Total posts: 
Write a background for the Troper name above:
The time is now,Simple, look at the name of the Troper above, and write a character background based on that name. It doesn't have to have anything to do with the reality of that person, just based completely on their name- as sort of doesexactlywhatitsaysonthetin - you know about Spiderman from the name - "hmm some sort of Human arachnid". So- the next up. Why am I the "Last Hussar".
Do the job in front of you.
Wolf1066The last remaining five Hussars were caught in a snow cave by a blizzard. As the days wore on they got hungrier and hungrier and drew lots as to who was to die to feed the others. After a while, there was only one left...
Dangerously Genre Savvy since ages ago...
All Guns SparkingMind if I give it a shot? Mr. Woofles the clown started off with a pair of wolves for his act — but they did the waltz like crazy, resulting in a dozen more wolves than he expected. Rather than let that deter him, he rolled with it and trained them for a new act; when they were ready to mate, he brought in new wolves, and they in turn did a salsa-hot samba that resulted in dozens more circus-ready canines. And so it was that Mr. Woofles became the world record holder for most owned wolves. The only problem was that after the first couple hundred, he ran out of names to give them. So he just resorted to giving them numbers. Rumor has it that he's got a pretty soft spot for Wolf 1066...
Super Blog Link (Arcade Edition ver. 2013)
Carnie M.Heh, this looks fun!
Somewhere, there is an empty city. Though its real name is long forgotten, the new creatures who have taken up residence on its outskirts call it the City of Clocks. The empty city is far from silent. Steam whistles, gears turn, and each day a massive bell tolls twice: once at sunrise, and once at sundown. The new residents have never seen anyone in the City of Clocks, but how could all of that strange, wondrous machinery still be moving if there truly is no one there? So they stay away. And, though not in the way that they think, they are right. Somewhere in the clanking, whistling, humming forest of gears, in an ancient workshop, something nudges at the cold flesh of the old man who brought it to life. This thing does not run on steam and gears; energy hums beneath the delicate plates and joints that make up its body. It does not have a word for this energy, and it will not know for a long time that its lifeblood is called electricity. Neither does it have a word for the cold, tight, painful sensation it feels at the sight of the unmoving old man. It will discover that, too, one day. It sees the mangled, broken shells lining the walls and corners of the workshop. It counts exactly forty-three, all similar to itself, not a one the same. The sight, as always, makes it subconsciously tap the designation inscribed into its chest. This inscription will remind it always, when it wants to forget everything else, of the little workshop, and those who came before, and the one who made them all. In the meantime, Voltech 44 steps out the door, its circuits whirring, and for the very first time sets out to explore the City of Clocks.
edited 12th Dec '12 7:39:51 PM by CarnivorousMoogle
Still working on Good Style, so bear with me.
BFS EnthusiastIn the world of Ivalice, a Moogle went Ax-Crazy due to one too many people laughing at its appearance, becoming a twisted and monstrous shell of its former self, yet retaining an odd cuteness to it that prevents it from being taken seriously by the other Marks out there. Rank C Mark, taken by the party of the Lady Ashe, it was defeated and brought back to its senses.
Yare yare da-ZE!It was the year 1930. The Prohibition Era. Where alcohol is banned by the law, and the black market was on the rise. Nick the Swing was a particularly notable dealer for alcohol, for not only did he sell them cheap, he was reliable and doesn't actually drink. He was known for his title 'The Swing' because the places he specified to do the trade all had swings in which he would sit on before commencing his deal. Alcohol for money.
"And you must be Jonathan Joestar!" - Sue
They called her 45 and it wasn't accurate. It should have been 32, for her age, or 3, for the amount of beers she could pour over her dumb little dog's head before he cared. Maybe 6, because her favorite revolver couldn't hold more bullets, or even 6834, which was her account password, but how the hell would they know? Anyway. They went ahead and called her 45. Danna 45. And she knew why. Oh, she knew why, and she knew bad. 45. It was how many people she had killed before they stabbed her in the back and them other guys got her and stuffed her in that tiny little cell—bunk they called it—like they were at Camp Tomahawk or something. 45 people. All ages, all races, all genders, though gender was easy. There were only two of those. It wasn't a game or a competition, it wasn't business. It was survival. But they didn't get that. No one ever got it. In the supermarket, at the bus stop, when she brought her little girl to school, she saw it. She saw it in their faces, their eyes. They wanted her dead. Dead. Cold and in the ground, never to come back. So she didn't comply. And they faulted her for that. She was going to die for surviving. Irony? Anyone?
Easily entertainedThey used to call 'em "brush threshers", but that was too much of a mouthful. Life's too short for big, fancy words. So it got shortened down to "bresher". Beating down the brush might not sound like a glamorous task, but hell if it ain't necessary. Many a lost soul got out of the Forest alive only because they found themselves a bresher trail, or a cache left behind for when the Forest reclaimed that trail. It might not sound like a hard task, either, but the Forest don't take kindly to being tamed. Serpents that'll rot your arm off in a bite, insects that'll burrow into your very flesh, disease-ridden ticks — well, better to go into that mess with a bresher suit and machete than without, but best not to at all. A shame life near the Forest ain't ever that obliging.
edited 13th Dec '12 7:16:34 AM by KillerClowns
Cynicism is like salt; you should add just a little bit of it to everything, but it's useless on its own.
Element of loveTim used to love parties. As a kid the happiest day of his life was his birthday. He loved the cakes, the candy, the gifts. Weeks before the day he could feel his body shaking with exitement. That was until his parents wanted to surprise him with something they had never done before: they hired a clown. When the clown arrived to the party, his parents seemed confused. Tim was like every year eating cake with his hands. He turned his head around and saw the scariest clown you can imagine. Colorful, but dirty, more menancing than funny and whit a sadistic smile The clown had scars on his face in the shape of a smile.... He took little tim with both of his cold hands, he took from his pocket a knife and asked him "Do you know how I got this...." (something interrumpted the clown) Tim tought he was going to die.Tim tried to close his eyes but he couldn't, his vision began to blur and he started to feel dizzy, but before fainting he could barely see a man wearing black clothes and an even darker cowl puching the clown. Was it real? It didn't matter. Tim promised from that day on that no clown would make suffer anyone again.That day the killer clowns was born.
edited 13th Dec '12 6:05:48 PM by FallenLegend
I believe in Christianity as I believe that the sun has risen: not only because I see it, but because by it I see everything else. C. S. Lewis
Generic LurkerIs this what he's reduced to? Once he was a great warrior, able with any weapon. His name caused entire armies to scatter, inspired even the most down-hearted soldier to his best, but now... "More tea?" He didn't have a say, even if he could talk. After that last great battle with a Necromancer, his undying soul was bound to his skeleton. And since being a skeleton wasn't a heroic thing to be, he was considered completely dead in the eyes of the world. And so he wound up being in the custody of others, until he somehow ended up with the Necromancer's brother. The brother, surprisingly enough, didn't harbor any hatred towards him. Instead, he let the now dead hero do most of the chores around the house. He cleaned the rooms, washed the clothing, and many other things he didn't expect to do. The worse was playing with his daughter. Being forced into dresses and sipping tea that literally went through him was far more terrible than any torture he had experienced. Oh well, better than telling the story of how he managed to kill a dragon with a wagon wheel a couple thousand times over.
Please insert coin. Or at least offer something to trade.
[edit: Beaten to it while I was typing, damn it ] There is a lesson to be learned, they say, in the example of the Fallen Legend. A great champion, a hero, a savior of their people. A legend in their own lifetime. Power. Wealth. Glory. All that and more was theirs. That is the lesson: That which rises...may also fall. Gone is their power, ground into the dust by invading armies. Gone is their wealth, scattered to the winds. Gone is all glory, for none now even remember the fallen one's name. But there is another lesson, whispered among the lost and outcast. That which has fallen...has nothing left to lose.
edited 15th Dec '12 12:28:43 PM by MattStriker
Reality is for those who lack imagination.
Eye'm the cutest!Matt Striker was just an average guy with an average life until he took that trip downtown on a rainy summer afternoon. That day, everything changed for Mr. Striker. Nothing could remain the same. Armed with new tools, new lessons, and new powers he stands tall against the forces of darkness in <Where were you from again?>. For he is, Matt Striker!
Endless Conflict: Every war ends in time, even supposedly this one.
heh heh... this looks fun Major Tom was a highly decorated military officer when the world was invaded by a horde of evil wizards. In a climactic duel with their leader, he was ultimately defeated. Although he was able to escape with his life, the Major was struck by a curse that trapped him in the body of a 5-year old girl with a penchant for blue ribbons and the excitability to match. Nonetheless, Major Tom's mind remained intact and he (she?) continues to protect the world from the evil wizards as the "cutest" officer in the army. "Eye'm the cutest!", indeed. P.S.: Dear Major, please don't kill me
edited 15th Dec '12 3:34:10 PM by peasant
Honor For All...Once, long ago, there was a king. He was a cruel tyrant, caring nothing for his lands or his people. This, naturally, led to a rebellion and his downfall. This king fled to the countryside, where he hid for many years. He was taken in by a amily of peasants and learned their humble ways. The king who had taken his place, however, turned out to be a worse tyrant then he was. The old king decided to reclaim his throne and used his friendship with the people to rally them to the cause. Once he had reclaimed his land, he ordered that he would no longer be known as the king, but the peasant. He was then a wise and just king, now knowing how his people lived. Thus, he is known as Peasant to this day.
Some people think I'm strange. I think it's sad that they can't see all the awesome stuff going on in my head right now.
Thunder, Perfect MindIt had been suggested in certain Arthurian lore that Mordred, before his death, had fathered an illegitimate child by an unknown woman. Yet the tales were deemed spurious and ignored. But, of course, when born into such an unseemly legacy, one is inclined to be discrete. Secretive. Perhaps even ashamed. She named her son in a fit of piety after the last Apostle, and he always thought it fit him: He felt that he had come late into his age, and yet too early for the new one to come. This lasted many years. In time, when most had forgotten his father and none were in living memory of his grandfather, he took back his surname. It served him well for many more.
Razzin-Frazzin RobotJ.H.M or Jolly Haggis Man was a Scottish robot designed to deliver haggis all around the world to haggis eaters evrywhere. The problem was, the demand for haggis was to low to justify the cost to build the robot. so, they rebuilt JHM as a fighting robot to defend Scottland from invaders. Which he has done since then.
Rocking NaNoWriMo!Being in an international military force naturally leads to lots of friendly insults and rivalry, so it really shouldn't have come as a surprise to Benjamin that his squadmates would choose a nickname for him based on one of Britain's greatest landmarks. And really, after the inevitable shower room comparisons, at least it was flattering.
Family reunions are like colonoscopies; no matter how much you’d rather not, you still need to have one every few years.
Realizing that black is actually pretty bad is you're trying to be stealthy, a lone ninja began wearing a dappled series of blue and gray. What he didn't expect was that this also freed him from the restraints of conservation of ninjutsu! Though his name has been lost over time, the status of the blue ninja has been passed down from generation to generation.
it sucks epic, epic amounts of cock, I mean, serious, pay-per-view levels of dicksucking going on there -Life
A lone assassin who follows The Straight and Arrow Path, using poisoned arrows.
edited 3rd Jan '13 6:34:55 PM by somerandomdude
The Random guy from the street who was sucked into a fantasy world after being mistaken for the protagonist by the Call to Adventure.
Matues was born and raised in a quite Mississippi suburb. At age 9 he felt from his bycicle in a hot summer afternoon and as a result he had to spend many days of summer laying in bed. There Matus had time to think, as he say the other children play and have games. He realized life was too short to squander laying down. When he turned 18 he bid his parents farewell and dissapeared in the distance. Ever since the only news they have had from him are ocassional postals that make their way into their quiet suburban home, sometimes accompanied, by little pieces of gold he introduces in his letters.
I will always cherish the chance of a new beggining.
T.S. Eliot wrote of Ozymandias, the broken statute... An old pharaoh, whose boast now seems empty... He (or she) rose again to avenge this slight... And hit the poet in the face... Only to find the discription sadly accurate; Also, Eliot was dead. So, said pharaoh spent some time online, and found TV Tropes which is ruining said pharaoh's afterlife: Beware the power of BAFF, the Troper who controls the B-cell activation factor Which can give you utter immunity, Or afflict you with an allergy to yourself.
edited 5th Feb '13 4:52:39 AM by Sharur
"Do not be too eager to deal out Death in Judgment, for not even the very Wise can see all Ends." -JRR Tolkien
rollin' on dubs
Sharur (mythological troper) From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia Sharur, which means "smasher of natter" is a living weapon and mythic symbol of awesomeness. Various mythic sources describe this being as demi-devine, riding a black unicorn with wings of fire while dual wielding an enchanted talking mace and a katana. It has been suggested that the Sharur is possible precursor for similar beings in other mythology such as Arthurian lore and possibly the Norse gods.
edited 5th Feb '13 6:59:11 AM by TairaMai
Thunder, Perfect MindA rare and strange variety of Northern Chinese dumpling favoured by the above poster, similar to shaomai but with different and more numerous ingredients and requiring a very different preparation process. (The r has its Mandarin value here, resembling a zh sound.)
edited 5th Feb '13 5:21:51 PM by sabrina_diamond
You are a Innocent Uke! Cute and sweet of all ukes! my profile
The system doesn't know you right now, so no post button for you.
You need to Get Known to get one of those.
Total posts: 25
TV Tropes by TV Tropes Foundation, LLC is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.
Permissions beyond the scope of this license may be available from firstname.lastname@example.org.