Welcome to No Books of Men! We are a modern alternate history board set in a magical school nestled in the Columbiana Valley of the Rocky Mountains. Students of the Collegium Illustrata Columbiana (commonly called simply The Academy) are free to explore their wildest imaginations in learning the mystic arts, so long as it does not jeopardize the ongoing Shadow War with the Exarchs. How will you live up to the legacies of Merlin?

darkkenchild is the Head Admin here at No Books. He enjoys long walks on the beach and debating the metaphysical underpinnings of reality, so any questions about your character , the plot of No Books, and/or how magic works on the site, please do not hesitate to ask him.

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Application: http://nobooksofmen.b1.jcink.com/index.php?showtopic=901
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Age: 39
Alias: Habardr
Great House: Solificati
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Walter von Richtofen


My Content
Jul 9 2018, 07:46 AM
Loving what I've read so far in the recent posts. Lots of potential for RP and plotting.

Just thought I'd throw a little appreciation and moral support the way of you guys. Uncharacteristic as that is! ;)

Jan 3 2018, 09:28 AM
I still log on here now and again. I find myself looking for some good RP somewhere. Preferably forum rp, like this, as that suits my timetable better.

Anyone have any recommendations?

(Walter's player)
Dec 9 2015, 12:05 PM
The coffee shop is busy this morning. This close to the holidays, pretty much everywhere is busy. The shop thrums with activitry as seasonal tunes are broadcast to the bustling clientele.

Walter, the tall, broad and usually taciturn groundskeeper walks into the shop, carrying a number of bags patterned with festive logos. He had hoped to find respite from the overcrowding and crass commercialism that has been grating on his nerves for the past few days.

While he waits in the queue, he flexes his shoulders, trying to banish the ache that is not entirely physical. Nerves strayed, he orders his coffee. Large, black. Simple, unpretentious coffee fora simple, unpretentious man.

His luck is in as a couple of seats at a table are vacated at just the right time. He takes himself a seat. The only patron at a large table with six seats. Whether he wants it or not, he is likely to have company soon enough.

He places his bags down under the table, just as the next song begins. He does his best to ignore the mindless jingle and motions to take a long sip of is still piping hot coffee. Too hot, at the moment.

Mar 23 2015, 01:21 PM
Walter was fond of early mornings at the park. He had been disappointed the first few times he'd come in how many people there were around at that time of day. Joggers, dog walkers, cyclists, and those who wanted to get to work just that bit before everyone else. He had hoped he'd have the place to himself, but clearly city living didn't include a solitude option. However, the people he met at this time were, for the most part, much more agreeable to be around. The hushed aura seemed a lovely by product of everyone's effort not to bother each-other. Whenever people were thrown together, for whatever reason, they interacted with a respect and calmness sadly lacking for every other part of the day.

Truth was, though, he hadn't even intended to train at the park this morning. He'd been practising in his room at home. But he'd had a rather maudlin, vodka fuelled evening the night before and the bad vibes hadn't yet had time to properly dissipate. For all of his pragmatism, Walter preferred to keep a positive mindset when he trained. That wasn't really quite possible right now. Hence, the park.

Dropping his holdall roughly onto the grass, Walter took off his jacket, folded it and laid it neatly atop his bag. This left him dressed in baggy canvas trousers. Once they may have been colourful and vibrant, but years of washing had faded them to a dirty off-white hue. A ragged cord hung from the waist, whiter than the trousers themselves. The cord matched Walter's sleeveless top which was white also. It looked like it may once have had sleeves, but they had been ripped off at the seams.

Walter stood for a moment in a relaxed posture. Eyes closed with hands by his sides, he took slow, deep breaths as the yellow morning sun warmed his weathered face. The light breeze tugged at his long fringe and buffeted the legs of his trousers. Other than the rising and falling of his impressively muscular chest, though, no movement or reaction could be discerned from the Scandinavian as he breathed in the cool, crisp air and exhaled his tension and stress.

The stillness was ended as his arms rose up either side of him and his palms, face down moved together slightly and pressed down from his chest to his lower abdomen. In doing so, his torso rose a little before with what would seem to those who know him as an uncharacteristic flourish he stepped forward with one foot, twisted his torso and his arms fell into a 'guard' position.

He began to pace a circle, his torso turned and his focus pinned upon the centre. As his movements got faster, it became difficult to separate what the different parts of his body were doing. Hands, torso and legs all moving with each-other in what appeared more of a dance than anything.

As his solo dance continued, the expression on his face was serene and even held a smile. Again something totally uncharacteristic for anyone who'd known him, or heard about him prior to this moment. His face now seeming kinder and more affable than ever, despite the increasing exertion he was apparently putting his body through.
Nov 18 2014, 09:46 AM
The air is cold and crisp but the bright sunlight illuminates the green as students hurry to a fro. In a shadier corner, mostly obscured by trees a labourer piles up dead wood and briars. Dappled light mottles his broad back as he bends to secure the bundle with twine.

Taking his large frame into consideration, one would expect a rather lumbering gait. When he moves, however, he shows a singular grace. His smooth, precise movements seem almost absurd considering the menial nature of his work. Yet he does not seem to begrudge his task. He seems almost meditative.

As he works, he hums a tune. His deep, low voice sounding like a growl at times. Occasionally, he mumbles the lyrics.

Oh, won't you come with me
And take my hand
Oh, won't you come with me
And walk this land

Once the bundle is tied together, he returns to the brush and begins to collect more for the next bundle. Momentarily, he straightens himself, placing his large hands in the small of his back as though in pain. His expression seems sombre and, although his lips are twisted into a half-grimace, he seems content. Small beads of perspiration upon his brow are wiped away with the back of his hand. His blue eyes narrow as he gazes out into the light of the green, staring into the distance. He pauses a moment, resting as he takes in the scene.
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