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  • What's your story today?

    I was talking to some folks in the WA about some things that we, as players, can help add to the game world and community that makes TEC more wonderful. One of my favorite memories as a young man playing TEC was after a fun storyline had finished or something great had played itself out in the game - we would submit a fan fiction, poem or short story. So in an effort to add a bit of fun out here I'm going to throw out an idea:

    Had a fun interaction? Wanted to share a story that was meaningful to you? Maybe a player interaction turned RP session was really immersive and wanted to share? Feel free to post it up!
    Here, I'll start first.
    The Island

    The Woodsman came out of the woods
    To see what there could be
    He came out of the woods on purpose
    To seek citizenship you see

    While others made plans and bargains
    The Woodsman just sat alone
    His plan was a simple one in theory
    Either way he would end up back home

    Once the ship of destiny landed
    Fear was nowhere to be seen
    The Woodsman felt this was his calling
    Live free - Or lie dead in the forest green

    He walked out and started to hurry
    He knew that he had but a chance
    Collecting resources a plenty
    He hoped they would not strike at first glance

    Gazing around he saw landmarks
    He pick one that seemed far away
    While hiding from others carefully
    He survived a time longer, our castaway

    Picking a tall tree he began to climb
    Until he reach the tip top
    Alas! The Poor Woodsman would make it
    But it would be his last stop

    The woodsman tried to bargain
    Explaining he was useful and such
    The others decided against it
    One more would be just a crutch
    Originally posted by Dyro
    Good RP is consistency.
    Originally posted by Cloudy
    Shiloboy wins.
    Fatality.
    Keep up the good work.

  • #2


    “I’m all that remains of the old protectors..” He stared across the woods he called his own. Long ago, he worked with the family that owned this woods, he fought the odds, and then he left it all behind. No one needed heroes anymore. Iridine had fallen, thieves owned the city, citizens turned on each other just to get one step up. “I will continue to defend the woods, this has become my mask, my shield and my sanity” He found himself less likely to charge into insanity on whims, throwing himself at every enemy that reared its face against Iridine. “I feel old, I feel so forgotten” He returned to a city he no longer knew, all his enemies were dead, as well as his friends. And it was time to rebuild, to fix his dream, and return the woods to greatness.

    “I can hide behind this plate, this mask, it is easier to ignore how things have become, if i become something else” He turned his daily routine into strike against the clans, destroy the bandits, and focus strictly on the road. It was his road, these were his woods, and he wouldn’t let anyone ever take them from him again.

    Long ago, when he was young, he would let people close, he would try to make them laugh, now he accepted his place in the world. Up and down the road, clearing the path for safety. It used to matter, the road is less traveled now, it feels empty. But he didn’t forget his oath, he didn’t give up, Iridine changed, he didn’t. Sometimes he feels like it’s time..sometimes he feels like maybe he should accept he’s outdated. And other days,he feels alive chasing down all sorts of monsters that plague the woods. And in those days, he feels like those ghosts that haunt the woods..they cheer him on. He hears them yelling “Doot”
    "Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it."

    Comment


    • #3
      "Well shit." The Whore knew she was screwed. Her good for nothing ex-husband was the first to leave the ship and had long since fled into the forests of the island. After sorting through what little belongings she had on herself, The Whore slowly began to wander into the forests after him. There was some seriously crazy shit on this island, the least of which being her former husband, and just when she thought she had seen it all she was continually surprised by something new. One thing that wasn't new was the hordes of moronic people that would try to kill her the first chance they got. Mulling over this, The Whore sped up her pace a little.

      The deeper into the woods she roamed, The Whore began to realise something that surprised even herself. She was pretty happy out here. Sure, things were trying to maim her and chew her face off, but that wasn't so different from back home. The only real difference was that back home they paid her for the trouble, but money definitely didn't seem like all that much of an issue out here. It was actually quite peaceful.

      After roaming around for a few hours and gathering all the supplies that she could find, The Whore finally found a place of respite, a tree that she could rest within for awhile. It had been a long journey and rest was definitely something that she needed. She began to set about her traps so that she could catch the local wildlife, then, after falling on her face several times, she scaled the tree and found a nice and quiet place to rest. Her dreams were peaceful but her waking was far less so. When she opened her eyes she saw a man shrouded in a hood standing over her. A sigh escaped her, probably the last one she would ever make.

      Comment


      • #4

        Tributes - kill me when you must. But first, please help me tell your story. May my body rot on this island, but may my words find their way back to the Republic.

        My name is Somatis Calavius, and I am a scribe. The words you read here are the final attempt of my long, unremarkable life, the failures of which are the fault of my own. I pray Ereal grants me this one last chance to pursue those bewitching mistresses who have eluded my crude charms for near fifty years - insight into others, and adventure.

        --------------------------

        Senator Thimis Nelsor himself has accompanied the nigh one hundred Tributes who dispersed into the bowels of a thick, spacious galley, bound for the old slaver's island, called Cullaiden. My boyhood dreams are thwarted nearly immediately - instead of being able to seize this, once in our hundred collective lifetimes, opportunity to meet fellow Tributes, my glut, pampered girth succumbs to seasickness nearly throughout the entire sea journey. Already I am useless.

        On my brief pass through the upper deck, I see in passing, a man filling himself on wine, toasting others and encouraging celebration, sprawled on a deck chair as if it were a throne. A surly, hard-bodied woman who eyes everyone on the ship like unsatisfying, tiny prey. A man who cannot stop cracking jokes, another who urges Senator Nelsor himself to fulfill his last wishes. Some very skinny things, one female so fair and delicate she seems hardly a mouthful for wild beast. A man at the outskirts of our crowd, shifting and self conscious in the tunic they've made us strip down to, clearly unaccustomed to being without the full coverage and weight of armor. I do not see the constables - one of whom has surely been the most publicized Tribute since news of this thing spread like wildfire.

        I fight crippling nausea and disappointment in myself to even make it off that ship. I find myself now on a narrow strip of beach, overlooking a lagoon, surrounded by fruiting citrus trees. Within the lagoon is a strange circle of rocks, from within which fresh water spills forth.

        And while I set myself down to scribe these words, Ereal's light bursts free over the horizon - a glorious sunrise, highlighting a tall timber to the east of me, and a dark stream of smoke rising from the foliage southeast.

        --------------------------

        I need to find others. My writings are useless without encountering someone else. What's more, I have no skills with which to survive on my own.

        [The rest of his writings may or may not be found IG. ]

        Comment


        • #5
          Working on the backstory for my veteran character, sorry its a very rough draft of what I have wrote out at home and is a grammar and typo mess..but here is the first part.

          His is a tale of a happy life, ended by bloodshed.

          A happy childhood filled with riches, and a loving family ended with the tips of blades and arrows.

          The only son of a landowner who always dreamed of passing on the family lumber business to the boy, and a mother who only dreamed of seeing her children live happy lives.

          He was born on Altene soil, but always knew Iridine was home.

          The day that life ended was a day that was supposed to be filled with joy, his family had just docked in a small port to restock a fading supply of fresh water and to let their pampered slaves sleep in an actual bed.

          It was shortly after they went to sleep that he heard the first screams and was grabbed out of bed by his father, who loudly exclaimed it's time to go. The boy tried to rub the haze from his eyes and gaze around the room for his mother but she was nowhere in site, as they ran out into the hallway of the inn his father grabbed his axe that he swore he would never use again and broke down a burning door to exit the inn which was being rapidly swallowed by hungry flames..it was then he saw his mother and sister, side by side with a pool of blood surrounding them. The boy lept out of his fathers arms and collapsed in a fit of tears and vomiting.

          His father roughly shook him and told him there is no time for this and bent over to scoop him up, his arms never met the boy as the hard blow of a mace sent him spiraling on top of the terrified boy, a large man in bloods soaked armor stood over him laughing at pointing the mace at the child. It was then another man in a crimson cloak, said something in an unknown language and pushed him aside before greeting the boy with the butt of a capped stave.

          When he awoke he was on a hastily constructed wagon surrounded by men in crimson armor, he knew that his life had changed and his childhood was over..

          The man in the cloak walked into the room, the boy filled with anger when he saw he was proudly waving around his fathers ax..

          The next five years turned into a blur of abuse, and forced labor. The captors had grown fond of calling the boy "Rabbit" due to his short height, and decided that he should sleep in the pen with them..

          On a day of celebration for his captives, he learned through insults and laughs that the man who had killed his father would be visiting the camp. That night he was brought from sleep by a cold touch on his neck, he opened his eyes to see an ax against his throat and to the laughter of a familiar voice. The man was standing over him, and laughing at seeing "The rabbit" sleeping in filth and joking about how much his life has improved..The boy leapt up but was promptly kicked back down and left on the ground as the man made a few final barbs and walked out.

          That night the boy came up with a plan, he waited until the soldiers had fallen into a alcohol induced slumber and snuck out of his pen, he crawled in the dark past the two guards on duty and manged to make it to the biggest tent in the camp, knowing who would be inside.

          As he entered the tent, he spotted his fathers ax and even has he walked to the bed with the ax in his hand he wondered if he could actually do this..The man woke up and looked up at him and asked him what a little rabbit is going to do with such a big ax, the sound of his voice took him back to the day his life changed and in a fit of anger he brought the axe down on the mans neck..a spring of blood sprout from the man and the boy learned something about himself..vengeance was the first thing in years that made him happy..he went through the camp ending life after life..even taking the lives of the rabbits he had shared a "bed" with..

          When he heard movement coming from several of the tents, the boy decided to steal a horse and flee the camp for the one place he knew..The Rabbit was going home.

          Comment


          • #6
            Methodios Callias is one of two children born in Altene to a proud mother (and devoted member of the Lionesses) and an Iridinan legionary (hence his Iridinian name). His father (now deceased) was a mid-ranking representative of Legio II sent with a small party to investigate the possibility of hiring the famed Lionesses in the fights to control Rock Valley and the barbarian tribes that plagued the southern border. He remained a distant, but mindful, father figure but never married his lover. She eventually left him and wed a kind and worthy Altene man - a senior member of the White Sharks. His Altene parents were active in his upbringing, loving, and influential figures in his life, but he remained captivated by everything he had known of Iridine, and it’s country. Sadly, with time and age, he grew distant from his Iridinian father and can barely recall his face and voice.

            Taught from a young age to be truthful, honorable, and to uphold his oaths, Methodios often elected to defend the underdogs in childhood scuffles and the trials that accompany youth. Though this resulted in him biting off more than he could chew on some occasions, his elder sister (ever the warrior) proved to be a ready and willing ally when she perceived assistance was called for (or a foe if Methodios was deemed to be in the wrong). It was what could be considered a happy childhood.

            Conflict, however, dominates the lives of many Altenes who are encouraged (vehemently at times) to find a home in one of the nations only exports: the mercenary companies. Though not mandatory, most walk that path. Those who reject this path and instead elect to walk down the least traveled road find themselves the subject of some ridicule, but mainly curiosity and disbelief. Methodios, when the age came, chose not to join a company but to board a ship for Iridine in search of adventure beyond the confines of company life. There he found a home, a sense of purpose, and a mission at Station One, then under the command of Hurrok.

            Though his home has called upon him to return to care for his gravely wounded sister (who fought with the Lionesses like their mother) and to join the White Sharks for a time, he has always found his way back to Iridine and a patrol route over the cobblestones and flagstones that grace the forum.
            Nothing much to say.

            Comment


            • #7
              Took me a couple days to get it right, The End of Borivik.

              The sea crashed close in the distance, sounding like a triumph rolling through the forums. Opening his eyes heavy with sleep, the kind a man as tormented as this only acquires with heavy drink, he takes in the beach head. The signs of the other passengers running into the forests surround him.

              His sack is unmolested and he dons his armor in silence. He is happy to see even his wine he asked for was delivered. He chuckles lightly to himself saying, “"More money than sense”."

              He unlike some had not joined this “game” to gain honor or some prize, he had come to start some trouble solely out of spite. His gear was planned for this, enough armor to get him out of light conflict, the rest to raise hell. Accept this bottle, this bottle was his father’s favorite vintage and he would drink it as he die. With this in mind he headed out into this island.

              Almost two days later he found himself back at the beach head, never having known loneliness so complete he had lost himself, so when he found the first living person he had little wish to harm him. Instead he found himself helping the arrowless archer, only to be attacked by a Cinaran prisoner of war who had been given all the arrows he would ever need.

              Shoulder badly wounded and alone again the young man finds he wishes to leave some good behind, this is confusing but he knows by the level of bleeding he will not see another day.

              Using his natural ability to ferret out what is needed he gathers food, torches, arrows, and so many other things needed to survive. He hears the wolves, and knows they can track him as easily as he can follow the trail of blood he left back to the beach.

              In the distance he notices movement, his mind screams not to die alone and even if this person kills him, he knows that is better than the wolves.
              The woman is at first fearful of him and trying to run to her causes the blood to run freely down his side, but in mercy she returns to his calls. somehow in this savage unforgiving place she gives him mercy bandaging his shoulder to slow the bleeding. But even more she gives hope saying, "If only we can find suture thread and a needle he can be healed."

              With this hope and his life elongated they seek out the implements of his salvation. They talk as they travel and he finds himself more happy then he has been in decades.

              The words come unbidden as he says, “"If I had found you before I came I do not think I would be here to die on this island."” He knows it would have never been she was a warrior of skill, him a gutter rat. Still if not the savior of his body he has found that of his faith.

              This freedom opens his mind and he shares many things, he finds the more he speaks the better he feels, but he does not tell her how numb his legs have grown, or how his thoughts have started to cloud.

              She has bought him the time he needed and cemented the change to his heart. He makes good his ambition and delivers the supply cash to the beach head, but the bleeding hasn't slowed he does his best to hide the stagger in his step, but knows death comes.

              He leads her to a hill he explored before they met. It seems so simple in his mind, step over the edge and spare her the pain of watching him die. Dexterity lost with his blood the shifting sand dances below his feet spilling him down the hill.

              His head rested on the slope of the hill like a pillow letting him watch the sea as a turtle raised his head to take him in. He drew the bottle from his pack thinking, "“A better place to die I do not know”".

              The startling commotion to his side brings him from his reverie as he sees the lass has followed him, forcing himself with the promise this is the last time he will make his body do so he plays off his fall asking her to wait. He takes a single drink infused with the sun then claiming he needs his hands free takes and hands her his “final joy”. The smile on her face makes it worth it as he forces himself back up the hill.

              Looking down he sees her waiting and it gives him pause, he would save her the pain of watching him perish, but fill her with the belief he had abandoned her. So many things in his life had abandoned him and though seeing him pass would hurt her she would know he chose to spend those moments with her.

              His step forward on nerveless knees crumples and this time there is no grace in his fall, the concern is written upon her face with broad strokes and he tries to speak, to let her know it is alright, but his mouth oddly will not open. Looking into her eyes backed by the pure blue sky he feels no more pain. He wishes he could move his face.

              He so wished he could pay back her smile earlier. The sky fades, the clouds fade, all is silent and all he can remember is her eyes.

              The final thought comes easy and this time without reserve.


              "“Yes if we had met before I think I would have grown old."”
              Bring it on you lovers of flame it turns my crank.

              Slave to RP.

              We believe in euthanasia here in TEC. We'll kill you any time, just ask.-Tale

              Comment


              • #8
                wait wait wait... did Jeanine win? or die as soon as she got off the boat?

                Comment


                • #9
                  Would really love to have a breakdown of how people died.

                  Comment


                  • #10
                    Hold onto what you have

                    The day started as any other day did. Waking up on the docks with a splitting headache. This is what happens when you drink too much posca and hang out with loose woman from Septimas. Heaving himself upwards the man begins to wipe away the seeds of sleep from his eyes. The morning light felt warm and inviting. Perhaps in another life he would have been woken up from a kiss from his beautiful wife and the soft giggling of children in the other room. Such a fantasy did not exists as the only thing around him was a scantily clad woman and a few empty bottles of questionable substances.

                    Stretching his arms up wide the dock worker checks over his coin pouch, making sure his denars are still there. Clothing quickly put back on and a quick nod he would head down towards the docks to begin work today. As he headed down the wide stone walkway something in the pit of his stomach did not feel right. With a shrug the dock worker continued down the road. That is until the world began to move. It started to shake. Slowly at first. Buildings groaned and creaked and tiny cracks appeared on a few buildings. The shaking would continue as it slowly grew into a violent crescendo that would cause him to tumble! The morning crowd would yell and scream as everyone attempted to find something to grab onto.

                    The world was moving. Perhaps today was not a regular day like all of the other days. This would be the day this dock worker quit drinking and began praying for his life. Was this a sign?
                    Originally posted by Dyro
                    Good RP is consistency.
                    Originally posted by Cloudy
                    Shiloboy wins.
                    Fatality.
                    Keep up the good work.

                    Comment


                    • #11
                      I really like this thread. Kudos Shiloboy for starting it, and kudos to everyone else who has contributed here.

                      Comment


                      • #12
                        Introducing: Sticky




                        Looking down into his mug of ale, Sticky could barely contain his excitement. When he had returned from relieving himself outside he took his time slowly walking to his table. He was seated with a few other rough workers, sailors, and day laborers. Straining his ear most of these poor saps did not have much to consider. Unti, Holy Lucifal! From almost two tables away he could hear the coins slapping against the chair this man was seated at. The mark had several nasty scars on his face and exposed arms. Bah. Another gladiator that must have won a fight or two. Or another one of these hunters who come into the city to talk about pelts and trade. It did not matter. They would not be leaving here with those coins. Sticky would free those denars from this sucker. Now for a plan.


                        The sack was on the mark's left side. This should be an easy bump and apologise but the mark did not seem like the kind who would take kindly to his space being intruded upon. Damn. Not as easy as fat and slow patricians or traders who were on the way to the bank to deposit what ended up being nothing! Ha!


                        Behind the mark there were a few men playing dice and drinking. A bit rowdy. That was it. The multiple approach always worked. Standing up with a mug of mead in his left hand, Sticky carefully made his way towards his mark but stopped short. As if watching the game of chance. When the mark began to tell a story to those at his table Sticky knew it was now or never. It was easy. One comment about a lucky streak by one poor soul was all it took for the insults to begin, slowly. As the voices began to get louder and people started to turn around Sticky made it look as if he had lost his footing while cutting the heavy sack from his mark. It was so heavy he almost fell over! Quickly Sticky placed the sack inside of his cloak with one hand while offering his mug out towards the mark.


                        "Oh sir, I am sorry for bumping into you. Here, take my ale. I insist!" Sticky said.


                        "That's right punk, gimme that mug. You better get out of here!" The Mark replied.



                        And out the door he went. Straight to the bank. Because once the denars are in your account, who can remember where they came from?
                        Originally posted by Dyro
                        Good RP is consistency.
                        Originally posted by Cloudy
                        Shiloboy wins.
                        Fatality.
                        Keep up the good work.

                        Comment

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