Bazooka_Goblin
Villager
Bazooka_Goblin's Whitelist App:
________________________________________
{Introduction Section}
Minecraft Username: Bazooka_Goblin
Age: 21
Country & Timezone: EST
Read the Kings Law, Code of Conducts, Official Lore, and the Player Guides?: Yes
Define Metagaming & Powergaming?: Metagaming is when one person, with knowledge pertaining to IRP context in which his character does not, exercises in actions that would only occur if the character had in fact known such knowledge. Power gaming is when someone pulls a *kills u lol* on you. Also known as emoting in such a way in which his emotes are unavoidable, forced, and overall admittedly full of headassery.
Do we allow Xray mods or X-Ray texture packs?: No
Tell us about yourself!: I'm a shut-in who's a closeted geek over medieval crap and gothic architecture, and even moreso for sad, spooky, or violent stories in that genre of 'fantasy medieval crap'. I can do a pretty good Plankton impression, I can do an olley off your mom's front porch, and have been known to break into abandoned buildings in my free time. I also work at a renaissance faire seasonally, and full-time at a pizza restaurant.
Referral: Heard a lot of dorks talk about you guys. Luckily most of those dorks are friends or homies from other places.
________________________________________
{Character Section}
Character Name: Willehalm Archambeau
Age: 22
Race: Human
Appearance: A stocky, rough-looking young adult with olive skin, green eyes and black hair fit for a ruffian. His body is tattered in long-faded scars, evidence of leprosy and skirmishes alike. He wears an incredulously-rusted hauberk, with a torn black surcoat over top; with busted, dirty plate metal adorning his other limbs, and cracked, wooden ailettes on his shoulders. Usually, he wears a pig-faced bascinet.
(Optional) Picture of the Skin:
Written Test (Min: 400 words): A sniffle left the brigand as a subtle lift of his chin exposed himself from the dirt; his eyes, encumbered by his low brow, slowly reached forth for the battered helm that lay under the sorry lass to his left. The slight movement of his forearm caused a small tinkering of noise, causing himself to freeze under the duress of being seen. His eyes darted about around him; the loosened dirt and gravel in which he was half-sunken into from his prone position shuffling and falling from his body. After a moment of silence his head lifted up furthermore; and was unable to see further than an arm's reach from the smog that coated what he believed to be the last remnants of a battlefield, one of which was still very alive in its last moments. The clanging of weaponry is still very much heard only yards away, the skirmish that surely did the lass nearby in only a few feet away from him only moments before his reawakening. He attempted again to reach for the helmet that lay on the dead woman's back, and upon successfully pulling it towards him he found a horseshoe-shaped imprint on the helm; and found his answer as to why he awoke from a slumber, helmetless and with a splintering migraine. He pulled himself up as the sound of violence silenced itself; the sound of one's body falling being the last Willehalm heard of the strangers nearby. Remembering why he was here in the first place, he regrets his stupidity- His greed got him here in the first place. A plowed field of dead men-at-arms, still very full of lifeblood and mettle, dying upon the earth before the woods in which he had arrived from had piqued his curiosity- those dying, or dead, men still had full pockets of equipment. Things they shan't need when passing from this world. His hands spread out as he'd pull himself from the dirt, groaning as his back would pop from this action; the filthy man standing to his feet before reaching for the woman's carcass, and pulled the boots off the woman's lower limbs; and after dropping his helm to roughly size the boots with his own, far-tattered and falling-apart shoes, would deem them viable enough to replace his footwear. Content with himself, he'd look around the grey, blank fog once again, before hurriedly trudging through the dirt, bodies and muck, heaving with each breath as the terrain proved difficult to traverse- and after exerting the energy needed to make it back to the forest, fell upon his rear to catch his breath. That is when, however, he noticed he was missing an item of his. "Fuck, I forgot me helm." He muttered.
________________________________________
{Introduction Section}
Minecraft Username: Bazooka_Goblin
Age: 21
Country & Timezone: EST
Read the Kings Law, Code of Conducts, Official Lore, and the Player Guides?: Yes
Define Metagaming & Powergaming?: Metagaming is when one person, with knowledge pertaining to IRP context in which his character does not, exercises in actions that would only occur if the character had in fact known such knowledge. Power gaming is when someone pulls a *kills u lol* on you. Also known as emoting in such a way in which his emotes are unavoidable, forced, and overall admittedly full of headassery.
Do we allow Xray mods or X-Ray texture packs?: No
Tell us about yourself!: I'm a shut-in who's a closeted geek over medieval crap and gothic architecture, and even moreso for sad, spooky, or violent stories in that genre of 'fantasy medieval crap'. I can do a pretty good Plankton impression, I can do an olley off your mom's front porch, and have been known to break into abandoned buildings in my free time. I also work at a renaissance faire seasonally, and full-time at a pizza restaurant.
Referral: Heard a lot of dorks talk about you guys. Luckily most of those dorks are friends or homies from other places.
________________________________________
{Character Section}
Character Name: Willehalm Archambeau
Age: 22
Race: Human
Appearance: A stocky, rough-looking young adult with olive skin, green eyes and black hair fit for a ruffian. His body is tattered in long-faded scars, evidence of leprosy and skirmishes alike. He wears an incredulously-rusted hauberk, with a torn black surcoat over top; with busted, dirty plate metal adorning his other limbs, and cracked, wooden ailettes on his shoulders. Usually, he wears a pig-faced bascinet.
(Optional) Picture of the Skin:
Written Test (Min: 400 words): A sniffle left the brigand as a subtle lift of his chin exposed himself from the dirt; his eyes, encumbered by his low brow, slowly reached forth for the battered helm that lay under the sorry lass to his left. The slight movement of his forearm caused a small tinkering of noise, causing himself to freeze under the duress of being seen. His eyes darted about around him; the loosened dirt and gravel in which he was half-sunken into from his prone position shuffling and falling from his body. After a moment of silence his head lifted up furthermore; and was unable to see further than an arm's reach from the smog that coated what he believed to be the last remnants of a battlefield, one of which was still very alive in its last moments. The clanging of weaponry is still very much heard only yards away, the skirmish that surely did the lass nearby in only a few feet away from him only moments before his reawakening. He attempted again to reach for the helmet that lay on the dead woman's back, and upon successfully pulling it towards him he found a horseshoe-shaped imprint on the helm; and found his answer as to why he awoke from a slumber, helmetless and with a splintering migraine. He pulled himself up as the sound of violence silenced itself; the sound of one's body falling being the last Willehalm heard of the strangers nearby. Remembering why he was here in the first place, he regrets his stupidity- His greed got him here in the first place. A plowed field of dead men-at-arms, still very full of lifeblood and mettle, dying upon the earth before the woods in which he had arrived from had piqued his curiosity- those dying, or dead, men still had full pockets of equipment. Things they shan't need when passing from this world. His hands spread out as he'd pull himself from the dirt, groaning as his back would pop from this action; the filthy man standing to his feet before reaching for the woman's carcass, and pulled the boots off the woman's lower limbs; and after dropping his helm to roughly size the boots with his own, far-tattered and falling-apart shoes, would deem them viable enough to replace his footwear. Content with himself, he'd look around the grey, blank fog once again, before hurriedly trudging through the dirt, bodies and muck, heaving with each breath as the terrain proved difficult to traverse- and after exerting the energy needed to make it back to the forest, fell upon his rear to catch his breath. That is when, however, he noticed he was missing an item of his. "Fuck, I forgot me helm." He muttered.
Last edited by a moderator:
