Vor

Character sheets - How do you like them being?

Occasionally we've had the CS in first person, more often we have it in third. Our latest sheet templates are a mixture, they speak both to the character and to the player.

@Ellri

Going on a bit of a tangent here, but a first-person CS sounds really interesting, don't think I've ever done anything of the sort. Well, I once participated in a RP that had us filling out a normal CS, but the biography/personality section had to be narrated in first-person POV, kinda like in a job interview. It never got off the ground though, so I can't decide how useful it actually is.

Would love to try it out some time though, because it opens up some interesting venues. What if a character isn't being honest during their description of themselves? Or what if, as is usually the case in RL, they have a skewed view of their own personality?

The RPG Official Book Club

Oh man, threads like these make me sad. Used to read about 3-4 books per month, now I barely have time for 1 or so in 2 months :(

Anyway, I recently finished Memories of Ice by Steven Erikson. Well, half-finished, because I just couldn't bring myself to keep reading this one. I enjoyed parts of Deadhouse Gates and Gardens of the Moon, but after upwards of 2,000 pages I couldn't relate to the world, to the story or to most of the characters. Shame, I kept reading/hearing very good things about the Malazan series, though at this point I can't see what people found in it. Erikson's writing style didn't grab me and apart from an overbearing sense of nihilism I didn't get anything out of the books. Also while I love weird stuff, his setting is so over the top that I can't identify with it in any way.

I'm currently planning on getting some of Robin Hobb's books, her Farseer Trilogy has gotten lots of praise and I've been wanting to read it for quite some time now. Meanwhile, I've got my hands on Uprooted by Naomi Novik, which won the 2016 Nebula Award for Best Novel so I'm hoping it's good.

Character sheets - How do you like them being?

For some reason I've never been comfortable writing character sheets, I always seem to struggle to find the correct words to put in place. Consequently, I spend ridiculous amounts of time on a CS, I'm talking upwards of 4 hours for anything but the most basic of sheets. Dunno why, but even after years of trying I can't seem to pick up the pace. Having said that, it doesn't come as a surprise that I'm not a big fan of character sheets at all, however I can definitely see why they are necessary.

In big groups they are kinda mandatory - you can't expect people to remember everything about 4, 5 or more characters, especially at the start of the story. In this case I'd like specific, concise details about the character - age, appearance (prefer written ones), defining traits, etc. Backstory is bit of a weird one. Sure, the GM needs it often enough, but as a player I don't really need to know where your character was born or what his first pet's name was, unless our characters know each other beforehand. That's something I may or may not discover during the story and, personally, I always enjoy learning something about a character that is not mentioned in their CS.

Also what @NuttsnBolts mentioned above is very spot on. Personality is hard to pin down, unless you've played the character before. Often I find myself writing one thing in the CS and then playing out a different character in the RP. Honestly, it's like trying to introduce a person you've never met. So I prefer having something like a bullet-list, which has basic personality traits such as "arrogant", "kind", "brave", etc. and you build up from there.

In 1x1's I prefer not having any CS's at all, feels more organic to just discover these things over the course of the RP. I occasionally keep a small summary of the character on hand, but that's more as a frame of reference rather than a "true" CS.

Yggdrasil Chronicles [A Dystopian Steampunk Resistance RP]

Well, here's mine, so that's something I guess! :P

Casimir Volk

(Casimir in his everyday travelling clothes)
Name: Casimir Volk
Age: 25
Race: Human

Personality: A friendly and talkative person, Casimir is always happy to strike up a conversation with almost anyone. It quickly becomes apparent that he loves the sound of his own voice a little too much and if someone doesn’t interrupt him he can go on for hours. His tales are, admittedly, interesting, but friends will begin noticing that he has a tendency to repeat them, often with a slight change in detail here or there. He can be a good listener when he wants to, however, and knows what to say in order to keep people talking. Casimir has a near-perfect memory and is able to recall even minute details with great accuracy, something which usually surprises those who don’t know him well. He has a strong sardonic streak and will never hesitate to make a joke at somebody else’s expense, especially if it’s in poor taste. Despite this he can appear very secretive at times, often growing unreasonably defensive if certain subjects are broached.

Backstory
Casimir Volk was born in the city-state of Beakhaven, a sizeable trading-hub to the north of Tyberia. His was a poor family, his father was a warehouse worker, while his mother worked as street-sweeper. Casimir had four other siblings and they never had enough food or clothing for everybody. It was a wretched childhood, as far as he can remember, spent digging through trash-piles in the slums and avoiding the bigger boys who’d take what little he had without much thought. As the youngest child his parents had little love for him, largely considering him a mistake and yet another mouth to feed.

It didn’t take them long to get rid of their unwanted child, though Casimir now considers this the best thing they ever did for him. When he was just eight his father introduced him to a well-dressed man and informed him that he would take him away in the service of the Patrician, Beakhaven’s ruler. Though he was just a lad at the time Casimir vividly remembers the moment and clearly recalls the joy he felt when he stepped out of the foul-smelling house. He also remembers the coin pouch which the man gave to his parents - he would later learn that they had traded him for the meagre sum of twenty standard roots.

At the Patrician’s palace he met other boys and girls from poor families, much like him. Nobody informed them of their purpose, but they were given a place to sleep, food to eat and new clothes, which was more than any of them had possessed in their entire lives. The very next day stern-faced instructors began tutoring them. They taught them to read and write, then moved on to history and geography, chemistry and mathematics – in short, all the subjects a rich child would be able to afford. This went on for four years and in that time they were confined to a restricted wing in the palace, away from the hustle and bustle of the Patrician’s quarters.

Finally the tutors were replaced by rough men, whose uniforms Casimir was now able to recognise. They were known as the Black Masks, a secretive group of spies working for the city’s ruler. Even the poorest kid in the most wretched slum had heard of the Masks – heroes to some, villains to others, but always having a place in stories and local legends. Beakhaven’s political arena was a violent one, the rich families locked in a perpetual struggle for power and influence. Information was the most valuable commodity and the Patrician ensured he remained in power by having the best spies around. The teenagers were informed that the very best of them would be selected to work for the Black Masks. For a child born on the streets this was a dream come true – the Masks enjoyed many privileges and, when not on a mission, led an easy life.

Needless to say all the children, Casimir among them, leapt at the chance. For the next six years they trained diligently and competed with each other fiercely. Throughout their training, the senior Masks kept reminding them that only the best would be accepted. There was no place for friendship or cooperation, which was viewed as weakness. After four years of relative peace and quiet, it came as a shock to Casimir and the others, but those that wished to succeed quickly adapted. Their regimens were brutal and many of the children perished – during training, in freak accidents, on assignments gone awry and, as hushed rumours had it, as a result of assassination among the students.

Of a group of about a hundred children, eventually only half a dozen or so remained. Casimir proved to be a survivor and stood as one of them, proudly earning the black mask he had worked so hard for. He was outfitted by the Patrician’s best craftsmen, given a new name and a small apartment to serve as a hideout. The next five years passed by in a blur - one assignment after the other, with little time for rest or anything else for that matter. His missions ranged from stealing trading ledgers to eavesdropping on some of the most powerful men in Beakhaven. It was hard work, requiring patience and daring, every mistake could be his last – when caught a Black Mask was sworn to take his secrets to the grave.

When he did have time to himself Casimir tinkered with various mechanical items he collected. It was a passion of his ever since he was a child and his newfound wealth allowed him to indulge in it. He especially enjoyed working on watches and, as time passed, began assembling some of his own. Another hobby of his was reading and he acquired many books, earning a reputation as something of a bookworm among his colleagues. They’d often joke that Casimir completed his missions quickly just so he could go home to read the latest novel he’d bought. It wasn’t far from the truth.


(Casimir in the trademark uniform of the Black Masks)

Casimir made a name for himself as a dependable agent - he was quick, quiet and could get the necessary information without resorting to violence. He had a way of people and had built up a network of dependable contacts, which were one of the main reasons for his successes. Casimir’s superiors acknowledged this and had plans for him, but that all changed with the coming of Asgard.

The empire attacked quickly and decisively, crushing any resistance. For all their boasts of seeing it coming and being prepared, the Black Masks and the Patrician’s forces were powerless to do anything. The city fell within a day, the Patrician was executed and his palace occupied. Asgard began a systematic purge of the old ruler’s servants, chief among them were the Black Masks. Casimir knew that he would suffer the same fate, so he used his contacts to smuggle himself away from the city. In under a week his old life was gone and everything he had worked for had disappeared with it. To his own surprise, Casimir wasn’t saddened – far from it. For the first time in his life he felt free.

He spent the next year and a half wandering through eastern Yggdrasil, never able to stay in one place for too long. The roots he’d saved up during his time in Beakhaven were dwindling, but he put his skills as a tinker to use in order to get by. He’d travel through villages, fixing broken items or making curious toys for children. Casimir enjoyed this life very much, much more than the one in his hometown. The former spy was now adamant that he would never do cloak and dagger work again. Instead he was driven to travel and experience all those things he’d read about in the books. What’s more - he decided that he would write all of it down. All his life he’d read other people’s books, now he wanted to have one of his own.

His travels eventually led him to Tyberia, a city he had heard much about. In a cruel twist of fate he arrived just days before Asgard did. Trapped in a foreign city, with no friends or contacts, between two warring sides, he decided to lay low until it blew over. It wasn’t long until the empire occupied the whole of Tyberia, forcing Casimir into an all too familiar dilemma. This time, he realised, he had no desire to flee. Casimir had tried to stay out of politics after the fall of Beakhaven, but as much as he didn’t want to admit it, it was clear that Asgard and their Zephyr overlords would stop at nothing until everything was under their dominion. Despite his better judgement he got in contact with the local resistance and soon found himself embroiled in the growing conflict.

Skills and Abilities:

• Adept Agent – Before leaving Beakhaven, Casimir was regarded as one of the Patrician’s most promising spies. Even though he no longer practices the craft, his instincts and skills remains as sharp as ever. He is stealthy and nimble, equally at home traversing rooftops or losing himself in a crowd. A quick-thinker, he is able to analyse situations and act calmly under stress. Casimir has a way with words and knows how to get people to share information with him, while revealing nothing himself. His street smarts allow him to identify almost everything worth knowing about a given city – whether it be the best place to rent a cheap bed, where to find illicit goods or who pulls the strings in the local Tan'Raga.
• Professional Hand-to-hand – Out of necessity Black Masks are expected to fight with whatever they have available, which is usually their hands and legs. As a result, Casimir is quite dangerous even when unarmed. He is well versed in various combat techniques, both offensive and defensive ones.
• Professional Knifeman – Casimir is deadly with knives, regardless of their shape or size. When threatened, a quick twirl of his butterfly knife is usually more than enough to deter potential attackers. If forced to fight he relies on his speed and knowledge of anatomy to end it with a single strike. He is equally skilled with throwing knives, able to accurately hit targets from a distance.
• Professional Picklock – Due to the nature of his previous work Casimir often had to gain access to places where he wasn’t supposed to be. As a result, he has extensive knowledge of various locking mechanisms and how to get past them. In recent times he’s turned those skills to locksmithing, helping people who’ve locked themselves out of their homes or fixing broken locks.
• Journeyman Tinker – Casimir’s deft, steady hands have proven to be capable of dealing with more than just locks. His main focus are watches, but over the years he’s taken apart toys, spyglasses, compasses, pumps, stoves and even a number of electrical devices. While he’s no master and a dedicated professional can easily outperform him, Casimir knows enough to get the job done when no one else is available.
• Novice Writer – Though still very much an amateur Casimir is quite enthusiastic about his writing. He practices whenever he has the time and is determined to one day be published.

Equipment:

• Butterfly knife– A masterfully-crafted knife with an engraved steel handle. It’s worn and the blade looks to be have been resharpened numerous times, but it’s kept in a prime condition.
• Steel dirk – A long, thin dagger of high-quality steel. Like the rest of his equipment, it’s well-cared for, but doesn’t seem to have been customised.
• Throwing knives – Knives balanced for throwing. Casimir usually has a number hidden about his person.
• Lockpicking tools – Torsion wrench, hook picks, ball picks, rake picks and everything else one needs to open doors. They’re kept hidden in an inside pocket, as such things usually draw unwanted attention from guards.
• Tinkering tools– An assortment of precision screwdrivers, tweezers, pliers and hammers, which Casimir uses to earn a living by repairing items. They’re kept neatly stored in a wooden box, each tool meticulously clean and arranged.
• Unfinished tome - Perhaps Casimir's most prized possession. A book he has began writing, detailing his notes and thoughts on his travels through Yggdrasil. Upon closer inspection one would notice ripped out pages, probably a result of Casimir's displeasure with the results he's produced. He zealously guards it and seldom lets anyone read through it.
• Black mask - A keepsake from the old days, the masks is a remainder of what he once was. Like the lockpikging tools, he keeps this safely hidden, as he never knows when he might run across a former foe.

I'm pressed for time at the moment, so some spell-checking/grammar might have slipped past me, but I decided to not waste anymore time and submit it.

Pooheaded 1x1!

@POOHEAD189 Woah man, lots of interest there! If you ever do manage to find time for all these people, hit me up :P

A Tolkien based RP: Out of the Past

Went ahead and posted my CS. We've got an interesting group so far, looking forward to getting this show on the road!

A Tolkien based RP: Out of the Past

Coleman Cutleaf

Coleman Cutleaf was born in a simple home to a simple family of farmers in the secluded village of Archet, on the eaves of the Chetwood in eastern Bree-land. Cole, like most Bree-folk, is short in stature, but broad, with calloused hands and hardy disposition. Of plain features, with a square jaw and a wide nose, he is not a face that would stand out in a crowd. A patchy beard covers a few scars earned in the wild, the same colour as his short, brownish hair. His hazel eyes are often thoughtful and reveal a keen mind, despite his otherwise gruff appearance.

Growing up on his father’s farm, along with his brothers and sisters, taught him the value of hard work and provided him with an enduring stubbornness, common in village folk. An inquisitive lad, Cole kept pestering elders and what few travellers passed through Archet for stories of faraway lands and the “old days”. Much to the dismay of the whole village he once stopped a travelling Watcher, one of those mysterious woodsmen, to ask him about the lands north of Bree! Not particularly impressed, his parents dismissed these oddities as childhood fancies and were certain that in time Cole would see the right of it.

The years rolled on, one day much like the other and Cole grew ever more restless with the quiet, mundane life. Whenever he had a free moment of time, he’d disappear into the hills and woods surrounding Archet, seeking out ruins belonging to the old kingdoms. He’d often drag other boys into his adventures, luring them with promises of ancient treasures and legendary weapons, but as they grew older, less and less people paid him any heed. This did not deter Cole in the least bit, though he now had somewhat of a reputation as a peddler of tall-tales and a hopeless dreamer.

When Cole had seen his sixteenth winter, his parents decided that it was for the best to send him to Bree. It was now obvious that the young man would never grow accustomed to a life of tending fields and raising animals, so they hoped he would pick up a craft in the big city. Brimming with joy, Cole moved in with his mother’s brother - a dour cooper, who had no children of his own. His uncle quickly understood that Cole was not suited for a craftsman, instead he bid his nephew to join the Town Watch, which Cole immediately accepted.

Life as a watchman proved interesting at first. Cole trained with bow and spear each day, eager to prove himself to his instructors. He patrolled the streets of Bree and, when he had some more experience under his belt, his superiors began sending him to the other settlements in the area, including Archet, where his family finally looked at him with pride. The lad worked on his skills diligently and, in time, began besting some of the older watchmen. Though as Bree-land is a place of farmers and not warriors, it was, in truth, not that great a feat.

Cole’s enthusiasm didn’t last for long, however, as he eventually realised that guard work was just as boring as peeling potatoes back home. During these times Bree-land was peaceful and the most Cole and his comrades had to deal with was an unruly patron at the inn or petty thievery. Still, it was better than life in Archet and his position allowed him a greater measure of freedom to travel around. Over the next five years, he earned enough to acquire a small home of his own in Bree and used any opportunity to explore the lands of Eriador. Whenever a task required someone to travel far afield, Cole was the first to volunteer. He’d often find an excuse to linger abroad for longer than necessary, though by now the other watchmen had grown accustomed to his quirks.

When he wasn’t working, he spent the evenings at the Prancing Pony, talking with traders and travellers who chanced to pass by. With every tale and song, his mind painted a vivid picture of what the broader world was like - the rolling plains of the horse-lords, the mines of the dwarves under the mountain and the great white city far to the south. Alluring images that called to him, seemingly so close, just beyond the horizon and yet they always remained out of reach. Cole took an interest in books and scrolls, which were not common in Bree, and would often spend his entire pay on them. He couldn’t even read, but his uncle knew some letters and, more importantly, introduced Cole to an old, learned man. Weak from age and with waning sight, the man lived alone and offered to teach Cole what he knew, in exchange for help around his house. He passed away before he could teach the lad much, but thanks to his lessons and determination, Cole is able to read most texts and can even write some simple sentences.

As a result of his wanderings, the young Bree-lander could boast of having seen the dreaded Barrow-downs, the smials of Buckland, the ruined visage of Weathertop in the east and even Deadman’s Dike far to the north on the Greenway. During his travels he attracted the attention of the Watchers, or Rangers, as they called themselves; though a rare sight, he chanced upon a number of them in the wild. Cole pleaded with them to take him on, but the rough men would sadly shake their heads and urge him to return to his simple life. Needless to say, the Bree-folk thought him to be an eccentric, even slightly mad, but his friendly demeanour and interesting stories prevented them from truly scorning him.

By the time Cole had turned three and twenty, he had mostly resigned himself to his fate. Perhaps, contrary to what folk believed, the places from the stories and books were real or maybe they were not. Whatever the case, it was not meant for a simple man like him to witness - he had accepted that. This all changed on one fateful evening, when Cole was returning from a regular patrol on the southern Greenway. He found tracks and blood, which lead him to a dead Ranger, torn apart by wolves. Surprise was quickly followed by shock – to Cole these stoic men seemed nigh invisible, immortal even and yet his curious mind couldn’t help but investigate.

Among the man’s meagre belongings he found a letter. A summons to a place called Aldburg, somewhere in the vast lands of the south. It was obviously addressed to the dead man or the other Watchers. In this, Cole saw his chance and he leapt to seize it. He hurried back to Bree and in the dead of night packed his things, taking with him supplies for a long journey. Before the morning light shone on Bree’s rooftops, Cole was gone, leaving behind no trace. It took him at least a week to realise that this was a fool’s quest. How could he compare to the fallen Ranger? The man no doubt had skills that Cole could only dream of. He didn’t even know where Aldburg was! It was too late to turn back, however, so he pushed on.

Cole took most of his possessions for the journey, for he didn’t have much in the first place. Simple clothes of earthen colours, a pair of sturdy boots and an old map he had bought from a merchant some time before. He took his spear, which doubled as a walking stick, and bow as well - for protection and to hunt once his rations ran out. Additionally, despite the pangs of guilt, he had taken some of the dead Ranger’s things: a leaf-green cloak and mask, a masterfully-crafted hunting dagger and, the most awe-inspiring of all, a sword! He had never handled a real one before. The Bree Watch had some blunted ones for training, but he’d only seen travellers wearing them.

With the help of the map, no small amount of luck and his wits, Cole managed to traverse the wilds of Eriador and pass into the lands of the horse-lords. Though not a true hunter, his aim was steady enough to provide him with meat, and a life spent on a farm meant he could recognise a variety of plants and roots for when the need arose. A chance encounter in the region known as Dunland resulted in him acquiring a horse. He was no rider, but it was yet another skill he had to learn during his journey. Many long weeks after setting out from Bree, he found himself on the road to Aldburg – his journey’s end.

Little did he know that the journey was just beginning…

Ardacia

Apologies for the double-posts, but as I'll be gone until the 3rd of August I decided to submit what I'd written before leaving.

Ardacia

Stone

Arren Hold, Kedoren

The land south of the Windwall was so warm! She could feel the beads of sweat running down her back and her eyes stung from the salty drops dripping from her forehead. It was hard to imagine that foreigners regarded Kedoren as cold; did they even know what real cold was? It was even harder to imagine how much warmer it had to be in the southern kingdoms - how could those folk even work in such a blistering heat? Well, she’d find out soon enough, as her journey seemed to be taking her ever further from her home.

Stone took a long sip from her waterskin and emptied what remained on her head. She could afford to be wasteful here – the land was bountiful and there were plenty of streams where she could refill it. Likewise, the number of trees here was staggering; the vegetation along the path was so dense that she had to take out a small axe to clear a way. The narrow, paved path wasn’t the main road leading to Saltbrook, but Stone had heard that there was an ancient shrine located somewhere in the vicinity, so she’d allowed herself this small detour. She’d never travelled this far south before and it would be interesting to see how the locals had portrayed Elonar in the old days.

So far it had been quite the journey. She’d started out in Port Torin, but it quickly became apparent that the young Strolund’s tracks led further to the south. Finding a ship to Greenport had been easy, though that had only been the beginning. The next weeks were spent combing the great port-city and the countryside for any information. Lady Strolund had outright accused the Crowtons, rulers of Greenport, of taking her son and indeed, most people seemed to believe the same. The feud between the two Houses stretched back since before King Torin’s time – the Crowtons had always wanted to claim the Bay of Lights as their own, while the Strolunds had never forgiven their rivals for the destruction of their Hold. Even though they had fought on the same side during the War of the Eagles, the enmity between the two remained strong to this day.

It was natural to think that the Crowtons were involved, but Stone wasn’t convinced - she made it a habit to look past people’s petty struggles. Kalan Strolund was no mere boy to be used in the bickering of the great families. He’d been born under a fateful sign, the twelfth day of the twelfth month of the year. During these past weeks the number twelve held a constant place in her mind. The scriptures taught that Elonar had twelve disciples that had spread her word in the lands of Athiar, which would one day become Kedoren. There were twelve bright stars in the night sky, each a gift from Eirtu to his wife. Finally, her Order had twelve commandments that every Sister had to observe at any given moment. How was the heir of House Strolund connected to all of this?

No, there was more going on here than a rivalry between two Houses. Her findings had confirmed as much. Two drunks in a dockside tavern had told her that they’d seen a young man, matching Kalan’s description, taken by a band of sellswords. Their traces led away from Greenport and, village by village, all the way to the Highcliff. Interestingly, they didn’t stop there, but turned sharply south, on a course for Saltbrook – by foot. It was a very roundabout way and their refusal to board a ship betrayed their intention to avoid The Doors of Saltbrook. Likely, the group wished to avoid confronting House Arren’s men, who kept a close watch on the ships travelling the Greylin.

She kept walking down the path for at least another hour. Apart from the rustling of the trees and the occasional songbird nothing else could be heard. It was strange that she’d met no other travellers thus far. True, this wasn’t the preferred way, but there were supposedly a number of villages in the area, so Stone was expecting to at least encounter a trader or band of woodcutters. Still lost in those thoughts, she came to a fork in the road. The paved way continued onward, but there was a dirt path leading off to the side. She paused, looking around.

An old fir next to the trail had a faded symbol carved on its bark – two interlocking circles, signifying the unity of the Moons. Though overgrown and seemingly forgotten, there was no doubt in her mind that this was the way to the shrine. Quickening her pace, she followed the twisting path, deeper into the woods. If the road had seemed quiet and abandoned, then this place was truly forsaken; there were no signs that anyone had passed through here in ages. The sky was nearly obscured from the dense growth so it was hard to tell just how long she had been walking. A few moments later, something caught her attention.

The Sister knelt down to inspect the ground. She wasn’t a hunter, but she’d spent enough time in the wilds to know that the tracks before her weren’t left by animals. These belonged to a human – a group of them in fact. It struck her as odd, as all the trails she’d come across didn’t seem to be frequented by hunters, let alone others. Keeping her eyes on the ground, she advanced, pondering. Could this be another group of pilgrims, like herself?

With every passing moment she grew tenser. Stone couldn’t quite explain it, but her honed senses had never lied to her before. There was something amiss here. Suddenly, she froze, narrowing her eyes at a low-hanging branch. Blood. A few drying droplets, their light colour suggesting it was recently spilled.

Stepping softly, she edged forward. It didn’t take her long to discover more blood – a little on a tree’s bark, a few more drops on a branch, even some seeping into the trail’s dirt amidst the tracks. Stone took a deep breath, steadying herself and relaxing her muscles. Whatever was happening here, it was bad – she was sure of it. She had to be ready.

Screams of agony echoed from further down the trail – a woman’s screams. Stone wasn’t startled, she was already anticipating this. A small clearing was ahead of her, so she left the path and began moving from tree to tree. When she drew near, her features twisted in disgust.

There was no doubt now that this was the shrine. A wooden statue stood at the clearing's centre, depicting a hooded woman. What drew her ire, however, was the grisly scene unfolding before the statue’s gaze. Two haggard men, with torn clothes and unkempt hair were standing over a captive. Blood was splayed everywhere and the woman at their feet had grown deathly still. One of the men, holding a crooked knife in his bloodied hand, brought something to his mouth and took a bite. It took a moment for Stone to realise what he was holding.

He was eating the dead woman’s heart. It was still squirting blood as his teeth burrowed into it. His companion looked up, lifting his hands to the sky and began chanting.

Stone had seen enough. She ran into the clearing, bringing up her sword in one fluid motion.

“Flesh-eaters!” she shouted, her normally calm voice quivering with anger.

The heathens regarded her for the briefest of moments and then came at her as one. The knife-bearer, the larger of the two, lunged at her with his curved blade. Stone spun out of the way and tripped him, all the while slashing her sword across the other man’s chest. She drew blood and he staggered; wasting no time she drove her blade through his gut. Taking a step back, the Sister assumed a defensive stance, her sword pointing at the burly man who had managed to regain his footing. He let out a beastly cry and threw himself at her, swinging wildly. Stone rolled out of his way, then in a burst of motion she came up from behind, running her sword through his back. As he toppled over, she felt the blade severing his spine. A moment later, silence fell on the grove.

She kicked the dead body, rolling it over. There was nothing interesting about the man’s face. Stone knelt and checked his pockets, but she found nothing of note. She moved over to the other body and examined it as well, finding nothing. These two were both Kedorians and both of them were peasants by the looks of it. They were certainly not trained fighters, as she had dispatched them with ease. With her sword still in her hand, she made her way to the body of the woman. The girl's face was a mask of pain – she had been alive while her heart had been carved out. The Sister uttered a short prayer and then glanced up at Elonar’s visage.

The statue was ancient, that much was clear. It was carved from a single trunk of wood, in a time long before Ardall had introduced stonemasonry to Kedoren. It depicted a hooded woman, her eyes downcast and her features obscured. It was not so different than the way she was portrayed in the north. The left hand was hidden in the folds of her robe, but the other should be outstretched, holding an orb. Stone moved closer and noticed that the statue’s right hand had been violently removed. The statue had been defiled, most likely by these scum and their ilk.

“Elonar, forgive us…” she whispered, lowering her head.

At almost the same moment, she heard movement behind her, but it was too late. Pain exploded in the back of her head and the world went black.

Stone came to as a pair of rough hands gripped her neck, trying to choke her. Pushing through the pain, she cleared her vision and focused. A scrawny man, with crazed eyes had straddled her and was shouting something incomprehensible, spittle flying from his mouth. She hit him with her fists, but that didn’t deter him in the least bit. Her vision began to swim and she felt the strength draining from her, almost out of breath. Groping desperately, her hand felt something on the ground – a stone. She slammed it into his head as hard as she could.

The madman cried out, his hold on her weakening. Stone gripped his wrist and twisted sharply, until she felt it snap. Her enemy howled in pain, clutching his broken hand. Wasting no time, she drew a knife from her sleeve and jammed it straight into his throat. The man gurgled, spitting blood on her. With a grunt, she pushed him away and got to her feet, her head still spinning.

She looked around, grabbing her sword. Her breathing was ragged and her hands were trembling slightly. Stone had been carless and she almost paid for it with her life! Recalling her training, she willed herself to focus and relax. A glance at her attacker revealed that he was as dead as the other three. Her eyes narrowed, scanning the treeline for any signs of movement. Eventually, she determined it was safe.

A glance down at her robe revealed it was stained in crimson. She looked like a bloody Red Sister! Stone took out a piece of cloth from a pocket and used it to wipe the blood off her sword, which she then sheathed. Slowly, she approached the statue, laying a hand on the wood. She felt a wave of invigorating energy wash over her. The Sister smiled – let fools speak what they want, the Goddess was not gone! Still keeping her hand on the statue she began circling it, wishing to see what was on the other side.

She gasped and withdrew her hand at once, as if burned. Despite everything today, she’d managed to keep a rein on her emotions. But now…now, the colour drained from her face.

On Elonar’s back a symbol had been painted in blood. She had never seen it in her life, but everyone in Kedoren or rather, everyone in Ardacia knew what it was.

It was the mark of the Sun.

A Tolkien based RP: Out of the Past

Oh God, I also didn't get a notification for this. Kept stalking the interest check, but never thought to look in the actual OOC section /facepalm

I'm leaving on a vocation in a few hours, so the earliest I can submit a CS is August 3rd. Is that OK or will the RP have started by then?