Re: The Delicious Engagement [Grand Battle S2G3] [9 slots open]
05-26-2010, 07:24 PM
Originally posted on MSPA by Nodge.
Character Name: Timothy Swhales
Gender: Male
Race: Human
Tekhst Culla: #0040BF
Cool Shit You Can Do: Tims' plundered celtic graveyard torc affords him the scattered graces of their faded pantheon; offerings, sacrifices and even simple prayers in their name (provided he can remember their name) can result in boons provided to him; a light to guide his path, the wind to cushion his fall, a sword dragged within his grasp, etcetera.
The downsides are notable; the Gods' are old and dying and riddled with something akin to deific senility. They do not respond if they don't feel like it, or if they don't think Timothy's' sacrifices are sufficient, or if they don't like his tone, or if it is a Tuesday and raining, or for any reason they choose. They are not answerable to him. Sometimes, Timothy suspects that they are simply to weak to aid him, even if they want to. He isn't aware of it, but the human sacrifices he's given them have left them with with a type of Kuru - a disease a lot like CJD. Their minds are going, but they'll never truly die.
Cool Weapons You Have: In addition to the tarnished torc around his neck that is his link to the Gods, Tim wields a shortsword with a professional attitude and considerably more trust. He keeps a dirk strapped to his leg, which he is a reasonably good shot with. He wears a greasy, tough leather lamellar cuirass he stripped from a merchant guard which is fairly tough, but little else in the way of armour, fearing it would slow down his reflexes.
Description: A wiry, thin welshman with stubble sticking out from his face in clumps, Timothy makes a likely highwayman and an unlikely high priest. He wears homespun clothing with the texture and smell of sacking, with an unusually high collar to cover the torc. His expression generally defaults to one whose owner has just put a large spoon of sugar in their tea only to discover it was salt. His hair is a dark brown and cut scruffily short.
His gaze darts around, even when talking. You get the impression he is considering at all times whether to fight or run, a choice which shortly will be cut in half.
Biography: Timothy is a bad man from the thirteenth century AD. He is also not the sharpest knife in the drawer. He legged it from his home in Cheshire at fifteen after stealing quite a lot of small valuables from work, was caught, beaten and left to die in a ditch in the welsh foothills. He was found by a pair of elderly graverobbers, who patched him up on the understanding that he would get a (small) cut of the profits provided he did all the heavy lifting.
He did this for about a year. Then, in a Celtic crypt in Tryweryn valley the old men couldn't get into, he found the Celtic Torc of the High Priest and was informed matter-of-factly by a God calling Himself Lugus that he was now High Priest of the Pantheon of the Celts and if they didn't get an ordainment sacrifice within the hour he'd have to get used to life without skin. Tim solved this by stumbling outside and braining the two elderly men with his looting shovel, to which he was congratulated by some of his new acquired pantheon and admonished by others, who would have accepted fruit.
Various Gods chimed in and explained his new predicament in excruciatingly dull detail, but Tim understood this: One; The torc doesn't come off unless the head comes with it. Two; The Gods want worship, even from some like you. Three; they're desperate. They're even willing to do something as lowly as trade miracles in return for prayers, sacrifices and works in their name. The last one left Tim with a bit of a grin on his face.
He dropped grave robbing and set out to make some serious money. He joined a gang of highwaymen and spent several years looting isolated homes and travelling merchants with alarming success and the occasional human sacrifice. The men in the gang didn't know the details, but they knew that Swhales was lucky and that was enough to eventually put him on top. Granted, he was living in the woods and hunted by both the crown and several private landowners, but he was feeling pretty smug.
This was about the time that the Gods started going weird on him; his crew were caught on a job he'd been informed of by a helpful Lugus, and none of the Gods would answer his pleas. Some laughed, Belenos screeched, but most just ignored him. His crew were cut down to a man, but he escaped and spent several years on the run living hand to mouth. During this time, the Gods got increasingly mad with none able to explain why.
Now he's around twenty-five, living in South Wales and stealing from the poor to get by. He spends his days trying to simultaneously appease the Gods he's stuck with and get help from them, whilst at the same time running from King Johns' law enforcers (who have a surprisingly long memory). Principally, five of the stronger, saner Gods of the Pantheon still help him, but it's not easy for anyone involved. He has learned through bitter experience to rely on their help only when his life does not depend on it, or when he has no other choice.
Yes?: I think so!
Favorite Food: Whatever he can take from you.
Fears: Living with a head full of mad, useless gods, The Future, giant beetles.
What Were You Doing When A Big Horrifying Arm Grabbed You Out Of Space: Scaling a fence to get into an abattoir, which he is using to hide stuff taken from four town-houses acquired during one of his better afternoons.
Character Name: Timothy Swhales
Gender: Male
Race: Human
Tekhst Culla: #0040BF
Cool Shit You Can Do: Tims' plundered celtic graveyard torc affords him the scattered graces of their faded pantheon; offerings, sacrifices and even simple prayers in their name (provided he can remember their name) can result in boons provided to him; a light to guide his path, the wind to cushion his fall, a sword dragged within his grasp, etcetera.
The downsides are notable; the Gods' are old and dying and riddled with something akin to deific senility. They do not respond if they don't feel like it, or if they don't think Timothy's' sacrifices are sufficient, or if they don't like his tone, or if it is a Tuesday and raining, or for any reason they choose. They are not answerable to him. Sometimes, Timothy suspects that they are simply to weak to aid him, even if they want to. He isn't aware of it, but the human sacrifices he's given them have left them with with a type of Kuru - a disease a lot like CJD. Their minds are going, but they'll never truly die.
Cool Weapons You Have: In addition to the tarnished torc around his neck that is his link to the Gods, Tim wields a shortsword with a professional attitude and considerably more trust. He keeps a dirk strapped to his leg, which he is a reasonably good shot with. He wears a greasy, tough leather lamellar cuirass he stripped from a merchant guard which is fairly tough, but little else in the way of armour, fearing it would slow down his reflexes.
Description: A wiry, thin welshman with stubble sticking out from his face in clumps, Timothy makes a likely highwayman and an unlikely high priest. He wears homespun clothing with the texture and smell of sacking, with an unusually high collar to cover the torc. His expression generally defaults to one whose owner has just put a large spoon of sugar in their tea only to discover it was salt. His hair is a dark brown and cut scruffily short.
His gaze darts around, even when talking. You get the impression he is considering at all times whether to fight or run, a choice which shortly will be cut in half.
Biography: Timothy is a bad man from the thirteenth century AD. He is also not the sharpest knife in the drawer. He legged it from his home in Cheshire at fifteen after stealing quite a lot of small valuables from work, was caught, beaten and left to die in a ditch in the welsh foothills. He was found by a pair of elderly graverobbers, who patched him up on the understanding that he would get a (small) cut of the profits provided he did all the heavy lifting.
He did this for about a year. Then, in a Celtic crypt in Tryweryn valley the old men couldn't get into, he found the Celtic Torc of the High Priest and was informed matter-of-factly by a God calling Himself Lugus that he was now High Priest of the Pantheon of the Celts and if they didn't get an ordainment sacrifice within the hour he'd have to get used to life without skin. Tim solved this by stumbling outside and braining the two elderly men with his looting shovel, to which he was congratulated by some of his new acquired pantheon and admonished by others, who would have accepted fruit.
Various Gods chimed in and explained his new predicament in excruciatingly dull detail, but Tim understood this: One; The torc doesn't come off unless the head comes with it. Two; The Gods want worship, even from some like you. Three; they're desperate. They're even willing to do something as lowly as trade miracles in return for prayers, sacrifices and works in their name. The last one left Tim with a bit of a grin on his face.
He dropped grave robbing and set out to make some serious money. He joined a gang of highwaymen and spent several years looting isolated homes and travelling merchants with alarming success and the occasional human sacrifice. The men in the gang didn't know the details, but they knew that Swhales was lucky and that was enough to eventually put him on top. Granted, he was living in the woods and hunted by both the crown and several private landowners, but he was feeling pretty smug.
This was about the time that the Gods started going weird on him; his crew were caught on a job he'd been informed of by a helpful Lugus, and none of the Gods would answer his pleas. Some laughed, Belenos screeched, but most just ignored him. His crew were cut down to a man, but he escaped and spent several years on the run living hand to mouth. During this time, the Gods got increasingly mad with none able to explain why.
Now he's around twenty-five, living in South Wales and stealing from the poor to get by. He spends his days trying to simultaneously appease the Gods he's stuck with and get help from them, whilst at the same time running from King Johns' law enforcers (who have a surprisingly long memory). Principally, five of the stronger, saner Gods of the Pantheon still help him, but it's not easy for anyone involved. He has learned through bitter experience to rely on their help only when his life does not depend on it, or when he has no other choice.
Yes?: I think so!
Favorite Food: Whatever he can take from you.
Fears: Living with a head full of mad, useless gods, The Future, giant beetles.
What Were You Doing When A Big Horrifying Arm Grabbed You Out Of Space: Scaling a fence to get into an abattoir, which he is using to hide stuff taken from four town-houses acquired during one of his better afternoons.