Hornet
Villager
1. What is your Minecraft username?
NetGene.
2. How old are you?
Eighteen.
3. What country are you from?
I'm from Puerto Rico. I speak both English and Spanish fluently.
4. Have you read the King's Law, Code of Conducts, Official Lore, and the Player Guides yet?
Yes.
5. In your own words, how would you define metagaming and powergaming?
Meta-gaming, though expressing itself in many ways, is an umbrella term for any IC (in-character) interaction influenced by OOC (out-of-character) information that wouldn't be available IC. This could go from mild meta-gaming, such as finding out a character's name through their username and utilizing it in roleplay, to more outrageous circumstances, like finding out one character has it out to murder your own OOCly, and in turn making your character murder theirs without any IC justification or merit.
Power-gaming, though also expressing itself in many ways, implies a character acting or forcing actions that are out of their power or the reach of the reality currently established. This can be IC power-gaming, such as refusing to have your character receive any sort of damage in a brawl despite them suffering fatigue, or OOC power-gaming, such as wording emotes and sentences in such a way that deprive the other party of an opportunity to reply in their character's defense.
6. Do we allow X-Raying mods or X-Ray texture packs on the server?
No.
7. Name one of our current Mentors.
ToastySpam.
8. Tell us about yourself!
Hi, there! I'm only being taciturn in this application to try and make it as easy as possible for the staff to read and get processed, but since I'm getting the luxury here, I'll ramble a little. I'm Ariel, and I live in a little island in the Caribbean called Puerto Rico. Aside from playing pretend online, I'm a combat sports practitioner (Muay Thai and Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu, though I hope to branch out eventually), I paint (very poorly, mind you), and I drive boats around the island for friends, tourists, fishermen, and anyone else willing to pay or aid on the boat. I studied in the San Juan Children's Choir for eight years and moved onto the Music Conservatoir of Puerto Rico just a year ago, where I play the Piano, the Bass, and the Puerto Rican Cuatro for what I hope to be scholarships. I've been roleplaying on Minecraft and outside of it for a good five to six years. I usually come to the Minecraft server for the roleplay, but ultimately stay for the friends, so rest assured, I'm excited to meet you!
9. Do you have any examples of your work?
I'm writing this from my phone, so I only have a couple of pictures of what drawings I have made on me, but what I do have, I'll post! They should be attached to the post.
10. Did anyone refer you? If not, how did you find our server?
I wasn't referred per se. On the Roleplaying subreddit, someone who's account had a 'Hollowworld' banner behind their profile picture posted a thread asking what people thought about Minecraft roleplaying. I replied to the thread with my thoughts on it, and out of curiosity, clicked on the account, saw the banner, google it, and here I am. If it was a publicity tactic, then you can bet it worked on me.
About Your Character!
Character Name:
Zynthia Osslau.
Character Age:
197.
Character Race:
Forest Elf.
Appearance:
Zynthia, outfitted in green sashes and leathery hiking boots, along with what floral trinkets and bark-bound baubles she decided to decorate herself with, seemed to juxtapose what Elvenkind was supposed to be-- beautiful, pristine, and elegant. The palms of her sun-kissed, ebony hands are calloused and worn from labor and toil alone, and what's left of her complexion stretches itself tightly over her face and wrinkles from what to the layman seems like old age and disease. What eye of her remains against her bout with leprosy, the rightmost, is has an entourage of permanent bags sitting neatly beneath the jaundiced sclera of her emerald eye; tired and taunt, though satisfied. For on in such physical decay, however, Zynthia stands as tall as any other Elf, devoid of a hump. There is a firmness to her stance that seems as if she were anchored onto the earth itself, steadfast and stalwart in defiance of her prejudiced label of cripple. Beneath the green robes she adorns are the scars of thorns and conflict, as much as the bones that hardly have space against her tightly-sewn skin, trying to poke out by stretching the fabric at her hipbones and shoulders. Her locks of red hair, flowing freely and wildly, reach the small of her back, combed and untangled, though without the glisten of youth.
(Optional) Picture of the Skin:
Written Test!
The way is lit. The path is clear. I need only the strength to follow it.
The words drummed in Zynthia’s head, pounding with the headache she induced herself with through being so near the heat of the torch she bore in her rightmost hand, and encouraged her worn boots further through the pitted cobble of what once was home. In those younger years, humanity’s lifestyle seemed ideal—lavish buffets and glory at every corner. She’d failed to assume, however, it was at the expense of the Sodom and Gomorrah around, above and below. Their raid was so quick and efficient, Zynthia had forgotten to swear revenge, or mourn the dead. This was a marvel—a tragedy, yes, but a curios of the art of war. The courage to not pan down was all she needed.
It was, maybe, for that reason, she elected to visit at night, and hold the torch up high. Perhaps, then, she can focus on the study of what was left behind, instead of weep for what faces she might recognize, mangled and skeletal, returned to the earth with foul intent. Her parched lips threaten to sew a smile on her face, and it did, at the sight of all these run-down houses. Nostalgia tickled every fiber of her aged brain, and drew a chuckle from her lungs—made hoarse through one-too-many battle cries in the hunt of oxen, one-too-many smoky puffs from what ceremonious herbs the priests assured her would grant her vision through Her Grace’s eyes, and one-too-many agonized yawp from injury and despondence.
In time, after what emotions chose to arise did, she found it—her ancient home, perched stoically above the moor, gazing over the remains of a once proud tribe. The climb riveted her, the excitement clogged her throat—or, was that the lack of water trickling down it after so long? A swift sip from her canteen dispelled that theory, and upon stepping into the spider-web clogged home, and finding her dormitory from all those years ago, she knew it couldn’t have been.
Zynthia relinquished herself to her wooden desk, ebon fingers tapping rhythms onto the old hardwood. Splotches of dust and powder alike marred, then, her fingers and the desk as she drummed incessantly-- echoing through the empty outpost, it was the only sound prevalent on this lonesome patch of grass and trees. Darkness had crept along the sides of this building; the chittering of wildlife and wilderbeest gone silent. The nature surrounding this place was of constant metamorphosis, much like herself. It had been why she’d visited this living green. The air was humid and heavy with the scent of damp flora from the night before, filling her lungs with each long sigh. -- The tapping continued. A jaundiced, open and blank journal splayed out before her. She pondered why she’d left it, and stared at the pages with irritation written upon her face. Her lips curled into a furious snarl.
Human ambition is not their folly, it’s their ingenuity. Suddenly, Zynthia felt more human than she ever had felt elf. In turning from the home, collecting her things, waltzing down the great valley and returning to the town’s entrance, she found the sun rearing its luminous head over the landscape, illuminating all forms of settlements; little dots, people, each one of them—a sight she’d forgotten with how long she’d spent cradled by nature. The sun’s rays shone upon the roads leading to them.
The way was lit. The path was clear. She needed only the strength to follow it.
NetGene.
2. How old are you?
Eighteen.
3. What country are you from?
I'm from Puerto Rico. I speak both English and Spanish fluently.
4. Have you read the King's Law, Code of Conducts, Official Lore, and the Player Guides yet?
Yes.
5. In your own words, how would you define metagaming and powergaming?
Meta-gaming, though expressing itself in many ways, is an umbrella term for any IC (in-character) interaction influenced by OOC (out-of-character) information that wouldn't be available IC. This could go from mild meta-gaming, such as finding out a character's name through their username and utilizing it in roleplay, to more outrageous circumstances, like finding out one character has it out to murder your own OOCly, and in turn making your character murder theirs without any IC justification or merit.
Power-gaming, though also expressing itself in many ways, implies a character acting or forcing actions that are out of their power or the reach of the reality currently established. This can be IC power-gaming, such as refusing to have your character receive any sort of damage in a brawl despite them suffering fatigue, or OOC power-gaming, such as wording emotes and sentences in such a way that deprive the other party of an opportunity to reply in their character's defense.
6. Do we allow X-Raying mods or X-Ray texture packs on the server?
No.
7. Name one of our current Mentors.
ToastySpam.
8. Tell us about yourself!
Hi, there! I'm only being taciturn in this application to try and make it as easy as possible for the staff to read and get processed, but since I'm getting the luxury here, I'll ramble a little. I'm Ariel, and I live in a little island in the Caribbean called Puerto Rico. Aside from playing pretend online, I'm a combat sports practitioner (Muay Thai and Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu, though I hope to branch out eventually), I paint (very poorly, mind you), and I drive boats around the island for friends, tourists, fishermen, and anyone else willing to pay or aid on the boat. I studied in the San Juan Children's Choir for eight years and moved onto the Music Conservatoir of Puerto Rico just a year ago, where I play the Piano, the Bass, and the Puerto Rican Cuatro for what I hope to be scholarships. I've been roleplaying on Minecraft and outside of it for a good five to six years. I usually come to the Minecraft server for the roleplay, but ultimately stay for the friends, so rest assured, I'm excited to meet you!
9. Do you have any examples of your work?
I'm writing this from my phone, so I only have a couple of pictures of what drawings I have made on me, but what I do have, I'll post! They should be attached to the post.
10. Did anyone refer you? If not, how did you find our server?
I wasn't referred per se. On the Roleplaying subreddit, someone who's account had a 'Hollowworld' banner behind their profile picture posted a thread asking what people thought about Minecraft roleplaying. I replied to the thread with my thoughts on it, and out of curiosity, clicked on the account, saw the banner, google it, and here I am. If it was a publicity tactic, then you can bet it worked on me.
About Your Character!
Character Name:
Zynthia Osslau.
Character Age:
197.
Character Race:
Forest Elf.
Appearance:
Zynthia, outfitted in green sashes and leathery hiking boots, along with what floral trinkets and bark-bound baubles she decided to decorate herself with, seemed to juxtapose what Elvenkind was supposed to be-- beautiful, pristine, and elegant. The palms of her sun-kissed, ebony hands are calloused and worn from labor and toil alone, and what's left of her complexion stretches itself tightly over her face and wrinkles from what to the layman seems like old age and disease. What eye of her remains against her bout with leprosy, the rightmost, is has an entourage of permanent bags sitting neatly beneath the jaundiced sclera of her emerald eye; tired and taunt, though satisfied. For on in such physical decay, however, Zynthia stands as tall as any other Elf, devoid of a hump. There is a firmness to her stance that seems as if she were anchored onto the earth itself, steadfast and stalwart in defiance of her prejudiced label of cripple. Beneath the green robes she adorns are the scars of thorns and conflict, as much as the bones that hardly have space against her tightly-sewn skin, trying to poke out by stretching the fabric at her hipbones and shoulders. Her locks of red hair, flowing freely and wildly, reach the small of her back, combed and untangled, though without the glisten of youth.
(Optional) Picture of the Skin:
Written Test!
The way is lit. The path is clear. I need only the strength to follow it.
It was, maybe, for that reason, she elected to visit at night, and hold the torch up high. Perhaps, then, she can focus on the study of what was left behind, instead of weep for what faces she might recognize, mangled and skeletal, returned to the earth with foul intent. Her parched lips threaten to sew a smile on her face, and it did, at the sight of all these run-down houses. Nostalgia tickled every fiber of her aged brain, and drew a chuckle from her lungs—made hoarse through one-too-many battle cries in the hunt of oxen, one-too-many smoky puffs from what ceremonious herbs the priests assured her would grant her vision through Her Grace’s eyes, and one-too-many agonized yawp from injury and despondence.
In time, after what emotions chose to arise did, she found it—her ancient home, perched stoically above the moor, gazing over the remains of a once proud tribe. The climb riveted her, the excitement clogged her throat—or, was that the lack of water trickling down it after so long? A swift sip from her canteen dispelled that theory, and upon stepping into the spider-web clogged home, and finding her dormitory from all those years ago, she knew it couldn’t have been.
Zynthia relinquished herself to her wooden desk, ebon fingers tapping rhythms onto the old hardwood. Splotches of dust and powder alike marred, then, her fingers and the desk as she drummed incessantly-- echoing through the empty outpost, it was the only sound prevalent on this lonesome patch of grass and trees. Darkness had crept along the sides of this building; the chittering of wildlife and wilderbeest gone silent. The nature surrounding this place was of constant metamorphosis, much like herself. It had been why she’d visited this living green. The air was humid and heavy with the scent of damp flora from the night before, filling her lungs with each long sigh. -- The tapping continued. A jaundiced, open and blank journal splayed out before her. She pondered why she’d left it, and stared at the pages with irritation written upon her face. Her lips curled into a furious snarl.
How long had it been since she’d made an entry?
How many years had passed since she’d had anything to write about?
How many years did she have left to come up with something worthwhile?
How long…
In a moment of brain-blasting realization, Zynthia understood what had driven those brigands to her lanes, to her home, and to her people. She and they were far too similar for comfort. Though, in lifespan, she’s lived twice their lives, she finds herself on the very same precipice of oblivion those old mercenaries dangled upon. Oh, yes. Everyone wants to fill their diary, and should they not have one, lead lives of ennui and boredom. At long last, the crumb of cosmic truth planted itself in her amygdala, cementing purpose and virtue.How many years had passed since she’d had anything to write about?
How many years did she have left to come up with something worthwhile?
How long…
Human ambition is not their folly, it’s their ingenuity. Suddenly, Zynthia felt more human than she ever had felt elf. In turning from the home, collecting her things, waltzing down the great valley and returning to the town’s entrance, she found the sun rearing its luminous head over the landscape, illuminating all forms of settlements; little dots, people, each one of them—a sight she’d forgotten with how long she’d spent cradled by nature. The sun’s rays shone upon the roads leading to them.
The way was lit. The path was clear. She needed only the strength to follow it.
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