07-16-2011, 08:00 PM
First and foremost: Tell us about yourself, as a player:
I'm a moderate Warcraft fan, having beaten the third game and played deep into the first and second Warcraft games, getting into retail a good while later. I've read most of the available Warcraft books, and I feel pretty comfortable with the lore. But I love to learn and tell stories.
I have a fair bit of RPing experience, starting from when I was nine. I'm used to playing in a Fantasy setting, usually one-on-one with players, but I also have experience RPing in groups.
What country do you come from? What is your primary language?:
The United States, and I speak English; I read and write stories and poems, and am even taking Latin, so I feel very comfortable with my writing.
How did you get into Warcraft?:
Bought a copy of Warcraft II, years ago, just on a whim. I got into it and bought III and then I. Eventually I found Retail WoW, and I really liked the stories and visuals presented in the games. Fantasy is just interesting to me, and I like how the Warcraft series presents it.
What made you seek our server over others? (Or how did you find us?):
My boyfriend (OfMeeseandMen) plays on it. I don't have the money for retail, really, but I love RPing and I like the Warcraft series. My boyfriend was into it, seemed to enjoy it, so I want to join him and help make an interesting story in an environment I like.
What kinds of roleplay do you enjoy?:
RP without OOC drama, but while maintaining a good story. I'm in it for the story, for the characters, and the real-feeling interactions of a real world that only exists between people who care about it.
What is your favorite race/class? Why?:
My favorite race is human. I feel I can relate to them. A warrior is my favorite class. It may seem dull, but there can be a lot of story in simplicity. I don't ask other people to stoop down to that, but I think having a simple character who's not in-and-out unique while still being him/herself has something special in and of themself.
What are your expectations of this server?:
That it will be fun! That I won't have a lot of immaturity watering down the experience of just telling a story. I also expect to make friends with staff and player alike, and that I'll be able to make a a character and story that fits in with the world, without having people abuse whatever IC or OOC power they have--of which, I have a lot of experience.
Out of all of our rules and regulations listed on our server, which appeals to you the most?:
Maturity, bar-none. In a server where maturity is one of the very first rules of thumb, and where players aren't allowed to ruin the fun of other people, that's the server for me.
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!:
Jon panted, scrambling frantically at the walls of the ridge, hurriedly pulling himself up. In the valley behind him, the ground shook with explosion after explosion, the sound of thunder echoing to Jon on his high perch. As he turned to look over the valley, his sight was obscured by smoke, rising from the hellfires of battle, and the fog of war. Absently he let his fingers run over his chest and legs, taking in silently the cuts and rents in his uniform, He winced involuntarily as his fingers brushed over a bruise, namely the bruise caused by a massive dent in his stolen armor, A dent that crippled the armor severely enough for him to have to abandon it, although, luckily the memory alloys coating the surface had taken care of, allowing him to survive what normally would be a fatal blow. He brushed it again, poking and prodding. It hurt, but that was to be expected, but thankfully, it didn't cause any internal pain, so it didn't seem like there was much damage. As he poked it again, he winced, taking in a deep breath, a breathe that brought in whiffs of smoke, charring meat, oils, blood, burning cloths, metal, woods, and other bits of junk. He turned, bringing his hand from his side to his face, covering it as the assault of smells made him gag and cough. Off in the distance he heard the rumble of thunder, knowing that soon a rain storm would wash clean the battlefield, breathing in new life, yet in the valley below, he saw the flashes of battle, of war.
Jon paused from his musings, looking around, having heard the hhsssstttt-crack! of combat rounds flying past. Quickly he ducked, lest he become a target, and looked skyward in thought, at the foreign constellations. He glanced over them, recognizing none, as he lay there, his chest heaving, his muscles burning. Breathless, his mind wandered for but a second, going over everything around him, and how far from home he was. As he slowly regained his breath, he chuckled softly, as he staggered to his feet, to continue moving. “If this is to be the day I die… then may the gods give me the strength to make this last day worth it…†He closed his eyes, staggering forward, before opening his eyes, keeping them straight ahead, trying to focus on his inner strength, and memories of the battle which was already fading from his adrenaline blurred senses. “Ancestors of the fallen… may thee take them, thy fallen children, into thy arms. Keep from safe, from those we swear as our enemies, for they have earned their rest. Keep them safe.†He closed his eyes, kneeling, falling on his stomach, to rest, his face pressed against the dirt. “Wander, my friends… and may your ancestors welcome you.†He closed his eyes, taking deep breathes, feeling the dirt spin around under him. God, he thought, I am exhausted. Off in the distance, however, he could hear the loud roaring of a hovercraft. Shit, shit, shit, I am so fucked. was all that his mind could scream at him, as he turned his head to the side, looking at the hovering jeep.
Painted pure black, it blended in perfectly with the night, as it weaved between the fires, it’s fans blowing the flames, making them dance, like a scene of the gates of hell themselves. A soldier rode in back, standing behind a pintel mounted tribarrel. He’d seen such jeeps, and their full-cab versions rip through armies in a matter of minutes. Their tribarrel weapons could rip into a shell, almost over the horizon. He’d seen some spew blinding white fire, of plasma, or the impossible to see magrails. The soldier in back panned his head from side to side, his helmets visor masking his face, and the advanced equipment that scanned the horizon, determining threats. The driver in the front wore a similar helmet, carrying a submachine gun, which he held at his left side, over the side. A third soldier rode in front, crouching in his seat, one leg braced on the dashboard, a rifle clutched in his arms. The three of them drove in silence through the wastelands, as another roared past on his opposite side. After a moment, it was obvious, even to his fatigue confused mind that they were the picket line for another unit. Oh no, we cannot defend against another unit. We barely survived the last one. Scratch that, we didn’t survive the last one. It was only a moment before he realized what the noise was that set his teeth on edge, and his bones shivering. An army of high-pitched whines took up residence in the air around him, as larger, hulking shadows filled the darkness, their engines whirring, soaking in air, and spitting it out from beneath the tanks edges. A single turret-mounted gun rested atop each hulking behemoth swiveling under the guidance of a soldier, riding in each tank. He knew, however, that these carried a variety of munitions, and had an incredible range. He also knew that, when they weren’t being jammed, these men could utilize a central computer to guide all of the tanks guns, into hitting targets nobody alive could hit without help. He knew that he didn’t even know a fraction of the tanks abilities, but he knew that the men inside were perfectly lethal without help of the tanks. It was another moment, after the first of the tanks howled out of the darkness that he was able to distinguish the man-sized shapes keeping pace with them, rifles in their arms. He knew that these weren’t regular military regulars, but were perfectly lethal, and trained to be equal to their government funded brethren. A government that was falling with an unfavorably lopsided fight, a fight that had already begun. A fight, that had already seen it's first conflict. The score was clear to see, from his vantage point, the oily smoke rising high into the heavens from the burning wrecks below. Hulks of twisted, shattered, and gutted machinery bore silent witness to the silent victors as they strode through. Here and there, Jon could see the singular, momentary, flickers of tracers and muzzle flare. He couldn't see the returning fire, but nobody survived to fire twice.
A soft scream rose the hairs upon the back of his neck, and wrenched at his ears and nerves from above. Looking skyward, he saw the bright trails of artillery fire arcing down towards the battlefield. Perhaps someone has survived, after all, to call in the coordinates for the artillery fire. Or perhaps a UAV is up and about. His question was shortly answered, and painfully so, by a trio of blasts that shook the world, as one of the tanks fired a round into a hillside, cratering it, and lifting a tail of dirt, and shredded equipment and people, in it's wake. Another tank turned on it's axis, rolling partially up a hill to get a better angle for it's main gun to quest skyward, to hit the UAV that was, indeed, there. So, it seemed, that both were there.
Jon ducked down, for cover, agaisnt a burnt-out wreck, the machinery damaged beyond recognition by the tanks. Throwing up his arms to cover his head, he opened his mouth to equalize the pressure, as the artillery shells rained down. As they hit, the ground itself bucked beneath him, like a raging animal, throwing him first agaisnt the still-warm wreck, before slamming him painfully agaisnt the ground. Here and there, his pain-glazed eyes could see, a soldier or two was tossed skywards by the explosion, shedding limbs and equipment agaisnt the firey backdrop of the world. As Jon started to get up, he saw a black shape flying through the air, tossed by one final detonation. As the item, a helmet, head still within, flew at him, spraying blood from where the explosion had forcibly ripped it off, and knocked him soundly upon his head, Jon crumpled to the ground, and knew no more.
I'm a moderate Warcraft fan, having beaten the third game and played deep into the first and second Warcraft games, getting into retail a good while later. I've read most of the available Warcraft books, and I feel pretty comfortable with the lore. But I love to learn and tell stories.
I have a fair bit of RPing experience, starting from when I was nine. I'm used to playing in a Fantasy setting, usually one-on-one with players, but I also have experience RPing in groups.
What country do you come from? What is your primary language?:
The United States, and I speak English; I read and write stories and poems, and am even taking Latin, so I feel very comfortable with my writing.
How did you get into Warcraft?:
Bought a copy of Warcraft II, years ago, just on a whim. I got into it and bought III and then I. Eventually I found Retail WoW, and I really liked the stories and visuals presented in the games. Fantasy is just interesting to me, and I like how the Warcraft series presents it.
What made you seek our server over others? (Or how did you find us?):
My boyfriend (OfMeeseandMen) plays on it. I don't have the money for retail, really, but I love RPing and I like the Warcraft series. My boyfriend was into it, seemed to enjoy it, so I want to join him and help make an interesting story in an environment I like.
What kinds of roleplay do you enjoy?:
RP without OOC drama, but while maintaining a good story. I'm in it for the story, for the characters, and the real-feeling interactions of a real world that only exists between people who care about it.
What is your favorite race/class? Why?:
My favorite race is human. I feel I can relate to them. A warrior is my favorite class. It may seem dull, but there can be a lot of story in simplicity. I don't ask other people to stoop down to that, but I think having a simple character who's not in-and-out unique while still being him/herself has something special in and of themself.
What are your expectations of this server?:
That it will be fun! That I won't have a lot of immaturity watering down the experience of just telling a story. I also expect to make friends with staff and player alike, and that I'll be able to make a a character and story that fits in with the world, without having people abuse whatever IC or OOC power they have--of which, I have a lot of experience.
Out of all of our rules and regulations listed on our server, which appeals to you the most?:
Maturity, bar-none. In a server where maturity is one of the very first rules of thumb, and where players aren't allowed to ruin the fun of other people, that's the server for me.
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!:
Jon panted, scrambling frantically at the walls of the ridge, hurriedly pulling himself up. In the valley behind him, the ground shook with explosion after explosion, the sound of thunder echoing to Jon on his high perch. As he turned to look over the valley, his sight was obscured by smoke, rising from the hellfires of battle, and the fog of war. Absently he let his fingers run over his chest and legs, taking in silently the cuts and rents in his uniform, He winced involuntarily as his fingers brushed over a bruise, namely the bruise caused by a massive dent in his stolen armor, A dent that crippled the armor severely enough for him to have to abandon it, although, luckily the memory alloys coating the surface had taken care of, allowing him to survive what normally would be a fatal blow. He brushed it again, poking and prodding. It hurt, but that was to be expected, but thankfully, it didn't cause any internal pain, so it didn't seem like there was much damage. As he poked it again, he winced, taking in a deep breath, a breathe that brought in whiffs of smoke, charring meat, oils, blood, burning cloths, metal, woods, and other bits of junk. He turned, bringing his hand from his side to his face, covering it as the assault of smells made him gag and cough. Off in the distance he heard the rumble of thunder, knowing that soon a rain storm would wash clean the battlefield, breathing in new life, yet in the valley below, he saw the flashes of battle, of war.
Jon paused from his musings, looking around, having heard the hhsssstttt-crack! of combat rounds flying past. Quickly he ducked, lest he become a target, and looked skyward in thought, at the foreign constellations. He glanced over them, recognizing none, as he lay there, his chest heaving, his muscles burning. Breathless, his mind wandered for but a second, going over everything around him, and how far from home he was. As he slowly regained his breath, he chuckled softly, as he staggered to his feet, to continue moving. “If this is to be the day I die… then may the gods give me the strength to make this last day worth it…†He closed his eyes, staggering forward, before opening his eyes, keeping them straight ahead, trying to focus on his inner strength, and memories of the battle which was already fading from his adrenaline blurred senses. “Ancestors of the fallen… may thee take them, thy fallen children, into thy arms. Keep from safe, from those we swear as our enemies, for they have earned their rest. Keep them safe.†He closed his eyes, kneeling, falling on his stomach, to rest, his face pressed against the dirt. “Wander, my friends… and may your ancestors welcome you.†He closed his eyes, taking deep breathes, feeling the dirt spin around under him. God, he thought, I am exhausted. Off in the distance, however, he could hear the loud roaring of a hovercraft. Shit, shit, shit, I am so fucked. was all that his mind could scream at him, as he turned his head to the side, looking at the hovering jeep.
Painted pure black, it blended in perfectly with the night, as it weaved between the fires, it’s fans blowing the flames, making them dance, like a scene of the gates of hell themselves. A soldier rode in back, standing behind a pintel mounted tribarrel. He’d seen such jeeps, and their full-cab versions rip through armies in a matter of minutes. Their tribarrel weapons could rip into a shell, almost over the horizon. He’d seen some spew blinding white fire, of plasma, or the impossible to see magrails. The soldier in back panned his head from side to side, his helmets visor masking his face, and the advanced equipment that scanned the horizon, determining threats. The driver in the front wore a similar helmet, carrying a submachine gun, which he held at his left side, over the side. A third soldier rode in front, crouching in his seat, one leg braced on the dashboard, a rifle clutched in his arms. The three of them drove in silence through the wastelands, as another roared past on his opposite side. After a moment, it was obvious, even to his fatigue confused mind that they were the picket line for another unit. Oh no, we cannot defend against another unit. We barely survived the last one. Scratch that, we didn’t survive the last one. It was only a moment before he realized what the noise was that set his teeth on edge, and his bones shivering. An army of high-pitched whines took up residence in the air around him, as larger, hulking shadows filled the darkness, their engines whirring, soaking in air, and spitting it out from beneath the tanks edges. A single turret-mounted gun rested atop each hulking behemoth swiveling under the guidance of a soldier, riding in each tank. He knew, however, that these carried a variety of munitions, and had an incredible range. He also knew that, when they weren’t being jammed, these men could utilize a central computer to guide all of the tanks guns, into hitting targets nobody alive could hit without help. He knew that he didn’t even know a fraction of the tanks abilities, but he knew that the men inside were perfectly lethal without help of the tanks. It was another moment, after the first of the tanks howled out of the darkness that he was able to distinguish the man-sized shapes keeping pace with them, rifles in their arms. He knew that these weren’t regular military regulars, but were perfectly lethal, and trained to be equal to their government funded brethren. A government that was falling with an unfavorably lopsided fight, a fight that had already begun. A fight, that had already seen it's first conflict. The score was clear to see, from his vantage point, the oily smoke rising high into the heavens from the burning wrecks below. Hulks of twisted, shattered, and gutted machinery bore silent witness to the silent victors as they strode through. Here and there, Jon could see the singular, momentary, flickers of tracers and muzzle flare. He couldn't see the returning fire, but nobody survived to fire twice.
A soft scream rose the hairs upon the back of his neck, and wrenched at his ears and nerves from above. Looking skyward, he saw the bright trails of artillery fire arcing down towards the battlefield. Perhaps someone has survived, after all, to call in the coordinates for the artillery fire. Or perhaps a UAV is up and about. His question was shortly answered, and painfully so, by a trio of blasts that shook the world, as one of the tanks fired a round into a hillside, cratering it, and lifting a tail of dirt, and shredded equipment and people, in it's wake. Another tank turned on it's axis, rolling partially up a hill to get a better angle for it's main gun to quest skyward, to hit the UAV that was, indeed, there. So, it seemed, that both were there.
Jon ducked down, for cover, agaisnt a burnt-out wreck, the machinery damaged beyond recognition by the tanks. Throwing up his arms to cover his head, he opened his mouth to equalize the pressure, as the artillery shells rained down. As they hit, the ground itself bucked beneath him, like a raging animal, throwing him first agaisnt the still-warm wreck, before slamming him painfully agaisnt the ground. Here and there, his pain-glazed eyes could see, a soldier or two was tossed skywards by the explosion, shedding limbs and equipment agaisnt the firey backdrop of the world. As Jon started to get up, he saw a black shape flying through the air, tossed by one final detonation. As the item, a helmet, head still within, flew at him, spraying blood from where the explosion had forcibly ripped it off, and knocked him soundly upon his head, Jon crumpled to the ground, and knew no more.