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Mudra

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About Mudra

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    Apprentice

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    Yours Truly

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  1. Sure, Mudra is actually right in front of your character already. So it shouldn't be a problem.
  2. It doesn't matter. Whichever you feel more appropriate for your character, surprise me. Apart from context, we can improvise as we go. As for the Hands of Abberoth thread, I posted in that some time ago, actually. We could pounce from there or we can start anew. I think the former might be better.
  3. Thanks to the involuntarily agency of a latent psionic power, certain subconscious inklings, like boredom, shoot Mudra into the myriad vortex-phenomena of Valcure; something his psychic ability does to suit an inner-need for romantic escapade. His destinations tend to be places that swell with conflict or danger, because his deepest yearns are ones that target the perilous adventure. This is how he has "crash-landed" in Valcure, and a few wonky places within it. Moreover, if you recall, this was the reason I accredited to his advent in the Plains, within the Tales of Abboroth thread. Because of this, almost anywhere, is a feasible place to encounter him -- especially if the setting is particularly rife with crisis or emergency. The more, the better. If your character serves this Gaian group or something else, maybe an effort aimed at recruiting or arresting him would lend to an interesting development in story.
  4. He's from another world, alike to our real one. And as with all canvases laid bare, the possibilities for what he may become, in this one, depend on the imprints his habitat leaves behind. He may fight the Gaians, should their enemies befriend him; he might join humanity, if their cause is one that inspires him so. Anything is bound. Regardless, the prospects have the potential to give the plot a fun shove.
  5. That's a stark polarity, one I don't think my character is qualified to identify with, yet. Mudra is an alien to Valcure; he's virtually clean of its worldly impressions, and just as clueless as to what goes on within it. Encountering those who aren't, would make for the means to finally color him, while laying the foregrounds for a promising story.
  6. A late introduction, but an introduction nonetheless. I’m writing this namely for the fact that these seem to be an important ritual for social induction, here, on Valcure. Likewise, it looks to serve as the best moth-lantern for piquing roleplay interest, my main objective. For that reason, this is being made with two incentives in mind: introducing myself, and meeting you — the roleplayers who are, similarly, looking to sate their palate for long-term story embarkments. My name is Mudra. And, compared to some of you, who have spent something shy of a decade here, I’m a relative novice. Foreign origins and on-site inexperience aside, immersion is still my goal. With a good piece of newly-allotted free time at my disposal now, I’ve finally set my eyes on a long overdue commitment here. I have the means now, to pilot the kind of character, whose malleability, surrenders him to the shaping of a new world: Valcure’s world. I want to jump in that pool with all of you. And I look forward to it.
  7. His immediate west delivered the pacifying winds of express concern; the soothing tune of a woman’s motherly tend. It was an assuaging, blue solace amid the scalding red ire of a crowd’s remorseless blame. Like a stray mutt, this alleviating douse earned her the youth’s momentary deference. His guard yielded with the coming rejoinder; the roseate glare of a boyish defiance easing with his brief evaluation of her person — a vulnerable gloss polishing ruby globes of admiration. “I’m fine—“ However, afore a reassuring breath could ever escape him, the volcanic weight of a catastrophic presence, embodying the mass’ scorn, gargantuanly befell him in the form of a voice; a blast of drunken vitriol and fatherly charge decimating any comfort once salvaged. Its bombard claimed no direction. But, stiffened by an anxious rigor-mortis, a slow revolution of our youth’s mossy head aimed a fearful eye just over the shoulder‘s horizon to find one. To his stunning confusion, there were none. Well, not quite. Of every candidate considered, a survey of that den exempted all but one; though, ...that was impossible. Could it have been? ...It had to be... No. The profile of that hefty lambaste surely suggested the culpability of an accurately vulgar suspect not far behind, yet that pirate’s attention was inexplicably tailored to other distraits. So, how? Confounded, the stark absence of a feasible culprit compelled a word of Mudra’s profound ignorance. The best his lexicon could find. “Huh?” @Raptor @Biggie_Smalls
  8. It had the baleful habit of dispensing him wherever it whimmed, and without the slightest reproach for the perils affixed. Such, were the chronic ails of his unrelenting burden. And, it was this scarce discrimination that succeeded in tangling the fate of our hapless guest with the delicate matters of his imminent sojourn, assigning his destination to a vast, dull ether just above the cruel plains of a bleak extinction below. The outland. Verily, like all those that ever preceded it, an advent like his hardly warranted any true measure of circumspection to discern. Oppositely, it seemed to beckon for the worship of an appropriate audience. And unfortunately, for those who did care to maintain its illusory veil, stealth was a barren attribute amongst this one’s caliber-array. For just above the commanding regiment on ground, tormenting gales of profound strength wrestled, savagely, with the stratosphere, distressing a blustering squall from their firmament that worthied the anxious sway of whatever twisted roughage prevailed here. The provenance from which this inexplicable tempest hailed was no sooner divulged with the birth of a heinous contortion — a godless sprain in the fabric of space-time and a seeming smear on the naturality of their world. Mangling the palette of its three-dimensional fold, surroundings were ostensibly snagged by the radius of this cruel deform. That was, until the stress of this aberrant flex inevitably gave way to the true animus of its boastful conception: a rift. Collapsing under its own strain, a cleave was born with the snap of its titanic wrench, busting open an egregious gash in the fabric of their plane; one, that revealed, in the swirling rainbow-amalgam of its nebulous pouch, the transitory passage of an ill-fated company. From that viscera, the form of our visitor was routinely spat, a departure followed by a swift fastening of the trans-dimensional slit left behind, which returned the stratosphere to its boorish stagnation, in turn. Its sole subject was, of course, Mudra, if the frantic calls of his declaring winds did not suffice to say enough. “Shit, shit!” His gift, ...or so some liked to call it, occasionally answered a sub-conscious plea against the ills of boredom and tethered itself to the variable manifestations of Valcure's vortex-phenomena amid. And, he could be catapulted virtually anywhere as a result. Though, he was of the impression this transpiring had some sinister fondness for jeopardy, much to the anguish of his serene mind. His, was a psionic affinity; accessed to the greater ranks of spiritual anatomy, our youth’s godsend was one responsible for fruiting the Astral vehicle in his possession — a plane whose Dharma [ governing nature ] surrendered solely to the conscious and sub-conscious inklings within; a realm that served conception. In exchange for that manifestation, he apportioned aspects of himself, the immeasurable spirit, to the gestation of this preternatural bloom. In this way, his craft was really a volatile alchemy; and moving the biddable nature of the Astral plane to the corporeal realm, this transmutation was expressed by the lucent wash of a magenta light-bask that only ever prospered for a few short bursts at a time. But, one that nonetheless spared him from precarious quandaries like these, even if it was the very thing that precipitated them at all. For just as always, eviction ushered him into the flight of another terrifying free-fall. And with little grace, he was launched into a barreling plummet that sought out the harsh dunes beneath. Mercifully though, he was garbed in the ambient gleam of that psionic ward prefaced; he’d use it to exonerate himself from the grievous consequences of the fall — constraints that only persisted in the corporeal, beyond the cloak of his aurora. With such, his plummet resolved with a forceful thump that inspired an odious waft of sandy debris from the expanse ahead of this cavalry’s yonder trail, but one that ultimately left Mudra unscathed. Amidst its resulting haze, the scintillating beam of his aura perished complacently. And from scorched earth, Mudra plucked himself from the merciless terrain of his Hadean setting. As always, garments were scant for this one: the gossamer flourish of a cantaloupe shroud that spared the arms and exposed the sternum, was all that swathed his fawn temple. Its ravishing, salmon drape was Mudra's single-most vesture. And, commanding a shake of crowning viridian strands far lusher than any dreaded weed that survived here, our caramel-blessed traveller collected himself with the passing migration of the dirt's departing specter. The violet urna-stone betwixt his brows retained a curious white luster that suggested some alien origins, shyly glinting in the murk. In that time, refulgent ruby marbles of an exotic kind were immediately met with the stalwart presence of the militia before him. And, as quickly as he deduced them, his stature diminished with immediate apprehension, but not before his glance salvaged a sight of this throng’s vanguard. An iron spirit of hard-faith and noble austere, his dignified comportment professed him to be of some relative importance, and no less, the leader of this band. But an inference of personage compelled another, more pertinent query behind it, one all too-long consigned: where was he?
  9. ...

    1. Houndy Poochykins

      Houndy Poochykins

      His name is motha f***in' Mudra.

      More slippery than Ash's Goodra.

       

      A psuedo legendary beast of Generation six

      So cray cray swimmin across the river Styx.

       

      Like an ten ton nuka nula bomb ready to split an atom. 

      An unforgettable INCONCEIVABLE instance that you can't even fathom.

  10. Stillness was assailed by brusque gales of unaccountable origin. And just as briskly, its advent was pronounced. Wrenching at natural dimension, a violent corkscrew distortion in their plane seemingly slandered the constraints of natural order and bore some anomalous helix in the blanket of space-time. Vexing the ease of this tranquil surround, any mundane analysis aimed to probe this sudden, harsh bend, would've seen its presence ostensibly warp the objects caught in the radius of its winding convolution. At least, for a moment. In the lineage of forthcoming events, this crude vandalism of the world was almost elusively short-lived. Immediately adjourned by correction. Buckling under the tremendous bend of this gyre, the helix snapped, unzipping a spectrum of swirling new colors in the backdrop of its transmigratory paunch; an interstice, from which the profile of our guest was promptly regurgitated into the showery atmosphere below. And reflexively, an ambient magenta-glow sprang from his form. A damnable bust in the roof of this jovial harbor, inaugurated him; a fall that was swiftly chaperoned by the bellowing lament of its subject. "Fuck!" At the resolution of this birth, the rent was sown, like new -- returning the rainy vista above this parlor's festive expanse to normal. Our guest however, was ever lacking of such grace. Two succeeding explosions, announced him at every level; one through the glass floor of a working-office sector and another, beneath that. Bounteous shelves of bottled bliss faltered under the bash of his weighty plummet, reducing a portion of this bar to something akin to a bed. A worthy buffet for a fall like his, truly. Not that he needed it though, he had the grace of that garnishing amethyst light-bath, aforementioned, to do it for him. The sheathe of a psionic aptitude responsible for provoking this one's messy spawn current, and ironically for protecting him against it. Behind mahogany counters, its sharp gleam died with an electric hum. With this, our perpetrator bumbled to a stance amidst the broken demolition, revealing himself to brand new context while dispensing whatever detritus clad him with a wild shake befit for a wet dog. Mudra. None other. He was a youth teetering the cusp of adulthood, professedly. His garment was a spartan one. Swathing all but his arms and chest, satiny robes of coral luster, just barley clinging, journeyed lush waves all the way to the ankles. Apart from that, this one was virtually bereft, save for an underlying loincloth that kept certain secrets guarded, keeping a few less-than desired cameos at bay. His skin, was a smooth caramel, miraculously unblemished. Tides of unworldly, chartreuse-green hair made for his refulgent crown while uncanny, ruby-lit ponds of vision, in turn, made for his discernment. Upon assessing an environment renewed, the latter's blade cut an immediate suspicion into his newfound neighbors, alongside some secondary embarrassment. But, this vivisection was returned by a horde of leers, even harsher. At this, cheeks suffused red. "..."
  11. Mudra

    Writing Styles

    Congratulations. You did bite the bullet. What you're implying in your opening statement is that there are no instances of lengthy excerpts that depends on each and every single thing it espouses itself to explaining. The question was: can the variable excerpt be shortened without sacrificing its meaning? This question is, of course, "variable" itself because it has different answers depending on the text. What you're saying is that nothing can be written at length without also being superfluous. False. You can't compress something that may already be -- to the greatest extent, compressed, while still meriting a long read for the scope of the subject(s) it covers. Any writer, who exemplifies this "marker of skill" ( to compress ) and who has ever written anything extensive, can attest. We know ( or should ), with common sense, that not every post can be shaved without losing its substance. Moreover, just because something is "condensed" doesn't mean it'll end up small; just smaller. This shouldn't be a difficult concept to grasp, yet it is for you. You failed to read what was being presented and much like Nobi, wove a murky mess of empty non-comparables and sweeping premises to argue something that really wasn't up for debate. How does lead taste?
  12. Mudra

    Writing Styles

    I presented criteria-questions for determining whether or not a "wall of text" was worth the climb; one of those question were: can a post be shortened without losing its significance, and you said: "almost always yes". This is wrong, because that depends on the variable text. The author may have written something sizable, but of whose every aspect was essential in expressing what it tried to. You were talking about verbosity, I wasn't. My contention had to do with Dreamseaker's aversion to posts that were large, not verbose; yet, you ignored this to chime a redundancy about verbose text. That had nothing to do with what I was critiquing Dreamseaker for. We know; that's what it means for something to be verbose, trimmable. It's precisely why your comment on verbosity, is ironically, trimmable too. You didn't say anything differently. This example is just as redundant as the last. Verbosity is excess, it's naturally extraneous. If we liken it to garments, of course we can shed it without being bare. Because we don't need it. Telling. You're good at making assumptions. And yet, you're saying that readers will "always" reciprocate the visibly immense, with distaste. This is false. I, for one, don't. You said "as readers we absolutely do and will *always* do this." That's an absolute -- an asserted constant that fights your assertion that all readers are different. A wrong one at that. I never quoted you; I'm not sure how you gathered that I put anything in your mouth. ( Pause. ) It was a point made, that just because we have different perceptions doesn't mean they're right. Then what are you arguing? I never misconstrued you. My argument is, again: a dense read you've never actually read should never be innately unappealing if our sport is predicated on reading. You aren't grasping the position. Why are we role-playing if we have an aversion to reading at length? Right, and you did so without assessing what was being argued. You answered a query meant to give us criteria ( and one, with variable answers mind you ), with some ill-conceived quip about how almost all posts can be shortened without losing their meaning, alongside a goes-without-saying prerogative for reader's preference. Both of which were either wrong or impertinent. What was your point, exactly?
  13. Mudra

    Writing Styles

    This is a fallacy. Otherwise, we wouldn't see posts that did not convey or explain thoroughly-enough; it would be implausible to ever write a post that lost its significance as a result of what was redacted; and as we know, these exist with plenitude. We aren't talking about "verbose" text, we're talking about text at all, likewise the problem with presuming that simply because the body of text is sizable, it is also verbose. Your latter statement, about verbosity, isn't actually saying anything, because that's what verbosity means. Excess. What you've essentially said is: "The more weight you gain, the more weight you can lose." We know. Dreamseaker never said he didn't like verbose posts, he said he avoided the big ones. My argument, is that just because the body of work is large, doesn't mean its content is always "fat" that can be trimmed. Why you're speaking in absolutes, I don't know. We won't always do this. How people reciprocate writing differs, we're examining the fault in Dreamseaker's reciprocation of vast writing. Beyond reading and writing, there's no requirement for us to do anything in this art; we can have whatever perceptions we want, that doesn't make them any less ill-founded. My contention was that we shouldn't avoid posts for their expanse alone. Dreamseaker said he avoided posts that were voluminous. My question is, how can you find these reads "daunting" or "unappealing", if you haven't read them? It presents the shallowness in your criteria for what good writing is. That's the cardinal issue. Once more, as you've ignored, we aren't talking about posts that deal in excess ( that's something you've appended to the conversation ), we're talking about posts that are sizable, at all; those aren't mutually exclusive. How you conflate them however, only emboldens my point. Thank you. Not sure what point you were trying to make here, it's everywhere...
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