07-02-2011, 10:39 PM
First and foremost: Tell us about yourself, as a player:
Oh dear, as a player? Now by player do you mean a gangsta or a gamer? Or even as a storyteller? I'll take the last two, of course, my gangster lingo ain't what it used to be, damn kids and their growing languages... Anyhow, as a player, I enjoy to think before I act, and clearly lay out my objectives. I find it good to crush my enemies, to see them driven before me, to hear the laments of their women. I also enjoy constructing things.
As a storyteller, I'm similar to the above traits, except for seeing my enemies driven before me. That would be bad for a storyteller to see, especially if his players are his enemy. I like to try and immerse people completely in the environment, and let them create the scenario as they see it, only manipulating it to fit the setting, and my preconcieved ideas about an area, and what I want to get across to the players.
What country do you come from? What is your primary language?:
I hail from the land of ice and snow, Canada. More specifically, Winnipeg. My primary language is english, but I know enough french to get by. I'm also in the process of trying to learn german - Oh god why is it hard to find a teacher.
How did you get into Warcraft?:
Saw an old Dungeonmaster of mine playing Warcraft three. He lent me the games and I've been hooked since. I still play Warcraft three every once in awhile. Although, less often now that the RP maps have died in a literal fire storm from which nothing could survive, aside from DOTA. And Vampirism.
What made you seek our server over others? (Or how did you find us?):
I found you through a long time of searching for a place to RP in a universe I was familiar with. Also, because the rules seem to be actually enforced here - I stopped playing retail wow on RP servers mainly because every person was some kind of mary-sue. I seriously had a guy who was teaching my character how to sword fight grow wings, and start bombarding the man's intellect - I still won that fight, but oh well.
What kinds of roleplay do you enjoy?:
Action, fighting, mystery, and long over arching plotlines that can last the test of time.
Also, warfare. Lots of warfare.
What is your favorite race/class? Why?:
Favourite race is probably dwarves. I grew up playing dwarf based games - I also have Dwarf Fortress running right behind this window. And for my first video game, my dad set me up as a dwarf in a rogue-like. Since then, well, my beard can say the rest. As for class, probably warrior or cle- priest. Just 'cause warriors bash and cle- priests bash. And heal. Sometimes.
What are your expectations of this server?:
Rule enforcement and no public ERP. Oh god, my poor virgin Warcraft, walking into Goldshire for the first time...
And to foster and good RP environment with little-to-no drama.
Out of all of our rules and regulations listed on our server, which appeals to you the most?:
Dat respect. I ain't even going to -SQQEEEEEEE- Sorry, a friend just gifted me a game on steam - lie. Most of my experience with RP has been full of rage and anger. With a little, and by little I mean a supermassive black hole worth of drama.
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!:
Well, I'm just going to pull the prologue from a story I'm writing- Hope that's okay.
Alone, on a hill, a single man stands. His figure is cloaked in a red sand coated cloak, flitting in the wind. On his face lies a grimace, muddy brown eyes unfocused, the red tinged white beard on his face cascading down to his waist, braided in a simple and practical pattern.
Adorning his waist are twins swords, one of blue and one of red. They hum maddeningly, at the edge of one's hearing. The grimace fades, replaced by a look of clarity falling on his face: In the distance, a pair of torches appear, and then twenty, and then a hundred, all falling into line behind the lead two. A mad grin falls on the man's face - Not one saying 'Is this all?', no, but one that says 'I might die here, but so will my enemy.' A million thoughts race through the man's mind, and the wind begins to howl, through the cloak aside, revealing the bladesinger's armor - White, tinged with red, like the ground he walks on, the ground he calls his home.
A scream carries across the valley, "BLADESINGER, COME OUT AND FIGHT, YE COWARD. LET THIS RED PACKED GROUND OF YOUR HOME AND ORDER BE YOUR DEATH!" The source is painfully obvious to the bladesinger - The woman, leading in front of the column, her name lost in the annals of history long before the Bladesinger even knew his own name, even knew of what a 'home' was. The screaming woman, the nameless woman, but certainly not a madman, was once a friend of the bladesinger. Once, the bladesinger looked upon this woman as a mentor, a sister, a friend of his heart and of the blades at his side.
The humming grows, and the blades begin to shake. The Bladesinger's hands snake down to his belt with blinding speed - almost too fast for anyone to see, but slow enough to tell his enemies where they were going -"Always fight with honor; Never give even an inch of ground; Thy blades are thy soul, and thy soul is thy honor." He taught to his studenst, he intended to put it to test this day, upon this hallowed land. This ground would feast this day; On his blood, and that of his foes. To the east, his brother-elf had died; To the south, his brother of blood. To the north, he lost his mentor to her madness, her calling. A single tear rolls down his cheek, and then his eyes blink, refusing to shed a tear for the abomination across the valley.
Another cry cuts across the valley "YE BLADESINGER, COME AND FIGHT, FIGHT FOR PROUST, FOR ZAENEL, FOR THE BLOOD THAT SCREAMS THROUGH YOUR VEINS!" This line curdles the man's blood. His heart almost stops, then resumes it's slow thumping in his chest. A sigh escapes the man's lips, and he slowly pulls the blades from his belt; He had once hoped to never have to use the last surviving of his brothers to kill the woman who taught him to kill. The blade on his left slowly fades in and out of his view: The blade on his right slowly setting aflame with a blue fire, hissing into the air, sounding similar to a snake.
He makes his way down the hill, each foot fall calculated; every movement of the body he calls his having a specific meaning; a purpose. The caluses on his feet become caked to the color of the red soil beneath him. The grin on his face disappears, and his eyes close, as he makes his way down the hill. He has decided to fight; not to run. To live by the words he preached, the words he taught to a thousand men, and the words that will be taught by them to their own apprentices. The wind howls even louder, blanketing the scene in a covering cloud of dust.
Is there anything else you would like to add, ask, or otherwise clarify?:
Nada, the rules were pretty straightforward.
Oh dear, as a player? Now by player do you mean a gangsta or a gamer? Or even as a storyteller? I'll take the last two, of course, my gangster lingo ain't what it used to be, damn kids and their growing languages... Anyhow, as a player, I enjoy to think before I act, and clearly lay out my objectives. I find it good to crush my enemies, to see them driven before me, to hear the laments of their women. I also enjoy constructing things.
As a storyteller, I'm similar to the above traits, except for seeing my enemies driven before me. That would be bad for a storyteller to see, especially if his players are his enemy. I like to try and immerse people completely in the environment, and let them create the scenario as they see it, only manipulating it to fit the setting, and my preconcieved ideas about an area, and what I want to get across to the players.
What country do you come from? What is your primary language?:
I hail from the land of ice and snow, Canada. More specifically, Winnipeg. My primary language is english, but I know enough french to get by. I'm also in the process of trying to learn german - Oh god why is it hard to find a teacher.
How did you get into Warcraft?:
Saw an old Dungeonmaster of mine playing Warcraft three. He lent me the games and I've been hooked since. I still play Warcraft three every once in awhile. Although, less often now that the RP maps have died in a literal fire storm from which nothing could survive, aside from DOTA. And Vampirism.
What made you seek our server over others? (Or how did you find us?):
I found you through a long time of searching for a place to RP in a universe I was familiar with. Also, because the rules seem to be actually enforced here - I stopped playing retail wow on RP servers mainly because every person was some kind of mary-sue. I seriously had a guy who was teaching my character how to sword fight grow wings, and start bombarding the man's intellect - I still won that fight, but oh well.
What kinds of roleplay do you enjoy?:
Action, fighting, mystery, and long over arching plotlines that can last the test of time.
Also, warfare. Lots of warfare.
What is your favorite race/class? Why?:
Favourite race is probably dwarves. I grew up playing dwarf based games - I also have Dwarf Fortress running right behind this window. And for my first video game, my dad set me up as a dwarf in a rogue-like. Since then, well, my beard can say the rest. As for class, probably warrior or cle- priest. Just 'cause warriors bash and cle- priests bash. And heal. Sometimes.
What are your expectations of this server?:
Rule enforcement and no public ERP. Oh god, my poor virgin Warcraft, walking into Goldshire for the first time...
And to foster and good RP environment with little-to-no drama.
Out of all of our rules and regulations listed on our server, which appeals to you the most?:
Dat respect. I ain't even going to -SQQEEEEEEE- Sorry, a friend just gifted me a game on steam - lie. Most of my experience with RP has been full of rage and anger. With a little, and by little I mean a supermassive black hole worth of drama.
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!:
Well, I'm just going to pull the prologue from a story I'm writing- Hope that's okay.
Alone, on a hill, a single man stands. His figure is cloaked in a red sand coated cloak, flitting in the wind. On his face lies a grimace, muddy brown eyes unfocused, the red tinged white beard on his face cascading down to his waist, braided in a simple and practical pattern.
Adorning his waist are twins swords, one of blue and one of red. They hum maddeningly, at the edge of one's hearing. The grimace fades, replaced by a look of clarity falling on his face: In the distance, a pair of torches appear, and then twenty, and then a hundred, all falling into line behind the lead two. A mad grin falls on the man's face - Not one saying 'Is this all?', no, but one that says 'I might die here, but so will my enemy.' A million thoughts race through the man's mind, and the wind begins to howl, through the cloak aside, revealing the bladesinger's armor - White, tinged with red, like the ground he walks on, the ground he calls his home.
A scream carries across the valley, "BLADESINGER, COME OUT AND FIGHT, YE COWARD. LET THIS RED PACKED GROUND OF YOUR HOME AND ORDER BE YOUR DEATH!" The source is painfully obvious to the bladesinger - The woman, leading in front of the column, her name lost in the annals of history long before the Bladesinger even knew his own name, even knew of what a 'home' was. The screaming woman, the nameless woman, but certainly not a madman, was once a friend of the bladesinger. Once, the bladesinger looked upon this woman as a mentor, a sister, a friend of his heart and of the blades at his side.
The humming grows, and the blades begin to shake. The Bladesinger's hands snake down to his belt with blinding speed - almost too fast for anyone to see, but slow enough to tell his enemies where they were going -"Always fight with honor; Never give even an inch of ground; Thy blades are thy soul, and thy soul is thy honor." He taught to his studenst, he intended to put it to test this day, upon this hallowed land. This ground would feast this day; On his blood, and that of his foes. To the east, his brother-elf had died; To the south, his brother of blood. To the north, he lost his mentor to her madness, her calling. A single tear rolls down his cheek, and then his eyes blink, refusing to shed a tear for the abomination across the valley.
Another cry cuts across the valley "YE BLADESINGER, COME AND FIGHT, FIGHT FOR PROUST, FOR ZAENEL, FOR THE BLOOD THAT SCREAMS THROUGH YOUR VEINS!" This line curdles the man's blood. His heart almost stops, then resumes it's slow thumping in his chest. A sigh escapes the man's lips, and he slowly pulls the blades from his belt; He had once hoped to never have to use the last surviving of his brothers to kill the woman who taught him to kill. The blade on his left slowly fades in and out of his view: The blade on his right slowly setting aflame with a blue fire, hissing into the air, sounding similar to a snake.
He makes his way down the hill, each foot fall calculated; every movement of the body he calls his having a specific meaning; a purpose. The caluses on his feet become caked to the color of the red soil beneath him. The grin on his face disappears, and his eyes close, as he makes his way down the hill. He has decided to fight; not to run. To live by the words he preached, the words he taught to a thousand men, and the words that will be taught by them to their own apprentices. The wind howls even louder, blanketing the scene in a covering cloud of dust.
Is there anything else you would like to add, ask, or otherwise clarify?:
Nada, the rules were pretty straightforward.
