you keep in that box?’ and all sorts of personal matters. Maston of course didn’t take kindly to that. He’d already been thinking ‘bout movin’ on ‘fore they started with the questionin’.

THWUMP

Maston was shaken from his thoughts at the sound, he’d momentarily gotten caught up thinking and lost track of his surroundings. Typically not a mistake one makes lightly but the road had been mighty uneventful and that had a tendency to make a man lax in his duties. Maston also knew that with the sun as high as it was currently they’d have had ample opportunity to spot anyone that took to ridin’ upon them. And of course Maston wasn’t leaking anywhere so that ruled out the most obvious. Finally, ruling out all the usual reasons of disturbance, Maston turned about to look back yonder the trail. To Maston’s right trotted along an empty horse, the creature absentmindedly chewing its bridle and giving Maston a side-eyed look. Maston’s eyebrow raised quizzically and he turned a hair further back to spot a brown lump in the trail slowly getting further away with each step. Clearly that sun had gotten the better of the greenie. Maston sighed to himself and turned back to the front of his horse. He made no move to assist the man, he didn’t plan on to be honest. That was simply the way of the road. The man would lay there and bake in the sun and either die of exhaustion or dehydration. First the opportunist would come and pick over his corpse for valuables, then the carnivores and the carrion birds would come later and pick over the corpse for valuables of an entirely different nature. By dawn of the next day it’d be a surprise to find much left.

At least that’s how things would have gone if the caravanners bleeding heart of a daughter hadn’t turned around and spotted the man. Suddenly everyone in the caravan was clamoring on about duty and taking care of each other. Maston grumbled to himself and turned his horse back in the direction of the fallen man. It took a few minutes more than he’d cared to spare under the heat of the day but before long Maston had the man strapped to the back of his saddle and was moving to catch up with the caravan. The caravan leader gave him a sour look on arrival, probably assuming Maston would’ve left the man otherwise. He wasn’t wrong. Just another reason to move on…

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Hours Later…

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The anger and heat of the day were fading as the sun turned to more creative pursuits. The sky was painted in hues of orange and red with shades of purple and blue mixed throughout as the sun peeked further and further below the horizon. The caravan had reached Amistad, their destination and the place that Maston figured they’d part ways. With a huff of effort Maston unceremoniously hefted the man from before from his saddle. A few steps around the wagon and he found the caravan lead handing out duties to the rest of his hands.

“Maston! Start hitchin the horses up!” The man gave him an order and turned away without giving Maston a moment to respond. In response Maston heaved the man from his shoulder and dropped him at the lead's feet which quickly startled him from his current endeavors. “What on earth?” He hollered.

“I reckon this one here can hitch yer’ horses for ya’, given ya give him some water and take care of his lazy ass. And I reckon you’ll be needing to find yerself another coach guard for whatever trip y’alls plannin’ after this’n. Now I’ll be takin’ my dues and hittin’ the trail if ya don’t.” Maston stated simply, preferring not to mince words. The sour look on the lead’s face told him that the news wasn’t quite welcome but regardless the man fished a handful of bills from his person and shoved them into Maston’s waiting hands. Maston tipped his hat in thanks and turned on his heel. With that he left the caravan behind, it was unlikely that he’d have any run-ins with them, he was heading further west and they’d likely head back east after this stop. With nothing else planned for the time Maston decided to stock up on some basic provisions then find lodging for the night and have himself a drink. Tomorrow he reckoned he’d figure out what to do next, but for now he was thirsting mightly for a drink.

Through Darkening Skies - original weird fantasy sky pirate adventures

Worry not, friends, for our friend shall return.

♤ THE CURSÈD WEST ♤

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" W E L C O M E Y E L O S T S O U L "
" W E L C O M E Y E L O S T S O U L "

"W E S T L E Y M A S T O N"
" W E S T L E Y M A S T O N "

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_____________________________________________________ _____________________________________________________ " Y I E L D Y E R N A M E ? " " Y I E L D Y E R N A M E ? " WESTLEY EARL MASTON _____________________________________________________ " S O W H E R E Y E F R O M ? " " S O W H E R E Y E F R O M ? " CINCINNATI, OHIO, UNITED STATES OF AMERICA _____________________________________________________ " Y E C A N F I L L O U T T H E R E S T " " Y E C A N F I L L O U T T H E R E S T " ★ Age? 44 ★ Birthdate? June 15th, 1844 ★ Height? 6’4” ★ Weight? 178 pounds ★ Ethnicity? Irish ★ Gender?? Male

______________________________________________________________________________________________ " T E L L M E ' B O U T Y E R S E L F " " T E L L M E ' B O U T Y E R S E L F " ”I”m a bad, bad man.” Life for Westley has been an ugly affair, and as such has produced an even uglier man. Callous, cold, quick to anger, and quick to the trigger all describe Westley. Westley’s Irish blood runs strong in his veins, and his anger and rage have typically landed him in hot water that he’s rarely been opposed to fighting his way out of. He wasn’t always so brash, but Westley has endured things no man should have to and has long since grown to believe his attempts at leading a decent life will lead to naught but ruin for himself and those surrounding him. As a result he’s grown into a selfish and aggressive man who tends to stick out only for himself and is motivated purely by greed and self interest. Once upon a time, in a younger man's day, Westley could have been called idealistic, kind, courageous, even perhaps a hero. In fact, on the day he turned 18 Westley left home to join the Union. Westley’s service record was remarkable, and the medals he’d brought home supported this. But it was the darker things that he brought home that left more of a mark on his life than medals or valor. The things he’d experienced in the war left scars too deep for any to see, scars that would twist and distort how Westley would see the world and navigate its choices. The boy who’d left was far from the damaged man who’d returned. It was definitive to say the least that going to war had changed the trajectory of Westley’s life in ways that not much else could. ______________________________________________________________________________________________ " D E S C R I B E Y E R S E L F F O R M E , Y E A H ? " " D E S C R I B E Y E R S E L F F O R M E , Y E A H ? " Westley stands at an imposing six foot four inches but carries a wiry lithe frame that one would say is on the edge of being healthy for his size. He wears an eye patch over his left eyes from an injury he suffered during his time as a soldier. He has long blonde hair and sports a medium length goatee and a slightly pointed mustache. Westley’s gear and clothing all show age and wear with much of his clothing itself being patchwork. The two most well maintained possessions would be his trusty rifle and the revolver he keeps at his side, both of which shine in the light but also sport signs of generous usage. Nothing else on Westley’s person indicates any sense of value, even his hat is worn and ragged from the many years it’s protected him from the sun. ______________________________________________________________________________________________ " S O W H E R E Y E B E E N , W H A T S Y E R P A S T ? " " S O W H E R E Y E B E E N , W H A T S Y E R P A S T ? " Westley was born in 1844 to two parents of Irish immigrants who settled in the greater Cincinnati area. He was the youngest of two and his family was catholic and as such struggled with many aspects of immigrating to the US. the Mastons were a family of simple farmers who tilled the field and spent the majority of their time handling the responsibilities that came along with their small homestead and as such led a simple life. In 1846 Westley’s father left home to participate in the Mexican American war, it was his belief that it was their duty as aspiring citizens and immigrants. Unfortunately two years after he’d left to fight the Mastons received news their father had fallen in battle. Westley was only 4 when he’d lost his father and the Maston family’s course took a turn for darker roads. Growing up without their father made life difficult, Westley’s older brother, William, had to step up and assume many of the responsibilities left behind by their father. Westley himself was also required to step up and share this burden with his brother as soon as he was able. Their mother unfortunately struggled with coping with the loss of their father and the relationship between the three grew tenuous over the years. Westley grew resentful of his mother and the responsibilities thrust upon him from such an early age and constantly found himself at odds with his brother who had more sympathy for the plight of their mother. All the while their mother had become a shell of a person after the death of their father. As the years grew so did the divide growing between Westley and the rest of his family. In 1861 at the start of the civil war Westley demanded to be allowed to serve. It was always his belief that his father’s sacrifice had been him doing his duty and believed likewise that it was his duty to serve as war was once again breaking out. His mother and brother were in stark contrast to this opinion, having blamed the late Maston’s sense of duty for his untimely death and the burdens that were left behind. What little semblance of a familial relationship they had soon began to fray under the tensions created by these differences. Westley was not allowed to join the Union until 1862 after he turned 18 and declared that his family no longer had any say over what he chose to do. Westley felt no need to look back as he left home behind to join the Civil War. War, duty, hell. Westley was abruptly humbled upon his enlistment with the Union. Life as a soldier was far from what he’d grown up romanticizing as a kid and it was hard to imagine how his father had determined that this was what mattered. Regardless he put his all into it and turned out to be a remarkable soldier, but the things he was forced to witness would forever retain a place in his soul. Westley remained with the Union until its eventual victory and was discharged with a handful of accolades and medals, but also a handful of injuries and a fractured mind. On returning home he’d expected the reception of a war hero, instead his mother and brother demanded he leave. Words were exchanged and things escalated, to this day it’s hard for Westley to explain just how his brother ended up dead, but he did. After that Westley left, as far as his mother was concerned both of her sons had died that day, she’d said so herself. The years that followed were remarkably cruel to Westley, any endeavor he attempted often ended in failure and he found it difficult to maintain any sort of relationship with people. For years he merely wandered from place to place doing whatever he needed to keep himself kicking. Eventually, as things grew harder, the list of lines that he once told himself he’d never cross was steadily growing smaller and smaller. Eventually he picked up a gun and took to bounty hunting when necessary, sometimes an outlaw would be at the end of the barrel, other times maybe a lone unsuspecting fool that would provide Westley the resources to get by for a few more days. Westley tried to be moral when he could but when survival was on the line he found himself often willing to sacrifice those morals to keep himself kickin’. Regardless he did his utmost to keep things quiet, avoiding the idea of any sort of large crimes or extensive robbery. As time has marched on Westley has found himself spending more time bounty hunting and pursuing security or mercenary work. For the most part he’s merely traveled like a nomad, refusing to place down any sort of long term roots for fear of the chaos and calamity that tends to follow him. ______________________________________________________________________________________________ " L A S T , W H A T B R O U G H T Y E H E R E ? " " L A S T , W H A T B R O U G H T Y E H E R E ? " Westley finds himself in Amistad as the end of another security contract approaches. The recent caravan he’d been traveling with had been uneventful, lucrative even. But they were growing familiar with Westley, attached even. Both of these things spoke to a darker anxiety deep in Westley that drove him to quickly determine that at their next stop he’d have to find alternative employment. Westley was adept in many skills that were invaluable on the road and thus typically had no trouble finding a caravan hiring protection. Alternatively he might spend a few days resting his legs, give his horse some time off the long road, and check up on the local bounty board for some short term work. All in all Westley found himself in Amistad by chance, convenience, fate perhaps? An inexplicable pull westward had been drawing Westley further and further west but it was hard to really determine why. And so Westley found himself in Amistad awaiting the fingers of fate to work their way across the threads of destiny. He had no idea why.

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Shadows of the Forgotten Realm

Vale

My Hider

Character Name:
Alvale Varish

Race:
Dark Elf

Class:
A rogue, a scoundrel, a thief, a con-man, a dabbler of the alchemical, and sometimes a holy man while at others a beggar. In practice he was a man of many faces, choosing to don that which were most convenient at the time. When confronted he might declare himself a survivalist, learning that which was necessary to ensure his prolonged existence. In the shadowy depths of the gloom of night he often found himself wearing a mask of desperation. Nothing was beneath him, not even murder, if it kept him alive another day.

Age:
67

Gender:
Male

Place of Birth:
Glorenthil

Appearance:
Vale is short for his race, not short enough to not be elf tall, but short enough to have likely been picked on for it growing up. As fate would have it this actually turned out to benefit him later in life, the extra few inches weren't extraordinary but when attempting to slip into places one shouldn't be every little advantage had it's merit. Typically Vale finds himself in the guise of an aging sick elderly alchemist in order to pass through populated areas whenever necessary. Vale's attempts at deception are not always successful and thus Vale finds himself often having to employ the usage of his crescent shaped daggers to silence those who might see through his guise.

Due to lifestyle choices Vale often finds himself on the road or inhabiting slums or other seedy locations full of misbegottens and other unsavory types who might scorn the law over him and his ilk. Since the beginning of the Shadowbane Vale has found it easier to go unnoticed in areas that might find themselves struggling under the weight of refugees.

Shadows of the Forgotten Realm

And I like that trend towards older characters, I'll stick with it. I feel like this party needs a scoundrel of sorts.

Shadows of the Forgotten Realm

Checking in, sorry I'm late. Got kidnapped by Tears of the Kingdom. Do you have an ideal posting schedule? I'm kinda slow so I just wanna make sure I wouldn't be messing up the pacing you have in mind.

'Floating' (Star Wars 2 BBY)

How would you feel about a Gurlanin bounty hunter? Perhaps one with a life debt of some sorts to the captain to explain the continued presence of a Gurlanin?

On second thought I'm thinking a Clawdite would be better.

'Floating' (Star Wars 2 BBY)

I'm still interested, I'm just slow, I work overnights. Just started so still getting my routine and schedule sorted out and such but I am off for the next three days so I am gonna dev something up before you guys get too far in!

Symphony on High

GENRE:

Indomitable Rage

Asher’s rage has become a force of nature, an indomitable force of will that seeks to pummel any form of opposition and brush off any who dare attempt to quell the inferno. Fires of retribution and vengeance made corporeal seek to protect those who can’t protect themselves by leaving no opposing force standing.

GRADE: Gold
ELEMENT: Fire
NOTES: [Ignite, Fervor] Damage X, Damage, AoE, Puddle, Sky Call, Powerful, Scatter, Shield, Blink, Full Extend, Purify, Restrain
SPECIAL: Flames of Retribution // When choosing to eat an attack meant for someone else Asher may cast Fervor automatically, IF choosing to retaliate against the attacker in his next attack any melody or physical attack is raised by 1 rank, mana costs for fervor and the following melody are halved.

'Floating' (Star Wars 2 BBY)

I am loosely considering some sort of weapons specialist at current times.