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Old April 22nd, 2012 (4:33 PM). Edited April 23rd, 2012 by rufflestiltskin.
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rufflestiltskin rufflestiltskin is offline
Join Date: Apr 2012
Gender: Female
Nature: Sassy
Posts: 27
{{Oh my gosh, this looks amazing. Great writing.

EDIT: Ooops, missed last post. Oh well, hoping to be Varras' successor, will edit with application ASAP.

SECOND EDIT: Not nearly done, but I don't have time to finish tonight DX


Pesca Ildemor
Pesca's likeable. It's his defining characteristic, really, and perhaps his only redeeming one. He's a lazy, low-class, foul-mouthed, simple-minded cretin who's likely to cheat you out of your money and then convince you he earned it. He's outgoing to a fault, craving companionship, and feeling very uncomfortable when alone -- like he can't quite figure out what to do with himself when not playing the class clown and lady's man. He's not entirely obnoxious however, despite certain ah... money.. incidents... he has a peaceful air of someone you want to confide in, and makes a good listener. He's famous for "mediating debates" (breaking up fistfights) between his fellow sailors.

He can be surprisingly prissy (perhaps in companionship to his laziness). He likes cleanliness, and keeps his quarters organized, and even bathes more than once a year. He's eternally trying to convince people to do his share of the work for him, and is prone to endless whining when he ends up having to do it. More than once someone has taken over for him just to get him to shut up. He's loyal and generous to his friends and followers, and can always make someone feel like they're his best friend. He has a great memory for random details of people's lives ("Hey man, how's the wife? She's due any day now isn't she? I hope she didn't catch that flu that was going around Ticinum, did she?"). To stranger's he's warm and rougish, the classic superstitious sailor type, yet still in a class of his own. He manages to strike people with his words and personality, to stand out in their minds even after the briefest meeting. They radiate to him like moths to an effortless flame in a way that few, if any people can exert. Who knows, in a different century, in a different life, Pesca could have been something really special...

Despite continually performing only the minimum amount of work necessary to survive, a sailor's life is hard. Pesca's sun-beaten skin is stretched tight across a muscled back and shoulders, and a naturally wiry frame, save the small pouch of "baby fat" across his stomach. His skin is naturally a dark olive, though most everything is stained every shade of red, blue, green, yellow, brown, and black imaginable. Tattoos cover his torso, creeping down his arms and up his neck. Many of them are done in the traditional styles of ports he's visited, and many are chalked up to "true stories" of his adventures. His favorite piece is the one that overs his entire back, done in the traditional Gallatian style, of a giant fish fighting the devil. Eternally the exhibitionist, Pesca's usually shirtless and shoeless to show off his ink, though he's always wearing a small piece of ardelyte on a chain around his neck.

If one can recover from the shock of the tattoos, the rest of Pesca is relatively unintimidating. He's a bit short, with a soft jaw that only seems to grow a hint of stubble no matter how he tries to coax it into something more imposing. His tightly curled dark-chocolate hair is usually pulled back into a half-hearted ponytail, and shoved beneath some colorful bandanna or another. His eyes are a lighter, golden brown, large and childish above a goofy grin. For most of his life he's never carried a weapon, never needing one, and always being able to talk his way out of trouble, but in light of his new, mercenary way of life, he's taken to carrying a homely falchion and a dagger.

Pesca was born in the smallest, most boring seacost town in all of Gallatia that was all descended from a couple of families who happened to crash on the cliffs and decided to build a lighthouse. The majority of town was now about a few miles from that old stone tower, where the sea was more accessible and most people could fish for a living, but they still all hauled up there once a week for church, or town meetings, or rudimentary school (that Pesca attended through third grade and hated every minute of) for children; since the town had no such building of its own. At home, Pesca was an only child, and spoiled rotten because of it. Outside, he was the most popular kid in town, religiously followed by his peers and doted on by adults.

Nonetheless, the boy had a brutal case of wanderlust. He was constantly running off, not because of any particular malcontent, simply boredom. He'd run off and even sleep in the woods for days, or simply walk down along the beach until he couldn't walk any further. One day he found a set of dank caves set into one of the cliffs, and explored deep down inside it. He got lost, and was stuck in there for almost a full week before he managed to escape and was found collapsed in the sand, dehydrated, half-starved, and refusing to speak of the experience. Every once in a while one of Pesca's more observant fellow sailors will wonder why he gets so antsy in dark, confined spaces. It was months before the boy wandered beyond the edge of town again.

When Pesca was 13 years old a merchant ship that had been blown off course was forced to dock at his small port to restock food and water. It was the first taste of the outside world Pesca, or even most of the townspeople, had ever had. The ship was huge compared to the tiny fishing vessels of the townsfolk. Massive. Its masts were as tall as the lighthouse. The sailors spoke with exotic accents and told stories of ports not even beyond Gallatia, but beyond Helvan. As gifts of good will they left the people with jars of Salantiran spices and Teucrionian musk. These visions of a far-off world, made real by these tangible gifts, consumed Pesca.

He spoke of nothing but leaving. Again and again he thumbed through the few books the schoolteacher had for any miniscule detail about the lands of Khellius. Anyone who'd ever left town was grilled for hours on end for every aspect of their travels. Pesca rarely slept and hardly ate. He'd spend his time pacing on the edge of the docks, squinting at the horizon trying to see as far as he could. It went on like this for almost a year before his parents gave up trying to talk him out of it, and blessed him to go off on foot for the provincial capital of Placentia. Needless to say, it was a bit of a culture shock.

It took only a few weeks in the capital for the fast-adapting Pesca to adjust and make friends. Someone helped get him a job at the docks, and later, as a deckboy on one of the merchant vessels he'd so dreamed of. Within a few years, he'd become a dyed-in-the-wool sailor, shedding all his hick ways. He visited every major port imaginable, sometimes spending a day there, sometimes months. He started a collection of tattoos to monument his travels. He picked up the basics of swordfighting. He talked himself into some of the worst trouble imaginable, and then talked himself right back out again.

And then, one day, he grew bored.

Not bored, per se, but rather homesick. The war, the troubled times brewing in Khellius had left him with a sense of discomfort. He no longer felt amicable with all these foreign sailors and low-lifes. He was a Helvan. He wanted to return to Helvan. Pesca knew he didn't have the makings of a soldier, but maybe there was someway he could serve his home. For a very, very brief and unspeakable period he served as a mess cook in the army. Neither the soldiers nor Pesca benefited from that arrangement. Disheartened, he's ended up in
Ticinum, where he mostly plays cards for money and drink.

Varras the Eloquent Diplomat


Strength - 14
Dexterity - 13
Constitution - 13
Intelligence - 10
Wisdom - 12
Charisma - 16


-Intermediate Influence
/ +2 Charisma
- Minor Talents / Hunt & Fishing / A rural upbringing has taught Pesca the bare basics of survival. He knows how to make a few small animal snares and crab traps. In a pinch, it's likely he could catch enough for himself, and perhaps one other to survive, but certainly not an entire group of six.
-Minor Edged Weapon Mastery
/ Falchion
-Minor Talents
/ Astronomy / Years of sailing have given Pesca a grassroots understanding of the night sky. He does not understand the magical significance of the stars, i.e. how they influence spells or fates, but can recognize most every constellation, use them for navigation, and can point out the few that are considered bad or good omens amidst sailors.

Roleplay Sample:

Her bed had fleas.

They had left red welts on her bare shoulders, ripe with clear poison that she tried to ignore, hunched over, walking down the dark street. The rain had stopped now, but it left the air hot and heavy, the city tangible with the stink of wet garbage. Her thin tank top and shorts clung to her pubescent frame, and her feet squished in damp sneakers with no socks, the product of being left on the fire escape overnight.

Her hands were shoved deep in her pockets, determined not to reach up and touch the new peach fuzz on her brown scalp. She tried not to think about her long copper-red locks, once halfway down her back, lying shaved on the floor of her flea-filled bedroom in her flea-filled apartment in that flea-filled building. It made her eyes sting with tears she refused to spill. Childish. Dolores Black doesn’t cry.

The evening crowd was already gathering in the warm dusk, slow slouching in and out of shadows on the way to the battle of tonight’s best wager. Dolly knew the place – the fights alternated several dozen known ‘arenas’, littered across the poorer quarters of New Tokyo. The trick was simply knowing where they would be, the location of the Friday night fight changing half-a-dozen times a week to throw the police off their tail. Not like they would do anything, anyways. Tonight, half of a building had been knocked down to widen a dingy alley enough to hold the almost four to five hundred people, packed along fences and up fire escapes, who were bound to show up on any given night.

Dolly knew, of course. She never missed a fight. A faint smile fought against the gloom in her throat as he ran a hand across her bare head despite herself, slouching along the brick towards the spotlights and lamps illuminating the post-rain gloom. Several small ridges of coagulated blood had formed where her mother’s electric razor had nicked her. She knew she looked like a boy despite budding breasts.

But at least she didn’t have fleas any more.
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