Do you have any prior experience with Requiem? If so, please detail when (and what characters, if desired) you previously played: yeshhh
How did you hear about Requiem?
CHARACTER QUESTIONS
(Please note: Staff is looking for at least three lore references in your application when reviewing.)
What will your character’s name be?
雪女郎
Naoko Yukijirô
Please briefly describe the physical attributes of your character, including age, looks, height, weight and any notable features: a supple silent siren of Bhaskarian descent, demure, lithe and statue-esque, with waist-length sleek black hair and painted lips. Her porcelain face blended smooth with ohiroi and rice powder, the traditional white foundation of Bhaskarian women. a graceful serene presence. She often wears kimono, the traditional dress of Ancient Bhaskar. Kohl-lined Steely eyes; somber, sensitive, cool, pensive, emotionless. a shrewd creative and artist... prone to misty and overcast moods. a melancholic beauty... cold at times.
Briefly state your character’s intentions or motivations for entering the First Province:
In short-- a rover.
Please provide a few short paragraphs with pertinent details or notable qualities of your character’s history. This does not have to be exhaustive nor revealing of any information you wish to keep secret:
A classical Bhaskarian artist. A wandering nationless vagabond without a home. A last remnant of a dead culture, and dying art form.
Naoko Yukijirô is used to being displaced.
Having spent the last eight years wandering Vitaveus, across the Eastern Baronies, Midlands, and Western Territories, province to province, city to city, town to town of what remains of the Republic. All Naoko Yukijirô knows is the caravan life of the wagon since the fall of the colonies at the End of the World. Having taken rather easily to the more recent motley crew-- after surviving seasons amidst others and on her own. She is a classically trained artist in the ancient Bhaskarian arts. Poetry, Dance, Sculpting, Music, Painting, Tea Ceremony, ect.. In other words, shes broke. Not much more than a novelty piece of an era long gone, this courtesan does what she must to get by. The last three years have been with the same company of Westerners, a torment-torn survival crew of gypsy Midlanders and fellow misfit vagabonds from all ends of the Republic. Each traveler with their own story and culture of home, but with little or no home to return to. Now entering the First Province in unison for their own rags to riches dreams. Or die trying. What else do they have to lose?
Please write a few short paragraphs of an in-character response to the following scenario:
You have finally arrived at your destination; the Rumbling Pass train-yards. Before you stands a massive outpost, looking to have been erected within the past few years, of which is patrolled by numerous Legionnaires and Church Templar. The outpost guards the only viable entrance to the recently quarantined First Province; the home of Tor, the fallen capital of the Republic. Sitting at the foot of the massive mountain range that effectively contains the First Province within, the outpost serves as the last obstacle you must overcome before entering the quarantined territory.
You and others like you assemble outside of the palisades of the outpost, awaiting the opportunity to speak your case to the presiding Legion officiant who is processing admittance to the Province. Behind him, a passenger train, a marvel of technological advancement, sits idling on its’ tracks, dozens of persons filling it’s numerous passenger cars. A true rarity within the Republic, you can hardly believe your eyes (and ears) as the locomotive releases a massive plume of steam from its’ smokestack. You overhear many a bewildered citizen around you gossip as to how the only truly safe way into the Province is now by rail, for the Rumbling Pass’ mountains are nigh impassible and miles long, with the only safe navigable tunnels being those traveled in the safety of locomotives and rail-cars. You shudder for a moment, pondering how many forsaken souls attempted to flee the cloistered Province through the Pass’ winding, dark tunnels, hordes of Afflicted upon their heels, only to be cut down in the pitch-black darkness.
It strikes you as peculiar that so much effort has been made in securing a means of logistical supply and personnel transportation into the fallen First Province. You’ve heard rumors before of Quarantine Zones; entire Municipalities and even Territories being cut-off from access due to the blight of the Torment and the over-abundance of the walking dead – but in most instances, no one is ever trying to get into to those forsaken places. Yet here, mere miles from the ruins of Tor, masses congregate in order to make their way into the First Province Quarantine Zone. If you hadn’t known any better, the entire scene – the Outpost, the mass of military personnel, the throngs of citizens and the hissing locomotive – resembles more of an evacuation rather than a one-way ticket into anarchy and lawlessness. As you make your way closer to the train-yard outpost, you can’t help but recall all of the wild and crazy stories concerning all manners of rumors about the First Province since it’s fall two years ago. Some say that the treasures awaiting the bold are beyond measure – others swear that Salvation and Ascension is guaranteed for those who would follow their Faith and help reclaim the First Coast.
Where the truth lies, you’ve no idea – you only know that you’re here, at the precipice of it all, and your destination is within reach.
You watch, somewhat defeated, as but a scant few of the hundreds that approach the outpost officiant, who stands at the outer gates of the outpost flanked by a few heavily armored Legionnaires, are actually allowed to pass through the man-door and into the outpost and train-yards proper. You see some swarthy fellows slip pieces of gold to the officiant, while others plead their cases and rationale as to why they should be allowed to enter the recently fallen territory. Some appear to provide some sort of paperwork to the officiant, flashing official looking papers from a Faction or influential Prelacy house, who promptly waves them through. While watching and eavesdropping, you manage to overhear the well-rehearsed speech the officiant provides to those whom don’t provide paperwork or grease his palm, the words monotone and nasally.
“By decree of the Venerated Church, the First Province is a mortal health hazard, and as such, is quarantined under Article Eighteen of the Republic Treatise of Health Act of 1320. Citizens who do not possess a Quarantine Visa issued by one of the recognized Factions of the Republic are considered non-essential to the reclamation of the First Province. Under Article Eighteen, non-essentials seeking entry into an official quarantine zone must petition for entry into a said zone, and state just cause for the issuing of a Quarantine Visa by the perimeter authority.”
The officiant snorts in disdain, then adds the last line to the rehearsed monologue:
“State your business and make it quick, citizen; we’ve enough bodies in there to keep us busy for years without adding yours to the pile, and those VIC are stirring up problems something fierce as of late.”
You ponder the situation for a moment, evaluating your options. It is well known that with the right connections and the right amount of coin, one can get their hands on a Quarantine Visa from any one of the major Factions or Prelacy Families of the Republic, or even a passable counterfeit from more nefarious sources. At the same time, it would appear that the officiant doesn’t appear to be above some simple bribery – although his price may be hefty. However, despite it all, you’re sure that some of those let in appeared to have made a convincing case with the officiant without resorting to subterfuge or immorality. Gathering your wits, you step forward towards the officiant, and make your decision as to how to gain access to the First Province.
*docile smile, deep dutiful bow*
"Good morning."
*offers over the expensive counterfeit quarantine visa*
*silent, hopeful smile, submissively averting her gaze*
The Legion officiant reviews the conterveit quarantine visa. Side-eyes the Bhaskarian woman, visibly stumped. The visa looks legit but she looks like a foreign relic straight out of the history books in her kimono. The officiant shrugs it off as some exotic courtesan for a First Province bigwig or superior officer.
*STAMPS the VISA and motions her through*
"Fochin gypsies, tramps, an thieves---"
She dutifully bows even deeper in gratitude, a swift unexcited "Thank you," and moves along with the rest of her traveling caravan.
*a cool breathless sigh* Escapes her with a mixed release of relief and impending anxiety.
Onward then.
She gazes back across the hustle and bustle of the mass evacuation, the vagrant crowds un-permitted to pass, and then forward at the slim caravan line of "lucky ones" trailing ahead to the train-yard.
Softly she recites a poem to herself.
"A world of dew,
And within every dewdrop
A world of struggle."
