sadko12345's Whitelist App:
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{Introduction Section}
Minecraft Username: sadko12345
Age: 22
Country & Timezone: Russia
Read the Kings Law, Code of Conducts, Official Lore, and the Player Guides?: Yes
Define Metagaming & Powergaming?:
Powergaming - roleplaying and emoting in such a way that doesn't allow others to react, robs them of their agency in the roleplay (e.g. *I cut off your head and dropkick you into orbit*)
Metagaming - using information known out-of-character in roleplay, even though your character doesn't or shouldn't know about it (e.g A friend calls for help on discord that they're being attacked and I log in to aid them, even though my character would have no way of knowing about the attack otherwise)
Do we allow Xray mods or X-Ray texture packs?: No
Tell us about yourself!: Hey. I'm a returning player (registered here 7+ years ago). Aside from my love for roleplaying games, I'm an avid musician. I play bass, guitar, and I write tracks on Ableton. I'm studying linguistics in my third year of university.
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{Character Section}
Character Name: Vlad
Age: Fifty-five summers.
Race: Your run-of-the-mill human.
Appearance: Lean and mean in his younger years, the man has picked up some weight; he stands with a relaxed posture, but is not slouching in the slightest. A crown of messy black hair adorns his head, it's length reaching just past his shoulders, unruly and with streaks of gray around his temples. His face is all facets: his cheekbones jut over great suffering hollows, his lips are full, his mouth so wide that his smile creates horizontal lines on his cheeks that could pass for cat's whiskers. His chin takes up a good third of his face. And his eyes are ghost gray - paler than stone and darker than milk, like two strange moons.
His skin is pale, almost sickly, and his body seems a mess of criss-crossing scars and tattoos, both faded and new, a tapestry that reads his fate and story. The right side of his face and head is the site of a grotesque burn, decades-old but still rather prominent. The man chooses his garbs based on practicality rather than style. Dark tones, fitting for the weather, armor and weapons concealed behind cloaks and shawls where numerous little pockets allow for more tools and items to be stored.
Written Test (Min: 400 words):
He peered through the crack of the inn’s door, obscured by the moonless night. Voices, distinct crackling of the hearth’s fire, a drunken bard’s tune. Laughter picked up at the chorus, cheers and wails like the rise and fall of tides. He felt no yearning for warmth nor company of the men-at-arms and levies gathered inside. No more quests for glory or recognition, nor for redemption. It was almost like, for the first time in a long while, he wanted nothing at all.
He remembered a message that arrived by a trained bird. Many years ago, in a military camp, on the cusp of winter. Sif dead. Tennand dead. The keep stands. Back then, the news hit him like a punch to the gut. He tried to recall those days now, slogging down the dusty chambers of memory.
The siege of Breakwater was a confusing, messy affair. A huge coalition came to besiege them from land and water, a knight dubbed the ‘Queen’s Wench’ led an army composed of mercenaries, sailors, traders, minor nobles, syndicates of professional thieves and assassins; dwarves, elves, moors, halflings, humans. All united by their hate for the Empire, for the Kaiser’s ever-growing sphere of interest and his ambitious political designs, for people like Vlad and the other Anhalder knights and lords; the doberman dogs kept on loose chains, ready to be unleashed when diplomacy and cooler heads could not, or would not prevail. In a way, he didn’t fault them. But that did not stop him from doing his duty.
The Breakwater garrison was outnumbered three-to-one. Their walls and experience were the equalizer. Vlad and his men were tasked with recon; they were the first to spot the garish coalition flags rippling off in the distance as they approached the fields before the city. His lips were the ones to sound the horn, a signal back for the forces at the keep to prepare for a cavalry charge. He tried to remember it now. A sharp, reverberating noise, like the cry of some ancient and wounded beast.
Vlad found himself walking down the cobbled road, away from the town inn, his boots eventually stepping on gravel, then beginning to softly sink in warm, plowed earth. Something moved in his peripheral vision; he brushed a hand through his hair and saw a spider on his palm, laid flat on it’s back and struggling to regain balance. Bony fingers moved to crush the creature; he watched it turn to wisps of smoke. And gazing up at the cold night sky, Vlad allowed himself to dream again for another moment.
He was back there now, at the battle-grounds. Fitting the saddle over his horse, a fine Renatun steed brought over from the old world; and a good friend. He could always see the intelligence cloaked within those deep dark eyes, a certain sadness, a fiery glint. What a good fucking horse that was. The riders assembled in a wedge formation. Jason, Jeor, King Peter himself, James, myself… Many more loyal serjeants, knights, men-at-arms. What were their names? What were their… Vlad’s scowl deepened. He clawed his way through the hazy canopy of old information - their names and faces just out of reach. An ever nagging weakness in the knees beset him, especially his left hamstring, where an orcish axe head once struck true, and he sat down on the ground, almost completely hidden within the wheatfield. The pain subsided briefly.
Then we charged. A raspy chuckle escaped his lips as he remembered the thundering of hooves, the lances held high, gradually lowering as they descended upon the footmen. The sweat, the fear, the tremor of the ground, all of it accumulated in that knightly plate armor to be transformed into one thing alone - courage. Courage fleeting and vague, but real. A dry branch cracked underneath his weight; he remembered the sickening crunch of lances impacting upon breastplates, or sinking through meat and bone. Chaos. Madness. And he was in the thick of it.
“Hey, Grundy. Grundy! What are you doing there, taking a shit?” A voice called out in the darkness. Vlad blinked, slowly becoming aware he’s being spoken to. The caravan-guard looked down at him disdainfully. “Get up off your ass, boss wants to see you.” He rose and dusted himself off. “Drunk on shift again, are you? He’s probably docking your pay.” His fellow guard snickered.
Vlad didn’t reply, trudging back toward the town. |
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