06-11-2010, 01:05 PM
First and foremost: Tell us about yourself, as a player.:
I'm 19, I'm a dude, I'm getting qualifications to write for TV and Film. I'm a very imaginative person, I doodle a lot (on my computer tablet as well as paper, mostly paper) and keep lil' booklets of my ideas for random projects.
I'm currently working on an action/comedy script for my final Uni student film.
I can't sat I'm going to be good with making long entries in this thing here, not good at explaining myself.
What country do you come from? What is your primary language?
I'm from England, so I kinda guess my language is English. I can't say that I'm too good with other langauges though. They confuse me, sadly.
How did you get into Warcraft?:
I played a little of Warcraft 3, got bored of the game itself but liked what lore I read in the lil' booklet that came with it, so I got the MMO instead.
However retail is filled with Drama Llamas, and I'm allergic to their fur.
What made you seek our server over others? (or How did you find us?):
I already know a few people here, I used to play here under a different name but new beginning and all that. I've missed so much and there's so many people here I don't know that I'd rather start from the bottom anyway.
What kinds of roleplay do you enjoy?:
I prefer low population Roleplaying, whenever I'm in a crowd I usually end up loosing interest because I simply can't keep up.
Rp with a persistant group of friends/colleages works best with me. Nothing say loving like teamwork!
What is your favorite race/class? Why?:
I used to smother my love onto trolls. But recently I've begun liking dwarven warriors. I like the imagery in my head of a small, strong lil' fellow who carries a bunch of weapons on his back.
I also like Tuskarr, not playable, but they're fun to give hugs to!
What are your expectations of this server?:
I expect people not to put 1's in their !!! spam. I also expect no !!! spam, or any other kind of spam.
I would like to see people who are friendly to each other, and when they're not friendly for them to be at the very least reasonable about not being friendly.
I don't want no mole hating either, I like moles.
Out of all of our rules and regulations listed on our server, which appeals to you the most?:
This is an odd question, I wonder who finds rules appealing?
I guess the general rules on chat are awesome, really hate it when people start going on an off-topic/OOC tangent for everyone else to see.
Lastly, tell us a story! It can be short, it can be long; but most importantly, we want to see your work in action. Go!:
Henry Dickingson is a courier. He takes things from one place and, with shocking professionalism, delivers them to another place which happens to be different from the first one. It's not the most exciting of professions, nor is it the most profitable on the planet. Clients are usually ungrateful for the potential dangers a single man carrying a parcel can face, to predator, even the tiniest package can hold something worthy to sell at market.
Nether-the-less, despite bandit attacks, monster interventions, the possibility-of-getting-lost and recipients not wanting a stranger giving them their parcel – It's a simple job for a man who prefers a simple life. Besides, those things only happen to the lucky folk, for the most part, Mr. Dickingson's life was relatively uneventful.
Uneventful is good, it means nothing is wrong, after all.
Henry Dickinson also likes beer, beer and any other substance that convinced him that life was a happy place to be. That excluded drugs, drugs were bad. They gave him rashes. He preferred to drink in local taverns, or a local bar, pub, local square or market. Anything local, it had to begin with an L and end with ocal. He loved locals.
Being a man who was always on the road, Mr. Dickingson never had the time to make any friends, not that he was a loner by any means, nor suffered from any angsty depression over it. His indescribable love for the locals of any given settlement was outstanding.
Local folk knows things, lots of things which can be very interesting to whoever can be bothered to learn something new. Local folk could have been that guy who saw everything when the fat lady from down the road fell on her arse, or that girl who saw the punch up in the pub last weekend. They could know a completely different way of making tea that'd make it taste a little bitter, or a method of cooking bacon that made the outside crispy yet the inside kind of chewy. They know the unique tiny things in life which make things just that little bit more interesting.
That and accents. Henry Dickingson loved accents; Happy little gnome accents. Gruff, rough Lorderan accents. Happy, cheery Dwarven accents. Soft, laid back Elven accents. Fancy-free posh accents and the un-articulated commoner accents. They made him smile, made the many people he met all that more unique.
Love. Luff. Lurve. Lothe. Luv. Whenever he heard a new way of malforming a word, It made him smile brightly on the outside, and infinitely on the inside.
-
Henry Dickingson sat on a sofa, a decorated sofa which had a flowery pattern sown into the cushions which decorated it. The sofa was against a wall, one of four which created a waiting room. The opposing wall had a small window carved into it, the base of this window forming a desk which looked over him, as well as the room, like a judge's seat did a courtroom.
The wood-covered walls weren't decorated; they were left blank whilst a series of bookshelves, holding parcels of varying sizes, were stacked against them. Each shelf held a series of parcels of all shapes and sizes stacked onto them. Tied to them were name tags, with addresses to both close up and far-away places scribbled onto the. Henry looked over these with a curious gaze, wondering which ones were going to be his next charges. The ones he could read from his seat were addressed to houses nearby, some for the docks, some for the Mage Quarter and from what he could see, one for the castle. A few of them were to be sent to old town, the new volunteer would probably handle those.
Scratching his chin idly, he looked over more of the shelves. He had a beard that was closely cut, the tiny, pitch black hairs forming a neat cover over his dark-tanned skin, as did the locks that fell over his face. Mr. Dickingson wasn't the most well built of folk, where most heroes venturing out into the world had the muscular aptitude of gods, he had a stature which labeled him rather nicely as a 'couch-potato'. By no means, he wasn't out of shape; round was still registered as a shape. Mr. Dickingson's rounded stomach didn't slow him down when he needed to run, he could keep a good jogging pace also. Where Henry usually wear a set of light chainmail covering his day clothes, he wore a simple attire. A brown shirt covered his chest, tucked neatly into black slacks, topped off with a neat silver buckled belt.
A head appeared, rising slowly from behind the desk, that of a grumpy looking old lady. Mrs. Smith. Mrs. Smith had many reasons to look grumpy. First of all, her name was so bland that un-buttered bread was a delicacy. Mary Smith, no middle-name, was a single fifty three year old whom had to walk the length of Stormwind to get to work in the morning. She wasn't in a condition to deliver packages herself, so her primary jobs were to keep the office clean, make sure the shelves were kept in an orderly fashion and process orders between regular and first class deliveries.
The company was a fairly small one, lesser known and, in terms of customers, was being smashed by faster services which were run by goblin companies. Henry thought of beginning his career in one of these; however he changed his mind after seeing that the citizens of the castle, as well as most people he ran into in the Elwynn area, used the Hanson Delivery Service. As he sat in the sofa, he had been working for them for ten years.
Her curly, silver (grey) hair wobbled as she tilted her head, licking her lips so they didn't rub to hard against one another when she spoke. Giving Mr. Dickingson a warm smile, she spoke slowly and clearly.
“Henry, dear. There is a parcel here for you, and if you give me that letter here on the seat next to you, there is a cookie too.†Mrs. Smith merely looked grumpy. Mrs. Smith was actually a very nice lady who had a sweet tooth as well as a charming attitude toward friendly youngsters. Thirty six year old Henry Dickingson counted as a youngster, which was nice, it meant he got to indulge occasionally into the sugary treats.
“'Aight.†He chimed in response, getting to his feet, hooking the letter in question between his fingers. Placing the letter onto the counter in front of the elderly receptionist, he gave her a warm, welcoming smile. “Here ye go Mrs. Smith, where'm ah goin'?â€Â
Taking the letter with a nod and a thanks, Mrs. Smith pull out a fairly small wooden box, wrapped elegantly with a red ribbon. It was rectangular in shape and seemed fairly thick. From the way that Mrs. Smith held it, it seemed fairly weighty. She read the tag attatched to the ribbon. “It would seem that you're going to Lakeshire, dear, up in the Redridge Mountains. That isn't going to be as far as your last trip, is it?â€Â
“Nah, the las' delivery ah had was that collection paintin's fer that goblin in Booty Bay. Fer the record, that place ain' changed a bet, by the way.â€Â
“I was hoping it hadn't, it has been a long time since I've seen that place. I hope the same for Lakeshire, it has a charm, that place, all huddled away in the mountains. It must be peaceful.â€Â
Henry frowned for a moment. Lakeshire was a town away from the city, meaning that Henry's trip would only land him at the single local bar at the half way point. Goldshire wasn't precisely known for its lively atmosphere nor was it known for its drink. Last he'd heard there was a serial rapist running around whom was known as the ‘Goldshire loller', named aptly for the high pitched hunting cries heard after he'd claimed a victim .
His frown faded quickly, however, noticing the golden coloured, chocolate encrusted, crumb-filled circular display of deliciousness that had manifested on top of his delivery.
“I'll make sure you'll go somewhere more exciting next time, I promise.†Mrs. Smith promised, gently nudging the cookie across the parcel toward him, where Henry quickly took the cookie into his grasp with a friendly nod. A few crumbs fell from his mouth with a crunch, a few of them landing in his beard.
“Ah have te say, Mrs. Smith, ye sure know ‘ow te bake. This ‘as te be ye best cookie yet.â€Â
“You flatter me, Mr. Dickingson.†Mrs. Smith chuckled, her wrinkled face giving him a cheery grin. She knew his first name, but always persisted in calling him by his title, being the polite gentleman that he is, Henry never pursued the matter. “I've been using the same recipe for the past five years, and you've been saying the same thing with each one.â€Â
“Ah'm not a liar, Mrs. Smith, ah only say et cause they really do taste better with each one. Ye really should start cookin' more an' sellin' them at market.†He replied around another mouthful.
“I could, Mr. Dickingson, but you'd be my only customer.â€Â
“Ain' gonna lie, ah would wait up til' the early mornin' te buy them all.â€Â
They both burst into a fit of soft laughter. Henry took the wooden parcel from the desk and gave Mrs. Smith a short, but heart-felt wave. “I'll be sure to make you a batch for when you return, how about that?â€Â
“Ah'll be certain te run there an' back, then.†Henry Dickingson chimed, giving another wave. “Fare ye well, Mrs. Smith, ah'll be back fer more cookies!†He continued, leaving the office.
Is there anything else you would like to add, ask, or otherwise clarify?:
Can I have a cookie? I missed dinner.
I'm 19, I'm a dude, I'm getting qualifications to write for TV and Film. I'm a very imaginative person, I doodle a lot (on my computer tablet as well as paper, mostly paper) and keep lil' booklets of my ideas for random projects.
I'm currently working on an action/comedy script for my final Uni student film.
I can't sat I'm going to be good with making long entries in this thing here, not good at explaining myself.
What country do you come from? What is your primary language?
I'm from England, so I kinda guess my language is English. I can't say that I'm too good with other langauges though. They confuse me, sadly.
How did you get into Warcraft?:
I played a little of Warcraft 3, got bored of the game itself but liked what lore I read in the lil' booklet that came with it, so I got the MMO instead.
However retail is filled with Drama Llamas, and I'm allergic to their fur.
What made you seek our server over others? (or How did you find us?):
I already know a few people here, I used to play here under a different name but new beginning and all that. I've missed so much and there's so many people here I don't know that I'd rather start from the bottom anyway.
What kinds of roleplay do you enjoy?:
I prefer low population Roleplaying, whenever I'm in a crowd I usually end up loosing interest because I simply can't keep up.
Rp with a persistant group of friends/colleages works best with me. Nothing say loving like teamwork!
What is your favorite race/class? Why?:
I used to smother my love onto trolls. But recently I've begun liking dwarven warriors. I like the imagery in my head of a small, strong lil' fellow who carries a bunch of weapons on his back.
I also like Tuskarr, not playable, but they're fun to give hugs to!
What are your expectations of this server?:
I expect people not to put 1's in their !!! spam. I also expect no !!! spam, or any other kind of spam.
I would like to see people who are friendly to each other, and when they're not friendly for them to be at the very least reasonable about not being friendly.
I don't want no mole hating either, I like moles.
Out of all of our rules and regulations listed on our server, which appeals to you the most?:
This is an odd question, I wonder who finds rules appealing?
I guess the general rules on chat are awesome, really hate it when people start going on an off-topic/OOC tangent for everyone else to see.
Lastly, tell us a story! It can be short, it can be long; but most importantly, we want to see your work in action. Go!:
Henry Dickingson is a courier. He takes things from one place and, with shocking professionalism, delivers them to another place which happens to be different from the first one. It's not the most exciting of professions, nor is it the most profitable on the planet. Clients are usually ungrateful for the potential dangers a single man carrying a parcel can face, to predator, even the tiniest package can hold something worthy to sell at market.
Nether-the-less, despite bandit attacks, monster interventions, the possibility-of-getting-lost and recipients not wanting a stranger giving them their parcel – It's a simple job for a man who prefers a simple life. Besides, those things only happen to the lucky folk, for the most part, Mr. Dickingson's life was relatively uneventful.
Uneventful is good, it means nothing is wrong, after all.
Henry Dickinson also likes beer, beer and any other substance that convinced him that life was a happy place to be. That excluded drugs, drugs were bad. They gave him rashes. He preferred to drink in local taverns, or a local bar, pub, local square or market. Anything local, it had to begin with an L and end with ocal. He loved locals.
Being a man who was always on the road, Mr. Dickingson never had the time to make any friends, not that he was a loner by any means, nor suffered from any angsty depression over it. His indescribable love for the locals of any given settlement was outstanding.
Local folk knows things, lots of things which can be very interesting to whoever can be bothered to learn something new. Local folk could have been that guy who saw everything when the fat lady from down the road fell on her arse, or that girl who saw the punch up in the pub last weekend. They could know a completely different way of making tea that'd make it taste a little bitter, or a method of cooking bacon that made the outside crispy yet the inside kind of chewy. They know the unique tiny things in life which make things just that little bit more interesting.
That and accents. Henry Dickingson loved accents; Happy little gnome accents. Gruff, rough Lorderan accents. Happy, cheery Dwarven accents. Soft, laid back Elven accents. Fancy-free posh accents and the un-articulated commoner accents. They made him smile, made the many people he met all that more unique.
Love. Luff. Lurve. Lothe. Luv. Whenever he heard a new way of malforming a word, It made him smile brightly on the outside, and infinitely on the inside.
-
Henry Dickingson sat on a sofa, a decorated sofa which had a flowery pattern sown into the cushions which decorated it. The sofa was against a wall, one of four which created a waiting room. The opposing wall had a small window carved into it, the base of this window forming a desk which looked over him, as well as the room, like a judge's seat did a courtroom.
The wood-covered walls weren't decorated; they were left blank whilst a series of bookshelves, holding parcels of varying sizes, were stacked against them. Each shelf held a series of parcels of all shapes and sizes stacked onto them. Tied to them were name tags, with addresses to both close up and far-away places scribbled onto the. Henry looked over these with a curious gaze, wondering which ones were going to be his next charges. The ones he could read from his seat were addressed to houses nearby, some for the docks, some for the Mage Quarter and from what he could see, one for the castle. A few of them were to be sent to old town, the new volunteer would probably handle those.
Scratching his chin idly, he looked over more of the shelves. He had a beard that was closely cut, the tiny, pitch black hairs forming a neat cover over his dark-tanned skin, as did the locks that fell over his face. Mr. Dickingson wasn't the most well built of folk, where most heroes venturing out into the world had the muscular aptitude of gods, he had a stature which labeled him rather nicely as a 'couch-potato'. By no means, he wasn't out of shape; round was still registered as a shape. Mr. Dickingson's rounded stomach didn't slow him down when he needed to run, he could keep a good jogging pace also. Where Henry usually wear a set of light chainmail covering his day clothes, he wore a simple attire. A brown shirt covered his chest, tucked neatly into black slacks, topped off with a neat silver buckled belt.
A head appeared, rising slowly from behind the desk, that of a grumpy looking old lady. Mrs. Smith. Mrs. Smith had many reasons to look grumpy. First of all, her name was so bland that un-buttered bread was a delicacy. Mary Smith, no middle-name, was a single fifty three year old whom had to walk the length of Stormwind to get to work in the morning. She wasn't in a condition to deliver packages herself, so her primary jobs were to keep the office clean, make sure the shelves were kept in an orderly fashion and process orders between regular and first class deliveries.
The company was a fairly small one, lesser known and, in terms of customers, was being smashed by faster services which were run by goblin companies. Henry thought of beginning his career in one of these; however he changed his mind after seeing that the citizens of the castle, as well as most people he ran into in the Elwynn area, used the Hanson Delivery Service. As he sat in the sofa, he had been working for them for ten years.
Her curly, silver (grey) hair wobbled as she tilted her head, licking her lips so they didn't rub to hard against one another when she spoke. Giving Mr. Dickingson a warm smile, she spoke slowly and clearly.
“Henry, dear. There is a parcel here for you, and if you give me that letter here on the seat next to you, there is a cookie too.†Mrs. Smith merely looked grumpy. Mrs. Smith was actually a very nice lady who had a sweet tooth as well as a charming attitude toward friendly youngsters. Thirty six year old Henry Dickingson counted as a youngster, which was nice, it meant he got to indulge occasionally into the sugary treats.
“'Aight.†He chimed in response, getting to his feet, hooking the letter in question between his fingers. Placing the letter onto the counter in front of the elderly receptionist, he gave her a warm, welcoming smile. “Here ye go Mrs. Smith, where'm ah goin'?â€Â
Taking the letter with a nod and a thanks, Mrs. Smith pull out a fairly small wooden box, wrapped elegantly with a red ribbon. It was rectangular in shape and seemed fairly thick. From the way that Mrs. Smith held it, it seemed fairly weighty. She read the tag attatched to the ribbon. “It would seem that you're going to Lakeshire, dear, up in the Redridge Mountains. That isn't going to be as far as your last trip, is it?â€Â
“Nah, the las' delivery ah had was that collection paintin's fer that goblin in Booty Bay. Fer the record, that place ain' changed a bet, by the way.â€Â
“I was hoping it hadn't, it has been a long time since I've seen that place. I hope the same for Lakeshire, it has a charm, that place, all huddled away in the mountains. It must be peaceful.â€Â
Henry frowned for a moment. Lakeshire was a town away from the city, meaning that Henry's trip would only land him at the single local bar at the half way point. Goldshire wasn't precisely known for its lively atmosphere nor was it known for its drink. Last he'd heard there was a serial rapist running around whom was known as the ‘Goldshire loller', named aptly for the high pitched hunting cries heard after he'd claimed a victim .
His frown faded quickly, however, noticing the golden coloured, chocolate encrusted, crumb-filled circular display of deliciousness that had manifested on top of his delivery.
“I'll make sure you'll go somewhere more exciting next time, I promise.†Mrs. Smith promised, gently nudging the cookie across the parcel toward him, where Henry quickly took the cookie into his grasp with a friendly nod. A few crumbs fell from his mouth with a crunch, a few of them landing in his beard.
“Ah have te say, Mrs. Smith, ye sure know ‘ow te bake. This ‘as te be ye best cookie yet.â€Â
“You flatter me, Mr. Dickingson.†Mrs. Smith chuckled, her wrinkled face giving him a cheery grin. She knew his first name, but always persisted in calling him by his title, being the polite gentleman that he is, Henry never pursued the matter. “I've been using the same recipe for the past five years, and you've been saying the same thing with each one.â€Â
“Ah'm not a liar, Mrs. Smith, ah only say et cause they really do taste better with each one. Ye really should start cookin' more an' sellin' them at market.†He replied around another mouthful.
“I could, Mr. Dickingson, but you'd be my only customer.â€Â
“Ain' gonna lie, ah would wait up til' the early mornin' te buy them all.â€Â
They both burst into a fit of soft laughter. Henry took the wooden parcel from the desk and gave Mrs. Smith a short, but heart-felt wave. “I'll be sure to make you a batch for when you return, how about that?â€Â
“Ah'll be certain te run there an' back, then.†Henry Dickingson chimed, giving another wave. “Fare ye well, Mrs. Smith, ah'll be back fer more cookies!†He continued, leaving the office.
Is there anything else you would like to add, ask, or otherwise clarify?:
Can I have a cookie? I missed dinner.