Post by Temperance on Feb 17, 2010 15:30:35 GMT -6
Player Questionnaire:
Are you 16 years of age or older? Yes
What time(s) are you generally online (Furcadia Standard Time)? 7:00-12:30
What is your preferred play style (Strict Roleplay or Persona Roleplay)? Strict roleplay.
Are you interested in taking on any IC positions (e.g. Bartender)? Absolutely. I'm willing to play absolutely anything.
Are you interested in taking on any OOC responsibilities (e.g. Uploader)? Absolutely.
Character Questionnaire:
What is your character's full name? Temperance Elieen Ratcliff, formerly Christianson.
What is your character's Furcadia screen name? Lady Temperance
Briefly describe your character's appearance: Neither tall, nor short, ageless sort of woman. Typically dressed in mourning, as is appropriate to the fairly recent demise of her husband. Auburn hair, the highly prized length and thickness of a typical Victorian woman. Somewhat common features, though it was her poise and posture, which set her a cut above.
Briefly describe your character's background: Temperance married young to the dashing and some what eccentric Lord Thomas Ratcliff, a man known for his wild adventures and laughable stories, though he did quite well for himself as a shipping baron,- namely the import of goods from the east (tea, china, fabric). In short, the man had too much money and merely enough sense to make sure that his widow inherited quite well when he failed to return alive from one of his many adventures. Rumor has it, that sweet Temperance, may have had something to do with his passing, but rumors, will be just that- rumors. For now the widow is beginning her re-entrance back into society,- and quite possibly looking for a new husband,- though for a woman, she seems to be doing wonderfully well all on her own. Poor dear.
Post an example of roleplay (no more than a paragraph or two): Temperance, stood on the starboard deck of The Niord, auburn hair whipping about her head in a fiery crown beneath the wide brimmed hat which she held down with a kid-skin clad hand. "I don't see what the problem is Captain," the woman shouted, yes, shouted into the wind which lifted the stench of the tens high into the air like a sheet caught in a stiff breeze. "Nothing to worry your head about my dear," The captain, a stocky old sea dog who's face bore the wisdom of the ages and more lines than a map of Whitechapel, gestured to the waiting line of crates destined for the shelves and shop fronts of the shops beyond the docks. "This storm'll blow it self through in no time!" The woman perced her lips, it wasn't the first time she'd wished it'd been she, who'd been borne into trousers,- not Thomas.
Sample of an old forum post: Nharati Forums: "Pervertus Interuptus" Corbin Pyn, surveyed the fine arse of the second floor maid Anya and her incredibility well endowed partner in crime, Giselle who worked in cheese room.
"Did yeh see th' Troll Slayer?!"
"Oh I saw 'im allrigh',"
Giggling. Is there some reason th' two of yeh aren't tradein' tongues yet?, he thought, screwing up his face as he leaned in to get a closer look through the crack in the door which separated the castle laundry from kitchens. No one was about at this hour, not but the few servants who snuck baths in the massive laundry tubs after dark. Not in here anyway. It was, to be precise, the perfect place to spy on pretty young girls getting into a bit of naked mischief.
"I wonder if he'd mind hisself a bed partner t'nigh',"
'Yes, he thought defiantly at the naked, soapy, Anya as she slid into the tub with her friend. He would, a'cause he don' deserve t'have sucha fine peice o'arse climbin' inta his bed 'an wrappin them long, lucious legs about-'
CLANG!
The blow hit him like a cart filled with iron, it was strange sort of pressure to the back of his head which set his ears to ringing. "Whot th' facking 'ell," He mumbled, falling back to his skinny arse on the scarred wooden floor of the kitchen from his crouch beside the door.
"Corbin Pyn! I shoulda known!"
'Oh shit,'he thought, blinking up at the vision that was VanGatt's wife-to-be. Six feet tall, for there was no other woman six-bloody-feet tall about, it had to be her. Her features were odd, but in the moonlight streaming through the kitchen window, she was beautiful as she ought not to have been. Murky hair turned to silver, skin luminescent white to the dull color of candle wax occasionally tinged nut brown by the sun depending on the season and those crocodile eyes, bled intensely, green. He blinked again. She had a frying pan. In her hand, she had a frying pan. This was bad. Very, very, bad.
"Sneekin' about 'an spyin' on innocent maids whilest they bathe! Th' nerve o'yeh! Out o'm'kitchen yeh leg humpin' cur!"
On second thought, he was quite drunk if he did say so himself. What was Morcant thinking?! He 'loved' her, pah! Who could love such an bitch? And ugly as sin when he wasn't sloshed too! He pulled himself to his elbows and managed to clutch at his throbbing head. "Shaddup whore," He mumbled. Damn, when was the last time he'd gotten himself beaned with a frying pan? Just who did she think she was? Interrupting a man during his evening solitude? It didn't help his case. He only just managed to escape the next swipe of the pan, which clanged against the door frame with a chorus of glorious, shrieks from the laundry. "What th' cuntin' hell woman?!" Too late, she was mad now. Like a bull with it's balls in a nest of hornets, she was mad. He bolted out of the way as she charged him with a curse that would have made him blush were it not for the fact he was running for his life. Apples, scatterd, flour, exploded and pots and pans clanked and clattered.
It was by the grace of god, the devil and heavenly and hell-dwelling host that he managed to haul his bruised tail up a column in the hall. The guards would be there soon right? Right? Truth be told, not one of them would get in the way of a rampaging Osanna. She was harmless enough, just....it wasn't wise to cross her. Especially now that she wore the justicer's ring. "Oh dear god!" He gasped, clinging to the carving like a cat as she circled below.
"Git down here yeh coward!"
"Twas just a lil' lookeyloo yeh jelous whore!"
He coughed, batting at the rain of dust which tumbled down over his head from the domed celeing. It didn't help. She reeled back, pointed an accusatory finger at him and flung something squirming, invisible and horrible at him. "S'help me Corbin Pyn! Ye'll regret tha!" 'Regret what?! he thought defiantly as he scrubbed at his leg where the thing had landed, gone as soon as it hit. She all but steamed down there, pacing like a hound who's treed a cat. All the sudden however, the beast smirked and slipped off into the darkness, swearing about the mess she had to clean. Was he safe? Probably.
It wasn't until the next morning, when he woke in the stables without a coin left in his purse, that he realized what was wrong: there was no way anybody, wouldn't hear his hiccups if ever he raised his lance again. "Tha' BITCH!" It seemed, like the horses were laughing.
Are you 16 years of age or older? Yes
What time(s) are you generally online (Furcadia Standard Time)? 7:00-12:30
What is your preferred play style (Strict Roleplay or Persona Roleplay)? Strict roleplay.
Are you interested in taking on any IC positions (e.g. Bartender)? Absolutely. I'm willing to play absolutely anything.
Are you interested in taking on any OOC responsibilities (e.g. Uploader)? Absolutely.
Character Questionnaire:
What is your character's full name? Temperance Elieen Ratcliff, formerly Christianson.
What is your character's Furcadia screen name? Lady Temperance
Briefly describe your character's appearance: Neither tall, nor short, ageless sort of woman. Typically dressed in mourning, as is appropriate to the fairly recent demise of her husband. Auburn hair, the highly prized length and thickness of a typical Victorian woman. Somewhat common features, though it was her poise and posture, which set her a cut above.
Briefly describe your character's background: Temperance married young to the dashing and some what eccentric Lord Thomas Ratcliff, a man known for his wild adventures and laughable stories, though he did quite well for himself as a shipping baron,- namely the import of goods from the east (tea, china, fabric). In short, the man had too much money and merely enough sense to make sure that his widow inherited quite well when he failed to return alive from one of his many adventures. Rumor has it, that sweet Temperance, may have had something to do with his passing, but rumors, will be just that- rumors. For now the widow is beginning her re-entrance back into society,- and quite possibly looking for a new husband,- though for a woman, she seems to be doing wonderfully well all on her own. Poor dear.
Post an example of roleplay (no more than a paragraph or two): Temperance, stood on the starboard deck of The Niord, auburn hair whipping about her head in a fiery crown beneath the wide brimmed hat which she held down with a kid-skin clad hand. "I don't see what the problem is Captain," the woman shouted, yes, shouted into the wind which lifted the stench of the tens high into the air like a sheet caught in a stiff breeze. "Nothing to worry your head about my dear," The captain, a stocky old sea dog who's face bore the wisdom of the ages and more lines than a map of Whitechapel, gestured to the waiting line of crates destined for the shelves and shop fronts of the shops beyond the docks. "This storm'll blow it self through in no time!" The woman perced her lips, it wasn't the first time she'd wished it'd been she, who'd been borne into trousers,- not Thomas.
Sample of an old forum post: Nharati Forums: "Pervertus Interuptus" Corbin Pyn, surveyed the fine arse of the second floor maid Anya and her incredibility well endowed partner in crime, Giselle who worked in cheese room.
"Did yeh see th' Troll Slayer?!"
"Oh I saw 'im allrigh',"
Giggling. Is there some reason th' two of yeh aren't tradein' tongues yet?, he thought, screwing up his face as he leaned in to get a closer look through the crack in the door which separated the castle laundry from kitchens. No one was about at this hour, not but the few servants who snuck baths in the massive laundry tubs after dark. Not in here anyway. It was, to be precise, the perfect place to spy on pretty young girls getting into a bit of naked mischief.
"I wonder if he'd mind hisself a bed partner t'nigh',"
'Yes, he thought defiantly at the naked, soapy, Anya as she slid into the tub with her friend. He would, a'cause he don' deserve t'have sucha fine peice o'arse climbin' inta his bed 'an wrappin them long, lucious legs about-'
CLANG!
The blow hit him like a cart filled with iron, it was strange sort of pressure to the back of his head which set his ears to ringing. "Whot th' facking 'ell," He mumbled, falling back to his skinny arse on the scarred wooden floor of the kitchen from his crouch beside the door.
"Corbin Pyn! I shoulda known!"
'Oh shit,'he thought, blinking up at the vision that was VanGatt's wife-to-be. Six feet tall, for there was no other woman six-bloody-feet tall about, it had to be her. Her features were odd, but in the moonlight streaming through the kitchen window, she was beautiful as she ought not to have been. Murky hair turned to silver, skin luminescent white to the dull color of candle wax occasionally tinged nut brown by the sun depending on the season and those crocodile eyes, bled intensely, green. He blinked again. She had a frying pan. In her hand, she had a frying pan. This was bad. Very, very, bad.
"Sneekin' about 'an spyin' on innocent maids whilest they bathe! Th' nerve o'yeh! Out o'm'kitchen yeh leg humpin' cur!"
On second thought, he was quite drunk if he did say so himself. What was Morcant thinking?! He 'loved' her, pah! Who could love such an bitch? And ugly as sin when he wasn't sloshed too! He pulled himself to his elbows and managed to clutch at his throbbing head. "Shaddup whore," He mumbled. Damn, when was the last time he'd gotten himself beaned with a frying pan? Just who did she think she was? Interrupting a man during his evening solitude? It didn't help his case. He only just managed to escape the next swipe of the pan, which clanged against the door frame with a chorus of glorious, shrieks from the laundry. "What th' cuntin' hell woman?!" Too late, she was mad now. Like a bull with it's balls in a nest of hornets, she was mad. He bolted out of the way as she charged him with a curse that would have made him blush were it not for the fact he was running for his life. Apples, scatterd, flour, exploded and pots and pans clanked and clattered.
It was by the grace of god, the devil and heavenly and hell-dwelling host that he managed to haul his bruised tail up a column in the hall. The guards would be there soon right? Right? Truth be told, not one of them would get in the way of a rampaging Osanna. She was harmless enough, just....it wasn't wise to cross her. Especially now that she wore the justicer's ring. "Oh dear god!" He gasped, clinging to the carving like a cat as she circled below.
"Git down here yeh coward!"
"Twas just a lil' lookeyloo yeh jelous whore!"
He coughed, batting at the rain of dust which tumbled down over his head from the domed celeing. It didn't help. She reeled back, pointed an accusatory finger at him and flung something squirming, invisible and horrible at him. "S'help me Corbin Pyn! Ye'll regret tha!" 'Regret what?! he thought defiantly as he scrubbed at his leg where the thing had landed, gone as soon as it hit. She all but steamed down there, pacing like a hound who's treed a cat. All the sudden however, the beast smirked and slipped off into the darkness, swearing about the mess she had to clean. Was he safe? Probably.
It wasn't until the next morning, when he woke in the stables without a coin left in his purse, that he realized what was wrong: there was no way anybody, wouldn't hear his hiccups if ever he raised his lance again. "Tha' BITCH!" It seemed, like the horses were laughing.
