The Culling Season

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  1. The IC has opened!


    Father Gormsten’s last sermon, delivered just before toppling from his pulpit and passing through the Last Door: “The world is ending, though few lend such thoughts credence. Great powers seek to sweep the board clean, I have seen it! For centuries mankind has persevered, offered its foes cold steel, held fast in its faith, and bared its teeth toward adversity. As the new moon waxes, however, shrill voices echo throughout the night and fear cloaks people’s minds, blunts their courage. They are no fools, I say. It is right to fear. Watch your neighbours and fellow men and women, for the enemy lies within. No walls shall keep it out. The world is ending, and soon this will be a charnel-town, drowning beneath the malignant shadow of evil.”

    IC information:
    Fear, anger and suspicion grip the town of Gramheim as more and more people go missing or are found gutted on street corners. There are increasing reports of the most heinous crimes committed with gleeful violence and defiled remains strung up on facades, lantern posts or strapped to statues in morbid mimicry. The burgomeister himself has vanished without a trace, his left hand bearing the city’s signet ring the last clue as to his whereabouts. The interim government has called on the Count for help, but no answer has come. So far the aldermen have proven signally impotent, unable to deal with the growing chaos. Citizens bar their homes before nightfall and stand guard in shifts, mindful of their families and belongings

    There is talk of the supernatural, of curses and witches, vampires and werewolves. Others believe one or more serial-killers are the cause of the calamity that has befallen Gramheim, whereas there are still those who maintain to be blissfully ignorant and dismiss the concerns and rumours as idle gossip. After all, what delusional mind would believe in something as ridiculous as corpses shambling through the alleys or vicious packs of beasts? Graves emptied? Surely the work of grave-robbers. Howling in the night? Mongrels and mutts fighting for scraps.

    Atrocities happen nightly. Strange markings are found on walls, claw marks on doors and shutters, archaic scripture painted in blood on signs. Concerned for mass hysteria, the City Watch has devoted more effort to silencing these vile acts rather than hunting down those responsible for the murderous tide that sweeps through Gramheim’s cobbled streets and bloodies the gutters. Things have nevertheless gotten so much out of hand that no matter what labour dedicated to hiding the bedlam is sufficient.

    However, even in the darkest of times, there are always heroes to be found – sometimes in the unlikeliest of places. As Gramheim cowers and tears itself apart, some champions are united by capricious fate. There is strength in working together, but whom can one trust in times as these? It remains to be seen whether these would-be heroes, have what it takes to survive, let alone find out what evil is behind these disappearances and killings.
    OOC information:
    Located on the south bank of the river Gram, the town serves as a regional capital and trading hub. Famous for its stockyards, where the great cattle drives end in the heat and stink of a Gramlander summer. For several days, the streets are filled with livestock being brought to market and retainers of the cattle lords eager to spend their pay. The Gramheim City Watch often hires more help during this time to keep at least some control over the "celebration". The stockyards are near the docks where the slaughterhouses and abbatoirs are located, so the cut meat can be salted, cured and loaded onto barges for easy transportation downriver. Recently, a cabal of merchants has begun experimenting with ice brought from the mountains and kept magically cool, to keep the meat fresh during transportation. The Salter's Guild of Gramheim, fearful for a loss in profits, in turn has threatened violence if the experiment continues.

    Even though the town is growing more unsafe, business must go on. It is the culling season, and the great cities down the Gram River are not going to supply themselves in terms of beef and pork. During the day charlatans and wizards make golden deals, though there is quite some risked involved in their trade. Not all luck-charms or protective wards work. Paying for a bundle of crow-bones from a street wizard is stupid and dangerous. Trying to cheat one’s customers is even more so. The people of Gramheim might be scared, but they are angry too. Knives are drawn much faster these days, and swindlers never stay in town long. These unexplained crimes form the perfect opportunity for a variety of accounts to be settled.

    Who/what will I play?
    That is up to you, obviously. I started this out with a mind to have all player characters collected in one place, in a tavern. It would give you the opportunity to craft a local Gramheimer, trader, weary traveller, passing hedge-wizard, mercenary, priest or what have you and instantly be able to interact with others. I would love to pitch it like this.

    Are there multiple races?
    Yes. Think the conventional/traditional archetypes (Dwarves, Halflings, Elves, etc.). Who knows, maybe there’s even a benign Goblin detective that joins the party?

    What sort of tech-level can I expect?
    Flint-lock pistols, cannons, gunpowder, some steampunk contraptions, armour is still relevant though.

    Is there magic?
    The fact I mentioned wizards and such must have given this away already. Yes, there is. It is limited though. Casting fireballs left and right will make your char have a spontaneous nosebleed or haemorrhage, resulting in passing out or… death.

    Will there be character death?
    Yes, but not forced on you. This is about people’s choices. I’ll never kill off a person’s character, but preparedness to receive injury and demise do make for great story elements. Keep in mind, the horrors out there are a plot device, it makes sense that bad stuff is going to happen.
    • GM is currently me, myself and I. Feel free to contact us whenever you require assistance or information. Other GMs may be appointed as the RP progresses. Don't feed us after midnight.
    • Advanced standards; this means a common sense approach; game of logic and collaboration.
    • You are assumed to be an adult by submitting a character for this game; please act like one.
    • Unapproved Character Sheets should be posted on the Interest Check (though they can be sent via pm as well) for approval/disapproval. Not all decisions will be made public.
    • Approved Character Sheets may be posted in this thread, in the 'Cast List' tab.
    • Applications may take a few days before a decision can be made. Generally issues will be resolved over pm.
    • Players are encouraged to play typically group or one-on-one scenarios, large battle scenarios, cloak-and-dagger scenarios, small plots and large plots. To be creative, and to interactive with their fellow players on their own to plot is expected. Take initiative.
    • Players are allowed to play as more than one character.
    • This list can change.

    Character Sheet:
    Char Sheet (open)

    Appearance/Description: (No anime pics puh-lease!)
    Skills*: (What does your char excel at? Does he/she fit in a certain class/trope/type?)
    OOC notes: (what do you need other people to know, what do you have in mind for the char, what inspired you? It can be left blank though)

    *Those with asterisks are mandatory fields.

    The alternative to a character sheet, would be to send me the introductory post of your character that includes the elements mentioned in the sheet above. I offer this choice for those who want to delve right into the setting and character.

    Accepted Characters:
    #1 Sini, Jan 14, 2016
    Last edited: Jan 21, 2016
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  2. ((Example of what an introductory post would be. I like these, because they usually immerse someone instantly and can be recycled/edited as a first post when the RP kicks off.))

    Flicking away the whickered bottle, a last lurch at its mouth, he shouldered his pack and followed the main street to the town’s square. There appeared to be no system to its manure-reeking streets, instead it was a wild collection of twists and turns until suddenly he arrived at a cobbled square. Gargoyles hung from several facades, the town houses there clearly owned by the wealthier merchants. He trudged on, down a side-lane and towards the docks where the cobblestones eventually gave way to a muddy, grimy ditch that had to masquerade for a street.

    Winter was coming soon, already doing battle with the end of autumn. There was already strength in its frosty fingers. The winter season was stubborn in Gramland, and tended to outstay its welcome every year. At night temperatures plummeted, leaving the puddles in the road frozen over, and the cobblestones slippery with ice. The ground lay hard as bones come dawn, and the fattened cows and pigs herded through the streets complained loudly when ushered into their pens at the quays. Some broke their legs on the way over, and were slaughtered on the spot, their meat sold at the morning market.

    Men wrapped themselves heavily against the encroaching bites of frost and looked at the grey skies in anticipation of the snows and deep winter. Afterwards would come the Gramlander short spring and even shorter summer. Families huddled together around flickering fires, mindful of the infringing shadows. Folk said it was during the longest nights in midwinter that the Wild Hunt rode out in force. Everyone had grown up with the tales of the spectral riders racing through the air, devils swooping down to steal souls and children. They were told, time and again, memories of an ancient era passed into myth. Yet, there were rumours now that those ancient memories were not simply that, but forgotten truths come back to haunt Gramheim.

    Little to no work could be done on the poor fields any longer, and the countryside was empty but for the murders of crows and solitary coal-burners or shepherds. The culling season had begun, and no hands could be spared from the cattle business. Slaughter, sell and send on its way – after the beef and pork would float on heavy barges down the river Gram, people could hibernate, yet for now there was work to be done.

    When the sun rose, its light was pale as if coming through milky glass. Its weak rays barely managed to provide any warmth, and when the sun passed again beyond the horizon for another long night the cold returned with a vengeance. A low-hanging mist was slithering into town from the docks.

    Cregan took an angry look around him. He felt tired, dirty and ill. The streets were nigh on empty at this time of day and he himself wanted a place to get even more drunk, find something to eat and rent a bed. It was as if his bones had been burnt, and he had to drag his limbs through a muddy bog.

    In the faint light of dusk, the narrow hovels clustered together tightly, as if gripping one another for support. They rose from the refuse and filth of the streets in uneven, jagged rows like a crone’s teeth. Out of all the houses in front of him, only five had slate roofs and straight walls of dressed stone. The others were made of wattle and shoddy brickwork with thatch-roofs and crooked corners.

    The region of Gramland was not a wealthy place, torn apart by squabbling nobles with a claim to one title or other. Somehow they managed not to deal with the bandits hiding in the hills and deep forests. They were too preoccupied with counting their silver and tourney-play. There were more poor places than rich in the world, Cregan knew. Gramheim might have been the largest port and only true town of Gramland, but it also had some of the poorest buggers as its inhabitants. The local count and his court preferred to dwell for the majority of the year in their private estates near the south-eastern borders, so they could hunt and train their falcons. Only in deep winter did the count and his retinue trudge back to the regional capital, sheltering in the massive castle overlooking the town. The vast keep ensured they were isolated from the worst cold and the worst squalor of their subjects.

    Those who could afford it constructed their town houses and manses at the foot of the hill upon which the Gramburg sat perched, as close as they could to the stone fortress. Those who could not buy or rent a plot of land there had to try their luck in the lower districts, where the squalid dwellings were crammed together, shoved up against one another and the militia-men patrolled in strength to keep the peace.

    Cock and Bulls, the sign read, displaying a big red rooster and two green bull-heads. The joke was not lost on him, and a low gargling noise emerged from his well-smeared throat. He was laughing. Especially since the business adjacent to it was clearly a brothel, advertising The Salty Clam for its illustrious name. In spite of the allusive moniker, the Cock and Bulls seemed respectable enough, likely hosting a variety of patrons.

    Cregan pulled his longcoat tighter around his brawny frame, the stitches almost giving as the heavy fabric was drawn taut across his broad back and shoulders. After another glance down the street he moved toward the two establishments, one of the only ones where light poured from the stained windows. There was some carousing to be heard from within. The hand-painted - badly painted, mind you- sign hung from the doorpost, and he had to duck to pass under it and into the inn. He snickered again because of the name of the alehouse.

    After letting the door fall shut in its creaking hinges, Cregan observed the gloomy room. A slow, sullen murmuring filled his ears, sharp laughter and high-pitched giggles cutting through which made his head hurt. Or rather, which made it hurt even more. He sensed the mood was stifled, surly people sitting at trestle tables and aged benches. The room was a low one. Old straw lay in the corners, reeking and mouldy. Tallow candles sputtered with greasy flame, streaking their alcoves and the daub walls with black.

    A quick look was all it took to realise they were mostly scum or downtrodden. Just like me, Cregan cynically told himself. There were others too though, sat at the better furbished back of the room, closer to the hearth and more beyond on an elevated level. Not just the downtrodden attended the Cock and Bulls. Some of the patrons turned to look at him enter, most turned back to their drinks, conversational partners or bought women. Most, Cregan noted, but not all. One man with a salt-and-pepper beard kept his calm eyes on the newly arrived guest. A frown sat etched on his forehead, much like on Cregan’s. Then, after a few moments the fellow returned his interest on the tankard in front of him.

    His thick boots made the wooden floorboards squeak as he marched forward toward the bar. Cregan ignored the bearded lout. The old fool probably lusted after Cregan’s warm and heavy coat. He can try and take it if he wants, he thought grimly. Better men than him had, and failed.

    “Beer,” he told the woman standing behind the bar, his voice gravel-coarse. She was wearing an apron, and busy with counting coppers into a clay jar. Slightly overweight, it seemed her best years were behind her. “Something to eat.”

    The bitch looked at him irritated, as if serving customers was not her task even though employment at or ownership of a business like this one implied as such. “Keg or bottle?” She screeched.

    A single brow went up at the question. To have beer from a glass bottle was a rarity, an oddity. Cregan ogled the ones on show carefully, trying to discern whatever was written on the faded labels that stuck to the deep green and thick glass. Long corks protruded from the bottlenecks. The characters he attempted to read were foreign, angular and non-sensical. Plundered stock then, he surmised, anything could be in them. I better not.

    “Keg,” he said, throwing a single silver piece onto the tabletop. The woman got up and filled a tin tankard with a dark brown liquid. There was practically no head on it, none of the usual froth dark heady beers had. Cregan took a sniff. It almost smelled like beer, almost. But there was more than a bit of the drain about it too.

    Nevertheless, Cregan took it up and shuffled over to one of the benches lining the daub walls. Sitting down heavily, he noticed the man with the salt-and-pepper beer had left, but none of the other clientele paid him any attention. He sighed and took a sip of his drink, dropped his pack next to him. The metal and apparel within jostling, mixing with the jingling of glasses and cutlery of the heated room. The beer had a sour finish after the initial sweetness subsided, but he had had worse. Much worse, as he recalled the rubbish he had drank in Engelfold. It was wet, it would take the edge of his mood and ease his burning bones and sluggish arms and legs. Not much else mattered for now.

    Cregan pushed himself back against the wall, reclining and then letting his legs stretch out against the floor, studying his feet. His boots had once been something to be proud of: expensive leather, expertly sewn, steel in the heel and tip of them. Now they were just like him, faded, battered and worn-out. He grunted in self-loathing and shifted his pale eyes to his legs. Though it was hard for him to remember, he had been considered tall. Handsome even. Now he just looked big and weathered like an old willow. The muscles that had swung steel and iron were still there, but were encased in an unwelcome layer of fat he had put on in the last two years. His features had become lined and hard from the elements and the sea. His dark hair, jet-black in his youth, was now ragged and stained with white from the sea-salt. It was slowly coming off, but the tresses kept on a grey colour. At least when he looked in a silver platter or bowl of water he saw the colour of his eyes -grey like the flank of winter wolf- had remained the same, even though his eyes themselves were set in a stranger’s pale face and underlined with red. When he looked at his sorry reflection he saw his father’s eyes stare back at him, and then cursed his curiosity. Even from beyond the Last Door the bastard managed to haunt him, find him wanting and unworthy of his legacy.

    The dark beer went down easily, too quickly. Before he knew it, the drinking flagon was nearly empty. Cregan left the dregs where they were, bubbling like molten grease at the bottom of his tankard. You never really wanted to know what was in those dregs. He gestured the woman for another. She brought one over, grumbling as she approached.

    “And? That silver was enough to cover one pint and the meal. You want another? Pay up.” she said, holding out a grimy palm. Cregan paused. His payment should have been good for it. His stash was almost empty, just like his cup. He had paid in silver after all, minted in Murwick across Marten’s Gulf, taken from a trader braving the Western Enderid. That merchant and his cog now rested at the bottom of Cyn’s Deep. Nobody in this town probably knew any of those places, Cregan presumed bleakly.

    Cregan was about to protest, but the alcohol had sunk deep into his body, almost as deep as the Murwick cog had in the sea, and had made him lethargic. Who cared if he was being swindled? The money would be gone soon enough anyway. Let this cunt have it, he thought indifferent to his own misery. After pressing a second piece of silver into her hand, she skulked off. He took a thoughtful sip, for the amount he was paying he should make it last and try to enjoy it.

    A second sip followed soon after. And a third. The familiar warmth and solace spread through his leaden body. Watching the common room, taking in the scent of cooking food, he managed to slink into something of a relaxed state of mind.

    #2 Sini, Jan 14, 2016
    Last edited: Jan 16, 2016
    • Like Like x 2

  3. Name:
    Hemlock Avelinne

    (Note: Avelinne is not a given surname, but was his
    mother's name. He has found that the denizens of
    Gramheim respond a bit better to Hemlock Avelinne
    than Hemlock, Son of Avelinne, Witch of the Wood.)




    Witch of the Wood

    True to his elven blood, Hemlock remains largely unchanged by time, appearing to be somewhere in his twenties. He is pale skinned, dark-haired, and has slightly tipped ears, though his features appear otherwise human. Some consider his eyes to be unsettling, but they're little more than an average hazel; the fact that they are often peering from beneath a hood is likely what most find the most unsettling, as Hemlock is by no means a threatening individual. He stands a few inches shy of six feet and possesses a slight build, leaving him far from physically intimidating. He generally conceals himself under dark cloaks, often adorned with feathers and furs. Though little more than his rings are seen, he wears jewelry of wooden beads and bone, as well as an intricate talisman as a necklace pendant. On the rare occasions he is about without a hood, he can be seen wearing a feathered piercing in his left ear.

    Many from Gramheim consider Hemlock to be a bit of an odd duck-- which isn't a wholly unwarranted assessment. Somewhat reclusive and rather eccentric, Hemlock spends a majority of his time in the forest outside of Gramheim. Given, he does live there, but his residence is one that any respectable citizen avoids. If possible, anyway. It isn't that Hemlock is unfriendly-- quite the opposite, actually. No, the issue that most take with him, is that he is a witch. He will, however, be the first to point out that he is not that kind of witch, nor is he a wizard. If one was to inquire, he does some divining here and there, as well as the occasional bit of spellwork, but he isn't one to peddle such a "service" about on the streets.

    Mostly, he's a healer and brewer of potions. If one were to give him the opportunity, he's also a talker. Most don't. Well aware of how the general populace feels about witches and practitioners of the old ways, Hemlock keeps largely to himself and he seems content enough. Even so, he isn't an unsympathetic being, and is pleasant to most everyone, soft-spoken and polite-- save for a rather unusual sense of humour. On his weekly visits into Gramheim, he can sometimes be heard talking or singing to himself in a language that no one quite recognizes. That, coupled with his usual adornment of feathers and (no one is sure if it's intentional) leaves, gives way to avoidance.

    If one were to interact with the witch, they would find him laid-back, having a vague but perpetual curiosity for most everything. Gramheim denizens try to limit such interactions to business, only buying from him when they truly need it, and reluctantly allowing Hemlock into their shops. He also has a somewhat unsettling air about him, despite his amiable nature. Most describe it as a feeling of gloom, though they wouldn't say the man appears to be sad. Perhaps the townsfolk would be less put-off by this, if he would stop vanishing into (seemingly) thin air...

    Eccentricities aside, Hemlock is a well-read individual that excels in the healing arts. Having learned from his mother, and she from hers, many of his practices are proven, age-old methods that utilize medicinal herbs, roots, and fungi. Once a week he wanders into the heart of Gramheim to sell his wares, ranging from fever-reducing tinctures, to soothing poultices, to tonics for intestinal parasites. Some of his concoctions can also be used to alleviate sickness in livestock, which has earned him grudging tolerance from many farmers, though they would be sore-pressed to admit even that. Hemlock also possesses more "practical" medicinal knowledge and has been (reluctantly) called on to sew wounds and help set broken limbs. Many of his practices are unlike that of physicians', so people tend toward their suspicions, but he has yet to do any unsatisfactory work. Despite his "unsavory" profession, the worst crime he could currently be held accountable for is oddity.

    Long ago, when Gramheim was cleaner and quieter, a strange young woman took up residence in the nearby wood. She was a pretty thing, but had an odd air about her, and it wasn't long before rumours filtered into the town that an elven witch had settled nearby. Still, some were fascinated by the murmurings of the beautiful young woman, and ventured out to where she lived. Within a few short months, the woman, one Avelinne by name, had a quaint stone cottage that had been all but built for her. Whether by voluntary efforts of suitors or by entrancement, no one can really say, but the young woman was living comfortably, occasionally venturing to town to exchange her herbal concoctions for various supplies.

    For over a century people came and people went, trade increased, the town grew, but Avelinne remained the same-- untouched by time. But as Gramheim grew and more people flocked to the ever-expanding town, Avelinne became more reclusive. These newcomers brought with them the teachings of a new God, and many shunned her for her beliefs and practices. This, however, did not stop those same people from purchasing charms and potions from her when they thought no one else would see.

    Perhaps it was because she was lonely, or perhaps because she wanted to ensure that her skills and beliefs would be handed down, Avelinne conceived a child. Who the father was, no one but she knew, but after a yearlong disappearance, she returned one summer day with a baby.

    Many said the child was cursed, conceived of shadow-- for his hair was as dark as his mother's was fair. This, of course, was nonsense; just the rumours of old women who have naught left but gossip. In fact, the child was more human than his mother, and in all likelihood the son of a passing traveler. He only asked about his father once, and was told that he was a handsome man from a land far, far away. That had been enough to sate Hemlock's curiosity, and he developed no contempt for the absent parent. Everything he needed, Avelinne provided.

    From her he learned all about the magical plants of Gramland, and those beyond. He learned how to draw a fever, soothe aches, and hinder infections. Despite the growing isolation the pair faced from the town, the boy learned kindness and acceptance, not to judge people based on their beliefs, and above all, to respect the balance of nature. He learned the ancient art of healing magics, and he also learned to respect the limitations of magical ability, to never take more magic than one had energy to give in exchange-- for to do so could cost him his life.

    As he grew, Hemlock also learned to read and write, along with the practical skills of a healer; he might not always have the bounty of nature at his disposal, and Avelinne thought it imperative to teach him to use what he had available. Much of his practice tending wounds and illness came from injured wildlife found in the forest, though the pair would be occasionally called if no physician was available to tend the injured or ill.

    While Avelinne was a peace-loving woman, she also knew the world could be dangerous, and taught her son the basics of self defensive using small daggers and knives. These, she taught, were never to be used for personal gain or to harm the innocent, but only to protect oneself or loved ones. She also taught him the art of illusion, to fade into shadow, which could often be used to avoid a fight.

    Time continued to pass. People came and people went, but the witch and her son remained the same.

    And then one day, with no explanation or announcement, Avelinne was gone.

    Some thought that the elf was, at last, spirited away by the heathen gods she worshiped, some that she eloped with a traveler, and some even went as far as to claim that Hemlock was responsible-- though, when it came down to it, no one really cared.

    Hemlock was fifteen when Avelinne left, and while he no longer had her to teach him, he had her numerous books and records as a guide. She had given him everything that he'd needed, and he continued on as though nothing had changed.

    Taking the ever-evolving trade of the town in stride, Hemlock continued to sell his wares to the townsfolk, though his visits became less and less frequent, dwindling to one weekly outing.

    With the trade and market being heavily dependent on livestock, Hemlock became an unspoken go-to for many smaller farmers. It wasn't good business to have a witch tampering about with one's cattle, and it wasn't a necessity for animals going to the market; but for those who produced dairy, wool, or eggs, they didn't have the same luxury of slaughtering an animal on the spot. Instead, if an animal was to become injured or an illness took over their flock, Hemlock was bade come quietly to assist in what ways he could. Most times, he was happy to help at no cost, as many smaller farmers often struggle, especially during the off-seasons, but people were (and are) hesitant to take anything from a witch for free, afraid they may be cursed as their "payment." As such, Hemlock has been given payment in a myriad of forms when coin has run short.

    Initially not having the slightest idea of what to do with half of the "payment" given to him, the witch developed a rather domestic set of skills, including spinning wool and raising chickens. While these weren't skills he would've sought out, they have provided him with necessities to live a largely isolated life in the forest without want.

    With the recent happenings however, even the forest is beginning to feel dangerous. True, Hemlock possess no riches of interest to bandits and raiders, and the raucous murders of crows that linger near the stone cottage, along with the many talismans strung in the trees, serve to ward off any would-be trespassers-- but for how long?

    Knowing that his cloistered hermitage won't grant him indefinite sanctuary, Hemlock has decided to offer his assistance-- though how the townsfolk will react to this, no one can be sure. Many unsavory rumours of vile witches, vampires, and werewolves have reached the town, and many are turning a suspicious eye on Hemlock.

    • Knowledge of medicinal herbs/plants and ability to derive potions, medicines, etc.
    • Similar knowledge of poisonous/toxic plants and is capable of creating/extracting potent poisons
    • Basic medical knowledge/first aid
    • Can utilize magic, but seldom does in the presences of others
      • Healing - he can mend wounds, but this takes a serious toll on his energy/vitality and he must rest afterward, especially if the wound is severe
      • Illumination - he is able to summon a small ball of light that can be held in the palm of his hand; no more or less useful than the average lantern
      • Minor Illusion - he cannot turn invisible, but can become unseen/unnoticed; works often but not always
    • Proficient with a dagger and throwing knives; used in tandem with poisons
    • Agile; accustomed to climbing and running

    • Considerable lack of physical strength
    • Prefers to engage enemies from a distance and does not do well one-on-one; very limited combat experience
    • Poisons do not work immediately, and can take considerable time before their effects kick in
    • Virtually no charisma; friendly, but doesn't always to know how to interact with others due to his isolation; rather naive
    • Using healing magic to tend to more than minor wounds leaves him heavily fatigued/possibly unconscious

    OOC Notes:
    I think what I'd like the most for Hemlock is to see him develop a meaningful relationship or two, perhaps learning that he may indeed have a place in the world outside of the forest. Currently, he just assumes that he will always be an outsider, and that people will never truly like or accept him, despite his best intentions. If left on the same path, he would continue to live out his long life alone, running the risk of becoming a rather bitter hermit.
    His chickens' names are Maple, Holly, Ivy, and Ash. In his free time, he knits them tiny sweaters.
    #3 DinoFeather, Jan 14, 2016
    Last edited: Jan 18, 2016
    • Like Like x 3
  4. Algernon Bell
    Age: 31 | Race: Human | Profession: Solicitor/Purchasing agent

    Tall and lean, Algernon stands head and shoulders above most men, betraying his rustic roots with what some might call a 'hillman's physique.' His fair features he gets from his mother, averring the more prestigious half of his heritage. Haphazardly groomed auburn hair and sideburns give him something of the look of a young decadent, despite his contrary nature. His dress, on the other hand, is very tidy, as experience has taught him others' sincere belief that 'clothes make the man.'

    Given his profession as a lawyer, Algernon is an unusually honest chap. Mannerly, if somewhat cool in his dealings, he isn't above lies of omission, exploiting legal loopholes, or playing to his clients' weaknesses, though the idea of employing out-and-out coercion repels him. He prefers consummate professionalism on the job and thus seems staid and unapproachable when in this capacity. While he would contend he is an outgoing and affable sort of fellow in his personal life, his tendency to overwork means this side is seldom glimpsed.

    Algernon was born to an ambitious cattle rancher and his affluent wife many miles inland from the Gram River, and thus from civilization. As a boy, he worked on the farm alongside his siblings, and tagged along whenever livestock was brought into town. His father put everything into his land, spending nearly all his wife's dowry to shore up his investments in it. When outside parties began buying up the surrounding properties, Algernon's father stubbornly refused to sell, leading ultimately to the Bells' misfortune and ruin. Left susceptible to the dangers of the frontier for want of a community, a supernatural menace fell upon the family, claiming all but Algernon and his youngest sister, Carmella, in short order. Algernon is haunted by those final days, preferring not to dwell on them, but came away from the experience with a deep-seated mistrust of magic and all things occult.

    Algernon and Carmella were taken in by Ignatius Lilybridge, their uncle on their well-to-do mother's side. From the start, the boy could see there was little love to be won from the man, who practiced kindness only through setting rules and imparting lectures. His wife, Hildegarde, was thankfully infinitely warmer, and afforded every opportunity to spoil her niece and nephew, and provide them with a high-born education.

    Upon his graduation, Algernon spent a few years doing unremarkable clerical work for his uncle's law firm, often concerning the same sort of property acquisitions as his father had fought against. It was almost by accident that he came into the employ of the cattle baron Skallagrim Alehorn. His uncle had needed men alongside him for appearance's sake during a meeting with the notoriously cantankerous client, and bade Algernon come along. The young man's humble origins and frontier knowledge quickly stood out to the brazenly unrefined dwarf, who saw in him more than just another obsequious, money-grubbing pencil-pusher. He made it a stipulation of his agreement with the firm that he would only work with Algernon, and when their business was completed, hired the lad out from under his uncle on the spot.

    Since then, Algernon has become a fixture of Alehorn's cattle empire, winning him land deals and investors with a practiced blend of gentility, business acumen, and a rancher's insights. Of late, he has had his share of familial upheaval, as his swift success has alienated him further from his already distant uncle, not least because Algernon has managed to poach some wealthy investors and lucrative contracts. Meanwhile, Carmella has yet to marry, with eccentricities accumulated following their shared childhood trauma having only deepened with maturity and driven away many would-be suitors.

    Though raised as a commoner, Algernon was fortunate enough to receive an exemplary education, and has grown familiar with the ways of cultured society through the time spent in their company. The demands of his work have granted him a fine eye and a silver tongue, and he has succeeded in garnering some valuable social connections. A young man from the frontier, he has kept himself in fine fettle, and has complemented his wilderness upbringing with a gentleman's instruction in the arts of fencing and marksmanship.

    Algernon is somewhat naive and foolhardy despite the cynicism and prudence essential to his business, and treats all but the most overtly unscrupulous with an attitude of good faith unless otherwise given reason to doubt them. Aside from some boyhood horseplay or a rare barroom brawl, he also has little in the way of real fighting experience. Strongly averse to magic and the supernatural, he is rationalist/naturalist to a fault, always looking for the comprehensible explanation to a situation. Furthermore, his ties to the divisive Mr. Alehorn can serve as much a burden as a boon to him, depending on the circumstances.

    Initially inspired to do a Jonathan Harker type, and I knew I wanted a Wild West slant to his place in this setting, so I made him the solicitor/purchasing agent of a cattle baron. I do hope to give Alehorn and Carmella a bit of prominence in his character arc, and play with his fear/loathing of magic and the supernatural. I'd also enjoy weaving his storyline in with someone else's at least a little; for example, he might be courting someone, or else his sister might be/become affianced to someone, such as a PC or a side character.
    #4 dreamshell, Jan 14, 2016
    Last edited: Jan 15, 2016
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  5. The Bartender
    Name: Vladlena Alyona Ievos
    Gender: Female
    Race: Dark Elf, Berserker
    Age: 172 Elven Years, 32 Human Years

    Aging Reference Sheet from Pathfinder
    Age, Height & Weight

    She is a pale, grey skinned Dark Elf with a rather muscular body but not of body builder mass. Vladlena stands tall at five feet and six inches (5'6"), weighing at an average of hundred and eighty pounds (180lb). However, if she was to lose every bit of muscle mass, she would only weigh in at an average hundred and fifty pounds (150lb). She still holds a semi-slim appeal, keeping the female-shaped body clear in identification. Vladlena has unkempt, deep passionate red hair with streaks of black near the ends. Her hair is generally up in a high tail that flairs outwards with knots yet still manages to look decent. The eyes are a glistening silver that can easily be mistaken for a glow. There is nothing special about her eyes other than they are silver, an unusual color among humans and many non-elf races. Ears and hands both are rather long. Ears reach outward slightly past the back of the head but are not angled too high nor too low. Her hands are unnaturally long, fragile-looking due to a past event, and are decorated with long sharpened, coal colored nails.

    To Be Developed in Story
    Possible Key Notes-
    • Quick-Tempered
    • Passive Aggressive
    • Comical
    • Desperately Flirty

    Back Story:
    As a young child, Vladlena learned that her people's thoughts were the word of their God. That faith is what guides them through the dark shadows of the night and that no matter what one did, there was punishment. It was like an unforgiving fetish her people had, and she could not grasp the understanding of it. Harming one another in unusual ways to show their God that they were loyal. Unfortunately for Vladlena, she could not escape her pending fate with the rest as she was too young to make her choice. The Elders of her people decided the best loyalty she could show was one of blood and tears, thus scaring a fragment of her life.
    By the time she was a rowdy teenager, she did what most teenager knew best; be mischievous. But her parents did not approve. It was important for her, at this time, to be partnered with a male and show proper behavior. The longer and slimmer one was, the more beautiful they were considered. That was not the case for Vladlena, she was never able to achieve a proper, slim body. Finally, Vladlena was caught off guard and was taken to be 'beautified' by her Elders, the same one's that scared her younger years causing a strong hate. They started with her hands, hammering her fingers breaking pieces of bond inside them. Crushing each knuckled down, brutalizing the once's smooth skin around her fingers. They were left to heal in odd ways, leaving them unnaturally long and slightly bizarre to another who did not understand their ways. Enough was enough, and Vladlena could take no more. Some how, some way she made her way to a quiet, filth-town and settled in. She now works as a Bartender and an 'Inn Bouncer' due to a muscle mass built up over the years.

    - Beast Illusion
    • The ability to create an illusion, deceiving one by false imagery, that a sort of 'realistic' beast is present. However, this illusion is only a trick played on the mind and anything created cannot attack or harm another.
    • *Vladlena often has a wolf or acanine-like beast present at the Inn, that will roam around disappearing time from time. There is no true purpose of this beast other than to ward off negative intentions. Very few of the guests know about the false image of the beast and perceive it as real.

    Weapons: Hammer and Axe
    • Vladlena cannot carry both for obvious reasons however, is capable of switching between the two depending on given situations. More times than not, a long, two-handed axe is a preferred weapon of her's.

    Weakness: Psychic Capabilities that Affect the Body or Mind

    (Jeez, everyone's character sheets look 100x better than mine.... -sigh-)
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    53 | Dwarf | Gunsmith

    Grin is like most dwarves, short and stout--though one should probably not mention the latter. He has an ombre complexion, made worse by the Gramlander summers, and long brown hair that is sloppily pulled behind his head. Unlike the traditional dwarf, he doesn't wear a beard. Don't get him wrong, he's tried. Unfortunately, there are only so many times one can burn it off before they decide it isn't worth it. True to his nickname, Grin likes to do just that. Maybe it is to deter from the scars around his bright green eyes or from the fact that he's always weaving a lie. His tongue can be just as crafty as his calloused fingers but rarely as successful.

    Grin is always laughing, always smiling, and almost always everyone's friend. He's quick to tell a story and quick to drink your whiskey as payment. He's in love with words as much as he is pretty women and men. Though, he's not too keen on other dwarves. He likes to smoke. He likes to gamble. He's not a pious or a quiet man. Yet, people have always met or will meet worse.

    Such an attitude might lead one to believe that he's quite welcoming of others. Unfortunately, that is quite far from the truth. His attitude is nothing more than a way to further distance himself from others. Ask him about himself, and he'll tell you a story about traveler he once met with a pet rat. Ask him about his family, and he'll tell you all about how said pet rat did tricks for a sip of whiskey. Ask him why he's avoiding the questions, and he'll tell you all about how the pet rat drowned itself in a fist of whiskey. "Not a bad way to go," Grin'd say and prepare a toast for a dead rat all while smiling.

    Eingrin Sulferstone is a gunsmith. Just like his father and his father before him. His story is far from a "hero's journey." It's more a journey of a shit of a boy into a not-as-big-a-shit of a man. Eingrin wasn't born in Gramheim but up the river a ways in a smaller town. His father served as the regional gunsmith. He was almost always missing throughout the young dwarf's childhood. His mother raised him and his four brothers much like one would raise a pen of angry colts, by breaking them. Eingrin had taken every word she said as a challenge. By the time he was a teenager, he'd seen the back of his mother's hand more than a draft horse saw a whip. His mother was more-than-happy to deposit her son off in his father's hands. Eingrin was the oldest, and as tradition dictates the one to take over his father's work.

    One might be surprised to learn that Eingrin was good at the gunsmithing trade. He'd always been so ornery about everything else in his life. His father would always say it was in his blood and maybe that was true. Eingrin liked to think it was more than that. He enjoyed forging piece by piece and putting them together in new and interesting ways. He'd never make the same gun twice while his father was content on creating stock guns depending on trade or use.

    Many seasons passed and Eingrin and his father had been all along their little region. They'd fixed ranchers' guns, crafted side arms for a few mercenaries, and even tended to a few guns owned by City Watch members. It had not only been a good learning experience for Eingrin but also profitable. Yet, like many tales told with such happy beginnings, things rarely ever stayed that way.

    One of the guns that Eingrin had crafted and sold to a mercenary captain had backfired. Well, maybe the more appropriate phrasing was: blown the man's hand clean off. He survived his injuries, somewhat surprisingly, and wanted the man responsible. They cornered Eingrin and his father on a boat back to their small town. His father apologized, offering a refund and heavy compensation. Eingrin refused. He'd inspected the weapon and seen that the mercenary captain had not loaded the gun correctly, had not cleaned it as he should have, and definitely not handled it in the manner that was befitting of a gunslinger. Angry, and rightfully so, at Eingrin's outburst, the mercenary captain handed the gun to young dwarf. He'd loaded it the same way it had been when his hand was blown off. A mercenary pointed a gun straight at Eingrin's father's temple and told Eingrin to hold the gun close to his face and fire it. Eingrin wanted to protest, but his father pleaded that he didn't. So, Eingrin did as he was asked.

    The blowback from the gun wasn't enough to blind Eingrin but it was enough to scar around his eyes and burn the skin off of Eingrin's fingers. The young dwarf didn't remember much of what happened after that. He woke up under the care of some old healer on the boat. Eingrin's father was gone, as were the mercenaries. The woman told him that the boat headed to Gramheim. Eingrin got off and never looked back. He didn't know if his father had lived or died, but he'd heard from the other passengers that it was more the former than the latter. The only good thing that his father did for him was leaving Eingrin his equipment.

    It took some time for Eingrin to develop a decent reputation in Gramheim. But he eventually did and become known as Grin the Gunsmith and Perpetual Liar. "He'll sell you a damn good gun, but don't believe any of the malarkey that comes out of his mouth."

    • Gunsmithing: A family trade that Grin is damn good at. He's one of the best in Gramheim. He knows how to create, repair, and alter guns. Rifles are his specialty, but he's also pretty good with pistols as well.
    • Marksmanship: Grin wouldn't be a good gunsmith if he didn't know how to shoot. While he's no sharpshooter, he can shoot a bottle off of a fence at fifty paces or more. Moving targets are a bit harder, but as long as they aren't downright acrobatic--he can usually get a good shot on them.
    • Hardy: Along with his dwarven constitution, Grin has built up years of resistance against not only alcohol but toxins as well. He's not likely to get sick from the ingestion of toxins or poisons. Something introduced to his blood stream is an entirely different matter.

    • Pathological Liar: Not really something one would view as a major complication until one manages to get in over their head with it. Grin hates telling the truth about as much as he hates paying for his drinks. He has a less than stellar reputation in any dealings beyond gunsmithing.
    • Is Probably Drunk: Very sober when he works and very drunk any other time.
    • Melee-less: Grin can boast a big game when he drinks, but he can't really back it up. One might not be surprised to learn that his nose didn't get crooked from him banging his own head into a table.
    • Lessened Dark Vision: Due to Grin's injury, he can't see that well at night. Sure, he isn't blinded by the darkness, but he sees more silhouettes than actual features.

    Been listening to a lot of gritty gothic country, or whatever the genre's called, and pulled the idea of Grin from this song. The details aren't pulled verbatim, but I liked the feel of it. My thoughts for Grin's character progression is for him to feel less betrayed by the world. As it stands, he trusts no one and nobody. Might be fun to really dig into that and eviscerate his insecurities. That sounds creepy.
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  7. Name
    Hendwick Idle-Shower




    Standing shorter than the average man at 5'2", Hendwick makes up for being on the shorter end of the male spectrum by being extremely bulky, being called the "The Tallest Dwarf Alive" on some occasions, much to his own amusement. He has average looks, his teal eyes going well enough with his slicked back blonde hair, though his usually dirty face hides some of the possible appeal that was there. His getup generally just being a display of his pathetic excuse for adventuring gear that barely keeps him alive, being damaged but to him the fact it's still working makes it 'durable' and 'reliable' enough for him to continue using. Though usually not being worn, the man sports a pair of gauntlets that are on put on odd, custom mounts on the side of his outfit, for easily equipping when a brawl is around the corner.


    Hendwick is a curious man; While he is *SORT* of a drunk, and *SORT* of a lazy loafer, he shows himself having a very positive look at just about everything. It's not often his grin will falter, in fact, it's more likely everyone around him would rip his lips off before it ended up going away. He's fond of joking, and tends to try and be fun with just about everyone, though knows when to shut his mouth after he's gone on too long. The man seems almost unable to feel bad about the world around him, or his own situation when it comes to funds, which to some might be seen as a blessing. But to him he is indifferent, simply continuing onward during his day to day life, not putting much thought into it.

    While he does drink, the amount of time he's been drinking has caused him to not be able to afford enough to actually get himself wasted anymore, so usually he finds himself unable to reach the point he'd prefer. That being said, the effect it has on him isn't really known, so his possible attitude after drinking himself under the table is beyond the knowledge of those around him. Most figure if nothing else changes him, what'll drink do? Make him happier? Some weren't sure that was possible, and though he is familiar with his own drunken personality, Hendwick himself ponders that very question as if he wasn't the person in question, which can make others wonder just how much the man truly knows and how secretive he truly could be.

    A drunk wasn't your first choice of a person to put trust into, and a man that finds himself constantly able to grin in a situation is quite possibly insane, and shouldn't be trusted, either. That being said, getting to know Hendwick, it's clear that while he may be just a tad crazy with his positive outlook, that he is a generally nice, and helpful, person. While he does prefer to be paid for his jobs, he isn't above doing something for free just to help the people. Especially if it can nab him a buddy to buy him something to drink down the line. He serves as an open-ear for people's troubles, and is always able to offer a few positive words to someone in need. Occasionally he'll even spit out random knowledge that he's picked up over the years if it fits into the situation, surprisingly being very helpful in the most unlikely of places as he just blurts out something that someone else had said. That being so, he's capable of providing his own share of advice on occasion, though it's usually from his own perspective and helps nobody however.

    When it comes to combat, the man seems very willing to get in the fray, with his fists swinging. Being the durable little bastard he is, he can contend with most in melee combat, but lacks a lot of ranged ability aside from throwing what he has on him. That being said, a well-aimed rock has ended a fair share of tense situations, so his could possibly be no different if he's drank enough. While unfamiliar with fighting alongside others, the man is willing to work with someone towards the same goals if they happen to meet in a twist of fate, showing a fair amount of companionship to anyone in his group. He's the first there to attempt to help, and the last one that'll consider leaving. expressing loyalty towards someone if they catch his interest. Maybe even buying them a drink afterwards, if he can afford it.

    When it comes down to it, Hendwick is just a seemingly happy man that punches things for a living while drowning himself in as much alcohol as he can afford, carrying with him a fair ability of convincing people, as well as a few other skills that allow him to be flexible to the situation, making this drunk certainly be more than he appears at first. Thooough maybe not much more.


    Hendwick hasn't led the most exciting life, but perhaps it had been a curious one. His parents had led a simple caravan, wandering from place to place, trading off their goods. Hendwick himself was born on the side of the road, and spent a whole three days in an Inn before leaving town and growing on the road. The boy was a pure and curious youth, a flower-picker over a fighter, and a friend-maker over a flirt. He was an example of purity in the world, in a sense. He found himself learning the way of the trade during his younger years; His father being one slick and able salesman. That being said, Hendwick didn't care about it at all. He cared about just doing things. He wanted to see everything, obtain everything, and come out on top in life.

    During his higher teenyears, his family had ended up settling down in a simple backwater town, much to his dismay. They had gotten too old to wish to travel anymore, having saved up enough funds to start up their own little store. The man had no interest in being a shopkeep, and by the age of 19, he set out against his family's wishes in seek of fame and fortune beyond his wildest dreams. That being said, dreams are dreams. And his dreams were shattered at the reality that the world could be a cold, cruel place. Around every corner, the innocence of the young man was taken advantage of, he had done things he regretted due to being lied to, and had been backstabbed by his fair share of 'friends'. But through it all, the man didn't lose his hope. He kept a smile. He pushed forward to quest for his fortune, even if it wasn't out there. The hope kept him going; He was, if nothing else, determined.

    And he stayed determined for years. Now the grown man has found himself still walking the trails, still listening to rumors and legends in hope of finding that one treasure that'd make it all worth while. But hasn't yet managed to come across it. Starting at the age of 23 he began being exposed to alcohol, and while he acted more stupid than dangerous, that only meant it was more dangerous for him rather than others. He'd found himself beaten and thrown out of his fair share of bars, but soon enough found himself gaining a sort of resistance to the effects of the drink; To the point he literally couldn't afford to make himself piss-drunk anymore. However, he did learn to protect himself in a bar brawl, and though he had used knives and short swords before a certain point, he found himself accustomed to his fists the more he used them. Developing a minor street-fighting style that is relentless and is meant to serve as a 'Kill before killed' way of combat. Meaning the man has no true restraints when in danger, unless he is emotionally tied to the person in question.

    And so he lived in a world where he could not find treasure, or a good buzz. And the man kept pressing forward, smiling. Taking up work as a mercenary early in his adventuring career, Hendwick has solved his fair amount of problems, and has made a small name for himself in some places, though he's no hero above the average merc. Even if he did end up offering his iron-covered hands for free on occasion. He's found himself in yet another town, searching yet again for more treasure, more work, and more booze. He's beginning to already become a patron of the local watering hole, getting to know a few people within the establishment, who in return have to see him walk in after a job and drink himself poor. Not that he's the worst company to have, it's just sad.

    As sad as it's always been.


    When it comes to combat, Hendwick is an effective melee fighter showing a mixture of strength and speed, his muscle from years of travel and combat backing his already iron-covered fist that is good for delivering blunt damage to just about anything. Due to his former use of swords, he usually carries around a knife as well, just for emergencies when he finds himself in a bad situation. While not skilled, he can also throw the knife fairly far with fair accuracy, though he'll more likely hit someone with the hilt rather than the blade. While he has some natural durability, his armor is weak, meaning his defenses are not as superb as they could be. But being poor has it's setbacks.

    *Innocently Charismatic*
    While Hendwick doesn't know a whole lot, he can talk some people into things. His way of looking at life allowing him to deliver some words and promises others couldn't with a strait face. That being said, more serious people who have lived long, rough lives will find him almost impossible to listen to, leaving his words only able to influence sheltered individuals for the most part, like children.

    *Mental Strength*
    Hendwick has developed a bit of a resistance to spells that effect his mind due to his strange way of constantly looking at life being perplexing as it is. He has no knowledge of it, rather he'll stare at you dumbfounded like you were fooling around and pretending to cast something on him instead of making an actual attempt. Someone powerful could however still manipulate him and perhaps even begin figuring out how he stays so optimistic, however.

    *Cooking Skills*
    Hendwick seems to know his way around a kitchen, having to make due with the occasional rat when travelling due to his money problems. He can make a variety of oddball meals out of similarly odd ingredients, some of them having strange effects on people, while also being very filling, but only occasionally delicious.

    Being short has it's uses. Not only can Hendwick hide easier due to his size, but he also is generally at the right height to punch someone right in their forbidden region for a painful blow, and follow through by going for their knees.


    *Easily Convinced*
    As the above implies, Hendwick is easily talked into things by other people. Especially when booze and fortune are involved. Though it'd take a very charismatic individual or being to convince him to do anything evil, or criminally-related, as he considers himself above taking from others to keep himself going.


    Height is a double-edged sword...
    One obvious issue is that Hendwick is short, and unable to be taken seriously because of it. He is commonly called a Dwarf because of it, even average women having to look down at him a little to see eye-to-eye. With a small body comes small limbs, meaning to hit someone he has to dedicate himself to getting very close to his enemy to connect any blows. Short legs are also not good for running, making his odd sort of hobble embarrassing to look at, and hilarious.

    *Heavy Drinker*
    It's no secret that Hendwick is a drunk. And he'll do almost anything to get something that'll knock him right on his arse after gulping it down. He tends to be bribed with booze instead of money, and if there's spoils to collect, he'll go right for any drink open for grabs before considering anything else. It doesn't effect his moral decisions, however. Just his general choices in life.

    Hendwick is rather easily surprised, disliking dark places due to this fact. He's not really afraid, he's just never ready for something to jump out and it gets him every time. This leads him to getting a little panicked in places where something could jump out from anywhere, though he won't refuse to traverse through them.

    OOC notes

    I decided to go with a character that is pretty... Normal, in most ways. He's nothing too special, but that's mostly the point. Hendwick is a very adaptable type of character, I feel. And I hope he'll be able to respond and be responded to as I imagine in my mind. Though if not, surprises are always great.​
    #7 The Great Papyrus, Jan 18, 2016
    Last edited: Jan 18, 2016
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  8. Edwin Juinarto Harbeo
    58 Human Years
    Author, Professor

    Moorish skin like soil rich with clay. Hair shaven close and a beard that progressively lengthens beneath the chin. A half-hand taller than Men, but a build quite in-line with the common Man, if a touch softer in the waist. Regularly dressed in a woolen dress coat and blackened rough-spun shirt or a dark fabric vest atop a fine white shirt. Always with the same white fob watch in a pocket. Always with the glasses a touch too round to be posh. Fingers adorned by silver rings of varying degrees of quality. Often found with a book in hand. Most often something dripping of wit, the sort of text that brings an elitist air surrounding those dumb enough to share. Fortunately, Edwin is relatively bright. Ears pointed at the top, but relatively Man-like. Smile lines are beginning to etch and the bags beneath his eyes are taking a darker hue -- only just so, of course. He is a groomed one. More than most anyway and it's likely why he smells faintly of lavender. All in all, he is visibly an academic, or maybe a well-read hermit. Who can say, really?

    Expect a smile that is a little too distant and a hello that is a little cold. His words are warm first and second crisp. A faint song guides each phrase like modern poetry. However lyrical his words, their contents rarely indulge the ear. Edwin is an learned one and an academic born and bred. If he ponders upon pop culture it either runs its course with him quickly or it tickles his fancy far, far less than most. Instead, the middle aged professor speaks of the latest writings on science and philosophy. One would be wise to keep an ear, though. Every now and then as day approaches night or he succumbs to the drink, a lyric or two will slip divinely from those lips. They come as quick as they go. Merely a drop of honey -- but so sweet. Some think him the true identity of Juinarto.

    In truth, the years have worn on Edwin's psyche. Deeply and in a proper Jungian sense, he is a tarnished shell of what was. The suffering of past traumas made sharp wit obscured by an utter lack of interest. He is slow to anger or otherwise difficult to read. A time or two when challenged he is known to lower his book for a proper brawl -- which a time or two he has also won. Put simply, an odd sort seemingly too good for society.

    Edwin looks on the past sixty-odd years and realizes how bloody fucked his life has become. As a lad he was raised among elite folk, the royals and the politicians and the warriors earning excellent repute, these the peers of his family. Mother was a warrior of the elven folk to the far north, where skin darkens under the tropical sun and extreme violence is only matched by wit. Father was a politician, strong in an intellectual way if also hawkish and manipulative. They loved him. And they taught him all their flaws and their strengths, and Edwin grew to be an imaginative intellectual. He lived as the rich among peasants. The boy grew so snobbish he might on the beggars and very well given a wink by pa for doing so. No surprise when Harbeo Manor suffered sickness. Oh, the thought still makes him scowl. That awful night father came home tattered and bleeding from the neck. A blood-thirsty madness took him, and in that madness he killed two servants and his beloved. Nevertheless, his wife fought, a warrior do not forget, and made certain both died by the rising sun. A horrific vision. A macabre scene that shaped Edwin throughout childhood as he pursued education, creativity, and love. The boy might've grown to be a artist taken by ever-taken by whimsy, but instead his passions looked distant. Despite such horrors he came to teach and to write. Under the pseudonym Juinarto he writes dark penny-dreadfuls of abominations and sin. A recreation he stumbled into before adulthood and has kept up ever since. His actual profession is instruction, more specifically, he teaches rhetoric and folklore. He lives in his childhood home, Harbeo Manor, with a few roguish friends, little luxury left from his youth, and an utter obsession with what he'd seen as a child. Most pay little attention to the dilapidating manor and dismiss its inhabitants as outcasts, druggies, and delinquents. The assumptions allow him to investigate folktales of vampyres without attention. An investigation that only a fortnight ago led Edwin to a most morbid twist.

    No matter his recent encounter, the growing darkness in Gramheim is of much concern to Edwin. He has chosen to set aside his own tribulations to solve the strange events and also to ensure the horrours he is now responsible for remain hidden as well.

    Edwin is armed with the following strengths and weaknesses:
    • A sharp and hungry mind
    • A physique visibly attractive, though of limited agility
    • An armoury filled with honeyed-words and clever rhetoric
    • An attitude and a proclivity for concentrated violence
    • An insatiable hunger, by his ego, and by his newly inherited Thirst
  9. Just to clarify, @Sini, have the 'heinous crimes' the game is centered around already been going on, or are we starting a bit beforehand to set up our characters?
  10. Yes, there have been a few things happening the past week. For now though, the town guard has managed to keep a tight lid on things. Rumour and fact are still intertwined. The Mayor, however, has gone missing just at the start of this RP. So, no there is no widespread panic yet, but things are certainly brewing and slowly reaching a boiling point!
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  11. @Sini

    Is there any chance of a rough map? I know that's kind of a lot to ask, and don't feel pressured-- I'm just curious. c:
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  12. @dreamshell I had a thought introducing a new young student of Edwin's. The student, Thomas, I imagine will develop as rather quick with a mind for numbers. This made me think of Bell, and I wonder if Edwin might arrange a meeting between the two at some point. I have some plans for Thomas' father that'll become clear in my next post, but I thought Thomas could eventually become a NPC that both Bell and Edwin interact with (or rather are followed by, on occasion). Up to you, of course, just a thought.

    @Sini During my post I mention a few events from the last week. I drew a few ideas from the original description of what was happening, but if this at all effects what you have coming I'm happy to make an edit. Also, I figured Gramheim might not warrant a large university and plan to have half of the institution used by monks and priests for religious purposes or transcription. Like a secular school attached to a convent, a big old hub of knowledge. Again, let me know if this interferes at all.

  13. That idea sounds good to me. It was fun seeing Algernon mentioned among some of Harbeo's success stories (I couldn't find much on any Hemming besides a possible chess player, but was the navigator a reference to The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo? If not, still some good names). Also gonna roll with Alehorn being a baron. ;)

    Based on the phonetic accent and reference to a 'modern home,' I'm guessing Thomas and his father come from new money? I thought perhaps a family of upstart merchants, given the preoccupation with keeping books.

    I also like your take on the university. It makes sense for it to be a sort of addition; you've got to figure most places of learning would be in bustling cities, rather than remote backwaters like Gramheim. Perhaps it has some unique courses or archives that justifies enrollment by distant parties.
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  14. Most definitely on the Salander reference, I love the series dearly! Hemming is a character idea I discarded for Edwin. I'm more likely to develop Salander through letters on her travels between them. Sorry about Alehorn, I figured he had some title and pulled that from the cattle baron reference.

    Yes, Thomas' family is not directly connected to money. Deciding on whether they are new or perhaps coming to join a rich uncle or aunt, what have you. If you're down I imagine Thomas' dad will go a little snoopy, so watch out Mr. Bell ;p.

    Exactly what I thought! I worked for a large college a few years back and had the chance to work in one of our satellites in a small community. It served as a town resource with standard courses and some wild ones too. I wanted to introduce the school, but seriously, no reason no one else can't take liberties too :).
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  15. Ayyye Sini, this is still open, right?

    EDIT: Nevermind, saw the update right after I posted. Brilliant, I'll PM a sheet at some point.
  16. @Pellegrino nothing to remark, sounds very much in tune with what's happening. Great addition and post. Go ahead with the school idea. A university in Gramheim would be old, decrepit and very much in decline, but you seem to have that in mind.

    @cider great to see you! I look forward to it.

    Everyone else: great posts so far, I'm very happy with your effort and writing.
  17. I hope no one's getting cold feet already... Let's have some fun playing in a horror-tinged, Western-style dark fantasy murder-mystery, everybody!

    #18 dreamshell, Jan 25, 2016
    Last edited: Jan 25, 2016
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  18. I'm sure @Shabriri , @Tyrannosaurus Rekt and @Raddum will be posting something soon-ish.
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  19. Looks like @Raddum is having computer issues and won't be around until next week.
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