Hey there, this is just a repository of my character sheets, and possibly a testing ground.
Feel free to post if you want/have a question to me! I mean, my inbox is always open, too, but...
You're all good people! Talk at me, iffn' you wanna. Without further rambling...
Major: N/A; was convinced by her friends to come back and get certified in Automotive Tech.
About the Character: Gretchen is one of those people that you might think 'peaked' during their early years. Very social and a devoted student, as well as participating in several extracurricular electives (speech and debate, cheerleading), she just... Stopped, after she graduated from high school. Her friends could kind of see it building up; an unpleasant worldview and a sense that everything was predetermined, and there was no point in trying, because it was all worthless, anyway.
Leaving behind her childhood friends in Battlement Mesa, she part-timed at a gas station, while drifting between (amicably) divorced parents and 'making sure they weren't gettin' up to trouble' - in her own words. It was only the influence of her friends that convinced her to try college again after having tried and dropped it once, and it - hasn't been going well, at all. Working up interest has been hard, but she keeps on moving... Somehow.
She's always been terse, and is practically non-verbal, now. However, she does enjoy talking to people and making her presence known, and is very competitive. She likes to do new things, 'win' them, but then feels like there's nowhere else to go and loses interest. She's always had an interest in cars, and her dad's (significant rural) lawn is littered with the dying relics you find in the country. But it's not like they're her passion, or nothing. Just another thing to do, maybe make money - or whatever.
Though she was worried about the idea of camping, at first - she didn't want to let people down again at this low point, the more she thought about it, the more it sounded good, and she managed to kind of fire herself up about it, y'know?.. So here she is, and what'll come will come.
It's all fated, anyway.
Appearance: Gretchen is tall, and lanky. She's about 6'0, give or take a slouch, and a bit stocky - stockier then she was growing up, for sure. She's almost always tanned, and has a lot of callouses, cuts, and badly-applied covers for them. She doesn't wear makeup or foundation - she kind of misses them, but it takes energy. (She's had a lot of trouble with that, recently.)
Her hair is unkempt and shoulder-length and light-brown, and she has dim brown eyes that get brighter when she's focused on something, and can motivate herself to care. She gestures a lot, and prefers it to talking when possible. She is a good public speaker, though, and enjoys speaking - or winning, at least. Her nose is slightly crooked, possibly from that one time she got it beat in from that nasty fall, few years back - hah, wasn't that a laugh and a half...
She doesn't smile a lot, and naturally looks like she's frowning. She's more comfortable around people she knows, and can even be a bit pushy; but she's usually pretty good at reading, and respecting, her friends and their space. Her smiles are always a bit lopsided, but really warm.
Rumour has it that her wardrobe consists entirely of red chequered plaid and blue jeans. That's definitely a lie, possibly even slander.
Possible ways she knows her friends: Obviously, these are dependent on the above approval, her approval as is, and our brainstorming!
Woodie: She probably met him when she was first giving this 'college' thing a try - or maybe reconnected with him after having been friends at some point in their past. Thinks his knowledge about 'plants n' shit' is the coolest but doesn't really know how to express it. Might've been the one to suggest going camping, kind of sardonically?
But she strongly gets how he's been feeling, as of late. It's kind of nice, 'cause... Y'know, you don't have to say much. Life is just so - yeah.
But going camping... It'd be nice. Like old times. Nothing to think about, just nature. What could go wrong?
Swana: This is totally embarrassing, but kind of, uh, looked up to Swana's mother? I mean, not looked up to, you know - geeze. Forget about it. Point is, they met at some point, and probably get on well due to not needing to yak at each other all day. Gretchen really likes her nature sketches, but likes Zephyr more. (Both her parents claimed animal allergies, so...)
Although she plays a mean game of paintball, Gretchen doesn't actually have too many survival skills, so she probably looks up to Swana's knowledge a bit, too, and is constantly trying to seem a little cooler around her.
Random facts:
Hella superstitious. Like, don't even ask.
Used to be a bit of a bully. You can ask, but... She's not proud of it.
A surprisingly good cook. This one time (maybe?) Woodie brought over some weird milk vetch, or something, and she actually made a soup out of it - sure, it turned out to be kind of regrettable after the fact, but it was sure tasty.
Does not like either of her parents, but has a weird sense of duty to them.
The sort of person who sticks up too quickly for her friends, even when they don't need it... Or want it.
Loves horror movies; bored to tears by action flicks unless there's gore innit.
Hits - REAL country music (her definition), crunchy potato chips, the smell of grease.
Misses - Feelings, schedules, screwing things up when people are counting on her, nothing else, really.
Text Colour Hex Code:#1B7A00 - Tough-As-Nails-Forest-Green!
Name: Javier Tougou! Remember it!
Age: 16
Gender: Male
Genre: (Pretends to write) Action, obviously! (Actually): Surrealism/Surrealistic Horror
Likes: Getting into fights, marzipan, being told that he's cool, not being picked on, romantic comedies, football, fishing.
Dislikes: People who see right through him liars, his height, violent horror, fancy prose (that isn't his), conflicted feelings, being alone, writers who put their heart and soul into a fiction and then just butt out leaving their creations abandoned like what even is that, dentists.
Fears: Ending up a useless guy like his old man, wasting time on something 'useless' like writing, not writing when he loves it so much, getting into a situation he can't get out of. Dentists, again. Dentists are scary, this one time -
Dreams: To get one of his books into a museum or something. Maybe not even for the writing, but - just because. It's a dream he's had, for ages. Nevermind. You wouldn't - it was stupid. His actual dream is just - eating sweets all day and getting into fights, okay?
Haha, there.
Name: Placidus Tertius Cyprianus Age: 42 Gender: Male Race: Imperial (Colovian) Appearance: A permanent scowl in the shape of a man, Placidus - Cyprian, to his comrades-in-arms (and friends, if he understood the thing known as friendship) is an example of why the tradition of Legionary service isn't always prudent.
Of average height (5'8) and average build (if somewhat more muscular), Placidus was told by his parents that he would serve, as his father's father's mother's father's mother had served, and in that service would carry the blessings of the Divine. He never questioned this, being a rough, coarse, and somewhat stoic fellow - at least not until the third tour of service, and all subsequent tours, and the land of Morrowind; but that is getting ahead of matters.
With a dark olive complexion typical for the Colovian Highlands, dark brown hair that is always kept Legion-short, and facial hair that can never quite progress beyond 'angry stubble', the first clue that there is more to Placidus than it appears are his eyes.
They are blue and serene as the sea, and often downcast - matching the quiet, thoughtful tone of his voice.
Despite his gripes, he almost always is in his Legion armour, battered or no - and it is as much a part of who he is as anything else about his appearance.
Personality: At first shot, gruff and unaccommodating. He doesn't like Vvardenfell, he doesn't like waking up, he doesn't like you. After a few hours of conversation though, it becomes clear that it's just his way of keeping people distant. Placidus is actually something of a - philosopher might be giving him too much credit, perhaps, but there is a gentle introspection in his manner of speaking that slowly reveals itself, like a Dwemer puzzlebox.
Due to his own self-imposed austerity, he is generous to a fault, and a quick way to find out if he cares for you is to ask the man for a favour, material or otherwise. He has a wry sense of humour not uncommon amongst the Legion, but takes it to extremes. Not easily hurt by cruel comments or personal grudges, and forgives both easily...
When it comes to others, however, he is less forgiving - especially of the peculiar institution of slavery, which leads us to the man's history...
History: Arrested for a dispute with several Telvanni traders of slaves, Placidus made the mistake of having one too many drinks and believing he was safe on Imperial ground. Despite no real damage to the mages or their 'wares', nor any real damage to himself, local law superceded Imperial law - especially in a time of crisis.
Thrown into jail with barely a trial, and left abandoned by a Legion desperate to shore up its image as it drew on recruits, Placidus figured it was his own fault, and bore it as he bore all things; stoically.
It probably began with his parents, who owned a modest villa near a fishing village. Despite his mother's brief career as a local senatrix, they were largely unambitious and unconcerned with much beyond continuing the family tradition - a tradition he was, and is, proud to carry on. His arrival to Morrowind, however, exposed him to behaviour he could not condone - slavery, open slavery! - and an Empire unwilling to risk dissent over stamping it out.
Slowly, doubt and anger made him grumpier and more on edge. He requested continued deployment to Vvardenfell, and was granted it - since his bravery and service were never in doubt. He constantly antagonised slaveholders, especially the Telvanni, but usually playing lip-service to the letter of local law. And he aided, to some extent, a certain society of lantern-fellows.
But it didn't matter, and then it seemed that dark tidings had fallen over the Empire, itself, and doubt consumed anger, and left him wondering what all he'd done, and it's purpose. It was that night he drank too much, and struck a Telvanni mage; and, perhaps, it was then that the wheels of fate began to turn...
Strengths: Physically fit and capable of wearing heavy kit!, Aggressive Negotiations, Reciting Baudy Old Imperial Poetry, Liquor Tolerance, Mercantile, Sailing.
Weaknesses: Can't stand slavery, vampirism, or necromancy; temperamental, suffers from recurring feelings of powerlessness since his fifth deployment but it's probably nothing, strong (to the point of exploitability) sense of justice.
Other: A strong devotee of Dibella; this goes back generations, and it is believed that Dibella protected the Cyprianus line in some fashion. Will speak at hours about the virtues of love and poetry when sufficiently drunk or friendly (if he somehow found a friend). Uncomfortable in civilian clothing. Cannot into flirting. Wants to see Elsweyr, someday.
Callsign: 'Plaun' (Плаун); referring to her short, springy demeanor and her off-green recon armour.
She likes the fact that the common name for it is wolf's claw.
Role: Recon.
Appearance:
A short (5'1), thin woman with a dark complexion and bright ruddy brown eyes, Karthika smiles frequently and well; with her helmet off, it's hard to see her as anything but an encouraging, well-mannered and well-educated young woman, one who could be at home in any national or corporate environment. Her dark brown hair is cut short, and rather fashionably - though given her helmet, it's rare that her windswept style lasts long.
Constantly abuzz with nervous energy, it's a little harder to see when she's fully kitted for recon. Due to prolonged exposure to the Zone - and/or her own foibles - Karthika insists on constantly wearing full-body gear and an opaque visor more closely akin to a cosmonaut's suit than most Stalkers. It's not uncommon for newbies to assume she's a small man, and given that old-timers are often overcome by their own... Drives and goals amidst the zone, herself included... She's fine with the new meat not knowing.
Her smaller size makes her an expert at crawling into small chasms, broken ducts, or other things of that ilk, which she does fearlessly, even cheerfully. It's rare for her to show actual discomfort or nervousness, and more likely the farther she is from the zone, or whenever she's in a large crowd of people; showing up as a nervous twitching of her feet, or a tap of her fingers against her waist.
Age: 29.
Gender: Female.
Personality: Karthika is soft-spoken and polite, a trait which has served her surprisingly well in the Zone. Newbies are often rendered nauseous, scared, and desperate; a soothing, friendly voice can go a long way towards extracting information or favours. It would be foolish to assume that soft-spoken means kind, or accommodating, however.
Driven only by her desire to be closer to the Zone, Karthika is a Stalker through and through. If it were a matter of sacrificing guys she wasn't too close to, well, it can't be helped. Naturally, since she's taken on a task for the state, well, that's different; her word is on the line, and she was raised to keep her word. But life is cheap, and she has no qualms about that.
Like all touched by the Zone, she can even be a bit ruthless... Or perhaps those are just unpleasant rumours.
Whatever mercurial nature she may or may not possess, her voice is a natural contralto, and with the mixture of her vocoder and radio static, it's not uncommon for people to assume they're talking to a young man - possibly a newbie, who needs guiding.
Sometimes, she likes to play along with that, and advise people on where to travel - whether towards an area rich with anomalies, or one she hasn't tried to map, it doesn't matter. It's just - interesting...
History: Born of a Russian father and a Tamil mother who settled and stayed in Ukraina when the country declared independence, Karthika could have easily had a future in diplomacy ahead of her. However, her interests always remained elsewhere, and her usually friendly and genial demeanor clammed up when pressed about what she wanted...
Until the year 2006.
It took a great deal of string-pulling to first traverse the Zone, but, her parents had clout and cash - and Karthika possessed no small amount of charm, herself. Before long, she'd established herself as an especially reliable guide for those seeking trinkets and tours of the Zone... Charging far less, especially for those who wanted to travel closer to the heart of it all.
When the state wanted forces to investigate, she answered the call eagerly. It was a pleasant thing for her motherland's interests and her own to align, after all.
And she could practically feel it in her lucky star; that it was coming.
Soon.
Strengths: Small, lithe, and mobile; an expert at balancing recoil, though not a particularly good shot. Preferring 'bullpup' rifles, she knows how to use terrain and movement to her advantage against opponents, and is rarely in one place for long. Most of all, she loves knives, and is never without one. It's truly impressive to see someone in such bulky gear wield one like it was a part of their arm. Diplomatic and charming, when she's not focused on the Zone.
Weaknesses: Occasionally overcome with a desire to get closer to the Zone. Nothing else matters at the time, and it takes great willpower - both her own, and those around her - to convince her to focus back towards the task at hand. Overly cautious in strategy; will often err in preparing or surveying anomalies. This is good for her survival, and that of her group, but can let opponents or opportunities pass. Stronger than she looks, but still small and easily winded. Occasionally gripped with a melancholic listlessness that sees her standing in place, staring at her feet, and waiting for time to pass.
Can be cruel, even misanthropic. While useful in avoiding trauma from combat, in the long term negatively affects her ability to form meaningful bonds, and possibly her survival amidst the Zone.
Other: Can survive off of frozen pierogi' for pretty much forever. After awhile, you can't imagine eating anything else. She really loves frozen chive pierogi'... Fond of terribly shitty puns and jokes; long-term Stalkers are often as familiar with Plaun's 'shit sense of humour' as much as her exploits. Can play the sitar, which is a nice change from all the balalaike strumming. Dreams, constantly. Loves dreaming. Would dream forever, if she could.
Personal Equipment: Somewhat poorly maintained songbook, better-maintained sitar. Various knives, many designed for artefact capture, hunting, skinning, whittling, or other such mundane things. Lighting tool (for meals). 'Lucky' rag used to soak up the blood from her first close call in the Zone. List of 'useful guys' whose callsigns she's aware of. Favoured loadout is Steppe Eagle and PPsh-41, but like all long-lived Stalkers, she's flexible.
Wealth and Resources: If, somehow, action takes place outside of the Zone - or the group returns to the borders of Exclusion - she is well-off, and capable of calling in some degree of favours. This tapers off rapidly the further into the Zone the group penetrates, but so is the life of STALKERS.
Like most long-term Stalkers, she has prepared several caches of equipment hidden at predisclosed (GM-determined) places in the zone. All of Plaun's resupply stashes contain at least enough food for two for two days, whatever spare .45 ACP and 9x19 FMJ rounds she could spare, some gauze and medical supplies, and occasionally a 'bonus' for any 'bastard lucky enough to find one' - which could mean anything from barbed wire inlays to embarrassing pictures from the 2005 'Militsya Man of the Month' calendar, to a well-worn stuffed animal. (Depending on her mood when making the cache.)
Allies: Roman Bulanov; her adopted brother, though they see each other as full siblings. A practising GP, she generally goes to him after long expeditions into the Zone. Although he doesn't understand the Zone, truly, he's been dragged into the shady world of artefact prices, contacts, and the like... And kind of likes it.
Her parents, and to a lesser extent, various organisations under the Ukrainian National Umbrella; as a rule of thumb, Plaun is in good standing with the Ukrainian State, and has neutral-to-good relations with the security forces, scientists, and observers attached to it. She cannot call on any favours, but is likely to be viewed favourably by such actors - and more likely to want to return favours, or help, struggling members if found in the Zone.
Mercenary group 'Dragonfly'; A small expat Merc group, founded by an Italian venture capitalist who had no idea what he was doing. The members were basically lost in the Zone, and after some misadventures, Plaun managed to drag them back to an exit - no casualties. Now harder and more experienced, they're glad to run across one another, and usually swap (self-aggrandising) tales of success and combat.
Neutral: Freedom; She likes the ideas of Freedom, and the members she's met of it are very chill, of course. But the reality is that they lack structure and thus purpose, and are likely to be more dangerous than useful. As such, she views them with a bit of contempt. A pity, because if they actually cut out their individualism and just - worked to make the Zone open without so much wasted time, they wouldn't be so bad... Oh, the change in leadership has done that? She doesn't care, so much.
Spetsnaz; The Ukrainian Special Forces do not care who you are, or what you've done for the Zone and visitors. They will rescue you if it benefits their orders, they'll let you die if it's an order from on high. She respects this honesty, and anyway, it's much the same as what she'd do, so...
Enemies: Duty; Paramilitary idealists who think of themselves as being tougher than they are. Worse, still, they end up blocking off interesting areas, so - you know, sometimes they end up drowning in a swamp, and it just can't be helped, right? Pity. She's not opposed to their structure, and is only mildly opposed to their goals - but they've crossed paths so many times that, well - it just can't be helped. She tried quoting the Green Elephant at one over the radio, and it only made the guy more angry for some reason? No sense of humour.
Virgil Potemkin; A fellow indep Stalker who crossed paths and ended up getting to her goals before she did too many times. They're not exactly enemies, and can even share a drink in neutral territory, but - that weird, angry tension that comes up when someone takes what was YOUR scoop in the Zone... It's boiled over, and they've started sabotaging each other when possible. It wouldn't endanger the group, just yet, but... They're dangerously close to breaking out into a feud, and Plaun doesn't let feuds die easily...
Medical Research Hospital, 'Children's First'; She has no clue who this group is, or even if they're really a research hospital. All she knows is that several guys in much fancier envirosuits have occasionally laid down suppressing fire while she's in the Zone, taken this or that artefact, and left - just as suddenly, with little explanation. It's unnerving, but - that's life in the Zone.
Appearance: Marva is a well-worn woman of indeterminable older age, dressed in fine clothes that are always masterfully worn down to nubbins; revealing little, and saying much. Her artfully portrayed destitution is, like so much of her, a lie - but she enjoys playing the old woman stranded by fate as much as she does most anything.
She is somewhat tall, and possessed of a crooked back that meant she was probably even taller in her youth; now, she only rises to about 5'8, and it galls her clearly. Lines and wrinkles and callouses, liver spots and all their ilk dot her skin; but however careworn she might appear to be, she is clearly in good enough health to be well fed, and possessed of some strength, even in her advanced age.
Her eyes are a piercing, if somewhat sombre grey. She has an aquiline nose, is missing several teeth, and moves with a gait that makes her seem fr more infirm than she actually is.
Name: Marva; and she has no surname, but many have called her a Seeress. None have yet called her a liar, so she must clearly be seeing quite - clearly, mustn't she?..
Age: Luv, there are some things you mustn't ask a fine lady... (72.)
Location - Various, throughout Grendania. Her permanent abode is a small wooden cottage on a certain hill by the bay, along a perilous and somewhat hard-to-find natural road. But she tries to avoid staying there too frequently, lest people seek her out more often...
Social Class: Lower class, by choice. She makes a decent amount from her tricks and lies, but spends it readily, rather than hoarding it. Assuming she saved up, she could probably be considered Upper-Middle class... At least, if she had enough time to ply her trade. As for her occupation...
Bio: Marva is a self-proclaimed Seeress. Her mother was a fishmonger, her mother's mother was a fishmonger, and there was no in all of Grendania she was going to waste her life doing the same damn thing. Deciding that the universal trait of folk was their gullibility at an early age, she set off for the mountains with plans to become a hermit...
Only to realise that being a hermit was a damn fool thing, and she liked her creature comforts. So, the idea hit her, why not have both?
Claiming to have the gift of real, reliable magic, she impresses those easily impressed with a heady mixture of lies, folksy wisdom, and knowledge accrued from a very active life in the wilds. Dust explosions and phosphor might as well be the fire of the Gods; thrown chicken guts can accuratel foretell which House in a petty dispute shall triumph. And if her predictions are wrong, well, the Gods are inscrutable - it was clearly the fault of her patrons, for not being generous enough with their worldly possessions!..
Somehow, she managed to balance her desire for life alone with a degree of fame, enough that she could replace her masterfully torn (but never ruined) rags with new ones, as she pleased, could sneak into town for the occasional fine dinner or show at a local theatre... And always, always had a reliable new pair of boots.
Unfortunately, her long life propensity for sage advice has gotten the better of her at last; some minor noble brat sought her out, having heard a rumour that she wasn't an old lady, but a princess cursed to appear as such. He turned out to be a decent sort, and easily turned away - but it made her realise that she'd become a figure of local legend, strong enough to percolate in Grendania proper. Which meant that it was time to move, and find a new place to ply her trade...
Magical Inclination: None/GMs' discretion. If, over the course of the game, you want to nudge her into a certain school, please do so. She will be surprised by it as anyone.
Other skills: Immune to most plant-based poisons and a great deal of venomous animals; mithridatism isn't perfect, but one of her many services was tasting the food drink of low nobility - and, well, better to be safe than sorry.
An expert judge of character, from experience if nothing else. Is good at smoothing over disputes and finding the little things that make a person tick. Around the pious, she can foam at the mouth as a zealot; and amidst the skeptics, appear as a simple and 'umble persecuted mountain-woman, possessed of a sage and saintly wisdom (please donate to her health).
Capable of improvising and faking a remarkable amount of 'magical' effects, given time and a plan. Has always secretly wanted to involve others in her little schemes, but not exactly a trusting sort...
Navigates by the stars; can tell the weather with a frightening accuracy, cooks decently enough, and can throw together a lean-to with impressive speed.
In good shape, for her age - though that isn't saying a whole lot...
Resistant to extreme weather, wind, and snow.
Gear/Weapon: A long hunting knife, strapped to her side at all times, as well as a set of herbalist's knives, a skinning knife, pots, pans... Just the old things a mendicant needs, you know. At her home, she has several fine and untouched 'fancy outfits' she's planned to be buried in, but secretly has always wanted to wear. Various phials, filled with nothing much important, luv. (Coloured water, bits of gold and mineral oil, and milked snake venom.)
- More than a little fond of hooking people up. Takes great pride in being called a terrible old lady, and loves nothing more than making people uncomfortable.
- Does actually have a strong sense of justice, somewhere in there. Just hates actually doing anything about anything. F'course, if there were someone worth doing something about, and she had to - well, she might be more tenacious than she lets on.
- Loves fancy food, fine wine, and fine company. But gets very tired of the last one after awhile, and needs some time on her own to 'recharge.' Thus, her solitude.
- All predictions are final, and certified by the will of the Gods themselves. Go on, 'luv.
You wouldn't deny the will of the Gods, yeah?
