RavenDaas
Member
This post is looking for a GM. Real life gender isn't relevant to this. If anybody is looking for a GM for a KOTOR 2 retelling, feel free to reach out and request my prompt for it. With that aside; this prompt is pretty straightforward - I'd like a GM keen on a RP that leans heavily into the 'creative' side of 'creative retelling' of Owlcat's Rogue Trader. I do not especially care about being beholden to the canon of the original title nor to the lore of Warhammer 40,000; I believe first and foremost in the first and second rules of 'Is it fun?' and 'Is it cool?' above all others. That being said, I have no desire to make use of a system for this RP, and am open to a large variety of potential castings for the titular Rogue Trader taking the part of main character, including their gender and orientation. As a forewarning I've made it twenty hours into the game, although I'm not exactly going to be shocked and appalled if my partners decide to clue me in to mid-game spoilers.
Down below is my go-to of the bunch; a voidrat urchin whose fate has taking a sudden turn for the affluent, being dragged from the prisons they would almost certainly die in and being combed, dressed, and presented for the world as one of the galaxy's foremost individuals. Other characters that come to mind include a (SOLE SURVIVOR) aboard a space hulk that entered the Warp a century ago and has only recently reentered real space, a long-distant kin from a Primitive World that was brought under the Emperor's protection, and . . . other ideas come and go. I've got a few.
I enjoy underdog stories and anticipate a challenging story where the main character may suffer injury, mutiliation, disease, or death.
-=-
An ocean of life stirs beneath their feet an an entire mile down, ushered through a set of gates reinforced with enough ceramite to withstand the bane of a titan were it to come crashing in through the windows, pent-up and ready to party. If the glass did shatter, the titan would be the last of their problems, and it seemed unlikely that either of the immense figurines that dominated the room were the kinds that came to life when necessary.
One of the ten thousand skulls hovering throughout the cathedral narrowly avoid crashing into their face, instead letting out a series of high-pitched whines and squeals as it looked at them with what they could only conceive to be great offense.
"Sorry?" Sylvan attempts, which seems to placate the floating cerebellum . . . or anger it even further, as it turns about, rejoining its twins, adding its banners to hundreds that already ripple in the wind; they can't read High Gothic, but the text is sometimes close enough for them to parse with difficulty.
Wars and battles won, they think. Names they don't recognize, portraits of Saints and generals whose mugs meant nothing to them. The Imperium had as many recipients of the Honourifica Imperialis as it did Saints, and the impossibility of keeping track of them all was one of the first lessons learned in school; most could only recite fifty of a planet's most honored heroes. Once their escort arrived, Sylvan was afraid the first question they'd ask would be naming each of the ones they could actually pick out on the metallic servants.
"An excellent place for contemplation, is it not?"
Down below is my go-to of the bunch; a voidrat urchin whose fate has taking a sudden turn for the affluent, being dragged from the prisons they would almost certainly die in and being combed, dressed, and presented for the world as one of the galaxy's foremost individuals. Other characters that come to mind include a (SOLE SURVIVOR) aboard a space hulk that entered the Warp a century ago and has only recently reentered real space, a long-distant kin from a Primitive World that was brought under the Emperor's protection, and . . . other ideas come and go. I've got a few.
I enjoy underdog stories and anticipate a challenging story where the main character may suffer injury, mutiliation, disease, or death.
-=-
An ocean of life stirs beneath their feet an an entire mile down, ushered through a set of gates reinforced with enough ceramite to withstand the bane of a titan were it to come crashing in through the windows, pent-up and ready to party. If the glass did shatter, the titan would be the last of their problems, and it seemed unlikely that either of the immense figurines that dominated the room were the kinds that came to life when necessary.
One of the ten thousand skulls hovering throughout the cathedral narrowly avoid crashing into their face, instead letting out a series of high-pitched whines and squeals as it looked at them with what they could only conceive to be great offense.
"Sorry?" Sylvan attempts, which seems to placate the floating cerebellum . . . or anger it even further, as it turns about, rejoining its twins, adding its banners to hundreds that already ripple in the wind; they can't read High Gothic, but the text is sometimes close enough for them to parse with difficulty.
Wars and battles won, they think. Names they don't recognize, portraits of Saints and generals whose mugs meant nothing to them. The Imperium had as many recipients of the Honourifica Imperialis as it did Saints, and the impossibility of keeping track of them all was one of the first lessons learned in school; most could only recite fifty of a planet's most honored heroes. Once their escort arrived, Sylvan was afraid the first question they'd ask would be naming each of the ones they could actually pick out on the metallic servants.
"An excellent place for contemplation, is it not?"
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