05-11-2010, 12:13 PM
First and foremost: Tell us about yourself, as a player.:
My name is Adam and i live in Australia. I am 25, soon to become 26 and I work as a Firefighter. Due to my job, my activity will be top at some days, and none in others, seeing as I work 24 hour shifts. I have been roleplaying for around 15 years now. I started when I was 10, with D&D, other table-top games, and later when I was around 12, I started with playing computer games. As a player, I tend to keep everything as realistic, interesting, funny and fare to everyone that participates in the roleplay. Sure, a character can die, but that is just a part of the game. Also, while mentioning that, sure I usually loe my characters but I understand and I won't be trying to god-mode, meta-game, whine and do other things when a character of mine is going to die. I also have quite alot of experience in the Lore Section of Warcraft itself. I have the most Lore Books, even though my fiance hates it, I keep them around. I've played Warcraft 2 all the way up to Frozen Throne, and when I am not working, training, being with my girlfriend, doing other stuff in the apartment, I usually read Lore things about Warcraft or play Warcraft itself. I have been roleplaying in WoW for about 3 years now, with 2,5 year on retail, and the rest on different Private Servers, but not much of them have been that good, thats why I am coming here.
What country do you come from? What is your primary language?
I live in Australia, Canberra and my primary language is English.
How did you get into Warcraft?:
A friend of mine bought Warcraft II, and I decided to buy it aswell. And there it goes, and now I am sitting here.
What made you seek our server over others?:
I found it out by a friend, that said how this server was and so, and I thought it to be like genuine roleplaying, without all those Nathrezim, Liches going around with OP magic and god-moding. He also mentioned it is kinda strict, and those things made me fell in love with it while I read his sentence on MSN.
What kinds of roleplay do you enjoy?:
I enjoy almost all kinds of roleplaying. But my favorite is Social RP, but there is almost nothing better than fighting using emotes and kill/wound someone elses character, or possibly killing your own!
What is your favorite race/class? Why?:
My favorite race is Goblins. I love how they usually are businessmen, criminals, or rich nobles. Since I have always had an eye of being a Businessman in roleplay/IRL.
I have no favorite class, I intend to play something else than the core-classes of WoW. I often play a Businessman, Noble, Merchant, or anything thats not a core class as a Druid, Rogue or a Warrior.
What are your expectations of this server?:
I dont know yet, but what my friend described, I think I wont leave!
Out of all of our rules and regulations listed on our server, which appeals to you the most?:
Racism. I hate racists. Even though I am Caucasian, I hate it. i think that the most racists, such as young teenagers (15 year olds) only say stuff like that, and pretend to be Racists to get their friends trust and be cool. But I seriously think that racism is just bull.
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!:
The boy could not remember a time before he and Keffya were beggars. He was very young, but all Keffya required was that he be quiet and pathetic, a simple enough task even for a small child. They sat on the street near the temple doors and Keffya traded lies for meager coins.
"For his mother, kind lady! A cup of warm broth to soothe the cough, a rag to soothe her fever!" The boy had no mother. There was only Keffya, who denied being the boy's father, except when it made for a prettier lie.
"See how he shivers, noble sir! He'll not live out the week if we cannot afford a scrap to burn!" If they had a scrap, the boy did not know where they would burn it. Outside an unnamed alehouse was a stair that led to the whorehouse on the second floor. Keffya and the boy lived under that stair, in a pile of dirty straw.
"Most exalted one, I beg! Only a lowly orb, I ask, to buy bread for the boy!" Rare indeed was the day Keffya bought bread with the coins. The boy had cut his teeth on what the alehouse owner was amused to name "the stews" - a vat comprised of other drinkers' leavings, stale beer left unpurchased at the end of a barrel, wine on the verge of turning, and the gods only knew what else - a mug of which cost only a single brass orb. A copper dog purchased a stone jug of cheap, sour wine - and an empty jug returned undamaged was worth a mug of the stews. Most of their meager income found its way into the barkeeper's apron.
When the boy was a bit older, Keffya taught him to lie, too. He could summon tears in a matter of heartbeats. "Please, miss - my sister's just a baby! She needs milk!"
The boy had no name. When Keffya was pleased, he was "boy." When Keffya was in a foul mood, he was "brat," or worse. He learned to be small and quiet, and to divine from the twist of Keffya's mouth whether crying would save him pain, or turn mere slaps and cuffs into a true beating. He learned that if he was quick, he could sneak an orb or two from the begging bowl when Keffya wasn't looking, and which of the whores who lived over the alehouse would sometimes feed him, if he stayed out of the sight of their customers.
It was late one autumn afternoon that the fat man appeared. The boy did not know how long he had been watching them. But as soon as he saw the boy looking at him, the fat man straightened and came toward them. He had a black beard, and made the boy feel uneasy. But obedient to Keffya's teaching, he held out his hands. "Alms, kind sir? My mother's sick, and-"
The fat man put a hand under the boy's chin, examining his face. The man's hand was clammy. The boy wondered if he should cry. Tears usually worked best on women, but the men didn't usually touch him. He compromised on a slight tremble to his jaw, quickly stilled.
The fat man released him, and turned to Keffya. "Fine boy you have, here."
Keffya bobbed his head quickly. "Yes, sir, a fine boy."
The fat man let Keffya glimpse something inside his jacket. The boy could not see it, but Keffya's round eyes and the fat man's smirk meant something unusual was happening. "If you'd like to take a walk with me, I believe I have a proposition to make you," the fat man said.
Keffya all but leapt to his feet. The bowl's contents went into Keffya's boot, and he thrust the bowl and their ragged blanket at the boy. "Don't lose them," he warned.
The fat man eyed Keffya for a moment, as if waiting for something, then shrugged and held out a meaty hand to the boy. "Here. Get something to eat." He dropped an orb into the boy's palm.
The boy stared, then closed his fist tightly around the coin. "Yessir. Thank you, sir."
The fat man smiled, and once again the boy was uneasy, though he could not say why. The fat man took Keffya's elbow, then, and steered him down the street. The boy watched them go, wondering what to think, then wrapped the blanket around his shoulders and trudged back to the straw under the stair.
When Keffya returned, it was very late. No feet had tramped up the stairs to the whores for half a watch, and the alehouse had cleared of all but the most determined drinkers. The boy woke with a start when Keffya banged his head on the support, and cursed. The boy shrank into the straw - drunk and irritable, Keffya was certain to find fault with him.
But, miraculously, Keffya seemed to forget about his bruise almost instantly. He chuckled to himself, and even hummed a little as he burrowed in beside the boy. He snatched the blanket off the boy's shoulders, rolled into it, and fell to snoring. The boy was perplexed, but he fingered the orb the fat man had given him, and went back to sleep.
Keffya slept late the next day, but was still in his peculiar good humor when he woke. He took the boy down to the docks and despite the chill bite to the air, doused him with several buckets of water and made him wash his face. Then, because the boy was shivering, they went into a fryhouse and Keffya bought him a bowl of hot, if somewhat watery, fish broth.
The boy ate quickly, uncertain what had prompted Keffya's sudden generosity but unwilling to waste it.
When he was nearly done, Keffya said, "We're not begging no more."
"How come?"
"His lordship's put us onto another line."
The boy stared at Keffya. "He was a lordship?" There were nobility who lived in the city, but the boy had never seen any of them.
Keffya threw out a lazy backhand, which the boy ducked with little effort. "Watch your mouth, boy. Man with money enough to buy both of us can call himself whatever he wants."
The boy shrugged and finished his broth. Keffya was watching him through narrowed eyes. Finally, he gestured, and the boy followed him back into the streets. "Lot of changes," Keffya said. "You'll need a name."
"A name?" The boy was excited. "Can I pick it?"
"No." Keffya looked at him again, judging, then nodded decisively. "Dawn," he said, and chuckled.
Dawn didn't understand the joke, but it was a fine enough name. It meant a new day, a new start. Maybe even hope. He practiced it to himself, and almost didn't notice that Keffya was not leading him back to the stair by the alehouse.
Keffya took him to an unfamiliar building, down a dingy, unlit corridor, and through a curtain into a small room.
The room was furnished with a wide straw tick mattress, a table, and two chairs. An empty charcoal brazier stood against the wall. A candlestub stood on the table, and a patched blanket covered the mattress.
"Is this his lordship's room?" Dawn asked uncertainly. Some of the whores over the alehouse had finer things, and surely his lordship should have better things than a whore?
"It's our room," Keffya said, smirking. "His lordship owns the rent."
Dawn felt nervous again. Begging would never have paid for this, even if Keffya had been able to resist drinking every day's take. "What's the new-"
"All settled in?" the fat man interrupted, pushing through the curtained doorway.
"Yes, your lordship," Keffya gushed. "Thank you, your lordship."
The fat man waved a hand negligently, then beckoned to Dawn. "Come here, sunshine." Dawn could not have explained the reluctance that made his feet drag, but the room was not large. All too soon, the fat man put his clammy fingers on Dawn's neck, drawing him even closer. "You like this room, boy?"
"Yessir." It would be a far cry more comfortable than the straw under the stairs, when winter howled through the city.
"Good, good. Of course, I can't give it to you for nothing, now can I?"
Dawn shook his head, mute. Of course not. Nothing for nothing was practically the first rule Dawn had ever learned. Even the people who had dropped their coins in the beggar's bowl had traded them for Keffya's lies.
Then the fat man told Dawn what the new line was to be, and showed him what he expected in exchange for his generosity. Dawn would have given anything to go back to being a homeless and nameless beggar.
Whoring was not the whole of the new line, of course. Prostitution was legal only for adults, and there was a great deal of grey area in the division between "child" and "adult." Still, not even the most corrupt Dragon could be bribed to pretend that Dawn seemed close enough to the legal age. The fat man's plan was to hide one illegal activity behind another, of lesser magnitude.
If you took a jug of wine and added a half-glass of ice-spirit, then double-distilled it all, the resulting liquid was a syrupy mess that was three times as potent as wine, but didn't cause a hangover. It also burned like naphtha, and since it had been used to devastating effect in a riot some twenty years earlier, it had been outlawed.
On the black market, it was called sunbeam. Coincidentally enough - or perhaps not - child prostitutes were referred to as sunshine by those who knew to ask for them.
Each new moon, the fat man brought Keffya three jars of sunbeam. It was fantastically expensive stuff - twelve copper dogs, or a silver minit per jar. But as long as no more than three jars were found, all the Dragons could do was confiscate it and levy a fine. And if any happened to hear that Keffya sold sunshine, well, they must have misheard. It was sunbeam he sold, and a clink of coin changing hands, and don't take me away, noble Dragon, or the boy would starve...
The fat man took thirty dogs a moon for his rent. He fucked Dawn a few times a year, but the act meant no more than Keffya's cuffs and slaps - an assertion of control, best endured with stoicism and a demeanor of submission. After a few such exchanges, Dawn gave the fat man little more thought.
His loathing was reserved for the more regular customers. Before a year was out, he had learned to tell, simply by the way they pushed through the curtained doorway, whether they were coming for the sunbeam or for him. They were invariably men, and most of them had damp, clammy skin. Their individual tastes varied, and some were kinder than others, but Dawn hated all of them with white-hot passion.
Keffya got angry when Dawn suggested leaving the fat man. "Ungrateful whelp!" he snapped. "You're warm, you eat every day, you have clothes. I don't let 'em hurt you too bad, neither. You think you're too good for it, brat?" Keffya's mouth twisted dangerously, and Dawn knew he was going to be beaten.
He ducked his head and tried to back away, but Keffya caught the front of his shirt. "No, Keffya, please-"
Keffya hit him, and hit him again, until Dawn could do nothing but cower at his feet and whimper. His dominance asserted, Keffya was solicitous. He patted Dawn's thin shoulders and helped him into the bed, tucking the blanket around him. "We've only got each other," Keffya said, gruffly kind. "Without me, you'd be even worse off than you are now."
Dawn was desperately afraid that Keffya was right.
They'd lived this way for more than two years when whatever hold the fat man had over Keffya broke, and Keffya finally gave in to the temptation of the sunbeam.
Without the income the sunbeam brought, Dawn had to work harder than ever, and there was even less money left for food. Beaten inside and out, body and soul, he began to rebel.
It started slow - an occasional sullen glare, first at Keffya, then at the customers. He dragged and delayed when ordered to do anything, and his eventual obedience was as perfunctory as he could get away with.
The customers who were kindest to him left, hurt and angered by this apparently sudden shift in attitude. The harder ones became harder still, which only added fuel to the fire of Dawn's hatred. When Keffya was sober enough to see what Dawn was doing, he beat him, but the beatings became less and less effective.
The first time Dawn refused outright, it was to the fat man himself.
"Brat!" Keffya roared. He swung, but Dawn dodged the blow. Keffya grabbed for him. Dawn ducked and ran - right into the fat man's bulk.
The fat man knocked Dawn's head against the wall so hard he saw double, then threw him onto the table to f**k him, one hand - for once hot instead of clammy - pressed heavily against the back of Dawn's neck. When he finished, Dawn tried to stand, but the world tilted and spun. He stumbled over his own feet and crashed to the floor, retching violently.
"Don't know what's got into him of late, your lordship," Keffya groveled.
The fat man grunted as he fastened his clothes. "I've a customer who likes the spirited ones. I'll send him around. Jakop'll break the boy - or kill him."
Jakop was a bull of a man, not much taller than Keffya but twice as wide, all muscle. He pushed through the curtain with a coil of coarse rope over his shoulder and an anticipatory gleam in his eyes. He threw three dogs on the table and told Keffya to get out. Keffya scurried to obey.
Dawn glared at him. Jakop only grinned and sat in Keffya's abandoned chair. It creaked under his weight. "Come and give Uncle Jakop a nice suck," he rumbled.
"Suck it yourself," Dawn said. He lifted his chin, daring Jakop to hit him.
Jakop didn't move. "I paid for it," he said reasonably.
"You paid Keffya. Go see if he'll suck you."
Dawn didn't see Jakop move. Suddenly a meaty fist had hold of his hair. "You should respect your elders," Jakop said, in that same infuriatingly reasonable tone. "Now, you say, 'I'm sorry, Uncle Jakop.'"
"f**k off!" If he could taunt Jakop into beating him senseless, he wouldn't be awake to endure the rest of it.
Jakop sighed, as if in regret. Dawn braced, but the blow he expected didn't fall. Instead, the hand in his hair released, and the big man started carefully uncoiling his rope, measuring it out by armlengths and eyeing the table.
Dawn tried to run, but Jakop caught his arm before he'd taken two steps. "Could've just been a nice suck," Jakop said sadly, "and I'd even kept out a dog for you as a tip, if you were good. But you'd rather have a lesson in manners."
Jakop took his time. Dawn could not incite him to anger, not even for an instant. He moved deliberately and decisively, and had reduced Dawn to helpless sobbing before the watch was a quarter gone. Nor did he stop there. Pleas for mercy did not move him. Desperate, Dawn begged to trade his torment for the suck Jakop had originally asked for.
Jakop smiled and patted his head. "There's a good lad," he said. "Perhaps next time." And the torment resumed.
When Keffya nervously returned at the end of the watch, Jakop was only just re-coiling his rope, and Dawn was a shivering, sobbing wreck on the floor. "A fine boy," Jakop told Keffya, and flipped him another dog. "I'll be back tomorrow."
"No, please," Dawn groaned.
Jakop grinned. "And here I thought you might've learned some manners, boy. We'll start there tomorrow."
By the end of the first week, Dawn had stopped trying to rouse Jakop to anger. By the end of the first moon, he had stopped resisting the big man's demands. But even when Dawn did his utmost to please him, Jakop always found something to fault, some excuse for a "lesson."
After two moons, the fat man returned. Fearing what Jakop might do if the fat man complained about him, Dawn submitted with an alacrity that might almost have been mistaken for eagerness.
The fat man smirked at Keffya. "There, you see? This one is too young for true rebellion. He just needed a firm hand."
After that, Jakop came less often, and though Dawn still hated being a whore, he was careful to be sure no word of complaint might make its way back to the fat man, and thence to Jakop. After another half year, it seemed the amusement had gone out of the game for Jakop, and he stopped coming entirely, though the fat man was careful to mention him when he saw Dawn, to reassure him that any poor behavior would be swiftly and mercilessly corrected.
It was a cool spring evening not long after this when a stranger pushed aside the dingy curtain on the door.
Dawn was startled - he had not heard steps in the hallway, and this was not one of his usual customers. Warily, from his crouch in the corner, he examined the intruder. The dagger in his belt was worth at least a minit, and he carried smaller knives in each boot. His clothes were well-worn, but whole. One eye was covered by a leather patch; the other was sunken and half-hidden by stringy, dark hair. That eye ticked from spot to spot like a clockwork Dawn had seen once in a pawnshop. Tick: the stale straw mattress with its stained, threadbare blanket. Tick: the sunbeam jars and wine jugs along the wall, all opened and empty. Tick: the rickety table, stained with wine and blood and worse.
Keffya was only now rousing from his drunken stupor. He whined like a kicked dog and wrung his hands. "Gracious sir, welcome..." The man ignored Keffya altogether. Tick. The eye settled on Dawn, and rested there, appraising.
Dawn returned the one-eyed gaze calmly, even curiously. The stranger seemed neither aroused nor nervous. He was not an especially large man, but he moved with confidence. The sort of customer, Dawn thought, who fucked him matter-of-factly, neither expecting nor desiring any particular display from him. He would pay, and likely be gone again before the watch was half done.
"Stand up, boy. How much?" The man still had not so much as looked at Keffya.
Dawn stood slowly, his back against the rough wall. Keffya twisted his hands again, his voice pathetically fawning as he recognized the man's relative wealth. "Two dogs the watch," he said, his tone begging more than bargaining, "or a minit the night." The eyebrow above the eyepatch rose incredulously. "He's a good boy," Keffya promised. "Whatever you want, he'll do it, and no complaint! Sweet little ray of sunshine, he is..."
The man licked his lips, his gaze still on Dawn. Finally, he reached into the pouch at his belt and withdrew a single shining coin. Dawn's eyes ached, looking at it. He'd never seen gold before. The coin flickered in the man's fingers, disappearing, then reappearing. "One solda," he said. "I'll take him until midday tomorrow, and you've never seen me."
Keffya's eyes could not be torn from the coin, still dancing across the stranger's fingers. He nodded quickly. "Done."
The man didn't hesitate, and he moved faster than anyone Dawn had ever seen before, even Jakop. The coin spun in the air, describing an arc destined to end square in front of Keffya at the table. Before it landed, the man had grabbed Dawn's shirt and was propelling him toward the door. "Come on, sunshine."
Dawn struggled to keep up as the man half-dragged him through the streets by his collar. Despite his carefully-cultivated calm, he couldn't suppress a shiver. No customer had ever taken him for more than a night. What would happen to him?
Worse still, the one-eyed stranger was leading him out of the slums. Dawn had lived his whole life in these streets; leaving them, he was suddenly lost and frightened. "L-lordship?" he ventured timidly, already breathless from the pace he was being forced to match.
The man glanced down at him, but didn't slow. "Call me Patch. What do you want?"
"W-where are we going?"
Patch snorted and turned down an alley. "First, you need a bath. And then we'll get some food into you."
Dawn stumbled in confusion, and nearly wound up being dragged for half a block. There weren't many so finicky in the slums, but he'd had a few who wanted him to wash. But... food? Keffya's customers had put any number of things in Dawn's mouth, but food had never been on that list. Or was "food" some slang term that Dawn hadn't heard before? Before he could consider what it might mean, Patch stopped abruptly and pushed Dawn through a door.
Dawn had heard of bath houses which would rent rooms to whores and their customers, for a fee. He looked around curiously as Patch followed him.
Dawn's imagination was grossly disappointed. He seemed to be in a kitchen - albeit a kitchen nearly the size of the entire room he shared with Keffya. Did bath-houses have kitchens? But aside from the two of them, this kitchen was deserted.
Dawn recalled that Patch had paid a whole solda for him, and shivered. What could he have in mind?
Patch released him and disappeared through a curtain. Dawn wondered if he should follow, but just as quickly, Patch returned, rolling before him a wooden tub half as wide as Dawn was tall. He dropped it to the center of the floor, then pointed at the pump in the corner, a bucket hanging from its handle. "Can you work the pump? Have you a name?"
Dawn didn't bother answering the first question. He took the bucket off the pump handle and set it under the spout. "Keffya calls me Dawn, your lordship."
Patch had turned his back to Dawn, and was busy at the counter. He snorted at Dawn's answer. "Just Patch. Only a two-dog pimp would think of a name like that... 'Ray of sunshine', indeed! I shudder to think what he'd name a girl. What was he going to call you when you'd grown another few years?"
Dawn dumped the first bucket of water into the tub. "I dunno." He glanced up, but Patch still wasn't looking at him. Dawn went back to the pump.
"What about your real name?"
Once primed, the pump worked smoothly. Dawn poured another bucket of water into the tub. "Don't have one," Dawn said. "Or at least, Keffya's never said if I do, your lor- um. Sir."
Patch grunted. "Who's he, then? Your da?"
Dawn shook his head. "I don't think so. He's just..." He shrugged. "He's always taken care of me."
"Pretty poor care, if you ask me."
Was this a test of some sort? If he agreed with Patch, would Jakop appear the next evening for a refresher "lesson" on respecting his elders? If he disagreed, would it be unacceptable talkback? Best to keep quiet, unless Patch pressed for an answer. Dawn hung the bucket back on the pump handle, then looked at Patch again. The one-eyed man was trimming moldy spots from a quarter-wheel of yellow cheese with a knife that was neither his belt-knife nor a boot-knife. Maybe he really did intend to feed Dawn.
Dawn glanced at the tub. A gold solda was worth almost three months' rent. If Patch didn't think he'd gotten his money's worth, for sure it would mean trouble for Dawn. He quickly shucked his clothes and climbed into the tub. The cold water raised gooseflesh on his arms and legs, but the oven's fire was warming the room.
Without looking, Patch tossed him a bar of soap. "Don't forget your hair," he said. "You can eat while you're drying." He laid several generous slabs of cheese on a thick slice of bread and set it on the counter by the stove, and only then turned to eye Dawn's slight, thin frame. "Don't try to move the tub by yourself. I don't want you spilling water all over my kitchen."
Dawn nodded quickly. "Yessir. Thank you, sir."
"Just Patch," he said again, and left the room. Dawn stared after him. His kitchen? Patch could afford this enormous kitchen, and other rooms besides? "Quickly!" Patch called through the door, and Dawn jumped guiltily. He scrubbed hard at his skin and hair, then ran shivering to bask in the warmth of the stove. He picked up the bread and cheese and nibbled. He should make himself eat quickly, he thought - Patch hadn't paid Keffya an entire solda just to see him clean and fed, that was certain. But the bread was only a day or two old, and the cheese such a luxury he couldn't help nibbling, trying to make the moment last.
All too quickly, it was gone, and Patch had yet to return. Dawn ran his fingers through his hair to dry it faster, wincing as they snagged on tangles, and looked around slowly. Patch still didn't return, and Dawn wandered slowly around the room, amazed at the things he found. He was looking at his own reflection in the curved, bubbly surface of a glazed honey crock when Patch came back, a bundle of cloth under his arm.
He looked at Dawn and grunted. "That was fast. Come here."
Is there anything else you would like to add, ask, or otherwise clarify?:
I look forward to roleplay with you all!
/Atlas
My name is Adam and i live in Australia. I am 25, soon to become 26 and I work as a Firefighter. Due to my job, my activity will be top at some days, and none in others, seeing as I work 24 hour shifts. I have been roleplaying for around 15 years now. I started when I was 10, with D&D, other table-top games, and later when I was around 12, I started with playing computer games. As a player, I tend to keep everything as realistic, interesting, funny and fare to everyone that participates in the roleplay. Sure, a character can die, but that is just a part of the game. Also, while mentioning that, sure I usually loe my characters but I understand and I won't be trying to god-mode, meta-game, whine and do other things when a character of mine is going to die. I also have quite alot of experience in the Lore Section of Warcraft itself. I have the most Lore Books, even though my fiance hates it, I keep them around. I've played Warcraft 2 all the way up to Frozen Throne, and when I am not working, training, being with my girlfriend, doing other stuff in the apartment, I usually read Lore things about Warcraft or play Warcraft itself. I have been roleplaying in WoW for about 3 years now, with 2,5 year on retail, and the rest on different Private Servers, but not much of them have been that good, thats why I am coming here.
What country do you come from? What is your primary language?
I live in Australia, Canberra and my primary language is English.
How did you get into Warcraft?:
A friend of mine bought Warcraft II, and I decided to buy it aswell. And there it goes, and now I am sitting here.
What made you seek our server over others?:
I found it out by a friend, that said how this server was and so, and I thought it to be like genuine roleplaying, without all those Nathrezim, Liches going around with OP magic and god-moding. He also mentioned it is kinda strict, and those things made me fell in love with it while I read his sentence on MSN.
What kinds of roleplay do you enjoy?:
I enjoy almost all kinds of roleplaying. But my favorite is Social RP, but there is almost nothing better than fighting using emotes and kill/wound someone elses character, or possibly killing your own!
What is your favorite race/class? Why?:
My favorite race is Goblins. I love how they usually are businessmen, criminals, or rich nobles. Since I have always had an eye of being a Businessman in roleplay/IRL.
I have no favorite class, I intend to play something else than the core-classes of WoW. I often play a Businessman, Noble, Merchant, or anything thats not a core class as a Druid, Rogue or a Warrior.
What are your expectations of this server?:
I dont know yet, but what my friend described, I think I wont leave!
Out of all of our rules and regulations listed on our server, which appeals to you the most?:
Racism. I hate racists. Even though I am Caucasian, I hate it. i think that the most racists, such as young teenagers (15 year olds) only say stuff like that, and pretend to be Racists to get their friends trust and be cool. But I seriously think that racism is just bull.
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!:
The boy could not remember a time before he and Keffya were beggars. He was very young, but all Keffya required was that he be quiet and pathetic, a simple enough task even for a small child. They sat on the street near the temple doors and Keffya traded lies for meager coins.
"For his mother, kind lady! A cup of warm broth to soothe the cough, a rag to soothe her fever!" The boy had no mother. There was only Keffya, who denied being the boy's father, except when it made for a prettier lie.
"See how he shivers, noble sir! He'll not live out the week if we cannot afford a scrap to burn!" If they had a scrap, the boy did not know where they would burn it. Outside an unnamed alehouse was a stair that led to the whorehouse on the second floor. Keffya and the boy lived under that stair, in a pile of dirty straw.
"Most exalted one, I beg! Only a lowly orb, I ask, to buy bread for the boy!" Rare indeed was the day Keffya bought bread with the coins. The boy had cut his teeth on what the alehouse owner was amused to name "the stews" - a vat comprised of other drinkers' leavings, stale beer left unpurchased at the end of a barrel, wine on the verge of turning, and the gods only knew what else - a mug of which cost only a single brass orb. A copper dog purchased a stone jug of cheap, sour wine - and an empty jug returned undamaged was worth a mug of the stews. Most of their meager income found its way into the barkeeper's apron.
When the boy was a bit older, Keffya taught him to lie, too. He could summon tears in a matter of heartbeats. "Please, miss - my sister's just a baby! She needs milk!"
The boy had no name. When Keffya was pleased, he was "boy." When Keffya was in a foul mood, he was "brat," or worse. He learned to be small and quiet, and to divine from the twist of Keffya's mouth whether crying would save him pain, or turn mere slaps and cuffs into a true beating. He learned that if he was quick, he could sneak an orb or two from the begging bowl when Keffya wasn't looking, and which of the whores who lived over the alehouse would sometimes feed him, if he stayed out of the sight of their customers.
It was late one autumn afternoon that the fat man appeared. The boy did not know how long he had been watching them. But as soon as he saw the boy looking at him, the fat man straightened and came toward them. He had a black beard, and made the boy feel uneasy. But obedient to Keffya's teaching, he held out his hands. "Alms, kind sir? My mother's sick, and-"
The fat man put a hand under the boy's chin, examining his face. The man's hand was clammy. The boy wondered if he should cry. Tears usually worked best on women, but the men didn't usually touch him. He compromised on a slight tremble to his jaw, quickly stilled.
The fat man released him, and turned to Keffya. "Fine boy you have, here."
Keffya bobbed his head quickly. "Yes, sir, a fine boy."
The fat man let Keffya glimpse something inside his jacket. The boy could not see it, but Keffya's round eyes and the fat man's smirk meant something unusual was happening. "If you'd like to take a walk with me, I believe I have a proposition to make you," the fat man said.
Keffya all but leapt to his feet. The bowl's contents went into Keffya's boot, and he thrust the bowl and their ragged blanket at the boy. "Don't lose them," he warned.
The fat man eyed Keffya for a moment, as if waiting for something, then shrugged and held out a meaty hand to the boy. "Here. Get something to eat." He dropped an orb into the boy's palm.
The boy stared, then closed his fist tightly around the coin. "Yessir. Thank you, sir."
The fat man smiled, and once again the boy was uneasy, though he could not say why. The fat man took Keffya's elbow, then, and steered him down the street. The boy watched them go, wondering what to think, then wrapped the blanket around his shoulders and trudged back to the straw under the stair.
When Keffya returned, it was very late. No feet had tramped up the stairs to the whores for half a watch, and the alehouse had cleared of all but the most determined drinkers. The boy woke with a start when Keffya banged his head on the support, and cursed. The boy shrank into the straw - drunk and irritable, Keffya was certain to find fault with him.
But, miraculously, Keffya seemed to forget about his bruise almost instantly. He chuckled to himself, and even hummed a little as he burrowed in beside the boy. He snatched the blanket off the boy's shoulders, rolled into it, and fell to snoring. The boy was perplexed, but he fingered the orb the fat man had given him, and went back to sleep.
Keffya slept late the next day, but was still in his peculiar good humor when he woke. He took the boy down to the docks and despite the chill bite to the air, doused him with several buckets of water and made him wash his face. Then, because the boy was shivering, they went into a fryhouse and Keffya bought him a bowl of hot, if somewhat watery, fish broth.
The boy ate quickly, uncertain what had prompted Keffya's sudden generosity but unwilling to waste it.
When he was nearly done, Keffya said, "We're not begging no more."
"How come?"
"His lordship's put us onto another line."
The boy stared at Keffya. "He was a lordship?" There were nobility who lived in the city, but the boy had never seen any of them.
Keffya threw out a lazy backhand, which the boy ducked with little effort. "Watch your mouth, boy. Man with money enough to buy both of us can call himself whatever he wants."
The boy shrugged and finished his broth. Keffya was watching him through narrowed eyes. Finally, he gestured, and the boy followed him back into the streets. "Lot of changes," Keffya said. "You'll need a name."
"A name?" The boy was excited. "Can I pick it?"
"No." Keffya looked at him again, judging, then nodded decisively. "Dawn," he said, and chuckled.
Dawn didn't understand the joke, but it was a fine enough name. It meant a new day, a new start. Maybe even hope. He practiced it to himself, and almost didn't notice that Keffya was not leading him back to the stair by the alehouse.
Keffya took him to an unfamiliar building, down a dingy, unlit corridor, and through a curtain into a small room.
The room was furnished with a wide straw tick mattress, a table, and two chairs. An empty charcoal brazier stood against the wall. A candlestub stood on the table, and a patched blanket covered the mattress.
"Is this his lordship's room?" Dawn asked uncertainly. Some of the whores over the alehouse had finer things, and surely his lordship should have better things than a whore?
"It's our room," Keffya said, smirking. "His lordship owns the rent."
Dawn felt nervous again. Begging would never have paid for this, even if Keffya had been able to resist drinking every day's take. "What's the new-"
"All settled in?" the fat man interrupted, pushing through the curtained doorway.
"Yes, your lordship," Keffya gushed. "Thank you, your lordship."
The fat man waved a hand negligently, then beckoned to Dawn. "Come here, sunshine." Dawn could not have explained the reluctance that made his feet drag, but the room was not large. All too soon, the fat man put his clammy fingers on Dawn's neck, drawing him even closer. "You like this room, boy?"
"Yessir." It would be a far cry more comfortable than the straw under the stairs, when winter howled through the city.
"Good, good. Of course, I can't give it to you for nothing, now can I?"
Dawn shook his head, mute. Of course not. Nothing for nothing was practically the first rule Dawn had ever learned. Even the people who had dropped their coins in the beggar's bowl had traded them for Keffya's lies.
Then the fat man told Dawn what the new line was to be, and showed him what he expected in exchange for his generosity. Dawn would have given anything to go back to being a homeless and nameless beggar.
Whoring was not the whole of the new line, of course. Prostitution was legal only for adults, and there was a great deal of grey area in the division between "child" and "adult." Still, not even the most corrupt Dragon could be bribed to pretend that Dawn seemed close enough to the legal age. The fat man's plan was to hide one illegal activity behind another, of lesser magnitude.
If you took a jug of wine and added a half-glass of ice-spirit, then double-distilled it all, the resulting liquid was a syrupy mess that was three times as potent as wine, but didn't cause a hangover. It also burned like naphtha, and since it had been used to devastating effect in a riot some twenty years earlier, it had been outlawed.
On the black market, it was called sunbeam. Coincidentally enough - or perhaps not - child prostitutes were referred to as sunshine by those who knew to ask for them.
Each new moon, the fat man brought Keffya three jars of sunbeam. It was fantastically expensive stuff - twelve copper dogs, or a silver minit per jar. But as long as no more than three jars were found, all the Dragons could do was confiscate it and levy a fine. And if any happened to hear that Keffya sold sunshine, well, they must have misheard. It was sunbeam he sold, and a clink of coin changing hands, and don't take me away, noble Dragon, or the boy would starve...
The fat man took thirty dogs a moon for his rent. He fucked Dawn a few times a year, but the act meant no more than Keffya's cuffs and slaps - an assertion of control, best endured with stoicism and a demeanor of submission. After a few such exchanges, Dawn gave the fat man little more thought.
His loathing was reserved for the more regular customers. Before a year was out, he had learned to tell, simply by the way they pushed through the curtained doorway, whether they were coming for the sunbeam or for him. They were invariably men, and most of them had damp, clammy skin. Their individual tastes varied, and some were kinder than others, but Dawn hated all of them with white-hot passion.
Keffya got angry when Dawn suggested leaving the fat man. "Ungrateful whelp!" he snapped. "You're warm, you eat every day, you have clothes. I don't let 'em hurt you too bad, neither. You think you're too good for it, brat?" Keffya's mouth twisted dangerously, and Dawn knew he was going to be beaten.
He ducked his head and tried to back away, but Keffya caught the front of his shirt. "No, Keffya, please-"
Keffya hit him, and hit him again, until Dawn could do nothing but cower at his feet and whimper. His dominance asserted, Keffya was solicitous. He patted Dawn's thin shoulders and helped him into the bed, tucking the blanket around him. "We've only got each other," Keffya said, gruffly kind. "Without me, you'd be even worse off than you are now."
Dawn was desperately afraid that Keffya was right.
They'd lived this way for more than two years when whatever hold the fat man had over Keffya broke, and Keffya finally gave in to the temptation of the sunbeam.
Without the income the sunbeam brought, Dawn had to work harder than ever, and there was even less money left for food. Beaten inside and out, body and soul, he began to rebel.
It started slow - an occasional sullen glare, first at Keffya, then at the customers. He dragged and delayed when ordered to do anything, and his eventual obedience was as perfunctory as he could get away with.
The customers who were kindest to him left, hurt and angered by this apparently sudden shift in attitude. The harder ones became harder still, which only added fuel to the fire of Dawn's hatred. When Keffya was sober enough to see what Dawn was doing, he beat him, but the beatings became less and less effective.
The first time Dawn refused outright, it was to the fat man himself.
"Brat!" Keffya roared. He swung, but Dawn dodged the blow. Keffya grabbed for him. Dawn ducked and ran - right into the fat man's bulk.
The fat man knocked Dawn's head against the wall so hard he saw double, then threw him onto the table to f**k him, one hand - for once hot instead of clammy - pressed heavily against the back of Dawn's neck. When he finished, Dawn tried to stand, but the world tilted and spun. He stumbled over his own feet and crashed to the floor, retching violently.
"Don't know what's got into him of late, your lordship," Keffya groveled.
The fat man grunted as he fastened his clothes. "I've a customer who likes the spirited ones. I'll send him around. Jakop'll break the boy - or kill him."
Jakop was a bull of a man, not much taller than Keffya but twice as wide, all muscle. He pushed through the curtain with a coil of coarse rope over his shoulder and an anticipatory gleam in his eyes. He threw three dogs on the table and told Keffya to get out. Keffya scurried to obey.
Dawn glared at him. Jakop only grinned and sat in Keffya's abandoned chair. It creaked under his weight. "Come and give Uncle Jakop a nice suck," he rumbled.
"Suck it yourself," Dawn said. He lifted his chin, daring Jakop to hit him.
Jakop didn't move. "I paid for it," he said reasonably.
"You paid Keffya. Go see if he'll suck you."
Dawn didn't see Jakop move. Suddenly a meaty fist had hold of his hair. "You should respect your elders," Jakop said, in that same infuriatingly reasonable tone. "Now, you say, 'I'm sorry, Uncle Jakop.'"
"f**k off!" If he could taunt Jakop into beating him senseless, he wouldn't be awake to endure the rest of it.
Jakop sighed, as if in regret. Dawn braced, but the blow he expected didn't fall. Instead, the hand in his hair released, and the big man started carefully uncoiling his rope, measuring it out by armlengths and eyeing the table.
Dawn tried to run, but Jakop caught his arm before he'd taken two steps. "Could've just been a nice suck," Jakop said sadly, "and I'd even kept out a dog for you as a tip, if you were good. But you'd rather have a lesson in manners."
Jakop took his time. Dawn could not incite him to anger, not even for an instant. He moved deliberately and decisively, and had reduced Dawn to helpless sobbing before the watch was a quarter gone. Nor did he stop there. Pleas for mercy did not move him. Desperate, Dawn begged to trade his torment for the suck Jakop had originally asked for.
Jakop smiled and patted his head. "There's a good lad," he said. "Perhaps next time." And the torment resumed.
When Keffya nervously returned at the end of the watch, Jakop was only just re-coiling his rope, and Dawn was a shivering, sobbing wreck on the floor. "A fine boy," Jakop told Keffya, and flipped him another dog. "I'll be back tomorrow."
"No, please," Dawn groaned.
Jakop grinned. "And here I thought you might've learned some manners, boy. We'll start there tomorrow."
By the end of the first week, Dawn had stopped trying to rouse Jakop to anger. By the end of the first moon, he had stopped resisting the big man's demands. But even when Dawn did his utmost to please him, Jakop always found something to fault, some excuse for a "lesson."
After two moons, the fat man returned. Fearing what Jakop might do if the fat man complained about him, Dawn submitted with an alacrity that might almost have been mistaken for eagerness.
The fat man smirked at Keffya. "There, you see? This one is too young for true rebellion. He just needed a firm hand."
After that, Jakop came less often, and though Dawn still hated being a whore, he was careful to be sure no word of complaint might make its way back to the fat man, and thence to Jakop. After another half year, it seemed the amusement had gone out of the game for Jakop, and he stopped coming entirely, though the fat man was careful to mention him when he saw Dawn, to reassure him that any poor behavior would be swiftly and mercilessly corrected.
It was a cool spring evening not long after this when a stranger pushed aside the dingy curtain on the door.
Dawn was startled - he had not heard steps in the hallway, and this was not one of his usual customers. Warily, from his crouch in the corner, he examined the intruder. The dagger in his belt was worth at least a minit, and he carried smaller knives in each boot. His clothes were well-worn, but whole. One eye was covered by a leather patch; the other was sunken and half-hidden by stringy, dark hair. That eye ticked from spot to spot like a clockwork Dawn had seen once in a pawnshop. Tick: the stale straw mattress with its stained, threadbare blanket. Tick: the sunbeam jars and wine jugs along the wall, all opened and empty. Tick: the rickety table, stained with wine and blood and worse.
Keffya was only now rousing from his drunken stupor. He whined like a kicked dog and wrung his hands. "Gracious sir, welcome..." The man ignored Keffya altogether. Tick. The eye settled on Dawn, and rested there, appraising.
Dawn returned the one-eyed gaze calmly, even curiously. The stranger seemed neither aroused nor nervous. He was not an especially large man, but he moved with confidence. The sort of customer, Dawn thought, who fucked him matter-of-factly, neither expecting nor desiring any particular display from him. He would pay, and likely be gone again before the watch was half done.
"Stand up, boy. How much?" The man still had not so much as looked at Keffya.
Dawn stood slowly, his back against the rough wall. Keffya twisted his hands again, his voice pathetically fawning as he recognized the man's relative wealth. "Two dogs the watch," he said, his tone begging more than bargaining, "or a minit the night." The eyebrow above the eyepatch rose incredulously. "He's a good boy," Keffya promised. "Whatever you want, he'll do it, and no complaint! Sweet little ray of sunshine, he is..."
The man licked his lips, his gaze still on Dawn. Finally, he reached into the pouch at his belt and withdrew a single shining coin. Dawn's eyes ached, looking at it. He'd never seen gold before. The coin flickered in the man's fingers, disappearing, then reappearing. "One solda," he said. "I'll take him until midday tomorrow, and you've never seen me."
Keffya's eyes could not be torn from the coin, still dancing across the stranger's fingers. He nodded quickly. "Done."
The man didn't hesitate, and he moved faster than anyone Dawn had ever seen before, even Jakop. The coin spun in the air, describing an arc destined to end square in front of Keffya at the table. Before it landed, the man had grabbed Dawn's shirt and was propelling him toward the door. "Come on, sunshine."
Dawn struggled to keep up as the man half-dragged him through the streets by his collar. Despite his carefully-cultivated calm, he couldn't suppress a shiver. No customer had ever taken him for more than a night. What would happen to him?
Worse still, the one-eyed stranger was leading him out of the slums. Dawn had lived his whole life in these streets; leaving them, he was suddenly lost and frightened. "L-lordship?" he ventured timidly, already breathless from the pace he was being forced to match.
The man glanced down at him, but didn't slow. "Call me Patch. What do you want?"
"W-where are we going?"
Patch snorted and turned down an alley. "First, you need a bath. And then we'll get some food into you."
Dawn stumbled in confusion, and nearly wound up being dragged for half a block. There weren't many so finicky in the slums, but he'd had a few who wanted him to wash. But... food? Keffya's customers had put any number of things in Dawn's mouth, but food had never been on that list. Or was "food" some slang term that Dawn hadn't heard before? Before he could consider what it might mean, Patch stopped abruptly and pushed Dawn through a door.
Dawn had heard of bath houses which would rent rooms to whores and their customers, for a fee. He looked around curiously as Patch followed him.
Dawn's imagination was grossly disappointed. He seemed to be in a kitchen - albeit a kitchen nearly the size of the entire room he shared with Keffya. Did bath-houses have kitchens? But aside from the two of them, this kitchen was deserted.
Dawn recalled that Patch had paid a whole solda for him, and shivered. What could he have in mind?
Patch released him and disappeared through a curtain. Dawn wondered if he should follow, but just as quickly, Patch returned, rolling before him a wooden tub half as wide as Dawn was tall. He dropped it to the center of the floor, then pointed at the pump in the corner, a bucket hanging from its handle. "Can you work the pump? Have you a name?"
Dawn didn't bother answering the first question. He took the bucket off the pump handle and set it under the spout. "Keffya calls me Dawn, your lordship."
Patch had turned his back to Dawn, and was busy at the counter. He snorted at Dawn's answer. "Just Patch. Only a two-dog pimp would think of a name like that... 'Ray of sunshine', indeed! I shudder to think what he'd name a girl. What was he going to call you when you'd grown another few years?"
Dawn dumped the first bucket of water into the tub. "I dunno." He glanced up, but Patch still wasn't looking at him. Dawn went back to the pump.
"What about your real name?"
Once primed, the pump worked smoothly. Dawn poured another bucket of water into the tub. "Don't have one," Dawn said. "Or at least, Keffya's never said if I do, your lor- um. Sir."
Patch grunted. "Who's he, then? Your da?"
Dawn shook his head. "I don't think so. He's just..." He shrugged. "He's always taken care of me."
"Pretty poor care, if you ask me."
Was this a test of some sort? If he agreed with Patch, would Jakop appear the next evening for a refresher "lesson" on respecting his elders? If he disagreed, would it be unacceptable talkback? Best to keep quiet, unless Patch pressed for an answer. Dawn hung the bucket back on the pump handle, then looked at Patch again. The one-eyed man was trimming moldy spots from a quarter-wheel of yellow cheese with a knife that was neither his belt-knife nor a boot-knife. Maybe he really did intend to feed Dawn.
Dawn glanced at the tub. A gold solda was worth almost three months' rent. If Patch didn't think he'd gotten his money's worth, for sure it would mean trouble for Dawn. He quickly shucked his clothes and climbed into the tub. The cold water raised gooseflesh on his arms and legs, but the oven's fire was warming the room.
Without looking, Patch tossed him a bar of soap. "Don't forget your hair," he said. "You can eat while you're drying." He laid several generous slabs of cheese on a thick slice of bread and set it on the counter by the stove, and only then turned to eye Dawn's slight, thin frame. "Don't try to move the tub by yourself. I don't want you spilling water all over my kitchen."
Dawn nodded quickly. "Yessir. Thank you, sir."
"Just Patch," he said again, and left the room. Dawn stared after him. His kitchen? Patch could afford this enormous kitchen, and other rooms besides? "Quickly!" Patch called through the door, and Dawn jumped guiltily. He scrubbed hard at his skin and hair, then ran shivering to bask in the warmth of the stove. He picked up the bread and cheese and nibbled. He should make himself eat quickly, he thought - Patch hadn't paid Keffya an entire solda just to see him clean and fed, that was certain. But the bread was only a day or two old, and the cheese such a luxury he couldn't help nibbling, trying to make the moment last.
All too quickly, it was gone, and Patch had yet to return. Dawn ran his fingers through his hair to dry it faster, wincing as they snagged on tangles, and looked around slowly. Patch still didn't return, and Dawn wandered slowly around the room, amazed at the things he found. He was looking at his own reflection in the curved, bubbly surface of a glazed honey crock when Patch came back, a bundle of cloth under his arm.
He looked at Dawn and grunted. "That was fast. Come here."
Is there anything else you would like to add, ask, or otherwise clarify?:
I look forward to roleplay with you all!
/Atlas
