[PF-1e] Prison Colony Krakengard - The Daylight War

[Humble Athena]

Originally Posted by Inem

Nope, most definitely no equipment. Clothes on your back, and depending how long you've been in prison, those might not be in the best shape either

Raph) *buffs fingers* Prestidigitation. Mending. Handled. (Props to Oggy, where I first saw the use of magic in service to vanity)

[Nostrus]

Which pantheon are you using? Golarion?

[RedSun]

What, specifically, is the wildlife/ecosystem of Kraakengard like?

[Admin Dirk]

This sounds like it shares elements with one of my favorite new book series...

[Sassafrass]

Drats, foiled again! I'll come up with something non-Occult Adventure-y. Shouldn't be too hard.

[Elfman6]

Name: Mathis de Labois

Gender: Male

Race: Human

Appearance: Mathis de Labois stands a full head taller than the average man; his posture straight with conviction in his faith. Brown hair is cropped close to his head. The deserter's brand, a shield broke in half, mars his forehead; an angry red against the tan of his skin. Hazel eyes sit above a hawkish nose. Rare is it that doubt creeps into them. He is well muscled, though the ends of his fingers are permanently stained with ink; betraying his time spent scribing holy texts. Before his incarceration, he preferred simple clothing of dull colour; whites and greys and tans.

Personality: Faith is life and life is faith. He is friendly, but rigid in his understanding. Mathis does not understand how someone can live without belief in the divine and is more than willing to share his knowledge with hopeful converts. His entire life, his family and specifically his twin brother Ethane came before anything else; as they never did anything to test his faith. Mathis is loyal to a fault, his oath a binding contract. He knows that his incarceration in Krakengard is but a temporary thing; even if there is no evidence otherwise. He will serve his time solemnly, but will take the opportunity to leave as quickly as possible in order to find his brother.

Background:I love my brother. This I will not deny. Even now, as I stand before this portal; it's surface a jewel of colours that hurts my eyes, I love him. I will do this for my brother, for love.

Ethane and I grew up as brothers do; fighting, racing, laughing, and competing in every which way.Our mother, a Sister Justicari, encouraged us to the quiet and humoured consternation of our templar father. Every day was a new competition. Who was fastest, who was strongest, who could fight better? Later, as our eyes grew to find the appeal of maidens, who could dance most gracefully, who could dress better, who could be most gentlemanly? He was the eldest by five minutes, though to look upon us would give no clue. I can humbly say that we, for the most part, were evenly matched. Such is befitting of those who are identical of stature and look. It would be our minds and strength of will that separated us.

We were raised within the clergy. Our schooling was that of God and his history; his teachings illuminated our minds. We knew His Prayer before words took meaning. We learned of justice, compassion, and sacrifice. We learned of loss and the corruption of Sin. Our boon in life was strength of arms and strength of conviction. Our reward in death would be a place at His side; a place earned by a life lived well; a life lived in the service of those who could not help themselves; a life lived in love.

The war did not catch us off guard. It was my father's duty to know such things. Ethane and I were too young to join him when he marched off to the front, though we argued that our presence was required. It was our duty to defend our Kingdom; His people. Our words were true, but they were spoken with the brashness of youth; not yet tempered by the wisdom of age. We needed not be so impatient. The war raged longer than expected and of our father we saw naught but letters. He described the Solitari in respectful tones; the blackened plate of their knights, their arcanists who razed swathes of men with hellfire and raised the bones of the fallen with hellish fires. He spoke of flights of arrows so thick as to blacken the sky with their numbers. One does not underestimate a foe that is respected.

In time, our day of reckoning of arrived. We signed our names to the ranks of those who would give their lives in defense of our country. The deed was done without hesitation. Though our faces were as stone, for it would be disrespectful otherwise, I knew that we both smiled inside. We would join our father. We would defend our home; defend His kingdom.

Ethane and I were grouped with other men; largely callow youth. Our time in the temple served us well as we were able to aid in the training of armour and weapons. It was still a week before we would be sent to the front line proper. The rudiments of formation and fighting as a team were new to both my brother and I. With God's blessing, we learned quickly. It may be prideful to say, but I believe that our drill instructors were quite pleased with the two of us.

Our troop was ambushed a day from the front. A diabolical heathen led a retinue of fleshy devils whose hides resisted our blades with maddening temerity. It is likely we would have been overwhelmed if not for the blessing of a chaplain who traveled with us. With God's power instilled in our hearts, our blades were sharper and our minds made ever stronger against the corruption of darkness. Still, a few of our number fell in the battle. We buried them with proper rites at the side of the road; their name plate to be sent home with the first available messenger.

Roleplay sample: The noise of the camp was already far away though the light from the campfires still glimmered in the edges of his vision. Mathis squinted into the dark plains. He dared not call out, lest he alert the scouts that patrolled the edge. Ethane had come this way. He was certain of it. The tall grasses hid friend as well as foe though. Mathis frowned. Desertion was a serious crime. He needed to talk to Ethane before someone else found him; someone who would likely be far less forgiving.

The warrior pressed forward, pushing the scratching grasses out of his face. "Ethane!" The call was barely above a whisper. Lord, let him be close enough to hear. "Ethane!" Mathis's footsteps echoed loudly in his ears. They had only been on the front a day, but he knew his brother was overwhelmed. Nothing in their lives could have prepared them for the reality of the situation. The letters and the wounded moving through were but stories a world removed. Mathis had seen fear in Ethane's eyes, and what right thinking man wouldn't be scared? This was their duty though. They had asked, begged to go. Now Ethane ran through darkness somewhere ahead as Mathis stumbled blindly in his tracks.

A stand of petrified trees loomed overhead. "Go back brother." Ethane's voice sliced through the darkness. Mathis squinted, finally spotting his brother's figure huddled within the trunks. "Go back. This war, I cannot do it. The visions of glory we held... We've been aught but a day and already the horrors are too much. It can only get worse."

"Nay brother. It can only get better. They have thrown their horrors at us and we stand yet. God will guide us, here and in the afterlife. We cannot turn our backs upon our oaths and promises. Our father has been here for four years. How could we turn our backs upon him, upon Him?" Mathis pointed to the sky. "We cannot die before we fight at our father's side. We would shame him."

"Then I am shame. I fear death. I do not hold your convictions."

"Do not say such things!"

"I speak the truth! Better to be an honest coward than false hero."

"I will not accept that brother. The coward is full of lies for he has convinced himself that he cannot. Return with me and be righteous."

"No." Ethane turned and fled into the grass once more. Mathis hesitated but a moment; the hate and fear in that final word fading into the darkness around him. He could not give up this challenge. He ran after.

They caught me early the next morning. Of Ethane there was no sign. Would he escape the war? I cannot say with any certainty. I pray for his soul now, as I did when the chains were clasped tightly around my wrists and legs. I was judged a deserter, the mark branded into my forehead for all to see. This is my judgement and I accept it. I pray that he finds succor with our Lord and that we shall meet again. I will hold him close and I will forgive him.

Bonus (does not need to be filled out for app to be complete):

 

There is a strong lean towards a paladin, but the actual class and mechanics are largely up in the air at this point; as many different classes can be used to represent Mathis.

[kedcoleman]

Name: Caihrnon the Thrice-Damned Fist of Maalbahg
Gender: Male
Race: Aasimar
Class: Arcanist (Twilight Sage, Unlettered Arcanist)
Appearance:

Personality:

 

Background: In the shadows of the Shattercrest Mountains, in the far north where the days are short, beyond the grasp of the Kingdom and its armies, the village of Rashkula sits astride the Talba River. The Rashkulin people have dwelled here in isolation for centuries, living a quiet existence of farming, mining, and yak and sheep herding. That which the earth could not provide them, traders bought with ores, pelts, and precious stones. The Rashkulin way of life was shaken, 20 years ago, beginning with a powerful omen and a prophesied birth.

On the eve of a full moon, village wardens witnessed a golden ram, fully twice the size of the largest ram any herdsman had ever seen, crest a cliff overlooking the village. The ram shimmered in the moonlight and stamped its hoof twice before disappearing back down the cliff out of sight. Rashkulan seers proclaimed the sighting as a sign, that a warrior and king would be born among their village, that he would be gifted powerful abilities by the spirits of the land and fulfill a great destiny.

It would be two full years, to the day, from the sighting of the golden ram, until the child of prophesy was born to a farmer and his wife. With skin the colour of polished amethyst, with eyes of shimmering amber, the child was immediately recognized as special. The town was gathered and the seers proclaimed this was the birth foretold by the omen - a great and powerful king sent by the spirits to protect Rashkula. Celebrations were prepared, feasts, and a coronation for the infant who would be their king.

Caihrnon lived a life of ease, as the King of Rashkula, though the title was little more than ceremonial. The boy-king was too young to rule, though the village seers and mystics would come to him for insight. All his life he had been told he was meant to rule, yet all decisions in the village were made without him, the leaders only coming to him for ceremonial duties. This chafed the boy. He grew jealous of the power he was denied, resentful of the villagers that worked around him. Bitterness and hate filled his heart. He made a proclamation through the seers, the next time they visited him, on the eve of his 16th birthday. The golden ram that had been the sign of his impending birth must be sought, and brought to the village unharmed for a special ceremony.

The hunters went forth from the village, scouring the hills and woods surrounding Rashkula. Several weeks passed before the hunters returned, the golden ram leashed with a sturdy rope and pulled behind them. A feast was mounted, and a great bonfire lit, for the ceremony and in celebration of this magnificent creature. Cairhnon approached the noble creature, observed its soft coat glimmering in the firelight. He could feel the strength in the ram's bones, the power in its blood. Cairhnon proclaimed this to be a day that will change Rashkula, and the world, forever; that today he comes into his own as the rightful king of this land. He plunged a knife into the neck of the great ram and let the blood of the beast pour out into the dirt by the fire. The young man caught some of the blood in his hands and, as the gathered villagers gasped and cried out, raised the hot blood to his lips and drank the life of the ram. Its power, now, he called out over the cries of the village, was his, as it was meant to be. No longer would the council cut him out of his ordained role, whisper behind his back, pretend he was a mere figure head. Furious magic and fire burned in his veins, fueled by the lifeforce of the now-dead golden ram. The villagers froze - unable to move, despite wanting nothing more then to flee the young king. His once-amber eyes glowed brilliant crimson; his amethyst skin turned a darker hue; lines of glowing red traced along his skin carving patterns and symbols against the dark flesh; his hands grew, fingers growing into vicious talons.

He approached the hunter who had brought the ram forth to the fire. The man dropped to his knees, compelled by the force of Cairhnon's will. The young king placed a hand on the man's chest and watched the strength and youth drain from the man's body - leaving a withered, desiccated husk of a man on the ground before him. The ram's skull, he commanded, was to be removed, he commanded, and shaped into a crown suitable for a king of his majesty. The hide of the beast would be made into a cape suitable for him to wear. The rest was to be carved and roasted and feasted upon, to signify the new order in Rashkula.

Three years Caihrnon ruled over Rashkula, the villagers cowed to his will by fear and magic. Each year he watched from his throne, crafted from the bones of the golden ram, wearing his rams-head crown, as the armies of the Kingdom marched ever closer to the Rashkula lands. Soon they would reach them, and try to conquer the land that was his, granted by divine right. Cairhnon would not allow that to happen; he gathered the hunters and warriors or Rushkala and rode forth to the outlying outpost of the Kingdom.



Roleplay sample:
Bonus (does not need to be filled out for app to be complete)

[Eachan Delras]

Application Richard "Sharps" Valoren Race: Half-Elf Class: Fighter (Archer) Gender: Male | Age: 23 Appearance: Richard is a tall and firmly built half-elf, with brown hair and tanned skin. His face has a hard-look with soul-piercing bright green eyes, carved into a once young face now marred by a life at war. Made apparent by his now-ragged clothes, the whole of his body is marked with scars, each betraying a life of adventure, and each a fond memory. Other than his pointed ears and beardless face, little else shows his elvish heritage, and once he remarked to other prisoners he has been mistake as another human person before, but of whom he doesn’t elaborate. Background: Crimes: One count of Unlawful Entry, One count of Arson, Three counts of Assault, One count of Conspiracy, and the Murder of Nicholas Karros. Richard was born to a Mariam Valoren and a long missing elvish father, on lonely ranch in the Farrow Plains. He grew up there alongside his older brother, Marcus. Since even the begins of their wistful childhood, the two of them have been inseparable. Their daring adventures and near illicit mischief were a thing of legend, at least to them. Both burned with a craving for action, a hunger for danger; they shared a restless soul seen in so many youth. As in all case of youth and restlessness, the Valoren boys both joined the war as soon as they both came to age. At first, they were assigned and transferred to several different platoons, often getting themselves into fights and forcing the transfer; once a commander made the mistake of trying to separate them, but his lesson was quickly learned. Eventually, they fell into a ragtag specialist group, made up of other troublemakers like themselves, Reygard’s Raiders. There they found the family they never had, the group of men made brothers that helped make the brothers into men. It was in that group that Richard gained the nickname “Sharps”. Through their years of duty, the two brothers fought near countless alongside the Raiders. They shared in their triumphs, and shared in their losses. The most devastating time for Richard, was when, during a battle against rogue goblinoid mercenaries, his brother Marcus was struck with an arrow in his leg. A terrible wound and days away from the nearest healer, they had no choice but to take care of it themselves. So at Marcus’s request, Richard removed his brother’s leg. Thanks to that, Marcus not only lived, but was discharged from service and sent home, leaving Richard, for the first time, alone. A year went on, Richard continued to fight the war. Without his brother at his side, both life and the battles seemed to grow harder. The only reason he survived was thanks to the family he gained, and the letters from Marcus. Eventually, his tour up Richard headed off to the city, where his brother moved and was soon to be married in. Rejoicing in his excitement last till he finally reached his brother’s home and heard the news. Marcus was dead, killed in a barfight by a drunken lordling, not but a week ago. Richard wept and raged over the loss of his beloved brother. His heart demand justice and that the killer stand trial, but the forces of the world thought otherwise. His brother’s murderer was no other than Nicholas Karros, the only son of the Duke of Karros, an influential man at the least. The lord had used all of his might to cover up the failings of his son; so the guard refused to arrest, and the courts refused to convict. For Richard Valoren was but a commoner, and Karros was a grand noble. Richard even discovered that his brother’s widow had been payed off to disappear and forget. That was when Richard knew that there was no hope for justice. It not but a week after his final denial by the courts, after Richard sent his brother’s widow away to their bereft mother, that he was arrested. After setting flame to the Karros Estate, knocking out three of the guards, Richard was found with bow in hand over the still corpse of the once future Duke of Karros, slain by three arrows to the chest. His proceedings went quickly, for a furious father demand punishment for the lowly soldier, obviously gone mad, and Richard did nothing save admit his guilt. In his trial, Richard made one request, which both shocked and pleased the courts. A quick punishment and infinite pleasure for the Duke was to be given to Richard, one that may have save his neck from the gallows for something much worse. Krakengaard. Personality: Ever since the death of Marcus, Richard has become a grim and fatalistic man. He had earned his nickname “Sharps” for not just his elvish ears and his aim, but for his clever wit and odd humor. However, now that humor is made mostly of dark sarcasm, carelessly joking about his own death. Richard acts as a man with little or nothing to live for. In his youth, his eyes burned with a passion for adventure, and his heart driven by that pilgrim’s soul Richard and Marcus shared. It now seems as if that part of him had died with his brother. Bonus, Captain Reygard: A several years ago, Captain Bartholomew Reygard was the most infamous officer in the army. He was the unconventional leader of the worst of what the army had to offer, who loving called themselves Reygard’s Raiders. All these men, selected by Reygard himself, were the troublemakers and dissidents of the army, a perfect group for the more challenging missions. He lead these roughnecks with a sense of pride, that he was doing what no other officer could do with these men. Win. Eventually, he even took in a pair of the worst volunteers known, called the Valoren boys. However, Reygard’s infamy was only bound to grow. His commanders eventually gave him orders to send his men on a suicide mission. The task was a mere distraction, so that a more notable squad could complete their goal. Reygard’s compassion for his raider got in the way, so he gave them different orders which saved his men from certain death, but cost the commanders their target and their own pride. With the blame clear to place, they charged Reygard with defying orders and treason. They sentenced to Krakengaard without a second thought, leaving Reygard’s men to mourn the loss of their leader. RP Sample As the blaze lit up the night, Richard slipped carefully through the shadows and in through the only open window. As shouts and calls went out behind him, he couldn't help but smile a bit. A mere week of planning and scouting, all going down perfectly. But he swallowed his pride, because there was no honor in his goal tonight. Richard made his way quickly down the hall and to the room of his mark. Slipping open the door, he spot his prey, muttering near senselessly to a servant. Richard cursed his luck, just when everything was lining up. He drew his sap, and bolted in to the room. before the servant could even see him, Richard knocked the man out cold. The other man, shocked, just stared at the intruder, disbelief clear in his eyes. In a flash, Richard drew his bow and notched an arrow, pointing at the frightened young man. "Nicholas Karros," he said to the man, awaiting a response. The man was silent, so Richard stepped forward into the dim light of a candle, and repeated. "Nicholas Karros, son of the Duke of Karros." At this point, the young man gasped, and turned pale as a ghost. "I-impossible," he stuttered, a dread hung in his eyes. "W-who are you?" "The man you killed," Richard replied. "Marcus Valoren, is-was my brother." he paused, but a second, then continued. "I am here to end you." As as Richard said Marcus, Nicholas fell to floor. "Oh, Gods forgive me. oh, Gods." The young man weeping profusely, off put Richard by the disgraceful sight. Truly a pathetic creature, Richard thought as he said coldly, "There is no chance for forgiveness nor the divine now. Justice could have saved you, but you rejected it. So, if not justice..." "I am sorry," young Karros said, from the heap of himself on the floor. "I tried, I really did. but, father..." He left another huff, "father forced me, made me deny the courts. I could never stand up to him, and that lead to this." "Do you think I care?!" Richard, nearly shouting, gazed angrily at the man. "Does your weakness absolve your crime? Your fate was once on your hands, free to do right thing, and you just gave it up to your father's whims. Do you think you can still make it right? Do you think you can heal my loss?" "No," Nicholas said, as he slowly stopped bawling. He looked up at Richard, eyes filled with remorse. "I know that I have to die. That I need to die. I just... I just wanted to be a honest man, for once. I wanted my heart clear of torment. I want to end it." Silence descended in the room, with Richard giving the young noble a strange look. A look of mixed pity, some for the boy and some for himself. His eyes cleared into a look of determination. "Stand up." Nicholas rose and looked Richard in the eyes, as Richard looked back into his. Richard saw the man's his regret, his remorse, and a sense of acceptance and eagerness for the end. Richard's mind wandered back, back to his brother, and the end of their past. Axe in his hand, a torch ready nearby. He looked down at his brother, sick and in pain, a black wound burning in his leg. Nervousness ran through Richard, sweat ran down his head as it ran down his brother's. Pleading eyes looked up at him, begging for relief. "Do it, please brother," he coarsely whispered. He returned to the present, the young Nicholas Karros, alone with him, while the blaze was dying down outside. Two people, the man who killed Marcus and the man who sent him to his death. Richard said again, "If not justice..." Nicholas smiled weakly, "Thank-" Swoosh. Richard loosed the arrow. ...then revenge.

[Sassafrass]

The Sin-Eater Torum Trask "The way I see it, I got less to worry 'bout than you do. I ain't stuck in here with me, for example. That's squarely your problem." Gender Race Class Deity Crimes Committed Male Half-Orc Inquisitor of Govrin, the Cosmic ScaleSin-Eater Tolar Murder, Sedition, Assault, Vigilantism, Heresy, Disturbance of the Peace, Unlawful Sex Act The Sin-Eater: Torum is a series of contradictions, befitting of his blood. He is stocky, but tall; he is muscular, but lean; he is handsome, but blocky. With twin brown sideburns down his jagged race, scarred from one too many drunken brawls, his green eyes gaze behind a slate-like brow, with furry eyebrows like caterpillars. Overall he would have a handsome mug, if not for the hangs he sports: from his mouth, which hangs almost perpetually open, grow two teeth, hangs, from the button jutting outward. His clothing is largely armor with fur trim, dyed green in favor of his faith, and brown leather or off-white cotton. Around his neck is an amulet, a scale in perfect balance on a join: a little-known faith, called the cult of Govrin, the Cosmic Scale, the Oathkeeper and Peacebroker. He may not look like a man of faith, but Torum is nothing but. Gruff around more than his Orcish edges, Torum is self-reliant, willing to work with others to meet ends that follow his belief system. Govrin does not get the same kind of attraction other gods do: for example, no noble supporters, not a lot of income, and as such, this forces devotees to the Oathkeeper to find other ways of gaining income. Torum was born with a rare gift: he is a Sin-Eater, a devourer of the sins of those on the verge of death in order to sanctify their souls. Despite the apparent holiness of the condition, it is largely rejected: a Sin-Eater is often seen as a cannibal, as they take the sins of the dying person into their own body and purify them there. Thus, they are twice-damned by society: they are seen as unholy objects, and they are seen as spiritual cannibals and vampires. Torum got over this a long time ago: it's easier to be persecuted when that's what you grow up as. Torum knows what he is, knows he's a Half-Orc. Govrin's belief in keeping promises and punishing those who do not, in the name of balance, made him desire a kind of justice the law could not give. His gruff raising among the faithful, along with his nature as a Half-Orc and Sin-Eater besides, made Torum more martial. The two combined convinced him to become a bounty hunter. No one is above the law, no one is unbuyable, no one is free of a kind of cosmic justice. Those who upset balance must be punished, and everyone has someone they want to see punished. Torum is jilted, cynical, and sarcastic, but good-natured and principled. He sees things for what they are, not what they should be, but strives to make them what they can be. Pragmatism often hides intent, and he intends to hide behind that as much as he can. Torum likes the ladies. He doesn't mind the gents. Gotta keep yourself balanced, he says. He keeps himself fit, keeps himself afloat, and keeps himself tempered by reality. He trusts no one but himself, and sets expectations for others very low. He likes being surprised, in the rare instances when that happens. But, ultimately, he is willing to trust others so long as it's related to a particular goal that he knows he can't do himself. The Origins: Torum was born into his life of balance and brawls without an opinion in the matter himself. His mother never spoke of his father, but Torum doesn't remember her. She was gone by the time he was two. He never found out what happened to her. Instead, he was raised by the Head Priest of Gorvin, a Human named Janus, in the city of Daggerford. A merchant town of haves and have-not's, Torum never knew what it was to have, never knew what it was to live without being persecuted for the set of hangs he carried, never knew what it was to have someone to rely on. Janus was a harsh father, but he was a father all the same, teaching Torum to be the next high priest. When he was six, a thief was run down in the street by a cart. Janus, as if he knew, brought Torum to the thief to comfort him, to pray over him. And then, it happened: a light-like smoke rose from the thief's mouth, entering Torum's own mouth. The crowd almost lynched him then and there. He had devoured the sins of the thief, Janus told him. And he had: he knew that, and Torum knew more than that. He knew where the thief had hid his stash. He knew where the thief lived, his name, his life before. Small details, often in images and feelings rather than memories. It was his first experience, and it left him simultaneously empty and hungry for more. Torum grew up fighting for his life, and Janus, as a coin-maker, could do little but train his son in the only way he knew how: he gave his adopted son a hammer. In time, working odd jobs with those who did not absolutely hate him—a rare few indeed—he ended up managing to buy a studded leather shirt, a set of daggers, and a warhammer of Dwarven craft. He knew what he wanted to do. He was faithful, he believed in balance. Torum elected to become a bounty hunter, using his Sin-Eating to spare those he punished. He started off lowly, first. The first few years were oddjobs of vengeance, punishing employers, forcing them to offer to pay their employees better, to intimidate them out of town. Sometimes people just wanted their sins sanctified, the rare few who understood his curse as a gift. He obliged them. He even made a few friends, and bedded a few lovers. He wasn't picky; with a mouth like his, how could he be? Life was good, for the first twenty years. And then, on his twenty-first birthday, Torum made a fatal error. He assumed everyone was entitled to a little justice. But he failed to see the balance of injustice. He failed to realize the law did not apply to everyone equally. The Crime: If he's being entirely honest, Torum knows his work was smalltime, odd-jobs at best, and at worst, annoying. It matters little what he thinks of his work. He finally got his big break though: an organization in Daggerford wished to see one of the noble scions of the city, a man named Garrus Vack, publicly humiliated and if possible, killed. Initially, he balked at this: and then, they showed him just how much power he had. That he had broken laws and gotten away with them. That he had abused people, women especially, and there was no recompense. Balance was entirely out of whack, and there was only one Sin-Eater bad enough to fix that. He began with a series of pamphlets he paid to get published, accusing Vack of pedophilia, and that the noble council of Daggerford likely capable of the same crimes. Who was to say otherwise? Published anonymously, it caused quite a stir. But that was not the end of it. He had to balance things out and make Vack pay. He went to Vack's string of lovers and from them, found out information about him, so he could use it against him. Vack, like Torum, was prone to the company of both sexes, it turned out, but the public did not know of Vack's excursions with men, a crime rarely enforced but a crime none the less. And so, on one rainy night, Torum seduced and slept with one Garrick Vack, setting things up so that they would be caught in the act, by the boy's own father and by leaders of both the nobles, religious leaders, legal experts, and of course the more prolific and vitriolic writers of Daggerford. It only went half as well as planned. Arrested, he was told on the spot he would be put away for a long time, and yet, Garrick would have nothing. Admitting to writing the pamphlets, Garrick and his father admitted the accusations Torum had invented were true, and now, he would be going to prison for sedition against the state. Enraged, seeing the world for what it truly was, Torum Trask did the only thing he could in that moment, and taking his warhammer from the constabulary, used it to kill Garrick Vack, his father, and three officers of the law. Attempting to escape, he was caught at the west gate of Daggerford, imprisoned, and sentenced for the primary crimes of murder (four counts), sedition, assault, and disturbance of the peace. When he admitted to these, he decided to tarnish Garrus Vack's reputation, and make the people of Daggerford think, telling them that he'd slept with Garrus and that the nobles often took part in liaisons like this, including with children. The city outraged, the court did its best to call in order and further accused him of unlawful sex acts. Asked why he did it, he admitted to his beliefs and his job. Thus came the accusations of heresy and vigilantism. Having already admitted to these things, he was sentenced to the only thing that was sensible: Prison Colony Krakengard. And so off he went, the city of Daggerford in chaos. It's not pretty, but it's balance. But for Torum, the worst was not the sentencing, but what came after.   "Torum." Shackled, he looked up, face throbbing with the movement. Something about the cut on his forehead made the sentencing feel real. Once he realized that that son of a bitch wasn't going to go down, Torum cared less about balance and knew damn well where he was bound for. Regardless of Garrus, that prick, or any of the others, he was always bound for Krakengard. But, holy symbol around his neck heavy, he felt resolute that it would balance itself out. Mayhaps this was the universe correcting itself, righting a wrong. A sacrifice he'd be willing to make. And there he stood: Janus, the closest thing Govrin had to a head priest. Torum smiled, fangs showing. "Well. Ain't you a sight." "Quiet boy." His tone was blunt, a hammer at Torum's head. He almost flinched; but he was no longer a boy. The Half-Orc stared at his adopted father, trying to understand. "You can never truly know what you've done to us, boy. You've had us branded outlaws, traitors, heretics. That our god is calling for the deaths of the nobility?" "But he ain't. That ain't Govrin's way, 'less it's part'a balance." It was doctrine; it was written. "It is what the people on the street say, and as soon as they know a simple minter such as myself is the so-called 'high priest'—and make no mistake, boy, they will—I will be hanged before I see Krakengard. There's insurrection in the breaths of all the people, and it's your fault." "Well what's got you so riled up, then? I'da thought you'd understand. This is balance, Fath... Janus." Sour face, the already dour man threw back his hood, revealing his balding head, uneven and dented. A hawkish nose made severe eyes all the harsher. "This is not balance, Torum, nor is it a game. You committed grievous sins. Murder is not the least among them, but it is hardly your worst: for you have committed crimes against your god. You have wasted a perfectly good gift, and damned yourself to a life of torment." Torum squinted, his mind racing to understand. "But that's how it works. I'm bein' punished for my actions. That's equilibrium, ain't it?" The slap came quickly and painfully, the open palm finding the wound at his temple; blood flung across the cell, staining the walls. The guards at the door peered in, but did not intervene. They stepped away, either not listening or pretending not to. "INSOLENCE! You were an asset! You were the chance our god had at true faith in this world! You devoured sin and virtue in equal fold, and you never truly realized your own potential. No! You were too busy whoring and wasting your time! You pretended at a true calling and found yourself in hot water, instead of using your gift for balance! Now Govrin must wait for another asset. You are henceforth excommunicated from our god." Torum stared at the wall, unwilling to look at his adopted father. Spite was in his voice, hate. He was being selfish, not sanctimonious. This wasn't about his love as a father, either. It was about his own position in the world—Janus, born the son of a merchant, his life taken from him by vultures and thieves, forced to live as a simple coin-maker far from home, called by a god to higher service. He had always been bitter, but now? This was.... this was different. This was something else. "Now you go to Krakengard, where no god may see, and no power may interfere. What you do there will be erased from the annals, and our god will never remember you. You are dead." "Am I? I ain't the one who's dead, Janus. I ain't the one who screwed up so bad, he's gotta pin it on his own child." "YOU DA—" Torum was up before he finished the sentence, throwing his head into Janus' nose. The crunch bounced off the walls; the guards were slow to work with their key, trying to open the door. "You let'em hate me. You told me not t' use my power, not to eat sins 'less I needed to. You can't blame me f'r that. You ain't got the stones for that. And I swear if I ever see you again, I'mma shove my fist so far up yer scrawny ass I'mma use you as a damned puppet, 'cuz that's all you are. Govrin's not got time for your damned pissant hissy-fits. That ain't what he's 'bout. But you ain't speakin' with my god's voice. You're speakin' from a horse's mouth. And I ain't got time for no horses here." The barrage of fists put him down, but Torum didn't feel them. He was too full of rage and righteousness to feel the blows. He watched his father, being escorted out, looking back at him over a bloodied nose. His face was furious, but terrified. And at the door, he fought to give parting words. "Garrus is alive, in Krakengard." Torum felt every blow after that, the sheer power of the last words of his father. He was going to Krakengard, and he would not be alone.

[Nostrus]

Placeholder for application; making an assumption that Golarion pantheon is being used. I'm going to submit a Human Warpriest of Abadar who wishes to bring civilisation to this desolate place that clearly needs it. He has agreed to enter Krakengard in the same manner as the prisoners to avoid any unnecessary escape attempts this side of the portal. More to come.

Application Name: Marcus Barrdyn Gender: Male Race: Human Appearance: Marcus would be termed average. Standing a shade under six feet in height, and around 170 lbs it would be difficult to pick him out in a crowd if it wasn't for two things: his completely bald head and the regalia of Abadar that seems to permanently adhere itself to his body. He is clean shaven, muscular but not muscle-bound and possesses a piercing stare that seems to cut to the quick when he turns it on someone. He bears a few scars, generally on his forearms although he has a thin line along the ridge of his right jaw. Personality: Marcus is a man used to both being judged and judging. Raised from a very young age as an orphan in the Church of Abadar, it's rites and laws are ingrained within him. He believes that civilisation is the saviour of man and exerts all of his considerable will in it's enforcement. This has the effect of sometimes making him a firebrand, especially when his faith is called into question, but also a man who cares for those who cannot care for themselves. While many of his brethren concern themselves with the banking side of the faith, Marcus has come to realise that true wealth lies in people and that if he invests in them, the interest could well be tenfold. Background: Marcus was left at the steps of a Church of Abadar, and has known no other life. From a very young age, he showed aptitude for the laws and rites of Abadar and entered seminary several years younger than his nearest classmate. This has made him both very advanced for his years but also not as developed socially as he should perhaps be. He has little time for politics, preferring action over words and has been known to storm from the Church when he feels he is being stonewalled in his attempts to make the world a better place. Recently, however, he has been having frightening visions. It began with a vision of the portal to Krakengard. Of course he knew it existed, but he had never set eyes on it. Every night thereafter, he felt in inexorable pull towards the portal. Eventually he decided that Abadar must be willing him to venture through the portal and act as his emissary on the other side. Initial attempts to gain access to the portal proved unsuccessful; neither the Church nor the nobles wanted him to walk through the portal regardless of his desire to do so. That's when he came up with a plan. Roleplay sample: "You do not understand," Marcus exclaimed, exasperated. Yet again, he was being stonewalled about his desire to step through the portal. "We have an obligation to undertake the missions given to us by Abadar, and it is clear from my visions that he believes my place is through that portal." The Arch Deacon reclined in his opulent chair; no doubt paid for by the taxes of the people. "As I said before, Marcus, Krakengard is a prison. It is reserved for those who have done this nation wrong. You cannot simply walk into Krakengard," the Arch Deacon waved his hand, evidently reaching similar heights of exasperation as Marcus was. "Your place is here, amongst your brethren, doing the good work of Abadar." Marcus growled and stormed from the Arch Deacon's office, his face thunderous. He knew Abadar wanted him to take his place in Krakengard, whether to lead or to provide spiritual guidance Marcus did not know, and he would not know until he was there. The Church and nobility however had other plans. They repeatedly denied his requests to pass through with the next group of prisoners. It was beginning to appear that the only way to gain access to Krakengard would be as a prisoner. Marcus stopped mid-stride. The answer was clear now. He could not step through the portal as a free man; but he could as a prisoner. A smile slowly spread across his face; it would mean losing his position in the Church but it seemed that the Church was blocking him from undertaking Abadar's will. With purpose, Marcus strode towards Market Square. There was always a plentiful supply of guards there at this time of day. Bonus: Apostate. Heretic. Unbeliever. These were words cast at William as he was pushed through the portal to Krakengard. His crime? Calling out the Church of Abadar for corruption, accusing them of using the taxes they collected to line their own pockets. William knew there were good people in their midst; folks who would put their own safety on the line in the darkest streets to bring some light, but most of them - rotten to the core. Since he had arrived in Krakengard, William had carved out a safe little niche. He avoided working outside of the runes as much as possible by getting his hands on a few of the choicer items in the daily shipment. Of course, it was a perilous occupation; the bosses on this side would kill him if he overstepped his mark but in the months since his incarceration, William had walked the line well and even had one favour from one of the mid-level bosses to use on a rainy day. I see William as either a foil or an ally for Marcus, depending on the situation of their meeting. They are unaffiliated aside from the connection through Abadar.

For the purposes of additional languages, would it be known whether the demons can speak and comprehend languages and if so, which languages they know?

[Sassafrass]

I think the assumption is that we, as players, fill in the blanks with the world around us. It's not set in stone, and Inem wants us to make our characters from the ground up. We create reasons why we're in there, and do so by creating cities, nobles, gods, criminals, etc. because it won't matter once we're inside Krakengard. Unless we make it relevant to Krakengard, that is

[Pendragon]

 

Character Name	Ursho Guuant
Race	Orc
Gender	Male
Class	Brawler
Archetype	Possibly Mutagenic Mauler

Appearance

Ursho is not yet old, only 30 winters have passed since his birth, but he looks worse for wear. He has spent much of his life outside and elements have worn and weathered his features into a creased leathery mask. He has large tusks that jut up from his lower jaw and a flat broad nose. He wears little clothing, a simple animal hide, likely a scrap of tiger or bear hide covers from his waste to knees and simple hide sandals are laced up to his knee as well. When he was captured he was unarmed and though he can use a weapon he doesn't often carry one, he tends to be capable with whatever is available, be that only his fists or a stool in a tavern. Ursho has a long matted black hair with a large braided black beard. His skin is covered in tribal paint and tattoos, though most of the paint has faded by this time due to the imprisonment.

Personality

Ursho is an Orc. He is not kind, he does not tolerate weakness, and he is no one's friend. He has a short fuse and believes a swift kick or punch will repair almost all situations. He was brought up to believe that only the weak shared their feeling, and so he tries to keep a cool and even attitude unless rage over takes him. His outward front hides his true emotions whenever possible. He is capable of deeper feelings but they are not something he likes to keep on display.

Crimes

Assault, Trespassing, Murder, Disturbing the Peace, Drunkenness, Rape (Accusation), Theft, Destruction of Property.

Background & RP Sample -

Bonus Name: Vikantha "Viki the Knife" Bulgora Race: Dwarf Class if applicable: Rogue Description: Viki the Knife as she is widely known gets her name from the long knives that she carries in a bandolier across her stout chest. She is known to launch said knives in a flurry of violence and mayhem, though she tends to aim away from vitals as much as possible. You see the other thing that Viki is known for is her use of knives in the torture and vivisection of her enemies. She does this at times for information, which is part and parcel of her trade, but more often than not it is simply because she enjoys the act. Torture, when used for information is the means by which she has kept herself alive as a clanless off cast from the Dwarven strongholds. The information garnered by her activities lines her pockets as she sells it off to the highest bidder. Viki herself is around 3'8" and lean for a dwarf. She has broad shoulders and a thick neck as you would expect of a dwarf, and her honey colored hair is always pulled back tight in a bun with a leather cord. A scar runs the length of her face, nearly cutting it in two, it healed badly, despite being stitched competently. Connection to Ursho: Ursho gave Viki the scar with one her own knives which he pulled from his own arm. She accused Urscho of rape when she was arrested, along with implicating him in all of her crimes.

Would you allow the race Orc? There are a couple different directions that I could go in with that races. Not saying Half-Orc isn't good enough, I do have ideas for that race as well, I just want to narrow it down.

[Inem]

If I missed any questions, I apologize in advance. If that is the case, don't hesitate to point it out/ask again.

Originally Posted by Nostrus

Which pantheon are you using? Golarion?

Sassafrass gave a good answer:

Originally Posted by Sassafrass

I think the assumption is that we, as players, fill in the blanks with the world around us. It's not set in stone, and Inem wants us to make our characters from the ground up. We create reasons why we're in there, and do so by creating cities, nobles, gods, criminals, etc. because it won't matter once we're inside Krakengard. Unless we make it relevant to Krakengard, that is

There's not really much to add to this. If you write the world as having standard Golarion deities, then the world has standard deities. If someone else makes a cleric of some obscure pantheon and says those also existed as a secret cult, then those deities are also worshiped. Now religion in the colony is a whole other matter. You can generally assume there isn't too many clerics in the colony, and most of the prisoners probably don't really worship gods anymore after having been in this desolate place for a while. There's more, but I'm not willing to give that away in advance since your characters wouldn't know.

@Nostrus: If your character has agreed to enter willingly for the reasons you give, you are still going to have to give me reasons why the nobles/the king would agree to this. How did he convince them to let him in? Because off the bat, they'd probably see no reason to let him go in and 'stir up trouble' unless he has some convincing arguments.

Originally Posted by RedSun

What, specifically, is the wildlife/ecosystem of Kraakengard like?

Diverse, with quite a few dangerous creatures. Smarter than average wildlife due to facing the constant threat of demons. Most wildlife is not going to be creatures that are like deer and can only run away, but instead can defend their territory. It's also going to be mostly or entirely fantastical creatures I've made up/stolen from elsewhere and not real world wildlife. Other than that, climate really depends on where you are in Krakengard, grassland and forest predominates the central area where the game will start, but you don't have to go toooo far to find something else.

Originally Posted by dirkoth

This sounds like it shares elements with one of my favorite new book series...

I will admit to certain concepts blatantly being stolen from a certain book series. In fact, a lot of the ideas are stolen from various book series, computer games, etc. However, I'm changing everything enough that even people familiar with the source material can still enjoy it and will be surprised. And if you are referring to the book series I think you are referring to: That I'm mainly using for the cool flavor, not really for the plot. So even if you recognize something, you don't have to worry

Originally Posted by Pendragon

Would you allow the race Orc? There are a couple different directions that I could go in with that races. Not saying Half-Orc isn't good enough, I do have ideas for that race as well, I just want to narrow it down.

I would allow Orc, yes, as long as you explain how they fit into the outside world. I would also allow you to use a half-orc base and reflavor it to be an orc, if you would prefer that (losing the 'count as having human blood' aspect, but I'm not sure if that has ever come up in my games anyway...). Basically, as long as you tell me how they fit into the outside kingdom/society, and how they are viewed out there, Orcs are fine.

[Pendragon]

Excellent... Mr Smithers bring me my writing quill!

[Nostrus]

Application updated.