1. What is your Minecraft username?
Valkrae
2. How old are you?
24
3. What country are you from? What is your timezone?
United States, EST
4. Have you read the King's Law, Code of Conducts, Official Lore, and the Player Guides yet?
Of course.
5. In your own words, how would you define metagaming and powergaming?
Metagaming is the act of using information learned OOCly, in an IC manner. Powergaming is the act of taking control of another persons character, using abilities your character doesn't have, etc and so on.
6. Do we allow X-Raying mods or X-Ray texture packs on the server?
You do not.
7. Tell us about yourself! Do you have any examples of your work?
I'm Valk. I like to RP. I also don't like sharing a whole lot of information about myself, as I don't really find myself all that interesting.
I enjoy political RP more than I probably should, and I've created a decent amount of lore for a Discord RP I run. If you're interested, here's a link to something I made recently: https://docs.google.com/document/d/19TxHAs0U8cpHrO79VM2WoCqeHOClChm6WMJD-OJhkNg/edit?usp=sharing
8. Did anyone refer you? If not, how did you find our server?
Goldy on Discord, I think.
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Character Name:
Draysa Hal'Viryn (Goes by Draysa, to the public at large.)
Character Age:
74
Character Race:
Moor Elf
Appearance:
Draysa is a sorry sight. At her arrival to this place, she is quite obviously down on her luck. The clothes on her back are dirty, and covered in grime. White hair stained with dirt, and grease from days or weeks without washing it. It is clear that this Moor has hit a place very close to rock bottom. However, while she is downtrodden, she is not weak. Her build betrays the life of one who has been taken care of. Well-fed, and well built, Draysa has a muscular tone to her. Her purple-eyed gaze is almost constantly locked in a visage of ingrained superiority, and even she was shorter, one could almost swear she was looking down on everyone she met.
Her outfit is the garment of a scholar with wealth. Though the colors have faded, the garment still holds a vibrant purple robe, with dyed-leather vest layered over top. The seams of the garment are a golden color, sun-bleached and dried out. Her boots are caked with a thick layer of mud and dirt, and the bottoms of her robes are frayed and ripping.
Written Test!
Draysa had always hated the Bonefires. It had always filled the village with the putrid scent of death. It hung like a gaseous cloud over the people there, as if the spirit of the deceased itself was reluctant to leave. She flared her nostrils, in some attempt at alleviating the stench. She was reward with a quick cuff to the back of the head. She whipped her head around, and her father glared her down. She could almost hear his voice.
"It is to be expected of us to be respectful during the ceremony. Making strange faces like that is only going to get you in trouble." She could even hear his tone. Disappointed, yet warm. Her father wasn't exactly a role model, but he cared for her, and she knew that. She knew he meant well by trying to teach her, but she hated having to learn the lessons all the same.
She turned her head forward, shaking the fictional chewing out from her mind. Her thoughts centered on the grieving wife to the deceased villager. Her wails pierced the solemn silence of the village like a knife through bare skin. It made Draysa's head ache. For a moment, she felt a strange sense of rage within her at the grieving woman. It subsided, but the ferocity of it made Draysa give herself pause. Perhaps, she pondered, it is something she wouldn't understand. She wouldn't have this sort of burial. Her bones would be buried, and paraded for all to see.
Draysa was going to be important. This, she knew for a fact. In that moment, a strange sensation overcame Draysa. She felt restless, out of place. While this was her home, she had grown sick of it. Sick of the same sights, sick of the same traditions.
She wanted to get into the world. Make something of herself outside of her home. She could come back with something worth the trouble, and be satisfied with her life.
--
Several years later, and Draysa found herself recalling this little memory while at the wrong end of a bottle. Five years, she had said, Five years and she could make something of herself in the world. Yet, all she managed to accomplish was likely drinking herself into an early grave. Tossing the now empty bottle from her drunken self, Draysa struggled to her feet. She had told her Father she would return in ten years time, with something. Anything worth her trouble. Five years down, and five to go now... Time ticks on.
Valkrae
2. How old are you?
24
3. What country are you from? What is your timezone?
United States, EST
4. Have you read the King's Law, Code of Conducts, Official Lore, and the Player Guides yet?
Of course.
5. In your own words, how would you define metagaming and powergaming?
Metagaming is the act of using information learned OOCly, in an IC manner. Powergaming is the act of taking control of another persons character, using abilities your character doesn't have, etc and so on.
6. Do we allow X-Raying mods or X-Ray texture packs on the server?
You do not.
7. Tell us about yourself! Do you have any examples of your work?
I'm Valk. I like to RP. I also don't like sharing a whole lot of information about myself, as I don't really find myself all that interesting.
I enjoy political RP more than I probably should, and I've created a decent amount of lore for a Discord RP I run. If you're interested, here's a link to something I made recently: https://docs.google.com/document/d/19TxHAs0U8cpHrO79VM2WoCqeHOClChm6WMJD-OJhkNg/edit?usp=sharing
8. Did anyone refer you? If not, how did you find our server?
Goldy on Discord, I think.
▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬
Character Name:
Draysa Hal'Viryn (Goes by Draysa, to the public at large.)
Character Age:
74
Character Race:
Moor Elf
Appearance:
Draysa is a sorry sight. At her arrival to this place, she is quite obviously down on her luck. The clothes on her back are dirty, and covered in grime. White hair stained with dirt, and grease from days or weeks without washing it. It is clear that this Moor has hit a place very close to rock bottom. However, while she is downtrodden, she is not weak. Her build betrays the life of one who has been taken care of. Well-fed, and well built, Draysa has a muscular tone to her. Her purple-eyed gaze is almost constantly locked in a visage of ingrained superiority, and even she was shorter, one could almost swear she was looking down on everyone she met.
Her outfit is the garment of a scholar with wealth. Though the colors have faded, the garment still holds a vibrant purple robe, with dyed-leather vest layered over top. The seams of the garment are a golden color, sun-bleached and dried out. Her boots are caked with a thick layer of mud and dirt, and the bottoms of her robes are frayed and ripping.
Written Test!
Draysa had always hated the Bonefires. It had always filled the village with the putrid scent of death. It hung like a gaseous cloud over the people there, as if the spirit of the deceased itself was reluctant to leave. She flared her nostrils, in some attempt at alleviating the stench. She was reward with a quick cuff to the back of the head. She whipped her head around, and her father glared her down. She could almost hear his voice.
"It is to be expected of us to be respectful during the ceremony. Making strange faces like that is only going to get you in trouble." She could even hear his tone. Disappointed, yet warm. Her father wasn't exactly a role model, but he cared for her, and she knew that. She knew he meant well by trying to teach her, but she hated having to learn the lessons all the same.
She turned her head forward, shaking the fictional chewing out from her mind. Her thoughts centered on the grieving wife to the deceased villager. Her wails pierced the solemn silence of the village like a knife through bare skin. It made Draysa's head ache. For a moment, she felt a strange sense of rage within her at the grieving woman. It subsided, but the ferocity of it made Draysa give herself pause. Perhaps, she pondered, it is something she wouldn't understand. She wouldn't have this sort of burial. Her bones would be buried, and paraded for all to see.
Draysa was going to be important. This, she knew for a fact. In that moment, a strange sensation overcame Draysa. She felt restless, out of place. While this was her home, she had grown sick of it. Sick of the same sights, sick of the same traditions.
She wanted to get into the world. Make something of herself outside of her home. She could come back with something worth the trouble, and be satisfied with her life.
--
Several years later, and Draysa found herself recalling this little memory while at the wrong end of a bottle. Five years, she had said, Five years and she could make something of herself in the world. Yet, all she managed to accomplish was likely drinking herself into an early grave. Tossing the now empty bottle from her drunken self, Draysa struggled to her feet. She had told her Father she would return in ten years time, with something. Anything worth her trouble. Five years down, and five to go now... Time ticks on.
