Post by Lucan on Mar 18, 2011 16:24:00 GMT -5
Name: Rabba
Age: 26
Species: Shrew
Rank: Log-a-Log of Guosim
Personality:
Rabba is in general a laid-back shrew, who likes nothing better than the simple pleasures in life; good food, drink and cheer, a sturdy craft and placid waters. However, when the situation demands it Rabba exhibits all the cunning, decisiviness, and fighting spirit necessary for anybeast in command of a tribe of the fickle and argumentative Guosim shrews.
Role Play Example:
Rabba ducked for cover as yet more arrows whistled overhead. Some flew straight into the trees on the opposite bank and vanished from sight, some thudded into the hulls of the Guosim logboats... and some found their targets. Two shrill shrieks pierced Rabba's ears, and the shrew winced as he heard the dull splashing sounds of corpses hitting the stagnant water. Eventually the volley ended, and Rabba risked a peek over the gunwale. He recognized Bulla by his bright orange headband, and Ringo by the ridiculous tailring he always wore; and there were others as well, down the stricken procession of logboats, who had been felled by the wicked bolts. Loss and burning fury stirred in the shrew's heart as he watched the lifeless bodies of his comrades slowly sinking into the muddy marshwater, and listened to the jeers and laughter of the vermin bandits. Rabba could barely hold back the urge to leap clear of the bogged-down craft and avenge himself on the vile scum who had ambushed them and killed two of his best shrews. The inner struggle seemed to last a lifetime, and it was only by constantly reminding himself that he was not just Rabba anymore, but the Guosim's Log-a-Log, and responsible for every shrew under his command, that he was able to keep himself from giving in to the passions of his kind.
"Rest in peace, brothers," Log-a-Log Rabba muttered tonelessly. There would be time enough for tears later, if they came; now was the time for action, and a quick plan to get his tribe out of the sticky mess he had led them into. He listened carefully to the jeers and laughter emanating from the direction the arrows had come from; he could discern about a dozen distinct voices, give or take two or three. The odds were more than fair, if he could persuade their attackers into abandoning the advantage offered by distance; once they were in position to engage in close combat, the Guosim would make piecemeal of these vagabonds. Rabba glanced sideways at Brack, his second-in-command, who seemed to be undergoing the same internal struggle. Rabba gave him a sharp dig in the ribs, and hissed: "When I give the signal, stand ready to repel boarders! Spread the word". Brack nodded curtly, and whispered shortly to the shrew next to him; soon, Rabba knew, the instructions would have done a full loop of the small fleet, from shrew to shrew. The signal, of course, was the same as it had always been; when Rabba unsheathed Piketooth, the rest of the shrews followed suit. Now they needed to lure the vermin into melee range.
"What's the matter, ye lily-livered sods? Too feared to take on a rabble of liddle shrews?" Rabba hollered loudly, poking his head just above the gunwale to get a good look at the raiders. Catching sight of a burly-looking stoat who seemed to be in charge, he yelled: "Hey frogface! Don't tell me a big brave stoat like yourself can't even deal with a pack of watermice without a dozen bowbeasts backin' ye! C'mon, yer lantern-jawed bug-eyed bone-idle chicken-chasers, lessee how hard ye are!"
It was a desperate ploy, banking on exceptional idiocy and massive ego on the part of the enemy, but it worked. After a brief, stony silence, Rabba's words were answered by a series of loud splashes as the incensed vermin made their way across the stagnant water and closer to the logboats. As they got nearer, Rabba heard angry cries of "I'll give yer bug-eyed, rivermouse!" and "Bone-idle! I'll cut yet down ter size, yer cheeky liddle stinkers!" Eventually, the twisted, grimacing face of a rat appeared over the gunwale, and in a flash of movement, Rabba had drawn his rapier, Piketooth, and made a clean slash along the rat's exposed throat.
The rat staggered backwards, gurgling and clutching at his gushing throat as if in a vain attempt to block the flow of blood from the wound. Rabba leapt to his feet, teeth bared, fur stood on end, Piketooth poised to stab the next beast to try his luck. "Guosim, to me!" Rabba bellowed, and his cry was echoed by the battle-calls and vengeful shrieks of his fellow shrews as they unsheathed their own blades, raring to avange their fallen friends. "Let them have it right up the joggraffy, my sons! Logalogalogalogalogalogalogalog!!"
Age: 26
Species: Shrew
Rank: Log-a-Log of Guosim
Personality:
Rabba is in general a laid-back shrew, who likes nothing better than the simple pleasures in life; good food, drink and cheer, a sturdy craft and placid waters. However, when the situation demands it Rabba exhibits all the cunning, decisiviness, and fighting spirit necessary for anybeast in command of a tribe of the fickle and argumentative Guosim shrews.
Role Play Example:
Rabba ducked for cover as yet more arrows whistled overhead. Some flew straight into the trees on the opposite bank and vanished from sight, some thudded into the hulls of the Guosim logboats... and some found their targets. Two shrill shrieks pierced Rabba's ears, and the shrew winced as he heard the dull splashing sounds of corpses hitting the stagnant water. Eventually the volley ended, and Rabba risked a peek over the gunwale. He recognized Bulla by his bright orange headband, and Ringo by the ridiculous tailring he always wore; and there were others as well, down the stricken procession of logboats, who had been felled by the wicked bolts. Loss and burning fury stirred in the shrew's heart as he watched the lifeless bodies of his comrades slowly sinking into the muddy marshwater, and listened to the jeers and laughter of the vermin bandits. Rabba could barely hold back the urge to leap clear of the bogged-down craft and avenge himself on the vile scum who had ambushed them and killed two of his best shrews. The inner struggle seemed to last a lifetime, and it was only by constantly reminding himself that he was not just Rabba anymore, but the Guosim's Log-a-Log, and responsible for every shrew under his command, that he was able to keep himself from giving in to the passions of his kind.
"Rest in peace, brothers," Log-a-Log Rabba muttered tonelessly. There would be time enough for tears later, if they came; now was the time for action, and a quick plan to get his tribe out of the sticky mess he had led them into. He listened carefully to the jeers and laughter emanating from the direction the arrows had come from; he could discern about a dozen distinct voices, give or take two or three. The odds were more than fair, if he could persuade their attackers into abandoning the advantage offered by distance; once they were in position to engage in close combat, the Guosim would make piecemeal of these vagabonds. Rabba glanced sideways at Brack, his second-in-command, who seemed to be undergoing the same internal struggle. Rabba gave him a sharp dig in the ribs, and hissed: "When I give the signal, stand ready to repel boarders! Spread the word". Brack nodded curtly, and whispered shortly to the shrew next to him; soon, Rabba knew, the instructions would have done a full loop of the small fleet, from shrew to shrew. The signal, of course, was the same as it had always been; when Rabba unsheathed Piketooth, the rest of the shrews followed suit. Now they needed to lure the vermin into melee range.
"What's the matter, ye lily-livered sods? Too feared to take on a rabble of liddle shrews?" Rabba hollered loudly, poking his head just above the gunwale to get a good look at the raiders. Catching sight of a burly-looking stoat who seemed to be in charge, he yelled: "Hey frogface! Don't tell me a big brave stoat like yourself can't even deal with a pack of watermice without a dozen bowbeasts backin' ye! C'mon, yer lantern-jawed bug-eyed bone-idle chicken-chasers, lessee how hard ye are!"
It was a desperate ploy, banking on exceptional idiocy and massive ego on the part of the enemy, but it worked. After a brief, stony silence, Rabba's words were answered by a series of loud splashes as the incensed vermin made their way across the stagnant water and closer to the logboats. As they got nearer, Rabba heard angry cries of "I'll give yer bug-eyed, rivermouse!" and "Bone-idle! I'll cut yet down ter size, yer cheeky liddle stinkers!" Eventually, the twisted, grimacing face of a rat appeared over the gunwale, and in a flash of movement, Rabba had drawn his rapier, Piketooth, and made a clean slash along the rat's exposed throat.
The rat staggered backwards, gurgling and clutching at his gushing throat as if in a vain attempt to block the flow of blood from the wound. Rabba leapt to his feet, teeth bared, fur stood on end, Piketooth poised to stab the next beast to try his luck. "Guosim, to me!" Rabba bellowed, and his cry was echoed by the battle-calls and vengeful shrieks of his fellow shrews as they unsheathed their own blades, raring to avange their fallen friends. "Let them have it right up the joggraffy, my sons! Logalogalogalogalogalogalogalog!!"