Voting has reset for the month of March. Valucre is in the top 10 but we aim for the top 3 for maximum visibility when people land on the home page of the topsite. If you want to help new members discover Valucre, vote for us daily.

Welcome to Valucre

Register now to gain access to the World of Valucre. Once you do, you'll be able to contribute to this site by submitting your own content or replying to existing content. You can ask questions before signing up in the pre-registration threadexplore the world's lore in the Valucre Overview, and learn all you need to know in five minutes by reading the Getting Started page.

  • Announcements

    • supernal

      Vote for Valucre [March]   03/24/2017

      Voting for the month of March is open on TopRPSites! Vote for Valucre daily and help new members searching for a place to roleplay discover the same joys you have in Valucre. You can vote daily, so make voting for Valucre a habit. Discussion thread

Noonday Demon

  • Content count

  • Joined

  • Last visited

1 Follower

About Noonday Demon

  • Rank
  • Birthday

Recent Profile Visitors

258 profile views
  1. I mean, I'm cool with playing it by ear and letting it go organically. If somebody feels like one of the players is posting too much or too little, well, that's why we've got this thread.
  2. I don't think you have a hyperlink in that one.
  3. The IC thread link just redirects to this thread.
  4. Okay, so he's got kind of a gnarly biker aesthetic going? I didn't know whether his "armor" was more traditional or what, especially given the setting for this part of S. Draco is supposed to be a little steampunkier.
  5. Yeah, you can either PM me a description or leave it here for posterity.
  6. Lord Huron, "Fool for Love", from the Strange Trails album.
  7. Fixed the stuff about the armor alongside other cosmetic changes. Thanks for pointing that out. Do you have any sketches or artwork of your character I could look at? And I'm glad you caught and liked the "entrance" thing. I sometimes like to write in humorous little recursive flourishes into my posts, and they're not always spotted or appreciated.
  8. Turns out I'm dumb and introduced a bartender where there was presumably just supposed to be the mechanical server. I'll edit over/around that here in just a minute.
  9. The upstairs wasn't an awful place by any stretch. Not by any stretch at all. Wrapped in the warm embrace of several rounds of whiskey, this was Arnell's immediate thought. And, looking around, it really wasn't. "Everything you'd want in a watering hole," he said to no one, squeezing one eye shut to get a fresh sense of his surroundings. There were tables and booths scattered haphazardly about the room, almost all of them occupied this time of day with common laborers eager to piss away their daily wages on however many drinks it took to knock them out until they awoke at dawn, bleary-eyed, ready to repeat the cycle. There were a few more fortunate folks at the bar, merchants and low-powered politicians whose pockets weighed a bit heavier, who contented themselves with fancy cocktails and various strange-looking smoking implements quite unlike the crude wraps and clay pipes of the lower classes. "Leave it to the petty aristocracy to overcomplicate the pursuit of pleasure, eh," he muttered, still to nobody. Overall, it was a fairly wholesome place. A place a man could come, plop down without pomp or circumstance, and pass the time with a relaxing drink or several. Arnell had never been fond of grand entrances. He had encountered too many wayward souls of various dignities--warriors, magi, scholars, politicians and royals, merchants and tradespersons, high- and low-status members of many races and professions--and he'd long since learned far too many of them were overinterested in making tremendous impressions. He admitted to himself this displeasure owed, in no small part, to his having absolutely no talent for it. Hard to project an aura of formidability when you're begging a noble's servants for water after a slog through the desert, or when you've just come stumbling out of the jungle looking for someone to gently pull the leeches off your grapes. It was one of the most redeeming features of public halls that, generally, nobody felt the need to flourish a cape or turn up their chin upon walking through the front door. Everybody knows the rules, he mused, knocking back another round. Well, almost everybody. During the past hour--something like four or five drinks ago, he reckoned--two large men in heavy armor had clambered their way into the cramped space, one a few minutes after the other, a noticeable entrance if not a grand one, and had proceeded immediately... away. Bars were the same nearly everywhere, he had realized some time ago. No matter what part of the world you're in, there are always two sides to each of them. Some of them served food alongside their ale. Some of them doubled as taverns, wrapping two or three floors of rooms around the bar top and the central hearth. Some of them were cut into sections to entertain the new "nonsmoking" trend among those of the working class who, by sheer dint of luck in the wake of increased trade from near and abroad over the past several years, had become something of a nouveau riche eager to spend its money even as it charted its own unique cultural waters. Put a little extra jingle in their pockets and they're suddenly too good for the pastimes of their former fellows. Who'd've thought? This bar, he had discovered through his contact, belonged to that unique class of establishments which conducted two altogether different kinds of business. Or, rather, it catered to two entirely different types of entrepreneur. Arnell signaled the barkeep, a gruff-looking but ultimately reasonable man who had provided unexpectedly engaging back-and-forth throughout the course of his visit. Generous in conversation and pour alike. A better man than I could have asked for. "I'm afraid, my good man," he slurred slightly, covering his mouth to stifle what he hoped was only a burp, "that I must close out my tab." He leaned forward, bringing his voice low. "You see, I've got to meet some friends of mine just south and open a new one." The bartender leaned in even closer at that, his eyes darting back, forth, and back again. He tilted his head up just a bit and looked Arnell right in the eyes, studying him. Then, in almost a whisper, he said: "I was wondering when you'd get the fuck out of my bar." ----------------------- By every stretch, the downstairs was less awful still. Dimmer, smokier, seedier--and there are some lovely women down here, if you're into those sorts of girls. In the high spirits begotten of low spirits, he decided that he was. He was on the verge of rudely propositioning a woman turned squarely away from him when he caught the two big men sitting by themselves in a murky corner. "Always with the shadows," he mumbled, and turned to walk toward them. "Whiskey, three please," he remarked as he passed the small bar. Looking to one side, he noticed the barkeep, a greying man in traditional attire--dark pants, a vest, a red tie--leaning hunched against the wall and staring back at him from behind a complicated-looking mechanical drink-slinger. Arnell had his right foot pointed up, paused in the motion of the next step toward the table, and he poked his head further around the contraption to make direct eye contact. "Sir, three whiskeys please?" He stuck out three fingers in a triangle and pointed toward the table where the two men were sitting. "For my friends and I. On me, of course." He couldn't tell whether the barkeep was glowering at him or on the verge of falling asleep, but three shiny coins, placed with a smile on the counter, bought him at least a weary nod. "Gentlemen," he began as he came up to them, placing his hands together as if to pray, "A delight and pleasure to make both your acquaintances, I am sure." He hiccuped, then flashed them both a wide grin, revealing two rows of perfect white teeth. "Oh, excuse me. I don't often partake, and the stuff really goes through me." The pair were sitting opposite each other, so he took a seat immediately adjacent to both. He looked left, then right, then left again, at Dryston. "I am Arnell, of the esteemed Waymakers. I was made to understand you have urgent need of a professional guide and traveling companion, and I am happy to report for duty." Three glasses of dark amber liquid were suddenly slid before them. He turned around to thank the old bartender, but but the man was somehow back behind the counter by the time Arnell went to speak. Craning his neck further, he noticed there were no waitresses to be seen. Only the machine, clicking and whirring as it parsed the orders, appeared responsive. "Curious..." he remarked offhandedly. "But admirably efficient." He turned back to the table, his grin still in place, and pushed a glass toward each man before taking one for himself. "A drink, then?"
  10. Well, when you all get decided on where you're going, let me know if you need a navigator, or someone to play the priest or shaman or whatever of your choice. Seems like an interesting quest that would be a lot of fun. I think it'll be a nice bit of reading to get a sense of where your character's at and what he's been through.
  11. interest check

    I did not. I don't actually keep up with YouTube personalities (I admit I had to look him up), but it looks vaguely interesting. I adopted that style mostly because it provides me significant latitude to sort of do whatever I want, within reason. I find a lot more joy in building quests for other people and using those experiences as springboards to flesh out my own character and weave him into the fabric of the larger history than trying to play some lone wolf protagonist (which I've done enough of already to last me a lifetime).
  12. interest check

    A little tangential, but as far as building capital and training a militia, I have a storyteller-style character (which is to say, not exactly a PC) who might be willing to negotiate an agreement to provide slave labor/conscripts for fighting and building infrastructure and things like that. Seems right up the alley of your CE-aligned characters, and it works with my "facilitating others' stories" play style.
  13. I dunno about "fucking shit," but I do think it's going to be really underwhelming, not least because I have difficulty imagining a more compelling plot and character buildup than Shepard and crew. I'm sure I'll rent it or something and give it a shot, but every trailer and piece of gameplay footage I've watched (and I will say I'm not super thrilled about the roving vehicle feature) leaves a "could probably take it or leave it" taste in my mouth.
  14. From time to time. I don't know that I've ever written one in a group (and the rules are different there because, generally, everybody wants to be a protagonist), but I've occasionally written characters who're e.g. incorrigible drunks, so there are a few obligatory scenes where they're picking themselves up from somewhere or other. I don't know if it transfers to action heroes or whatever, but I write those characters from my experience (which is to say, blacking out, becoming unconscious, waking up dazed and confused) and I've always thought the natural response is to blearily look around, try to remember where you are and how you got there, and cautiously hobble around a minute or two while you try to get your bearings. For most "getting off the floor" scenes, I imagine most of the characters are initially incapacitated, or at least concussed, so it's usually not appropriate for the person to be so frantic from the moment they wake up (sometimes it is, but typically it isn't)--unless you're at home or somewhere fairly familiar, I suspect coming to from unconsciousness under sober conditions is a light version of what happens when you pass out--you're generally kind of confused, you lay around for a few seconds and look around, your brain runs whatthefuckisgoingonandwhereami.exe, then, like a car with a garbage starter, you eventually fire to life and the realization kicks in, at which point the scrambling and carrying can go on as normal.
  15. Weeks could have passed during the awkward silence which lingered between the mercenary and the witch; thankfully, it was broken by the clicking of boot heels. "I'm afraid we have little time to waste on pleasantries, my friend," said the young man as he approached. He sported a head of short brown hair--loose, though parted roughly to one side--a pair of cool, blue eyes, and a crisp set of dark fatigues secured with various pieces of military equipment. He carried no weapon. "I apologize for barging into what I have no doubt was a captivating conversation," he said offhandedly to the witch, brushing her aside without physically touching her, "but I'm afraid I've been sent to escort our mutual friend Varin here to a meeting, and with all deliberate speed." He looked over at Varin and cracked a placid smile. "Our mutual acquaintance, Mr. M'Karth, was concerned you may not make it on time, and the matter at hand is, I should say, somewhat..." He tapped his cheek, rolling his eyes to the sky as if searching the clouds for the words. "Time-sensitive." The day was beginning to blossom, and the slow death of morning gave way to the hubbub of high noon as the sun took its place above every horizon. Feet shuffled noisily as all classes and races hustled this way and that, at this speed and that, each of them eager to get wherever it was they were going--or, as one stumbling man suggested, clearly already drunk before the commercial day had achieved terminal velocity, to get nowhere at all. ----------------------------------- It sometimes echoes around the hallowed halls of academic wisdom that sentient creatures construct their senses of self, not as transcendental subjects, as atomistic homunculi operating free from all external influence, or--most tritely of all--as concentric spheres of ego and base desire; rather, they construct themselves as protagonists in an autobiographical narrative spanning the first moment of self-recognition to the last breath drawn. "All are heroes in their own stories," it is said. Less often said, however, is that there is hidden a second, subtler dimension, which is that these creatures function also as the narrators, constituting the course of their story even as they participate and dwell inside it. It is this capacity, not merely to play out a story as if it were already pre-written, but to determine one's course, and to understand oneself as straddling a threshold of indetermination between existing inside and outside the story, which opens the door to that profane and precious space of action intelligent life has taken to calling ethics. ----------------------------------- The man reached out his hand, in greeting as well as in expectation. Once more, he flashed his easy grin. "My name is Strauss, by the way. I am an old friend and assistant of Mr. M'Karth's. Shall we be on our way?"