A Symphony of Catastrophe [OOC/OPEN]

[Castle Crashers]

A Symphony of Catastrophe

A Wild West RP!

IC

"Welcome to the Wild West."

The year is 1870. You and many others are the youths of Stotesbury, a quiet and pleasant little town deep in the West. Passerbys came and went, bringing with them a few words and a small source of income for the town. Nothing too exciting usually happened in the town of Stotesbury, everyone living an average life in an average town. That is, atleast, until a group of radical cultists came along the road, all clad in black and riding steeds of glory. They asked the towns older folks to join their cause, to believe in their cult, or be killed. Some joined their group, while the gist of the adults denied the cults demands. They were all shot in a line, right in front of your eyes, as if they had meant nothing. You were horrified as the cultists grabbed the children they felt were desirable, and then left the rest of you to die. Alone and afraid, you soon tried to figure out what the rest of you could do to survive. Not only that, but you wanted vengeance; you just didn't know how to achieve that yet.

'Sup guys! So this is a Rp about the Wild Wild West, and a bunch of young folks figuring a way to survive on their own and to plot revenge on the group of murderers. Me and Sanabel felt this would be a fun RP to try, so we're giving it a go! Hope you enjoy, and as always, have fun. :3

1.) No meta-gaming, godmodding, flaming, etc.
2.) My word is law. You must listen to what my Co-op tells you, as his word is second in command to mine.
3.) Don't be a jerk in the OOC, be it all you want in the IC. Just let it out there bruh.
4.) Please, please refrain arguing in the OOC. If it's a problem, take it with me or do so in TGs.
5.) Have a super duper bunch of fun!

Code: Select all

(remove all parenthesis when done.)
App
Name:
Age (7-19 please.):
Gender:
Appearance (Description or image.):
Personality:
Equipment (Nothing OP. You're children, afterall.):
Brief Bio (optional as always!):
Theme song (Optional):


My Co-Op: Sanabel

[Lancearc]

I feel like Old English was way out of date by the time of the Wild West, so get out 'Ye Olde App' X3

Tag!

[Castle Crashers]

I feel like Old English was way out of date by the time of the Wild West, so get out 'Ye Olde App' X3

Tag!

Yay!

I'm sorry, I just wanted to use that somewhere xD

[Shyluz]

It's our favorite girl... EEEEEEEEEEN!

App
Name: Allen 'En' O'Cullen
Age: 17.33
Appearance:

Personality: You know En.
Equipment: The tomboy survival kit! (Lantern, knife, lockpicks, rope, first aid kit, anti-venom)
Brief Bio: You still know En.
Theme song: This!

[Castle Crashers]

It's our favorite girl... EEEEEEEEEEN!

App
Name: Allen 'En' O'Cullen
Age: 17.33
Appearance:

(Image)

Personality: You know En.
Equipment: The tomboy survival kit! (Lantern, knife, lockpicks, rope, first aid kit, anti-venom)
Brief Bio: You still know En.
Theme song: This!

Yaaassss! Accepted! ^^

[Conglomerate of Iron]

Tag

[Tulkomanistan]

Will make an app when I will get to my PC.

[Camicon]

App
Name: Isabel Acosta
Age: 19
Gender: Female

Personality: Outwardly, Isabel has stereotypical Spainiard mannerisms; she is loud, hot-headed, and extroverted. Her heart is worn proudly on her sleeve, and if she doesn't like something everyone is sure to know of it. However, she is extremely cagey regarding her past, and refuses to speak of it in any detail.
Equipment: One stiletto knife, with a handle of gold-inlaid ivory. Two throwing knives, made of low carbon content steel. A flask of whiskey, a pack of matches, and a small money pouch
Brief Bio: Isabel was born a bastard child of Sofia Acosta, the result of a torrid affair between the Spanish heiress and one of her family's stable boys. Isabel's father was dismissed from her family's service, and though Isabel herself was a great shame upon her family, her mother loved her dearly and insulated her from their wrath.
When Isabel was twelve years old, her mother was fatally stricken with tuberculosis. After she died, Isabel's father immediately disowned her, throwing her out onto the streets of Havana with not a penny to her name. The young girl stowed away on a ship to Miami, and from there made her way up to New York. With nobody to turn to she fell in with a street gang, at first as a runner, couriering messages or illicit materials. Later, she was forced into warming the bed of its leader.
After turning seventeen, Isabel gathered her courage and stole the collected funds of the gang, fleeing westward into Iowa and then buying a ticket on the newly opened Transcontinental Railroad. Wandering for a short while, she eventually settled in Stotesbury. She got work at the local saloon as a waitress, ocassionally providing entertainment in the form of a trick knife-throwing show.
Theme song

[The United Eastern States of Europe]

Tag!

[Sanabel]

YAY!

[Tracian Empire]

Cool

[The United Eastern States of Europe]

App
Name: Nikodim Vasilyev (Knee-co-deem Vas-eel-ee-ev)
Age (7-19 please.): 14
Gender: Male
Appearance:

Personality: Nikodim never really settled into his new home, making him seem cold and distant. He prefers to mutter to himself as he struggles to talk to people he doesn't know. Fairly tolerant of most things, except when you insult anything to do with Europe. Nikodim knows when it's best to bite his tongue, and prefers to bide his time rather than do something straight away.
Equipment: 1x hatchet, 1x Springfield model 1865 (too large for Niko, without ammo, with a jammed barrel. Completely screwed), 2x loaves of bread, 1x slice of salted beef, 1x half-melted candle, and 3x matches
Brief Bio: Born in 1856, Nikodim was the celebrated only child of a miner and a maid in Alaska. Despite not having very much, Niko loved his life and the people in it. His father (Kazimir) and mother (Ludmilla) had lived most there lives in Alaska, and Niko planed too as well. However, in 1867 The purchase of Alaska by the US caused most of Niko's friends to migrate back home. The demand for raw materials and ores fell as America didn't need it as much as the Russians, causing Nikodim's father to lose his job.
They were forced to move to find a job to sustain the family, so they headed to the west of America, by boat and train. Niko never really settled in to his new home of Stotesbury, and instead distanced himself from any of the other children. Inheriting both his father's stern nature and his mother's patience, Niko only spoke to people when it was necessary. He often spoke in his native tongue as opposed to the decent English he had learned when complaining to keep to himself. The last thing Niko ever wanted was to be deemed a burden, so he tries to avoid asking/begging for things.
Niko was there to watch his parents be shot in the streets. He found himself unable to decide whether to cry or scream, making him just stand there and stare. He wanted nothing more than to run after their horses and demand blood, but Niko was too well-bred to do that. Instead, he went home and gathered what he felt necessary, and sat on the steps up to his home to deter looters.
Theme song:Kalinka - 1850

[Sanabel]

I get to make an adult for plot reasons.
Also, you'll have to forgive me, I've had a bout of watching Spaghetti westerns.

App
Name: Joe Hudson
Age: 27
Gender: Male
Appearance:
Personality: Cold. Quiet. Doesn't say much, but loyal to those he cares about. He can be very intelligent, but doesn't show it do to his quietness. Doesn't anger easily.
Equipment: Smith & Wesson revolver, Henry Repeater Rifle, bone handled hunting knife
Brief Bio: Eugene Hubble was born in 1844, in Charleston, SC, to the owner of a large indigo plantation in the South Carolina lowcountry. As a boy, his time was split between the family's city manor, and the plantation. Throughout his life, he was educated by tutors in academic fields, and his father on how to be a successful planter. Despising it all, Eugene had dreams of becoming a law man in the territories out west, disliking both Charleston, and the prospect of working in the slave industry, and planting industry as a whole. In 1861, hid father enlisted him in the military, to fight for a cause his father believed in more than he. Under General Floyd, Eugene fought on the banks of the Mississippi. In the Battle of Iuka, he abandoned his company, for he was tired of war, and fighting for a cause he didn't believe in. Hunted by the Confederacy as a deserter and coward, scorned by his family, he escaped to New Orleans, and stowed away aboard a ship heading to Veracruz. There, he adopted a new identity, as Joe Hudson. He worked his way up through Mexico, throughout Texas, New Mexico, and Arizona, rustling cattle and working as a bounty hunter. Currently, he is tracking a former member of the O'Malley Gang, with ties to the death cult, and has found himself in a town full of kids.
Theme song: CC, this needs to be the RP theme.

[Sanabel]

As co-op, I am accepting all apps so far.

[Lancearc]

*has been busy and still needs to app >~>*

[Soviet Chernarus]

Tag. Don't know for certain whether I'll be joining or not, as I don't have a lot of experience with Wild West RPs. Looks good, though

[Sanabel]

Tag. Don't know for certain whether I'll be joining or not, as I don't have a lot of experience with Wild West RPs. Looks good, though

That's why we made it. There aren't a lot of them.

[World Anarchic Union]

Tag. Maybe join, although I can't make an app today. Looks like a good idea.

[Conglomerate of Iron]

App
Name: Roaring River
Age: 16
Appearance: https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/23 ... e9c99c.jpg
Personality: quiet, business like, distant. She plans to return her little brother to her and has no time for anything else.
Equipment: bow, arrows, bone knives, various bits of dried meat, fire drill, blankets and the like.
Brief Bio: an expert markswoman from a young age, Roaring River was more at home hunting than doing anything else. After her father was killed by the US military and her mother was killed by smallpox, she would help her little brother survive by hunting and assuming leadership over their position. The Lakota tribe they were born into was raided by the US military later and she was forced to flee with her brother. They would find this town a week earlier and take up brief residence, only for the cult to come. Before she could react her brother was taken from her, and she was very nearly shot when she tried to hit a man with her bow. She now is determined to find them and kill them.
Theme song: regular: https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=5ZcMlGpmxMY
Battle: https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=5Q04nJzKgQs

[Drakmah]

Seems like an awesome concept. If you don't mind I'm going to circumvent the tagging process and just app.

Name: Tavik Ishtar

Age: 18

Gender: Male

Appearance:

"If no one is who they appear to be, then what purpose do appearances serve?"

While he may not posses the size of a powerful man, his arms and legs have been toned by the time he has spent wandering the west, his chest and stomach bare the same scar of constant activity, though few have seen them and so that much cannot be confirmed. What is known however is the respirator that clings to his face. Absorbing the bottom of his nose to the middle of his chin, the apparatus that allows him to breathe is made up of lightweight metal that contains layers of filters. While he would prefer it not to be he needs such a device to keep the dust and dirt of the landscape from clogging his already damaged windpipe. Unlike the picture above he prefers to go sleeveless, the heat of the west too much to bare should he place anything over his arms.

Personality:

"The key to who someone is cannot be found through the eyes, but from who they keep in their company, if any at all."

As his respirator muffles his voice and his impairment makes speaking loudly a difficult task he is very picky about his words, choosing to speak only when necessary or when the noise level permits him to be heard. Now, while this may give off a shy impression he has none of the qualities to back up such assumption, his demeanor staying calm and collected through almost anything. Should one spend time with Tavik, he may attempt to impart some of the things he has learned, his attitude taking on a stoic quality at many times as he passively comments on the things that he sees. His favorite place is around the firepit, whether alone for self reflection or with others for the sharing of stories, his home is around those licks of flame that are created each night in the darkness.

Equipment:

"It is said that knowledge is power, and to exercise that power is to share knowledge. But what power can I wield if none can hear me. This is why I must carry weapons, so that I can live long enough to exercise what power I have."

Not finding a gun to be efficient, Tavik prefers to lose the loud, inaccurate, and riskiness of a gun for a crossbow. It represents him in a way, the quiet and deadly precision describing him.

He also carries the trophies of the west, things he has collected over the short years of his wandering. He has a sturdy, native style hunting knife, an old wooden flask, a necklace with many different kinds of teeth, and a dark red cloak, which he keeps around his neck to flow behind him, using the mass of cloth to cushion the respirator as it lightens the load of it on his neck.

He carries with him no food currently, having eaten it during his stay in Stotesbury, his flask however, he keeps filled through the water in town.

Brief Bio:

"All are judged by both their past and their future. Should one not appreciate their past they can add as much to themselves through their future, but they will always have to answer for what they have done, no matter how much time is placed between it and them."

Whether is was his fault or not does not matter. He still suffers from what happened to him 10 years ago. It was a nice day, blue sky's and the like. He would not remember it like this for some time, the deed having long overshadowed the smell of the air and the feeling of the sun.

He had grown up an orphan, mention of his parents never something that was talked about to his memory. His worked in the fields and when the day was over, just like all the other children of his small, remote, overzealous farming community, he went to school.

School was not where he learned to speak, or where to read and write, no school was where he was taught what he now knew to be the lies of desperate men, wanting the power and respect that could be obtained from this exploitation. He was always a quiet one, but when a girl his age came to the town, joining him as an orphan he discovered his quietness was determined by the company, not him. He talked quite openly with this girl, and she spoke quite openly as well, about many things.

Her mistake came when she questioned the teachers at the front of the class, her curiosities being met with strict punishment. This never dampened her will to ask however, and soon to stop her from risking any more she was placed in jail, to be killed as a witch. This was an old policy, given up by most everywhere else but not here, not in this little farming village, erased from the map and not influenced by modern progression.

He went to see her that night, to say goodbye and ask questions of his own. She answered what she could, her ideas and thoughts flowing forth in a torrent of words. They became too loud however, and the guard found them and took him away. He would never see her again, never see her face that is, not without the fire and the smoke.

To stop him from repeating her words they maimed him, a hot piece of iron down his throat. It damaged his speaking abilities and for a year he could not utter a word, the pain too much. He had so many questions, the ideas and thoughts given to him with none to share with, and so he left, left in the middle of the night for the west, somewhere he could start anew.

For 4 years he traveled with a group of mercenaries, learning what he could from them so that he would be able to journey on his own. Their leader crafted for him the respirator, allowing him to speak as he was no longer plagued by the dirt and dust of the west. He learned passively, watching them as they went along in daily life to eventually understand how to gather food and water, how to make fires and how to make shelter that could shield him from cold nights. He also learned actively, taking on the crossbow. While he learned how to shoot it from someone who owned a gun, the principles seemed to be the same to him, and so he took what he could get.

After those 5 years he began to journey by himself, visiting many different cultures and settlements, doing odd jobs for money when money was needed and spending time exploring, learning, when he didn't need the cash. All in pursuit of knowledge.

He was brought to Stotesbury because of his thirst for knowledge about this cult. He had experienced the sting of the murder of the innocent, and came to find reason, came to seek motivation, and maybe even pass on what he had collected onto anyone who would listen, anyone who would take the time to really listen and find meaning of their own in his shambled words.

Theme song: Home is behind

[Jordkloden]

Tag.

[Sanabel]

Seems like an awesome concept. If you don't mind I'm going to circumvent the tagging process and just app.

Name: Tavik

Age: 18

Gender: Male

Appearance:

(Image)

"If no one is who they appear to be, then what purpose do appearances serve?"

While he may not posses the size of a powerful man, his arms and legs have been toned by the time he has spent wandering the west, his chest and stomach bare the same scar of constant activity, though few have seen them and so that much cannot be confirmed. What is known however is the respirator that clings to his face. Absorbing the bottom of his nose to the middle of his chin, the apparatus that allows him to breathe is made up of lightweight metal that contains layers of filters. While he would prefer it not to be he needs such a device to keep the dust and dirt of the landscape from clogging his already damaged windpipe. Unlike the picture above he prefers to go sleeveless, the heat of the west too much to bare should he place anything over his arms.

Personality:

"The key to who someone is cannot be found through the eyes, but from who they keep in their company, if any at all."

As his respirator muffles his voice and his impairment makes speaking loudly a difficult task he is very picky about his words, choosing to speak only when necessary or when the noise level permits him to be heard. Now, while this may give off a shy impression he has none of the qualities to back up such assumption, his demeanor staying calm and collected through almost anything. Should one spend time with Tavik, he may attempt to impart some of the things he has learned, his attitude taking on a stoic quality at many times as he passively comments on the things that he sees. His favorite place is around the firepit, whether alone for self reflection or with others for the sharing of stories, his home is around those licks of flame that are created each night in the darkness.

Equipment:

"It is said that knowledge is power, and to exercise that power is to share knowledge. But what power can I wield if none can hear me. This is why I must carry weapons, so that I can live long enough to exercise what power I have."

Not finding a gun to be efficient, Tavik prefers to lose the loud, inaccurate, and riskiness of a gun for a crossbow. It represents him in a way, the quiet and deadly precision describing him.

He also carries the trophies of the west, things he has collected over the short years of his wandering. He has a sturdy, native style hunting knife, an old wooden flask, a necklace with many different kinds of teeth, and a dark red cloak, which he keeps around his neck to flow behind him, using the mass of cloth to cushion the respirator as it lightens the load of it on his neck.

He carries with him no food currently, having eaten it during his stay in Stotesbury, his flask however, he keeps filled through the water in town.

Brief Bio:

"All are judged by both their past and their future. Should one not appreciate their past they can add as much to themselves through their future, but they will always have to answer for what they have done, no matter how much time is placed between it and them."

Whether is was his fault or not does not matter. He still suffers from what happened to him 10 years ago. It was a nice day, blue sky's and the like. He would not remember it like this for some time, the deed having long overshadowed the smell of the air and the feeling of the sun.

He had grown up an orphan, mention of his parents never something that was talked about to his memory. His worked in the fields and when the day was over, just like all the other children of his small, remote, overzealous farming community, he went to school.

School was not where he learned to speak, or where to read and write, no school was where he was taught what he now knew to be the lies of desperate men, wanting the power and respect that could be obtained from this exploitation. He was always a quiet one, but when a girl his age came to the town, joining him as an orphan he discovered his quietness was determined by the company, not him. He talked quite openly with this girl, and she spoke quite openly as well, about many things.

Her mistake came when she questioned the teachers at the front of the class, her curiosities being met with strict punishment. This never dampened her will to ask however, and soon to stop her from risking any more she was placed in jail, to be killed as a witch. This was an old policy, given up by most everywhere else but not here, not in this little farming village, erased from the map and not influenced by modern progression.

He went to see her that night, to say goodbye and ask questions of his own. She answered what she could, her ideas and thoughts flowing forth in a torrent of words. They became too loud however, and the guard found them and took him away. He would never see her again, never see her face that is, not without the fire and the smoke.

To stop him from repeating her words they maimed him, a hot piece of iron down his throat. It damaged his speaking abilities and for a year he could not utter a word, the pain too much. He had so many questions, the ideas and thoughts given to him with none to share with, and so he left, left in the middle of the night for the west, somewhere he could start anew.

For 4 years he traveled with a group of mercenaries, learning what he could from them so that he would be able to journey on his own. Their leader crafted for him the respirator, allowing him to speak as he was no longer plagued by the dirt and dust of the west. He learned passively, watching them as they went along in daily life to eventually understand how to gather food and water, how to make fires and how to make shelter that could shield him from cold nights. He also learned actively, taking on the crossbow. While he learned how to shoot it from someone who owned a gun, the principles seemed to be the same to him, and so he took what he could get.

After those 5 years he began to journey by himself, visiting many different cultures and settlements, doing odd jobs for money when money was needed and spending time exploring, learning, when he didn't need the cash. All in pursuit of knowledge.

He was brought to Stotesbury because of his thirst for knowledge about this cult. He had experienced the sting of the murder of the innocent, and came to find reason, came to seek motivation, and maybe even pass on what he had collected onto anyone who would listen, anyone who would take the time to really listen and find meaning of their own in his shambled words.

Theme song: Home is behind

Two things.

1. Please add in a last name or first name depending.
2. The respirator wasn't created until its experimental model in the 1890s, not used widespread until after 1900.

[Nachfolgia]

I'll get an app up as soon as I can.

[Conglomerate of Iron]

Sanabel, is mine good?

[Sanabel]

Sanabel, is mine good?

Sorry almost forgot.

Accepted.