August 26, 2010 in Chronicles
Aboard some petty merchant galley, you creep the deck softly. Around you, night gathers, and with predatory slowness, you slip past the patrolling hireswords, skirting their periphery with your shadow. Picking a cheap lock with your rusty kit, you quietly enter the captain's cabin, bare feet wetly treading fine carpet. The man sleeps with a flintlock in hand, sprawled lavishly across a wide bed of silks. You waste no time in lifting his pistol, shoving its flared muzzle into the merchant's snoring mouth, cocking it with a hooked grin. He wakes panicked, squealing. You lift a finger for silence, and tearfully, he obliges. Outside, the din of battle sounds, masking the sudden roar of gunpowder. Taking the smoking barrel from his mouth and lifting it to yours, you give the muzzle a sly blow before tucking it into the slack of your belt. Your fellows soon join you, their steel painted a merry shade of hiresword red. Proudly, you present your kill, and for a moment, the glory is yours.
Bred from the displaced ashes of the old age, when men of war took to the throats of their rival statesmen, when dissolved armies of hireswords were left with naught but villainy to ply, before guilds, before adventurers, there were dogs. Betrayed by the new age, by peace, by empty prosperity, they stood in violent defiance of the changing times, only to be brought to cruel justice, one company after the other. Some died on the highways, robbing wayfolk. Others died in the dungeons, left mad, caged. The surviving fragments of the old armies took either to exile or tried their weary hands at playing lamb in a world once made for beasts. From the latter rose Vandal, and soon, those that would follow him. Throwing anchor in Limsa Lominsa, they've carved themselves a dangerous enterprise from the sweet meat of local intrigue, gradually branching their operations to undercut those of their rival, the Marauders Guild. Their tale, written in the dark ink of the chaos that beats in every man's heart, is fast unraveling, and as new dogs come to run with the old, is destined to only ramble still.
The Slaughterhouse Dogs is a heavy role-playing linkshell that caters to the chaotic evil in all of us. Our agenda is to devour. Our mission, to consume. We are a kinship in perpetual, violent motion. Close-knit and open-wounded, we are a family of savages banded together under a happy pretense of unity.
How to Join;
Merely send me a private message with links to your OOC and character profiles. Be prepared to submit a sample of roleplay, your reason for joining, and what you can contribute to the linkshell as a whole. Please note, however, that we are currently NOT RECRUITING LALAFELLS OR WILDWOOD ELEZENS as they silly, fluffy creatures.