OOC
Minecraft Username: SpeakingTess
Are you at least 18 years old?: For certain
Have you read the rules? (Link): Exhaustively
Introduction: Hello, I am SpeakingTess. I am very new to MCRP and I am hoping to gain experience through this place. I am, however, not new to rp or writing. Academically, I am a writer, having worked on various creative writing projects having to do with world-building and such. I have also been a long-time DM for any TTRPG group I happen to be thrown into. I figure that all might be transferable to this place. Fingers crossed.
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In-Character
Read the following prompt:
The rhythmic lull of hoofbeats are a marching drum to the small group of pioneers and variety of folk you have found yourself amongst, packed into a wobbling wagon. The rolling plains of the Southern Reach and a clear sky stretch out all around you, the buzz of excited chatter a dull wash in your ears as your mind strays to your former life and what has led you here to new lands.
“Nervous?”
You blink, returning to the present moment. A kindly older woman sat near you is smiling warmly with a crinkle to her eyes.
“I can tell it’s your first time. Still remember mine,” she flashes a grin and leans in.
“Tell me my dear, why have you come to the Reach?”
How do you respond (in character)?
With hands clasped together, tucked in the corner of the wagon - sat the acolyte amidst straw. Eerily familiar, all things considered. The soft mumblings of listless prayer must have caught the attention of the locals. For one, a devout is hardly one you find as a pioneer - cloistered in their homes of study, dedications to things that often do not reach the common man.
"Nervous?" quoth the elder that had the unfortunate position to be stationed next to the pilgrim. They dared not speak for a long while. Despite their namesake, they didn't make a habit to humor strangers. It t'was only when they felt the gaze of the elder burn the side of their head when they were forced to interact. Hardly a bad thing, mind. Sudvalkia bred perhaps the most talkative of people, especially in the cloisters growing up. A devout is overlooked. Where a cloistered scholar is common, it is easy to blend in. Especially amongst its cultural heart.
"Che cosa?" (writer's note - sudvalkia sounded spanish/italian, omit if using real-world italian is frowned upon) - they clear their throat a moment. "Is it so obvious?" The elder chuckles a small bit, leaning in.
"You academics usually are." The scholar swallows harshly. The common tongue wasn't their strongsuit, and they had the luck of making their first full-on common conversation with the nosiest woman in the southern reach. They will abide. This too shall pass. Answer the questions.
The elder continues, "That accent. Sudvalkian?"
The devout nods, "Ah, si. From Signora di Lirenzia." The older woman's form tenses, as though holding back a chuckle.
"Explains the garment. Know lots of scholarly-types from there. Never been myself, 'course. Sanguifleur is as close I got . . . " A pause came of the elder. Before the devout could speak in turn. "Prayer and academia hardly go together. Whose it you pray to?" The devout was both relieved and disquieted that they were so quickly probed about their prayer.
"The pantheon." Lining up the common words to best phrase it. "Ah, The Siren, The Winged Drake, The Balance, and The Lady of the Lake." of course, the devout was referring to the four fabled beings. Siren Serene, Fire Dragon, Twinned Birds, and of course the namesake of The Lady of the Lake. The devout was aware that these beings could hardly be considered as god-like beings to many, but to them, these were forces of divine will that has influenced many a culture. Thus were they worthy of worship regardless of how their values might clash. The Siren asks one to honor the sea, the Twinned Birds the dichotomy of all things, the Fire Dragon asks devouts to defend mortal-kind, and The Lady of the Lake to honor valor.
The old woman was taken aback. Formulating words a long moment. How does one reply to matters of faith as one who is not of faith? "To worship a fable is common, but why so many?" The devout replies in a curt fashion.
"Spirits must be appeased. Tradition. Forces of nature that cannot abide this land's corruption. The woeful apparition, the dogged necrophage. All who forsook their world by force or by way of a misguided past." The proclamation perhaps lacked a solid base of argument. "Phantoms are not natural - and must be laid to rest. The Blight must be stopped, lest our world fall to the Necrophage threat."
The elder leans back a bit. That was a lot to take in. "So you hope to conquer the wilds of the south by laying judgement to its undead?" The devotee sighs.
"If I am so lucky. I am on a mission from my academy to see to the village and ensure it is well-studied and the fables are appeased. If such a monumental task is possible. I doubt it so."
"Guessing they didn't like you much to be coming here." the old woman quipped. The devout was aback, but nodded softly.
"Disfigured - and perhaps too much a firebrand for the peaceful culture of my home. . . I was considered suitable for the task."
The old woman sighs. Perhaps understanding the devotee's plight all too well. No more words came of the two for the remainder of the trip. It wasn't awkward. There was now community in the wooden box on wheels. Soon enough, the Spire came into view... How resplendent.
—
Character Name: Amedeo "Speaker"
Character Race: Arsa Sidhe
Character Age: 26
Brief Physical Description: Dressed in scholarly raiment befitting the study of theology and history that the fables oft leave behind. It is monochromatic and minimal. They have tan skin, golden eyes, and blonde hair. They are slight, if a bit on the short side for an Arsa Sidhe.
Image of Skin and Figura Model:
