Storms of Steel and Diesel (A Mad Maxian RP) Recruitment Thread

[Tortilla the Hun]

[HEADING=1]Storms of Steel and Diesel[/HEADING]

[HEADING=2]Introduction[/HEADING]

Earth has been twisted and warped beyond recognition. All that remains is a withering husk of its former state and its inhabitants, which have grown to be just as corrupted. A necessary evolution to survive what the world has become. Food is scarce, and water more so. Scarcer still a resource so sought after the thirst for it is unquenchable. Black gold. The blood of iron horses. Ambrosia for gods of the engine. Oil, to put it simply. You might not die of starvation or dehydration, but when that fuel gauge hits zero, you're just adrift in a sea of dirt. Easy pickings for the buzzards. If you're lucky, they'll be the worst of your problems.

To reiterate, humanity has gone completely mad. But even in the madness, some semblance of civilization seems to have taken place of old societies. These oases of order in the world's chaos often differ greatly, but the need for fuel remains at the core of each. Few have the good fortune of utilizing reclaimed oil wells to maintain their supply. Many others resort to trading. But some, having no skills other than murder and occasional cannibalism, are left with raiding and hijacking to get theirs.

Safe havens are a myth. Existing only in rumors and legends. Settlements get by well enough. Small groups can survive with right mix of know-how and luck. Trying to survive alone is practically a death sentence. There's definitely something to be said about the safety in numbers. Even still there stands an unspoken rule of the road: Never stop moving.



[HEADING=2]The Setting: Extended[/HEADING]

The year is unknown. None have bothered to count from the point the world went to hell because, quite frankly, there were more important things to worry about. Quite a long time ago war had set in motion the changes that shaped the Earth to what it is now. The great oceans have all but dried up. Most of the land is harsh and unfit for crops. Massive storms frequently ravage the landscape. And thanks to the heat, you have bands of sunburned, thirsty, irate lunatics looking to keep themselves occupied. Without a doubt, there is a notable shortage of people that aren't out to kill you for what you have on your back. (Not excluding your meat.)

[HEADING=2]The Tribes[/HEADING]

[HEADING=3]Diesel Dog Imperium[/HEADING]

"The Imperium" as it it most commonly referred to is the most expansive, while not necessarily the most powerful, of any clans in the region. The Imperium spans over many settlements and while their forces maybe be spread thin, they command a very strong force that acts as both their shield and spear when need be. This central force's main purpose is to protect the oil derricks that supply oil to the surrounding regions. This is also how they've managed to influence those within and around their territories, even if the outliers aren't devoted to the Imperium, they acknowledge and respect their presence.

The populace of the Imperium is largely made up of fanatics of their leader who is addressed as The High Inquisitor Diesel Earthbleeder. He is as crazy as they come, but sharp enough to have risen to power over an empire of thousands. He believes himself to be a sort of shepherd for his people, commanding and guiding them to salvation after a supposedly impending "Flash" that will consume all the world in fire. A vision that he has, and continues to kill for.

[HEADING=3]Blacklanders[/HEADING]

A duo of small, but very dense settlements that have taken hold in a mountaintop mining and industrial facilities. Inside the mountains of the area is where they make they home and work by mining coal and using that to fuel a foundry which produces parts for their own machines. The skies above their mountains are filled with the billowing smoke of their factories. The dirt has become blackened with the coal dust and ash.

The coal mine is run by Warden Joseph Blacklung, the driver of the workforce and overseer of all the mining operations. He's forced to breathe through a respirator after years of working within the mines. The foundry is headed by "Hammerfist", a behemoth of a man who is the primary workhorse as well as the master of all operations.

[HEADING=3]The Smiths[/HEADING]

The primary source of most firearms and ammunition in the region, manufactured in the Brass Orchard, the central settlement in the Smiths' territory. They're easily the strongest of the tribes, but smart enough to keep to their own. Most other factions know better than to wander into their territory. They may have little to watch over, but they watch over it fiercely.

The Orchard is run by the craftsman Slugnut. One of the most cunning minds in the wastes, he's used his knowledge as his own form of power. He is a leader and a teacher and while not strong in number, he has made his people strong in firepower and wits.

[HEADING=3]Urango Flotilla[/HEADING]

The largest known group of nomads in the region, their size coming as a surprise to many considering not very many people have seen the entirety of the tribe. The more amicable settlements will receive visitors from the tribe who come to trade. It's been said that they don't speak much, and never about their tribe. Very little is known about the group and there are those who even believe them to be a myth. Those who claim to have seen them remark the symbols and ornaments of a ram's head adorning their vehicles and attire.

[HEADING=2]Additional Info[/HEADING]

This RP was inspired by the recent Mad Max: Fury Road. If you haven't seen it yet, I highly recommend it. It certainly is not required of you, but I suppose it would give you an idea of what it is I'm aiming for. While this does not take place in the Mad Max universe I do like the idea of post-apocalypse Australia as a setting so that's where this will take place. That being said, any preferred character ethnicity will be welcome. I don't intend to inhibit liberties in terms of character creation just because of the location.

However, on the subject of characters, I have a couple of requests. While a healthy level of insanity is welcome I ask that you keep it reasonable. There is such a thing as "too much" when it comes to crazy. That goes for general badassery as well. A walking god of destruction, while spectacular, is quick to wear out its welcome and ultimately uninteresting in the long-term. With that in mind, go nuts! I look forward to seeing what you come up with.

Feel free to ask any questions and I'll do my best to answer.

Spoiler: Character Sheet Template

Name: Simple, but feel free to get creative!
Age: Pretty straightforward
Gender: To the point

Personality: Can be very brief. Much of this will be made apparent in your characters' actions/dialogue. Regardless, I expect some consistency in this area.

Appearance: What do they look like; scars? Moles? Mustaches? How do they typically dress? Do they wear scrap tires? A toaster codpiece? Details would be nice.

Notable Skills: What are they good for? Absolutely nothing? Write it down.

Weapons: Nothing too fancy/over the top here. One-man armies have no place in this RP. And keep in mind, bullets won't be plentiful.

Gear/Miscellany: Details, details, details. What do they have to survive with? Do they travel lightly with just the clothes on their back or are they toting around a collapsible Cabela's kiosk? (Please don't actually give them that.)

Bio: Doesn't have to be all that extensive, even a few paragraphs will do. What were they doing up until now? Any life-changing events? Defining moments? How did they acquire their skills/equipment?

Other Notes: Anything else you think wouldn't fit in the above categories.

 

[DarkRawen]

Spoiler: Medicus Cor

Name: Medicus Cor. (Medicus is the surname/title)

Age: 25.

Gender: Male.

Personality: Cor is a idealist turned somewhat cynic, and because of that, two sides of him exist. His foremost side is a sarcastic, distant and snarky one, one that shows him as a calm person that only trusts himself. He isn't unfriendly, and his snarky side is more a way of joking than portraying hostility, and he's often seen smirking over something he finds amusing, but he forces himself to not become too close to people. Given his past, it's not that difficult, as he has issues relating to others, and even trusting them.

His other side is that of a doctor, caring and warm, with streaks of his old, more altruistic self from his youth. He's careful and thorough, unable to give up on someone and prone to getting emotional over those he fail to save, though tries not to be around people. Keeping his sides separate is a defence mechanism, the world is insane and showing weakness is dangerous, even if that weakness is simply kindness and empathy. He's clever, but works better with order than with chaos.

Appearance: About 5'11" with light green eyes, naturally tan skin and very dark blonde hair that is covered by with stripes and edges of a lighter blonde due to the high amounts of sunlight. His hair usually reaches as far as his ears -sometimes longer- before he gets around to cutting it slightly, the curls making it easier to push away from his face. He rarely has a beard or even stubbles, too warm and itchy with no real uses. Besides, he likes the cleaner look. He has some round scars around his left ear because of some scraps hitting him when he was younger, but apart from that he has few noticeable marks. His fingers, however, has small burns and scratches all over them, from a childhood as someone being prepared to become a doctor. He's in a decent shape, but only because he has to be to be useful when he's not patching someone up, and while his face is mostly unremarkable, people have commented on how stunning his eyes are.

Cor wears simple clothes, whatever he can salvage that looks clean, and simple to keep that way. If he can, he gets something in a light color in order to keep the heat off him. There is a belt of pockets around his waist and a small pouch hanging from his side. He uses a pair of short boots when outside, while he prefers wearing nothing on his feet. He has fashioned sort of a medical coat out of the whitest materials he could find, and while it is sort of patched up and has spots of blood, the smell of alcohol is a sign of that he takes care to clean it, only using it when opening people up, and sometimes not even then. He usually wears a sand-colored scarf to cover his mouth when needed.

Notable Skills: Cor is first and foremost a doctor, and knows how to both treat people with medicine and through surgery. Cor has great knowledge about the human body and about disease. Because of this, he's a very careful individual, cleansing his medical tools with fire and, if he can get it, alcohol. He is capable of using the suture techniques of the "old" world, one of the few things that has remained unchanged in his family knowledge. He is also able to make simple remedies out of raw materials and of sewing clothes and leather, and of distilling alcohol, if he has the right tools.

Cor also has skills driving a motorbike and using a one-handed crossbow, often both at the same time. While not a master shooter, he can still do some damage if he puts his mind to it. He can fashion simple cross-bow bolts and is adept at handling fire, most of all because of his use of it in cleansing. Technically, he should be able to kind of drive a car, but he's not keen on the idea, preferring to be a passenger. There is something about the four wheels that makes him uneasy.

Weapons: While he's a doctor, Cor never doubted that this world is dangerous and thus carries a crossbow. It is a one-handed crossbow and he uses three kinds of bolts with it. Regular sized ones for defence, small ones in order to more simply pierce someone's skin, and a few that has oil and cloth wrapped around them so that they can be set on fire. He also carries knives, and though they aren't really carried as weapons, they can be used as it, especially the hunting knife he uses when he needs to cut someone's limb off.

Gear/Miscellany: Cor carries around quite a lot when he first has to move:

- His crossbow, as well as 20 normal bolts, 15 small bolts and 5 with a head made out of cloth that has been soaked in gasoline and alcohol in order to burn, and that he sets on fire before firing.

-Two sets of clothes, one he's wearing, and one he can change into, as well as the belt with 5 pockets and his short boots.

- His white coat and sanitized pieces of cloth to use as bandages and to clean wounds. He makes them himself out of scavenged clothes.

- Three pairs of gloves, two thin ones for treating patients, and one fingerless leather pair for driving a bike. He also has a set of glasses to protect his eyes when he rides a bike, and during sandstorms. He has a sand-colored scarf for similar reasons.

- 5 knives and a sheep shear. In details, this is a very old, but well taken care of surgical scalpel, two long thin knives fashioned out of various metals, the shear that he uses to cut clothes and hair, a normal sized knife used for everything he needs on a daily basis, and a large hunting knife with saw-teeth on the upper part and a very sharp lower blades, used to cut over bones and harder materials. He also has a very old-fashioned knife sharpener stone to keep them up to the job.

- Some water and enough food to last him a week if he is careful, as well as some very small containers with "medicine".

- A "lighter" and a small bottle of the gas required to make it work. Since it was created after the world changed, it runs on the same gasoline as most cars. He also has some glass bottles and makeshift tubes in order to create vials of remedies out of raw ingredients.

- A half-filled bottle of high percent alcohol. While he purifies what he can with the lighter and with fire, he still needs to clean his medical coat and gloves, and to clean wounds. Occasionally, he also takes a sip of it himself. He fills it up whenever he has the chance, but he lacks the items to make it himself.

- Some thread and sewing needles of various sizes. He keeps this in one of his pockets.

- A cooler backpack that has been sewed back together countless times. The inside isn't as effective as it once was, but it still keeps items from getting too warm. He keeps the purified items in a side-pocket.


Bio: Cor doesn't know how long his family has been doctors, since before the world changed at the very least. A great great grampa of his or so started the Medicus family tradition. Taking the Latin word for doctor as their new title and family name, he, his wife and their two daughters scavenged what they could of medical supplies and books, and made use of it. While many of the supplies and books slowly fell apart or got lost, the knowledge was passed on, as was the basic techniques. Eventually, it came to Cor's father, and then to Cor himself.

His mother had little knowledge about it, but she did what she could to aid both Cor's training and in the life-saving. Her skills was still more centered around surviving, and she was the reason they got ahold of two sand motorcycles. Travelling around the wasteland between settlements in order to help saving people, most of Cor's life was spent either in isolation or giving medical attention to someone, with little social contact beyond that. They survived on what they got out of their charitable practice and what they could salvage themselves, occasionally from those they couldn't save. Their role as healers kept them well despite the risks taken, and it helped them through some very difficult situation.

However, it didn't protect them forever. One day, they brought a man back from the brink of death, in the middle of nowhere. It turned out to be a mistake, as he was a scout from a nearby settlement sent out to spy on the territory of another. He stole one of their motorbikes, and left when they were sleeping, with them waking up as they saw him leaving. Even so, they simply figured he needed the ride, and stuck around to rest.

Half a day later, he returned with a large amount of cars and people, triggering a response from those the territory belonged to. It was near impossible to escape, but his father decided to hold them up while he and his mother took the remaining bike. His mother kept telling him to get further and further away, out of the reach of those who might want to pursue them. Only when he stopped, did Cor realize that his mother had been bleeding out, not letting him know so that Cor would drive to safety. His mother held onto life for a few more hours, but eventually she died, despite Cor's best efforts to keep that from happening.

Grief-struck and disillusioned with the role of the altruistic doctor, he drove for days, until he found a group of people belonging to a nearby and safe place. Trading in his bike for safety, he settled down there, spending four years aiding those within that community, and those alone. However, he feels out of place and uncomfortable within the settlement, due to being used to travelling around. It also doesn't help that the two people he has cared about and loved was murdered due to a fight over territory. Because of that, he has taken to wandering outside the safe walls every now and then, even staying outside for more than a day to get some peace and quiet.

Other Notes:

- Cor is something of a neat-freak, attempting to keep the space around him clean. Similarly, untidy places stresses him, and can even make him a bit irritable, and he has a habit of idly putting stuff away in the oddest situations. Perhaps strangely enough, he prefers the sand-filled wasteland over settlements. In the same way, he has an interest in fire and its ability to purify and clean pretty much anything, although that might just be a side effect from how violent the societies around him are.

>_> I'll just leave this here. Hopefully there's not too much wrong with it

Edit: Fixed the mistake where I'd left the explosive bolts in the description. They're supposed to be fire bolts, since I figured explosive bolts would be a little too much for a medical character.

 

[Athol]

Spoiler: Blackfinger Izzy

Name:
Izzy

Age:
As old as my tongue, and a little older than my teeth (13 or 14, she?s not sure)

Gender:
Female

Personality:
?Damaged? would probably be the best way to describe Izzy. The trauma of the death of her ?family?, and subsequent capture and abuse by a near feral wanderer has led to a dissociative break in her personality, leading to her speaking only in the third person as well as, at times being violently hostile to any men.

Appearance:
A little over five feet tall, with squinting amber eyes and a tanned and wiry build, Izzy shows all the signs of someone who?s lived in the wastelands her whole life, and despite her youth, her hands and arms bear the telltale scars of a blackfinger[footnote] Mechanic [/footnote]. Her sun-bleached hair is hacked short to keep it out of machinery, and though she displays the typical long limbed ?gangliness? of someone her age, it is clear she?ll never be an overly tall woman.

Notable Skills:
Izzy is a surprisingly skilled blackfinger for her age, and as a result makes a pretty fair scavenger as well.

Weapons:
A single action .38 calibre revolver [http://40.media.tumblr.com/2d5dcaaabcbc786d7ebcb4a828679c2b/tumblr_nt3thgwI2z1t64uyfo1_1280.jpg], tied across her chest. 30 rounds total, 6 chambered, 24 spare.
A forged knife [http://orig03.deviantart.net/60e2/f/2014/168/8/d/post_apocalyptic_barbed_wire_damascus_by_hellize-d7msgln.jpg], slung from her left hip.

Gear/Miscellany:
Clothing-wise, Izzy wears whatever she can find, so long as it?s got enough pockets for all her bits and bobs. Currently her clothes consist of some old work boots, stuffed with rags so they fit her, some old army pants, a long sleeved shirt, and a fishing vest, whose pockets are filled with various mechanical bits. The consistent bits of her attire are a brimmed hat to keep the sun off, some old goggles [http://i.ebayimg.com/00/s/NzUxWDEwMjQ=/z/EC8AAOSwPhdVJ3V3/$_1.JPG] to keep grit out of her eyes, and a scarf [http://img.alibaba.com/img/pb/463/305/613/613305463_105.jpg] to keep the dust out of her mouth.

When on foot, which she hates, she has a pack [https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/236x/fd/23/72/fd2372eeb6b4dd70f02c3d51cb4263dc.jpg] where she keeps sundry stuff,such as water, food, a blanket and barter goods; as well as her blackfinger [https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/01/4a/40/014a40da8b21b59382ed4f3a44f124b6.jpg] kit [http://img.auctiva.com/imgdata/4/6/8/8/3/1/webimg/567049902_tp.jpg].

Bio:
The daughter of a blackfinger and a convoy girl [footnote]Prostitute[/footnote], she grew up on a heavy trader convoy that plied between the villes[footnote]Independent settlement[/footnote] of the wastelands, bartering and trading for anything and everything the people of the villes put value in. As the only child in the convoy, the whole crew became her extended family while she worked by her father?s side almost from the moment she could walk. Crawling around the convoy, she proved to be a natural blackfinger, picking up the teachings of her father and the other blackfingers with relative ease. As a result she worked on every vehicle in the convoy, from the pigrigs[footnote]18 Wheeler[/footnote], and rigs[footnote]Vehicle smaller that an 18 wheeler, but bigger than a normal car or truck[/footnote] to the teks[footnote]Armed small escort technical[/footnote], wags[footnote]Car or truck with no fixed weapons[/footnote], and the occasional skout[footnote]Motorcycle[/footnote].

Several seasons past, the convoy stopped to overnight at what was supposed to be a safe spot between villies; while the convoy readied to hunker up for the night, Izzy began to explore the area. She?d gotten a fair distance from everything when the cooling air was filled with the sounds of thunder from the defguns[footnote]Defensive Guns[/footnote] of the pigrigs and teks. As she hurried back, she ran into ?Uncle? Metros, another blackfinger from the convoy; terrified, she asked what was happening, but his only response was to pick her up and tell her to run, before dropping her off a low cliff. That was the last thing she remembers of any of her family.

She doesn?t know how long she was out, but the first thing that she does remember after being tossed, is waking up bound and gagged, in the back of some near-feral waster?s [ https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/a6/9e/00/a69e0041f8cfe1eb554aeb45aab5c505.jpg] rig [http://s16.photobucket.com/user/subdermal/media/vehicles/HAR-V/P1030166.jpg.html] and being used to relive the waster?s ?needs?. Unable to fight back, and unable to mourn, she existed it that state for at least a season, only being let out to relive herself, and only ungagged to be fed; retreating into herself, she shut out the world, just waiting for a death that never came. During a stop she was crouched beside a burned out pigrig, seeing to her bodily functions, when a sense of familiarity managed to get through to what was left of her mind.

Slowly rising from a fog, she looked about her and realized it was the tanka[footnote]Tanker[/footnote] pigrig of her convoy. All at once the memories and emotions she?d buried came bubbling to the surface, the searing pain of her loss and violation congealed into a visceral rage. Grasping a length of jagged metal from the blasted and burnt tanka, she followed the lead that tied her to the waster; finding him with his head buried in one of the rigs cargo hatches, she let out a screech of pure anger, and attacked, driving the piece of metal into his flesh. By the time her arms were too tired to raise her weapon to stab him yet again, the waster?s body was long cold.

Over the next few days, another ?fog? descended on her, her broken mind and shattered spirit driving her into a feral madness where she ranted and raved, and lashed out at the corpse of her captor. Eventually she came back to the world, and after cutting her bonds, set about scavving anything of use; while the convoy?s rigs, wags, and skouts were gone, both pigrigs and teks remained, though burned from the explosion of the tanka, and while she was loath to go back inside, the waster?s rig was well equipped. Bit by bit she began to pull stuff together, tools, clothes, and weapons from a couple of hidden compartments that had survived the fire on one of the pigrigs, as well as tradable salvage and nosh[footnote]Food[/footnote] from the rig. Her next problem was how to get to a ville, because there was no way she could stomach driving that rig for long enough to get anywhere.

After a day or so of milling about, her trouble was solved by the arrival of another waster. As soon as she heard the engine, she scrambled for cover in one of the burnt out teks; eventually a wag [ http://www.damngeeky.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/05/Apocalyptic-Fury-Road-Vehicle-DIY_3.jpg] rattled into view, creeping to a stop beside the rig. From her hiding spot she watched as the newcomer cautiously exited his wags, and began to poke about. When he spotted the body of the man she?d killed, he laughed and said something in a language she didn?t understand; after that he began to go through the rig, and the piles of salvage Izzy had gathered, loading everything he liked the look of into his wag. While he was distracted under the hood of the rig, stripping the engine of good bits, she crept from her hiding spot, her machete at the ready. Once she was within striking distance of this waster, her fury and madness reasserted itself, and she attacked; but while her first kill was driven by pure rage, this attack was more calculated. The unlucky waster did not die cleanly or quickly.

Eventually she grew bored of her new ?toy? and set about finishing the job of loading the wag; once that was done, she slipped into the driver?s seat and set off in the direction of the nearest ville she knew of. Since that day, Izzy has lived on the move, trading salvage and skill for supplies, though any men of the villes she frequents know to keep away from the crazy little waster, lest she try and bleed them.

 

[Tortilla the Hun]

*snip*

I like it. Love the detail that went into the gear, very descriptive. One itty bitty quibble, I noted that you had described explosives bolts for his crossbow but in the gear description it appeared to have been a simple fire bolt. Apart from that (admittedly trivial) matter, all is well. Good work! It'll be entertaining to see a relatively clean man getting by in a rather dirty world.

*snip*

A little rough around the edges to put it lightly. (The character, not the sheet itself.) It will certainly be interesting to see how she gets along with the others, if at all. I appreciate the new vocabulary, which is definitely something I like to see in this setting. I also appreciate the supplemental pictures. Very fitting gear. I like what I see.

 

[DarkRawen]

*snip*

I like it. Love the detail that went into the gear, very descriptive. One itty bitty quibble, I noted that you had described explosives bolts for his crossbow but in the gear description it appeared to have been a simple fire bolt. Apart from that (admittedly trivial) matter, all is well. Good work! It'll be entertaining to see a relatively clean man getting by in a rather dirty world.

Ah, yeah, that's because I had a change of heart and changed the bolts into fire bolts. Forgot to fix it in the description

And yeah, he's a bit of a neat freak (compared to the setting, obviously), it's supposed to make things difficult for him. He's fine with the sand, though, sand-filled horizons look a lot more clean than some settlement built out of scraps, and it's the environment he's the most familiar with.

 

[Terratina.]

I'd like to apply but I'm still waiting for the internet to be sorted out at my student digs. xD

 

[Tortilla the Hun]

I'd like to apply but I'm still waiting for the internet to be sorted out at my student digs. xD

No worries, there's still time.

In the meantime, feel free to ask any questions.

 

[Superlative]

Sounds interesting, I'll give it a shot.

Spoiler: Tension

Name: Tension
Age: 30
Gender: Male

Personality: Tension is quiet and thoughtful. Hes polite to others but there is a long gap between warm acquaintance and friend.

Appearance: Tension wears a beat up old leather trench coat over a simple shirt and tan pants. lots of pockets, filled with things. just as he likes it. he has a wide brimmed leather hat to keep the sun out of his eyes and goggles to keep the metal shavings and other things away. caries a magnifying lense to put on goggles, best invention yet, does wonders for efficiency.

Average height and build. Stronger than most Smiths, have to be, springs need tension, Tension makes much tension.

Notable Skills: Tension is a Smith who specializes in spring research. not glamourous. obviously he's mechanically inclined.

Weapons: A bladed spring used like a whip or lasso. Spring loaded junk gun, shoots whatever's around really hard.

Gear/Miscellany: Spring loaded boots to absorb shock (prototype), basic tool kit (hammer, wrench, saw) Rations, metal canteen, gun fixing tools.

Bio:Tension is a Smith. born a Smith. Most likely die a Smith, hopefully at old age, preferribly after vigorous intercorse with anohter Smith. Had a different name at birth but was given the nickname Tension. I like that name better. Parents angry at first but later came to accept choice. before they died. wastes not good for people, no where good, just better or instadeath.

Mechanically gifted, I work with springs for the Smiths. Springs for cars, springs for guns, springs for all kinds of machines. Managed to put off going into wasteland but was sent to scavenge/recon/make friends. how does one make friends with nut jobs and cucubirds?

Other Notes: Has an Asura-like way of speaking...as demonstrated above.

 

[Tortilla the Hun]

*snip*

An interesting chracter idea, but there's a few things I feel should be addressed. While you included his attire, his physical appearance should be more than just "average height and build" and "strong". I think that can be said for the skills, weapons, and bio as well.

I think overall, I'd like to see a sheet with more meat and detail. And though I don't take issue with the way he speaks, I would appreciate it if the writing was a little more engaging. The brief-cut sentences can work in dialogue to make an amusing manner of speaking, but it doesn't translate well into non-dialogue.

 

[Texas Joker 52]

@Neuromancer and I decided to collaborate and make a duo to submit! Here's mine:

Spoiler: Rasp, the last Buzzard

Name: Rasp (Former name unknown.)

Age: 29

Gender: Male

Personality: Rasp is almost a poster-child for the strong, silent type, rarely ever speaking to anyone who isn't Eddie, and even then only with short, terse sentences. While he doesn't actively avoid other people, he is far from sociable, and keeps any interactions to a minimum. When he does interact however, it shows that despite being the quiet sort, he has a rather dark sense of humor and quite a snarky attitude, but only to a point. When he feels that someone is being a complete idiot, he doesn't bother trying to hide any scorn or contempt for the moron in question.

Another side effect of his reluctance to be around others is that some take that to be a sign that he is the closest thing to a pacifist that one can get while surviving the wastelands, and that couldn't be farther from the truth. Rasp is a particularly vicious and relentless fighter when provoked, even going so far as to using his teeth like the near-feral tribal he is.

When left alone to his own devices, however, Rasp could be considered easygoing and artistic. If there is nothing to do, he is more than happy to lay about and do nothing, or else take his collection of vulture skulls and idly decorate them, taking a certain amount of pride and care in the vibrant designs. His vulture skulls are deeply treasured, though only partly because of the work he puts into them: Buzzards worship vultures as carrion birds, believing that after eating the dead, they carry their spirit into the next world. Thus, having vulture skulls are a way to guarantee one's entrance into the afterlife, the spirit of the vulture carrying the soul of the Buzzard when they die.

Appearance: Standing at almost 6 feet, Rasp is wiry young man that could almost be mistaken for a young woman due to his somewhat feminine features. While a clearly half-starved, it's clear from his figure however that he's been built for endurance with lean, toned muscles, and a surprisingly slender waist. His skin, though rarely seen, is lightly tanned.

His face is slightly rounded, with a pointed chin, a sharp, straight nose, and high, pronounced cheekbones beneath a pair of clear blue eyes and slim, almost dainty eyebrows. His mouth, however, has thin lips and hides some truly jagged teeth, often bared into either a vicious grin or a contemptuous grimace. His scalp is carefully shaven, but it's clear that it would be a deep brunette color if ever grown out, while his face is completely smooth. The most distinguishing feature Rasp has, however, is a thick, rough scar around almost the entirety of his slender neck.

Rasp's clothes, or what consist of them, are made up of a pair of heavy work boots, and a pair of very heavy black cargo pants with several white stripes stained into the left leg. At the right side of his waist hang a trio of painted vulture skulls, while the sheaths of his kukri's are tucked into one boot, hang at his left side, and at the small of his back respectively.

From the waist up, however, he completely covers his body in a tribal body paint characteristic of the Buzzards that he makes himself, painting himself tan with a pair red stripes around his upper left arm and one over his eyes and nose.

Notable Skills: Rasp, having been a tribal raider his entire life, is as good as any when it comes to living off of the post-apocalyptic wastelands, which means that he's reasonably competent at hunting and foraging for food, though as a cook the best he can manage is food that is "edible".

As a fighter, his specialty lies in close-quarters: His aim is spotty with rifles, though with a shotgun he can be reasonably accurate with the spread, but with a knife in his hands he is agile and lightning fast, and capable of bleeding out opponents with a few dozen long-but-shallow cuts, or if possible, ending a fight with a single well-placed stab. However, that highly depends on getting close without being burned or shot to death, and is absolutely worthless in car-fights.

He is also a surprisingly good driver, if aggressive, as well as a surprisingly good artist, as his work on painting vulture skulls clearly shows. As a mechanic and gunsmith, however, he's only barely competent, though hand-loading ammo comes more easily to him, thanks to years of practice loading the Buzzards signature coin-shot shells for their shotguns.

Weapons: -One 12 Gauge Pump-Action Shotgun, with stock and barrel sawn-off, loaded with 4 shells, 27 carried in reserve, all hand-loaded coin-shot.

-Three Kukri Knives, all of Buzzard make, honed to a razor's edge.

-One AK47 Rifle, shared with Eddie, with two full 30 round magazines and one magazine with 14 rounds.

Gear/Miscellany: -Two pairs of pants.

-Three Buzzard skulls, ornately painted.

-A duffel bag filled with: Several large jars of body paint, and a small box of a dozen other paints, all hand-made, plus several brushes; A large bag of coins; A set of tools for hand-loading and breaking down ammunition; Whetstone; A crudely-made mechanical firestarter; Cooking utensils; Food rations for several days.

-Two Jerry Cans, one filled with Water, one with Gasoline.

Bio: When it comes to his past, Rasp is unsurprisingly closed-mouthed regarding it, especially everything that took place before he met Eddie. However, what he will tell is mostly about his old raider tribe, the Buzzards: Before they got their name, they had been nomads wandering around the world after it ended, struggling to survive. Near death, they came across a withered oasis, which was steadily dying itself and turning into a muddy spit of land, but it was enough to save some of them.

But only some. The ones that died were covered by vultures within a day, and the carrion birds flocked there from that day forward. The survivors realized that the vultures claimed the dead, and in their case ignored the living. They considered them spirits meant to usher the dead into the next world, and revered them, calling themselves Buzzards in their honor. Over time, they became a small but strong raider tribe, known for their war paint, wicked knives and punishing shotguns, preying on the weak around their territory and picking over the remains like their namesakes.

But after a time, they came across another tribe, one that bred for battle and was passing through their territory to challenge the Diesel Dog Imperium: The Warpups. The two tribes instantly began to clash after the Buzzards attempted to raid their war caravans, and started to battle amongst themselves. By the time the war between the tribes had started, Rasp, then under a different name, had already turned 13. Born to dying parents, raised by the tribe, and already initiated as a full adult: Trained to use their customary weapons and load their signature coin-shot ammunition. Even at a young age, he was fast, if sloppy, with his knives, and a reasonably good shot with his shotgun. However, that wouldn't be enough to make him ready for the intense, off-and-on skirmishes and raids that awaited him for the next six years.

The Warpups were relentless. While they would push on the Buzzards territory, they fought like madmen, hopped up on their combat drugs to make them like wild beasts. Despite the advantage of fighting on their own territory, the Warpups simply wouldn't give up. After a few weeks, a few months since their last attack, they would raid again even more fiercely than before. After six years of ruthless pushes into the heart of their territory, the Warpups were at the throats of the last Buzzards, which consisted of the last of their warriors, their Elder, and the women and children that were left. That battle was when Rasp first met Eddie the Dead, an older, and certainly unusual, Warpup.

They met while Rasp was being hanged by the tribe for his crimes, but whatever crimes those were, only Rasp and Eddie know, and neither will ever tell outsiders. But the attack was enough to free Rasp from the noose, and he collapsed, struggling to remain conscious and breathe as the remnants of his tribe were cut down by maddened raiders. He couldn't be sure of what was happening at the time, but as he pulled himself free and started to take a few coughing breaths, he could see Eddie as he fought against his own war leader, the Top Dog of the Warpups. At the time, he had no clue why, but later on he would learn that it was because Eddie didn't approve of the slaughter of the few women and children that hadn't been killed in earlier assaults.

Regardless, the Top Dog was dead, with Eddie having used the Buzzard Elder's own shotgun to finish him off. He had come off his combat high by the time he turned to see the half-strangled Buzzard boy, and either on a whim or due to a stab of conscience, took him in and ran. But the young Buzzard wasn't quick to trust, and after attacking Eddie several times, he realized that Eddie wasn't going to kill him, or otherwise use him for other, more nefarious purposes. It was after that that Eddie gave him his name: Rasp, after what the hangman's noose left of his voice.

For the first year of their travels together, their budding relationship was strained: Rasp, regardless of what lead him to being strung up by the time they met, was still a Buzzard through and through, and was mourning the loss of his tribe. What was worse, the Warpups had made a point to smash any dead Buzzard's Vulture Skulls, effectively denying their souls entrance to the afterlife, and the very idea of such cruelty made him seethe. But over time, the two would come to trust one another, and eventually Rasp came to see Eddie as almost a surrogate father. Eccentric and occasionally infuriating, but generally well-meaning. Traveling the wastelands in the Top Dog's own assault car, they survived in any way they could, looking after one another for ten years since the tribal war had ended.

Other Notes: -Despite no longer being a part of the now-dead tribe, Rasp still holds onto his Buzzard beliefs: That Vultures are sacred animals that carry the dead to the afterlife by partaking of their dead flesh, and that by wearing a Vulture's skull, one can be guaranteed passage into the next world after death.

I may edit more in later on, but here he is. Let me know what you think!

[EDIT]: Added ammunition count.

 

[Neuromancer]

And here's my part of the collab with [user]Texas Joker 52[/user]. Feedback is appreciated.

Spoiler: Eddie the Dead

Name: Eddie the Dead

Age: 42

Gender: Male

Personality: In direct contrast to his travelling companion, Eddie is easy-going, loud and boisterous. He rarely takes things seriously, and often jokes around even at times it'd be considered inappropiate.

Not one to think things through or plan ahead, Eddie is impulsive and difficult to pin down or made to change his mind.

Though not violent by default, he has no qualms about beating or even killing people, though the amount of violence he'll use is mostly dependent on how much someone tried to screw with him.

Despite his rather self-indulgent nature, Eddie is loyal and mindful to friends, always willing to lend a hand and, as he treats helping people as serious business, it's at those times that he shows his more responsible and thinking side.

Thanks to his background, Eddie has a surprising good head for tactics, and rather good at coming up with plans utilising the strengths of the people he's leading.

Appearance: There are three things that someone will immediately notice when he sees Eddie for the first time.

One, that he's pretty damn tall. Standing at 6'6 feet tall, Eddie towers over most of his peers.

Two, that he's extremely hairy: Ever since he left the Warpups he hasn't cut his hair nor shaved, and it shows. His hair stretches all the way down to his legs, as does his beard, which he has has styled into a braid. Coloured dark brown, tuffs of gray have begun appearing -especially at his beard- which annoys him to no end.

Three: His body is full of a large variety of scars. Slashing, bullet , burns, even a bite scar on his right side. They come in many a shape and size. Most notable would be the X-shaped scar he has between his eyes. and it's the one he likes to tell the story of, even if the story itself is different every time.

Broad and muscular, Eddie has been able to remain pretty fit despite his age.

As for clothing, Eddie wears a black leather cowboy hat, a pair of military boots and heavy duty pants. Though he has a black longcoat, he prefers going topless.

Notable Skills: As someone raised in a nomadic warrior tribe, Eddie's adept at survival. Due to the Warpup's rather Social Darwinistic ways, he learned from a young age how to be self-sufficient and use what he has to the best of his potential. As such, he can forage, hunt and cook, knows first aid, but also knows how to do weapon maintenance, is a competent if unorthodox mechanic, and can craft makeshift weaponry (like his tribe's iconic grenade spears) and tools.

Though he isn't the syphon of destruction he was back in his youth, he can still hold his own more than well enough in a fight, and is an excellent marksman.

Other than that, Eddie has grown to be an exceptionally good guitarist, having good fingerwork even at high speed solos. Reciting his past experiences have turned him into an avid storyteller, though not the most accurate one.

Weapons: -A fireaxe.

-Makeshift machete

-Desert Eagle (Four clips, 36 rounds)

-One AK47 Rifle, shared with Rasp. (Two and a half clips, 74 rounds)

Gear/Miscellany: - A black electric guitar

- A modified V8 Interceptor, painted black. Reinforced with armour, custom pedals, spikes at front and a kill-switch.

- First aid kit

- Some galons of fuel

- a dozen cans of the Warpup battle drug, "Dog Food".

Bio (as Eddie would say it): The Warpups were never a peaceful tribe.

Through Imperial territory they rode, raiding, pillaging, fighting and killing. Theirs was a warrior's way; to live is to fight, and to fight you must be strong.

And strong they were. Weakness was quickly found and purged. Children, infants even, who were born with deformities were cast aside, left to rot under the scorching sun in the remorseless desert.

But deformities weren't the only thing a pup had to fear. From a young age they were trained, for glorious and bloody war. And those that lagged behind were given the same fate as their deformed brethren. The chain is only as strong as its weakest link.

Young pups were not given names; to have a name is a priviledge gained by deeds in battle. They were given numbers based on the order of birth by their mothers.

Layla's Fourth was born in the second year of the reign of the 27th Top Dog. A ruthless but brilliant warchief, his was a goal quite different from the previous Top Dogs: To cast away their nomadic roots and settle down.

But that was more complicated than it seemed. The land was barren and unfriendly, and should the Imperium hear that the Warpups were to settle, they would surely pour considerable resources towards annihilating them.

And so, the Warpups searched. For land away from the Imperium's mainland, so as to not attract their full retribution, but close enough that future pups could test their mettle as tradition dictated.

And as the search continued, Layla's Fourth grew. His potential was recognised by all, and the Top Dog took him under his wing, as they often would with the most promising pups.

Layla's Fourth was a true beast of war. He had the sixth highest killcount in his first battle, and he only grew better from there. For his brutality and unrelentlessness, he was given the name Hellhound, and was made Chosen, Top Dog's guard dog.

Eventually, the Warpups found the land they spent years searching for. It could barely be called more than a bog, but for a tribe so used to travel in the barren wasteland, it was more than fertile enough. Yet, a problem presented itself: Another tribe claimed the land for itself, and so, as will all land feuds, it came to war.

For the six years, the Warpups assaulted the Buzzards, and for six years they were pushed back. And every time the Pups were pushed back, they left to lick their wounds, pillaging other, weaker tribes, until their strength was renewed and they attacked again, pushing the Buzzards further each time. It was only a matter of time.

In the final battle, the Hellhound was in the front lines, and, jacked up on Dog Food, cut his way through to the Buzzard chief. They clashed, Hellhound with axe and sword and Chief with shotgun and kukri, and for the first time, Hellhound found himself pushed back.

But he got lucky. The shot that was to take his head only hit him on the shoulder, and Hellhound seized the window of opportunity and cut the head off the Buzzard Chief.

As Hellhound caught his breath, Dog Food's effects run off, Top Dog appeared beside him and, holding the head of the Buzzard chief high, in a commanding shout degreed the complete annihilation of the tribe.

That was not the Warpup way. The weaker tribes were subjugated and absorbed, those strong enough to survive becoming part of the pups and strengthening them. Top Dog commanded the death of all, women and children included, and Hellhound, disgusted by this display of gratuitous savagery, assaulted his chieftain.

Steel met steel, but Hellhound, exhausted, bloodied, and suffering from withdrawal, was ultimately beaten. As Top Dog raised his sword to finish off the downed Hellhound, Hellhound grabbed the Buzzard Chief's shotgun, and blasted Top Dog's brains off.

Yet, it availed to nothing. The Warpups continued their slaughter, and Hellhound was sure to be killed, for he was a traitor. As he made his escape, he found a young Buzzard boy and, wishing to spare him from the fate of his tribe, took him with him, escaping using Top Dog's own V8.

---

And so, Hellhound cast aside his name and origin, and took on a new name: Eddie. For the past ten years he has wandered with Rasp, surviving in whatever way they can. But while Rasp is content to continue living the way they are, Eddie secretly seeks to find a place for the young man to live peacefully, safe from the chaos and bloodshed.

Other Notes: Dog Food is a drug devised by older Warpup generations, inhaled by a breather mask etched on top of the can. It causes its user to be overcome by a bloodthirsty frenzy, while also enhancing their combat abilities.

When jacked up, Eddie disregards all injuries and fatigue, and feels neither doubt nor mercy. He views everyone he sees in this state as either 'dead' or 'soon to be dead'. Eddie's violence is explosive, directionless and horrifying, as destructive to himself and his friends as to his enemies.

Due to the mental strain the drug cases, it was not not rare to see Warpups "break" after using it. Though the effects varried from pup to pup, they were universally known as "the Rabid", and it fell to their Warpup brothers to put them out of their misery.

Due to the above reasons, Eddie is extremely reluctant to use the drug, only keeping it should the need be so dire that he would have to resort to using it.

Edit: Added ammunition count.

 

[Tortilla the Hun]

*snip*

Great work, I like what I see. Interesting take on death and the afterlife, definitely adds a nice bit a lore to the world. One thing I would like to see is a firm number on ammunition. That is something I intend to keep track of to really reinforce the scarcity of it. Beyond that, I'd say it's good to go.

*snip*

Again, I like what I see here. A couple of things, as stated above, a firm count on ammunition would be appreciated. Now, this is a bit of a bigger concern, but I hope you're not too attached to that Interceptor. With the way I planned for this RP to begin the characters would have been relieved of their vehicles, so I'm afraid it will have to remain as only a part of their history. That aside, it's certainly up to snuff.

 

[RadioactiveRodent]

He built cars all of his life, and now he found out just how fun they were to drive. The only trouble was his father had to die in order to make that happen.

Spoiler: Character Sheet

Name: Monkey, from the nickname "Grease Monkey".
Age: 17
Gender: Male

Personality: Monkey likes to stay out of the way of big, scary people and do what he likes best - repair broken things. Monkey knows that he would get stuffed into a stew the first sign of weakness, which is why he tries desperately to keep a stern face, even if the mask slips off from time to time. Underneath Monkey is an insecure boy, and would have been killed a long time ago if it weren't for his mechanical skills. He's a kind and gentle spirit, which puts him at odds with...pretty much everyone, which is why he tends to keep those aspects of his personality under wraps. He's more focused and confident when dealing with inanimate objects he can bang together and fix, but becomes oblivious to the outside world. He often falls apart under pressure, unless he's immersed in his work. Monkey needs some growing up to do, and hopefully not dying in the process.

Appearance: Monkey is a short, thin and lean young man, whose only significant body features are his hands, wrapped up in stained and smelly cloth. His arms are as thick as his thighs, which is a consequence of lifting heavy stuff his entire life. He's olive-skinned, has brown eyes, hastily cut short brown hair, a smashed-up nose and a single bushy eyebrow.

Monkey wears a black stained cotton tunic, long denim trousers, sturdy leather boots and wraps a piece of dirty cloth around his head to block out the sun.

Notable Skills: Monkey is a great mechanic. He's also a great electrician, for the most part, if you count what little he knows as of any value. He can jury-ring cars, mess around with engines and save the irreparable in the middle of a dust storm while surrounded by howling cannibals.

An extension of his mechanical skills, Monkey learned how to take care of firearms. Moreover, he can craft a mean pea-shooter out of scrap, and if given the proper materials, could cause some serious trouble. However, this doesn't mean he can shoot straight - Monkey still struggles with hitting his marks, and would usually land a shot when holding a shotgun a foot away from his target.

Weapons: A big scrap-metal hunk of junk in the shape of a circle, with reinforced edges and a leather strap, a somewhat laughable excuse for a shield which works wonderfully well against smacking away swings of clubs and big knives.

An abnormally large red monkey-wrench. It's a miracle the paint still stays on even after all that usage - or maybe it's not paint?

His trusty wagon-gun, a double-barrel 12-gauge shotgun - the best weapon for when a cannibal tries to eat your face and gets close enough you can't possibly miss! (19 rounds, and 2 in the barrel).

A pistol whipped by from nothing and spare parts, shooting 9mm bullets - although, given the proper time to prepare, could have its chamber replaced to fire 22LR. It has relatively low kickback, an extended clip (14 pcs for 9mm, 19 for 22LR) and reinforced iron-sights. (Two full clips of 9mm - 28 bullets, one fully clip of 22LR - 19 bullets).

Gear/Miscellany: Repair Box of Old - a big metal box the size of a dog, containing within it a multitude of tools any mechanics would require during an impromptu repair of their vehicle while driving 90 miles an hour at the front of a horde of cannibals (Monkey really doesn't like cannibals).

A load of junk - at the back of his car, Monkey has a lot of junk he can use to fix things, make things, and trade for food, water and gasoline.

Two Jerrycans of Gasoline, and one for water.

A piece of carving which belonged to the killer, hastily abandoned at the car.

The car itself, an armored tortoise with a beast for an engine, strong enough to carry a moving fortress. Based off a land-rover, with so many modifications it looks like more a tortoise than a car.

Bio: Grease Monkey was called like that ever since he could remember, because all he did all of his life, until two months ago, was wallow in oil and gasoline, fix-up cars and make his daddy proud. He was the only son of a well-known mechanic in the Black-lands. He had a life which revolved around his work, his father, stories about the open wasteland by his invalid uncle and floating around girls but never really talking to any. He was a shy and lonely boy, who spent most of his time working and drinking with his uncle.

It all changed one day when his father got into an argument over the payment of his work, for the fifth time that day. However, that time did not end with an agreement and an exchange of liquor, as it always does, because it was a foreigner that commissioned the work, who did not like to pay for what he got. The outlaw stabbed his father and ran off with the car - triggering a manhunt by the tribe, which swept up Monkey in the process. They finally found the car abandoned in the wastes, with the body of a different man sprawled nearby. It seemed like the thief changed his car and left another to die instead of him, hoping it would fool the party. Everyone encouraged Monkey to seek revenge for his father, while the distraught and grieving son didn't react when they put him on the car his father built, gave him supplies and their blessings and were off to their homes.

"Avenge your father", they told him, and Monkey set off to do just that. A week later, when he was certainly lost and less worried about his father's vengeance than his own well-being, Monkey realized he didn't know the way back. He spent the next two months travelling, actually enjoying the wind in his hair and the cars he had helped his father build for years.

[/quote]

 

[Tortilla the Hun]

*snip*

Everything looks good here, can't say I've got any complaints. Though I will go ahead and let you know that you shouldn't become too attached to Monkey's 'turtle' as it won't be around for long once we get things going. It'll have to remain in memory. His rear-view mirror, if you will. Bad car jokes aside, I'll also say that I really like the cobbled-together pistol with interchangeable barrels. Good work!

 

[booksv2]

Spoiler: Daka

Name: Daka Dakara
Age: 26
Gender: Male
Personality: Quiet, Daka rarely talks about anything other than the weapons he has made or those others are using. Because of some things in the past he is distrustful and prone to long times of silence as well as times of high violence and sometimes compassion depending on the target.
Appearance:
Standing at 9 hands[1] Daka has a hairless head and no eyebrows, rather most of his skull being covered with tribal scars that cover it from the base of his neck up and around leaving just his eyes and two spots over his temples clear of them. Figures holding weapons mixed into the scars also stand out on his head in scar tissue. Skin a mix of white and black it sits in swirls and random mixes because of his time both underground causing the white and the constant soot and ash from the forges he worked on and in making a permanent black that will never wash or rub off. His arms up to halfway up his upper arms on both sides and scattered across his chest burn marks from sparks cover it, worse on his forearms and lighter farther away they are from those points.

When Daka wears clothes to go and travel outside he wears leather pants tied with chain with a loop on the left holding his slammer, the boots thick with extra leather and metal plating on the toes and sides. On his upper half only a leather harness with twin cuttas[2] sitting just under his arms facing out so he can grab them. His chest is covered in old knife scars and in the black and white mix of his skin the thin scars seem to sometimes shift as he moves.

His eyes are a wide pale blue that get more pale in the sun or bright light, all of which will make him squint not being used to the harshness of light other from sources than the forge.

Notable Skills:
-Master smith; he can work metal into almost any shape he wants with his hammer as long as he has a forge and anvil.
-Blade master; Out of all weapons he has made and likes blades, knives as a focus, are his passion and he loves to keep all blades he can get his hands on sharp and as clean as he can get them. Even ones he doesn't own he will take them from others as quietly as he can and after servicing them return them.

Weapons:
Two cuttas with slammer grabbers and a boom bottom.[Two knives with brass knuckle style hilts which hold a single .38 round in the bottom of each of them which will go off of slammed into someone hard enough. The knives have 12 inch blades with a soft curve and an edge only on the outside. The brass knuckle hilts have two holes each big enough for two fingers and the outside is rough and gear like shape.]
Double slammer. [Blacksmith hammer weighing 4 pounds with a 3 foot handle also made of metal.]
Gear/Miscellany:
Daka travels light, only wearing what he has on him when outside. Other than his covers and boots he has his cuttas and slammer. Anything else would be something he picks up on the way or is given.
Bio:
Daka Dakara was born underground into a tribe that was a branch from the Smiths. Born to a breeder and one of the master smiths who had worked on dozens of plans. Starting when he was only a leg tall he worked feeding the forges and helping them breath, his whole life till he was double leg high he spent not seeing the giant forge in the above or what breath without soot and ash and smoke tasted like. After he was enough hands to work a slammer he was forced into working the other side of the forge making and starting the weapons and other things that came from them. With each new thing he could start or finish he was given new markings on his head and face till he had a full set showing he could start or finish many things, while leaving the temples open for plans he could do himself.

Daka was a full 9 hands when he was finally able to make a full plan by himself, starting and ending a cutta without help letting him move away from the back forges and with the others who had made their own plans. Helping a 10 plan smith who was working on the cuttas he has now Daka was enthralled by how they looked and worked, knowing he needed them. When the 10 plan smith was almost done and about to use his slammer to put the smith tag on the blades Daka used his own slammer and killed him. Shaking with what had happened and taking the cuttas he ran out of the forges and was chased by those who had seen what he had done. Running and running he finally got out of the underground and into where he could see the Great forge above. Blinded and screaming as he held his eyes Daka kept stumbling as those behind stopped at the mouth and watches him struggle through the heat and light.

After getting away from his tribe and into the upper world Daka Dakara stumbles and killed his way across the brightness under the Great forge barely surviving almost starving several times as well as his thirst almost killing him.

Other Notes:
[1]Hand=8 inches
[2]Cutta=Blades
Other than the two original .38's in the blades he has three more in a small pouch stuffed inside his left boot.

well here you go, tell me what you think. EDIT one.

 

[Tortilla the Hun]

*snip*

Something minor, but there seems to be a couple of syntax errors showing up as foreign characters in the sheet. There's also a space where it looks as though you meant to add on to his skills but decided against it.

Aside from those little things, there's something that I feel I should address. The Smiths, being one of the more intelligent, wouldn't refer to the sun as anything but. However, it would be more understandable if it was some sort of separatist settlement or even another, more isolated tribe entirely. Something that would breed that sort of fanaticism.

On a separate note, were the bullets in his cuttas the only ones he possesses? It's perfectly fine if it is, but I'd a firm count if they are not.

Overall I like the character, his cuttas especially, so he'll be good to go after some ironing out.

 

[Tortilla the Hun]

Cor

Izzy

Rasp

Eddie

Monkey

Daka

You've all been accepted (as you certainly know by now) and the RP thread is now live!