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Sep 16, 2021
In Accepted Whitelist Application
Out of Character Information IGN: Cheesewheel_1 How did you learn of The Crossroads?: Mystery & co. being a bunch of nerds. Discord: Four-Footed Floof Noodle#8249 Your Age: 14 Describe the server in your own words: Mystery's cracked form of D&D. You agree to the rules of the server, including that you cannot start conflict with other player characters without their out-of-character consent: Yes, I do. In Character Information Character Name: Jarlsson Flintbeard Character Age: 52 Character Race: Dwarf What does your character look like in 3-5 sentences: An extremely large dwarf, standing at 4'7 and weighing 279 pounds, a lot of which is hard muscle. Jarlsson has extremely thick orange hair and white skin, which is often pigmented with gunpowder, along with a pair of wise-old grey eyes. He has a very thick dwarven accent, barely understandable to even some other dwarves. The goliath often smells like gunpowder, charcoal and hard liquors. Give us a mental/personal description of your character in 3-5 sentences: Jarlsson Flintbeard has a highly eccentric and explosive personality, being very odd and changing moods very quickly. Despite this, he loves talking with people, and will talk even a deity to death. He'll ramble on and on about whatever's on his mind, even if the person on the other end doesn't care or doesn't know what he's saying, usually with plenty of alcohol at hand. Jarlsson is very adventurous and works well under pressure, usually taking a very direct approach to things. Explain how your character made it to the Crossroads in 5-10 sentences and with 1 reference to the lore: Jarlsson Flintbeard was born as just about every dwarf is: As a miner. His father was born into a lower class and Jarlsson was born into the same conditions, but as he grew older and his father wiser, his family remained content in their conditions. They were able to get their daily bread and keg of ale without a hassle, with just enough money on the side to live a fine, simple living. As a child, Jarlsson always spent time watching his dwarven kin mine, which wasn't the most exciting thing unless explosives were needed. Jarlsson always loved gunpowder, as conventional mining methods never were that interesting to him, nor were they loud. As he aged into adulthood, Jarlsson began to wander around, unsure what to do with himself. This brought him into Horde territory, in which he was captured and forced to participate in an arena match. Unluckily for him, he was pitted against a twenty-foot colossus. He was given the option between three weapons: a greatsword, a warhammer, and a particularly large flintlock rifle. Before this point, Jarlsson never considered gunpowder to be used as a weapon before, but with his intrigue for anything to do with it, he chose the flintlock. This would be the best possible choice, as in the arena, the colossus would be impossible to kill with any other weapon, denoting Jarlsson's size. The rifle on the other hand had the power to take the colossus down with a lucky shot. Jarlsson took this lucky shot, and managed to hit it. The lumbering beast fell before he could even get into melee range. On his way out of Horde territory, Jarlsson was met by a large wartorn, who offered to join him. Jarlsson agreed, and they drank a large amount at the nearby tavern before departing into the Ambrosian Republic. As they traveled through the Ambrosian Republic, they stopped at taverns, drinking ridiculous amounts and recruiting people into their new mercenary band. What it was going to do first wasn't clear, but whatever it was, he was going to have a rifle by his side. Once they reached the Ambrosian Republic's capital, the land erupted into civil war, and the band was quickly hired by the Republican army to help contain the rebels and repel the invading forces. They would arm themselves with high-bore rifles, blunderbusses and various explosives, and would quickly see combat against Sericea-Utis in western Ambrosia. This western front quickly trawls into a stalemate as the band is forced to hold out in each fort and city for days on end, waiting for any significant reinforcements to arrive. The mercenaries cause an insurmountable amount of enemy causalities and would save Republican Loyalists a lot of valuable time. Despite this, the group is slowly pushed back and back as months turn to years. After three years of siege after siege against the rebels and Sericea-Utis, the band would finally be surrounded in a small costal fort. With help seeming to be a distant hope, they would hold out for nearly month before food, ammunition and morale began to ran low, and desertions started occurring. Despite this, they held out for just a few more days before their second in command, the wartorn from earlier, ordered a retreat of most of the forces from the fort. Jarlsson and a handful of his best men opted to say to cover their retreat. They held down valiantly, going above and beyond to cover their escaping comrades, letting shell after shell fly in a glorious attempt to keep the attackers at bay. Boat after boat would escape, as the defenders kept losing a man at a time, praying to whatever lord they believed in that another boat would escape. Then another boat escaped. As Jarlsson's men kept dropping, he held his ground at the highest point on the fort, releasing round after round as the attackers only kept gaining ground. Jarlsson guises out at the sea, the setting sun shimmering over it. He watches as the last boat leaves the harbor, as the last man gets out. He's been holding this position for more than a month now, nearly deaf after having fired continuously for so long. A tear rolls down his left cheek, before he regains his focus. As him and his last five men, his, per say, best five men continue to hold down until the last, he yells to the attckers "'Ave y'eh 'ad'eh'nou'gh!?" as he fires some canister shot down the corridor. At this point, it seems to be Jarlsson's end has come drawing near. He looks up, thinking to himself "This life, though very short... Has been glorious..." At this moment, his last man falls, and a grenade is flung down the hall. He looks at it for a moment, before closing his eyes, accepting his fate. It's almost as if his mind snaps for a moment... Jarlsson shoots his eyes wide open, feeling a shooting pain in his belly. He's fatigued, slowly and carefully standing up. It felt surreal as he looked around. He wasn't in a fort or some prison, he was in an empty tavern, and he wasn't dead, so where was he? He was at the Crossroads. Character Skin: This is a temp skin
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