Chivalry Is Dead!

Discussion in 'ROLEPLAY GRAVEYARD' started by Gloucester, Aug 30, 2014.

Thread Status:
Not open for further replies.
  1. The lively pub was filled with the sound of bards playing their tunes, drinks clattering along with beautiful speeches, and boisterous chatter of grand adventure. In the far corner of the well lit room, you and your friends sat at the table. You were nothing but fresh adventurers, just barely setting out into the vast land of Ri'hof. A table of theives, archers, and knights. Among other things.

    The night was still young, and you could definitely retrieve a quest from some drunken fool. Or maybe not even bother with a set course. You could begin a caravan, start a foundation out in the woods. Options were open.

    With a whole world ahead of you, what would you guys become? Heros, villians? Leaders, destroyers? Only time would tell.

    Rules: I don't see the need for any offical ones yet, but don't make me have to add some! Use common sense, and don't G-Mod. Setting isn't too complicated, just think D&D pretty much.

    Character Sheet (Just attatch to your first post)
    Name: (Bob)
    Age: (34)
    Race: (Elves, human, etc. You can make up your own race if you'd like.)
    Class: (Thief, mage, bouncer, etc. Have fun, make up a class!)
    Inventory: (Bottle of rum, dirty magizine, teddy bear, long sword. Nothing too powerful.)
    Appearance: (Pictures are acceptable! Keep it medieval fantasy-esque.)
    Notes:(You character has a fear of heights! Special inherited amulet?)

    Name: Ryanheart
    Age: 23
    Race: Human
    Class: Ex-Military Recruit
    Inventory: Silver short sword, small wooden shield, picture of mother, 3 silver coins.
    Appearance: Scrawny, short man. Pale skin, thick curly brown hair that's matted and uncombed. Wearing a leather outfit strapped around his small frame, sheild attatched to the back of his clothing. A leather, gem studded sheath attatched to the right side of his waist.
    Notes: A momma's boy.

    Ryanheart pushed aside his drink, and let out a very measly burp."Excuse me!" He said before looking down at the table and poking at the oak grooves. He felt weary from his long day of wandering, scrapping what he could together for a meal. If you could call a hard piece of bread and cheap beer a meal. It had barely filled him up and he was mostly left with a bad taste in his mouth.
    #1 Gloucester, Aug 30, 2014
    Last edited: Aug 31, 2014
  2. Name: Texgen Swiftpaw
    Age: 19
    Race: Feline anthro
    Class: Tribal Warrior
    Inventory: Coin pouch (contents are exactly 120$), Tribal Dagger, tribal Bow/arrows (exactly 12 arrows).
    Appearance: [​IMG]
    (art not mine)

    Notes:though he is a very brave warrior and would do most to anything for anyone that would need his help, when given the role of the leader, he can sometimes freeze up and not know what to do, and in the process can cause major problems. He is also terrified of the dark, due to a challenge during his right of passage, one of which he never completed in his years as a young feline, he then ran the life of a rogue due to this failure.

    The small pub was loud and lively, people happily dancing and enjoying their time out within the large pub, their was individuals of every kind...elves, humans, druids, even trolls were out and about enkoying their time. some drank their happiness, other were to drink away sorrow, some were just their to drink and enjoy themselves, but that was barely the case for the most part. In a corner, a small looking feline, looking to be no more then nineteen, sat out in a corner, his head down and his eyes to the floor. his outfit was pretty casual for a foreigner, a pair of leather and cotton pants was what he mostly wore, other then the small dagger and a quiver strapped to his waist and a bow on his back.

    the feline sat quietly at his table, nothing on his table then a glass of water and a small half loaf of bread, he didn't really enjoy the taste of alcohol, mostly because he hated how it burned going down, plus he hated being dizzy afterwards, it made aiming his bow difficult, not that it was that big a deal to him anyways. he was mumbling to himself about something, like a certain tribal language, it wasn't easy to make out, but no one was really caring anyways. In the distance a few guys were starring down the littel feline boy, a few annoyed looks on their faces "that little punk has been sitting their, mumbling nonsense for almost half an hour, ordering nothing but water, and frankly im sick of it..." one of them said, standing up to confront the feline, he then stood up and walked over, when he reached the boys table, he slammed his fist on the boys chair, spilling his water and almost dropping the bread on the floor, the boy looked at him confused "can i help you sir?" he asked him, obviously seeing that he was drunk and only thinking about harming the boy, everyone was now stopping what their doing to see waht was going on, for the most part what may have gone down.
  3. Name: Wakeley Churchill
    Age: 25
    Race: Human
    Class: Screamer / "Banshee Survivor"
    Inventory: Animal bones and a rusty knife
    Appearance: Malnourished man wrapped tightly in peasant rags. Balding at random spots where his auburn brown hair has been torn out from by fits of relapsed terror.


    He believes he survived a stalking banshee by matching her taunting death screams one for one, but tells this story to nobody. His lungs were on the verge of collapsing after what he recalled screaming as loud as he could for at least four solid hours until dawn. The purpose was two-fold: to drown out at least part of the banshee screams for his familiar own so he wouldn't go insane, and to amuse the banshee enough for her to temporarily spare his life. Of course, nobody can confirm this story is even true. The only evidence would be his strong lungs.

    His yells are loud, but not supernatural, having the potential to temporarily daze or deafen, but only for a very short time.
    Can sing (with a strong baritone, but not much else. Untrained.)
    High endurance, but pretty much no raw strength.
    Uses divination with bones to give his life artificial direction. (nothing magical happens)
    Accepted fate as a beggar and as a lunatic.

    Wakeley had been tucked away at a wall, covertly munching on food scraps he had found on the floor, staying as small as possible so people would overlook or ignore him. Begging today had no returns, and he couldn't find an opportunity to steal any food. His eyes did travel his surroundings when someone new entered the tavern or there was a sharp enough sound. The first that he took notice of was a man that seemed oddly refined in posture and manner for looking like a military type. The other was a feline anthro, a species he was not at all familiar with. He imagined that he'd be using a bowl and not a glass for liquid, but he ate normally enough, so Wakeley drew his attention to getting more food. There was a rat scurrying by. Nobody would miss a rat...

    Then he heard the ruckus of some guys wanting to pick a fight with the feline boy. Scraps no longer disgusted him; this did. It was akin to a group of men getting ready to curb-stomp a kitten, and everybody else seemed to be doing shit about it. He took out a divination bone and dropped it on the floor. It 'pointed' to the rat struggling in his hand; his other food. Fine. He threw the rat at the face of the man who had slammed his fists on the table. Bad idea, as soon as it left his hand. He might die because of this.
  4. as the mans attention was mostly set upon the feline boy, suddenly he felt the fur of a small rat smack across his face, turning his head to follow where the rat originated from, his gauze was set upon a small looking boy, soon his face began to grow a little angered at his decision to throw something at him. his attention was no longer on the little feline boy, it was now set to the little boy that thought that throwing the rat at him was a good idea " you wanna start sumthin too huh?" he said, his words slurred a little. He then started his way towards the other boy in the corner, people around them were protesting towards the man a little, even the mans friends were telling him to relax a little, but he ignored them entirely, he decided to continue his way towards the boy, getting ready to start even more ruckus in the place itself.

    Soon, the feline felt that he had saw enough from the man, standing up, he threw a leg sweep under him, causing him to fall toe the floor, pinning him down, he drew his dagger and crossed it to his neck, growling coming from his muzzle as he starred him down "i think you've done enough here..." the feline simply said to him, remaining on the man.
  5. Ryanheart was only a table away from the very swift fight that had broken out. He reached for his sword and gripped the handle firmly. Though he didn't have any authority since he was an ex-military recruit, maybe he could calm things down a little before they got too out of hand.

    "H-hey fellas, maybe we could tone it down a bit?" Ryanheart hesitantly poked at the cat's back. "We don't want to start trouble in a busy pub, it could get troublesome!" He chuckled a little hoping it would lighten the thick mood. He tried to catch a glimpse of someone nearby, hoping maybe they would step in and lend a hand. Everyone averted their eyes, or started to pull out their own weapons.

  6. [Name]

    as old as time itself



    Staurolite Dagger, Two Vials of Blood (angel, demon, and human), Six Empty Vials


    (Obviously not mine. xD)

    Persephone is a wraith, a Daughter of Lucifer, and one of the first, at that. She was “born” into this crooked life when she died on Earth as a wretched human being who killed and deceived for spite and entertainment. Satan himself infused her with some of his own blood, thus reviving her into an even more demonic state. She can wield Dark magics and has an avian form, an eagle owl. Her eyes are usually a crystalline, innocent shade of blue but she can change them to red when it suits her. Also, she can make slight alterations to her appearance, and is very territorial and proud. She also has leathery wings, claws, and fangs, all of which are retractable so she at leat looks semi-human.

    A woman in a long black dress and silver sandals lurks in the corner, a long string of twine securing three vials around her neck – one with a shimmering golden liquid, onewith a thick, oily black substance, and the last hosting a reddish-brown fluid. A leather belt sits just above her hips, a sheath on one side and half a dozen empty vials on the other side, secured tightly. She watches the bar-goers with a mild curiousity that doesn’t reach her shallow blue eyes, glaring at anyone who dares to look her way. And those who do are very few, very few, indeed.

    “Hey dar.” Persephone’s lips thin out into a line as a middle-aged human man – obviously drunk, since her glare does little to drive him away – stumbles past with a yellow-toothed grin. “Whooz dis perty lady I see?” Sidestepping the drunkard, Persephone averts her gaze, irritation written all over her flawless, pale face. “It’s none of your concern,” she tells him dryly. The man chortles, and the wraith grits her teeth. “Awh, come on! I iz on’y wantin’ yer name, see?” Persephone lets out a low growl. “And I am only wanting to be left alone, see? Again, the man chortles. “Come one, Darlin’. No one body iz wantin’ to be all lonesome like.”

    Losing her patience, Persephone’s eyes flash red, claws sprouting from her hands. “I said, leave me alone!” She shoves the man down, grazing his face with her claws, drawing streams of red-brown blood. The wraith kicks the man in disgust, eyes returning to their innocent blue as she takes a seat at an empty table, daring anyone to approach her.
  7. That spunky cat didn't need his help after all; one minor distraction and that was that. So he thought. People were now drawing their weapons, uneasy over the whole thing: a fight could easily erupt from the tension. It would be a good idea to leave the pub now, but the lead man's accomplices were by the door and knew his face. In a small instant, he had knowingly risked drawing aggression from the bullies and save a younger man from a cruel, senseless beating. He could take beatings better than him, maybe. Throwing the rat probably made things worse though, in his pathetic try to be a hero. Not to mention that one of the men might've planned to use a knife instead of a fist.

    His best option now was to act small again. It felt familiar and good to be small, as he retreated back into his rags and on the floor; a sick sort of personal comfort. No risks added in staying out of issues of which he didn't belong to, leaving opportunity. The loaf of bread that had stumbled from the feline's table during the incident, dirty and crushed on one side, lay there tantalizing and also presumably, like himself, forgotten, discarded and small.

    That is, until his eyes turned to another incident. He couldn't believe he didn't notice the ghast of a woman, though she wore fine clothes. He more quickly noticed the three vials of god-knows-what around her neck: potions? poisons? animal excrement? She was not a Banshee. A look at a Banshee was supposed to instantly kill you. A Witch? A Demon? Wakeley couldn't understand why or how basic primal instincts would fail to avoid the woman at all costs, even if belligerently drunk.

    Would a fight break from that, or would people come to their senses? Hunger invaded that concern quickly. Grab the bread, now! Wait until the gang leaves, then leave. He crawled towards the bread, keeping himself low, reaching until his fingertips grazed it. Almost there...
  8. soon, the small feline noticed the "ruckus" he started with the drunken man, noticing also the small amount of individuals that stated to pull their weapons from their belts, yet again his impulses almost started an all out brawl within a bar. With a small sigh, he tried to calm himself down as so he wouldn't cause anymore trouble in the bar, slowly standing, he slowly began to raise his dagger from the mans neck, the growling noise emitting from his throat beginning to settle, he looked around, most to everyone in the bar stared him down, especially a rather large looking militant worker. with a small breath, he sheathed his dagger, looking around as he raised his hand paws "its fine now...and ill just go..." he simply said to them as he knew he had other things to take care of rather then spend lard amounts of his time in a bar anyways.
Thread Status:
Not open for further replies.