New Isra
Committed
Roleplay posts: 71
Biography: This account represents the NPCs and locations associated with New Isra!
Allegiances: Isra
Registered: Mar 16, 2021 22:30:20 GMT -5
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Post by New Isra on Mar 20, 2021 17:16:03 GMT -5
The Depravity's bar. Barstools, nautical memorabilia, and a bartender that's got more attitude than eyes! Stocked with oranges, beer, rum, and ale, it has everything a sailor could need!
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Coatl of the Imilla
Dedicated
Roleplay posts: 143
Appearance: Skin just a skosh darker than an old clay pot. The shade of his hat occludes black, sun-beaten eyes, wavy, matted hair, and just enough beard to protect his chin. His hands are coarse and leathery, with wiry tendons. His height isn't quite imposing, it's but enough to lend credence to a purposeful stride and posture.
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Equipment: An old duster, scarf, and cotton shirt and slacks. A thin brigandine with copper plates and a military-grade pitchfork.
A single candle, a reagent of now forbidden degrees of power.
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Skills and Abilities: On his home turf, Coatl could manifest formidable elemental magic. Here the magic is suppressed down to more subtle manipulations. However, the spirit of Cuaté, the "Witch", is still with him.
Coatl is, at his core, a simple farmhand. His experience working on ranches and plantations has earned him a strong physique and a way with animals. When he was a teenager, he also spent some time as a city guard and militiaman, giving him basic competence with a variety of weapons.
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Biography: The Imilla Clan were migrant farmers and laborers, selling themselves to wealthier kingdoms. They were a people bound by working shanties, and stories of an Eden from whence their ancestors came. As a youth, Coatl felt they were naive. They possessed the most basic of martial skills and required the aid of capricious spirits with weak magic to protect them.
His suspicions were half true, for when they encountered a malevolent kingdom, they were very nearly enslaved. However, his parent's commitment to peace earned him, and him in particular, the loyalty of an ancestral spirit that was far more dependable.
Using the power of this spirit, Coatl and a few other "chosen ones" helped bring prosperity and safety to their clan, ensuring that no one else would try to enslave them. The golden years of their people came to an abrupt end, however, when the flood waters came...
Registered: Mar 20, 2021 23:42:08 GMT -5
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Post by Coatl of the Imilla on Mar 21, 2021 16:29:41 GMT -5
The man's rusty coat and rustier skin blended in with the earthy tones of the bar. If it wasn't for the obvious difference in size, textures, and proportions, his hat could have passed for the top of a stool. Ever since he had been pulled up from the flood waters, he had frequented this place so much that the bartender was probably starting to think of him as a piece of furniture anyways.
For years, Coatl's identity had been founded on protecting his clan. When the floodwaters came, his clan was scattered to the novel oceans, and his spirit along with them. But for the moment, he was content to use different spirits for a substitute, the drinkable kind.
The maiden in his head had been respectfully silent. But for whatever reason, she decided to speak up today.
Soon, we'll need to rebuild. Why not start with yourself?
"Yah, yah, yah," he said to the air. It wasn't the first time he had spoken to himself. He was conscious of the bartender's odd glances. He didn't care. He liked the fact that he wasn't completely invisible, even if he mostly just wanted to be left alone.
His mother would have prescribed some parchment and charcoal. But the resources on the Depravity were so strained he felt obligated to make use of his beer glass and sawdust. He pressed into the bar, and made a ring. Then he shifted the glass to the side and made another ring, and then another, and another; four rings, four circles, like his mother had taught him.
It's not a crock.
Ma'am, everything is a crock right now.
Fair enough.
He took out his one lonely candle and set it into the first circle. Himself. That's what needed attention. His family? Unknown. His clan? Broken. The world? A merciless and cruel ocean (literally) that didn't deserve his sympathy at the moment.
That phrase, "world", has many meanings.
Well, fuck half of those meanings. The rest I'll get to when I'm good and ready.
With a snap of his coarse fingers, the candle lit. It was a cheap parlor trick compared to what he and Cuaté could do before. But the fact that it allowed him this was at least some comfort. Damn omnipotent misty bullshit. He knew cowardice when he saw it. Or in this case, felt it all around him.
He closed his eyes and meditated on the candle. It was sort of neat that he could still light it. The powers that be had tossed him a crumb.
What does the flame represent?
Mourning.
It's also a beating heart. You're still alive.
He sighed. Optimistic bitch.
I heard that.
He rolled his eyes and smirked at no one. For being centuries old and supposedly wise, Cuaté just didn't get it sometimes.
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Katiana Graves
Dedicated
Roleplay posts: 109
Appearance: When you want to hide a tree, you hide it in a forest. Similarly, if you wanted to hide Katiana, you would put her in a crowd of humans. Brown hair, brown eyes, thin features, and an unremarkable height may not set her apart, but the way she manipulates her expressions and gallivants around certainly do. Those who know her are familiar with a particularly mischievous left-sided smirk, above which forms a dimple. Those who have yet to meet her will immediately know her for the way she bounces from one place to the next, holding her skirts in her hands.
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Equipment: A recurve bow made of elm, a small wood-cutting ax, and a skinning knife complete Katiana's non-exhaustive equipment. Being an adventurer who often loses herself in the wilderness, she also favors flint and tinder, rope, medicines, a waterskin, sewing supplies, and food rations.
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Skills and Abilities: Though not particularly concerned in the art of warfare, Katiana has been a hunter for as long as she could hold a bow, and over the years, she became proficient with it. One could assume that if she needed to point her arrow at a charging warrior rather than a boar, she would have the same chances of hitting it. Years of adventuring have also taught her skills in survival.
Though she has no skills in magic, nothing is stopping her from learning. Katiana's family has a history of mages, though none have been particularly gifted.
Registered: Mar 17, 2021 16:34:46 GMT -5
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Post by Katiana Graves on Mar 21, 2021 18:13:13 GMT -5
The hours were long on The Depravity and longer still when one couldn't tell if they were during the night or the day; all of it was just mist, all the time. Despite this, one young woman refused to let the fog dampen her spirits. After all, it had already dampened everything else: their clothes, their hair, their skin... it was unfair of it to try and take another thing with it!
And thus, shortly after Katiana had been hauled up onto the great arc, soaked and half-drowned with the life leaving her body, she was dubbed the "shanty girl." She wasn't exactly sure how well her improvised and often mediocre lyrics actually helped to raise anyone spirits in the first few weeks, but it most certainly did not have the same effect as one simple little word that had the entire boat roaring-
"Land!"
She felt her feet move before her mind caught up with what exactly the word meant, boots thundering down onto the polished wood. So fast her feet went that she hardly had the sense to bother the people she ran into, pointing towards the stairs and questioning excitedly if it was all true. Most of them were already on their way to the upper decks, but a few promptly dropped what they were doing and started to make their way down the hallway themselves. It was then that Katiana saw one of her most important responsibilities: to rally all those below deck as she ascended.
The woman skidded right by the chapel in her hopeful, giddy gaggle to the deck and had to backtrack, head poking in to stare at the bartender and his sullen ne'er-do-wells with extreme scrutiny.
"Well, get on then!" she hooted. "Didn't you hear? Land!"
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Coatl of the Imilla
Dedicated
Roleplay posts: 143
Appearance: Skin just a skosh darker than an old clay pot. The shade of his hat occludes black, sun-beaten eyes, wavy, matted hair, and just enough beard to protect his chin. His hands are coarse and leathery, with wiry tendons. His height isn't quite imposing, it's but enough to lend credence to a purposeful stride and posture.
-------
Equipment: An old duster, scarf, and cotton shirt and slacks. A thin brigandine with copper plates and a military-grade pitchfork.
A single candle, a reagent of now forbidden degrees of power.
-------
Skills and Abilities: On his home turf, Coatl could manifest formidable elemental magic. Here the magic is suppressed down to more subtle manipulations. However, the spirit of Cuaté, the "Witch", is still with him.
Coatl is, at his core, a simple farmhand. His experience working on ranches and plantations has earned him a strong physique and a way with animals. When he was a teenager, he also spent some time as a city guard and militiaman, giving him basic competence with a variety of weapons.
-------
Biography: The Imilla Clan were migrant farmers and laborers, selling themselves to wealthier kingdoms. They were a people bound by working shanties, and stories of an Eden from whence their ancestors came. As a youth, Coatl felt they were naive. They possessed the most basic of martial skills and required the aid of capricious spirits with weak magic to protect them.
His suspicions were half true, for when they encountered a malevolent kingdom, they were very nearly enslaved. However, his parent's commitment to peace earned him, and him in particular, the loyalty of an ancestral spirit that was far more dependable.
Using the power of this spirit, Coatl and a few other "chosen ones" helped bring prosperity and safety to their clan, ensuring that no one else would try to enslave them. The golden years of their people came to an abrupt end, however, when the flood waters came...
Registered: Mar 20, 2021 23:42:08 GMT -5
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Post by Coatl of the Imilla on Mar 21, 2021 22:11:05 GMT -5
His eyes snapped open.
Of course. Coatl had finally decided to practice some self-care that didn't involve firewater, and that was when the universe decided to interrupt him.
There was a distinct menace in the way his hand shot up and his fingers snapped. The candle flame blinked out of existence, possibly out of fright.
Be nice to the girl.
*grumble grumble*
The rusty man grasped the candle, sat up, and pocketed it in a smooth motion. His footsteps towards the door were heavy and deliberate. He was determined to maintain his dignity despite being slightly tipsy.
"Thank you kindly, Miss Graves." He was genuine, but exhausted. He tried not to get to close to Katiana, fearing the scent of alcohol would offend her. Although that said, at least he still bathed regularly. The ennui of the post-apocalyptic sea life wasn't taking that away from him at least, a fact Cuaté found amusing.
It helped that it was a vanilla candle he had lit.
He had a certain respect for "shanty girl." He came from a culture where singing to ease the burden of labor was more than just a pass time, it was survival and bonding. Katiana's instinct for it gave him the impression that her ancestors were hard-working folk who understood community.
That or she was just nuts. Too soon to call, really.
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Katiana Graves
Dedicated
Roleplay posts: 109
Appearance: When you want to hide a tree, you hide it in a forest. Similarly, if you wanted to hide Katiana, you would put her in a crowd of humans. Brown hair, brown eyes, thin features, and an unremarkable height may not set her apart, but the way she manipulates her expressions and gallivants around certainly do. Those who know her are familiar with a particularly mischievous left-sided smirk, above which forms a dimple. Those who have yet to meet her will immediately know her for the way she bounces from one place to the next, holding her skirts in her hands.
____________________________________________________
Equipment: A recurve bow made of elm, a small wood-cutting ax, and a skinning knife complete Katiana's non-exhaustive equipment. Being an adventurer who often loses herself in the wilderness, she also favors flint and tinder, rope, medicines, a waterskin, sewing supplies, and food rations.
____________________________________________________
Skills and Abilities: Though not particularly concerned in the art of warfare, Katiana has been a hunter for as long as she could hold a bow, and over the years, she became proficient with it. One could assume that if she needed to point her arrow at a charging warrior rather than a boar, she would have the same chances of hitting it. Years of adventuring have also taught her skills in survival.
Though she has no skills in magic, nothing is stopping her from learning. Katiana's family has a history of mages, though none have been particularly gifted.
Registered: Mar 17, 2021 16:34:46 GMT -5
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Post by Katiana Graves on Mar 22, 2021 19:10:50 GMT -5
Katiana beamed up at the gruff man who she'd barely become familiar with in the past few however-long-it-had-been. He was a quieter sort except when he had no one to talk to, which was odd, but perhaps he was one of those drunk, muttering sorts.
That or he was just nuts. Too soon to call, really.
Either way, she was determined to annoy her way into his good graces, as he was one of those folk who actually seemed to appreciate her ever-present singsong. While he was busy trying to avoid her, she moved to link her arms with his own and gallop them up to the deck, the whisper of another shanty on the tip of her lips.
"We're landward bound I heard them say. Goodbye, fare ye well! Good-bye, fare ye well! Our orders came from home today! Hoorah, my lads, we're landward bound!"
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Coatl of the Imilla
Dedicated
Roleplay posts: 143
Appearance: Skin just a skosh darker than an old clay pot. The shade of his hat occludes black, sun-beaten eyes, wavy, matted hair, and just enough beard to protect his chin. His hands are coarse and leathery, with wiry tendons. His height isn't quite imposing, it's but enough to lend credence to a purposeful stride and posture.
-------
Equipment: An old duster, scarf, and cotton shirt and slacks. A thin brigandine with copper plates and a military-grade pitchfork.
A single candle, a reagent of now forbidden degrees of power.
-------
Skills and Abilities: On his home turf, Coatl could manifest formidable elemental magic. Here the magic is suppressed down to more subtle manipulations. However, the spirit of Cuaté, the "Witch", is still with him.
Coatl is, at his core, a simple farmhand. His experience working on ranches and plantations has earned him a strong physique and a way with animals. When he was a teenager, he also spent some time as a city guard and militiaman, giving him basic competence with a variety of weapons.
-------
Biography: The Imilla Clan were migrant farmers and laborers, selling themselves to wealthier kingdoms. They were a people bound by working shanties, and stories of an Eden from whence their ancestors came. As a youth, Coatl felt they were naive. They possessed the most basic of martial skills and required the aid of capricious spirits with weak magic to protect them.
His suspicions were half true, for when they encountered a malevolent kingdom, they were very nearly enslaved. However, his parent's commitment to peace earned him, and him in particular, the loyalty of an ancestral spirit that was far more dependable.
Using the power of this spirit, Coatl and a few other "chosen ones" helped bring prosperity and safety to their clan, ensuring that no one else would try to enslave them. The golden years of their people came to an abrupt end, however, when the flood waters came...
Registered: Mar 20, 2021 23:42:08 GMT -5
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Post by Coatl of the Imilla on Mar 23, 2021 9:43:19 GMT -5
"What the-"
Getting him to gallop forward would be a bit like getting a horse onto an ice rink and having it run across without slipping. But he dare not not play along, less the poor thing should slip from his elbow and go flying into one of a thousand 90 degree wooden angles on the Depravity.
Yah, definitely nuts.
You know you like it.
He refused to sing. But as a half way sign of friendship, he galloped in tune with her song, a thin lipped smirk of tolerance on his face.
Land. Survivors. Perhaps more of his clan was out there.
He wished he could be as excited as the girl, but his instinct was to steel himself for the challenges that lay ahead.
Despite magic being suppressed, it was not impossible for someone with a particularly strong third ear to hear two women singing a shanty instead of one.
Our orders came from home today... Hoorah, my lads, we're landward bound...
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