Name: Hireshite Amerete
Player: MCreeper
What you looked like before: A woman in her mid-thirties with shoulder-length ringlets to either side of her face. She wears a dark brown beret and matching cardigan over a puce dress and a white ruffled petticoat. She has knee-high stockings and high-top-low-heel dark lether boots with brown laces. A thick leather belt secures the outfit and a matching leather purse dangles slightly from the belt upon her right side. She generally wears a calm and gentle expression, with a half smile that doesn't reach her icy blue eyes, occasionally spiced up by a trace of wistfulness or a mocking smirk and wink.
What you remember: Served as a devoted maid at a wealthy household, one willing to ensure an unfortunate accident befell anyone that brought ill upon the household.
What were your dreams: To give rest to those that wouldn't have it, and make it final. It is only good for them, is it not?
Appearance now: A woman in her mid-thirties with shoulder-length ringlets to either side of her face. She wears a dark brown beret and matching cardigan over a puce dress and a white ruffled petticoat. She has knee-high stockings and high-top-low-heel dark lether boots with brown laces. A thick leather belt secures the outfit and a matching leather purse dangles slightly from the belt upon her right side. She generally wears a calm and gentle expression, with a half smile that doesn't reach her icy blue eyes, occasionally spiced up by a trace of wistfulness or a mocking smirk and wink.
Skills and Talents: Cooking, housekeeping, attentively serving her master, moving silently.
Flaws and Weaknesses: Physique is lacking, as well as empathy. Odd philosophies, if conversation ever moves towards that area.
Patron: Unknown
Abilities: Unknown
Health: Good
Inventory: A simple steel dagger within a leather leg sheath hidden under her dress and petticoat.
You wake up.
Finally, for the first time in however long, you can think clearly, move correctly. The abrasions and rope burns on your ankles and wrists have healed. Even your body's minor aches seem to be gone. The ceiling above you is dark, made of large stone blocks and lit by flickering candlelight. This still isn't home.
You sit up and look around, assessing the location you found yourself in. You seem to be in a simple wooden bed, on a firm mattress, with a pair of thin but opaque brown sheets, one over you, one under you, with a pair of ordinary but firm pillows at the head. beside the bed is a tiny bedside table, holding a single candle, or more accurately a tiny nub of a lit candle, resting in an open brass candlestand surrounded by a massive layer of accumulated molten wax, so much so that it had formed a mountain and dribbled all the way down to the floor, a large pool and mound of it resting there below the table. As a whole, the room was quite barren, the walls and floor are made of large stone blocks matching the ceiling, and there are no decorations to be found anywhere. It's also quite small, the square room slightly over 8ft a side, about 2.5m. On the far wall there's a single door, made of wood, with a simple brass handle on this side underneath a brass keyhole, and hanging from a coathook in the center of the door is a single brass key.
You assess yourself briefly, finding that despite vaguely remembering being stripped of your possessions, forced to wear nothing more than a single dirty and oversized white shirt for modesty, you're now wearing clothing quite familiar to you, and even... you check, and yes, even your knife has returned.
The place is deathly silent, there are no hums, no rattling, no chirping, or murmurs, nothing. Only the sound of your own rustling can be heard at all, and you seem to be entirely alone.
What do you do now?
Name: Taarkara
Player: CrystalizedMire
What you looked like before: A young crow
What you remember: Babysitting her little siblings by getting them a shiny object. She remembers that they were just starting to develop their flight feathers although she doesn't how many there were. She also remembers that even though she liked spending time with them, she absolutely hated babysitting them and wanted to pursue her studies of... something
What were your dreams: Become a scholar of... something
Appearance now: A young crow
Skills and Talents: Diplomacy and manipulating others. Great with tool use and agility. Has human-comparable intelligence and is capable of speech.
Flaws and Weaknesses: Has no skill in combat otherwise. Extremely fragile and flighty.
Patron: Unknown
Abilities: None
Health: Good
Inventory: None
You wake up.
Finally, for the first time in however long, you can think clearly, move correctly. No longer are there bindings on your wings and claws, and even the abrasions and damaged feathers from where they were seem to have healed. This nest you're in however is a woven thing of brown cloth, nothing like your own. This still isn't home.
You look up and around. You're in a small room, barely larger than the crow-sized nest you woke in, dimly lit by light filtering through some kind of translucent colored wall on one side. The other walls seem to be made of simple plain featureless stone. On the lit wall, there is a dark spot near the center, with a single large wooden peg near the bottom of the circle jutting out far enough to comfortably roost upon it if you so chose. It is deathly silent here, the only noises to be heard sounds of your own making. There are no hums, no rattling, nor rustling. no chirping, no murmurs, nothing. You seem to be entirely alone.
What do you do now?
Name: Celosia
Player: syvarris
What you looked like before: A small black cat, with a white mark on his forehead, and dark blue eyes. He wore a simple blue collar with a bell attached to it. Curiously, capable of speech.
What you remember: Human faces. A thousand faces, almost all context torn from them. Each is burned into his memory, he can perfectly recall every hair, every scar, every fold of skin. Each of them meant something; he used to know their names, why they came to his home, what they were to do there, what he thought of it... but it's all lost now. The rest is a blur. Endless bookshelves, a warm fire, fresh ink, warm fish in a bowl. Snippets of dramatic stories that he's sure he never witnessed himself, about heroes, tragedies, monsters, and entire worlds. Scents, all human, with a variety of complex meanings. From irritation to intrigue to responsibility. And one singular scent that meant absolute safety, which makes his heart hurt; he's sure he remembers the matching face, but it's impossible to guess which one it is.
What were your dreams: Celosia... just wanted to serve his role to keep his home safe. Not from violence, but from subtler evils. Corruptive, cruel minds. His role was to know which faces hid monsters, and ensure they couldn't make lasting nests for themselves. And to know which faces were vulnerable to becoming such, so they could be protected and healed. As long as he served his role, he could be happy, and the world around him would be happy. It was simple.
Appearance now: A small black cat with a pair of matching black tails, a white mark on his forehead, and dark blue eyes. He wears a simple blue collar with a bell attached to it. Curiously, capable of speech.
Skills and Talents: Divining and understanding complexities, particularly people's minds. The subtle tones in their voice, the little quirks of how they move, what they talk about--it all tells a story of who someone really is, what they might want, and how they might be guided to change and grow. Above all else, these complexities fascinate Celosia. Also: he's a cat. He's good at climbing, and despite his bell, sneaking around. Generally he's good at putting himself wherever he pleases, known only by whoever he intends.
Flaws and Weaknesses: Celosia is aimless, and obedient. He needs to have a role. He's also more empathic than is good for him, abhorring suffering of any kind, from anyone. He has great sympathy for his enemies, and wants to find peaceful solutions which don't hurt anyone. Also: he's a cat. He doesn't have thumbs.
Patron: Unknown
Abilities: Unknown
Health: Good
Inventory: Nothing
You wake up.
Finally, for the first time in however long, you can think clearly, move correctly. The heavy metal restraints on your paws are gone, the abrasions they'd left upon you fully healed. Even your minor aches seem to be gone in fact, and you feel quite well. Still, you need to know where you are, and glance around.
You seem to be in a small pile of brown sheets, resting on a large circular rug near a lit fireplace in a tiny room, the walls lined with book-filled bookshelves and the corners without the rug revealing a stone block floor, though oddly not a single book has a label on the binding. on the wall opposite to the fireplace is a small stone arch that seemingly overrwrote the book-lined shelves of the surroundings, a couple books seemingly cut in half by the edge of the arch's stone. upon the arch's keystone there is a tiny engraving of a bell, similar to the one you used to, no, wait, which you have once more. You assess yourself again, realizing that your previously lost collar, which had been replaced with a metal chain, has seemingly returned, though upon a tiny shake of the head you listen and the bell doesn't quite sound the same. It... it has a resonance, a sound on a frequency that you have never heard before, one which is hard to describe, faint and high-pitched, in addition to its normal sound. Speaking of noises, the room itself is extremely quiet, the only sounds to be heard the noises made by your own movement, and the crackling of the fireplace flames.
What do you do now?
Name: Duh?
Player: Imp
What you looked like before: I used to wear casual stuff, T-shirt with 'Duh!' across the front and 'Run to the Tank' across the back. My jeans had knee patches, also embroidered with 'Duh' and 'Hud' (my right knee, the one I think I remember I took an arrow to, once).
What you remember: Duh? Think I had the coolest sticky rope and a sword... what about that sword? No Duh? but there was something not quite right about it, yeah. Buzzed or something. Cut me? Wouldn't cut anybody twice? Some nice lady, something about her... nope, forgot.
What were your dreams: I wanted to be a stand up comic and a parody song writer! Duh? No! I wanted this fancy metal helmet. So my parody songs would echo as I sang and any rotten eggs thrown at me wouldn't stick to my hair? Something like that, and so I could pretend to be a robot, beep beep boop boop stomp kick. Weird dreams, man!
Appearance now: A young man with a fairly fit build, wearing a T-shirt with "Duh!" across the front and "Run to the Tank" across the back. Wears blue jeans with patched knees, embroided with "Duh" and "Hud" on the right and left respectively.
Skills and Talents: Bad puns, no Duh? And, umm, tying knots so well it's like the rope ties itself. Cutting things with a sword, but any one thing only ever once. Juggling or otherwise making inanimate things dance, at least sometimes. Weird stuff, yeah. No Duh? But the weirdest stuff just sometimes just happens. 'Specially while I sing and make jokes and lyrics about it. Especially really, really bad ones.
Flaws and Weaknesses: So, I can turn competence into overconfidence. I can make an enemy miss so bad it becomes a boom!headshot crit. And that thing about hitting someone twice? Yeah. Once, man. Once. Then I'm squeamish and don't want to mess with them again for a while. I've got a sense of parody and a punster's nature that's so punishing it could gag a laughing maggot, and no Duh? but I'm a bit easy to confuse or distract, coming up with my own crazy style and sense of priorities, no matter the cost to self or others.
Patron: Unknown
Abilities: None
Health: Mildly ill, aching all over
Inventory: Nothing
You wake up.
Finally, for the first time in however long, the fog over your thoughts has mostly faded, the aches of your body reduced to mere aches and nothing more. The abrasions and rope burns on your ankles and wrists have healed, and though you still feel modestly unwell, you're finally able to properly assess your situation, and even to take action about it. As your eyes open, you see that the ceiling above you is dark, made of large stone blocks and lit by flickering candlelight. This still isn't home.
You sit up and look around, assessing the location you found yourself in. You seem to be in a simple wooden bed, on a firm mattress, with a pair of thin but opaque brown sheets, one over you, one under you, with a pair of ordinary but firm pillows at the head. beside the bed is a tiny bedside table, holding a single candle, or more accurately a tiny nub of a lit candle, resting in an open brass candlestand surrounded by a massive layer of accumulated molten wax, so much so that it had formed a mountain and dribbled all the way down to the floor, a large pool and mound of it resting there below the table. As a whole, the room was quite barren, the walls and floor are made of large stone blocks matching the ceiling, and there are no decorations to be found anywhere. It's also quite small, the square room slightly over 8ft a side, about 2.5m. On the far wall there's a single door, made of wood, with a simple brass handle on this side underneath a brass keyhole, and hanging from a coathook in the center of the door is a single brass key.
You assess yourself briefly, finding that despite vaguely remembering being stripped of your possessions, forced to wear nothing more than a single dirty and oversized white shirt for modesty, you're now wearing clothing quite familiar to you.
The place is deathly silent, there are no hums, no rattling, no chirping, or murmurs, nothing. Only the sound of your own rustling can be heard at all, and you seem to be entirely alone.
What do you do now?
Name: Timothy Valentine
Player: Flying Dice
What you looked like before: Middling height, but well-muscled in the way of any hard-working man. Bronzed from the sun and reflections off the water. My hair and beard were chestnut, with a bit of white creeping in. Doc said it was stress, too young for it otherwise. Don't know what happened to my beard but I'd like it back.
What you remember: I'm Val. "Moth", to a few. Funny, ain't it, how so many people answer this question as if they were asked "what work did you do?" A man can love his work, but it's not all he is. I remember the scent of the river and the feel of working a line in my hands. The dogwoods and magnolias in bloom. The swarms of mayflies and the sweltering, wet heat of summer. The ice floes thick enough to walk across when we wintered up north. Please don't ask me what my wife's face looked like, or the words my father said when he clasped my hand and bid me off from home years ago. Damn me for not remembering.
What were your dreams: I wanted to be a man who'd never be ashamed of his past. Success to be determined on death, that one.
Appearance now: A young boy in his early teens of modest build. his peach skin and smooth hands as those of someone with a sheltered life, his chestnut hair an untended mop, wearing a pale work shirt and leather suspenders over some well-fitted leather boots.
Skills and Talents: Line work, handling small boats, swimming, a spot of firefighting. Was good with a knife, better with a stout length of wood. Decent at cards, cheating at cards, and frying up a bit to eat so's the other fellas forget how bad they lost. I can read well enough, and like it too. I could hold my liquor and blow half-decent smoke rings.
Flaws and Weaknesses: I mislike a missed opportunity for a little self-enrichment. Been told by folks from schoolteachers to peace officers that I should watch my tongue better. Maybe a mite quick to anger, though she had a way of twisting it around to settle my mood. Damn it. I liked a drink too much, even if I could hold it. Calmed me down, made it easier to laugh and trust, which ain't always good in strange company. I'm absolutely useless with animals, met a total of two cats and one horse that could stand me, been bit by more dogs than I could remember even before whatever happened to me.
Patron: Unknown
Abilities: None
Health: Good
Inventory: An warm dark-brown egg with red cracks spiderwebbing it on all sides, a little larger than his head, rocking gently.
You wake up.
Finally, for the first time in however long, you can think clearly, move correctly. The abrasions and rope burns on your ankles and wrists have healed. Even your body's minor aches seem to be gone. The ceiling above you is dark, made of large stone blocks and lit by flickering candlelight. This still isn't home.
You sit up and look around, assessing the location you found yourself in. You seem to be in a simple wooden bed, on a firm mattress, with a pair of thin but opaque brown sheets, one over you, one under you, with a pair of ordinary but firm pillows at the head. Resting beside you, in fact almost wrapped in your arms, is a large and warm dark-brown egg with red cracks spiderwebbing it on all sides. beside the bed is a tiny bedside table, holding a single candle, or more accurately a tiny nub of a lit candle, resting in an open brass candlestand surrounded by a massive layer of accumulated molten wax, so much so that it had formed a mountain and dribbled all the way down to the floor, a large pool and mound of it resting there below the table. As a whole, the room was quite barren, the walls and floor are made of large stone blocks matching the ceiling, and there are no decorations to be found anywhere. It's also quite small, the square room slightly over 8ft a side, about 2.5m. On the far wall there's a single door, made of wood, with a simple brass handle on this side underneath a brass keyhole, and hanging from a coathook in the center of the door is a single brass key.
You assess yourself briefly, concerned, because despite feeling well, your body just... doesn't seem quite right. Something doesn't fit. You look down finding that despite vaguely remembering being stripped of your possessions, forced to wear nothing more than a single dirty and oversized white shirt for modesty, you're now wearing a proper, though simple, outfit. In fact, apparently you'd been sleeping with boots on. Still, the proportions are all wrong. All your limbs seem too small, and upon inspection you notice that all the wrinkles, the scars, and even the built up muscle, the proof of your efforts, is all seemingly gone. Getting out of the bed to stand up, you learn that your well-trained coordination, your sense of balance and kinesthetics, is ruined, horribly miscalibrated, you stagger and have to brace yourself on the bed for a moment simply to remain standing, your hands awkwardly clumsily grasping whatever they can, leaving you staring at the egg that had been sleeping beside you, and egg that, before your eyes, rocks by itself slightly.
The place is deathly silent, there are no hums, no rattling, no chirping, or murmurs, nothing. Only the sound of your own rustling and the faint movements of the egg can be heard at all, and the two of you seem to be, excluding each other, entirely alone.
What do you do now?
Name: Esselez
Player: Egan_BW
What you looked like before: There was a girl. I saw her in the mirror. Nobody else had a mirror, but we did. She was tall. Taller than the other girls her age, at least. She wore her mother's dress, a size too large. A rather plain and normal yellow, but comforting. Her face... it's hard to remember. But framed by that abnormal silver hair.
What you remember: My father... a clock-maker. So many tiny brass gears... My mother... god, I don't remember. I-I don't remember anything. B-but, her grandfather was an elf from the forest, he was tired of living in the trees, wanted to live like us. He still looked so young...
What were your dreams: I don't remember. I don't... I don't think I ever knew. I was supposed to marry some noble boy, become "important". But I didn't want that. What instead, to go and slay dragons? No way, I would die. I don't know.
Appearance now: Wispy and pale, tall, dressed in an oversized yellow dress, her green-eyed face framed by her long curtains of silver hair.
Skills and Talents: Weaving, Artisan crafts, 1/8th longevity, 1/8th charm resistance
Flaws and Weaknesses: Alcoholism, Terror of danger, 1/8th frailty, Speaks a different language
Patron: Unknown
Abilities: Semi-Incorporeal, Unknown
Health: Good
Inventory: a white stuffed doll with a yellow dress and green button eyes, its silver hair drapes down most of the height of the doll itself.
You wake up.
Finally, for the first time in however long, you can think clearly, move correctly. The abrasions and rope burns on your ankles and wrists have healed. Even your body's minor aches seem to be gone. The ceiling above you is dark, made of large stone blocks and lit by flickering candlelight. This still isn't home.
You sit up and look around, assessing the location you found yourself in. You seem to be in a simple wooden bed, on a firm mattress, with a pair of thin but opaque and oddly heavy brown sheets, one over you, one under you, with a pair of ordinary but firm pillows at the head, and a strangely familiar plush doll in your arms, though you can't recall ever seeing it before. beside the bed is a tiny bedside table, holding a single candle, or more accurately a tiny nub of a lit candle, resting in an open brass candlestand surrounded by a massive layer of accumulated molten wax, so much so that it had formed a mountain and dribbled all the way down to the floor, a large pool and mound of it resting there below the table. As a whole, the room was quite barren, the walls and floor are made of large stone blocks matching the ceiling, and there are no decorations to be found anywhere. It's also quite small, the square room slightly over 8ft a side, about 2.5m. On the far wall there's a tiny doll-sized door, made of wood, with a simple brass handle on this side underneath a brass keyhole, and hanging from a coathook in the center of the door is a single brass key, the work surprisingly intricate and accurate to life despite the miniscule size, and no other entrance or exit to the room is able to be seen.
You assess yourself briefly, finding that despite vaguely remembering being stripped of your possessions, forced to wear nothing more than a single dirty and oversized white shirt for modesty, you're now wearing clothing quite familiar to you.
The place is deathly silent, there are no hums, no rattling, no chirping, or murmurs, nothing. Only the sound of your own rustling can be heard at all, and you seem to be entirely alone.
What do you do now?
Author
Topic: Cracked Mirror (Read 1930 times)