A case study on using the biography tool - memoirs of a blue robe

Started by seidhr, December 17, 2015, 06:09:42 PM

Initial Background

It was late afternoon on Detal, the 77th day of the Ascending Sun
In the Year of Desert's Vengeance, year 3 of the 22nd Age

     Takharion has very little regard for his family.  As the youngest in
a set of four, he was often overlooked in favor of his older, more raucous
siblings.  He instead prefers to forget his young life, which included a lot
of torment at the hands of his older siblings, and parents and tutors that
didn't care enough to look out for him.  For reasons still unknown to him,
Takharion was selected for the templarate at the age of eleven.  Throughout
his training, he feels as though he has similarly been overlooked by his
superiors, as he was initially assigned to the library and saw his sponsor
an extremely limited number of times.  He has always believed that he has a
great amount of potential, and has been bothered that his superiors are
typically been blind to his better qualities.  Although Takharion was
initially interested in the Ministry of the City and was disappointed that
his sponsor was from the Ministry of War, Takharion eventually realized that
it is through the War Ministry that most of the glory of Allanak is
attained.  Takharion's initial assignment irked him in how seriously he
was overlooked, as usual.  Takharion was nothing more than a glorified
paper- pusher, obtaining appropriations for equipment, acting as the
go-between among people that knew he was little more than a go-between.
People sneered at him.  He barely even had interesting commoners to order
around.  But Takharion swallowed his pride because he could not afford to
alienate any of the sneerers.  It took only a few of careful maneuvering on
his part before he found himself in a role he was interested in, a role with
some discretion, a role that could get him places.

Death of a Senior Lady via Spider

It was before dawn on Terrin, the 156th day of the Ascending Sun
In the Year of Desert's Vengeance, year 3 of the 22nd Age

      The Ratsucker spider preceding my tenure by at least six or seven
years, but has already marred it in a way that deeply fucking disturbs me.
This monster is purported to be a desert spider that got loose in the city,
though I've got my doubts about that.  It's been eating our citizens,
usually targeting the weak and those as stupid as to travel at night.  But
for the panic this being likely to cause, I don't particularly see the
problem of it.  Picking off the weak and stupid is ultimately an aid to the
City, who no longer has to support them.

     However, lately the cuntlicker has started to get a taste for the blood
of nobility.  For some reason, a Senior Borsail Lady decided to spend the
night on the fucking balcony the creature's been rumored to frequent.  Maybe
her spies weren't operating to full capacity, or maybe she was just
suicidal--I'll never known.  In either case, she became spiderfood in the
most macabrely public fashion--hung by her entrails from the Red's Retreat

     And so I'm fucking irritated.  The policy of silence, which made sense
to a point previously, now being pretty fucking stupid once dozens of
commoners have seen this happening.  Bad news spreading faster than sand
fleas in a 'rinthi whorehouse, I determined to lift the policy of silence
and announce a future mission to eradicate the pests.  Unfortunately, some
of my colleagues decided to raise the bounty on the creature's brood of
'young' spiders in response, leading to counterattacks from the threatened
beasts.  So the Great Lord has sent down the message that they're not to be
bothered until the action, which is perfectly fine by me.  People shouldn't be
stirring the fucking nest before the attack anyway, it might persuade the
creatures to leave their presently discovered location in favor of a different.

     Senior Lady Visandria did mention something about the "first of the
children," some bizarre reference that Lady Stellvia Borsail suggested may
have to do with her position as the First Breeder of House Borsail.  A
thought has occurred to me--perhaps she went out on the balcony, knowing the
creature was rumored to hunt there, with the hopes of studying it?--in any
case, I've undertaken what will probably be a pointless fucking search for
the meaning of this term in the Library, during those times I have the
inclination toward quiet solitude.

Colleagues and War Planning

It was before dawn on Waleuk, the 204th day of the Ascending Sun
In the Year of Desert's Vengeance, year 3 of the 22nd Age

     At least in my assignment, I get along with my colleagues, though their
collective and individual abilities in tactics and strategy might give me
fucking pause.  Lady Lyvrenxice Oash was very anxious to be assured that I
won't engage in fuckery, stating that she's seen several juniors who have
done so come and go.  She also apologized.  My general impression is that
she thinks highly of herself, but has lost some of the necessary confidence
in her own leadership abilities, as she seems to care overly much what her
subordinates think.  The frequent references to her experience act contrary
to her probable fucking intent, as though the ideas themselves would have
less merit if they didn't have the weight of years behind them.  As I don't
intend her any fuckery at this time, the city's pressing business with its
enemy being in the forefront of my mind, I expect we'll get along.  For now.

     The ideas Lady Lyvren has proposed in terms of strategy and tactics are
flashy, unusual, overly complicated, and ill-thought-out.  It's not only my
engineer's blood that tells me that the more simplistic a plan, the less
likely it is to engage in its own fuckery, but common fucking sense that the
more complicated a system or action, the more areas the system or action may
fail, and the more likely things are to go wrong at the exact moment you'd
least like.  This business with smearing fat on the alley walls, for
instance.  If it works, very good.  If not, it'll be a large waste of time
and resources.  It certainly wasn't something to hold up the general fucking
planning discussing the logistics of, when we hadn't figured out how we were
going to engage the cocksuckers.  However, she's posited an astute
observation about the spiders and House Borsail that I might not have
arrived at on my own, so I'd not mistake her for an idiot.

     Lord Kitrix Borsail doesn't impress me.  Any thoughts he had, he wasn't
forthcoming with.  As though the ideas had been sucked from his head by Lady
Lvyrenxice's enthusiasm for complicated maneuver, I can't remember that he
offered an original idea at all.  He seemed more concerned about making a
speech, proposing moving the gathered troops from the meeting location at
the Red's Retreat to the Arena so that they might hear him drone on with
better acoustics.  The histories all indicate that the best pre-battle
speeches are on point, delivered immediately before the march, rousing, and
short.  And fuck acoustics.

     In short, I'm unimpressed, and I don't see any threat from the pair of
them, or any harm that would result from working with them to bring glory to
His city.  Or at least not working against them.  It is in this sort of
setting that my quality will be most evident.

Cocksucker, Part I

It was dawn on Dzeda, the 119th day of the Ascending Sun
In the Year of Ruk's Slumber, year 4 of the 22nd Age

     We'll set aside our 'little rivalry' and and work on a matter of
'similar interest' will we?  Apparently that cocksucker Kitrix entirely
forgot that we had a no-rivalry fucking agreement.  His words clearly
indicate that he's stopped thinking of our arrangement in such terms, if he
ever meant it more than a mollifying gesture.  Here I've been, granting his
requests to have broad jurisdiction over certain matters, and he's been
nursing a fucking rivalry over those areas that are clearly mine.

     That two-timing cunt-breathed intellectual midget.  Aspire to steal my
glory rather than taking your agreed upon allotment, will you, Borsail?  Not
that I should have expected better from a Borsail making any arrangement.
Stated one minute and broken the next.  The scions of that House would not
be better than gypsies if it were not for His tolerance.

     So he wants a rivalry does he?   I'll rivalry him to such pain that
he'd beg for a half-giant using a boulder as a dildo to distract him from
it.  And when I've been placed above him and assigned him to a tiny rock in
the middle of the Silt Sea, only I'll know it as revenge for betraying my
plans to increase the glory of His Mighty City.


Musings on Service

It was early afternoon on Nekrete, the 16th day of the Descending Sun
In the Year of Whira's Defiance, year 5 of the 22nd Age

     I don't serve Tektolnes for His gratitude: I serve him for the glory of

     The first time I admitted this to myself, it sounded like a subtle
heresy.  If you don't serve Tektolnes to please Him, what do you serve Him
for?  But I've come to realize that it is indeed the only logical way to
approach a problem.

     The problem is that His will is not fathomable.  Even if I were to do
something that, to me, seems like it would be something that would please
Him, who am I to predict what would or wouldn't please Him?  Who am I to
think that I can begin to understand the workings of so mighty and complex a
mind as His?  A templar that thinks to deeply on this problem might move to
paralysis, a dreadful state of paralysis where every conflux of decisions is
analyzed from so many angles that no decision is right.  Which decision
would most please Him?  No mere mortal can answer such a question.  It isn't
a question that has an answer.

      But the glory of Allanak.  That is something that can be touched,
tasted, smelled.  The heartbeat of a healthy City can be felt throbbing
around a servant while standing at the intersection of Caravan and Commoners
Roads, while walking the precisely laid-out streets, while standing with a
cocked ear in a tavern.  The glory of Allanak is something that can be
reasonably attained.  Each incremental step in the direction toward renewed
glory is measurable.  And who is He, if not the soul of Allanak?
Beautifying the City is as beautifying His flesh.  And if I'm mistaken, if I
wound the glory of Allanak, that can be salved.  It is the thought of His
disappointment that simply cannot be borne.

     So when I come upon a difficult decision, such as whether to murder a
recruit who may be a mindbender for the greater good, I don't ask myself if
it is an action that would please Him.  I ask Himself if it is an action
that is more probably than not necessary for the glory of Allanak.

Allanak Must Suffer

It was early afternoon on Barani, the 120th day of the Low Sun
In the Year of Whira's Defiance, year 5 of the 22nd Age

     I've come to believe that Allanak must suffer so that Allanak might
survive.  It is one of the most counterintuitive of His contradictions, but
I believe I've come to understand it through my own suffering.

     In my suffering, I've grown stronger.  Physically, mentally, and in
service.  Without challenges, particularly the deadliest of challenges, the
races are not tested and do not become better.  It is well known that
adversity breads innovation and that challenges bring out a person's best.
Those who can't respond to challenges and the unknown are doomed to be
surpassed by those who respond well to the conditions.  It only makes sense
that the Mighty Dragon would want us challenged.

     My childhood is attests that.  Eleven long years of suffering and
striving until seemingly without prompting, my aunt commanded me to me to
submit myself to Great Lord Eligeth Rennik for testing.  Without the
adversity, even though I'm exceptionally intelligent and was a precocious child.

     But challenges also bring suffering.  My childhood being a case in
point as well, though I won't make myself maudlin by recounting the many
instances of my parents, my siblings, my tutors, and even my servants
causing me to suffer.

     I believe this is why the Almighty Dragon--who is so powerful that he
could handle these challenges with the lift of a finger--delegates these
tasks to His servants.  He wants us strong.  He wants us to strive.  He
wants us to survive, so that we may better serve Him.  And so Allanak is
faced with challenges that make the City suffer, face adversity, and strive,
and grow stronger, and thrive, and survive.


Drinking Problem

It was high sun on Barani, the 43rd day of the Ascending Sun
In the Year of Whira's Defiance, year 5 of the 22nd Age

     There's a few fucking problems I've got.  Flaws in the quality of my
service to Him that are a constant struggle.  The first one's anger.  I've
been an angry cocksucker since I was old enough to bite my wet nurse's tit
when the food wouldn't come right when I wanted it.  It's a weakness.  I
recognize it's a weakness.  If you look at the Great Lords, the Great
Ladies, they don't fly into a fucking rage over anything.  They're all cold,
and their anger is cold so that they can use it.  It doesn't use them.

     That one's kept in check by a series of rituals.  Prayer's a good one,
meditating on the Highlord always keeps the rage down.  Long fast walks.
Not going anywhere, not doing anything, just looking at the order of the
City.  Even when there's chaos, it's ultimately in order.  Order's very
fucking soothing.  And tea.  The whole tea ritual's also full of order and
very fucking soothing.

     But sometimes tea's not enough.  Sometimes, when I'm in one of these
moods like that pissant Alaghom and my frustrations with Aria have put me
in, there's only one liquid that'll do.  It burns going down.  When my
shoulders are tense enough that I can imagine the tendons snapping, it'll
relax them.  When I've held my back so stiff for so long that it feels like
someone's jammed a hot obsidian fucking blade up my ass to my neck, it'll
quench those fires.  When I'm inarticulate with fucking rage, it'll bring
the words back.

     And even when I'm not pissed to the point that I'm smoking, it's a
fucking temptation.  It's easy to get lost in the bottom of a cask.  Let
those frustrations and worries and fears melt off.  Say whatever you want to
say without the worries of who'll hear it or how it'll be taken when you say
it.  Put down those worries and cares about the City and His people and just
live in the fucking moment.  Enjoy the way it feels when you move your arms
or your body to the point you just want to rock from side to side because it
just feels so fucking good.  Lie on the fucking floor if you want because
that feels like the thing to do.  Put a little wonder and joy in living.

     So, yes, there are a few problems that I struggle with.  I won't let
them interfere with my duties.  I don't stagger to service drunk, or pick up
a bottle in times of serious fucking crisis.  I won't let it get that bad.

     I pray to the Highlord that I won't let it get that bad.

Unintended Consequences of an Assignment

It was early afternoon on Barani, the 43rd day of the Descending Sun
In the Year of Dragon's Reverence, year 6 of the 22nd Age

     Under normal circumstances I will be found to be eager, if not happy,
to accept any assignment a Red deems worthy of my attention.  An assignment
even from Reds other than my own, such as Great Lady Maewon Borsail,
indicate that my talents are being appreciated by my superiors.  But one of
the present ones gave me fucking pause initially, and for good reason.

     I was tasked with offering Corse the Gemmed an official position as the
gemmed Liaison, working with the Arm of Mighty Tektolnes to instruct new
mages in service and respect.  The purpose of the assignment being to build
up a pool of useful mages.  I would seem, on the surface, singularly
unsuited for this assignment.  I barely know anything about fucking magick,
having had neither the interest nor ambition to study it.

     I hate fucking mages.

     I hate fucking magick.

     So though I recognize that those tainted elementalist rotting in their
fucking Quarter are part of the Highlord's greater plan, and illustrative of
his infinite capacity for mercy toward those who may prove useful to His
plans despite their failings, I originally had little enthusiasm for the

     That I initially had pause was for different reasons than now make me
gnash my teeth.  Cocksucking Lord Kitrix illustrated it perfectly during our
last conversation.  Having stripped the corpse of an enemy in the form of a
rogue magicker, Lord Kitrix was discussing to me what items of foul magick
he had destroyed in great detail, when he presented me with an item he
suspected the use of because it was, and I fucking quote, within the areas
of my interests.

     Drov's hairy taint.  I'm not interested in magicks.  I hate
unpredictable, unsustainable, incomprehensible fucking magicks.  I would
hate the elementalists, if they weren't His tools and thus as worthy of
hatred as a sword or a spoon or any other fucking object.  I use them, yes,
because He has placed them there for me to do so.  I treat them like any
slave, minion, or other object or animal, except that in the back of my mind
I'm constantly aware of their dangerous unpredictability and extremely high
capacity for destruction in terms of both self-destruction and otherwise.  I
treat them like dangerous fucking tools, that might be the best way to put it.

     But now, for taking this assignment, it has become apparent to me that
I've attained the reputation of the magicker templar.  Highlord grant me the
necessary discipline to not slap the shit out of the next colleague that
mistakes my interests as lying in magicks.

Wounds to Ego

It was early morning on Waleuk, the 39th day of the Ascending Sun
In the Year of Vivadu's Agitation, year 7 of the 22nd Age

     I have never thought to be wounded like this.  To be capable of
sustaining such a battering inside my chest, in the pit of the stomach.
Oddly enough--not where the heart lies, but above and below, a sucking
feeling, like it might be imagined a lung puncture would feel if untreated by
Blessings or witchery.

     And by what?  The conversation of a woman.  A woman that, despite what
I would consider two years of increasing intimacy, I do not even kank.

     But with this woman I have found the elusive something.  A capability
to relax and simply be Takharion Ahadriss Jal, a young man, with a drink in
my hand and the adoration of a woman nearly my peer in my present position
and who I would have thought of only ten years ago as as unattainable as
touching the moons.  I have found that relaxation to be an unwinding
unparalleled by those previously attained through the use of alcohol or
torture, a level of relaxation I did not realize I previously lacked.  It
brings clarity to my working thoughts and, I believe, increases my
capabilities of service when I am not so engaged.

     Lost.  I have never thought to feel so injured, so empty by the very
nature of the injury.

     It was not even the topic.  Touchy as I am about my sexual prowess or
the Dreadful Lack pertaining to, the noble men and women who might laugh and
scorn me for my difficulties, it was not that.  With others I have exhibited
strictly unsexual friendship interest or a lack of physical attraction, even
an aversion to physical contact, that the Dreadful Lack might not be
discovered and commented upon.  I will stick to commoners and slaves, those
who I can exercise power over without fear of embarrassment, without fear of
judgment.  A simple disagreement in which she felt she was not heard, I felt
I was not heard, an attempt at mutual explanation.  She is such an odd
exhibit of the nobility, this occurs with some frequency.

      But then she said it.  I want you out, she said.  She did not say, I
will not hear your unimportant words, that was implied.  She did not say, I
do not care for your unimportant thoughts, that was also implied.  She
simply kicked me out.  As though Takharion Jal's thoughts, and words, and
very person are unimportant.

      I cannot bear it.  I will not be unimportant, disregarded, nothing.  I
am not nothing.  I am not no one.  To descend to unimportant from so very,
very important and deserving of adoration.  I reel.

Musings Triggered by Sorcerer Problems

It was early morning on Waleuk, the 39th day of the Ascending Sun
In the Year of Vivadu's Agitation, year 7 of the 22nd Age

     Occasionally I think of Alaghom Fale and hope that he's very fucking
happy having sabotaged what I still believe was the most sure fashion in
which the sorcererous problem beyond Mal Krian could have been quickly dealt
with, despite recognizing that some losses would have been associated with
that plan.  Had he not convinced our respective superiors that a "safer,"
more foot-dragging fucking plan was appropriate, the situation would likely
have reached denouement by this point.  But the Reds have spoken, and I will
not act against orders.

     Instead, we play a game of guard-and-burglar.  I kill his tools, he
kills mine--or they die of unrelated occurrences--and no forward progress is
made.  Instead, we have the fucking sorcerer or its damned pet nilazi
(this part is lost).

     This pissed me off.  Plans were made.

      Never to my superiors would I admit that attempting to capture the
fucker most directly might have been a shade of overreach.  The plan was
solid, the execution perhaps wanting.  Corra was sent out to (this part is lost).

The sorcerer is known to have other abominations working with
it.  A nilaz-worshipper.  So why wouldn't it work with a cuntlicking
mindworm?  I suppose it is the nature of some abominations to associate with
even disparate others.  When you're a perverted creature of evil, why not
associate with other perversions of evil?

(This part is also lost) ...
the vile thing touched my mind in an attempt to make threats.  Despite
its canniness in some areas, it seemed to feel that threats would work.
That I should be somehow perturbed by threats on my life, as though I don't
have fucking enemies.  It also acted as though it had something it could
offer me.  It--a vile abomination--acting as though it had something to
offer me--one of the Hands of the Highlord Tektolnes, King and God.  It
would have been absurdly laughable had it not arisen in a moment of serious
fucking irritation.

    Further plans must be made.  This has gone on long enough.

Between an Idiot and a Hostage Crisis

It was late morning on Waleuk, the 39th day of the Ascending Sun
In the Year of Vivadu's Agitation, year 7 of the 22nd Age

     My weeks could stand to get fucking better.  After an irritating week
in which Moraz Brul the gemmed informed me that the gemmed have been losing
their stomach for the battle against the sorcerer, spouting such heresy as
to suggest that it was somehow trespassed upon when they should damned well
be aware that the Highlord trespasses on no thing without right,
irregardless of their lack of knowledge that its servants attacked the City
first, and in which subsequent to such an irritating fucking discussion I
got into a large fucking blow-up with Lady Ariannah Borsail over a simple
conversation with her cousin, I thought it might be safely speculated that my
week subsequent could not prove much more irritating.

    In that, if not in many other things, I found myself wrong.  I look
forward to a time when I do not, upon staggering into my apartments, falling
on my bed reflecting on how it's been the worst day since yesterday.

     My expectations of a better week were immediately and flatly
contradicted by the information that Firalis, on whose fucking behalf I had
spoke if not praise at least tolerance to my superiors, determined to desert
the Arm of the Dragon and done a thing of spectacular fucking stupidity.
The dumb cock.  On waking a morning some successively worse days subsequent
to my verbal brawl with the Lady Irritating Ariannah, the sorcerer
determined to harass my mind with its accusations that I had sent one of my
recruits after it, it hoped I was happy, and so on.  Despite having no
fucking clue what he was going on about, I found myself pleased that at
least some damage had been done to its cause by the deserter.  Though
pleasure was only a small part of my mental makeup at that time, the
remainder being taken up by blinding fucking rage.

     A less intelligent man than myself would be aware at that point of the
damage done to his reputation.  My new assistant Materi found him charred to
a cinder in the fucking street outside of the Gaj, declaring not merely that
he had deserted, but that he had gone to the sorcerer's camp and burned a
tent there.  What a fucking dilemma.  Should I execute him for desertion, or
let him live for having the fucking balls not only to undertake such a
thing, but to return to report and face a death sentence for desertion.  Not
only that conundrum, but that his exploits had been made public was also
part of the equation.  Should I execute someone who might, by means of his
deeds, have briefly become a folk hero?  Should he disappear in quiet
ignominy or should I take advantage of a teachable fucking moment?

     I ultimately determined that I simply couldn't let him live after
making me look such a fool, ruining my plans to assassinate the abomination
in a similar fashion except with the addition of /poison/ utterly.  Utterly
fucking ruined now that its guard was up, and the expendable I was going to
send against it was known to it.  However, I'm no Tuluki to slip someone the
poison with a smiling hand and no one the wiser.  I'm a Lord Templar of the
Blue, the commoners will know to cross me at grave peril.

     And so I decided that Firalis would be served his execution in the
Arena.  Shortly after the execution commenced in all of its bloody and
glorious spectacle, the irritating Lady Ariannah's guard found my mind to
inform me that she had been abducted from the street by (something).  Being in
poor humor with her in general, my initial reaction was to hope that she got
what I felt at the time was coming to her, but then it occurred to me that
having recently been made a fool of by the recruit, it would not do my
reputation well to appear asleep at the switch while a noble of House
Borsail was abducted.

     As though the culprit wasn't fucking obvious.  A dimwitted breed child
would have been able to figure the connection between the attack on the camp
and the retaliation.

     Unfortunately while I was tending to the matter, events continued to
occur in the Arena.  Firalis managed to kill the mul gladiator.  Had I been
paying attention, at that point I /would/ have commuted his sentence to
exile, the Highlord having given a most direct sign of his favor in allowing
him to defeat a professional mul gladiator.  However, the templar at the
gates determined to release something else to finish the job and, myself
being slightly distracted, who was I to argue after the gaj was out of its cage.

     And so I contacted the vile sorcerer.  For three stinking days I
endured its foul touch on my mind while negotiation for the Lady
Irritating's safe return.  And I did arrange it, despite the counterfuckery
of Lord Kitrix, who apparently tried to convince those holding her that he
was a Red Robe who had something to offer them, and thus nearly succeeded in
committing fuckery all over my own negotiations.  He claims she was returned
on his account, some sort of arrangement with the mul.  Of course that's
kankshit.  She was returned to /me/, and it was /I/ who walked her back to
her estate, and I have fully claimed the credit in my own mind and in my

     Regardless.  I find myself facing the possibility of a truce with the
thing.  Color me fucking surprised by the prospect of ultimate resolution.
Despite at several points deciding, in my own mind, to tell it to go fuck
itself, and accord was somehow reached that leaves me if not happy, at least
assured that I have not compromised the City's interests.  If it abides by
its end of the bargain, staying on the ass-end of the Known, no longer
recruiting rogues, and no longer harassing the City with its magicks, I will
be content not to hunt it to that far end of the earth.

     Even such vile things as upstart sorcerers can serve a slight purpose
if, by existing, they remind the citizens of the value of the Highlord's
protection and the City's walls--as long as they do not challenge His
supremacy.  I determined that it would not compromise my ideals for such an
offer to be made and exchanged.  I will let the Reds decide it.  It is only
fitting that they who held me back from a total fucking war determine
whether this truce serves them.

     And so Lady Irritating was returned. Hoo-fucking-ray.  I imagine I
would have missed her, as she is sometimes a friend and ally, but at other
times she is nothing more than a sharp-bladed tongue covered on the back end
with salt.

     That isn't why I did it.

     We've been advised that we should deal with the sorcerer and turn our
eyes forward to the possibility of war, to resolve the sorcerer dilemma that
we might move the fuck on.  I would just about have gutted ten Ladies
Borsail for the prospect of an honest fucking war, instead of this endless
izdari with unnatural powers.  The cessation of hostilities will give me an
excuse to focus on a new thing, less disgusting to me by its very nature,
than this conflict that has claimed my attention of late.  That is why I did it.

     And so my weeks could get fucking better.  I do not speculate too hard
on whether they will.  Were I the Highest of Lords I, too, would get the
occasional chortle out of fucking with my inferiors' fucking plans for no
particular reason.

Botched Plans

It was late afternoon on Yochem, the 62nd day of the Descending Sun
In the Year of King's Anger, year 8 of the 22nd Age

     This sorcerer and mul situation continues to piss me right the fuck off.
We have a demilitarization in effect with some fucking upstart sorcerer and
meanwhile, Kitrix has granted a pardon to some fucking mul that escaped from
House Borsail that's associated with it.  My agreement not to persecute it
weighs heavily on my conscience, and I'm aware that the upstart doesn't
strictly live by the word it fucking gave.  Still, there are more pressing
matters, some closer to home and some larger in scope, that the majority of
my efforts and attentions are presently focused on, despite my continued
personal desires to end this motherfucking asshole.

     Against this background, Corra informs me that she has observed this mul
meeting with 'rinthers at (some location).  That mul has been warned to stay away from
the Highlord's City, but apparently it's not capable of staying both out of
sight and out of mind.  I informed her that if the opportunity presented
itself, she should drop it into the Silt Sea.

    This order wasn't very fucking ambiguous.  Despite the clarity of
expression, it became apparent that she has taken the instruction
metaphorically, as I was contacted by a very panicky Borsail noble who stated
that the mul that had previously made an attempt on her life was now back in
her mind, claiming that it would finish what it started with the initial

     What the fuck.

     Apparently, the gemmed--unsuccessfully--dropped the mul from a very high
location, through a wall of fire, and yet it survived.  Obviously, it
survived, this because it apparently lives its life covered from head to heel
in foul fucking magicks cast upon it by that upstart.  Color me surprised
that the upstart doesn't just float the mul around upside down in front of it
all day so that they can progress through life in a more comfortable
formation to each keep the other's dick firmly in the mouth.

     So of course the upstart comes whining and making threats, apparently
oblivious to its lover's continued nefarious activities and general word-
breaking.  To prevent myself from being more or less perpetually distracted
by what promised to be the continuous frightened moaning of my cuntlicking
gemmed, I briefly touched its foul mind to explain to it the facts of the
situation, and to encourage it to lodge its protests straight up its own ass.
It seems that the foul beast was blissfully unaware of the mul's activities,
and made apologetic noises if only I wouldn't kill the mul.  So the mul is
off of my plate for now.

     One of these years, I will have both the time, inclination, and
resources to kill both of them and wash my hands in their blood.


It was dusk on Yochem, the 62nd day of the Descending Sun
In the Year of King's Anger, year 8 of the 22nd Age

     I have always loathed witches, even the Highlord's gemmed tools.  It's a
perfectly natural expression, particularly for a Jal.  Contemplate the clean,
precise, and methodical nature of engineering, and juxtapose it against the
foul, chaotic, and unpredictable nature of the foul magicks, and the reasons
for this should be more than obvious.

     I have always loathed witches.  I know that my assignment to control and
oversee the gemmed tools for what it is--an effort by my enemies to break me,
to make me prove myself unworthy or inferior to the Highlord's work and my
assigned task.  It was probably a mistake to so openly express my hatred and
loathing during my candidacy, as it has given my enemies the opportunity to
place me thusly.  I bet it was Alaghom Fucking Fale who is responsible.  He
certainly showed up for a while to gloat.

     Despite loathing witches, I have come to a grudging respect for those
among the foully tainted who attempt to assign some purpose to their putrid
and meaningless existences by working to His ends.  I have come to understand
why He allows them to exist, which is of course to a purpose.  There are
other forces, just as foul, that are best combated thusly.  Not everything
maybe fought with weapons of courage and honor and faith and strength.  Some
things must be destroyed with an equal measure of evil.

     I continue to loathe witches. I was capable of admiring the deadlines
and cohesion of the silt flyers which attempted to tear my troops to shreds,
and I admire the sheer fucking obstinacy of the northern insistence on being
wrong on every fucking thing despite these both being adversarial to me.  The
gemmed, I do not admire.  I cannot admire.  Even as I spend hours closeted
with them, exhorting them to the Highlord's ends, expressing my approval when
they manage to fulfill my orders and accepting their advice on matters which
I have neither expertise nor the desire to have it, their foul magicks
disgust me.  I, Takharion Ahadriss Jal, filled with the purity of His
blessings, am forced to endure this for the greater good.

     But in this work, I have come to respect them.

     Occasionally, this makes me feel damned.

Takharion's Delicate Touch

It was late morning on Cingel, the 213th day of the Descending Sun
In the Year of Suk-krath's Vengeance, year 10 of the 22nd Age

     This campaign has suffered from a series of fuck-ups and severe
miscommunications.   I can see why the Lord Commander transferred me to the
front.  At least I'm not a complete fucking idiot.

     At my first conference with Lord Templar Varnathius, I was treated to the
sort of thumb-twiddling mentality that I despise in an ally but welcome in a
rival.  He had little idea of the strategy behind the infiltration of Tyn
Dashra, and no idea concerning what tactics to offer.  It was as though
tactics hadn't even been contemplated.  Indeed, his philosophy was that we
would be told what to do and then simply do it.

     An attitude suitable for a newly-robed Blue, a child, or a ranking
commoner is entirely inappropriate for a templar hoping for advancement.  I
was relieved when he agreed to pass me command of the overall forces.  An
exhibition of such indecisive dithering in the field would be fucking
disastrous.  So, the leadership--or lack thereof--of Varnathius was the first

     It led directly into the second.  Varnathius led me to believe that the
portal leading to the wind pillar was the primary purpose of this mission.  To
his mild credit, this did comport with the numerous rumors that I was hearing.
To his discredit, he apparently didn't bother to sift the wheat from the
chaff in his own rumor mill, or to just do something intelligent like ask his
superior what was going on.

     This resulted in the suggestion that Lady Stellvia Borsail treat with the
gypsies and convince them to stay out of our way.  She'd indicated that she
had been keeping open lines of communication to that purpose.  On the
misunderstanding of our true intentions, we'd convinced her that we supported
her doing so.

      On arriving at the encampment and sharing this information with Lady
Templar Adaren Sath, she was destroying-precious-books irate.  Peace with the
gypsies was not any sort of plan of hers, and indeed, her feelings flowed
quite the contrary.  Because why would Varnathius have any useful information?
Lady Adaren implored me to put a stop to the planned trip.  The word "treason"
was exchanged.  I was quite prepared to execute Lady Stellvia, to keep other
heads more dear to me from rolling.

     Fortunately, she was persuaded to stop through the camp on her way
through.  She was less fond of the word "treason" than I was, as it turns out.
I so rarely get to put the terror of Tektolnes into the nobility--much less
into the high and mighty fucking Borsail--so I'll excuse myself for having
enjoyed it so much.  While proud prickly Lady Stellvia wouldn't stoop to any
actual begging or pleading, even in such a trying circumstance, she was
definitely feeling the terror of Tektolnes, and became accommodating and
placed herself wholly in my power.

     I fucking love my job.

     So that crisis, too, I managed to avert.  I've probably turned Lady
Stellvia into some sort of enemy.  I barely want to contemplate what might
need my delicate touch next.

Field Journal, Tyn Dashra Account

It was dusk on Huegel, the 96th day of the Low Sun
In the Year of Suk-krath's Vengeance, year 10 of the 22nd Age

Takharion remembers writing the following in his field journal:

                        Account of Tyn Dashra
       written this 96th day of Low Sun, 10th Year, 22nd Age

      In the late 7th year of this Age, I was sent to the Mines to begin
preparations of a most secret nature for an upcoming war effort.  At around
the same time, spies were dispatched to Tuluk to begin working on the same
effort from a different angle.  I'll name them here so that their names may
live as long as the paper on which this account is written--

     Sergeant Alize of the Arm of the Dragon, known to the enemy as Chosen
Lady Hlum Alize and as Faithful Lord Talius's aide in training.

     Sergeant Seras of the Arm of the Dragon, known to the enemy as Corporal
Rill of the Legions.

     Sergeant Nerkis of the Arm of the Dragon, known to the enemy as
Apprentice Ella of Circle Elkinhym.

     And their Handler, Reon of the Hlum guard, whose true name and rank are
unknown to me, as he did not return from the mission.

     While I was toiling away with the gathering of materials a nd the notation
of manifests, these three brave commoners were infiltrating all levels of
Tuluki society.

     On the 150th day of Descending Sun of this Year, I received my orders to
transfer to the front.  During my brief period in the City, I was beset by
offers from His nobility to give me information more or less subtle attempts
to pry information from me.  One of those praying was Lady Stellvia Borsail
who, having collected rumor and conjecture from various and sundry sources,
including our very own Lords Varnathius Tor and Kitrix Borsail, had determined
that the intention of our military offensive was the wind portal above the
mountains of Tyn Dashra.  Lord Iancu Oash was also present at the meeting at
which she exposited on her theories, as I had been recruiting his gemmed to
the war effort.  Lady Borsail proved quite the nuisance, asking many probing
questions about the natures of portals and the like, which were brushed off as
irrelevant.  Eventually, it was decided that she would send a very vague
message to the gypsies not to oppose our occupation or they would be crushed.

     I will say this in my defense for encouraging Lady Borsail to keep open
her contacts with the gypsies--I had not been informed of the nature and
extent of our plans.  Had I known at that time that destroying the gypsies and
taking their land was one of the primary points of the offensive, had I known
the publically acceptable explanation for our upcoming offensive, I would not
have encouraged it.  I am not a stupid man.  But there is only so much that I
can do with limited information.  It was later made very clear to me that we
did not want an accord with the gypsies.  We desired them to be terrified.  We
desired them to call on Tuluk for help.  We desired the forces of Tuluk to
make themselves vulnerable to the Highlord's power by march down and meet us.

     On arriving at the camp, I shared these nobles' speculations and
intentions with Lady Templar Adaren Sath, who had been working intimately with
the war effort for some five years.  She was quite incensed that Lady Stellvia
was still communicating with the gypsies.  For our own healths, it was
determined that she needed to be stopped from sending them any sort of
message--through the use of extreme force, if necessary.  It was also decided
that I would, in complete confidence, inform a few choice gossips that we were
pleased that our objectives were being misunderstood.

     Fortunately for her health, Lady Borsail was very easily convinced to cut
off all ties with the gypsies and, knowing her for a gossipmonger among
gossipmongers, I convinced her that our purpose was indeed total war with the
gypsies.  Subsequently, I convinced Lord Oash as well that we were there for
the land.  Having convinced two of the nosiest, meddling, and penultimate
noble gossips available--in the strictest of confidence--that we were in the
Red Desert to fortify it as a pushing-off point for the taking of the Tyn
Dashra valley, I hoped that it would be enough to save mine and Lady Templar
Sath's heads from the chopping block for mucking up the Reds' plans.

     I subsequently engaged in several scouting missions, leading some of them
personally.  I discovered three potential routes into the Tyn Dashra valley,
the particulars of which are no longer important.  The routes were largely
diversions, and I again utilized Lord Oash to convince the enemy that we would
be taking the long, arduous climb across the Dashra's eastern cliffs.  My
purpose in doing so was to convince the Tulukis that they could beat us to the
valley.  It was at war conferences with the Reds that we discussed our actual

     I will interject here briefly to note that, during one of these war
conferences, Lord Varnathius lied to the Lord Commander about whether Lord
Oash was aware of (something).  The Lord Commander was of course canny
enough to figure Lord Varnathius out.  I do not advocate lying or misleading
any Red as positive to the career or health of any Blue.  Falsehood is an
understandable panic mechanism for attempting to cover up a mistake, but
misleading your Red will only compound your errors.  There are better ways to
keep your head, which I will not list here.

     As to the methods of our success, while the speeches preceding the
offensive were ongoing, a handpicked group under the command of Great Lady
Crondea Tor slipped through the caves west of Luirs and entered the Tyn Dashra
valley.  Once Great Lady Tor was in place, Great Lady Maewon Borsail
(did magickal things and) our army marched.

     While the army prepared a barricade to stall the advancing Tuluki forces,
I took all available gemmed into the high scrubs west of Tyn Dashra and
created diversions.  I do not believe that our diversions had much effect in
stalling their advance, but at the least we did prevent the army from taking
a shortcut across the highlands to our position.  I believe that they instead
marched down the North Road.

     When the Tuluki army was spotted, my gemmed and I were brought back to
the main force.  Archers and gemmed were sent to the barricade to hold the
Tuluki forces while our main force took up the position that we had chosen for
the battle.  During the Tuluki's fight against our barricade, Sergeant Seras
did--with an inspired display of panic at the fire raining from the sky--cause
some of the Tuluki Legion's forces fighting with him to rout.

    While our army was preparing the field of battle, myself and two
handpicked fighters from the First Unit of the Jade Sabers--Lieutenant Torgun
and Sergeant Thorm--accompanied the Lord Commander up the spire.  At its
summit, we guarded him while he invoked the terrifying powers of our King and
God to bend the whiran portal to His will.  In the City of Tuluk, Reon broke
down the gate of the Tree of Isar and, with the assistance of her handler,
Sergeant Alize there worked our Highlord's will upon that tree.

     As we faced down the screaming gale, lightning striking the mesa all
around us, a deafening roar erupted from the whiran portal and a beam of
blinding light shot into the heavens.  From the north, from where Sergeant
Alize had done her work with the tree, another rope of light shot into the
heavens, meeting that which was manipulated by the Lord Commander.

     It is said that the shadow of the Dragon Tektolnes passed over the
battlefield.  I did not see it.  I could see only the light.   It was that
light which the Lord Commander manipulated to the Highlord's will.  I believe
it was by the power of that light that our Lord Commander appropriated the
soil from Tyn Dashra and dropped the fiery mountain in its place.

     Our victory was not foreordained.  Had Tuluk discovered and executed our
spies, they would not have been in place at the moment we needed them.  Had
Great Lady Tor fallen on the way to the Tyn Dashra with her small force of
militia, we could not have opened (something) and we /would/ have been forced
to scale Tyn Dashra's eastern cliffs.  It is probable that Tuluk would have
preceded us to the field.  Had our forces not held strong in the face of the
enemy, or had the Tulukis or gypsies placed guards upon the spire, myself and
the two troops with me may not have been able to hold the enemy off from the
Lord Commander while he invoked the terrifying powers of our King.

     As it is, among our the fallen of the elite First unit of the Jade
Sabers were Corporals Parvana and Warak, Privates Surus and Akari, and several
recruits.  Our victory could have come at a much higher cost.

     Instead, we have attained total victory over the disorganized,
undisciplined rabble of Heathen forces.  But I have the feeling that this is
but the opening salvo of a much larger war.  As I prepare for a longer
engagement, I thank our mighty Sovereign for the favor he has bestowed upon
us.  But I do not trust to fortune.  Our strategy and tactics won this battle
for us.  The Highlord will not stir himself to help those that do not help


Looming Storm

It was high sun on Detal, the 33rd day of the Descending Sun
In the Year of Lirathu's Slumber, year 11 of the 22nd Age

     I've heard it said that grief, true grief, is like a mekillot-pulled
argosy getting out of it's driver's control and smashing through a stable.  It
creates destruction and chaos and horror and depression and is very expensive,
but all of that only after stunned disbelief.  Perhaps it's the unique fucking
circumstances, but I don't find that my aunt's description of grief is

     I won't pretend, here in the depths of my own mind, that I don't grieve
Aria's death.  Of course I grieve the only person other than myself for whom
I've ever felt love.

     But my grief is more like a sandstorm in the desert than an argosy
accident.  Huddled alone, I can hear the howl of the storm beyond the close
confines of the tent walls.  If I extend my senses, I can even feel its
violence vibrating the walls of my shelter.  Threatening to tear it up,
threatening to expose me to the fury of the storm from which I hide.  Pure
power and elemental fury, the boundaries of which stretch in every direction
for distances beyond measure or comprehension.

     But in some ways, this is worse than weathering a storm.  Storms come
upon you without reason or cause.  If you're sheltering a storm in a desert
tent, you only have bad luck to blame.

     I have caused this storm.  I killed her after all.  It's my fault that
she died.

     Did I wield whatever instrument it was that cut the head from Ariannah
Borsail's body?  Of course not.  But that wasn't her, that wasn't my beloved
Aria.  That is not how Aria died.  She died in terror and agony several years
ago.  She died a sacrifice in some nilazi's sick, twisted dark rites.  I
wonder if she cursed me as she died.  She could have.  She /should/ have.

     Not by wielding the knife, of course, but by loving her.  Every
candidate, every knee-high noble brat knows that to love someone is to expose
them to danger.  From other nobles, other candidates, political rivals, the
Highlord's enemies.  To love someone is to paint a giant fucking target on

     Of course, the ultimate irony is that I didn't actually think that I
loved Aria.  When I spoke words of love to her, telling her that we must keep
it all a secret lest it put her in danger, I thought that I was so fucking
clever.  I thought that I was manipulating her affections for me.  I thought
that I was playing her.  I didn't realize the depths of my feelings until she
was abducted, until I was certain that she was lost to me.  Only then did I
realize that I'd apparently come to mean the words.  When her body was
returned to us intact, living, moving, breathing, my relief was almost

     What a fool I was: she was already dead.

     I only discovered this half a month ago, entirely by chance.  Varnathius
had captured a mindworm who claimed that it had learned these secrets from
Lady Ariannah's mind.  I reported this to my superiors while praying that it
wasn't true.  Mindworms are evil, mindworms lie, everyone knows these things.
Now Lady Ariannah Borsail's headless corpse has been discovered, and I know
that it wasn't a lie, that it wasn't actually her body.  All it means is that
the thing that was holding her shape has been put down.

     In the meanwhile, I've been beset by this damned storm.  Holding down the
edges of the paltry shelter in my mind, my arms strengthened by denial and
prayers that none of it be true.  Denial and prayers no longer sustain me, I
no longer hold down the edges.  Now, I huddle.

     Soon, very very soon, the storm is going to pick up the edges of my tent
and scour me to bones.

Cocksucker, Part II

It was dawn on Yochem, the 150th day of the Low Sun
In the Year of Lirathu's Slumber, year 11 of the 22nd Age

     To the extent that I can think through my blinding rage of late, I've
thought for a long time that Kitrix is a cocksucker who is fucking bent on
ruining me, or at the very least on perpetuating fuckery on my career.  Now
I'm just convinced that he's criminally stupid.

     There's a war on.  There's news that Tuluk is mustering their commoners
into their army, planning routes for a counterattack.  And while that serious
fucking front is active, what does Kitrix do?  Prods the cuntlicking upstart.

     And why?  To try to come up with some way to save Stellvia Borsail from
getting executed.

     The City needs another adversary right now, even one as minor as the
fucking upstart, about as much as we need another hole in the head.  The
adversary had been effectively neutralized.  At best, in the last five years,
it has... what.  Killed a noble?  One fucking noble?  Starting war on another
front for one damned noble is not fucking work it.

     But that is precisely what Kitrix is doing.  To spare the life of one
meddlesome fucking Borsail who, if not guilty of this, is certainly guilty of
conversing with and possibly plotting with the sorcerer itself, Kitrix has
stirred up shit on a second front for us.  He decided to break the accords
wide fucking open, and his target?  Not even the highest of the threats, or
the second highest, but some middling damned lieutenant escaped mul
cocksucker.  And he failed!  Criminal fucking stupidity.

     My conclusion is that the man is clearly more loyal to House Borsail than
he is to the City's interests.  As well as being a stupid cocksucking failure,
his misplaced loyalty is a threat to the City's interests.

     Something needs to be done about this mess.

Cocksucker, Part III

It was before dawn on Cingel, the 158th day of the Ascending Sun
In the Year of Lirathu's Slumber, year 11 of the 22nd Age

     I've always speculated that it would be my temper that would be the death
of me.  While I've realized that the only correct course of action is to put
Kitrix down for his misplaced loyalties, I had always intended to put some
craft into the act.  Instead, Aria's name came up and I fucking snapped.
Having been straightforward and to the fucking point since I was a child, I
suppose praying that I'd change at almost thirty years of age would be just
too much.

     For having been a plan that was absolutely no fucking plan at all, it
went unexpectedly well.  Until he (escaped somehow).  At that
point, it became clear that it was only a matter of fucking time until the end
of my existence, as the Great Lord doesn't take well to failures.

     I went into his presence resigned that I would not be coming out of it,
but he surprised me.  The Great Lord's investigations will uncover the truth
or falsity of my accusations.  Still, as that cocksucker's clearly capable of
fabrication to prevent the Highlord's justice, I can't wait idly while he
manufactures some way to convince the Great Lord that he's correct.  As the
failure's clearly mine here, I don't suspect that it'll take that fucking much
to do so.

     While I'll pray that the Great Lord offers me some path to redemption,
and alternatively pray for the welfare of the Jade Sabers as they'll be left
under the command of such prime fucking minds as Kitrix and Varnathius, I
won't sit idle.  I've been given some time to prepare for my demise, and
preparations will be made.

The End: No Redemption

It was dawn on Detal, the 121st day of the Descending Sun
In the Year of Jihae's Defiance, year 12 of the 22nd Age

Figuring that putting Hasan down was the only way to redeem himself for his
botched assassination attempt on Kitrix Borsail, Takharion spent the good-
will capital that he had been accumulating with Hasan through Corra to lure
him in close enough to strike.  Takharion hoped that neither was aware of his
failed attempt on Kitrix.  It was clear that Corra did not--she believed that
the meeting was being arranged to discuss Takharion acquiring assistance for
causing Hasan's demise.

As crazy as Ariannah's death had been driving him, Takharion was no
sorcerer's tool, and never would have used an upstart to bring about the
death of another templar.  At least, he wasn't that far gone yet...

Unfortunately, Takharion's strike went directly into the sorcerer's
bodyguard, and Takharion's life was snuffed out shortly thereafter.  His last
emotion was irritation, which was fitting.

This was a cool read.  I wish I had the patience to write this stuff on a regular basis...  I'm sure I'd appreciate it looking back.

Really well done.

The funny thing about the Takharion-Kitrix rivalry was that, compared to some other Templars, those two were the height of cordiality and professionalism in public. My PC's suspicions were only raised with Kitrix took the time to sit him down and claim that he had absolutely nothing to do with the Lord Templar Jal's demise. Up till that point I had just assumed Takharion had choked to death in his apartment on a hambone or something.

Having played Stellvia, it was nice to read this stuff from another perspective.  I felt pretty clueless and frustrated about some (most?) of the things going on in here at the time, though some time after Takharion met his quite unexpected end, and moreover after 'Aria' met hers, it all made sense.  8)  

At the very least, I guess not every noble can boast of being accused of treason and getting away with it on three separate occasions...!

I enjoyed playing with Takharion, even when she and him were both probably hoping the other would drop dead  :P

EDIT:  I was equally stunned to hear that Takharion had laid into Kitrix with a weapon, and my character initially assumed some kind of mindworm manipulation must be to blame.

Maybe someday one of my characters will have an impressive stack of bios to them, I just have trouble tearing myself away from the goings on in game to summarize things. Was a good read.

fine, i'm inspired to do a bio entry
Whatever happens, happens.

I think he's right about Lyvren, by this point in time, she couldn't give a toss about Blue level issues, and certainly not the spiders.

Quote from: Case on December 17, 2015, 08:00:28 PM
I think he's right about Lyvren, by this point in time, she couldn't give a toss about Blue level issues, and certainly not the spiders.


Quote from: Desertman on December 17, 2015, 06:30:33 PM


His inspirations were Al Swearengen, Eisenhorn, and Lyndon B. Johnson.

Awww you guys, making me want to play again.
Former player as of 2/27/23, sending love.

Also, I did almost 60 biographies with him, if I remember right. What else did I have to do while standing in that intersection?
Former player as of 2/27/23, sending love.

QuoteIt was clear that Corra did not--she believed that
the meeting was being arranged to discuss Takharion acquiring assistance for
causing Hasan's Kitrix's demise.


Man I loved to hate Takharion. Best worst boss ever.

By the way.. she was aware, at that point in time. Nevermind I mis-remembered. She didn't know until right after!

Poor Tahk didn't realize she'd gone over to the Dark Side months ago. Neither did Moraz... who sadly did not long outlive Tahkarion. None of us wanted Tahk dead. He was so much more manipulable... we'd figured out how to play on his personality and weaknesses.

That is in no small part due to how amazingly well he was roleplayed. Kudos until the end of the earth.

Tahk did take them both by surprise by attacking Hasan. We thought we'd broken him a lot more than we had...

Shame on us! Tahkarion dying ruined all of our plans. We wanted Tahk alive, and focused on the north, and Kitrix dead.

The best laid plans....

I like to think that Tahk would smile to think that in his final act, he truly fucked over Hasan more than he ever could have dreamed.

I have a log of the final showdown I cleaned up. I'll submit it to the staff and let them decide if I can post it here.


1.   A biped, ungrateful.

I walked into all this as a brand new Storyteller who'd never dabbled in Allanaki high politics and high-end magicks. Mind. Blown.

I discovered some cool Bios just yesterday when researching something. They're extremely useful for passing on player lore and history so things don't get forgotten and too confusing over the years!

I loved Tahkarion and was super sad I never got to RP with him more. :( Why is it I never get to RP with Delirium or Valeria for more than two seconds at a time?!??

My favorite interaction with Tahkarion was when he came into the Oash wagon on the eve of the Tan Murak HRPT to collect the gemmed mages.  Lord Iancu proclaimed that no way, all his mages were staying behind to protect him (causing me to screech with anxiety because dammit I wanted to participate, not sit in camp!) and then Takharion stared him down and was like "Yeah....no. They're coming to war...so deal with it."

anyway these bios are amazing
Child, child, if you come to this doomed house, what is to save you?

A voice whispers, "Read the tales upon the walls."

I very rarely use bios. I always tell myself, "I will wait a bit longer then do a overall sweep of what's happened, kind of like a background entry.".

I really like the format that was used here as though these bios were more like a journal. I have been inspired to start doing my bios in this fashion. I feel doing the bios more like this will allow me to enter things in "in the moment" instead of feeling like I have to wait until a bunch of important stuff happens and then recap it (which has led to me just never doing it).

Thanks for posting this.
Quote from: James de Monet on April 09, 2015, 01:54:57 AM
My phone now autocorrects "damn" to Dman.
Quote from: deathkamon on November 14, 2015, 12:29:56 AM
The young daughter has been filled.

My bio entries suddenly feel so inadequate ;)

Thanks for posting this. Even just largely being on the periphery for big parts of this was one of my more memorable Arm experiences.  So many great RPers involved.

Quote from: Delirium on December 17, 2015, 09:29:30 PM
That is in no small part due to how amazingly well he was roleplayed. Kudos until the end of the earth.

Tahk he did take them both by surprise by attacking Hasan. We thought we'd broken him a lot more than we had...

Awww, thanks. Sometimes he was extremely difficult to play to character. He had narcissist and megalomaniac traits that, when properly manipulated (not just by Corra, but also some others) would result in him acting pretty seriously against his own interests. And made things like not being broke 24/7 an issue. He was perpetually poor because he hated to take handouts, but he would kill any commoner or forgive any crime for enough money, as some people found out.

Sometimes separating what I knew as a player and what I knew as a character was difficult. I would often just sit around, thinking of scenarios and how he would react. Like with making enemies with Stellvia and Iancu, which was stupid and would have been unnecessary if not for his pride. Or with attacking Kitrix. I had written down, "if anyone says X about Aria, attack," not expecting that it would be another templar that I barely saw because our playtimes rarely crossed.

And when it happened, there was something like three full seconds between him saying X and me convincing myself that I did have to snap and attack him then and there, because I knew that I would probably lose my character whether I killed him--with witnesses, in a horrible location--or not.  Or rolling out, fully intending to attack Hasan because Takh thought he could take him (LOL). Anyway, it was a great ride.

Anyway, it was hands-down one of my two best characters in Arm. Srsly stop making me want to play again  :'(
Former player as of 2/27/23, sending love.

I never played with Takharion, but reading these bios definitely has a humbling effect on just how much better some people are at writing and roleplaying in general...  I feel so lame in comparison...  and I love that!  Makes me feel like a newbie, even though I've been at this for so long.