Torvald Bovar
New
Roleplay posts: 2
Registered: Jan 27, 2020 10:41:33 GMT -8
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Post by Torvald Bovar on Jan 28, 2020 6:17:11 GMT -8
A small convoy of ships was spotted on the horizon. They bore the flag of the Northwestern Trading Company, and were primarily trade ships known as clippers, with a token force of ships-of-the-line to ward pirates. They cut through the ocean until they arrived just beyond the proximity of the docks, where a small rowboat was lowered.
As the personal vessel found its way to the docks a man waved and called to the authorities. "Hail, and well met," he greeted the,. "The name's Torvald Bovar, heir of the Northwestern Trading Company. I've come to trade, and to discuss matters of trade."
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Tinker Fizzbit
Committed
Roleplay posts: 72
Age: 52
Physical Description: Tinker Fizzbit would seem to be a perfectly normal woman in her twenties, with a long, silky brown ponytail and bangs framing her face. That is, she would, were she not approximately three feet tall with slightly pointed ears, and a knack for saying apparently anything that pops into her brain. This pegs her as one of the quirkiest of races: a gnome.
Her voice is high-pitched, yet erudite, speaking to a hidden intelligence beneath all the apparent craziness. She has a pleasant figure and a strong face, with thick eyebrows and a seemingly constant smattering of soot or other assorted explosion biproducts. Despite this, she is miraculously unscarred, somehow escaping all of her failed experiments with nothing but singed eyebrows and a fresh film of soot.
Clothes and Equipment: ============
Tinker generally wears a practical ensemble of baggy clothing made of durable and fireproofed cloth, covered by a protective leather vest with many inner pockets and a pair of knee-length leather boots. About her hip she wears an engineer's toolbelt, with a quiver and various tinkering tools on her left side, and a myriad of multicoloured flasks of various elixirs on her right, most of them highly volatile. When she's experimenting, she wears a set of specialised goggles. They tend to stay atop her forehead when she isn't.
Her weapon of choice is a heavily customised repeating crossbow with various modifications. The crossbow is fed by a circular drum of bolts above a mechanism which automatically launches a bolt and primes another with every pull of the trigger. It also has a very well-calibrated sight, and two valves that spray the bolts with various concoctions with the press of a button. All in all, it is a very advanced weapon.
Registered: Feb 17, 2016 1:50:52 GMT -8
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Post by Tinker Fizzbit on Feb 19, 2020 3:15:21 GMT -8
A small catamaran-style boat evidently made from driftwood appears over the horizon. While it is clearly constructed from subpar materials, it seems to be well-made and functional, and its single linen sail catches the wind well enough to push it around quickly given its light load.
Evidently, there's only one passenger on the five meter long boat. Viewed through spyglass from afar it appears to be...a child, perhaps? Surely too small for a human adult, and not stocky enough to be a dwarf. But then, their complexion is wrong for a human, possessing an ever so slightly green-tinged bronze skin. How odd.
The figure moves about frantically upon the boat, pulling at ropes to tack into the wind and nearly keeling the ship several times in the process. Finally, it arrives in port, going far too fast, and before the figure can lower the sails the boat goes careening into a dock, shattering on impact and sending the woman aboard soaring over the pier to tumble unceremoniously to a stop in the center of the docks.
The poor driftwood boat is already sinking, the impact having put a large hole in one of the craft's dual hulls, but luckily it doesn't appear that there was any cargo aboard.
The small woman sits up, rubbing at a bump on her head, and then shuffles to her feet. On closer inspection, it's clear that she's definitely not a dwarf, and certainly not a child. She seems to be a very small...elf, maybe, judging by the slightly pointed ears? She's certainly not dressed like an elf. She's dressed like someone expecting to walk through a fire.
The woman looks around for someone who seems like they're in charge, and ends up striding confidently toward the dock foreman, who of course has nothing to do with customs. "Good eve, tallman!" she proclaims, her lilting accent bizarre and difficult to place. It's clearly not evening, but before she can be corrected, she speaks again. "Tinker Fizzbit. My name, I mean. Where may an inventrix and constructress of fizzpoppers, blast-knockers, boomspheres and such expect employment on this little eximious -- so I've been told -- landmass?"
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Jawbariya of Jevu'ri
New
Roleplay posts: 2
Age: ???
Physical Description: An Ede’fel from the desert, she stands at almost 6 feet at the withers and roughly 7'6" at the top of her head. Her lower, larger half represents a horse in shape, but actually sports the build of a grey and spotted leopard with four powerful legs tipped with wide paws and sharp claws, as well as a long fluffy tail. The upper body holds a humanoid female shape with a petite frame and supple chest, but also has more characteristics of the feline shown in the lower half - grey fur with dark spots and markings, the head of a grey leopard with bright, yellow eyes and soft whiskers, and claws at her fingertips.
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Clothes and Equipment: As a member of Ede'fel nobility, intricate ores and silk adorn her body. An ivory, strapless gown sits across her breast with a broad, gold trim that loops around the back of the neck - the soft, airy fabric hugging her frame to a matching gold sash at the waist and parts at the withers with a considerable length of trailing silk swaying between her forelegs and the rest following the arch of her feline back, secured with another gold sash behind the shoulders and again before the flanks. Bands of gold fit the ankles of all four paws. A near transparent veil wraps around her shoulders and cascades down just past her hips, clasped over her chest with an emerald-studded, gold brooch and complete with a rather lengthy hood that completely shields her head when drawn up. More bands decorate her arms and dangle about her wrists and a pair from her ears, and a few tiny ones adorn her fingers. Upon her head rests a circlet - also of gold and sporting several set emeralds in the ore.
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Allegiances: Ede’fel
Registered: Feb 19, 2020 2:08:14 GMT -8
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Post by Jawbariya of Jevu'ri on Feb 19, 2020 22:11:07 GMT -8
It was a late afternoon when an odd ship appeared on the seas within view of Libertalia. It's course wasn't directly for the island's docks, but partway across the horizon it slowly veered towards the pier. It was certainly a foreign, sleek design with a seemingly broad hull and almost pointed bow - though the rather radiant paint emblazoned in white and yellow, with some small pattern of red and blue and yellow, was obviously worn and the broad, white sails looked incredibly weathered with patches and tears. It was amazing the vessel was still afloat and moving, though still a brilliant model in the sun and on the water.
It finally pulled to dock at a vacant pier, several hands leaping from the railing to the wooden boardwalk and hauling heavy lines to carefully nestle their ship into port without causing much for disturbance or damage. The sailors, however, were a very odd sort - no two were exactly alike, and seemed to be a very clear cross between a humanoid shape and the features of larger cats. One could count a pair of orange tigers, several leopards or maybe jaguars, and one grey leopard. Mostly they stood on bi-pedal rear legs like the animals but the upper form was certainly humanoid - some with fur and some with skin - and the faces varied from full cat faces to man with cat ears or just the flicking tails or even just paws for hands.
The plank ramp was extended out and settled, a little wider than most, and more hands on deck began to move. The size of the ship obviously contained a number on board, though not all seemed to be sea men. Several tiny heads poked up over the railing to look around with the same types of variations as there had been in the adults but the common characteristic were the wide eyes filled with nervous wonder.
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Post by libertalianarrator on Feb 22, 2020 19:35:42 GMT -8
A small convoy of ships was spotted on the horizon. They bore the flag of the Northwestern Trading Company, and were primarily trade ships known as clippers, with a token force of ships-of-the-line to ward pirates. They cut through the ocean until they arrived just beyond the proximity of the docks, where a small rowboat was lowered. As the personal vessel found its way to the docks a man waved and called to the authorities. "Hail, and well met," he greeted the,. "The name's Torvald Bovar, heir of the Northwestern Trading Company. I've come to trade, and to discuss matters of trade." Trading With Paradise.
A very large man with a tricorn hat, a simple vest, and a pair of trousers stands by one of the larger ships, using a large quill to write all sorts of things into a huge tome, one of many that his assistant, a young but exceptionally muscular woman carries in two large satchells. “That’s everything accounted for!” he calls up to a man hanging over the side of the ship. “Once yer all set, you should be fine t’ get goin’! Libertalia thanks y’ once again for your business, and wishes ye safe travels!” He waits a moment for the ink to dry in the warm tropical sun, then closes the book and hands it to his assistant, who happily takes it and slips it into one of her satchels.
“I swear, they’re takin’ more an’ more every day,” he says as she stretches himself out. “These Isran fellas can’t get enough. Forty crates o’ Black Water Tail Wind fer this one alone!” He looks up at the woman. “Captain’s gone and made us a fortune, Sunny, but its gonna throw me back out one day.”
“Aye, dad,” the woman replies. “Not t’ worry though. I’m sure there’s a lovely wheel chair waitin’ fer ye once y’ do go decrepit.” She offers a wink that’s met with a raised eyebrow and a roll of the port master’s eyes.
Then the voice cuts in and interrups the father-daughter moment. “Tolvar!” the man says before grabbing the man’s hand and giving it a firm shake. “The northwestern trade company, y’say? Aye I’m familiar, had a few cutters come in last week w’ some o’ your merchandise on board. Independant fellas, must’ve been a go between.”
“Name’s Jim Davinshore, Port Master, an’ this is my daughter, assistant, and protege Sunny,” he hooks a thumb at the very tall woman behind him. “Y’ can call me Jim. Matters o’ trade…” he reaches up and scratches his thick, bushy beard, then looks out to see to see the small fleet. “If that’s yer trade convoy, I dunnae see why not. Head up t’ the manor up th’ road, you’ll want t’ speak t’ Captain Johnnie O’Malley, she’s the boss around here. Y’can speak to the Admiralty, but they won’t be meetin’ fer a wee bit. O’Malley’ll do the preliminary stuff and take t’ the admiral o’ trade.”
The manor he points to is a large structure at the top of the main street that leads away from the port. Its a huge size, clearly one of the older but most beautiful buildings on the island, nestled against the waterfall spotted cliff-face beyond.
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Post by libertalianarrator on Feb 22, 2020 19:58:23 GMT -8
A small catamaran-style boat evidently made from driftwood appears over the horizon. While it is clearly constructed from subpar materials, it seems to be well-made and functional, and its single linen sail catches the wind well enough to push it around quickly given its light load. Evidently, there's only one passenger on the five meter long boat. Viewed through spyglass from afar it appears to be...a child, perhaps? Surely too small for a human adult, and not stocky enough to be a dwarf. But then, their complexion is wrong for a human, possessing an ever so slightly green-tinged bronze skin. How odd. The figure moves about frantically upon the boat, pulling at ropes to tack into the wind and nearly keeling the ship several times in the process. Finally, it arrives in port, going far too fast, and before the figure can lower the sails the boat goes careening into a dock, shattering on impact and sending the woman aboard soaring over the pier to tumble unceremoniously to a stop in the center of the docks. The poor driftwood boat is already sinking, the impact having put a large hole in one of the craft's dual hulls, but luckily it doesn't appear that there was any cargo aboard. The small woman sits up, rubbing at a bump on her head, and then shuffles to her feet. On closer inspection, it's clear that she's definitely not a dwarf, and certainly not a child. She seems to be a very small...elf, maybe, judging by the slightly pointed ears? She's certainly not dressed like an elf. She's dressed like someone expecting to walk through a fire. The woman looks around for someone who seems like they're in charge, and ends up striding confidently toward the dock foreman, who of course has nothing to do with customs. "Good eve, tallman!" she proclaims, her lilting accent bizarre and difficult to place. It's clearly not evening, but before she can be corrected, she speaks again. "Tinker Fizzbit. My name, I mean. Where may an inventrix and constructress of fizzpoppers, blast-knockers, boomspheres and such expect employment on this little eximious -- so I've been told -- landmass?" Big Ideas From a Small Place. It seemed to be a quiet day in the port today, giving the port master, a Mr. Jim Davinshore a well deserved break. The night before he and his lads had seen to the loading of five Isran trade vessels, six independants, and two home fleet ships, all destined to parts unknown, all of which satisfied him greatly. Not only were the jobs done well, on time, and without the loss of any wares, and the money it brought in to the island only added to that very satisfaction. So, he’s spent the day in one of the watchtowers in the harbour, idly watching any ships on the horizon to see if they were coming in, which so far none had. In fact, there wasn’t anything on the docket for today, by some stroke of luck. Still, he watches and idly sips on a mug of ale his daughter had run up for him not an hour before. Another hour passes as he sits, enjoying his time off, until finally he spot something on the horizon. Its tiny and even through his spy glass he barely makes it out, a testament to the luck of even spotting such a thing so far away. As it draws closer, his bearded features scrunch up a little and he hums. “Strange…” As it draws nearer, her climbs down the ladders and walks towards the docks, still watching the small craft come in. He can see it clearer now, clearly a jury rigged ship, driven by, what? A child? He hums to himself again as he watches, whoever it was knows what they’re doing that’s for sure. Then it gets closer and closer. “Slow up…” he mumbles to himself. “Slowly now… Uh oh.” He takes several steps back, waving at the others on the dock to do the same as the catamaran comes careening towards them, then inevitably crashes. “What the hell?!” he calls out as the small person goes end over end onto the dock as their little boat sinks. Once the woman settles, Jim rushes over to see if she’s injured, but in no time she’s on her feet. No, not a dwarf, not stocky enough, and too short to be an elf. “A gnome?!” he says in surprise as he takes off his tricorn hat and scratches his messy hair. “Well, Ferryman take me…” He seems confused for a few short moments before taking her hand and shaking it. “Jim Davinshore, portmaster,” he says, then shakes his head. “I have no idea what yer talkin’ about Gnome… uh, Tinker?” Damn these gnomes and their strange little words. “But if I’m hearin’ y’ right, yer an inventor?” He still seems confused about the whole matter. They already had teams of dwarven engineers making strides in technology for them, one of the biggest assets they had in their alliance with the Rune King in the mountain at the center of the island, but considering she was able to get such speed and such distance on such a jury rigged craft, and had the confidence to do so, spoke some measure of her intellect. “Captain’ll never believe what I’ve seen here…” he says as he scratches his head again. “T’ be honest with y’, gnome, I’ve no clue where y’d get employment fer yer talents. Our workshops’re fully staffed as far as I know.” He puts his other hand on his hip in thought. “Could get a job as a bar wench I guess, but if yer lookin’ fer an invention job, eh…” He looks up the long road towards the captain’s manor. “Y’could go ask t’ see Captain O’Malley. She oversees the island, our leader o’ sorts. Head o’ the admiralty council. She’s on the island, and usually at home. She’s no’ shy about takin’ visitors, no matter how small ‘n’ strange, like yersel’.”
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Post by libertalianarrator on Feb 22, 2020 20:11:43 GMT -8
It was a late afternoon when an odd ship appeared on the seas within view of Libertalia. It's course wasn't directly for the island's docks, but partway across the horizon it slowly veered towards the pier. It was certainly a foreign, sleek design with a seemingly broad hull and almost pointed bow - though the rather radiant paint emblazoned in white and yellow, with some small pattern of red and blue and yellow, was obviously worn and the broad, white sails looked incredibly weathered with patches and tears. It was amazing the vessel was still afloat and moving, though still a brilliant model in the sun and on the water. It finally pulled to dock at a vacant pier, several hands leaping from the railing to the wooden boardwalk and hauling heavy lines to carefully nestle their ship into port without causing much for disturbance or damage. The sailors, however, were a very odd sort - no two were exactly alike, and seemed to be a very clear cross between a humanoid shape and the features of larger cats. One could count a pair of orange tigers, several leopards or maybe jaguars, and one grey leopard. Mostly they stood on bi-pedal rear legs like the animals but the upper form was certainly humanoid - some with fur and some with skin - and the faces varied from full cat faces to man with cat ears or just the flicking tails or even just paws for hands. The plank ramp was extended out and settled, a little wider than most, and more hands on deck began to move. The size of the ship obviously contained a number on board, though not all seemed to be sea men. Several tiny heads poked up over the railing to look around with the same types of variations as there had been in the adults but the common characteristic were the wide eyes filled with nervous wonder. The Open Arms of Libertalia Jim Davinshore sits in his watchtower, watching the horizon as he did when there was little else to do. The last of the newest batch of Isran trade ships had left port an hour ago, and their Libertalian escorts had peeled off along the horizon, letting them head off into sea on their own to meet up with their own escorts. Its a system that seemed to work, as far as he could tell, but it’d been a while since he’d sailed under the black flag, not since he’d been promoted to head of the docks. Not that he didn’t love his new job, but it’d been a long while since he’d felt the ocean wind in his head. Perhaps he’ll take a holiday soon and leave the port in the hands of his daughter Sunny. He hears Xibalba is nice this time of year… His musings are cut short when he spots a new ship turn towards Libertalia, one he’d not been expecting on the schedule. Through his spyglass he sees that its a ship type he’s never really seen before, one that piques his curiosity. “Sails!” He calls down to the port below. “Unknown origin!” That gets people hustling. Usually when an unknown ship is coming to harbour, there’s a cause for some alarm, one that isn’t taken lightly. Most of the time its fine, but there’s been once or twice in recent years where a band of pirate hunters has tried to invade via the port, extremely misguided sort, and always swiftly defeated. They just don’t get that Libertalians aren’t pirates, and are much more organised than most would think. Several Peacekeepers, Libertalia’s defenders, gather at the docks, weapons holstered for now, but ready to bring them out at a moment’s notice. They weren’t expecting any resistance, but it never hurt to be ready regardless. “Stand ready!” their captain calls as the ship’s hands leap over, but he lowers his hand when he sees them just docking the ship. An invading force just doesn't do that, not one that stands a chance at least. “Ah, nevermind lads.” The dockmaster steps forward and gestures for the other dock workers to help settle the ship, seeing that it's definitely not a threat. “Get this ship secured, boys!” The dock workers, all from several difference races from human to Av’rae, dwarf to Ogre, all work with the strange new folk to secure the ship. “Welcome t’ Libertalia!” he says after the plank is extended and lands. He holds up a hand in greeting as he speaks. “This is unexpected to say the least, apologies for the armed welcome! Y’aren’t on the list fer today, an’ at that speed it puts us a wee bit on edge. Name’s Jim Davinshore, port master. What business have y’ got in Libertalia, an’ how can we help you? Trade? Diplomacy? Don’t say invasion, cause that’s not a good idea.” The last bit is followed with a chuckle, clearly joking.
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Jawbariya of Jevu'ri
New
Roleplay posts: 2
Age: ???
Physical Description: An Ede’fel from the desert, she stands at almost 6 feet at the withers and roughly 7'6" at the top of her head. Her lower, larger half represents a horse in shape, but actually sports the build of a grey and spotted leopard with four powerful legs tipped with wide paws and sharp claws, as well as a long fluffy tail. The upper body holds a humanoid female shape with a petite frame and supple chest, but also has more characteristics of the feline shown in the lower half - grey fur with dark spots and markings, the head of a grey leopard with bright, yellow eyes and soft whiskers, and claws at her fingertips.
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Clothes and Equipment: As a member of Ede'fel nobility, intricate ores and silk adorn her body. An ivory, strapless gown sits across her breast with a broad, gold trim that loops around the back of the neck - the soft, airy fabric hugging her frame to a matching gold sash at the waist and parts at the withers with a considerable length of trailing silk swaying between her forelegs and the rest following the arch of her feline back, secured with another gold sash behind the shoulders and again before the flanks. Bands of gold fit the ankles of all four paws. A near transparent veil wraps around her shoulders and cascades down just past her hips, clasped over her chest with an emerald-studded, gold brooch and complete with a rather lengthy hood that completely shields her head when drawn up. More bands decorate her arms and dangle about her wrists and a pair from her ears, and a few tiny ones adorn her fingers. Upon her head rests a circlet - also of gold and sporting several set emeralds in the ore.
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Allegiances: Ede’fel
Registered: Feb 19, 2020 2:08:14 GMT -8
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Post by Jawbariya of Jevu'ri on Feb 22, 2020 22:48:20 GMT -8
--- THE OPEN ARMS OF LIBERTALIA ---
The aid was partially ill-met, as several of the feline creatures were obviously taken aback by the number of other races there were. Some in awe continued to work, and when the ship was secured they couldn't stop staring with noses wiggling, some murmuring between each other. The ones that took the culture shock less than favorably stayed painfully close to the ship or returned aboard. Several of the before-mentioned tiny heads were peeking up around near the bow to look at all these strange happenings.
As the port master bellowed his greeting, several new faces descended the plank - these being more uniform. There were half a dozen cat men with jaguar heads and furred bodies despite the human shaped torso. And these were dressed with leather greaves and pauldrons and bracers, as well as a breastplate of a gold color, around a simple wrap skirt of white silk that stopped at the knee. Their weapon of choice was a simple spear, which was carried point up rather than in offense. The small unit filed off the plank and stopped, followed by a towering creature that walked with a heavy gait that commanded power - requiring the wider ramp to descend safely.
The beast had the lower half of a clear lion with a well groomed pelt where there weren't clean shaved patches that revealed scarring - potentially from battles or fights. The giant paws looked large enough to crush a skull, unyielding claws lightly scratching the wood build of the docks with each step. The forelegs were armored while the rear saw only leather greaves. The shoulders and back and chest were also armored, showing nicks and scratches akin to conflict - and the body shifted up to a humanoid torso like that of a centaur. It was completely furred like the lower half, and atop the shoulders was a lion's head. The armor across his shoulders and forearms and chest was alike the gold-colored plates of the entourage of 6. The thick mane looked to have been shaven along the sides of the neck and beneath the chin, leaving a rather long, dark trail from atop the head and between the ears along the neck and halfway down the back. However, despite his standing, he seemed to carry no weapon aside from his clawed hands and four paws.
When he came to stand ahead of his soldiers, it was clear he stood around 7 feet up to the withers, but the torso and head put him to around 9 feet in total height. He came to stand just ahead of his escort, and while the port master spoke he then lowered himself to... sit? The lower half settled down as if a cat lying down on it's belly, but the torso remained upright. When the joke was posed, a grimace settled across the features of the leonine beast, and he bowed his head. "I hope you will forgive our intrusion, the," he replied, his voice deep and strong. "We were desperate, and had been sailing for days. I am Ilonhi, envoy of the Ede'fel and guardian brother to Lady Jawbariya of Jevu'ri. We have a dozen families on board and a handful of soldiers, but we are out of food and very tired. We... we came in hopes of finding a little refuge for a short while."
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Tinker Fizzbit
Committed
Roleplay posts: 72
Age: 52
Physical Description: Tinker Fizzbit would seem to be a perfectly normal woman in her twenties, with a long, silky brown ponytail and bangs framing her face. That is, she would, were she not approximately three feet tall with slightly pointed ears, and a knack for saying apparently anything that pops into her brain. This pegs her as one of the quirkiest of races: a gnome.
Her voice is high-pitched, yet erudite, speaking to a hidden intelligence beneath all the apparent craziness. She has a pleasant figure and a strong face, with thick eyebrows and a seemingly constant smattering of soot or other assorted explosion biproducts. Despite this, she is miraculously unscarred, somehow escaping all of her failed experiments with nothing but singed eyebrows and a fresh film of soot.
Clothes and Equipment: ============
Tinker generally wears a practical ensemble of baggy clothing made of durable and fireproofed cloth, covered by a protective leather vest with many inner pockets and a pair of knee-length leather boots. About her hip she wears an engineer's toolbelt, with a quiver and various tinkering tools on her left side, and a myriad of multicoloured flasks of various elixirs on her right, most of them highly volatile. When she's experimenting, she wears a set of specialised goggles. They tend to stay atop her forehead when she isn't.
Her weapon of choice is a heavily customised repeating crossbow with various modifications. The crossbow is fed by a circular drum of bolts above a mechanism which automatically launches a bolt and primes another with every pull of the trigger. It also has a very well-calibrated sight, and two valves that spray the bolts with various concoctions with the press of a button. All in all, it is a very advanced weapon.
Registered: Feb 17, 2016 1:50:52 GMT -8
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Post by Tinker Fizzbit on Feb 25, 2020 21:34:48 GMT -8
A small catamaran-style boat evidently made from driftwood appears over the horizon. While it is clearly constructed from subpar materials, it seems to be well-made and functional, and its single linen sail catches the wind well enough to push it around quickly given its light load. Evidently, there's only one passenger on the five meter long boat. Viewed through spyglass from afar it appears to be...a child, perhaps? Surely too small for a human adult, and not stocky enough to be a dwarf. But then, their complexion is wrong for a human, possessing an ever so slightly green-tinged bronze skin. How odd. The figure moves about frantically upon the boat, pulling at ropes to tack into the wind and nearly keeling the ship several times in the process. Finally, it arrives in port, going far too fast, and before the figure can lower the sails the boat goes careening into a dock, shattering on impact and sending the woman aboard soaring over the pier to tumble unceremoniously to a stop in the center of the docks. The poor driftwood boat is already sinking, the impact having put a large hole in one of the craft's dual hulls, but luckily it doesn't appear that there was any cargo aboard. The small woman sits up, rubbing at a bump on her head, and then shuffles to her feet. On closer inspection, it's clear that she's definitely not a dwarf, and certainly not a child. She seems to be a very small...elf, maybe, judging by the slightly pointed ears? She's certainly not dressed like an elf. She's dressed like someone expecting to walk through a fire. The woman looks around for someone who seems like they're in charge, and ends up striding confidently toward the dock foreman, who of course has nothing to do with customs. "Good eve, tallman!" she proclaims, her lilting accent bizarre and difficult to place. It's clearly not evening, but before she can be corrected, she speaks again. "Tinker Fizzbit. My name, I mean. Where may an inventrix and constructress of fizzpoppers, blast-knockers, boomspheres and such expect employment on this little eximious -- so I've been told -- landmass?" Big Ideas From a Small Place. It seemed to be a quiet day in the port today, giving the port master, a Mr. Jim Davinshore a well deserved break. The night before he and his lads had seen to the loading of five Isran trade vessels, six independants, and two home fleet ships, all destined to parts unknown, all of which satisfied him greatly. Not only were the jobs done well, on time, and without the loss of any wares, and the money it brought in to the island only added to that very satisfaction. So, he’s spent the day in one of the watchtowers in the harbour, idly watching any ships on the horizon to see if they were coming in, which so far none had. In fact, there wasn’t anything on the docket for today, by some stroke of luck. Still, he watches and idly sips on a mug of ale his daughter had run up for him not an hour before. Another hour passes as he sits, enjoying his time off, until finally he spot something on the horizon. Its tiny and even through his spy glass he barely makes it out, a testament to the luck of even spotting such a thing so far away. As it draws closer, his bearded features scrunch up a little and he hums. “Strange…” As it draws nearer, her climbs down the ladders and walks towards the docks, still watching the small craft come in. He can see it clearer now, clearly a jury rigged ship, driven by, what? A child? He hums to himself again as he watches, whoever it was knows what they’re doing that’s for sure. Then it gets closer and closer. “Slow up…” he mumbles to himself. “Slowly now… Uh oh.” He takes several steps back, waving at the others on the dock to do the same as the catamaran comes careening towards them, then inevitably crashes. “What the hell?!” he calls out as the small person goes end over end onto the dock as their little boat sinks. Once the woman settles, Jim rushes over to see if she’s injured, but in no time she’s on her feet. No, not a dwarf, not stocky enough, and too short to be an elf. “A gnome?!” he says in surprise as he takes off his tricorn hat and scratches his messy hair. “Well, Ferryman take me…” He seems confused for a few short moments before taking her hand and shaking it. “Jim Davinshore, portmaster,” he says, then shakes his head. “I have no idea what yer talkin’ about Gnome… uh, Tinker?” Damn these gnomes and their strange little words. “But if I’m hearin’ y’ right, yer an inventor?” He still seems confused about the whole matter. They already had teams of dwarven engineers making strides in technology for them, one of the biggest assets they had in their alliance with the Rune King in the mountain at the center of the island, but considering she was able to get such speed and such distance on such a jury rigged craft, and had the confidence to do so, spoke some measure of her intellect. “Captain’ll never believe what I’ve seen here…” he says as he scratches his head again. “T’ be honest with y’, gnome, I’ve no clue where y’d get employment fer yer talents. Our workshops’re fully staffed as far as I know.” He puts his other hand on his hip in thought. “Could get a job as a bar wench I guess, but if yer lookin’ fer an invention job, eh…” He looks up the long road towards the captain’s manor. “Y’could go ask t’ see Captain O’Malley. She oversees the island, our leader o’ sorts. Head o’ the admiralty council. She’s on the island, and usually at home. She’s no’ shy about takin’ visitors, no matter how small ‘n’ strange, like yersel’.” The gnome waves off the dockmaster's concerns. "Never-ever has the great Tinker Fizzbang met a mountain squat that matched her inventivity! No, dwarfs can forge a tough metal bar, but a gnome can take that metal bar and twist it into a ferrous abyssopelagic eruptive trajectator! Or, or a self-motivating hepatotropic prosthesis! Such grand contrivances would indubitably serve your naval flotilla far more rightly than that uncouth armour they've tapped into your woodwork," she responds, placing her hand upon her hip with an air of haughtiness. She snaps her fingers and unslings the strange-looking drum-fed crossbow slung across her back, handing it over for the dockmaster to inspect. "You see? Every tall-man with whom I confabulate gawks upon this little trinket I set on and finished within a fortnight during a long journey to break the humdrum of skittering about on pony-back. My greatest works are stowed back home, where I titled Magos Fabricus of the entire city of Zfassbar!" she brags. While her pitch may sound a bit arrogant, it's true that the device she hands the portmaster would surely be considered a great work most of the world over. It's got the look of a repeating crossbow, but it's fed from below out of a drum of several tens of bolts, spring loaded to push themselves into the barrel. Some bizarre contraption that is made up of a series of small copper gears draws the string quickly back after every shot, and a series of valves feeding from a trio of small canisters near the drum magazine terminate in narrow nozzles at the riser, ready to coat the bolts with whatever bubbles within those canisters at the turn of a knob. The split-limbed steel bow and the hinged aluminium stock both fold inward to make the bow more compact if it needs to be stowed, and they can be deployed with the flick of a switch near the trigger. She crosses her arms and looks up at the dockmaster expectantly. "In brief, I haven't need of worry! I'll outshow all of the mountain squats that come my way, suredly as wyrmfire deliquesces copper. Now, might I entreat you to toss a dock-man my way, in order that I might not get lost tracking this manor? Easy for your tall-men, but not so easy for a gnome to see above crowds and lay eyes upon manors, even large as they get!"
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