Jump to content

fatchicken

Members
  • Content Count

    25
  • Joined

  • Last visited

  • Days Won

    3

fatchicken last won the day on October 20 2017

fatchicken had the most liked content!

Community Reputation

22 Excellent

2 Followers

About fatchicken

  • Rank
    Member
  • Birthday 01/03/1996

Personal Information

  • Characters
    Array

Recent Profile Visitors

The recent visitors block is disabled and is not being shown to other users.

  1. An interesting take on the Darkmoon faire! I had never really paid much attention to the Darkmoon in wow at all, other than doing a few mini games when I was very bored. Thumbs up from me.
  2. A very well thought out and interesting guild concept! I would love to see it flourish.
  3. The Arcanist's Visage "Ah, Lady Certando!” Orico's smile spread so wide that it bunched his round cheeks into two ruddy cushions. He held out a set of stodgy fingers and invited Emilia to take a seat on the opposite side of his desk. She obliged. The scholar, still standing, shuffled papers to no end. “Um, yes, well…” He stammered with a coarse and nasal voice that denied him any real grace, lowering himself meanwhile. The chair groaned in protest. Emilia always wondered why he became so fitful in her presence – The way he shifted in his seat, one would think he had been stricken with a terrible case of piles. Was it her family legacy, a miasma upon the city, which troubled him? Or was it her demeanour? A meticulously composed conduct made only more imposing by her fetching, albeit ashen visage. Notwithstanding, she rather liked the stodgy badger before her. He was a good, simple man; he cared for his students, he studied with diligence and enjoyed a jug of port at the end of each evening. It didn’t take a keen mind to see that he had never aspired to be anything great. But he was okay with that, and so was the world. Emilia stifled a roll of the eyes as he again looked to his papers for courage. “Ahem. Yes, it’s just a routine check you see. Just have to – Ah – Ensure we run a clean house." He coughed into a fist. Clean house? She turned the words over in her mind. Surely he couldn’t mean to check her documentation. Everyone in this academy knew to which notorious heritage she pertained. Am I in trouble? No, she concluded, she hadn’t done anything to sully the rules of the academy.Is it my family? Does he suspect me of... In that instant, the woman’s question was answered. The doorknob to her right began to rumble. The door swung inwards. Standing in the blabbering Scholar’s private study was a towering sculpture of a man. His jaw – Wrapped in a colourless beard - was impossibly angled, as was his crooked nose. Unkempt hair of a dull and matte grey fell over his shoulders and half way down his back. His torso was broad and barrel chested, his arms so lean one could be mistaken for thinking they had been chiselled from marble. Emilia could see all this, for his upper-half was draped only in a series of intricate tattoos, the same colour as his mane, like wisps of gloomy sky that danced down his body in a cascade of filigree patterns. They flowed all the way to his navel before being suddenly cut off by the waistband of his kilt. Similarly drab in colour, the plain cloth flowed freely to his bare feet. The hair on Emilia’s neck stood to attention – And it was for none of these striking features that she stiffened. It was his eyes, or lack thereof, that perturbed her. Around the back of his head and beneath his brows travelled a fold of grey cloth. He fixed his sightless gaze upon Emilia and said nothing. Ah. She found her inward voice oddly calm. So that’s why Orico was so restless. The daunting man before Lady Certando was none other than one of the High-Arcanist’s visages. ‘His soldiers and his servants’ commonfolk spouted in dimly lit taverns from tongues wet with watered-down ale. They had been hand-picked by the Arcanist, trained and taught the ways of higher powers. It was said he bestowed upon them gifts of knowledge, of power. It was said that they can run for hours on end, that they could overpower a man twice their size, that they could best any knight with nothing more than their quarterstaff. Some even claimed that their magic enabled them to commune with the Six Divines, and that mortal chatter had become so dull in comparison that they ceased to speak. Emilia did not care for rumours, she cared for facts, and what she knew was that the Visages of the High-Arcanist had at least one definitive trait: The ability to see warlocks wherever they roamed. She swallowed the spit in her mouth only to find that she was barren. The Visage reached up, slipped a set of fingers beneath his veil, and lifted it. His gaping sockets, scarred and icy and deeper than night itself, bore into Emilia. The Lady of Certando - renowned for her charm, wit and steel - froze as if the heart of winter had swallowed her. One might say they traded gazes for some time then, but one would be wrong, for she gave nothing in return. She merely remained in supplication as those chasms lorded over her. She knew then the stories were false: There was nothing godly in these men. The visage grunted, secured his blindfold, and retreated into the other room. Emilia panted immediately, as only then did she realise she had failed to draw breath. She shot a burning glare at Orico, who had hoped to sink so far into his seat as to be invisible. “It’s j-just procedure, My lady. He cleared you, my dear, you should be ha—“ The scholar abruptly choked his words down upon seeing Emilia rise from her chair. “Good day, sir.” She declared thunderously, storming out the door.
  4. I really enjoy some of the creative risks you take with WoW, like this and the Shadowlands. Small editions and twists, really, but they make the game a little more flavorful without seeming like they stand out at all. It gives essence to the more primitive side of the Kaldorei we know exists, and adds an element of intrigue to it. Big thumbs up from me.
  5. Forgive me if I say something that has already been said, but personally I most definitely think that DHs can see through the guise of Nathrezim. Your average Hunter, upon doing so, should promptly shit themselves (but emotionlessly cause you're a callous-ass DH) and try and get assistance. That quote that 'Even the most powerful hunter would have trouble tracking down and slaying...' (Big paraphrasing going on here) has been used a little. Personally, I don't think is reference to spectral sight or their illusions, but rather the cunning of the Nathrezim. Even if the DH can see them, the Nathrezim should be smart enough and informed enough to not only be able to make a quick escape, but is likely to be one step ahead of the hunter at all times. A DH Travelling through any normal city would gather some attention, and any self-respecting Nathrezim disguised as a powerful figure should know the hunter is coming long before they arrive. Hence the 'tracking' part. Sure they can see through, but stalking and surprising a being with immense knowledge and a knack for subtlety that can practically dissapear upon a whim and without a trace is hard as fuck. Disclaimer: I did very little research on this and was just bored AF at work and wanted to contribute. Feel free to rip me to shreds.
  6. Ahh, good to see her return! Surely, we must have a meeting between her and your favourite Viscount - Yours truly, Good work as always - Lives up to your standard of creating varied yet fleshed out characters.
  7. I like this a lot! Some very nice descriptions in there, good, clear use of language and a tale that was short & sweet to keep me reading. If I had any comment, it's that there are a few sections which could use a single longer sentence to break up the pacing a little, as sometimes my 'mental voice' started to sound a bit robotic. But don't let that take any pride away, I enjoyed it very much.
  8. Personally I'm also a supporter of the 1 Silver ~ 1 euro, pound, dollar (Yes I know they aren't the same but they're similar enough for RP purposes) as this covers a massive range of the likely playerbase's homes, given that Euro is used in so many countries, and then it's easy to convert. I.e. that 200 gold bounty would come to £20,000. IMO It's quick and easy enough to employ over the server with minimal effort from players and balances things out enough. Naturally there will still be some flashy fellas who decide £100 is a fair price for a mug o' mead but hey.
  9. I couldn't agree more! Roleplay is for enjoyment at the end of the day, and I adore anyone who tries their best to contribute and improve. And then the people who roam the forums and provide people with encouragement, or even some actual constructive advice if need be. People like you and mithaniel make RP worth having. Stay golden my dears. <3
  10. Thanks! Also, holy shitsnacks were there a lot of errors when I first put this up. Hopefully fixed, if you spot anything do comment/pm!
  11. Lady Adelaide de Certando "A great many thought the Certando household would crumble without its Lord. A great many were wrong." Name: Adelaide Mirenza De Certando Title: Countess, Lady Certando (Official), The Lady in Black, The Widow (Monikers) Age: 64 Birthplace: Tirisfal Forest Affiliations: The Stormwind House of Nobles, Lordaeron (Formerly), House Certando Introduction The Certando household was one that had long since planted the roots of their influence, and then nurtured those infantile sinews by way of duplicity, gold and blood until a sprawling labyrinth had formed a base upon which they built their family tree for centuries. Lord and Lady Certando, namely Terrowin and Adelaide, were one such branch of the prestigious family. Arguably the most important, for their great oaken reach had based itself in the very capital, not just the kingdom, of Lordaeron. It was from there that they cast their looming eyes over the city, cold and calculating, and pulled the strings of paupers to best serve their self-absorbed purposes. All the while little Lady Emilia, the newest blossom upon their tree of heritage, grew up amongst wealth and luxury and magic. But, as the cold hand of fate would have it, tragedy befell the Certando family. First their daughter, barely eighteen winters old, was caught practising forbidden arts taught to her by her father. She was drawn and quartered the following day. Then the Lord, all caution shattered by his loss, sought justice for his child through ploys that grew continually more audacious. Erelong, Lord Terrowin de Certando and little Lady Emilia de Certando were reunited in the silence of the noose: an omen to all would-be-warlocks. Which left Lady Certando, with no magic of her own, in a house that lay in ruin and at the head of a family whose heart had been torn from its chest. Her soul bled ever since, until it could bleed no more, and all that was remained was an ice-bound imitation of a person. It was as if someone had carved and animated from a glacier her solemn mockery: Languid, cold, yet never ceasing. Personality Before the fall of their empyrean house, the Certandos commanded no small amounts of respect from their peers. Lord Terrowin was known to be a ruthless and avaricious businessman, but also opportunistic. He was precise and never clumsy, striking only when the iron was hot. What the masses didn't always know, was that Adelaide served as the wily temper to his fury, between which the two made a terrifying yet harmonious coupling. It would make sense then to expect that with the absence of their family's fist, the Certando dynasty would grow reserved and pussyfooted in their manoeuvres. But as time passed grief turned to rage, then rage to heartlessness until finally the terrible embers of fury had but crumbled into ashes, from which was born the hardened Lady of today. In this way she has become the perfect medium between her and her late-lover. Just as careful as she once was, but now with a bitterness that makes her merciless, she took the family treasure and influence and built upon it still. It is endlessly fitting, however cliché, to liken her demeanour to the first frigid touches of winter. Wheresoever Adelaide de Certando walks, nobility and townsfolk drop their gaze and descend to whispers, as if a blanket of snow had absorbed their tumult. There is no comely sway to her hips, instead her legs make only the necessary movements, instilling her upper body with a wintry lifelessness. So too are her features and expressions deathly stagnant, smiling in only the most blue-mooned moments. Her voice, flat as frozen water and crisp like frostbite, offers no cheer. But then there are her eyes, deep and green, they once spoke of a mother's love. Now, in a clash of ice and fire, one can still see the smouldering ghosts from the wrongs done unto her. All this said, the Lady is not immune to any and all enjoyment, and nor will she lash out if approached. It would be more accurate to say that, until prompted, she will remain in her state of quiet woe. Appearance Lady Adelaide de Certando was once a porcelain doll of the ballroom. Many a man envied the Lord Terrowin his mate, and some even sought to cajole her from him. Not because she gleamed like some gaudy stone, but because she exuded a subdued eloquence that no other could seek to match. To look upon Adelaide was to look upon the matrimony of poise and beauty. She was almost entirely devoid of roundness, boasting a sharp visage and angled maw that tapered into a narrow chin. But then, in the softness to her porcelain cheeks and the button of her nose she had just a dash of motherly allure. Her nails, painted black, matched the shade of her own silken locks, which arched like lunar crescents from either side of her head, curling back to level with the marble-like skin of her collar and shoulders. Her eyes were a splendid blue-green, emphasized by rings of modestly applied eye-shadow. All the sombre tones of her hair, eyes and sanguine lip gloss stood out sharply against her perfect ashen complexion. Alas, as often happens with a soul perturbed, eventually her inward torment began to express itself through her countenance. Her glossy black hair, now tied back, has begun to see its first lunar streaks. The sea-green of her eyes has grown a shade darker, like looking into the bottom of two glass bottles, twisted by the rage so long kindled within her. Her skin has become thin and tight, having lost the plushness of youth and rendering the Lady somewhat cadaverous. Just like her nails, lips and hair, all onyx, so too does Adelaide prefer to dress herself in a simple midnight robe. Which, although plain, was quite clearly woven by a most artful set of hands. In the end, a stifling combination of her pallid skin, black decoration and motionless countenance has left Adelaide looking more wraith than woman. Which perhaps, given her eternal mourning, is but a manifestation of her sundered soul. Traits Shrewd: All her years spent as a puppetmaster over the people of Lordaeron alongside her husband has taught Adelaide an astuteness when it comes to both managing money and judging character - Never is she impulsive. Callous: All the wonderful passions of life, with nothing left to feed on, have long since fled Adelaide. So little manages to evoke emotion in the woman now, save for the courtly mannerisms she forces herself to assume. Scheming: Unlike the other two members of her family, the Lady of house Certando has no magic nor prowess with a blade to protect her. She relies only on her intellect and resources to persist, almost always resorting to devilish deeds should the need arise. Wanderer: The only thing that has allowed Adelaide to cling to her last vestiges of sanity are the brief and long-awaited excursions she takes into the public world. She may not frolic, drink to get merry, or scarcely even talk to people - But it is one of the last pleasures she holds. Survivor: Lady Certando has endured a great many hardships and trials throughout her life. She persists out of pure stubbornness, if nothing else, and will do so to her grave. Wealth: Having lost not only her own branch of the family tree, but several more to the wars, Adelaide is now the sole director of the once-great family's fortune. With no claimants to the throne, many have tried to claim a stake for their own: Be it through business plotting, assassination, or supposed affections.
  12. Joseph Cole Brennon "Appearances, my dear friend, are everything" Name: Joseph Cole Brennon Titles: The Machiavellian (Moniker), Viscount of Stormwind Age: 47 (May need revision) Gender: Male Race: Human Class: Warlock Birthplace: A Hillsbrad farmstead Alignment: Stormwind, The Alliance, otherwise flexible Status: Alive and well Home: Stormwind Introduction "Aren't they enthralling?" Joseph inquired, gesturing to the ballroom floor below with a sweeping arc from his glass of red wine, tilting it so excitedly that he threatened to pour it upon the dancers and diplomats beneath his booth. Beside him sat a man of no import to our character, and so he shall remain nameless. "These… Nobles: Present company included. Look! Look how they summon smiles so well-trained as to fake even the glisten in their eyes." Demonstrating his point, Joseph then wrapped his lips in a simper so inviting that the sun would turn green with envy. Right on cue, so too did his eyes flash with a most magnificent emerald radiance that drew the attention of his companion. "Look how meticulous they are with their greetings. Each fine detail; from the bow to the curtsies, the handshakes to the words so carefully plucked like sweet and potentially poisonous fruit, even the voices in which they speak!" Again Joseph presented his body and soul to the world as the very epitome of the theatrics about which he revelled, lacing each excited word with a fluting melody that rivalled the most elegant songbirds. "See how they wrap themselves in a veil of affability and courtesy. Almost as if they didn't despise one another…" The gentleman's voice took on a most curious, quiet sound with that last sentence. He swirled the sanguine liquid and brought it to a set of ruby lips, then sighed contently. "Oh! The things I could tell you about these people." He went on, his manner a wistful yet endearing liveliness that infected all those nearby. "I could tell you how a man, who has just proffered to his so-called-friend a wonderful gift, is now plotting to undermine his business for purely a purpose of pride, not even greed!" He drank again. "I could tell you how two newly-weds, so perfect and exemplary in their blossoming love, are together for reasons strictly financial. Or…" He paused, leaning forwards and sweeping a set of quick and intelligent eyes over the crowd, making sure they never stopped on one character for too long. "I could tell you who's sleeping with whose wife…" He turned to the other man then, and allowed his demeanour to be engulfed by a grin most devilish. "But enough of that!" Ergo, just like the pendulum's persistent swing, Joseph's expression leapt from one extreme to the next, swinging now to a burst of boundless mirth. He placed his wine down and sung out "Here, finish my drink. I have a sudden urge to dance…" Personality Perhaps you are wondering then why we have just relived a seemingly nondescript page from the shadow-bound grimoire of Joseph's life. I could have told you instead about the reason he moved from home to study magic, or how the needy fledgling mage found his way into the academy of Lordaeron. Maybe I should have bewitched you with the tale of his first love, Lady Emilia de Certando, and how she shaped so much of the man Joseph would become. I might have regaled you, in great detail, the scheme with which Joseph claimed his first human soul, thus marking the beginning of his morally grey descent into deceit and warlockery. Or I could have recited to you the happenings of the following year, which he spent travelling with a group of troubadours, performers and aspiring actors. But to do so would take time: too much time. The truth in the matter is that so much of what Joseph lives and breathes is contained in that brief, one-sided exchange. It was Emilia that bestowed upon him a love of theatre and all things lavishly excessive. From such a seed Joseph branched into a man enshrouded by jovial mystery. Every expression that comes to surface on his animated visage, every smile ventured and every word ushered is one of purpose; a tool with which he might garner favour for his own gain. Before long the warlock had flourished into a self-proclaimed virtuoso in all things Machiavellian. Joseph used his adoration of theatre to feign nobility and from it bloomed, like the first buds of spring, one of his many profits to come. Thereon, with the time and the wherewithal to do so, Joseph spent many an evening attending marvellous masquerades and many more days pouring over tomes of eschewed knowledge. Day after day he watered the roots of his soul with a concoction of wine, gold and fel. Through years of these social performances Joseph weaved a web of lies that would fracture his soul into the likes of a thousand schizophrenic sprites, each one tailored to a specific mood or emotion; sprites that he could summon at will should the need arise. Alas, as often happens when a man wears a mask - or in this case masks - for too long, the character he'd created for himself began to take hold, devouring the once innocent youth and perverting him into an amalgamation of his own trickery. Which, after so long, begs the question: where does the lie end and the man begin? In spite of his ghoulish studies, Joseph is an unlikely lover of life. He delights in mortal pleasures, from fine wine to finer company. He pities those of his ilk who have fallen prey to the sullen, brooding archetype that in his mind plagues warlock kind everywhere. For, in his vehement opinion, one must appreciate all the fleeting wonders of mortal living in order to best practice his foul craft. After all, how can someone long since dead to the world see the true magnitude of a deed such as stealing a person's soul, or draining vitality from prey to predator? They cannot, he concludes, and so it is with great captivation that Joseph often finds himself gazing into the endless kaleidoscope of his gems, listening to the near silent wailing of the essence within. The end result is a warlock just as potent with his vile arcane as he is with his silvered tongue. Should you spy Joseph out and about, you would see only a well-to-do magus who takes no small pride in his professionalism and warm courtesy. Ever loquacious and always eager to form alliances, Joseph much prefers any subtle solution, be it diplomatic or transactional, over violence and force - But to think this implies meekness would be a mortal error. Appearance In his maturity the warlock has been gifted with a vulpine grace afforded to him by a set of harsh, elegant lines. His bearded maw became slim and sharp with cheekbones that rose definitively before giving way to his deep set sockets. It is as if every contour of the man's countenance sought to direct you towards his eyes: Two shining emeralds, whose splendour served only to distract any onlookers from the true thoughts lurking behind them. All of this is draped in a rich brown mane of shoulder-length hair. It hung wild and loose, but not unsightly so. His physique is best described as wiry and his skin olive, acting as a relic of his humble beginnings. All in all he is handsome, in a way more cunning than the anvil-jawed, warrior-born masculinity some might prefer. Aside from physical features, there are certain quirks of character that help define Joseph as a man after his own. Let us begin with his gait: Tall, proud and disciplined, Joseph is always sure to move with the sublimity one would expect from his rank. Each of his heels strikes the floor first, before the rest of his foot rolls neatly into place, and so the motion repeats with a flawlessness as to bestow him with the illusion of gliding. Then there is his gaze, those two dancing fireflies that are not only illustrious, but obscured by a hazing gloss that makes it near impossible to see through the windows of his soul proper. Instead, one is faced with the undeniable impression of depth: the telltale sign of a mind running a thousand labyrinthine channels at once. Finally there is his voice, that rolls forth from the tongue in swells of honey-lacquered elegance. He so rarely speaks flatly, choosing to thread every word with delicious inflections that help him hold the attention of privy ears. As you might have guessed from his deep passions and pockets, Joseph dresses with display taking precedence over function. He adorns himself in fine cloth and embroidery of regal colours: Blacks, blues, reds, purples and the likes. Each time he expands his wardrobe, which is fairly often, he is sure to buy matching tomes, jewellery and trinkets to boot. As a demonstration of his dedication to presentation, you might even catch him, from time to time, wielding a sword! Mayhap not so unusual in itself, but you should know Joseph's skills with a blade can be likened to a kobold swinging a stalk of wheat. What's more, never would one catch the warlock wearing the same outfit one day after the other, as was his wont. All this said, Joseph is sure to dance a narrow line, looking ever opulent but never garish. But the item that best discerns Joseph is his hat - an heirloom of his past and a constant in all his appearances. An unlikely tifter for a viscount indeed, it allows him to be easily spotted, and casts a shadow over his smaragdine gaze, which only makes it all the more resplendent in contrast. Shitty picture cos no artwork looks like Joseph (Comissioners PM me baby)
  13. I would definitely be interested in this! Hell, one of my characters (by which I mean my only)might already fit the bill, but I also have another I might try (Since I've only roleplayed one character for the last 4 years and maybe it's time I got a bit of fuckin' spice in my life)
  14. Can't see why you would be roasted for this, I thought it was very well put together, nor did your grasp of English seem lacking to me, any oddities I saw were very minor. Nice work lad.
  15. Really interesting character. To give a specific compliment, I think you make a really captivating atmosphere surrounding the Highborne. Damn, where are all these linguists coming from?
×