I’m interested
Wampower Member
I Did It My Way
- Last Seen: 2 mos ago
- Joined: 8 yrs ago
- Posts: 119 (0.04 / day)
- VMs: 0
-
Username history
- Wampower 8 yrs ago
Status
User has no status, yet
Bio
User has no bio, yet
Most Recent Posts
In
Looking for Three People to Embark on a Fantasy Adventure with!
→
2 mos ago
Forum: Advanced Interest Checks
In
WH40k: Warspite - An Astra Militarum Adventure [Currently Full]
→
2 yrs ago
Forum: Advanced Roleplay
Oops,I was checking the interest check waiting for some notice there that this was up. I'll get to work on a sheet!
@Jb Reread the original post and should amend my original character idea. The more basic maintenance worker character end of the spectrum would probably be a PDF veteran.
Also, will you post here when the thread is up?
Also, will you post here when the thread is up?
Looks like we have approximately 5. That's a good start. Excited for this.
I'm interested. Would probably be most interested in being some kind of civilian engineer/worker, but can move up and down that spectrum to an Enginseer or a less experienced person. Enginseer could be fun, or a more lowly maintenance worker would be fun to explore.
I'm interested. Is this still going on?
@Andronicus23
At the mention of the word ‘Trapper’ the guards reflexively gripped their weapons tighter, despite Liam’s apparent polite demeanor, and faint murmurs filtered through the crowd. His mouth tightened slightly. Ah shit, what had Bilge done?
It became obvious his instinct that something was rotten in Far Harbor was true. Quite literally. He wrinkled his nose as the smell wafted to him from the heaps of decaying fish. Some in his band with less composure audibly gagged and swore to God, or the Spirits. Interestingly, scattered amongst the refuse were almost pristine food containers with a weird symbol: A four-armed, three-legged man. He even spotted someone in the back of the crowd quietly munching away on some noodles, obviously reluctant to let the meal go to waste despite the alarm of his arrival. The incongruity of the Pre-Bomb looking food amidst the sad wretch of a harbor was too much to process right away.
“Lower your weapons,” Came the call from the back. A woman strode forward, obviously the leader. She was dressed in a Harbor fisherman’s outfit upon which straps of scrap metal had been attached to form a makeshift armor and wore a brown tricorn hat upon her head. An old fishing net was draped about her left shoulder like a sidecape. She’d obviously come dressed for battle, but seemed eager for peaceful negotiation.
“I’m Captain Avery, I speak for the Harborfolk. You’ll have to excuse our somewhat tense demeanor and show of weapons, we don’t get many visitors to Far Harbor and we’re always cautious of new faces. I’m sure you can understand. If you’re here to talk, I’m happy to acquiesce. Perhaps we can talk somewhere a bit more private, if you’d be willing to follow me.”
She looked around at the guards before continuing,
“I only ask that you and any who accompany you disarm before you do so. We’d appreciate a show of courtesy. You have my word and honor as Captain that you’ll be granted safe passage.”
Liam grimaced and tightened his hand on the revolver at his waist, before letting go again, holding his hand distinctly away from the gun.
“I understand,” he replied levelly, before continuing louder to the distinctly better equipped group of Trappers around him “But we keep our blades and hatchets.”
Avery led the Chieftain towards her house situated on the docks. She welcomed him and any members of his entourage in and bid them to sit around a large table on the lower floor. She removed her hat and placed it on the table to the side before sitting down herself.
“Before we begin, can I offer you anything? Something hot to drink? Perhaps a bit of food?” She then nodded to one of the Harborwatch who’d entered the house and was leaning up against the far wall, “Fetch them anything they want from the Last Plank. Tell Mitch that it’s on me.”
Avery shifted uncomfortably in her seat before she continued and addressed their leader, Spearshank,
“You said that you came here looking for your kin; fellow Trappers. I confess that we did not realize that the Trappers here were part of a larger group, although we did know that they came from beyond our shores. If you are here seeking them, then I’m afraid I have some unwelcome news. The Trappers who were on this island were driven mad by the fog, and lost to it. Either falling to the creatures that dwell in the deep fog or driven out by Acadia when they pacified this part of the Island.”
She held up her hand, hoping to calm any immediate protest,
“And before you become quick to anger or judgement. Know that your kin caused much harm to this island and its people. I know many of our Harborfolk, especially those obstinate few who tried to eke out a living in the wilderness, were lost to Trapper attacks and viciously murdered. So understand that we have lost friends and family as well, but even so I do not fault them completely for their actions: the fog is ultimately to blame for consuming them as it has so many others.”
Avery paused and took a deep breath,
“So with that said, I’m sure you have questions aplenty. I’ll do my best to answer them, provided we can all remain civil.”
Liam sat stiffly in a faded red chair in Captain Avery’s house, sipping coffee from his battered, ancient thermos. After denying the offer of food and drink, he had listened calmly as Avery confirmed his worst fears. Now he sat quietly, drawing out a moment of suspense that played to his reputation of quiet intensity. The four members of his Kithcircle with him stood behind him, jaws clenched, wondering just how violent their Chief’s response would be.
In truth, this oft-used tactic gave him time to seriously deliberate Captain Avery’s words. He did not doubt the truth of Captain Avery’s story. He had heard tales of mind sickness deepening from terrors beyond the natural. And it had been years, he had been prepared to learn the worst. Still, he had to strike a compromise and not make his trip worthless.
Liam set down the thermos and stared back at Avery for one more moment before responding phlegmatically with a faint drawl “Hunts can go wrong. I understand that. Still, this… Fog. You take it for granted. We’ll want to see it ourselves.” He was playing with the tension in the room, hoping turn it in his favor with a disarmingly laid-back response.
“I apologize for my kin’s actions,” he continued “Many of them were part of my clan, Clan Spear-Shark. They left ten years ago looking to hunt in Far Harbor,” he chuckled grimly. “Far Harbor is quite infamous in Maine, and I remember how excited they were to spear a laser eyed sea-beast or land angler.”
He sipped from the thermos “We are at something of a draw on this. Had they not been driven mad by this ‘Fog,’ my kin could have been friends rather than enemies. They are not fully responsible, but the violence they inflicted on you calls for some kind of recompense.”
He turned around in the seat to his Kithcircle. “Bring us some canned lobster and potatoes.” The fairly nondescript, brown-haired Kaleb nodded and left the house. “Thank you for your offer of food earlier, but it hardly seems fair to take from a fishing town with a fishing problem. Would you like some? It’s hard to tell your food situation,” he said turning back to Avery, a faint smile on his scarred lips “You seem be getting relieved from famine by some Pre-Bomb rations of some kind. Does it have something to do with this “Acadia” that provided the muscle to defeat my feral kindred? I’ll need to hear who they are while we eat.”
“My Kithband, the Trappers of Clan Spearshark and a few others, are skilled hunters and fisherfolk all. We also have considerable rations with us. Maybe in exchange for a few caps and some of your guides showing us around the island to the mad Trappers’ remains and old campgrounds, we could help your food problem? Have any idea what’s causing it?”
The Trappers
Chief Liam Carter-Spearshark
At the mention of the word ‘Trapper’ the guards reflexively gripped their weapons tighter, despite Liam’s apparent polite demeanor, and faint murmurs filtered through the crowd. His mouth tightened slightly. Ah shit, what had Bilge done?
It became obvious his instinct that something was rotten in Far Harbor was true. Quite literally. He wrinkled his nose as the smell wafted to him from the heaps of decaying fish. Some in his band with less composure audibly gagged and swore to God, or the Spirits. Interestingly, scattered amongst the refuse were almost pristine food containers with a weird symbol: A four-armed, three-legged man. He even spotted someone in the back of the crowd quietly munching away on some noodles, obviously reluctant to let the meal go to waste despite the alarm of his arrival. The incongruity of the Pre-Bomb looking food amidst the sad wretch of a harbor was too much to process right away.
“Lower your weapons,” Came the call from the back. A woman strode forward, obviously the leader. She was dressed in a Harbor fisherman’s outfit upon which straps of scrap metal had been attached to form a makeshift armor and wore a brown tricorn hat upon her head. An old fishing net was draped about her left shoulder like a sidecape. She’d obviously come dressed for battle, but seemed eager for peaceful negotiation.
“I’m Captain Avery, I speak for the Harborfolk. You’ll have to excuse our somewhat tense demeanor and show of weapons, we don’t get many visitors to Far Harbor and we’re always cautious of new faces. I’m sure you can understand. If you’re here to talk, I’m happy to acquiesce. Perhaps we can talk somewhere a bit more private, if you’d be willing to follow me.”
She looked around at the guards before continuing,
“I only ask that you and any who accompany you disarm before you do so. We’d appreciate a show of courtesy. You have my word and honor as Captain that you’ll be granted safe passage.”
Liam grimaced and tightened his hand on the revolver at his waist, before letting go again, holding his hand distinctly away from the gun.
“I understand,” he replied levelly, before continuing louder to the distinctly better equipped group of Trappers around him “But we keep our blades and hatchets.”
……
Avery led the Chieftain towards her house situated on the docks. She welcomed him and any members of his entourage in and bid them to sit around a large table on the lower floor. She removed her hat and placed it on the table to the side before sitting down herself.
“Before we begin, can I offer you anything? Something hot to drink? Perhaps a bit of food?” She then nodded to one of the Harborwatch who’d entered the house and was leaning up against the far wall, “Fetch them anything they want from the Last Plank. Tell Mitch that it’s on me.”
Avery shifted uncomfortably in her seat before she continued and addressed their leader, Spearshank,
“You said that you came here looking for your kin; fellow Trappers. I confess that we did not realize that the Trappers here were part of a larger group, although we did know that they came from beyond our shores. If you are here seeking them, then I’m afraid I have some unwelcome news. The Trappers who were on this island were driven mad by the fog, and lost to it. Either falling to the creatures that dwell in the deep fog or driven out by Acadia when they pacified this part of the Island.”
She held up her hand, hoping to calm any immediate protest,
“And before you become quick to anger or judgement. Know that your kin caused much harm to this island and its people. I know many of our Harborfolk, especially those obstinate few who tried to eke out a living in the wilderness, were lost to Trapper attacks and viciously murdered. So understand that we have lost friends and family as well, but even so I do not fault them completely for their actions: the fog is ultimately to blame for consuming them as it has so many others.”
Avery paused and took a deep breath,
“So with that said, I’m sure you have questions aplenty. I’ll do my best to answer them, provided we can all remain civil.”
Liam sat stiffly in a faded red chair in Captain Avery’s house, sipping coffee from his battered, ancient thermos. After denying the offer of food and drink, he had listened calmly as Avery confirmed his worst fears. Now he sat quietly, drawing out a moment of suspense that played to his reputation of quiet intensity. The four members of his Kithcircle with him stood behind him, jaws clenched, wondering just how violent their Chief’s response would be.
In truth, this oft-used tactic gave him time to seriously deliberate Captain Avery’s words. He did not doubt the truth of Captain Avery’s story. He had heard tales of mind sickness deepening from terrors beyond the natural. And it had been years, he had been prepared to learn the worst. Still, he had to strike a compromise and not make his trip worthless.
Liam set down the thermos and stared back at Avery for one more moment before responding phlegmatically with a faint drawl “Hunts can go wrong. I understand that. Still, this… Fog. You take it for granted. We’ll want to see it ourselves.” He was playing with the tension in the room, hoping turn it in his favor with a disarmingly laid-back response.
“I apologize for my kin’s actions,” he continued “Many of them were part of my clan, Clan Spear-Shark. They left ten years ago looking to hunt in Far Harbor,” he chuckled grimly. “Far Harbor is quite infamous in Maine, and I remember how excited they were to spear a laser eyed sea-beast or land angler.”
He sipped from the thermos “We are at something of a draw on this. Had they not been driven mad by this ‘Fog,’ my kin could have been friends rather than enemies. They are not fully responsible, but the violence they inflicted on you calls for some kind of recompense.”
He turned around in the seat to his Kithcircle. “Bring us some canned lobster and potatoes.” The fairly nondescript, brown-haired Kaleb nodded and left the house. “Thank you for your offer of food earlier, but it hardly seems fair to take from a fishing town with a fishing problem. Would you like some? It’s hard to tell your food situation,” he said turning back to Avery, a faint smile on his scarred lips “You seem be getting relieved from famine by some Pre-Bomb rations of some kind. Does it have something to do with this “Acadia” that provided the muscle to defeat my feral kindred? I’ll need to hear who they are while we eat.”
“My Kithband, the Trappers of Clan Spearshark and a few others, are skilled hunters and fisherfolk all. We also have considerable rations with us. Maybe in exchange for a few caps and some of your guides showing us around the island to the mad Trappers’ remains and old campgrounds, we could help your food problem? Have any idea what’s causing it?”
@Yam I Am Can I get my claim on the map now that I have posted?
@Andronicus23
The cabin radio buzzed and came to life as Chief Liam Carter-Spearshark piloted the Felicity confidently through the murk of the Mount Desert Narrows. For the last couple hours, he had been hoping for it to ease off the fritz. The pilot’s cabin had grown boring. Not for the first time he wished he was sailing in the open breeze with the rest of the fleet. Songs of past and future glories, boasts of hunts, and, above all, excited and grave talk about Far Harbor had all played out beyond everyone’s interest. His Trapper-Kith, those warriors closest to him for various reasons, occupied chairs lining the trawler’s cabin. They were shadowy, quiet shapes under the sticky yellow glow of the two naked light bulbs hanging from the ceiling, one of which started blinking an hour ago. Most of them seemed asleep.
The buzzing finally cleared, as the radio belched out a message: "Next, with this year's hockey season in full swing, I want to wish all the *static* good luck, whether you're playing at the Scotiabank Arena or elsewhere. We all *static* our favourite teams, each one gunning for the Cup - however, as a Toronto native, I know the Leafs are going to win. Easy." A faint chuckle. "I'm kidding, of course - *static* luck to all of you."
"There *static* important matters I want to address, and the reasons why *static* address outside of the usual schedule. First, the Gun-” *static*.
The radio sputtered as the signal gave out again. Liam shook his head about the radio, but also the welling sense of unease he felt. It wasn’t the first signal from far away they had received. The long range radio signals were a sign that other folks outside the people of Maine were getting more powerful. They didn’t seem that different from the Rich Ones of old, or they weren’t immediately eager to prove it. No sense of humility. Still, the woman seemed a decent sort. He wagered that was the Prime Minister of Ronto. Only a fool would pretend they didn’t exist.
All in all, it made his current mission seem small. They were here for personal and Clan honor, and make some good catches. There was… there was also the matter of his older brother Bilge, who mighta been Chief if he hadn’t gone missing. Everyone in his Clan lost, or knew someone who lost, a family member or friend when Bilge led a bunch of Trappers to Far Harbor and never came back. And yet he couldn’t help but feel a pang of guilt for leaving the rest of the Trapper Clans behind. That message from Canada was a sign that others, who maybe didn’t chat about hockey like old friends, could turn up any time. There was also Grand Chief Amel’s war against the Iron Giants. By rights he should be there, but… no. Something was funny in Far Harbor, he could feel it. Let the Goldgulls and the Seabats help her. Spearshark had business in Far Harbor.
His stream of thought was broken as the island’s coast came into view. And with it, a ruined dock. A cry of “Land-ho!” went up around the ship that he soon echoed, though his mouth was dry from disuse. It was the ritual that counted, it was a sign of things to come.
Over the next half hour, ships of the Spearshark fleet would straggle into port at dusk. The awkwardness of a fleet mixed in its power source made for that. The Felicity and the Cormorant, two fairly large gas powered trawlers and flagships of the Spearshark fleet, were there first and at the same time. The remaining four ships powered by sail and oar showed up at various times, scattered by shifting winds. As the Felicity docked, armed Trappers kept a careful eye on the town and their sailors rushing about tying up the ship, but carefully made no move to aim weapons at anyone.
A leader in marine armor with no helmet on, a sign of trust, came to the port side of the Felicity. His armor had the crest of a shark crossed with and impaled by a spear painted on the chest plate in red. He had green eyes, dirty blond hair and a beard, with a scarred, sea-worn face. He was still noticeably young to any watchers, who might estimate him to be in his late 20’s or early 30’s. Around him was an entourage of men and women in what islanders might recognize as Trapper and Coastal Armor, though it was better taken care of than they had ever likely seen on the island’s presumably extinct, insane Trapper population.
The leader called out to those assembling to meet the ship. “Hello. I am Chief Liam Carter-Spearshark, of the Spearshark Trapper clan. I am here to look for my relatives, who travelled here to hunt years ago. I don’t want a fight unless you do, and I would be happy to talk to whatever you folks have as a leader.”
The Trappers
Chief Liam Carter-Spearshark
The cabin radio buzzed and came to life as Chief Liam Carter-Spearshark piloted the Felicity confidently through the murk of the Mount Desert Narrows. For the last couple hours, he had been hoping for it to ease off the fritz. The pilot’s cabin had grown boring. Not for the first time he wished he was sailing in the open breeze with the rest of the fleet. Songs of past and future glories, boasts of hunts, and, above all, excited and grave talk about Far Harbor had all played out beyond everyone’s interest. His Trapper-Kith, those warriors closest to him for various reasons, occupied chairs lining the trawler’s cabin. They were shadowy, quiet shapes under the sticky yellow glow of the two naked light bulbs hanging from the ceiling, one of which started blinking an hour ago. Most of them seemed asleep.
The buzzing finally cleared, as the radio belched out a message: "Next, with this year's hockey season in full swing, I want to wish all the *static* good luck, whether you're playing at the Scotiabank Arena or elsewhere. We all *static* our favourite teams, each one gunning for the Cup - however, as a Toronto native, I know the Leafs are going to win. Easy." A faint chuckle. "I'm kidding, of course - *static* luck to all of you."
"There *static* important matters I want to address, and the reasons why *static* address outside of the usual schedule. First, the Gun-” *static*.
The radio sputtered as the signal gave out again. Liam shook his head about the radio, but also the welling sense of unease he felt. It wasn’t the first signal from far away they had received. The long range radio signals were a sign that other folks outside the people of Maine were getting more powerful. They didn’t seem that different from the Rich Ones of old, or they weren’t immediately eager to prove it. No sense of humility. Still, the woman seemed a decent sort. He wagered that was the Prime Minister of Ronto. Only a fool would pretend they didn’t exist.
All in all, it made his current mission seem small. They were here for personal and Clan honor, and make some good catches. There was… there was also the matter of his older brother Bilge, who mighta been Chief if he hadn’t gone missing. Everyone in his Clan lost, or knew someone who lost, a family member or friend when Bilge led a bunch of Trappers to Far Harbor and never came back. And yet he couldn’t help but feel a pang of guilt for leaving the rest of the Trapper Clans behind. That message from Canada was a sign that others, who maybe didn’t chat about hockey like old friends, could turn up any time. There was also Grand Chief Amel’s war against the Iron Giants. By rights he should be there, but… no. Something was funny in Far Harbor, he could feel it. Let the Goldgulls and the Seabats help her. Spearshark had business in Far Harbor.
His stream of thought was broken as the island’s coast came into view. And with it, a ruined dock. A cry of “Land-ho!” went up around the ship that he soon echoed, though his mouth was dry from disuse. It was the ritual that counted, it was a sign of things to come.
......
Over the next half hour, ships of the Spearshark fleet would straggle into port at dusk. The awkwardness of a fleet mixed in its power source made for that. The Felicity and the Cormorant, two fairly large gas powered trawlers and flagships of the Spearshark fleet, were there first and at the same time. The remaining four ships powered by sail and oar showed up at various times, scattered by shifting winds. As the Felicity docked, armed Trappers kept a careful eye on the town and their sailors rushing about tying up the ship, but carefully made no move to aim weapons at anyone.
A leader in marine armor with no helmet on, a sign of trust, came to the port side of the Felicity. His armor had the crest of a shark crossed with and impaled by a spear painted on the chest plate in red. He had green eyes, dirty blond hair and a beard, with a scarred, sea-worn face. He was still noticeably young to any watchers, who might estimate him to be in his late 20’s or early 30’s. Around him was an entourage of men and women in what islanders might recognize as Trapper and Coastal Armor, though it was better taken care of than they had ever likely seen on the island’s presumably extinct, insane Trapper population.
The leader called out to those assembling to meet the ship. “Hello. I am Chief Liam Carter-Spearshark, of the Spearshark Trapper clan. I am here to look for my relatives, who travelled here to hunt years ago. I don’t want a fight unless you do, and I would be happy to talk to whatever you folks have as a leader.”
Like New York medical faction. I'd be happy to collab some time on that with Maine.
© 2007-2024