- Pronouns
- He/Him
Passencore
Legend
1. What is your Minecraft username?
CargoCultism
2. How old are you?
24
3. What country are you from? What is your timezone?
United States, CST
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?
Metagaming is essentially using information your character would not know to enact an IC outcome.
Powergaming is easier exemplified than outright defined. Things like, in one emote, without giving the other player in a combat situation a chance to react, killing their character. (The archetypal example being something like “*kills u instantly no miss*”)
6. Do we allow X-Raying mods or X-Ray texture packs on the server?
Nope.
7. Tell us about yourself! Do you have any examples of your work?
In short: I’ve roleplayed in various mediums since I was twelve.
I’m something of an amateur poet. I’m not going to post any of my work for you to read, presently, so I’ll leave the question of how good I am up to your imagination. My favorite band is Polyphia. I hope this little bit of personal information suffices.
8. Did anyone refer you? If not, how did you find our server?
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Character Name:
Juan Ortiz
Character Age:
20
Character Race:
Human (Aorian)
Appearance:
A short man, brown of hair, brown of eyes, tawny of skin. A loose-fitting blue shirt and brown trousers, to guard against heat, mainly. When performing, he wears a simple white ceramic mask with crude orange flames painted on the face.
(Optional) Picture of the Skin:
Written Test!
Juan Ortiz placed upon his face the mask and the persona that came along with it, slipping wholesale into a new personality as he became one with the crowd.He cleared his throat of cultured, educated manner of speech, and prepared, as he did in his profession, to growl intimidatingly.
Juan El Mascarado he became.
Up and down this market-street, buskers plied their trade while stalls flipped and flopped up and hawkers hawked their wares. Scanning the crowd, our masked man spots his first target: A man of some years, on the cusp of lacking enough manual dexterity to breathe fire. More importantly, for Juan’s purposes, he had horrible teeth. A smile beneath the crudely-painted mask. Here goes nothing.
“Ey, snagtooth!” He calls out, suddenly and loudly, from the sidelines where a small crowd had formed around the performer. That tack had no response, so he kicked it up a notch: “Ey! I can see your hands shaking, ugly! The same donkey that kicked in your teeth make you twitchy as well?” That got not only the firebreather to look at him, and fumble his torch, but the crowd to turn their heads as well. He tut-tuts, at this display. “Pathetic! You call this a show? He can’t even hold a flaming stick!” He jeers, shaking his head, brown eyes gleaming through the eyeholes of his mask.
“If you folks want to see real professionals, real showmanship, follow me…”
Later that evening, having performed the duties allotted to him to the fullest extent the entire day, he decided to relax and unwind with a glass of red wine and a book. A short volume on the history of etiquette, a travelogue, a bit of poetry by an obscure poet. The latter went something like this:
“Life, as long ‘tis, is not what it seems
Lost as we are, like a frog out of bog
And skim milk masquerades as cream.”
Juan Ortiz scribbled in the margins, a quick jotting down, a short note:
“...too on the nose thematically, rhyme forced, utterly devoid of meter. Remember to buy new poems, this gentleman has overstayed his welcome in the literary world.” A sigh, then, as he added up the finances in his head for the day. The saleable tavern-brawl made so-and-so, and three of such-n-such for betting that one gentleman that he couldn't land a single punch on Juan el Mascarado in the span of a minute...
These figures, shadowy half-numbers, swam in his subconscious. He dreamed dyscalculic dreams, and woke up to perform among the troupe again in the morning.
CargoCultism
2. How old are you?
24
3. What country are you from? What is your timezone?
United States, CST
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?
Metagaming is essentially using information your character would not know to enact an IC outcome.
Powergaming is easier exemplified than outright defined. Things like, in one emote, without giving the other player in a combat situation a chance to react, killing their character. (The archetypal example being something like “*kills u instantly no miss*”)
6. Do we allow X-Raying mods or X-Ray texture packs on the server?
Nope.
7. Tell us about yourself! Do you have any examples of your work?
In short: I’ve roleplayed in various mediums since I was twelve.
I’m something of an amateur poet. I’m not going to post any of my work for you to read, presently, so I’ll leave the question of how good I am up to your imagination. My favorite band is Polyphia. I hope this little bit of personal information suffices.
8. Did anyone refer you? If not, how did you find our server?
▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬
Character Name:
Juan Ortiz
Character Age:
20
Character Race:
Human (Aorian)
Appearance:
A short man, brown of hair, brown of eyes, tawny of skin. A loose-fitting blue shirt and brown trousers, to guard against heat, mainly. When performing, he wears a simple white ceramic mask with crude orange flames painted on the face.
(Optional) Picture of the Skin:
Written Test!
Juan Ortiz placed upon his face the mask and the persona that came along with it, slipping wholesale into a new personality as he became one with the crowd.He cleared his throat of cultured, educated manner of speech, and prepared, as he did in his profession, to growl intimidatingly.
Juan El Mascarado he became.
Up and down this market-street, buskers plied their trade while stalls flipped and flopped up and hawkers hawked their wares. Scanning the crowd, our masked man spots his first target: A man of some years, on the cusp of lacking enough manual dexterity to breathe fire. More importantly, for Juan’s purposes, he had horrible teeth. A smile beneath the crudely-painted mask. Here goes nothing.
“Ey, snagtooth!” He calls out, suddenly and loudly, from the sidelines where a small crowd had formed around the performer. That tack had no response, so he kicked it up a notch: “Ey! I can see your hands shaking, ugly! The same donkey that kicked in your teeth make you twitchy as well?” That got not only the firebreather to look at him, and fumble his torch, but the crowd to turn their heads as well. He tut-tuts, at this display. “Pathetic! You call this a show? He can’t even hold a flaming stick!” He jeers, shaking his head, brown eyes gleaming through the eyeholes of his mask.
“If you folks want to see real professionals, real showmanship, follow me…”
Later that evening, having performed the duties allotted to him to the fullest extent the entire day, he decided to relax and unwind with a glass of red wine and a book. A short volume on the history of etiquette, a travelogue, a bit of poetry by an obscure poet. The latter went something like this:
“Life, as long ‘tis, is not what it seems
Lost as we are, like a frog out of bog
And skim milk masquerades as cream.”
Juan Ortiz scribbled in the margins, a quick jotting down, a short note:
“...too on the nose thematically, rhyme forced, utterly devoid of meter. Remember to buy new poems, this gentleman has overstayed his welcome in the literary world.” A sigh, then, as he added up the finances in his head for the day. The saleable tavern-brawl made so-and-so, and three of such-n-such for betting that one gentleman that he couldn't land a single punch on Juan el Mascarado in the span of a minute...
These figures, shadowy half-numbers, swam in his subconscious. He dreamed dyscalculic dreams, and woke up to perform among the troupe again in the morning.
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