Captain Fidley

Blast and damn, just when interest picks up I have to leave the country! I'm going to be gone for around two months, sorry.

[OOC]

It had been a long journey, and Dusty had been unprepared for the wide and forsaken wilderness that spread before him. With little more than his hard hat, a pickaxe and his trusty spade lashed onto his back, he had braved it anyway. He was young and foolish, after all, with that particular streak of invincibility that seemed to infect the youth. Years working in the mines of the Blackhorse Hills had inured him to the fear of death. After seeing so many accidents and losing friends, he had just stopped caring about it. He'd accepted a simple truth adopted by many of the mining ponies- that there was a time and a place he would pass, and there was nothing he could do about it. He hadn't expected to die in the desert, though. A cave-in or gas explosion, sure. Nice and quick. But the baking heat of the daytime and bone-rattling chill of the night, draining him until he simply collapsed? Never. He had cursed himself a thousand times for being too proud to ask for advice or for help, too foalish to take charity when it was offered. "Celestia help me." he wheezed, sinking to his knees and staring up at the merciless sun. "I swear on the sun and the moon, if I ever get out of here I will never be prideful again." The bedraggled, dust-streaked stallion muttered to nopony in particular, racking his throat for enough spit to finish the oath but finding none of it. The desert was silent, save for a thin moaning wind coursing through some distant canyon. "Blast and damn." Dusty muttered, "Like that old oath would do a damn thing." He squinted at the horizon, looking for anything that could be his salvation. There! In the hazy blur of the mirage! Was it a building? No, a town! A whole herd of buildings! He felt his spirit returning, and enough energy for one last hope. Slowly and painfully he pushed himself back to his feet, and trotted towards the image. ---- The doors of the Rhinestone Quarry slammed wide as an emaciated and dust-streaked stallion staggered through and collapsed in the entryway. The bundle of tools on his back slipped off and skidded across the smooth floor, fetching up against a table. His yellow hard hat likewise skidded into the bar. "Waaaater." the stallion moaned in a rattling-barely there voice, reaching upward with a forehoof as if supplicating a deity. Then he collapsed, his eyes rolling closed and his tongue hanging out.

"Researcher" is a little vague. Is he a historian, archaeologist, geologist, surveyor, astronomer, etc etc? There's plenty of ways to narrow down what he does and expand the character in doing so. Your mention of him enjoying frugal conditions reminds me of the stories my grandfather told me. He worked on petroleum exploration teams in west texas and had some great yarns about working out in the boonies.

Obviously the four ponies of the apocalypse, imprisoned long before luna.

It certainly looks good, and what an awesome image. I linked the profile of the captain and airship below. viewtopic.php?f=33&t=346

"Stormalong's what I'm called." the bosun grunted, throwing back the rest of his mug and tapping the bar for a refill. "Keep it coming, son." "You must be a snipe." Stormy said simply, taking another pull from his fresh mug. "You've got a faint whiff of coal dust and lube oil about you, though that might just be that foreleg of yours. I hope it ain't pryin' to ask where you came by it? I've never seen the like in all my years." [OOC]

It had been a long time since Bos'n Stormalong had made port in Rockwington. Talonopolis had eclipsed the sleepy city of artisans as a main hub of trade decades before, and with the railroad there was little reason for the great merchant airships to call anywhere else. But the Cap'n was mixed up in something big, and the Venture went where the Cap'n willed, and Stormy along with her. He was pleased to find one of his old haunts still existed. The tiny grog-shop in the central marketplace was dirty and poorly lit, but the location was incredible for Griffin-watching. Stormalong considered himself to be a fairly good judge of history and character- it came with the business of being the senior rated sailor on the ship. Which explains why he was intrigued by the female who came walking up the sidewalk. She was tearing into a bass steak like it was the first real food she had eaten in years. Maybe it was. Her bearing was stiff, her walk prideful. Common amongst a proud race like the Griffins, but Stormy had hung around enough ports and dodged enough press gangs to spot military a mile off. Fresh off the boat, perhaps, given the wary readiness in her eyes. Then he saw the gleaming steel leg and knew for sure. The naval crest embossed on it was clue enough. Definitely a veteran. he thought. "Hey, Navy!" he called, standing up from his spot at the streetfront bar. "Buy you a drink?"

It had been a long journey, and Dusty had been unprepared for the wide and forsaken wilderness that spread before him. With little more than his hard hat, a pickaxe and his trusty spade lashed onto his back, he had braved it anyway. He was young and foolish, after all, with that particular streak of invincibility that seemed to infect the youth. Years working in the mines of the Blackhorse Hills had inured him to the fear of death. After seeing so many accidents and losing friends, he had just stopped caring about it. He'd accepted a simple truth adopted by many of the mining ponies- that there was a time and a place he would pass, and there was nothing he could do about it. He hadn't expected to die in the desert, though. A cave-in or gas explosion, sure. Nice and quick. But the baking heat of the daytime and bone-rattling chill of the night, draining him until he simply collapsed? Never. He had cursed himself a thousand times for being too proud to ask for advice or for help, too foalish to take charity when it was offered. "Celestia help me." he wheezed, sinking to his knees and staring up at the merciless sun. "I swear on the sun and the moon, if I ever get out of here I will never be prideful again." The bedraggled, dust-streaked stallion muttered to nopony in particular, racking his throat for enough spit to finish the oath but finding none of it. The desert was silent, save for a thin moaning wind coursing through some distant canyon. "Blast and damn." Dusty muttered, "Like that old oath would do a damn thing." He squinted at the horizon, looking for anything that could be his salvation. There! In the hazy blur of the mirage! Was it a building? No, a town! A whole herd of buildings! He felt his spirit returning, and enough energy for one last hope. Slowly and painfully he pushed himself back to his feet, and trotted towards the image. ---- The doors of the Rhinestone Quarry slammed wide as an emaciated and dust-streaked stallion staggered through and collapsed in the entryway. The bundle of tools on his back slipped off and skidded across the smooth floor, fetching up against a table. His yellow hard hat likewise skidded into the bar. "Waaaater." the stallion moaned in a rattling-barely there voice, reaching upward with a forehoof as if supplicating a deity. Then he collapsed, his eyes rolling closed and his tongue hanging out.

So are we making a Griffin military, sky pirates, etc, official? This is very interesting to me.

The plan is for him to drift into the Gulch and settle down for a spell. I'll update it when it happens.

I did my best to add some of that. What I'm trying to go for is a "man with no name" sort of concept. Obviously a gunfighter wouldn't fit the rp, so I'm going with a miner. Not so sure how to express that in terms of personality. Guess he's quiet, with a spine of iron.

[ Pony Related Character ] Name: Dusty Spade Gender: Male Age: 20s Species: Earth Pony Pelt Color: Pale white, when it isn't full of dust. Mane/Tail Color & Style: Gold-flecked black Eye Color: Gold Cutie Mark: A Spade Physique: Rangy and thin, like he hasn't had regular meals recently. Residence: Currently a drifter Occupation: Miner Motivation: Digging holes. Really big holes. Technical holes. Character Summary: Born into poverty in Trottingham, Dusty never knew his parents. He grew up in an orphange and spent his youth playing the the backyard sandbox- until his increasingly intricate tunnel network caused a near-collapse of the foundations! To pay for the damages and to learn some self-control he was apprenticed off to a master miner in the hill-country to the east of the great city. He outgrew his youthful rebelliousness during those long hard hours deep underground, replacing it with quiet determination and a sense of professionalism. He doesn't talk much anymore, and when he does its in a low growl. Now he has finally paid off his debt, completed his apprenticeship and tied up all his loose ends. He sets his sights on the West, where he's been told there are riches to be made and opportunity to be grasped. Equipped with little but his hardhat, light and trusty shovel he sets off on the road...

Much like your car, passenger cars have a simple alternator driven off of one of the axels. I also saw the lamps in the train as oil lamps, which are adjusted by changing the length of the wick with a small wheel.

Amongst the bustling commercial docks of Seasaddle Bay there is a small and cozy tavern, well-known to the sailorponies who find themselves making port here. The tavern looks like a ship built for land, with brass-framed portholes and dark, weathered wood planking that looks like it has seen a thousand storms at sea. A ship's mast sprouts from the vaulted roof, colorful signal flags streaming in the wind. To the landsponies they're just colorful decorations, but the old salts of the harbor know their meaning- "Seaponies eat half-off". An old, hand-carved sign swings above the door, flecks of ancient paint visible if you look hard enough. Inside, the tavern is warm and bright, festooned with nautical flotsam and jetsam. Life rings off dozens of ships hang from the walls, old nets and strings of bouys drape the ceiling and an entire ship's wheel hangs above the roaring fireplace. The tavern smells of weathered wood and ocean spray, mixed with a hint of a rich kelp stew bubbling in the kitchen. The proprietor is wrapped up in the middle of an old sea story, "chewing the fat" with some young sailors off one of the trading ships. "...and that's how I fought off the dreaded kraken!" he finished with a laugh, ignoring the incredulous stares of his two guests. "Two beers on me lads, for payin' attention to an old wreck's tale!"