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by CobraKing95 on Tue Jul 03, 2007 8:01 pm
OOC: This is going to be one of those meaningless roleplays. It starts off with an under-defined plot or no plot at all and as the story progresses, the characters write the plot. It increases creativity as the only boundaries are what your fellow roleplayers won't do. Don't post a bio, just jump into the story and we'll write you in. As long as you're literate, you're in.
BIC: Scott Findlay sat on his barstool, finishing his ale. His hair was dark brown, medium length, and slightly curled. He had three days worth of stubble on his face as well as some dirt. He wore an old, tattered, brown leather outfit consisting of a tunic, trousers, loose-fitting vest, boots, and a set of fingerless, copper-studded gloves.
He was a bounty hunter and, recently, he had been getting an increase in the number of calls he got. Some were the usualcareless thieves, debtors, runaways, and those unfortunate enough to leave a will to one undeserving. This was just more money. What disturbed him was the missing livestock cases. At first, he thought it was just some poor bloke who couldn't feed his family or possibly wolves. However, patterns were beginning to develop and strange tracks turned up at the crime scenes. It didn't ease his suspicions as one of last month's victims was found disemboweled on his farm.
Eventually, he had gotten lucky, or unlucky from a certain point of view, and found what had been taking the animals. As he was inspecting a job on the king's private hunting grounds, he soon found himself on the wrong end of the hunter/hunted relationship. A werewolf lunged at him and he fell on his back. He kicked into a back flip when the beast landed on him, throwing the creature into the air. As the beast came down, Scott was there with his daggers, and the werewolf was dead before it hit the ground. Unfortunately, the beast melted with a hiss of black smoke, leaving no trace.
Of course, no one believed Scott, so he was somewhat shot of business, which is why he was at the inn this night, drinking until he passed out. Before his sobriety was long-gone, a cloaked stranger approached him. He dropped a pouch on the bar and it landed with the promising sound of coins.
The stranger said, "You called, 'Findlay'?" "Aye," replied Scott. The stranger grinned, baring several golden teeth, and said, "Good. I have a job for ye. I need ye to bring me a live werewolf." Before he could finish the last word, an unnerving hush fell over the inn. The barmaid shouted, "Are ye mad?!? No man could pull of such a feat even if they did exist! I'll not be having such talk in my inn. Out with ye, stranger!" Scott just said coolly, "Oh, they're real, all right. I'll bring ye back one on the next full moon." The barmaid just scoffed, "Aye. Many men be saying such things, but I na'er seen a man return with both 'is pride 'n' life." Scott slit the pouch with a dagger drawn from his vest and out poured one hundred gold coins. He counted out five on the bar, pocketed the rest, and left with the stranger in tow.
Make your biography a book worth reading.
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