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Uber Allopathic
Just another domino in the line
108 years old
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Hobo's paradise
Born Aug-10-1910
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oooooh yeah! I am loving Bioware games right now.
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Uber Allopathic

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5 Mar 2011
At least this time he could say it wasn't his fault, honestly. The man had agreed to let Alex operate on him; he had acknowledged the problem and Alex's expertise on it, had let Alex into his own house and prepare a table for the procedure, had drunk all that whiskey, and passed out to let Alex do his job. It was only barely after Alex had made the initial incision when the client's wife walked in. Once she had glimpsed the man wrist deep in her husband's abdomen, she began to scream. Understandable , Alex would admit in retrospect. His first reaction was to raise his finger and shush the women, but it only made her shriek louder. The blood drenching his gloves hadn't really helped him there. Or the array of mean looking surgical implements laid out beside the patient on the table. Or the "schlup" sound his hand had made when he quick pulled it out of the patient's stomach to raise his finger. Whatever the cause, the screams persisted and the town watch quickly arrived. It only went down hill from there.

The poor man was probably bleeding out on the table right now. Alex kicked the dirt in frustration. They didn't even let him close the incision running him out of town. They just saw him standing near the patient, splattered with his blood, and they just charged him. Alex had tried to explain, but he found it hard to be articulate while dodging swords. In the end he was forced to abandon the patient or be killed by the town watch. As he sprinted out the door he looked over and saw the patients wife draped over the table, weeping onto the soon to be corpse. Alex sighed at the memory; she probably had given him an infection right there.

It was such an easy operation, if only the wife had come in ten minutes later Alex would have been done and cleaning up. He could see the inflamed appendix when she had burst through the door. A minute or so more and he would have had the offending organ free, grasped in his hand and ready for a jar.

When Alex had overheard him in the tavern, complaining about his side pain, grasping the lower right side of his stomach, he just couldn't sit there and let the man continue to be in pain. Okay, it probably would have been just as easy for the man to see a healer, but Alex was there and ready to help, why make the man run around town any more than he needed too? The man was so open to the idea of surgery as well, much more than most other people. The drunken stupor might have had something to do with that, but it still counts, right? Alex needed the money anyway; he hadn't been able to grab his wallet when the lynch mob chased him out of last town. Really, he just wanted to help.

Alex just shook his head and kept walking. It was all such a mess. This had been happening too much lately. He had been run out of at least three towns in the last few weeks. He must have been chased all the out of Crimea into Daein by now. Or had he been in Daein before and he was in Crimea now? Wait, hadn't he been in Begnion at some point? Was he in Begnion now?

Damn it.

Whatever. He could get his bearings in the next town. Wherever that is. He had been following this road all day and it had yet to lead him to a single road sign. Alex sighed again and kept moving. He felt as though he should be used to this; these situations were pretty much what made up his life for the last two years. He should be fine with traveling unnamed, meandering dirt roads by now. Still.

Then, as he was busy contemplating his sorry state of affairs, it began to rain.

Damn it
31 Aug 2010
After doing this a bit in the blast, I'll try this here. The goal is simple: come up with a short writing assignment, for anybody to complete. Use word limits, funky formatting requirements and whatnot to make sure it's interesting to write.

Example: Use two, 10 word sentences of dialog, with between 20 and 35 words of narration between them of a character describing a dream to a loved one.

Spirit Adept's response:

"This is...awkward, I don't know where it came from." Kezryn had asked Piers why he was acting so strangely around her today. When he said it was because of a dream, she asked what it was.

"You were...covered in chocolate. And...you also weren't...um..."

He couldn't finish, Piers ran away before answering.


These can be about anything, but try and keep both the assignments and writings short and sweet.

With that said, the first assignment: Using exactly 50 words, describe a conversation between your character and a drunk they happen to be sitting next to at a bar. At least one person in this conversation must be heavily intoxicated.

(IMG:style_emoticons/blue/happy.gif)

Edit: uh, anybody can change the assignment and whatnot, if that wasn't clear.
31 Aug 2010
Begnion, City of Culbert
Late Summer
Jordan & Reynard

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

Upon reflection, Jordan decided it had indeed been hell getting to Culbert. The caravan she was traveling with at first had abandoned her in the middle of the desert after she had broken the leader's nose, (His own fault, Jordan reasoned. The asshole thought he could manhandle me without having me fight back?) and it had been pure luck that another had caravan had come by. By the time they had discovered their stowaway the Desert of Death was nearly behind them. Jordan stole one of their horses during the ensuing fight, and had ridden it to Culbert. It was a fine stead, and once in the city she had traded it for some gold and instructions to an inn. She had followed the shopkeeper's directions word for word, she swore. A left, then a right, followed by another right and a left again...

Yet now she was lost, completely and irrevocably, in a never ending mess of side-roads and alleyways. She stamped her feet and swore, not so quietly, to herself. If she ever saw that shopkeeper again, why, he'd regret giving her bad directions. She'd snap his fingers, break his face, crush his windpipe. Bastard, his own fault. But she was alone in this alley, with the target of her hatred far away.

She felt she was somewhere near the center of the city, equidistant from the poor and rich districts; she had passed through slums to get to where she stood now, but she could see mansions dotting a hill barely blocks in front of her. But where the inn she sought was, she had no idea.

She swore, stamped her foot again, punched a wall, swore some more, and set off, taking turns on a whim. She constantly shrugged her shoulders as she walked, repositioning the sword hanging across her back. She gripped the hilt of her gladius, which hung from her waist, and scowled menacingly at anybody she passed by. Today, Jordan was deciding, is going to be hell.

Left, right, left, right, through the center of the city.
8 Aug 2010
Name: Jordan al Telsafir.

Age: 22

Race: Beorc

Nationality: Hatari

Level and Class: Myrmidon level 8

Weapon levels: Sword: D

Appearance: A woman of modest height, Jordan stands at 5' 8". She has a round face, and a small nose. Her eyes are a light hazel color. She lets her hair dangle loosely, most of it swept behind her head but some still escapes to hang in front of her face. It reaches a little below her shoulders, and is black. Her posture is slightly hunched, as she has spent long hours leaning over an anvil. Her skin boasts a slight tan; the normally dark hue sapped by ages spent indoors working. She is never without her sword, the odachi. Its commonly slung across her back.

Jordan's tattoo is a single, jagged line. It starts on the middle of her right thigh and winds it way up her body, crossing back and forth across her body. Eventually it reaches her neck. From there it arcs up to the top of her forehead, and then curls down, spiraling in on itself. At the center of the spiral is Jordan's left eye, and the end of the tattoo strays close to her eye.

Personality: A seething tempest, Jordan grumbles, yells, insults, and rages her way through life. Her father was the one to ensure this temperament, egging her on with verbal abuse and belittlement. She brings a constant resentment to any social encounter, and because of this she is widely disliked. Her only motivation is to work off the anger she has for her father, on anyone anywhere. She brings this ferocity to fights, and often acts cruel and sadistic both on and off the battlefield.

Jordan collects grudges, remembering every little mistreatment and fight with crystal clarity. Anything that makes her mad is filed away in her mind to be paid back, her revenge often far outweighing whatever set her off. She does not forget, and only lets go after she has deemed it impossible to get even.

Also a compulsive workaholic, Jordan devotes all of her mind to the task at hand and does not rest until the job is done. Often, this work is satisfying a grudge, but her compulsiveness also applies to her original love; forging and repairing weapons.

Bio: Jordan, daughter of Ichabod and Karida, was born in a village in Darya. The village was little, but was placed at the junction of several trade routes, and it made up in commerce for what it lacked in size. The populace thrived off of the merchants and mercenaries passing through their town, and nearly all business tended to the travelers needs. Stables stocked fresh horses and camels, bars and inns provided shelter and food, and smithies repaired battle worn weapons. It was in one of these blacksmiths that Jordan grew up in, watching the caravans and warriors ride by.

The clan she was born into was one of misfits and immigrants, started by her mothers ancestors shortly after Hatari was rediscovered by the world. A few impoverished families from Begnion made the trek across the desert of death together, hoping that they could earn their keep in a new land. They had few skills beyond petty crime, and they became nomads soon after their arrival. They took their name from the ancient for "traveler", but their original bucthering of the language led to the words morphing, molding into what they began to call themselves; the Telsafir. Jordan's mother was part of the sixth generation of the clan.

Jordan's father was a wanderer, meandering aimlessly across the continent, eking out a life by repairing mercenary's weapons.

The two met in the town she grew up, both just passing through, her mother with her clan and her father with the mercenaries he was traveling with at the time. They met, and a bond of youthful love soon followed. They stayed behind as their old lives went on, and they opened a blacksmith. Jordan was born barely nine months later.

For a while they were happy. Jordan was an charming little girl, and her parents adored her. The love that had brought Karida and Ichabod together still burned brightly, and they earned enough to live comfortably. Soon however, thing began to slowly unwind.

It began with Jordan's mother, who began to wonder if she had made a mistake and covered it up in the name of love. She wondered if she should have forgotten Ichabod after that first night, and just left with her clan. These doubts planted themselves in her mind and no matter how much she told herself that she was happy, she couldn't shake them loose. She grew bitter, convinced that her life with Ichabod and Jordan was a mistake. One day she walked out of town and was never seen by her family again. Jordan was six when she left.

Ichabod was shocked. He had never once doubted his happiness, and he grieved deeply at his loss. Jordan was more confused than saddened by her mother's sudden absence; she was too young to understand the reason's why she had left, and in turn why this pained her father so much. Instead of grieving, she became fixated on her dad. He was the only parent she had left, and he quickly became the center of her young mind. She adored him simply because he was the only one she could adore.

To his credit, Ichabod realized that his daughter needed him. He moved his attention from his departed wife to his daughter, pushing away his grief. He told himself he was happy with his daughter, and life continued on.

Jordan found her village a hard place to grow up in. It was small for one thing; a crowded main street lined with businesses aimed at travelers, and precious little beyond that. Most of the merchants and tradesmen lived in their stores like Ichabod and Jordan. Jordan had few friends growing up; Not many of the storeowners had children, and even fewer were close to Jordan's age. She played with the children of passing nomads when she could, but Jordan failed to emerge from childhood with any lasting relationships.

Driven away by sheer boredom, Jordan fled from the boring outdoors and took asylum in her father's smithy. She passed her time watching him work, assisting him everynow and then. She fetched him this and that as he asked, but mostly she sat still and observed.

At first she couldn't figure out why her father loved his work. To Jordan, the happiness that spilled across his face when he worked seemed at odds with the fierce heat of the forge and his aching arms. One day, Ichabod asked his daughter to join him at the anvil. He handed her the hammer and placed a red hot bar of iron in front of her. His hands encircled hers, and he raised their hands together, and brought them crashing down. Sparks flew from the metal, and they raised and dropped their hands over and over again as the sword beneath them took shape. They worked for hours, but Jordan hardly noticed; she was caught up in the joy of creation. It was only after the sword's shape was complete that Jordan loosened her grip on the hammer and let her arms drop. There was a groaning pain lying in wait in her arms that Jordan had failed to notice. She suddenly felt more tired than she ever had in her entire life, and she leaned against the wall, sliding to the ground as her father chuckled and moved the sword off to the side to cool. It was the start of a passion Jordan would share with her father for nearly a decade.

She started working on her own weapons soon afterwards. Her first swords were brittle, and shattered when struck. Discouraged, but not enough to give up, Jordan worked hard to make useable weapons. Her struggles gave her a new perspective on her dad's work; that of awe. How he twisted the metal to his will, how he could create lethal beauty from stubborn bars of steel; it all seemed like magic to her. Her admiration left her wanting only to please, and she strived to match her father's skill as a smith. She poured all of her attention into metal work, leaving her oblivious to her father.

As Jordan began to grow up, becoming a capable blacksmith as a young woman, her father was reminded of Karida. Everything from how the side of Jordan's face curved into a gentle point, to the haughty way she carried herself reminded Ichabod of his wife. The sadness he had dammed up when she had first left came flooding back. His longing for his wife made him bitter to his daughter, a living reminder that Karida was gone and would never come back. Jordan misread her father, believing his bitterness was caused somehow caused by her skill as a blacksmith. Wanting only to make her father happy, she redoubled her efforts.

As the years went on, Ichabod's mental state began to degenerate. All he could think of was Karida, and the pain she caused him by leaving. He became deeply angry at everyone and everything. He lashed out at others, and he worked less and less everyday. Jordan took on what her father didn't do, until she did nearly all of the work that came into the shop. Her skills as a blacksmith kept on increasing, and eventually she felt confident enough in her abilities to ask her father to be accepted as an adult; to ask for permission to get a tattoo.

It seemed perfectly reasonable to Jordan. She was 19 years old, she was doing running her father's business almost entirely by herself, and she was a damn good blacksmith if she did say so herself. Still, she needed her father's blessing. Telsafir tradition let parents make the final decision, and the local tattoo wouldn't break a clan's rules for fear of bringing a parent's wrath down on his head.

It was late in the evening when Jordan asked her father, unaware that he had been drinking all day long. She saw him in the kitchen, hunched over the table. The bottle grasped in his hands was hidden from her view, and he didn't turn to face her when she spoke. She asked him straight out, confident that he would say yes. After all, she said, I've become a skilled blacksmith. Ichabod merely laughed quietly, leaning out over his drink more and more until his forehead was nearly touching the table. He spoke quietly, his words slurred. He told Jordan that she was an idiot if she thought she was a good enough blacksmith to justify her getting a tattoo. Until she made a weapon that proved to him that she was a competent blacksmith, he wouldn't let her get the tattoo.

Slightly taken aback, Jordan left the room, her mind abuzz. She was so sure that she was ready; she was satisfied with her work and some of the customers had complimented her on her work. Regardless, she trusted her father. If he said she just wasn't good enough, she wasn't good enough. She would work harder, and she would make her father proud, and she would get that tattoo.

As she left the room, Ichabod stood up, taking one last long drink from his bottle before tossing it aside and immediately falling over. Passed out and sprawled across the floor, he passed the night undisturbed; Jordan was already in the forge making a sword to impress her father.

The next time the two talked was a few days later when Jordan presented the sword she had been working on to him. Again, Ichabod was drunk, and again, he rejected her. Jordan took it in stride, using it as motivation to do better. She tried again and again, making beautiful swords, axes, and lances, all rejected by her father. Years passed as she worked, her skill in the forge continually growing. She had long since passed her father in skill, but she failed to realize this and still sought his approval. She devoted all of her time to working, if not on normal requests and orders of weapons then on weapons to try and please her father. Jordan rarely left the forge, and her tan skin grew pale, as if the glow of coals and white hot metal was bleaching her skin. She turned 20, then 21, then 22, and still her father refused to acknowledge her skill. Ichabod was drunk constantly, and his critique of Jordan's work grew in savagery directly proportional to how logical they were. Eventually he reached the point were he rejected Jordan's latest effort only with mumbled insults. Still, Jordan refused to see her father's flaws, and on she worked.

Years after the challenge had been set, Jordan had yet to impress her father. She was beginning to lose faith in herself, wondering if she was such a piss poor blacksmith that she should just give up. She came up with one last idea to impress her father; a behemoth of a sword, curved and broad, made with only the finest materials. She etched out some plans in the dirt, and smiled. This would be it, this is the sword that would earn her a tattoo.

She first gathered the metal she needed. She planned to use only adamant in this sword, and to get the elusive metal she had to sacrifice several swords. She melted down some of her father's most prized swords, evidence of his skill at his craft and hung on the walls to stoke his pride, and even a sword a customer had brought in. She wrote off this betrayal of trust; it was far more important for her to make her dad proud than to respect other's property. It was a serious situation. She was sure that the warrior who brought it in would understand her decision completely.

After melting the swords down and smelting new bars, she got to work. Heating the bars up, she moved them from forge to anvil and began to pound them into shape. It took hours upon hours, and Jordan was exhausted by the end; the immense size of the sword ensured that it would a long time to forge, but the adamant made matters even worse. It was a tough metal, and even when white hot it took all of Jordan's strength to shape it.

After it's general shape had been hammered out, she placed the full sword in her forge, heating it up once more. She placed it on the ground outside and packed dirt around it. She would let the sword anneal, cool it down slowly with the help of the insulating dirt and make it soft enough to sharpen the edges.. During this time she slept, giving her tired arms a chance to rest. After nearly 11 hours she woke up and dug the sword out. It had lost it's heat, but was now soft enough to grind. First she scraped fullers from each side, worrying away with a chisel for almost an hour. Than she took it to the grindstone. She sharpened the top first, making it as sharp as she possibly could before flipping it over. She sharpened the bottom before reaching for a chisel again, and began to serrate the edge.

She slaved away for days on the serrations, making them grouped as close together and sharp as she could. She worked constantly, only sleeping when fatigue overtook her. Once done with them, she hauled the sword back to the forge and heated it up once more. Then she dunked the hot sword into a quenching tank to cool it quickly, making the blade harder. She repeated the heating-dunking cycle over and over again, heating the sword to a lower temperature each time.

Eventually, she brought it back to the anvil and attached a simple pommel blade, pointing upwards at an angle. Finally, she wrapped the hilt with cloth to help with grip.
Jordan stared at the sword, almost shocked that she had actually finished it. It was beautiful. She grabbed it and rushed up to her father's bedroom, cradling her creation in her arms. It was the middle of the night, but she just couldn't stand to wait until morning to show her father. She was going to get her tattoo because of this, she knew it.

She burst into his room, shouting for her dad to wake up, she had something to show him. Ichabod woke up immediately, eyeing his daughter with suspicion as she brandished the Odachi. He got out of bed and walked over to her, taking the sword into his hands. Large and heavy, incredibly sharp, impeccably crafted, and forged from adamant. It was finer than anything Ichabod had ever made. He cast it to the ground.

"You stupid bitch, waking me up for this piece of crap! Give up you untalented idiot. You're useless, useless like your whore mother!"

He brought his arm back and swung, hitting Jordan squarely on the cheek. She went sprawling, and Ichabod turned and walked back to his bed.

Jordan was trembling. Something had clicked the moment her father's fist had made contact. Something that made her sore arms feel fine, something that made her stand up, something that made her grab a hand and a half sword hanging from her father's wall. Ichabod heard something, a scream, and felt something like cold iron slicing into his neck. He fell to the ground gurgling out something, an exclamation, an apology, no matter; something was up to the hilt in his throat blocking any speech. Something burned like fire in Jordan's mind and formed into curses in her mouth. Something prompted her to move the Odachi out of reach from her father's pooling blood and pull the sword from her father's cold body. She felt something make her march down the street and pound on the tattoo parlor door. She felt scared at this something, felt it wasn't her. But then she remember her father's leering face, his hand hitting her face, her Odachi hitting the ground, and she no longer feared that something. She embraced it, and she too burned like fire in her mind, rage seeping into body, giving her purpose and strength. And when the tattoo artist opened the door to tell her to come back in the morning, something sharp was shoved in his face.

"Give me a fucking tattoo."

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

Hours later, Jordan sat on the edge of her father's bed. Her tattoo felt sore, and she rubbed it absentmindedly as she readied herself. She had prepared a scabbard for the Odachi, which was currently slung across her back. Ichabod was still lying on the floor, his eyes wide open and glassy. For a second, Jordan felt like closing his eyes and at least give him a semblance of peace. She kicked him instead.

Bastard.

She walked out of the blacksmith--which now felt like a prison to her-- and into the street. A caravan was stopped at the grocers, and she talked to the guards, bribing them with what was once her father's gold. They smiled, and Jordan rode out of town with them, then out of Darya, and finally out of Hatari.

Weapons:

Gladius:[Steel +1][Perfect Balance +1][Double Fuller +1]=3[D]

A simple, if immaculately created, sword that Jordan created long ago. Currently her weapon of choice.

The Odachi: [Adamant + 4][Fatal Curve +3][Keen +2][Provoking +2][Serrated +1][Perfect Balance +1][Broadsword +1][Double Fuller +1][Pommel Blade +1][ Extremely Heavy -2]=14[S][PRF][Mastery]

An odachi is a sword that Japanese sword smiths traditionally used to show their skill. They were massive, often reaching 10 feet long. While not a true odachi in terms of size--it's four feet long, and two feet wide at the hilt which curves into the point-- this is the sword that Jordan forged to prove her worth to her father. It's lovingly crafted from adamant, sporting a fatal curve. It is as sharp as can be, and the bottom edge is serrated. Balanced perfectly with double fullers, it is easy to wield for those with the strength to heft it. A pommel blade is provides a surprise for those attacking from behind as well.

This sword carries great emotional importance for Jordan; she killed her father over it for christ's sake. She carries if only because she doesn't want all the work she did to create it to go to waste, but she dares not wield it. It would be too painful for her to do so. (Read: her weapon level isn't high enough to use it.)

Edit 1: Forgot to describe her tattoo. What an airhead.

(IMG:http://a.imageshack.us/img43/2867/approvalanimated.gif)
1 Jul 2010
~ * ~
Eastern Begnion
Summer, 747
OOC
~ * ~

Felix's eyes creaked open to gray. Emotionless gray filled his vision until he stretched out, uncurling himself from the fetal position his body had scrunched into in his sleep. With his face not pressed against his pants, he could see the rest of the room he was in. A single thought pierced his groggy mind.

"This isn't the inn..." He muttered.

At least he was fairly sure it wasn't. He couldn't remember much of the night before; blurry images of a meal hastily eaten after a long days travel, a bed he had fallen asleep on as soon he had laid down. These pictures moved sluggishly through the thick haze covering Felix's mind, all other memories of the inn seemed to be obliterated. The question of why his mind was so foggy pressed up against the haze, trying to break through into Felix's stream of thought, but failed and went skittering back into his subconscious.

Looking around the room again Felix became sure that he was no longer in an inn. He didn't think rooms in an inn would have walls made of rough stone, nor would the only furniture in the room be a single, bare futon. He also doubted that they would feature a sliding door made of iron bars spanning across an entire side of the room, taking the place of a wall.

He stood up, groaning as his sore muscles protested. Every muscle in his body felt raw. Funny, he hadn't done anything overly strenuous yesterday. He stood up and walked over to the door, looking through the bars. He was several stories up into the air, and he could see could see the horizon and the sun peeking over it. The floor spread out several feet from his cell door before suddenly dropping off. If Felix craned his neck he could glimpse similar floors stretching out beneath him, like steps tailor made for some giant, until they reach a grassy yard. A formidable stone wall encased the yard. It was easily thirty feet tall, and Felix could just barely make out the silhouettes of several lance wielding guards pacing back and forth across the top.

Felix sighed and rubbed his aching arm. His hands didn't touch upon the expected cloth of the trench coat he always wore, fine and soft, but instead on a much rougher fabric. For the first time, Felix looked at what he was wearing; matching gray pants and shirt, with words on them. Adele home for Mentally Insecure was embroidered in a fancy, looping script across his chest, while Patient # 132 stretched across his left leg in an imposing bold font.

The question that failed to be noticed by Felix's consciousness earlier bounded into his mind along with many others. A voice cut through the flood of questions and puzzlement crowding Felix's mind.

"Looks like you finally made into one of these places."

Felix didn't flinch even though it sounded as if the words were spoken right behind his ear; it was a familiar voice, a feminine voice. "What do you mean?" Felix said distractedly.

"I mean you finally made here, into an insane asylum, a loony bin, a funny farm." The voice sounded gleeful.

Felix didn't answer immediately. He was focusing on a man in a long white coat walking slowly by the cell, his nose in a thick book. After the man had passed, he spoke to himself and one other person.

"But I'm not insane."

Deep inside Felix's clouded mind, an indistinct grey figure broke out into a grin.
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Donny
Happy Birthday!
10 Aug 2010 - 22:41
baftaboo
Happy birthday ya sonofabitch.
10 Aug 2010 - 22:41

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