| Regeneration : |
47 |
| Energetic immunity : |
49 |
| Trade sense : |
32 |
| Briskness : |
44 |
| Initiative : |
35 |
| Defence : |
113 |
| Attack : |
182 |
| Power : |
64 |
| Luck : |
19 |
|
|
| Principle of Imagination |
= 135 |
| Time Principle |
= 141 |
| Principle of Balance |
= 123 |
| Principle of Syntropy |
= 190 |
| Element Principle |
= 126 |
|
|
|
|
Loading human character...
|
|
| You are not yet a member of any alliance |
|
| Myth, Legend; but a man. |
 Precious little can be dug up on this newcomer, in fact it seems that there is little history on Driftwood before very recently. If you were to ask Driftwood, he would only smile wickedly. His garbing is not common, and he says very little that does not have a point (Even if that point lies beyond obvious interpretation). A leather overcoat covers his shoulders and moves well past his thighs, but the sleeves are torn to show horribly scarred arms the color of bark. His chest his bare, and his legs are covered in leather breeches. Thick dreadlocks come down to his chin, and more often than not cover the mans face save his mouth. Even then though, his eyes can make themselves known. He moves bare-footed at all times, over broken glass and hot coals if need be, and his pursuit is relentless if those eyes are laid on you. \" From the Vault of Heaven to the Pit of Hell I will pursue you. Your debts will be cleared, this I promise you\". The legend spread amongst peasant folk is that he crawled out of the primordial ooze, in a conflux of potent magery and fate. Ridiculous. But Drift does nothing to put down this rumour, nor to support it. He travels for now, biding his time and building his power.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
There always seemed to be a distance between the man Driftwood, and those that were near him. Amongst salons and throngs alike there was something that hovered around him, shivered about him that kept all others at bay. There were, of course, times where what could be called a guard was dropped. That term however, is completely improper. One could ask The Archivist Pamplemousse, or perhaps the Pirate-Captain Cryxus ( though admittedly, it has been some time since that one has seen it). Ask of them how his gaze sparkles when the dreadlocks are pulled away, or how that same gaze glowers and smolders when the tendrils hide his face.
He smiled softly, one of the moments where he was himself. His wide grin spoke of the first breath of spring, and his gentle look whispered of secrets to be told if only he were asked. " I Was born in Loreroot, though those days are so far behind me that they could be called another life". As always, he was dressed for utility. Tanned-hide leggings that had seen him through so much, and the leather overcoat that showed his chest and arms. An innumerable number of pouches, sewn on pockets, and satchels adorned his figure, and it was here that his hands found themselves. Big tanned hands with calloused fingers, a matching pair that each set themselves to different purposes. One moved with practiced grace to a well worn pouch; pulled from it was his pipe, splinter, and leaf. The other searched frenetically, patting some pockets, fingering through pouches. Throughout the entire ordeal his eyes never left yours, his soft grin unwavering, if a bit apologetic. Finally he pulled out a piece of red silk, a ribbon really, and tied his hair back with one deft hand. " Thank you for your indulgence, Sit if you wish.".
His customary spot was by the fire, two well worn upholstered chairs both facing the flame. Before he found his seat he lit the splinter in the licking light, puffing his leaf-packed pipe to life. " Yes, I can't say as I remember my parents faces. I do, however, remember running barefoot through the woods. I had no friends, I couldn't tell you why; I just preferred to stalk and run through the woods silently I suppose. I worshiped at the altar of Wolf and Stag. I had seen enough summers to call myself a man, had my first shave and offered the shaved stubble to the moon as was custom. That is my last true memory among my people*.
A few had gathered, it was rare he spoke so much in one sitting. He, however, showed no notice; he was lost in the story. " I was hunting for the first time as a man, with bow and knife I stalked Hart and Fox. The moon had long since past it's zenith, a full moon that was unnaturally bright that evening. I remember believing it watched me...how true our idle dreams can become. In my wand'rings i happened upon a cave. I cannot explain my fixation on it, but for so many heartbeats I stood and considered it. Every time i ventured to walk past it, my heart would scream at me to turn back. In my own time i entered into that dark; naught but keen eyes and sharp ears to lead me into it's depths".
It was odd to watch his idle perfection. As he sat and spoke he was at a perfect rest. His spine was straight and his hands evenly on each thigh; perfect balance at all times. Each puff on his burning pipe sent forth a perfect circle, each in turn concentric to the one before it. " The depths of that cave were endless, I lost my way in fact. I was beyond the smell of fresh air and I began to panic. Still, though, i moved forward. I wish I could explain that night, that feeling.....the reason i did not turn and run. If I could tell you how much time had passed I would. Eventually I was beyond panic. My people do not do well outside of the free air, my very bones shivered with fear that I would die in this dank and stale place. In my...fear..in my panic I cried out. With all of me I cried out to whomever would listen. It was not the Stag that carried me swiftly, nor the Wolf that stalked form shadow to shadow to show me the way. No..."
His eyes took on a...harder look. A difficult look to explain. The sort of look you see on a grizzled veterans face when you tell him what a hero he was; when the child says that he too wishes for a life glory such as this warrior's. "He Called himself the Maker. He did not appear as a man, or a flash, or anything. He was an undeniable presence that told me He had led me here. Told me that he had Made me For a specific purpose. He Told me that this Cavern led through the Three Hells. The three realms of Disharmony after this life ends and move on to the next. He told me that was my path home. He said safe passage was assured through it, though I would learn things that I perhaps would wish I hadn't. He offered me the choice of moving forward with certainty of safety of and change, or to turn around and wander the darkness and perhaps find my way home the same man; also to perhaps die in anonymity....What choice was that?
" I WIll not tell you here what I saw in those realms, and I cannot tell you where I traveled between after those hells and before home. I can tell you that I learned much In Dis, Limbo, and Purgatory; the Maker was right, I wish that things hadn't been necessary to learn. There are old Laws that govern this world. There are older rules that one such as I must play by. Rules are the nature of the world. We breathe, or we die. Eat Or die. These are rules. Without these rules we would have no life. It is similar with myself. These rules Give me much power, but define the way it may be used strictly. There are very few that still play the Oldest game. ".
His empty pipe was tapped free of it's ash, his body stretched out towards the hearth and reaching. He stood and stowed the long piece of shaped wood, pulling the ribbon from his hair and letting the dreadlocks cover his features once more. His Dark eyes almost seemed to glow behind the napped tendrils. That aforementioned 'something' hung around him now, perhaps you know what it is now. " It is this ones purpose to remind this World of It's Maker. To wander ceaselessly and re-teach the Oldest game. Rekindle the Ancient laws. This one is tireless. This one will pursue the end, until the end is reached." His features softened, his neck tilting to one side, letting his hair fall to the side to show his face. " Then I will die. My purpose fulfilled, and allowed to return to my true home".
He turned then, without a goodbye, without even an acknowledgment that he was done. Bare feet, calloused hard and road-stained, bore him out of the small building. Silence was all that he left in his wake, that and the subtle crackle of a fire that was soon to be put to bed.
|
(Image may be subject to copyright. Read the note at the end of this page.).
|
|
|
|
|
| Hatred is a waste of Energy. |
A Quest-ion.
This one offers you a quest-ion. There is no reward, at least none that this one can offer you of obvious worth. But nonetheless, the quest is offered, and if one chooses to accept the offer, then steps will begun on a long and winding path.
This one has the courtesy of participating in a conversation, a debate, with what the nature of truth was. Whether or not there was in fact a knowable truth. This one has his answers, this one will give you his answers, but without wisdom of one's own, this one's answers will be a tree that offers no fruit. Thus, if one desires the answers, one must answer a question in kind. Let it be considered an offer of Good-will, good-faith payment before what is offered may be gleaned. This entire course presupposes that one has a care for what this one considers and contemplates on Truth, which all good men and women who consider and contemplate truth should.
That question, is thus:
In this one's travel, it has come to be concluded that each person, living dead and unborn, has bound to their essence a single word. A True name, if such an indulgence is allowed. This word is emblazoned on one's heart, branded on one's soul and actions. It is the absolute, empirical, distilled, simple truth of that person, bound in a single rhythm of letters and vowels. This one poses, to you, What word is it that you carry?
This one implores that you consider long and hard what that word is, consider the implications, the consequences, the power, the reason, and the nature of that word. Once you have concluded, and you are willing to bear the weight of that knowledge, come and speak with this one..knowledge will be traded in kind.
The name is deceiving, for this is more than just a game. When all the worlds, and all the planes were but formless mist, this is how Powers claimed their superiority. How can that without a shape, without a form, test their strength against one another. The obvious answer is with influence, how we mere mortals are affected by their presence and their promises. How then, before men and monsters, was dominance established? That is how The Oldest Game arose.
It is a contest of ideas, of dreams, of natures, and of innate power. Blows are never laid, fingers are never curled into fists and steel is never shown. Instead, in that ephemeral twilight realm, ideas are given form, and combatants are always shifting. It is a difficult thing to explain, if you wish to learn, This one will show you. Worry not, you risk nothing but your pride....at least the first time. Do not forget though, this is the way the first wars were waged, and idle sparring is saved for those dearly trusted.
As all things, this form is not without it's rules. One must be challenged, or issue a challenge; the challenge must then be accepted. It is by the giving and acceptance of the challenge that the conflict is given weight, given life. The Challenger strikes first, the Challenged however chooses where the combat will take place Strength is not measured from sword-arms and speed, instead from innate oneness and wisdom of the world. Strikes are not born of steel and magery, rather from ones nature. If you find it cryptic, This one apologizes, but there are few ways to actually give word to The Oldest game; to do so risks oversimplification.
The attacks are given life by a particular diction. " I am the Stag, Elusive and Silent". In response " I am the Hunter, Trap-setting, Stag-Hunting". This is the simplest of forms, a training form really in which one who is not familiar may be made familiar. The forms must begin with what is literal, The stg and the hunter. As combat rages, more abstract concepts may be used. The speed at which the abstract may take form is directly related to the power of the Combatant. To attempt a form beyond your ken, beyond your strength, is frightfully dangerous at best.
On the topic of combat forms. The strength of one's form is directly proportional to how in tune that form is with the Combatant. This is a difficult thing to word. If a man is Brash, impulsive, and passionate, then his forms should suit. Constraining forms, binding forms, are lacking a oneness with him, and as such are weak and easily broken.
Victory is simple. One must yield. One may yield atively, declaring his own defeat. One may also yield by the inability to present a a form that effectively counters their opponents form, or by the inablity to present a form in a timely manner.
OOC:
These rules are difficult to enforce, by the very nature of the game. It was originally written by Neil Gaimain in the graphic novel series The Sandman. As I wrote, it is inteded for Gods, Power, and Principlaties to do battle. By their nature they are bound by rules; as such the 'rules' for this game are just an expression of the way battle actually took place between these entities. If you wish to engage in this form of combat with me, I would love to oblige; however, please come with a sense of honor, fair-play, and respect for the game.
Look for more on this subject if you find it interesting.
|
|
| Page 451 - The Traveler |
| "What is this, a comedy? humans walking around the graveyward collecting tormented souls?? arghhh, you will pay for that! Is Necrovion a joke for you?" The Sentinel gets darken and darker and its shape has many faces now. The sky turns grey then dark, as if night remembered to come once more over these damned lands. ... |
This story involves real player characters and updates every few hours.
Read the rest of the story in the game...you could become part of it |
IMAGE COPYRIGHT NOTE: If you hold the exclusive rights to any of the images used above and do not wish for them to appear on our sites, please contact us with the information proving your ownership and they will be removed immediately. |
