Nel Zelpher, 6/6sacredbrandApril 13 2011, 10:11:40 UTC
10. Languages: Elicoorian (alien language), stilted English (thanks to previous game development). She can read an Elicoor-specific written language, Dragon Runes, that won't be of any use whatsoever off her world.
11. Items: Leather armor, a long scarf and a friend's communicator that enables audio back-and-forth translation. She hears everyone else speak in the language she's most comfortable using, and vice versa. She carries a pouch of medicinal herbs and a second containing ingredients for producing a poison cloud.
12. Weapons: Keep-blunted runic daggers. The amplification they give to her powers will be minor, at best. The smaller knives she keeps hidden are equally blunted.
13. Writing sample - Third Person Prose: “Stop squirming.”
The tailed Menodix boy had to be all of four feet high, but he managed to make himself several dozen handfuls of high-maintenance. Nel smacked his rump for trying to wriggle out of her grip and Roger squealed girlishly.
“B-but miss, I'm fine, honest, ya don' need to...” She wasn't buying it. Not from him. “Miss--”
This time she pinched him, hard. The breathy squeak he emitted from underneath his ridiculous helmet made the Klausian across camp snigger. “Hold still so I don't singe you.” Now there technically wasn't any danger of singing, but what Roger didn't know... hm. He didn't know a lot of things, so that saying applied less. No matter. As long as he sat quietly during her healing, he could be noisy and hyperactive afterward for what she cared.
Nel's hands cupped the air over the gash on his twiggy back, better than it looked in that he hadn't precisely lost gallons of blood. The biggest worry was infection, if she didn't take care of it right this second, which she was; light encompassed her palms and the wound, scorching out bacteria. The muscle and skin knitted itself together in record time. Little bodies were simpler.
“Alright,” she began, relaxing a tad now that she could release him in good conscience, “You can...”
“THANK YOU!” he yelped and twisted in his seat, jumping to give her a messy peck on the cheek. Off the log he shot, tail streaming behind him like a fluffy striped banner. Nel sat back, rubbing her face to dry it and looking fondly disgruntled. It wasn't often her patients were so exuberantly grateful for her assistance. As if summoned by her ill will, Albel raised his shaggy hair and stared in her general direction.
She glowered. This only earned her a toothy smirk. Sensing that if she stayed her rising temper would cause her to say something regrettable, Nel got busy feeding the campfire. 14. Writing sample - First Person Prose: Lord Deior,
I do not begin to understand the game you're playing, but I've had my fill of heroics. What sets you apart? Why... how can you, where others have failed, succeed?
Do you have armies? They won't help. You'll need a hundred miracles to achieve this.
Maybe I shouldn't be so skeptical, but you have to know what's happened to us. You more than anyone, if you are who you claim. It's too much, Lord. If you have something, please, give us a sign.
Lastly, come on over to the keep_ooc and introduce yourself! You are also welcome (and encouraged!) to say hello in our AIM chat, chatofthekeep. Get yourself settled in and if you have any questions, please contact a moderator!
11. Items: Leather armor, a long scarf and a friend's communicator that enables audio back-and-forth translation. She hears everyone else speak in the language she's most comfortable using, and vice versa. She carries a pouch of medicinal herbs and a second containing ingredients for producing a poison cloud.
12. Weapons: Keep-blunted runic daggers. The amplification they give to her powers will be minor, at best. The smaller knives she keeps hidden are equally blunted.
13. Writing sample - Third Person Prose: “Stop squirming.”
The tailed Menodix boy had to be all of four feet high, but he managed to make himself several dozen handfuls of high-maintenance. Nel smacked his rump for trying to wriggle out of her grip and Roger squealed girlishly.
“B-but miss, I'm fine, honest, ya don' need to...” She wasn't buying it. Not from him. “Miss--”
This time she pinched him, hard. The breathy squeak he emitted from underneath his ridiculous helmet made the Klausian across camp snigger. “Hold still so I don't singe you.” Now there technically wasn't any danger of singing, but what Roger didn't know... hm. He didn't know a lot of things, so that saying applied less. No matter. As long as he sat quietly during her healing, he could be noisy and hyperactive afterward for what she cared.
Nel's hands cupped the air over the gash on his twiggy back, better than it looked in that he hadn't precisely lost gallons of blood. The biggest worry was infection, if she didn't take care of it right this second, which she was; light encompassed her palms and the wound, scorching out bacteria. The muscle and skin knitted itself together in record time. Little bodies were simpler.
“Alright,” she began, relaxing a tad now that she could release him in good conscience, “You can...”
“THANK YOU!” he yelped and twisted in his seat, jumping to give her a messy peck on the cheek. Off the log he shot, tail streaming behind him like a fluffy striped banner. Nel sat back, rubbing her face to dry it and looking fondly disgruntled. It wasn't often her patients were so exuberantly grateful for her assistance. As if summoned by her ill will, Albel raised his shaggy hair and stared in her general direction.
She glowered. This only earned her a toothy smirk. Sensing that if she stayed her rising temper would cause her to say something regrettable, Nel got busy feeding the campfire.
14. Writing sample - First Person Prose: Lord Deior,
I do not begin to understand the game you're playing, but I've had my fill of heroics. What sets you apart? Why... how can you, where others have failed, succeed?
Do you have armies? They won't help. You'll need a hundred miracles to achieve this.
Maybe I shouldn't be so skeptical, but you have to know what's happened to us. You more than anyone, if you are who you claim. It's too much, Lord. If you have something, please, give us a sign.
Just one will do.
15. Tattoo: 'Round her belly button.
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