 07:01:50 | If I use Rowell spurs, will I still have to wait for the next breed approval day? |
07:00:07 Lucky capture today!
-HEE Click- |
06:42:12 Hummer| @Savy, sending good vibes your way! Do good little man! |
06:32:13 Void Malign| I was looking at mobile homes specifically with them in mind lol |
06:30:49 Sav -HEE Click-
I am finally getting excited for this dude - but I have a feeling he will disappoint me >.> |
06:26:19 Void Malign| I was gone all day and my cats are demanding attention to the point of being udnerfoot lol |
06:12:40 SCF/Gibbs| Emerald.. they will be useful in other ways in the future.. Eve suggests you hold on to them.. |
06:11:49 Wolf Burger (Leg) 06:11:38 Granny C| When in doubt - gene test |
06:08:41 | Is there anyone that needs a rusty bit? I have one from a quest, but don't have a round pen 🥲 |
05:55:58 Sun's Spl TB's| Sigh. I love having a roomba. Very convenient. But ours is also very stupid. 💀 |
05:50:33 Ariel / Tara| How am I supposed to do stuff when I'm depressed and just wanna lie down and cry ugh |
05:49:36 | and if anything, you go to bed. I will say genuinely, studying and taking a nap and then studying again really helped me. |
05:49:24 -HEE Click-
I love the markings! Both of his parents are rated P/E/P |
05:49:14 | At that point you take a 30 minute break to reset |
05:42:44 Hummer| At what point do you stop studying because you feel like you're going to have a panic attack? |
05:33:37 Gold(en) | Sun| No bend-or but Prl SplSpls and SbSb like I guessed |
than 1 day
before you can use our chatbox.
Rules Hide
You are in: Main Chat
View Sales |
| Year: 184 Season: Fall $: 0 |
Thu 07:12pm CST | | Forecast:  Crisp, Clear, and Cool | |
|
Forums
→ Horse Eden is a fun game! Sign Up Now! ←
| |
|
Hello! Feel free to read but don't post if your name isn't in the title! |
|  |
| | |
|
Name: Sage Gender: Male Age: 20 years Appearance: Long, messy black hair that falls over his eyes (he uses it to kinda hide behind), golden amber eyes, rather short (5'4''), very tan skin since he lives out on the ocean, lots of scars but the most obvious is one down his left cheek, Very slim and light (he lives on a ship so good food is hard to come by), Although he's slim he's still muscular due to running a ship & fighting other pirates (more refined than bulky), gives off an air of power and/or menace, has a low voice that is quiet and scratchy, he wears tattered and thin clothes which are similar to that of the lower class citizens, he wears pretty much the same thing all the time because he lives on a boat and only keeps a few outfits. He has quite a few tattoos and piercings. His ears end in a slightly pointed tip...courtasey of his mother, who was a sea nymph. Personality: Very mistrusting because of his backstory, would generally rather be alone than with people, he comes across as cold/rude/uncaring, he's very blunt and a bit crude, he's very stubborn and an extremely good fighter, when fighting he just jumps in without thinking, very hot-headed with a bad temper, tries not to get too attached to anyone, but once he forms a relationship he is very loyal and protective, he has no qualms about killing anyone/anything Weaknesses: Hot-headedness (he often gets hurt or in trouble because of it), he's very untrusting so he doesn't like to accept help, he gets flashbacks (mostly from his father, who he doesn't get along with) from his past which affects him greatly in a very negative way Strengths: Hunting/fishing, fighting, very skilled in sneaking around, knows the ocean and his ship very well, very quick and agile, very strong Other: He takes great pride in his ship & crew, and will stop at nothing to protect them. He may be young but he's smart, and he can think on his feet quickly. He's a bit of a daredevil, but only when he has to be, and so far it has proved to be a good thing. He's made his name known among the pirates...he's a good captain and a good sailor, better than a lot of the others. His ship's name is The Fury. |
| |
| | |
 |
Character Sheet: Jora Venn, Ship Prison Guard
Name: Jora Venn
Age: 19
Gender: Female
Species: Human
Role: Ship Prison Guard (Security Officer)
Affiliation: Alantic Enforcement Bureau (AEB)
Ship: Galaen’s Edge (A high-security prison ship)
Appearance - Height: 5’8” (173 cm)
- Build: Athletic, lean, with a muscular frame developed through years of combat training and physical work
- Skin: Pale with a few visible scars from training accidents and altercations with prisoners
- Hair: Dark brown, kept short and cropped to a practical length, usually in a tight ponytail
- Eyes: Steel grey, sharp and calculating
- Markings/Tattoos: A small, faded insignia of the AEB on her left shoulder. It’s been worn down with time but still visible.
- Clothing/Armor: Standard-issue AEB prison guard uniform — a dark matte blue jumpsuit with reinforced armor plates on the shoulders, chest, and thighs. A utility belt with stun grenades, a laser baton, and a holstered sidearm.
- Distinctive Features: A stern expression, often radiating an aura of discipline. Her posture is always straight and commanding.
Personality - Alignment: Neutral.
- Traits:
- Disciplined: Jora’s training has made her meticulous in her duties. She follows protocol to the letter, and her ability to stay calm under pressure has earned her respect among her peers.
- Stoic: She’s not quick to show emotion, preferring to keep a calm and neutral expression at all times, which can sometimes come across as cold or distant.
- Authoritative: She commands respect through her actions, body language, and clear communication.
- No-Nonsense: Jora has little tolerance for mistakes, especially when it comes to security. She’s quick to correct others who fail to follow procedure.
- Loyal: Jora is unwaveringly loyal to the AEB and believes in maintaining order and discipline aboard the prison ship. However, she is wary of the political games played within the larger bureaucracy.
- Flaws:
- Reluctant to Trust: Due to her position in the high-security prison, she has a hard time trusting people, even colleagues.
- Emotionally Guarded: She has difficulty opening up to others about personal matters. Her stoic nature can make her seem distant.
- Cynical: Years of dealing with dangerous criminals and harsh conditions have led to a more jaded view of the world.
Background - Born: Aboard the Galaen’s Edge, a high-security ship prison, in the midst of the outer rim’s lawless sectors.
- Family: Jora was raised by a single mother who was also a prison guard aboard a different facility. Her mother’s strictness and adherence to duty heavily influenced her upbringing.
- Education: Trained at the AEB Academy, where she underwent both physical combat training and psychological conditioning to handle high-risk prisoners. Her education focused heavily on security, combat tactics, and prison management.
- Experience:
- Early Career: After finishing her training, Jora was deployed to various penal facilities, serving as a junior guard. She worked her way up from handling low-risk prisoners to overseeing high-security convicts.
- Current Position: Now stationed aboard the Galaen’s Edge, she oversees some of the most dangerous criminals in the galaxy, including notorious space pirates, smugglers, and political prisoners. Her job involves maintaining order during transport, managing inmate behavior, and ensuring that the prisoners don’t escape.
|
|
| | |
|
Perfect. Who do we want to start? |
| |
| | |
|
I don't care, I can start! |
|
| | |
|
The lanterns cast their faint glow against the damp walls of the brig, flickering in rhythm with the creak of the ship's timbers. Venn stood tall, her posture rigid, arms folded across her chest as she watched the prisoners through the narrow bars of their cells. She could hear their whispers, their muttered complaints, the shuffle of their feet as they paced in the cramped confines. It didn’t bother her. She had long since learned to tune out the noise of the desperate and the disgraced. She was the guard. She had a job to do. Her boots clacked softly on the cold, salt-streaked stone as she paced in front of the cells, every step deliberate. She wasn’t one for idle chatter or leniency. The ship was her home, and the brig, its beating heart. As long as she was stationed here, the prisoners would feel her presence in every creak of the wood, in every shiver of the sail when it snapped in the wind. They could beg for release, curse her name, but they all knew the same truth—they were trapped. The first cell, closest to her, housed a petty thief who had tried to steal from the captain’s quarters. He was young, scared, but Venn had no sympathy for his kind. A thief was a thief, no matter the age. She leaned in close to the bars, her shadow falling over him like a blanket. "Thinking of escaping, boy?" she asked, her voice low and calm, betraying none of the contempt she felt. He flinched, his hands twisting around the small iron bars, eyes darting away from hers. "I... I wasn’t stealing! I just needed—" "Needed?" she interrupted, her tone colder now. "You needed, and so you chose to break the law. That’s how things work here, boy. You get what you deserve." He swallowed hard, but didn’t answer. Venn straightened, walking past him to the next cell, where a man who had once been a smuggler sat with his arms crossed and a sneer on his face. This one was harder to read—older, rougher around the edges, with a stubbornness that made Venn’s job more difficult. He caught her eye as she walked by and offered a slow, mocking clap. “Had to make your way to the top somehow, eh, Venn? You’re just as much a prisoner as the rest of us, only you’ve got a nicer view.” She didn’t flinch at his words. Instead, she stopped in front of his cell, tilting her head slightly. "You're the one in chains, not me. You think this is some kind of victory? You'll rot in here like the rest of them, and I'll still be the one keeping watch." He met her gaze, challenging her with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. Venn was unshaken. She knew what it meant to be in charge, to have power over the weak, the foolish. The thought of the crew above—at the helm, navigating through the dark waters—was comforting. She could feel the weight of their mission, their purpose, resting on her shoulders. The prisoners were a necessary evil, their presence a reminder of what happened when you crossed the wrong line. A faint bell rang, signaling the end of her shift. But Venn wasn’t in a rush. She knew the ship would continue on, and her watch would always remain the same—unflinching, unwavering, a constant in the shifting tides. "Remember," she said, her voice echoing as she turned away. "You're here because you earned it." And with that, she strode toward the exit, her boots resounding with finality. |
|
| | |
|
Sage was walking around his ship, checking in on things and making sure all his men were up and working. It wasn't like he was some cruel captain...he'd work alongside them...but they couldn't just slack off. No, there was always something to be done. The ship was their home, and if they wanted it to work well, then it needed to be well taken care of. Plus, well...sitting around getting drunk on rum wouldn't help anybody get gold or jewels or weapons. That wasn't exactly how this stuff worked. Sage himself knew how important keeping one's self fit and aware was...some of his crew didn't see the appeal in that. However, everyone worked, and sage wasn't afraid to punish those who refused to do so. Luckily, he kept a good relationship with most of his men, and they respected him as a captain. It wasn't always that way, since he was so young, but after a few battles he'd quickly earned their respect. He may not look like much...but he was strong and fast, and most importantly, he was smart. He could out-think most of those they had fought. Now, as something on the horizon caught his attention, he moved to stand on the bow of the ship, watching the oncoming vessel turn to come straight towards them. "Tell the men to ready for a battle," he instructed his first mate, a grizly old man who was rather pissy but someone he could talk to about certain things. The man nodded and called out to the men on deck, and sage listened to the call travel through the ship before he checked his weapons and then stood there, waiting to fight alongside his men. He moved to tie his hair back into a sort of bu, hiding the pointed tips of his ears (the only thing that marked him as something not human), as he could see the men on the other ship running about, calling out a "ready your weapons," to his own crew, resting his wrist on his dagger hilt as he waited. If it wasn't a battle he didn't want to start one...but it sure looked that way to him. It was a ship from the Navy....groups that would take all of his men captive, to kill them eventually, if they lost this battle. He wasn't willing to let that happen. They had a good plan on place....if the battle went downhill he'd hold the enemy off as long as he could, giving his men time to get below deck and put through lifeboats/canoes, along with the majority of their supplies and treasure they'd taken. He could use the small amount of power he had as a sea nymph to make them unable to be seen as they left the larger boat. Then he would be the only casualty....but he was ok with that. He could always escape or.... something. |
| |
| | |
|
The door to the brig creaked open as Jora stepped into the corridor beyond, the sound echoing in the narrow passageway. She didn’t look back. The ship was alive with its usual hum—the sound of ropes creaking in the wind, the distant clang of the galley pots, the steady thrum of the sails as the ship cut through the dark waters. It was a rhythm Jora knew well, a pulse that matched her own. Her shift was over, but there was no true relief in that. It wasn’t as if she could leave the ship, not really. There was no shore that held her interest, no land that could offer the same sense of purpose the vessel did. She wasn’t one for the taverns or the brief distractions the rest of the crew sought after in port. The brig, in its own way, was her refuge. The men and women in those cells were a reminder of everything she had worked to become and everything she had left behind. She rounded the corner toward the crew quarters and paused for a moment, hearing voices rise and fall from the mess hall. Someone was telling a story, likely an exaggerated one, judging by the laughs and occasional snorts. Jora wasn’t interested in joining them. Instead, she made her way to the small cabin she had claimed as her own—unremarkable but functional. The door swung open, and she stepped inside, the familiar scent of salt and wood mingling with the faint smell of ink and paper. Her journal lay open on the desk, the quill still resting next to it. For a moment, she considered sitting down to record the events of the day—perhaps write down the exchange with the smuggler, the way his defiance had stung, if only for a second. But she didn’t. She didn’t need to write it down. It was already etched in her mind. Instead, she crossed the room to the small window, looking out over the dark sea. The stars were barely visible through the thick clouds, but she knew they were there, burning cold and distant in the heavens. She could feel the weight of their watchful eyes on her. The sound of footsteps outside the cabin door interrupted her thoughts, and she turned sharply, her hand instinctively resting on the hilt of the knife at her belt. The door creaked open, and one of the younger crew members poked his head in. "Jora, the captain wants to see you on deck. Something about the course change. Says it’s urgent." Jora gave a curt nod. "I’ll be right there." The young man hesitated for a moment, his eyes flicking to the small lantern burning on her desk. "Is everything alright in the brig?" he asked, his voice uncertain. "Everything’s fine," she replied, her tone leaving no room for further questions. "Just a few thieves and smugglers to keep in check. What else is new?" He gave her a wary nod and quickly left, the door swinging shut behind him. Jora took one last look at the dark waters stretching endlessly before her, then stepped into the hall. As she made her way toward the deck, her mind wandered back to the prisoners below—particularly the smuggler. There was something in the way he had looked at her, that hint of knowing in his eyes. It wasn’t the first time someone had tried to get under her skin. But she would not be swayed. Not now, not ever. She stepped onto the deck, the wind biting at her skin as the crew scurried about, adjusting sails and preparing for whatever the captain had planned. The ship was a well-oiled machine, each member of the crew a cog in the grand design. And Jora—Jora was the one who kept it all running smoothly, whether they realized it or not. The captain was waiting near the helm, his face illuminated by the lantern light. He nodded as she approached, his eyes scanning the horizon before settling on her. "Jora," he said, his voice low, "we’re changing course. There’s a storm coming. We need to be prepared." Jora raised an eyebrow. "A storm? We're far out from shore. If we turn back now—" "It’s not a matter of turning back," the captain interrupted. "We need to take a new heading. I trust you’ll keep the brig under control during the change." She gave a sharp nod. "Of course." With a swift motion, the captain turned and barked orders to the crew. The ship began to shift, the tension in the air palpable as they adjusted their sails and set the new course. Venn watched them for a moment, then turned toward the brig once more. Her duty never ended. As the wind began to pick up, she made her way back below deck. The prisoners would be restless, especially with the ship changing direction. They’d feel the shift in the air before they saw it. She had no doubt that some of them would try something—anything—to take advantage of the moment. But they wouldn’t succeed. Not while she was there. |
|
| | |
|
Sage could tell a storm was coming....it would be a rather big one too. Good...that would make a good cover for his ship. He was fully planning on taking the ship that they could see on the horizon. It was a small dot ....only visible because of his heightened senses thanks to the whole nymph thing. Technically, he was only half nymph, so he didn't have any major powers...but small things were there. He could see and hear and smell better than humans, and he always knew where at sea they were. And storms weren't so dangerous, since he knew how they worked and what to do to keep his ship and crew as safe as possible. Besides, he'd grown up on this ship. He knew it well, better than anything else. Or anyone else. He was close to his crew, but they weren't family in the sense that he could be comfortable telling them anything. He liked them, and trusted them, but their relationship was a work relationship. They respected him, and he respected them. That was that. Either way, he could tell the ship they were pursuing was expensive....they'd likely have spoils his crew would like. They'd have supplies too...a ship that large, and this far out to sea, would have plenty of food, and it would be fresher than what they had on their own ship. It would be good to stock up on water and such anyway. He'd wait until the storm started to hit, and then he'd have his crew hoist the sails to their full extent. They'd catch the wind, and catch up to this ship by the time the storm started to get bad. They'd be busy, and distracted, and they could stroke then. It would be a quick run....get in, grab some crap, and haul ass to get fat away from them before the storm let up or they regained control of their ship. It was risky he knew, but they'd need the supplies. This ship would have more than enough to supply his crew for the rest of their journey before they moved back to Tortuga for a few nights. That was the one time he didn't mind his crew getting drunk or wasting time with women...he did too, for the most part. Women were iffy, it would depend on what happened since he normally got mean when he was drunk. That and angry, and he'd storm off to find somewhere quiet before joining someone somewhere. But things happened sometimes, and either way it didn't really matter. What mattered now was getting those supplies and then getting out of harms way. The storm made it easy to swoop in undetected, or mostly undetected, until they killed someone. Then they'd probably notice. That was normally inevitable. Oh well. They knew what needed to happen. |
| |
| | |
|
Jora’s boots thudded softly against the wooden planks as she descended into the brig, the faint murmur of the crew’s work above her growing muffled with each step. The atmosphere down here was always colder, the air thick with the scent of damp stone and the mingling staleness of sweat and salt. The walls seemed to pulse with the weight of all the men and women locked within them—each of them waiting for something. A break. A chance. A mistake. The brig was small, cramped, and it smelled like desperation. It was a place for the unlucky and the unwise, those who had crossed a line and were paying the price—or perhaps just the unfortunate souls who had been caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. Jora had seen it all. As she approached the first set of cells, she noticed movement from the corner of her eye. A figure shifted in one of the farthest cells, a dark shape against the shadows. She could just make out the glint of eyes—sharp, calculating. The smuggler. His name was Ryke, and Jora had learned more about him in the brief exchange they’d had earlier than she cared to admit. He was a man of few words, but there had been something in his gaze when she’d looked at him. It was almost as if he knew something she didn’t—a quiet confidence that unsettled her more than she cared to admit. It wasn’t the first time she’d encountered someone like him, but something about Ryke seemed different. Jora stopped in front of his cell, her expression hardening as she met his gaze through the bars. He didn’t flinch. “Making yourself comfortable?” she asked, her voice cool, controlled. Ryke chuckled softly, though it was a sound without humor. “I’ve been in worse places.” His voice was low, smooth, with just enough edge to it that it didn’t feel like an idle comment. He studied her with the intensity of someone who was constantly calculating, trying to read every small detail. His eyes flicked to her knife, to the way she held herself, and then back to her face. Jora held his gaze, her own expression unreadable. “I wouldn’t get too comfortable, Ryke. Things are about to get rough up top.” She nodded toward the ceiling. “Storm’s coming. The crew will be busy. You and your friends won’t want to cause trouble in a situation like that.” For a brief moment, Ryke’s face flickered with something. Was it amusement? Or was it the barest hint of recognition? He said nothing, but Jora could feel the tension building, the silent exchange hanging between them like a fragile thread. “You think they’ll listen to you?” he asked after a pause, his voice like dark honey. “They don’t need to,” Jora replied. “The ship listens to me. And if you think you can escape during the storm, you’re wrong. I’ll make sure of it.” Ryke’s lips curled into a half-smile, but there was no warmth in it. “You think you have everything under control, don’t you? The ship. The crew. The prisoners.” He leaned closer to the bars, his voice dropping lower, “But you don’t. You don’t control everything. And that’s the problem.” Jora’s hand tightened on the hilt of her knife, but she didn’t move. “I control what matters,” she said sharply, her tone like steel. “And you’re not one of those things.” Ryke held her gaze for a moment longer, and just when Jora thought he might say something more, he turned away, sitting back against the far wall of his cell. “You’re right,” he said quietly. “You’re not in control of everything. But one day, maybe you’ll realize that there’s always something slipping through your fingers.” Jora’s jaw tightened, but she didn’t respond. The words echoed in her mind as she continued down the corridor, checking the other cells and making sure the prisoners were all secure. As always, her mind lingered on Ryke, even as she focused on the tasks at hand. His words had struck a chord somewhere deep, and she couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to him than met the eye. By the time she reached the last cell, her mind was swirling with half-formed thoughts and fragmented doubts. The storm outside was growing closer now, the wind howling and the waves crashing more violently against the hull. She could feel the tension in the air, both from the ship and from below deck. There were whispers in the brig. A low hum of unrest that had nothing to do with the storm. She could almost taste it. A door slammed above, and then the sound of shouting—orders being barked from above, the crew getting into position. The ship was about to feel the full force of the storm, and Jora knew the next few hours would be critical. She would need to stay sharp—on her toes—ready for anything. But just before she turned to leave, the distant sound of Ryke’s voice drifted down the hallway. “You don’t control the ship, Jora,” he called out softly. “You never will.” She froze, her hand on the doorknob, the words unsettling her more than she cared to admit. But she couldn’t afford to think about it. Not now. The storm was coming. And she had work to do. |
|
|
Refresh
|
