ASDA Smart Price Dungeon Crawler Deluxe

In a land several planes removed from our own, danger lurks around every corner. The world has been split into warring states and factions, all vying for the precious light of the Relic atop Mount Seren. Every hand from the plains of the west to the rivers of the east has made their own stake in the conflict as sellswords and merchants alike have seen profit – and great houses have fractured and fallen into Oblivion.

The war is a stalemate with no end in sight. To this end, a series of ragtag volunteers have been sent on expeditions through the elements and enemy lines, bound together despite varying origins by a common goal: to end the chaos and kill the myth.

Rules:

• Your character must be an original creation
  
• Your character can be as outlandish as you like, provided that they are not game-breaking
  
• Your character will be created by you and finalised by the GM
  
• You will decide your character’s
  
  
  
  
  • Name
    
  
  
  
  
  • Age
    
  
  
  
  
  • Gender
    
  
  
  
  
  • Appearance
    
  
  
  
  
  • Bio
    
  
  
  
  
  • Primary area of expertise (used to ascertain primary class)
    
  
  
  
  
  • First four traits
    
  
  
  
• Your GM will decide your character’s
  
  
  
  
  • Primary class
    
  
  
  
  
  • Secondary class
    
  
  
  
  
  • Fifth trait
    
  
  
  
• Your character’s traits and primary area of expertise can more or less be whatever you like
  
• As far as traits are concerned, think about the traits system in The Sims
  
• An area of expertise can be anything from “pyromancy” to “riding pegasi” to “basically Spider-Man”
  
• You may scuplt the world any way you want whilst writing your character's backstory
  
• This is a fantasy world, a semi-crack RP, and anything goes
  

Code:

[b]Name:[/b]
[b]Age:[/b]
[b]Gender:[/b]
[b]Appearance:[/b]
[b]Bio:[/b]
[b]Primary area of expertise:[/b]
[b]Traits:[/b]

***

Ghost:

Giggles:

Aliucon:

Reverie:

Shuda51:

Name: The Right and Honorable Reverend Tony Blair
Age: 64
Gender: Male
Appearance: Very wrinkly, beautiful blue eyes, thinning grey hair, pained attempt at a smile, quite big ears
Bio: Tony Blair was a member of a great house and a warmongerer who fell in love with another noble from an ancient, now fallen great house by the name of George W Bush. The two of them became lovers and warmongerers in the evil brown people countries whilst Tony himself was also busy at home selling off everything his country owned that his wicked step-mother, Margaret Thatcher hadn't already sold.

In his career as Emperor of this mythical land, he discovered God and left his position in the care of his half-brother Gordon Brown to persue a career in the clergy.
Primary area of expertise: Avoiding war crime charges
Traits: Religious, leader, neoliberal, compulsive liar

Name: Gregory Smith, the Rational Man with a Shotgun.
Age: 28
Gender: Male
Appearance: Tall, fairly muscular. Wears a black tactical turtleneck and a pair of cargo pants w/ boots. Has a bandoleer wrapped around his chest.
Bio: Gregory noticed some things were going whack in the world, so he grabbed a shotgun and decided to do something about it. No big super powers or flash shows, just a pump-action justice dispenser. He also really likes Jeopardy! and would like to get back to that when everything is done. Lives by himself and eats ramen a lot.
Primary area of expertise: Shooting things with a Remington Model 870 shotgun.
Traits: Rational, Pragmatic, No Humor, Good at trivia.

Name: Misha, A Mostly Winged Bird-Brain
Age: 23
Gender: Female
Appearance: Short; Smooth face, save for rather restless green eyes with small bags under them. Has vibrant, long blue hair going down in a ridiculously bulky drill-like shape; Wears a blue sheer top exposing a black bra, along with a blue blazer, ragged jeans, black gloves and brown boots.

Bio: The daughter of a farmer of pegasi, Misha lived life with little care, using whatever money she was allowed to party and go around having fun. When the war started, her father urged her to help prepare the pegasi for the soldiers, but she didn't take heed until the day he... retired.

Grieving for her father's soon-to-be uselessness, she decided that the rest of the equestrian force should be released into battle, and she would lead the charge. Only, the pegasi didn't trust her, so she got constantly booted out. Angry, she killed one and asked a magically-inclined friend to make its wings work on her. Only one wing really worked, however. Now she's off to save the world, because staying at home with not much money is boring.

Primary area of expertise: Slacking off
Traits: Half-Winged, has connections, drunkard, very dumb

Name: Darling G. Goodson, the Lost Child of Avalon
Age: 76
Gender: Male
Appearance: A youthful man, of greater than average height and somewhat well built. His long, braided dreadlocks fall to meet his hips and his dark complexion begets darker freckles. Darling sports a set of unconventional, white armour of indeterminate material with blood almost always speckled across the front and intricate, almost mathematical markings.
Bio: Goodson spent his earlier decades learning the trade of magecraft from a sisterhood hidden away on a remote island, never before seen buy any man born on the mainland continents. Although his studies were rigorous and he craved knowledge in every form, no one area of magic could keep his attention for long. Healing, however, was all that the sisters would teach him, so that he might serve such a purpose when the need arose.
Eventually, Darling began sneaking out to the libraries of his home, bringing back various tomes on various disciplines of magic. Through this action, the boy learned of a magic that had previously been less than a secret to him - a dark magic that could not even be mentioned around such a pure disciple of the holy arts. This was necromancy, and it shocked the boy to his core. And he was good at it.
Stealing the armour and weapon of a paladin who had died on the island many years before, Darling went sailing away.
Primary area of expertise: Raising the dead
Primary class: Necromancer
Secondary class: White Mage
Traits: Curious, Cautious, Slow to Anger, Strangely Morbid, Little Worldly Knowledge

Name: Corvin Helms
Age: 47
Gender: Male
Appearance: A man who's features has begun to be tempered by age, wearing a simple blue suit covered by a black vest. Upon the right side of the vest is a symbol, three red chevrons pointing upward. Blue eyes, caught with the signs of sleeplessness. Both his right arm and his right eye are prosthetic. His uniform is lightly armor padded.
Bio:A man familiar with the transportation across planes, Corvin had humble beginnings. Mother was a baker, father was a soldier. One taught him the ways of negotiation, the other has taught him the lessons of war. Following his father's death, Corvin grew to become a soldier as well, taking over his father's division. Past this point, he refuses, under any circumstances, to speak of his home.

At some point since then, he moved to a plane known as Novia, another mystery in the great cosmos. Within there, he works as a detective within the Unclaimed district, solving basic crimes and doing work for the seedy underbelly of the great city and plane. Occasionally, he does work for the Council themselves, including the even more occasional motion of visiting other realms, and thus his arrival here. Unfortuantely, he's stuck, and he's none too happy about that. His attitude is warped by his time in the underbelly, having turned what was once a joyful man into a shadow of his former self.

In normal combat, he is at home most with his dual pistols, though he's known to apply some street boxing to solve problems.
Primary area of expertise:Detective Work
Traits: Observant, Bitter, Cynical, Loyal

As the night's facade began to crack, letting splinters of hard light into the dark, cold air, a team of ragtag adventurers were crouched around a common resource of amber and black. The campfire had yet to settle, leaving the effect of a roaring, hungry blaze in the centre of their group. Skewers poked and prodded the smoke rising out of the light, the meat on them slowly turning a deep brown and dripping with sizzling juices. Although the day would soon begin anew, there was still a sense of real discomfort among the band. Nobody here knew their neighbour from Adam and it showed as clear distrust on each of their faces.

One of them, a man with freckles and a youthful-looking face, was lying down by the fire with a hog's head in his hands. As he played about with the static prop, a little too close to the flames, it suddenly caught fire. With just the slightest delay, the eccentric character huffed and puffed in an attempt to put the head out and eventually resorted to using the thick fabric of a nearby blanket to starve the small inferno of air. Just as quickly as it had come into being, the flame was extinguished, leaving only the campfire to crackle on.

Wiping imaginary soot from his face, the man gave his peers a sheepish look of apology and stared back at the fire.

There was noise in the distance, likely from one of the towns close by. The man with the hog's head spoke out loud, which was highly unusual for this team of sorts.

"What d'you reckon they're like, the people we have to fight?" Darling asked, cradling the head in its bundle of blanket. "Are they like you lot? I mean, like us?"

The man in the turtleneck didn't really react to the whole head charade. He simply kept cleaning his gun, which honestly wasn't that dirty looking, but dust and gunpowder can get in places you would never imagine. At the other man's question, he nodded.

"Probably like us, besides the really strong ones, which will look different. They might even be a recolor of an enemy we fought earlier." Gregor said. "I just hope they die normally. I don't know magic."

Misha shook into alertness. She had sat down by the fire, dangerously hanging to one side, as the extra weight of the wing made inevitable. She was early enough to catch the words of Darling, and gasp a bit at the whole event with the pig's head. Eventually, she straightened up, puffed her chest and leaned back, so her view in that direction emcopassed the old man and the shotgun guy. Oh, and the sky.

"Papa told me some of 'em veterans' stories," she said. "Dunno what they were going on about, but sure it ain't soundin' like we're facin' only blokes like you."

She thought her pose was dignified enough to say such a thing, but she couldn't keep it up. Her head hurt a smidge, and some flies had taken to attack (more like annoy) her hair. She shook the head accordingly, and nabbed her given skewer from the fireplace. It was sizzling and dripping, but she lost no time in sinking her teeth into the hunk of meat, which bulged right before half of it was being laboriously munched on.

"MHM! So good~!" She exclaimed to no one in particular, smiling for what seemed like the first time since their first draft or conscription: which, now that she thought about it, was the thing that got her along with these guys. Even if she didn't know the first thing about them.

"So! I'm Misha. Y'all have names or somethin'? I'm brassed off I got stuck with a buncha quiet types for a war, of all things. Thought things'd be blaring all around."

The detective stares into the fire, his mind currently lost on travels through his memory. They say there are the things in your life that keep you going. The ones that fill your heart with hope. The ones that keep your head tilted up. Here, he enjoys none of those. Merely the things that keep one awake through the dark of the night. The things that might have been. The things better left forgotten, but begging for attention .

The question that hangs in the air provides sweet relief and breaks him from his stupor. He sets his hat off of his head, taking a moment to pull out his weapon of choice and give her a good cleaning. "Does it matter? Our enemy is our enemy, pure and simple. We are bound by our duty. At the end of the day, one of us will have to be on top, victorious. We just need to make sure that's us and not them. After our contracts or whatever run out, then we can discuss who they are like."

He pauses for a moment, before revealing his name. "Corvin Helms."

"What are you talkin' about," Darling rebuked, rather taken aback. "There's nothing fancy about me. You're the one with the wings on your- eh, wing, singular."

Running Corvin's words through his head again and again, it really began to hit the healer that there would be a chance to free himself is the war were won. Unfortunately, he guessed it would take a group with much more experience and a far greater rapport. Despite this, Darling suddenly felt motivated. He would either die on his feet like a real person or earn his freedom and that of his peers.

"I guess you're right, then. Not like them lot are gonna stop to think about the morality of bashin' our skulls in."

Gradually, the man straightened his posture, righting his arched spine, and peered through the pillar of smoke before him.

"And what about the rest of you? You two, eh, what are we supposed to call youse?"

Gregory nodded. "You can call me Gregory, Mr. Smith, or hey you. I respond to all three. Just don't call me Shirley. That's not my name. I love my damn name. Almost as much as I love jeopardy..."

Gregory finished his buisness with his gun, and tucked it into it's carrying case. He locked it, then looked Darling dead in the eyes and said, "Safety first."