Overlordy
Villager
About You!
1. What is your Minecraft username?
overlordy
2. How old are you?
18
3. What country are you from?
The good ol' US of A
4. Have you read the King's Law, Tome of Citizenship, Official Lore, and the Survival Guides yet?
I was up until 4 AM on a Sunday reading all of it. Fascinating lore, really, I'm kind of invested.
5. In your own words, how would you define metagaming and powergaming?
Metagaming - having your character know information that they couldn’t possibly know IC, via your own knowledge or otherwise
Powergaming - forcing other people to comply with what you do in the roleplay; also, having a severely overpowered character
6. Do we allow X-Raying mods or X-Ray texture packs on the server?
nope, that would be unfair to the people genuinely mining for resources
7. Name one of our current Mentors.
Glados
8. Tell us about yourself!
My name is Hannah, but I also go by Overlordy (Lordy for short) online. I’m a freshman in college and I’m studying to become a creative writing major, and I do writing commissions on the side. I’ve been roleplaying for 10 years on various sites. I love rock and metal music, and I enjoy a wide variety of other genres (except country, for the most part.) I love gaming and I’m currently playing Watch Dogs 2, Dishonored 2, and Overwatch (I main D.va and Mercy)
9. Do you have any examples of your work?
I post a good deal of the stuff I write on AO3 (Overlordy) and my tumblr blog (@celestialwhitenoise), but it's mostly fanfiction. I keep my original stuff on my google drive.
10. Did anyone refer you? If not, how did you find our server? _Cymic suggested I should! And why the heck not, y'know.
About Your Character!
Character Age:
22
Character Race:
Human
Appearance:
Ginger hair, pale skin covered in a smattering of freckles (most apparent on her face). She has large, kind pale-blue eyes, which always appear friendly and excited. She’s incredibly expressive- relies a tad too much on impulse and emotion rather than spending time pondering her actions- and is incredibly easy to read if one pays close attention to her facial expressions and her body language. Her build is stocky, with a moderately tall height (5’10, or a little over 177 cm) and well-defined musculature gained from days spent training and working on her and her sister’s farm. She typically wears clothes that are breathable and easy to move in, usually made with cloth and leather, and layers the ensemble with chain mail (just in case).
(Optional) Picture of the Skin:
http://puu.sh/sy1lV/a93a6bd7e5.jpg
Written Test!
Patrols are not usually this dull.
Eirian sighs, dragging her gaze slow about the forested landscape around her. The path she (or more accurately, her horse) travels is dirty and worn, stamped down by decades upon decades of use. It’s flat and easy-going, the muffled thump, thump of her horses hooves lulling her into some sort of hypnotic trance. Even her horse, a spirited dappled grey mare, seems lethargic in the spring heat. Eirian half pays attention to the trail, swaying in her saddle, only jerking to attention when the trees break away and her path becomes more populated; she narrowly manages to steer her mount out of the path of a squealing group of children and smiles sheepishly at the woman who glares at her.
Giving herself another firm shake, she pats the neck of her indignant horse in apology and continues on. Eirian keeps her attention sharp as she approaches town, out of the comfortable silence of the woods. People pack through the thoroughfare on a busy day, their voices mingling with one another in a steady drone. Shops hunch close together, like beasts huddling for warmth, and from behind wooden stalls and bright strips of cloth merchants flaunt their wares and wave over old maids and farmhands.
Eirian smiles, more at ease, far less sluggish. The appearance of life- of people- energizes her. She guides her horse down the thoroughfare, returning bright smiles and cheerful greetings to the people who recognize her from her usual patrols. The rhythmic clop, clop of her horses hooves join the din of voices, rattling carriage wheels, bright, tolling bells, and a child’s cry-
The last sound, stark and chilling, makes her pull sharply on her horse’s reins. It whinnies in protest but she hardly hears it, hyperfocused on the terrible noise she heard, turning her head and searching through the crowd of people in search of its source.
A cloud of dust kicks up from the street, stirred by some sort of scuffle, and it’s all she needs. Eirian clicks her tongue and her horse dutifully stays put as she all but flies out of the saddle and sprints down the street, towards the small shape struggling against the dirt, pinned beneath a much larger one.
“What’s going on here?” she snaps, skidding to a halt. She tries her best to look dignified, and it works, to some extent. The larger shape- a man, merchant by the rings on his hand and the quality of his clothing- curses colorfully and stands up, hand tight over the scruff of a dirty, frightened boy, no older than ten.
“This one,” the merchant snarls, out of breath and sporting a few bruises and scratches, “knicked bread from my stall when he thought I wasn’t looking!”
Eirian glances down at the boy, who whimpers and shies away from her gaze, stick-thin arms wrapped tight around a cracked and dusty loaf of bread. Eirian feels a pang of sympathy. “‘S not like you was gonna eat it,” the boy huffs, rebellious. The merchant turns a curious shade of pink.
“Regardless, theft is a severe crime and you certainly deserve to be punished. Might I suggest two fingers? One for the fight he put up, nasty little creature.”
The boy goes deathly pale and Eirian can’t keep herself silent any longer. She sighs and rubs her forehead, staring sadly at the boy. “I’ll take him off your hands.”
The boy lets out a soft, whimpering sob, and Eirian has to restrain the urge to scoop him up into her arms and carry him to safety. The merchant stares at her for a few moments, and decides the effort isn’t worth it. He snatches the bread back from the boy’s arms and stalks away, grumbling.
“I-Is you g-gonna ch-chop off my fingers?” the child stammers, clutching his hands protectively. His eyes well up with tears. “P-Please don’t, m-miss, I won’t-”
“I’m not going to hurt you,” Eirian reassures.
“H-Huh?”
She sighs and kneels before the child, looking him in his wide, tear-reddened brown eyes. “I won’t hurt you,” she repeats, truthful and even. “Do you mind if I take a look at your wounds?”
The child, shocked by her mercy, (the thought that this is the first time he has seen kindness makes her stomach twist) nods wordlessly. She smiles and keeps her movements slow as she examines his bruises and scratches, finding nothing life-threatening. Eirian’s smile widens into an easy grin and she ruffles the boy’s already messy hair. “You’ll be fine, little warrior.”
The boy smiles sheepishly at the endearment and Eirian laughs, but the lighthearted moment is crushed by a pitiful growl from the child’s stomach. Eirian sobers, harshly reminded of his thin limbs and sickly pallor. He’s probably starving.
Eirian doesn’t give a passing thought to her decision. “Would you like to come to my house for dinner?” she says in a gentle, welcoming voice. “My sister, Giselle, cooks a delicious rabbit stew. I’m sure she’d be happy to help you.”
The child gapes at her, searching her face for any sign of deceit, but Eirian remains steadfast, meets his gaze evenly, and smiles. Giselle might have a few complaints about bringing a dusty street urchin into their home, but Eirian knows she would cave easily.
After a moment of consideration, the child nods. “Good!” Eirian chirps, grinning brightly. She stands and pats dust off her knees. “But first, please promise me you won’t steal again. It’s dangerous, and I may not be around to protect you a second time.
The boy looks down and shuffles from foot to foot, wringing his fingers. “O-Okay,” he stammers, “I promise.”
He could very well be lying, but Eirian decides to put her faith in him. “Thank you,” she says, “if you need help again, don’t hesitate to seek out me or my sister. We would be glad to help you.”
The boy brightens at the assurance that he has someone to rely on, and the endearing smile on his face makes Eirian’s heart swell. “Okay!” he says, eager and happy and energetic, and with youthful energy he takes Eirian’s proffered hand.
1. What is your Minecraft username?
overlordy
2. How old are you?
18
3. What country are you from?
The good ol' US of A
4. Have you read the King's Law, Tome of Citizenship, Official Lore, and the Survival Guides yet?
I was up until 4 AM on a Sunday reading all of it. Fascinating lore, really, I'm kind of invested.
5. In your own words, how would you define metagaming and powergaming?
Metagaming - having your character know information that they couldn’t possibly know IC, via your own knowledge or otherwise
Powergaming - forcing other people to comply with what you do in the roleplay; also, having a severely overpowered character
6. Do we allow X-Raying mods or X-Ray texture packs on the server?
nope, that would be unfair to the people genuinely mining for resources
7. Name one of our current Mentors.
Glados
8. Tell us about yourself!
My name is Hannah, but I also go by Overlordy (Lordy for short) online. I’m a freshman in college and I’m studying to become a creative writing major, and I do writing commissions on the side. I’ve been roleplaying for 10 years on various sites. I love rock and metal music, and I enjoy a wide variety of other genres (except country, for the most part.) I love gaming and I’m currently playing Watch Dogs 2, Dishonored 2, and Overwatch (I main D.va and Mercy)
9. Do you have any examples of your work?
I post a good deal of the stuff I write on AO3 (Overlordy) and my tumblr blog (@celestialwhitenoise), but it's mostly fanfiction. I keep my original stuff on my google drive.
10. Did anyone refer you? If not, how did you find our server? _Cymic suggested I should! And why the heck not, y'know.
About Your Character!
Character Age:
22
Character Race:
Human
Appearance:
Ginger hair, pale skin covered in a smattering of freckles (most apparent on her face). She has large, kind pale-blue eyes, which always appear friendly and excited. She’s incredibly expressive- relies a tad too much on impulse and emotion rather than spending time pondering her actions- and is incredibly easy to read if one pays close attention to her facial expressions and her body language. Her build is stocky, with a moderately tall height (5’10, or a little over 177 cm) and well-defined musculature gained from days spent training and working on her and her sister’s farm. She typically wears clothes that are breathable and easy to move in, usually made with cloth and leather, and layers the ensemble with chain mail (just in case).
(Optional) Picture of the Skin:
http://puu.sh/sy1lV/a93a6bd7e5.jpg
Written Test!
Patrols are not usually this dull.
Eirian sighs, dragging her gaze slow about the forested landscape around her. The path she (or more accurately, her horse) travels is dirty and worn, stamped down by decades upon decades of use. It’s flat and easy-going, the muffled thump, thump of her horses hooves lulling her into some sort of hypnotic trance. Even her horse, a spirited dappled grey mare, seems lethargic in the spring heat. Eirian half pays attention to the trail, swaying in her saddle, only jerking to attention when the trees break away and her path becomes more populated; she narrowly manages to steer her mount out of the path of a squealing group of children and smiles sheepishly at the woman who glares at her.
Giving herself another firm shake, she pats the neck of her indignant horse in apology and continues on. Eirian keeps her attention sharp as she approaches town, out of the comfortable silence of the woods. People pack through the thoroughfare on a busy day, their voices mingling with one another in a steady drone. Shops hunch close together, like beasts huddling for warmth, and from behind wooden stalls and bright strips of cloth merchants flaunt their wares and wave over old maids and farmhands.
Eirian smiles, more at ease, far less sluggish. The appearance of life- of people- energizes her. She guides her horse down the thoroughfare, returning bright smiles and cheerful greetings to the people who recognize her from her usual patrols. The rhythmic clop, clop of her horses hooves join the din of voices, rattling carriage wheels, bright, tolling bells, and a child’s cry-
The last sound, stark and chilling, makes her pull sharply on her horse’s reins. It whinnies in protest but she hardly hears it, hyperfocused on the terrible noise she heard, turning her head and searching through the crowd of people in search of its source.
A cloud of dust kicks up from the street, stirred by some sort of scuffle, and it’s all she needs. Eirian clicks her tongue and her horse dutifully stays put as she all but flies out of the saddle and sprints down the street, towards the small shape struggling against the dirt, pinned beneath a much larger one.
“What’s going on here?” she snaps, skidding to a halt. She tries her best to look dignified, and it works, to some extent. The larger shape- a man, merchant by the rings on his hand and the quality of his clothing- curses colorfully and stands up, hand tight over the scruff of a dirty, frightened boy, no older than ten.
“This one,” the merchant snarls, out of breath and sporting a few bruises and scratches, “knicked bread from my stall when he thought I wasn’t looking!”
Eirian glances down at the boy, who whimpers and shies away from her gaze, stick-thin arms wrapped tight around a cracked and dusty loaf of bread. Eirian feels a pang of sympathy. “‘S not like you was gonna eat it,” the boy huffs, rebellious. The merchant turns a curious shade of pink.
“Regardless, theft is a severe crime and you certainly deserve to be punished. Might I suggest two fingers? One for the fight he put up, nasty little creature.”
The boy goes deathly pale and Eirian can’t keep herself silent any longer. She sighs and rubs her forehead, staring sadly at the boy. “I’ll take him off your hands.”
The boy lets out a soft, whimpering sob, and Eirian has to restrain the urge to scoop him up into her arms and carry him to safety. The merchant stares at her for a few moments, and decides the effort isn’t worth it. He snatches the bread back from the boy’s arms and stalks away, grumbling.
“I-Is you g-gonna ch-chop off my fingers?” the child stammers, clutching his hands protectively. His eyes well up with tears. “P-Please don’t, m-miss, I won’t-”
“I’m not going to hurt you,” Eirian reassures.
“H-Huh?”
She sighs and kneels before the child, looking him in his wide, tear-reddened brown eyes. “I won’t hurt you,” she repeats, truthful and even. “Do you mind if I take a look at your wounds?”
The child, shocked by her mercy, (the thought that this is the first time he has seen kindness makes her stomach twist) nods wordlessly. She smiles and keeps her movements slow as she examines his bruises and scratches, finding nothing life-threatening. Eirian’s smile widens into an easy grin and she ruffles the boy’s already messy hair. “You’ll be fine, little warrior.”
The boy smiles sheepishly at the endearment and Eirian laughs, but the lighthearted moment is crushed by a pitiful growl from the child’s stomach. Eirian sobers, harshly reminded of his thin limbs and sickly pallor. He’s probably starving.
Eirian doesn’t give a passing thought to her decision. “Would you like to come to my house for dinner?” she says in a gentle, welcoming voice. “My sister, Giselle, cooks a delicious rabbit stew. I’m sure she’d be happy to help you.”
The child gapes at her, searching her face for any sign of deceit, but Eirian remains steadfast, meets his gaze evenly, and smiles. Giselle might have a few complaints about bringing a dusty street urchin into their home, but Eirian knows she would cave easily.
After a moment of consideration, the child nods. “Good!” Eirian chirps, grinning brightly. She stands and pats dust off her knees. “But first, please promise me you won’t steal again. It’s dangerous, and I may not be around to protect you a second time.
The boy looks down and shuffles from foot to foot, wringing his fingers. “O-Okay,” he stammers, “I promise.”
He could very well be lying, but Eirian decides to put her faith in him. “Thank you,” she says, “if you need help again, don’t hesitate to seek out me or my sister. We would be glad to help you.”
The boy brightens at the assurance that he has someone to rely on, and the endearing smile on his face makes Eirian’s heart swell. “Okay!” he says, eager and happy and energetic, and with youthful energy he takes Eirian’s proffered hand.
