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51,302 | 1,385 | 5 | 377 | 26,000 | Niesha had slept sparingly, her dreams tormented with nightmares, memories, and fears. She woke several times, her blankets wrapped around her, her breathing fast, shallow, covered in clammy sweet. Sadly, not an unusual occurrence for her. She finally gave up after the third time, and just spent the rest of the night looking up at the ceiling, until it was a reasonable hour to get up. Even then, she just sat on her bed, holding her bow in her hands, the one soft, uncared, normal. The other...well, that one had been maimed, and repaired with technology the world possessed.
Where are you, Mother, Father? Where are you, my big brothers? Are you even alive? Will I find out htat you died years ago, one day? She thought to herself, sighing softly, and laying the bow on her bed, rising, dressing, she brushed back her hair with her fingers, not particularly caring if it was neat and dressing in her usual clothes. She then trotted to the cafeteria, and silently got some food.
She had been n the ship for a little while. She had chosen a bed, and put her stuff away, and explored the ship, and done any tasks that were required of her. She cleaned, offered to cook but she was terrible at that so sshe didn't do it too often, and did any tasks the rest of the crew didn't want to do. Which is exactly what she did today, She stopped for a few minutes and watched Faulkner with the new recruits, but otherwise she worked hard.
She knew how to read and write, and could do both very well, and one day, she would transfer and copy the books that the crew and ship had, so she could have her own mini personal library but also to preserve what was in it. When the day had been completed, Niesha headed back to the cafeteria for her evening meal. She took it as a luxury that she could have more then one meal a day.
She looked up as the Captain entered, and turned her attention to the speech. Niesha had a respect for the captain that she didn't for many other people. The Captain didn't have to give her a job, a place on the ship, but here she was. And that meant a lot to her. She looked about at the crew, new and old, studying them all. She knew soon she would have to investigate, to ask probing questions, but for now she was content to keep quite and to watch. | Niesha Shin
Age:
26
Gender:
female
Clothes:
Armor:
Weapons:
Miscellaneous items:
A gold heart shaped locket
Biography:
Niesha grew up the youngest of seven, the only daughter, in the outskirts of the city. She was pretty sheltered, but had a fearless nature due to this. She was quite young when, out walking one day she was kidnapped. She was transferred by several smugglers several times during the years where during that time she heard about the Dusicyon. She figured the dream of actually seeing it herself was just as useless as the dream of escaping and finding her family.
She didn't know how much time had passed, but one day, she managed to escape when a fight broke out between the smugglers and the captives. She didn't escape unharmed, suffering a severally maimed hand, that was replaced eventually with a cybernetic/bionic hand. But that's a story for another time.
She eventually returned home, after searching for what seemed to the young girl years only to find it ransacked with many of the personal items and furniture still in place. She searched the house from top to bottom, but there was no indication on what had happened, on where her family was, but she found her fathers bow, and it's arrows.
She struggled with indecision, and eventually headed out, scavenging some of her mothers clothes, and some other items before leaving, mainly golden heart shaped locket that was her mothers, and the bow.
She remembered the talk about the Dusicyon, and she debated and decided that it might be her best bet to try and find out what had happened to her family, assuming that it might have criminal connections given that she had heard it through the smugglers talk.
She approached the ship when it was docked, and asked for any sort of job, deciding to keep what her true intentions were for now. If something bad had happened to her parents and brothers, she didn't want to tip anyone off. So it was that she came to work on the ship, doing any sort of task that was required of her, and still practiced with her bow.
Extra:
Her hand- |
51,303 | 1,385 | 6 | 1,089 | 604 | Travis raked his slicked back hair with his fingers, sweat plastering it to his head. Deep bags had set into his under eye after the night of restless sleep. He looked into the mirror above his sink, smelling of after shave, as he ran his hand across his face, feeling his five o clock shadow, the stubble lightly prickling his fingers. Despite the active sunlight outside, the room was dark as the blinds were drawn. After taking a deep gulp of air, he splashed frigid cold water on his face, expelling his tiredness. After drying his hands on a ragged hand towel, Travis unholstered his revolver. With a flick of his wrist, he popped the chamber open, making sure all the bullets were loaded. One, two, three, four five, six. Six bullets. Yep, that was right. With elegant speed, he flicked his wrist again, closing the chamber. He flipped off the safety, spun the gun around his forefinger, and holstering it -- a move he did often in his hometown deserts. He shook his head, clearing it, and headed out into the ship's hallway.
As Travis arrived into the mess hall, he glanced at his watch. "Damn," he muttered to himself, realizing he was late for breakfast. Renault was finishing up an introductory speech, one he'd heard from many augers do in his time. He was sure it involved something about his word being law, and the like. It was a common cliche' that he was all too used to. Travis entered the mess hall's line, nodding to the staff. "What you got left for me?" he asked the server who he for some reason had taken a liking to, named Jim.
"Late again Travis? How hard is it to wake up on time?" he said with a chuckle. After a hard stare from Travis, he continued, "Right, what we have left. Well there's some coffee left, if you want," pulling out a pot of coffee from under the counter. "I'll take what I can get," responded Travis, as Jim poured him a cup of Arbuckle's. After grabbing the cup, taking a sip, and giving Jim his nod of approval, Travis pulled into one of the only seats available. It was next to a blonde girl, probably in her mid 20's who was wearing black clothing; something of a hybrid between a dress and a jacket. As he studied her more he realized that she had a cybernetic hand. Travis found this interesting, but turned to his coffee. He nearly finished it by gulping it in one go, and once he was done he pulled out a pack of Marlboros. He held the cigarrette in his mouth as he drew a lighter out from his breast pocket. He cupped the flame from the lighter in his hands as he drew it to the ciggarette, effectively lighting it.
"Smoking first thing in the morning, now you've really sunk low Trav," he muttered to himself, thinking out loud. | Name: Greyson Johannes
Title: "The Grey Area"
Age: 37
Gender: Male
Appearance: A fairly tall man (when he's actually bothered to stand up straight) with amber eyes, a weathered face, and dark hair with traces of graying. His sullen eyes and thinly-shaved grizzle upon his jawline give the visage of a tired, barely retained individual. Grey is just fit enough to get by in the crew, while still having the worn, calloused look to his skin that proves he's done his part. His left hand is rendered paralyzed, however, so he uses a powered glove to restore movement to it.
Armor: Not much to speak of. His black vest doubles as a light bulletproof armor for his torso, as does his powered glove for his left hand. He has greaves fitted on his legs under his trousers, and his boots are reinforced with mild steel plating. Like a sensible man, he also bothers to wear a cup.
Clothing: Greyson is rarely ever seen without his trusty longcoat, serving as a fashion choice and a spacious utility jacket for storing tools and weapons. His typical gear consists of the longcoat, his black protective vest, his plain dark-brown trousers, and his pain of reinforced work boots. Grey's more casual wear is a white button shirt with khaki trousers and loafers. On particularly lazy days, he may go without a shirt entirely.
Weapons: Grey's primary weapons are a pair of handguns and a mag-loaded bolter rifle. All of these guns are designs for sharpshooting, but still prove just as effective at most any range. He carries extra mags inside his longcoat, and may even stash two extra pistols in there if he feels like a situation may call for it; some people may think him as a gun nut, but he just likes to be more than prepared (his way of saying he's a bit paranoid).
Miscellaneous Items: Various repair and navigation tools, spare mags, a trusty flask, a few extra sets of foam earplugs...
Biography:
Greyson was a simple kid, having a basic education and a standard family. Like many kids, Greyson held his ambitions to soar the skies like so many did in this day and age. Of course, with these ideals came the warnings and dangers of sky pirates and the like, whom threatened to take away your life, or worse. Yet still, like many kids, Greyson held his ground, and was determined to make his mark on the frontier of sprawling clouds.
Of course, as time passed and boys matured, Greyson obtained a better understand of what he wanted. It wasn't so much to fly around as it was the passion to explore: to seek out new spaces and see the creation of new worlds. For this, the adolescent was very thoroughly mocked and berated for his choices, give how whoever tried to venture too far out rarely ever returned. And yet, that was half the challenge of being an explorer - of course, maybe Greyson did get into the habit of thinking to arm himself well enough whenever he was to go far out.
Let it be known that few sensible men wanted any part in Greyson's ideas. Which, of course, left him with the insane ones...
As a young adult, Greyson was kidnapped after sharing what happened to be perhaps too elaborate of a plan to enter the lost "Lower World". The vagabond in question was a very off-rocker man in charge of several looneys and a stolen, several-times-rebuilt airship. They hoped, by forcing this navigator to take them along the proposed route, they would be first to discover and conquer a new world all for themselves. Needless to say, Greyson was not at all wanting or willing to go along with this. Desperately, but carefully, he tried to lead the crazed pirates astray in hopes a military vessel could capture them and free Greyson.
The band of insane outlaws was blessed with no such luck, as the captain (who caught on to Greyson's deception) steered the ship right into a cloudstorm. The kidnapped navigator found himself only a scant more lucky, able to wrestle control back to the ship and veer out of the storm. Barely able to cruise back to land, the outlaw ship was not welcomed warmly, and Greyson found himself lumped in with the unseemly crew who kidnapped him in the first place.
Several years have passed since then. Greyson has barely any honor or respect left to his name, much less money or an honest career. Despite his hatred of outlaws, the washed-up adventurer has been forced to become one if he wants to keep any claim on his life. His dream has twisted into a different ideal; to escape the mad world he has been dragged into, and find a new life to begin. Until then, if it is even a possibility, he has to work with the sky pirates he so very much spites. Like it or not, he is a member of the Crimson Dusicyon - free in his title, but not at heart.
Extra:
Serves primarily as a navigator, but may also serve as a capable gunner or passable helmsman. He tends to keep himself working somehow, otherwise he droops into a lazy slump.
Lacks a proper sleep schedule of his own - left to his own devices, Grey will wake and sleep whenever he feels like it. Also part of the reason he keeps himself busy.
Likes to chew on ginger candies to take his mind off things. This is a trend established from his childhood, and proves to be a generally more favorable substitute for his alcoholism.
Grey's experiences have led him to be a very scornful man in general - having to be a sky pirate doesn't help, no matter how honest the crew among him may seem. He's just sour and broken, with a life so far shallow and unfulfilled.
Has a minor talent with birds and falconry. |
51,304 | 1,385 | 7 | 2,649 | 479 | Last Night
The night had been silent and calm as the Dusicyon flew through the sky in all her majesty. None could really argue just how beautiful the ship was, especially not to Cyrek Krusek. Cyrek knew the ship's every crack, as he worked hard to keep her in good repair. Tonight was another one of those sleepless nights where he had his work cut out for him. He had every reason to sleep in tomorrow, but there was to be some big dinner going down, courtesy of the captain.
The ship didn't glow against the light of the moon, as she was bluntly colored enough to not be noticeable to the eyes of her prey. One thing was visible that night, and that was a small light coming from the arc of Cyrek Krusek's welding torch. He stared unflinchingly at the hot metal, through shaded lenses. Sparks would sally forth every now and then, attacking his leather jacket he prized so much.
He was held up by a strong leather tether and a harness. He seemed to be able to free float, but he was locked in place to his work with different methods. He was also locked to his work with his attention. He was dedicated to welding. It was an art form to him. He controlled the hot metal, directing its flow into the crevices, strengthening them and making the ship stronger as a whole.
This night of sleeplessness would not be to his liking. He always found it more to his liking to burn an arc during the dark hours. It was easier to concentrate on the difficult task when all the light you had was the arc.
The Present
Cyrek awoke late, having burned up the entire night of any sleep he could get, leaving it all for the day. He looked to his old clock, seeing the alarm had gone off a long time ago and had gone silent a long time ago. He jumped out of bed, still wearing the same clothes he had worn last night. He splashed water on his face and went running around his shared quarters, back and forth. He didn't bother wearing his leather jacket, as he headed out with only his tank top t-shirt to cover his upper torso and his work pants. He seemed to be wearing all of his work clothes except for his jacket.
He made his way towards the cafeteria. "Ahhh fuckin' hell, man. This is fucking bullshit." He ran through the hallways, busting through the doors only to notice he had missed even the captain's speech. "Fuck." He ran his hand through his hair and headed towards the line, walking very pronounced and determined.
He stepped into line right behind the aloof Travis Ice. The man seemed to have come in at a similar time to him, probably not for the exact same reasons as Cyrek. Cyrek had been hard at work on the repairs which kept popping up. "So you too, huh?" He said, lackadaisically. He took up a tray and started collecting food on it. | Name: Cyrek Krusek
Title: Welder, mechanic, hull repair.
Age: 30
Gender: Male
Stands at 5'8".
Facial:
Armor: When the situation calls for armor, he'll wear a plate cuirass
Clothing: His usual attire is everything picture along with a leather jacket that protects him from sparks while working on the ship.
Miscellaneous items: Welding goggles, all sorts of tools which he keeps in a tool box, all for repairing the ship and any appliances.
Biography: He was raised by the owner of a scrapyard, his mother. He only had a mother, as he had been born out of wedlock, and had never met his father. As far as he was aware, his father was a one night stand his mother had and he knew little of him.
Cyrek was raised by his mother and her siblings. His uncle was a great influence in his life, teaching him all he knew about mechanics. He became mostly fascinated with welding, as there was a lot of welding to do in the scrapyards. He took up repairing the body of vehicles and aircraft as it involved the most welding. The jobs he did always looked rather ugly but worked well.
The scrapyards wasn't all that legal, in reality. They stole vehicles and aircarft, and tore them apart and started selling them for the parts. That was how the business always worked. The problem with illegal activities like this was they get the attention of either the law or other gangs. In this case, it was the other gangs. They ended up stealing the wrong crafts and got into a turf war with a drug running gang.
His long time girlfriend, who was a stripper(not exactly the best choice in women), ended up leaving him when the turf war started. She started a relationship with the son of the boss of the drug running gang.
This resulted in bloodshed on both sides, Cyrek losing his family to the scrapyard being burned and blown up. Cyrek ended up killing the boss, the boss's son, his ex-girlfriend, and burned everything they worked for to the ground. In the end, there were no winners in the turf war. Everyone had lost everything, and Cyrek could only start over.
He finally found his way into a position on James Renault's crew, taking up being a mechanic again. He mostly works as hull repair or any exterior or frame repairs that are needed.
Extra: You'll usually find him rappelling down the side of the airship, repairing cracks and replacing parts of the hull. Sometimes, he just enjoys the view. He can also be found welding on the interior of the ship, keeping the integrity of the frame intact. |
51,305 | 1,385 | 8 | 2,600 | 607 | Oh don't worry, LT. Faulkner made sure everybody gave the ship the good ol' spit shine. Though mind the blood, he may have used the faces of a few recruits as sponges. Cyrus laughed and stuck a spoonful of hash into his mouth. "I have to admit, LT. Your reputation has not been wrongly spoken of. It is in fact a pleasure to see the woman that fractured the Nesychian army. You did a loooooot of damage, ya know."
__
Holding out his hand, the captain whistled quietly and the robotic creature he called his 'pet' used the miniscule gyrojets underneath it's wings to flap up and land on his arm gracefully. He sat alone in the officer's lounge, a dark purple lit cabin with three small groups of lounge chairs around a few small tables. There was a decent sized bar on the far side of the room with the wall filled many a type of alcohol.
The captain held out a small cracker that Asphexia pecked at it uninterestedly. He enjoyed coming up here during the dinners, listening to the frenzied mumbling from down below. It soothed him somewhat as he thought about the upcoming days. It was going to be a siege of one of the most dangerous fortresses in the region. Ulysses was there, but his spies inside the fortress told him that his fleet was not. Ulysses had been the victim of a massive mutiny at the hands of his first mate. He had commandeered one of the flagships and assumed control of the fleet, speeding off for another region to settle and pillage on his own terms. It left Ulysses open, weakened him to the point of being a pushover, but Renault was no fool. He knew that this wouldn't last long. Ulysses was a man of intense charisma and power. He would not stay weak for long. Perhaps he was rushing to fast into this, but he was not going to miss this opportunity to take him down and avenge the fall of the Tiranade and take back his home. He held up his free hand to Aspexia's beak. It clicked a button on his wrist and activated a remote communicator.
"Attention all officers. Report to the officer's lounge in one hour and thirty minutes. We have business to discuss about tomorrow...and Cyrus, please attend to the drinks fifteen minutes early. Make them strong. That is all." Aspexia clicked the button again and he leaned back in the lounge chair, closing his eye for a few moments. A yawn overtook him and he felt himself slip away into darkness for a bit. | Age: 45
Gender: Male
Appearance: Full
Facial appearance: Face
Armor: Heavy leather armor and a heavy shield.
Clothing: Dark blue silk clothing.
Weapons: A high caliber Lever action rifle.
A jewel encrusted electrified saber.
Miscellaneous items: He has a golden locket that contains an old holo-message of somebody waiting for him to return home after his endless voyage comes to an end.
Biography: "Captain, we will be arriving at Shax within the hour. Will you be performing some final inspections?" The captain sat alone at his desk looking out of a window at the approaching landmass. He was holding something in his hand. "No, Matthiew. I will leave that to you today."
The navigator stood silent for a moment before talking again. "Are you okay, boss?" The captain did not move much as he stared at something in his hands. Grissom approached and looked over his shoulder for a moment. The Captain was looking at the back of an eyepatch. His eyepatch. There was a picture embroidered into it, that of a young woman with long black hair. "Who is that, boss?"
The captain kept silent for a time. He had taken off his eyepatch to look at the picture on the back again. Normally it sat over his missing eye, but now it stood bare, the darkness within the socket being a cruel reminder of his past. "An old lover. Gone now." He covered the wound again and stared out the window. "I never did tell you her story, did I?"
"You did not, no."
Standing across from one another in front of an open hatch in the bottom of a large airship, James and a woman with pitch black hair with black and red combat armor fitting snuggly on her body looked at each other and smiled. They both clicked buttons on their chests and a black cord popped out of their backs and latched onto the wall. They both jumped down the hole and plummeted to the firefight that was going on below.
"She and I were part of a pirate clan called the Tiranade. We fought every battle together. We were inseparable. For a time, we thought we were invincible."
The two stood on top of a fallen skiff, dead all around as the clan rejoiced, their two greatest soldiers standing on top the enemy captain's flagship, triumphant.
"But, then the gaze of The Lost Wolves fell upon us. The Tiranade haven was attacked. It was a slaughter."
They stood together now, back to back, pistols in their hands as they stared down the group of black and red garbed pirates before them. They smiled and leaped into action.
"There was our last stand. Our clan had no survivors besides myself. I never even had the chance to say goodbye to her, her body was...unrecognizable among the corpses."
A hand coated in blood sprung from underneath a pile of corpses, the area around it was on fire, filling the air with smoke and death. Renault's head emerged from the pile and he took in a sharp, deep, breath. He pulled himself out slowly, his right eye was missing, leaving only darkness in its place. He was covered in blood and bile. He gasped for air as he clawed his way out, rolling to the ground as he broke free of the thralls of his once living friends.
"I remember well what I did after I narrowly avoided death. I went hunting."
Standing atop a small sky scraper, Renault looked down onto a smaller building that had been rumored to be a small headquarters for the Lost Wolf command. He held up a small black detonator with a red button on it. When he clicked it, the building erupted into fire. He turned and walked away.
"I had hunted them down until they were almost nothing. But their captain...Ulysses Tronik. Here covered recovered from every attack in mere days. For three months I had single handedly been wiping out hundreds of his men, even capturing his prized flagship, "The Deceit." The very ship you're standing in now. But...he was back the next week, even more powerful than before. He and his Lost Wolves simply came back again and again...."
He sighed and wrung his hands for a few moments before standing up slowly and gesturing for him to lead the way.
"I had taken the last photo I had of her and imprinted it to this eyepatch, so that I may always see her in whatever I do." He followed him out the door and to the cafeteria where the rest of the crew was waiting. They were a small group now, but soon they would be a force to be reckoned with. "...but you know the rest of the story. You were my first recruit."
"Aye, boss, I am."
"Now...you and I. We have him now. He's in Tirbetha, cornered like a rat. With this new crew, we will have him in our clutches. We'll rob him blind of everything he's ever valued, just as he did to me."
Extra: His pet crow Asphexia is the only companion that he has had over the years. Fast, armed with an unshackled A.I. and an on-board stealth field. Asphexia is a powerful ally for the captain.
Age: 29
Gender: Male
Appearance: Clothing and face
Armor: Lightly armored clothing with a bullet proof vest underneath. He likes to keep it quick and loose.
Weapons: A heavy caliber sniper rifle that he carries in nearly all situations.
In addition to his rifle he always carries his Revolver on him at all times.
He also has a single Single black metal sword normally situated on his back.
Miscellaneous items: He carries several magazines of ammo with him for all his weapons in a small bag at his side. He also carries a small bottle of brandy for particular nights when he can't sleep. He's always able to sleep when he's drunk.
Biography:
"So, I have a story for you guys today. About this guy I once knew that died a few weeks ago. His name was Brom. Brom was Born on a pathetic little rock out in the middle of nowhere, near the equator, on a really hot and sweltering monday, in the middle of the hottest season, on the anniversary of his late brother's death, mere hours after his father crashed into a tree with a hoverbike, breaking most of his bones."
"Brom's birthday always sucked. He grew up poor, having to do nothing but watch the occasional trader ship pass by day in and day out for years, waiting, watching, for the perfect moment. See, he was the type of kid to want to explore but his parents paid little attention to him, instead letting him just learn how to be human from a computer monitor and feed him every now and then. But then one day...the trader ship decided to give him a visit. His parents never heard from him again."
"At the ripe young age of ten, he was out on his own. He had joined the trader ship as a dishwasher, barely earning enough for him to rent the room that was on the ship, which was a cramped storage room with no bed. But to him, it was the best home he had ever had and he has had only two. It wasn't long before he jumped ship and found a new home in a large city island. A garden island named New Attica. What old Attica was like he'll never know, but the people were kind and he was able to get a job pretty easily. Things worked out very well until he turned 16, where he then joined the Nesychian military. He actually compared it to his childhood life there at first. He was beaten into the ground, served barely more than gray goop for food, and the water was 80% rust, 20% liquid substance that was NOT water. He knew things would get better, least somewhere in the back of his mind he did. He was able to ascend the ranks over the coarse of ten years and, with a lot of perseverance, the gray goop became freshly cloned Duck à l'orange, the crappy water became Cabernet Sauvignan, and he was getting laid every night."
"That was until his superiors started ordering him to kill children. Then he had an issue, and he made it vocal. They had ordered him to wipe out an school because an enemy officer was visiting there at the time. Not just the officer, but the whole school, because it wasn't like he was trained as a military sniper during his time in the military...but fuck that noise, right? He was having none of that and resisted it, told his superiors to go screw themselves and he went and became a mercenary for the enemy side. They sent assassins after him, robots, a few hookers. He sent some of them back to their masters in pieces, others were too incompetent to shoot the guy with the sniper rifle and instead tried to kill civilians. Didn't end up well for him.
He spent a few years with them, but he drifted away after awhile, sick of the war and sick of having to shoot people doing their jobs in the face. So he went freelancing and was immediately hired on by a captain with an eyepatch, and thus I'm a pirate now and here I am."
"Wait, I thought this was a st-"
"Shut up, Brom!"
Extra: In addition to being a sniper and long range support for the group, Cyrus is also the resident bartender in the officer's lounge. For the officers, they get a very classically insane bartender to share secrets to that shall remain secret. For Cyrus: Free booze.
All pictures are clickable.
Non-player-characters
Lead Navigator and 2nd in command: Matthiew "Matty" Grissom
A large man weighing in just under 300 pounds. Matthiew takes pride in being the lead navigator and Captain Renault's second in command. He is not a fighter in any way, so how he exactly help up in the face of insurmountable danger at Renault's side is a mystery known only to him and the captain.
Head mechanic Teddy Grufman.
An toublemaker in his youth, Teddy grew up a farm boy that fixed tractors for a living before taking off when he was sixteen to join an engineering core. He doesn't speak much about his past and the captain doesn't ask considering the man is a wiz with machinery. He and his protege' Nikola have been keeping the engines in tip top shape with barely enough supplies for years. |
51,306 | 1,385 | 9 | 1,700 | 2,632 | Cari Cruz
Several people had began to disperse out of the cafeteria, possibly to prepare, but knowing what the crew was like they were probably going to head off to the closest bar near the docks for a drink. Cyrus was going to be serving the officers during their meeting with the captain which meant that the bar wasn't going to be open for a while. It was a shame really as he knew how to mix a mean Electric Storm.
Cari was sitting back in her seat finishing off her meal after she noticed the harassers aroud her had decided that it would be best to leave her alone. They weren't pleased but after she made their alpha leader look like a coward they decided that she wasn't worth their time. Looking around the room she noticed a few familiar faces on some of the tables, people who must have arrived in late, and decided it would be best to socialise with the more accommodating members of the crew.
As Cari stood up out of her seat she stepped aside and slid the chair back under the table. She left the tray with it's unfinished scraps of food where she sat, noting a young kitchen-hand that was scurrying around the room collecting the dishes to be cleaned, and began walking towards some of the other crew members. When she closed in on her fellow crew she brushed past the tightly sitting chairs spinning around and resting her hands on the edge of the table before lifting her body up and sitting up on the edge. Her feet rested on the corners of the two chairs that the two crew members to the side of her were sitting on.
"Smoking first thing in the morning, now you've really sunk low Trav"
The cigarette smoke around Travis dispersed as Cari moved about and made herself comfortable. She reached into her pocket she pulled out soft-pack, tipping them up and letting one of the death sticks fall into the palm of her hand. Slowly she lifted it towards her mouth and exposed a lighter, which she happily clicked to ignite a flame, and gave a few puffs to keep the tip lit.
"Travis... This is yours by the way," Cari mechanically spoke as she held out the lighter to the man sipping on his coffee, barely making an effort to make eye contact with him. Her speech sounded human, but the tone had a slight robotic pitch as if it modulated through an intercom. As to why Cari had Travis' lighter? Well she had to practice her skills occasionally and taking her fellow crew member's personal items right before handing them back was a sure way to hone those traits, not to mention that it was a bit of a bragging right.
As she sat there joining Travis in the smog Cari picked up a bread roll from on the table and began to pick it to pieces. With each piece that she broke off she gave it a flick so that it would land on the table that she was previously occupying. Every time a piece landed the little ferret, by the unusual name of Dorkface, would rush off and chow it down like it was the last meal it would ever have. | Name: Nikola Quirke, 'Gentleman, Adventurer, Inventor' (Pronounced: Quirk)
Title: N/A
Age: 28
Gender: Male
Appearance: Nikola
Facial appearance:
Armor: His armor consists of a collared chest plate, brassy in color with a rubber interior. On the back of his armor, secured around his waist by a belt is a leather satchel containing a battery pack, a wire from said pack leads up the back of the armor and around the collar, connected to the metal surface of the chest plate by vacuum tube arrays, one positioned on the lower back and two over the shoulder blades; these vacuum tubes are encased in brass cages to protect them from damage in a gun fight. The way the army works is right before a projectile impacts the surface of the armor, an electrical field activates due to the presence of nearby metal and prevents the projectile making contact. The electric field can only work for a few shots before it needs to recharge, thus rendering the chest plate a standard piece of armor.
Clothing: When not wearing his armor, Nikola indulges in the finer clothing that comes with being the ship's resident handyman; An old, red suit-vest with many, many patches, underneath said suit-vest he wears an off white shirt and around it's collar a blue neck tie (in the style of the one in the picture). On his legs he wears a simple pair of grey trousers and brown boots with magnetic discs beneath, giving him excellent stability on the decks, walls and ceilings of the vessel. Over his attire he wears a white apron with many pockets in the front where he deposits his tools and notebook. Atop his head he wears a white bandana, on top which is a pair of green lensed goggles.
Weapons: 'Buck Kick' T-9 Revolver, modified to fire electric bullets.
Miscellaneous items:
-Jotter: His personal notebook of scribbles, notes, diagrams and annotations. When not at his table tinkering, or in the engine room running maintenance, he can be seen penning things down in that little book of his and even when he is doing the prior mentioned he finds time to jot.
-Pocket of Ferret Nibbles: Hand made food for his ferret, it consists of breadcrumbs made soggy in soup and left to dry on his windowsill, he is occasionally seen feeding them to his pet and sometimes feeding them to himself.
Biography: Born some time in mid Pluviôse, Nikola never had the had the good life. Nikola was initially brought into the world stillborn; during his transportation to the morgue however, he woke up screaming and wailing but otherwise completely healthy. He was taken home soon afterwards, home being a cramped apartment on an island of tenement buildings and smokey factories. Most of his childhood was spent in the dirty, tiny apartment that was his life and most of that time was spent lying on the floor and looking at the cracked display of a broken radio.
When he must have been nine or ten a sudden epiphany struck him, it was a small wrapped box knocking him in the back of the head. Turing around to see where the offensive missile came form, he found the tired smile of his father entering the apartment, "happy birthday Nikola.." he mumbled before heading off to his room to collapse on the mattress. Nikola looked down at the wrapped parcel and began unwrapping it's brown paper skin; inside was a black plastic case with a see-through cover. The case was filled with small screwdrivers and a wrench kit, he furrowed his brows for a moment then turned to the radio. It was time.
Nikola spent three days on the radio, cooped up in his room under the stairs, working by the hot light of his desk lamp. On the third day he put the back panel back on and with fingers crossed flicked the power nob. The display flickered to life, then died, then the entire radio exploded in a shower of sparks.
6 years later he found himself in the middle of adolescence and jumping from job to job with no success at holding one down, he was constantly being submitted into factories as a repairman and constantly fired for being found tinkering with the machines, though in truth he was making them better. So there he was, out on his ass again with no job and aging parents; in a huff he wondered the streets, his only companion Dorkface scurrying around his body before resting on Nikola's shoulder. He soon found himself walking down an air dock in some ramshackle (well more then normal) part of town, grumbling to himself and kicking a can down the pier. The smell of oil and ionized gas soon filled his nose, looking up he saw the inner workings of the most beautiful engine he had ever seen.
It was attached to 'The Crimson Dusicyon'.
Nikola ascended a set of scaffolding that lead up towards the engine, it creaked and groaned as he climbed but once at the top he was entranced. It was like looking up at the ceiling of a cathedral, a cathedral that was an engine and it was glorious; however upon closer inspection he found that it was plagued with problems. Locking round to see if anyone was nearby, he dived right in and began working on it, soon enough though he was disturbed from his deep, technical intercourse. Nikola was yanked out of his mechanical stupor by a gruff looking man, he appeared as if he were about to yell before he looked up and found everything in order and even some stuff improved upon.
"Say.. Did you do this kid?" he asked a bit confused, Nikola nodded excessively, keeping his mouth shut to prevent his 'eep' from escaping, "very good," said the man with a nod of appreciation, "I could use someone like you," he looked down at the cowering boy, "well maybe when you're a bit older, keep practicing though, we might just dock here again and I'd like to see how you'll along." with that the man let him go and he scrambled back down the scaffold.
Sure enough, 7 years later, the ship came back and Nikola was quick to get to he air dock, a young man in his early twenties itching for excitement... And the company of those luscious machines. He went straight to the Gruff man, ironically named Grufman and asked if there was any space for him.
Though Grufman himself couldn't accept Nikola onto the crew, he could advertise him to the captain.
Nikola was lead into the bridge and hunched over some charts was the captain, his face awash in the amber glow of a lamp and intense concentration. The pair, Grufman and Nikola strode over to the thoughtful figure, though it was Grufman doing most of the striding and Nikola scurrying behind.
Nikola found himself living on a gantry hanging above the engine room, it was unpleasant to start with but after a few years he's turned that strip of catwalk into a little home for himself, installing a few shelfs and dragging down an old mattress. He was content, showing the ship's machines much love and attention and tinkering around with small inventions.
Extra:
-A pet ferret by the name of Dorkface.
-Speaks in a soft slavic accent.
-Has nervous/apprehensive tendencies that usually materialize in forms like bitting extremities and stuttering. |
51,307 | 1,385 | 10 | 377 | 26,000 | Dorkface
Dorkface wasted no time scampering across the table, munching down on little bits of food as they fell from the sky. She was amazed that such a thing was happening, having never observed such strange weather patterns before. She continued to nosh on the bread, Nikola only chuckling lightly and allowing her to romp around the trays left behind, eating bread.
Once sated, she decided to investigate the bready weather anomaly, her eyes scanning the metal ceilings for signs of clouds that often came with rain. She spotted nothing and instead, tracked the trajectory of the bread bits to their source - A woman on the other side of the cafeteria. 'How odd..' thought Dorkface, 'Light pieces of bread shouldn't be able to get this far.' she payed the lack of physical sense no mind and instead scampered along the table, jumping from bench to bench until she landed on the one where the woman was perched.
Dorkface scampered over to the vicinity of the bread-throwing-woman, though instantly recoiling upon getting to close. The smell of burning hit her nose like a brick and the smoke coaxed a barrage of silent sneezes from her nose.
Ptew.. Ptew.. PTEW!
The last sneeze nocked onto her back and she wiggled around a bit until she was away from the smoke, rolling her muzzle around in her front paws to try and alleviate the post-sneeze sensation she was experiencing. Upon reliving herself of her discomfort, Dorkface sat up on her hind legs and looked at the woman expectantly, 'I'm waiting.' she thought, hoping that an apology was on it's way, though she doubted that was the case, to those who weren't Nikola she was just a funny little animal who played at intelligence.
Nikola
He drew absentmindedly, not paying attention to his surroundings, occasionally he'd put his hand into his pocket and pull out a pinch of Ferret food, popping it into his mouth and crunching. Nikola repeated this action, stuffing his hand into his pocket and pulling out some food, however this time instead of bringing to his own mouth he held it to Dorkface. He waited for a few moments, his hand extended outward and waiting for the feeling of her little mouth to nibble at his palm, it didn't come and soon he grew impatient.
He turned his head to look at her, giving her a stern look only to have it disarmed as he noticed her absence. Nikola's eyes glanced around and yet he could not find his rodent companion; he checked under the table and benches, he searched in soup bowls and empty cartons and could find her, he even checked under his book, that showed no signs of anything being under it. However he soon gave up his frantic searching and simply called her name.
"Dorkface?!" | Niesha Shin
Age:
26
Gender:
female
Clothes:
Armor:
Weapons:
Miscellaneous items:
A gold heart shaped locket
Biography:
Niesha grew up the youngest of seven, the only daughter, in the outskirts of the city. She was pretty sheltered, but had a fearless nature due to this. She was quite young when, out walking one day she was kidnapped. She was transferred by several smugglers several times during the years where during that time she heard about the Dusicyon. She figured the dream of actually seeing it herself was just as useless as the dream of escaping and finding her family.
She didn't know how much time had passed, but one day, she managed to escape when a fight broke out between the smugglers and the captives. She didn't escape unharmed, suffering a severally maimed hand, that was replaced eventually with a cybernetic/bionic hand. But that's a story for another time.
She eventually returned home, after searching for what seemed to the young girl years only to find it ransacked with many of the personal items and furniture still in place. She searched the house from top to bottom, but there was no indication on what had happened, on where her family was, but she found her fathers bow, and it's arrows.
She struggled with indecision, and eventually headed out, scavenging some of her mothers clothes, and some other items before leaving, mainly golden heart shaped locket that was her mothers, and the bow.
She remembered the talk about the Dusicyon, and she debated and decided that it might be her best bet to try and find out what had happened to her family, assuming that it might have criminal connections given that she had heard it through the smugglers talk.
She approached the ship when it was docked, and asked for any sort of job, deciding to keep what her true intentions were for now. If something bad had happened to her parents and brothers, she didn't want to tip anyone off. So it was that she came to work on the ship, doing any sort of task that was required of her, and still practiced with her bow.
Extra:
Her hand- |
51,308 | 1,385 | 11 | 1,355 | 857 | Attention, all officers. Report to the officer's lounge in one hour and thirty minutes. We have business to discuss about tomorrow...
The final announcement over the intercom made Greyson suppress a groan. Yes, he was a navigator, but the captain already had a navigator as his right-hand man and practically best friend. When it came to local area planning, there surely wasn't anything that required Greyson's 'expertise'. But then, the washed-up adventurer quickly reminded himself, he would be nothing more than another one of these wild dogs being led into danger half-blindly. That was the reason he had lobbied for his position as an officer: so that at least he'd have a medium of control over this tub so he could not die so quickly.
Giving up on finishing the remnants of his food, Greyson hoisted himself out of his seat, only bothering to pick up his tray as an afterthought. One of the work-hands scurring about bumped into Greyson, and he in turn handed over his dishes before he made to leave. Somehow, Grey managed to take his time, inching his way through the throng of scattered chairs and remaining rowdy vagabonds.
One pair of tables had a ten-some of the loud-mouthed men, all rambling and laughing about some various stories. Another end table bore the likes of a cowboy, two mechanically-modified women and a ferret - half of them were smoking. Farther back from where Grey was had what seemed to be one of the ship's engineers, calling out for some pet named Dorkface. The ferret, he guessed. Wordlessly, Grey inched past one more latecomer looking for a seat and finally exited into the hall.
He was at least going to get some shit from his room first. | Name:
Nathaniel Norstrom
Title:
Nate, Nathan, Niel
Age:
27
Gender:
Male
Appearance
Armor
Weapons:
Pistol x2
Superheated Katana
Shaped Charges x4
Miscellaneous items:
Ballcap
Radio
Binoculars
Biography:
Born to a simple cyber-merchant family, Nico had been around technology for about as long as he'd been alive. Tinkering with different mechanisms and gizmos, the innermost workings of a machine became almost second nature to the boy. It was this prodigious talent that his father had come to nurture, often taking the boy to his shop so he could better hone and temper the skills of his offspring. By the time the boy turned 10, he was a sought after craftsman by the local people, able to fix and create things others deemed impossible at the time.
Being so focused on his skills, didn’t leave Nic a lot of time to converse with kids his age, often sitting and overhearing stories from the different tradesmen and vagabonds that had been passing through. It wasn’t long before the child felt lonely, but his attempts to connect with those his age were often met with blank stares and ridicule. He was wise beyond his years, seeming almost alien to those he now reluctantly called his ‘peers’, but that didn’t stop him yearning for social connection. As such, Faris was born.
Faris, a very simple automaton, was merely meant to be a plaything for the child of his own design. Though highly unremarkable when dormant, Faris sprung to life at a moment’s notice, retrieving small tools and effects at his creators request. Secretly, he confided in this little machine more than any living thing, seeing it as his only true friend out of all the world.
As Nicholas grew older, he couldn’t help but notice that things were changing around him. His father seemed a bit more on edge, and a sudden influx of unsavory customers had begun making trips to the shop. Nic didn’t really mind it all that much, until his father forbade him from coming into the shop anymore. This was a heavy blow to the boy, one that he would not accept lying down. Machines were his life! How dare his father try to take his only joy in the world from him? So Nicholas began plotting, trying to devise a way that he could sneak into his father’s shop undetected. It was with this idea that he began retrofitting Faris, placing recording hardware and crafting an interface of which to receive information from his newly re-purposed contraption. One night, he decided it was his time to act, and with that, the boy made his way back to his father’s shop.
It wasn’t odd for Nic’s father to spend extra time at the shop, but tonight was odd even for him. It had been well over a few hours, and part of the reason Nic snuck out that night versus waiting any longer. As he crept up behind the shop, an uneasy feeling settled over him. There was a series of loud noises coming from the shop, but this wasn’t the wielding and hammering he had become accustomed to… No, this was much more chaotic. Commanding Faris to scout out the building, the boy ducked against the back wall of the building, slipping inside the door that his father always kept unlocked.
What the boy saw next stunned him, a bloody and beaten man strewn about the floor as a gang of men stood above him, some with blood still fresh on their knuckles. Though he couldn’t get a clear view, he was sure Faris was now in position to see what was going on. Triggering the hud for his machination, the images that were present to the machine would become present to his master… But why was Faris watching him? As the boy began to ponder why his machine was observing him, a harrowing voice rang out from behind him.
“It’s not polite to eavesdrop, kid!” Shaken, Nicholas attempted to turn himself towards the source of the sound, only to feel himself shoved forward to the floor. Even before looking up, he knew all eyes were upon him, “This kid’s snoopin‘ around boss. Want a round in him?”
Looking up from his prone position, Nic’s eyes began to scan the room. Though much remained clouded, the fear distorting his sight, one image was perfectly clear… The body on the floor? His father’s.
“Dad!” the boy pushed himself up from the floor, attempting to rush to his father’s side. He wouldn’t make it very far, as he was pushed down again.
“Nico…” Was all the battered man could utter in reply, reaching out for his boy before one of the men kicked his arm away, causing a heavy groan from the man.
“So, this is your boy, Marcus? I’ve heard so much about him,” A well-dressed figure spoke from the front doorway. It was clear that this was the leader of the group before the boy, his flesh littered with tattoos and piercings that seemed almost as outlandish as his clothes. Still, his mere presence provoked fear in the boy as the man began to make his way towards him.
“Tell me,” the man spoke again, placing himself merely a foot from the boy, “is that little contraption yours?” As Nic followed the man's gaze, he realized Faris was the object in question. Hesitant at first, the boy eventually nodded. “I see… And where did you get such a thing, hmm?”
“I- I made it…” Nic whispered inaudibly, before hanging his head. A heavy hand snapped to his chin and forced his head to raise, forced to match his assailants gaze once more.
“Come again?” The man spoke once more, his entire form clouded in a stench of liquor and smoke.
“I made it!” the boy replied, practically shouting in panic.
An odd silence fell over the room as his head was released, the leader turning his back on the boy and directed his attention to his father. After what seemed like an eternity of silence, the man spoke again, “I think this will settle your debts... For now.”
And with that, the boy was knocked unconscious; the last thing he heard was the sound of his father’s protest.
And so the boy would work as a captive for the bandits for many years, patching up their equipment and repairing their machines. Very rarely was he given time to himself to actually enjoy his work, relying on Faris to keep his sanity intact and provide him a symbol of what he longed for. Over time, his despair turned to rage, and fueled his desire to escape. Spending so much time around the bandit’s weapons, he began remembering their schematics and sneaking parts away to replicate them. But that wasn’t enough… He knew as he was, he’d merely get himself killed the moment he stepped out of line, but something had to be done. As time went by, Nich feared he would never get the chance to truly be free, and be doomed to a life of slavery.
Yet, out of his darkness, a glimmer of hope emerged. After a raid, the bandit’s returned to the base with their spoils, all too eager to boast and brag about their new trophies. However, one piece stood out. At first glance, it seemed to be nothing more than a tattered recon suit. To the uninitiated, it was merely a worthless piece of scrap, but to Nicholas… This was his moment. Without fail, his captives tossed their ill-gotten wears on the man for repairs, and with this, he began his work. It took the better part of a year and with it several more bruises and scars, but the armor was finally ready. It was designed to enhance the wearers agility and speed, all while bolstering as little bulk as possible. With this, Nich may actually have a chance to escape. Using Faris, he began surveying the compound; keeping track of patrol routines and guard rotations over the span of a few days.
With all the information he could obtain analyzed and processed, Nicholas made his move. With armor and weapons dawned, he snuck out of his cell and about the compound. He did well not to draw attention, his movements spurred on by a mixture of fear and purpose… But it wouldn’t be long before the bandits noticed his absence and raised the alarms. Luckily, he had managed to rig explosives to several of the vehicles before making his escape in one he had commandeered; but not before casting a short glance behind him as the bombs ignited in a glorious burst of flame.
Now free to do as he wished, Nicholas set out to return to his family, only to discover they had packed up and moved on some time ago. Part of the locals said it was to escape the bastards that had been harassing them for protection; others said it was to escape a tragic memory. No one knew the truth of what had happened but Nicholas knew this… He was on his own once more. Since his discovery, he’d begin traveling about the world, looking for a purpose for him and his machinations.
For awhile, he merely took odd jobs that others overlooked. Smuggling, demolition work, maintence, or crafting custom gear and machines, all of which he had done in the 3 year span he was alone. However, there was never a day where he didn't look back over his shoulder at least once. Though free from his captors, the fear they had instilled in him was still relevant. Though a freeman in body, he was a slave in mind. Try as he might, he was never able to convince himself that he was truly free... Until the Sky Pirates of the Crimson Dusicyon gave him that chance. With an opportunity to make name for himself and banish his innate fears, Nicholas signed on as a mechanic for the vessel. With Faris at his side, the young man stands ready to face whatever adversity comes his way.
Extra:
Considered a mechanical genius.
Values his machines as if they were people
Standoffish and cynical
Has a soft spot for Faris (his robotic companion shown in picture)
Doesn’t speak on his past
Novice in combat, yet excels in stealth |
51,309 | 1,385 | 12 | 1,602 | 2,499 | ~General Richard Faulkner~
Faulkner's eye twitched as cyrus spoke. He preferred to eat in silence, but Cyrus was sitting fairly close to him and he was forced to listen. He took a large drink of his whiskey before continuing to eat his steak. He would have probably interjected into the conversation and changed it to something that he was interested in like guns, killing or shouting at people but the captain began to speak through a remote communicator. He was to report to the officers lounge in an hour and thirty minutes. Of course, Faulkner being the punctual man he was, rose from his chair, staring at cyrus like a wolf stares at it's prey all the while.
"Excuse me, gentlemen, ladies, but I must go and report for duty" He stomped off to the officers lounge, his boots almost splintering the wooden floor.
~Doctor Cassandra Bishop~
Cassandra toyed with her food, dinner was always a boring event for her. It was always far too loud within the cafeteria to have a proper conversation and when she did finally find someone to have a conversation with they were usually some drunk idiot pirate, slurring their words and attempting to make advances towards Cassandra.
The captain spoke through a remote communicator, explaining that he needed the officers to report to their lounge. That included Cassandra. She sighed, wiping her face with her napkin before picking up her drink and sipping it as she listened to the conversations of others. She never really knew why she was called to these meetings, they were always about who to kill next, or where to pillage next or other such pirate related things. Cassandra knew little to nothing about these subjects and could only contribute a small
"My department can heal the wounds!" every now and then. Nevertheless, it was common courtesy to go. She sat a while, finishing her drink, before rising from her chair, excusing herself, and making her way to the officers lounge. She only realized halfway that Faulkner was waiting there, seething with rage. She made a quick detour back to her room, fixing her makeup for a small while before returning to her previous route and heading back to the officers lounge. | Name: Cassandra 'Cas' Bishop
Title: Doctor/DR
Age: 32
Gender: Female
Armor: Cassandra does not participate in fighting unless absolutely necessary and as a result does not have a specific armour. She does, however, wear a light bulletproof vest when the ship is under attack.
Clothing: The one piece of clothing that is a staple in Cassandra's wardrobe is her pristine white lab coat. Other than that, she usually dresses for the weather.
Weapons:
Cassandra keeps a pistol in her desk in case of emergency. She has been sufficiently trained in the use of it but prefers to sit and hide rather than get into the fray.
Miscellaneous items:
Biography:
Cassandra Bishop was born on a snowy day in December, on one of the biggest and most industrial islands discovered. Her father, a factory owner would often push her into factory work and taking over the business for him. However, his mother had previously worked as a military doctor and urged Cassandra to go into medicine. Her father would often take her to the factory when she wasn't at school, to show her how things worked and how 'exciting' it could be. In all honesty, Cassandra was more interested in watching paint dry than she was interested in the factory after the second visit. However, much to her fathers dismay, she did make good friends with many of the children working at the factory and would often even bring them over to her house to play on many occasions.
In her teens, Cassandra went through a rebellious phase which she keeps hidden to herself and wouldn't tell anyone. She began going under the name 'Raven', started dressing in solely black 'edgy' clothes and demanded that people take her seriously rather than do things that would make them take her seriously. She also began rebelling against her parents and told them she was going to join the army just to get back at them. About a year after the phase started it ended. She realized how much of an idiot she was being and begged her parents not to tell anyone that she brought back to the house about it. Her father still has fun to this day, calling her 'Raven' in idle conversation to wind Cassandra up.
Her younger brother was born when she was just leaving higher schooling. Her father was much more relaxed on the factory business after his birth as he had realized that Cassandra was more interested in medicine and sciences than factory work. To put it bluntly, her mother won. She studied medicine and gained a doctorate at a university within the city, and went on to study sciences at the same university after gaining her doctorate. The only problem after getting these two qualifications was getting a job. It seemed like any place that she could use her qualifications was either full, didn't want someone who had no experience or turned Cassandra down for being 'overqualified'. Cassandra presumes this was because they thought they would have to pay her more, but in all honesty she would have taken the same pay as anyone else as long as it meant she could tinker around with the advanced equipment they had.
What happened next was practically the most far fetched thing Cassandra had seen in her life. A pirate ship, 'The Crimson Dusicyon' pulled in to harbour, damaged and with many wounded men. The captain didn't have enough to pay for the vastly overpriced rates that most city hospitals charged and was going to settle for some cut rate backstreet doctor when Cassandra appeared. She offered her help for a reasonable price and got to work healing the crew. She, of course, had to get some help and used some of her pay to hire those back street doctors under her supervision. After doing what she would call an exceptional job, she was offered a place on the ship as the head medic. She accepted of course, with the condition that they fix up the medi-bay which was in dire straits to put it politely. Other than her work as a doctor, Cassandra also helps research and find new ways to improve the ship along with its weaponry.
Extra:
Cassandra has a small kitten that often prowls around her medi-bay.
Title: General(Stripped, but demands people call him it anyway)
Age: 48
Gender: Male
Armor: Faulkner wears light armour capable of taking a few hits but still allowing maneuverability.
Clothing: Seen in appearance.
Weapons:
-One large revolver, accompanied by a luger like gun.
-One automatic rifle(Seen in appearance)
-One large machete, carried in a sheath on his back.
Miscellaneous items:
Biography:
The pub was rife with life and the sound of glasses clinking together was only muffled by the noise of people chatting and laughing as the night went on. A group of newly recruited pirates were chatting and telling tales of their 'badass' beginnings. Their chatter grew silent as the familiar sounds of heavy boots stomped passed them, heading to the bar. They spoke in hushed whispers, a stark contrast to the shouting and laughing that was going on. The boots returned to the table, scraping a chair back and slamming a bottle of whiskey down onto the flimsy, wooden table, sending splinters flying from the point where it impacted. Smoke rose from the cigarette of 'General' Faulkner.
"Whatsa matter, pussies? You catch sight of a real man and you get your panties in a twist?" He spoke, his voice a gravelly jovious tone. He sent a hard punch to the arm of one of the younger recruits, laughing.
"Come on Diana, I thought I taught you better than that?" He said to the young recruit, whose name was, in fact, Bill.
"I heard you talking about your tales of valour" He mocked.
"You limp dicks can't tell a good air battle from a fucking scuffle in the playground I can tell you that much" He said, laughing.
"You wanna hear a real story? One with adventure, guns, women that you lilly livered pussies would only ever dream of?" He said, adding a sort of fast, breathless tone to the last part. He began nudging, Bill, coercing him into squeaking a small 'yes'.
"Oh well, thanks Diana, I didn't know I needed your approval." He, yet again, mocked.
"Well see, it all started back in my teens, when I just got done porking Diana's mother." He laughed to himself, taking a swig of his whiskey. His laugh was unaccompanied.
"I was a bright eyed young boy scout with a hankering for war. And so, what did I do? Course I went and joined the core. A strapping young lad like me ain't fit for modelling, as handsome as I may be." He laughed again, taking yet another drink of his whiskey.
"Almost got kicked outta bootcamp once, fer' fighting this little pussy who thought'd be a great idea to go and start spreading shit about me behind my back. Little pinko got what was comin' to him if you ask me, drill sergeant didn't think the same. Made me fucking run fifty laps in the rain, old cunt." He spat, pulling his chair inwards towards the table so he could rest his elbows on it.
"I did get dropped into the war eventually though, fighting those damn Eastern Islanders. Fucking collection of pussy islands if you ask me, couldn't fight for shit." He took a drink.
"We used to have this joke when we went flyin' and gunnin' down any Easterner we saw." He sat for a second or two, thinking to himself how it went.
"Oh yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, It went like this" He held his hands out in front of him, bobbing them as he told the joke.
"Anyone who runs, is an Easterner, anyone who stands still" He paused for effect.
"Is a well disciplined Easterner!" He laughed, again unaccompanied. He punched, Bill again while laughing. He soon realized no one was laughing with him.
"What's the matter, pussies? Your boyfriends all cheat on you with a better looking girl? Jeez it's like comedy hour at the morgue with you fucking mouth breathers." He coughed, returning to the story.
"Anyway, it seems my CO took a liking to me and my handsome jawline and set me up fer promotion. I rose through the ranks like Diana's dick rises whenever he see's a new man enter the ship. Problem was, I eventually got to the position where they took me out of combat, started makin' me plan and shit. And then, they had the gaul, THE cheek to throw me out after I slapped around some recruit who said he had PSDT or somethin', sat rocking back and forth with legless men actin' like he was wounded. Fucking shitstick got me thrown out of the army." He took a gulp of his whiskey.
"Fell in with Renault after that, crazy fucker was even able to give me a position as a fucking tactician and of course" His arms spread outwards, surveying the whole group.
"As your trainer." He grinned, grabbing his drink by the neck and swaggering out of the pub singing an old shanty with a grin on his face.
Richard Faulkner was born on a sunny day in June to a farmer couple. Much of his young life was spent by himself, farming with his parents and only really reading in his spare time. His parents were very overprotective and Richard had never travelled to another island until he was about 6. Which was when he saw the girl on the island next to his. He had heard very little about other islands, but he had heard his father talk of his friend on the island next to the one Richard lived on and had heard his mother ask in passing how their daughter was. As it turns out, the girl was just as sheltered as Richard was and their lives were remarkably similar. They both lived on small, farming based islands and had major interests in reading. It doesn't sound like a lot, but when the only people you've talked to for 6 years are your parents and the mail man it seems like a whole lot.
Richard returned to the same spot where he saw the girl every day for 2 weeks. They would often just sit and wave at each other and attempt to have some sort of conversation without words as they were too far apart to actually talk without shouting and attracting unwanted attention. Eventually, Richard told his father about the girl and how he yearned to meet her. It took a bit of persuasion, but eventually his father and mother organised a get together on the other island for the two families. Richard and the girl, Marie got on like a house on fire. And as they grew, they became closer and closer until they eventually began 'dating' when in their late teens. Of course, both Richard and Marie had seen much more of the world by this point. And their families had let them visit the bigger islands to shop and whatnot. It was on one of these islands that Richard had seen a military parade that inspired him to join the 'core' as he puts it.
Marie was strictly against the idea, but Richard assured her that it was for the best and that the monthly cheques he would get from the army would be a massive help in starting up a farm of their own like they had always talked about. Just before, Richard left for the army he had gotten married to Marie at the young age of 18. Richard wrote to Marie in secret while at bootcamp. He feared that he would be mocked or people would insult Marie if his fellow soldiers got wind of his relationship. Unfortunately, a younger, scrawnier private found one of Richard's scrapped letters and began mocking Richard about it, calling him a 'sap' and whatnot. Richard was moved camps for practically beating the kid to a bloody pulp.
Richard flew straighter at the new camp though, and eventually did make it out of bootcamp and into the army. He was placed in an air based squadron during the war against the Eastern Island Confederation. He gained the nickname "The Duck Hunter" for his preference to act as a gunner rather than as a pilot. He became great friends with his CO who had a past in farming and would often talk crops with Richard as strange as that sounds. He helped him rise through the ranks as quickly as possible. Near the end of one of his later terms, just as he was about to be promoted to general, the Eastern Islanders launched an attack unlike any other they had done before. They attacked farms and sources of food. To cut a long story short, Marie was gunned down in cold blood along with the rest of her family. Many view this as the point at which Richard finally lost it. He became much more aggressive and began expressing a massive dislike for 'the enemy' as he put it, one which he had never expressed in public before.
He was eventually dishonourably discharged from the military after slapping a soldier with PTSD, claiming that he had no real reason to be sitting with the wounded. After this, Richard fell into a state of depression and began drinking himself to death in bars on multiple different islands. That is, until he met with Captain Renault, who had heard of Faulkners reputation and offered him a position on his ship training new recruits along with helping plan out courses of action. Of course, Faulkner would be involved in said action.
Extra: |
51,310 | 1,385 | 13 | 618 | 302 | I forsook that title years ago, Cyrus, she reminded the man, "And I had no bigger part in the events that took place on the Tarakan nor the events that it sparked than a snowflake has in an avalanche. Nesycha was a time bomb. I was simply there when the clock hit zero."
While a handful of officers quickly found their way out of the cafeteria Carson opted to stay behind for a few minutes to finish eating and keep an ear out for interesting goings on. Besides, she had an hour and a half before the meeting began and she had already spent most of the afternoon in the lounge. While she wrapped up dinner she watched a member of the crew throwing food for an agile little creature the likes of which she had never seen before. Though she didn't approve of animals on the ship that was not her call to make and she had to admit the little thing was rather fascinating to observe.
However at the forefront of her mind was the operations that were to take place the next day. She tried her best to think ahead and what the Captain might have in mind in the way of attack plans, but he was unpredictable and she never could get that one or two steps ahead of him. All she could do was consider the situation carefully and make sure the gunners and weapons on the machine were ready. Her heart beat heavily.
She rose from her seat and took her dishes to the kitchens herself before heading for the door. It was then that she noticed the strange bag sitting unattended at one of the tables. Carson examined it for a moment trying to place it. Who had been sitting there? A man. Ah, yes. He was new. The one with all the gadgets who had constantly been staring at a screen of some sort. Other than that she knew little about him. She frowned before walking over and hefting the bag over her shoulder. The weight caused her to grunt and exacerbated her limp as she left and walked down the corridor to the lounge. Just what the hell was in this thing?
Whatever it was, she made it her responsibility to return it to its rightful owner before one of the fresh ruffians decided to rifle through the contents... Even if she did rather enjoy watching such people being brutally put in their place for disrespecting other crew members and treating the ship like a child's bedroom. Somehow it always felt like cleaning house. | Name: Carson Gerlach
Title: Gunner
Age: 30
Gender: Female
Appearance:
Armor:
Clothing: As shown in appearance.
Weapons:
-ZX-1
-Standard Knife
-Boarding Axe
Miscellaneous items:
-Signal Flares
-Journal
-Wallet
-Dog Tags
Biography:
"Lieutenant! Your boarding party is clear to move. Secure the vessel and clear out survivors."
"Yes, Sir!" Lieutenant Gerlach affirmed through her headset.
The belly of the massive battleship opened before them over the infinite layer of clouds below and a smoking enemy airship flying a white flag. A squad of soldiers stood with her, fully armed and ready to repel down to seize the ship.
"Move out!" She gave the order and watched as the squad fearlessly took the dive into the sky, with nothing but their ropes and descenders to hold them. She was the last one out of the ship. The wind whipped and tore at her clothes for several long moments as she made her rapid drop and she felt her stomach rise into her throat. Soon enough she was putting on the pressure to slow herself down for the last dozen feet or so and her heavy combat boots made a satisfying THUNK on the rigid balloon top. The squad was already moving to the deck proper by way of the maintenance ladders. Before she had made it down behind them shots had already rang out.
Lieutenant Gerlach arrived as the last uniformed crew member fell to the ground clutching at the hole where a laser had punched through his chest. Five others like him lay scattered in the corridor.
"Get to the bridge," she ordered, stepping over one of the bodies. They made their way up the ship with remarkable speed and efficiency. Once one of the enemy officers came at them with a gun, but the squad was ready. The crew of this frigate was not. They had barely fired on them when the two ships first engaged and surrendered quickly, but she knew as well as anybody else that the Nesychian Navy did not take anyone aside from high ranking officers as prisoners. The crew in the bridge was warned of their coming by the sounds of death coming from the two men that stood guard. The squad entered swiftly.
"ON YOUR KNEES! NOW!" Gerlach screamed at them.
Her squad joined in with the orders. With rifles pointed at them and their hands in the air the officers willingly went to the ground. She saw a lot of stripes. A few of them would make useful bargaining chips, especially the captain. Said captain was eying her as she made the call back to her commander.
"The bridge is secure, Commander."
"Rodger that. Hold them there until we get the rest of our boarding parties down."
"Yes, Sir."
"Please," the captain begged her, "The rest of the people on this ship, please let them go. They aren't military, this is a transport ship."
Gerlach put her rifle back in his face, "What are you talking about? You're flying colors and wearing naval uniforms. Don't play with me."
"Refugees! They're refugees from the war. Not soldiers, please let them go."
"What!?"
Gerlach stood with her Commander over-looking a cargo hold laden with cots, tents, makeshift lavatories, tables and terrified civilian families. The Commander sighed as he took a long drag off of his cigarette.
"Stupid bastards, sailing through captured airspace like this. Got what was coming to 'em," he growled, "Lieutenant, you and the rest of the men finish up here. Pitch the garbage, bodies and anything we can't use out of the loading bay. I want the lower decks completely cleared."
"Sir? What about the refugees?" she asked.
"You heard me. We have all the prisoners we need and most of the crew have already been executed. Just need to finish the clean up."
"Sir, most of these refugees are children. They aren't soldiers. They aren't a threat to us."
"Lieutenant are you questioning your orders?"
"I-- No, Sir. I just--"
"Lieutenant, if this deck isn't cleared in the next two hours I will personally see to it that you are flogged, stripped of your rank, sent to the captains quarters, then to my quarters and then thrown in the brig for the rest of this war. The only reason you've been able to climb the ranks is because of your dear daddy Admiral, but don't think that is going to make anybody give a rat's ass if you make it out of this shit storm intact or not," he breathed a puff of smoke into her face, "Understood?"
"Yes, Sir," she said quietly.
Gerlach wiped the vomit from her mouth and staggered out of the women's lavatory. She did her best to straighten her uniform but her hands fumbled with the fabric and she was so dizzy she wouldn't have been able to tell if it was right side out or not. She put her hand on the wall to steady herself before walking down the narrow hall to the lounge. She couldn't bring herself to eat. The food on the ship was turning sour and beginning to make the crew sick. She hadn't been able to keep even good food down since that day. The liquor had long since dried up making it impossible to ignore the pain they all felt. Moral had plummeted, fights broke out, whipping and flogging was occurring on a daily basis and they were still weeks out from their next port. All while the Captain raided any passing, non-military ship, even ships from their own nation. Most of the goods plundered were either sent back to the home land or kept for himself.
As she entered the lounge her eyes were on the floor. Suddenly a hand was clapped around her mouth and an arm hooked around her neck in a choke hold. The poor sap that held her found himself with a foot swept out from under him and thrown in an arch before landing on his back and staring up at the ceiling and the young, dazed lieutenant. Two other men came after her, grabbing each arm and forcing her to the ground.
"Lieutenant, stop! Please!" one of the men hissed, "We aren't going to hurt you, just be quiet."
"Damnit I think she broke my arm, the man on the ground," moaned.
"Yeah? Well that's your own fault. What the hell were you thinking, shit-for-brains?" another standing beside a table full of soldiers in various states of shock said.
She was allowed up once she relaxed but found that the two men who had subdued her were now blocking the exit. All around the room gaunt men and women in uniforms and serious, tired expressions stared at her with a sort of malice. She felt cold. They had all been facing one direction. None of them had food or drink, cards or books, paperwork or letters.
"What's going on here?" she demanded.
Petty Officer Wells approached her slowly, "Make your move wisely, Sir," he warned, "Not that I don't trust you, but you report to the assholes at the top and we aren't taking chances. We're armed and we will make sure nobody finds you if you cause trouble."
She stood still and glared at him, "Explain."
"We're done," he said, "We're done with the war, we're done starving and eating rotting food, we're done fighting for the royal fatass' stupid territory disputes, we're done being beaten and raped, and we're done killing people so the higher ups can get their rocks off."
"You're not suggesting..."
"Mutiny. We're taking the ship."
Gerlach's eyes widened and she cast a frantic glance around the faces in the room once more. They were serious.
"That's treason," she said, "Every single one of us will be tortured to death if we're caught."
"Of course we will," Wells shrugged, "Pretty good incentive to not get caught, huh? The way I see it, most of us are on our way to a slow, painful death anyway. Would you rather die as some sad sorry pawn of an oppressive nation, or drunk, happy and fighting?"
"What will you do afterward? This is rash, Wells."
"So is butchering civilians and throwing the ship into unnecessary combat... No, 'rash' really isn't the word I'd use for that actually, but you get the point. Afterward," he shrugged, "Some of us want to defect, others want to take the ship and get out of the combat zone all together. Leave this place and settle somewhere more peaceful. Anything is better than this. I saw you after we captured the Koraaga. I know you want out."
Gerlach frowned at him and took a deep breath, the fatigue showing in her face, "This is insane."
"Yes it is."
"... I'm in."
Blood and scorch marks painted the upper decks where many of the officers had made their last stand. The captain's laser riddled body hung stiff and dripping from a chain hooked to one of the steel support beams. A demonstration to the captured officers now on display for the angry pirates. Gerlach stood beside Wells on the raised platform where the captain and commanders usually addressed assemblies. All of them were now with out rank and rallied as equals. She watched with a rifle in her hands and a fire in her eyes. There had been little resistance. The fifty or so officers could not stand up against several hundred enlisted men for long. A handful allowed themselves to be captured quietly.
One by one they were passed before the assembly for judgment. The cruel, corrupt and unjust were met with hails of hissing, insults, and curses before being put to a quick death. One round in the back of the head. Those who had proven themselves to be good soldiers and good men only doing what they had to in order to survive were given a vote and a second chance so long as they joined the cause and allowed themselves to be stripped of rank like the rest of them. A pile of bodies soon grew. Then her former Commander was brought out.
The consensus was reached almost immediately. The man was a killer, a rapist, sadistic, cruel and sick. Some of the things that were screamed at him embarrassed the members of the mob even.
"I want this one," Gerlach whispered to Wells.
He sized her up for a moment, "Fine. I understand."
She didn't put the bullet into the back of the man's head. She walked around him while he was on his knees so that he would have to look at her face. She put the barrel between his eyes. He spat and smiled. She pulled the trigger.
Six weeks later Carson was dragging herself and her broken leg across the jagged rocks of an unsettled island to the south. Cannon fire continued to rain down on the crash site and scream through the skies above as the two ships fought. One with Nesychian colors, the other unmarked. The newly renamed Tarakan towered out of the ground where it had collided with the rocks in a massive catastrophic heap of hellfire and twisted metal. The ship they had risked their lives to steal away from their home land had been struck down by its previous owners. It was apparent they would rather see her torn to shreds than in the hands of traitorous pirates.
Blood coated her face and limbs. Charred corpses and mortally wounded men were scattered across the island's edge. She scrambled as best as she could to find cover from the flames and debris. A shockwave ripped through her body and the air as one of the Nesychian ship's engines exploded. She found her way into the trees and into a shallow cavern formed by collapsed boulders. There she stopped to catch her breath and allow the pain to subside a little. She propped herself up with her back to the rocks and a rifle in her arms to watch the ship go down. It fell slow and heavy. It's side scrapped against the island's shore but missed any sort of safe landing doomed to plummet into the thick abyss. The unmarked ship had sailed out of sight.
Now she was alone, wounded and hand in hand with death if she could not find rescue, medical attention and resources. She could barely move. Shell shocked and with no idea what to do next, she clung to the gun and waited for her thoughts to untangle. Her blood was pooling beside her hip. She struggled to blink it out of her eye. Her hearing was nothing more than static. She was loosing track of time and struggling to hold her head up. Her hands started to shake. It was some time before the burning ambiance was interrupted.
Several figures combed the beach some distance away from the cavern. One locked eyes with her. He yelled back to his comrades before they hurriedly approached her. With what little strength she had left, Carson snapped the rifle up.
"STAY BACK!" she yelled, "DON'T TRY ME! I'LL FUCKING SHOOT YOU!"
They stopped, put their hands up and tried to reason with her, but at this point only a few words were making it through to her. From what she could see none of them were wearing an official uniform of any kind. They carried a hodge-podge of non-standard equipment and weapons. Pirates. Not from her crew though. It was then that a man with an eye patch came through the group and crouched down beside her. He was unarmed and asked her to put the gun down several times. Finally she ran out of strength to hold it up. When she wasn't immediately seized she allowed herself to relax. She really didn't have a choice.
"Help me up," she managed to growl at him.
Extra: Carson's skills are largely in coordination. She is an experienced gunnery liaison on war ships and specializes in big guns and artillery. She has made it a point to make the Dusicyon's armament her business. She can handle a rifle like the best but would rather stay out of close combat. She has never been one for pistols or small caliber weapons and struggles to aim them without constant practice. Though she can handle herself in a fight like any other member of the crew, her hand to hand skills are nothing too remarkable. She is quiet and serious and has a fierce will to fight, survive and be free. |
51,311 | 1,385 | 14 | 377 | 26,000 | Nikola strained to hear Niesha's voice, it was a faint thing like a whisper through an intercom but he caught something around description of them being by the smokers. 'she should learn how to project.' he thought to himself as he pulled his eyes over to the table where - just as Niesha had said - Dorkface was. Nikola sighed in relief, his rodent companion was ok, she may have been sneezing and wriggling around but she seemed fine; he began walking over to her, however after seeing that people were enjoying her company he decided to let her mingle with them.
Upon deciding he would leave Dorkface to romp about elsewhere Nikola found that he was standing in the middle of the hall with nothing to do. Looking around he spotted Niesha, the one who had directed him to his Ferrety friend, and remembered that she had asked him about Dorkface's name. She was only a few tables away, so it seemed more appropriate to walk over to her instead of loudly replying across the hall. So he did so, walking over to her and sitting infront of her but by the time he arrived his mind had wandered off the question and he found himself struggling to find it again.
"Um.." he began, thinking through the words in his head, "what was Question?" | Niesha Shin
Age:
26
Gender:
female
Clothes:
Armor:
Weapons:
Miscellaneous items:
A gold heart shaped locket
Biography:
Niesha grew up the youngest of seven, the only daughter, in the outskirts of the city. She was pretty sheltered, but had a fearless nature due to this. She was quite young when, out walking one day she was kidnapped. She was transferred by several smugglers several times during the years where during that time she heard about the Dusicyon. She figured the dream of actually seeing it herself was just as useless as the dream of escaping and finding her family.
She didn't know how much time had passed, but one day, she managed to escape when a fight broke out between the smugglers and the captives. She didn't escape unharmed, suffering a severally maimed hand, that was replaced eventually with a cybernetic/bionic hand. But that's a story for another time.
She eventually returned home, after searching for what seemed to the young girl years only to find it ransacked with many of the personal items and furniture still in place. She searched the house from top to bottom, but there was no indication on what had happened, on where her family was, but she found her fathers bow, and it's arrows.
She struggled with indecision, and eventually headed out, scavenging some of her mothers clothes, and some other items before leaving, mainly golden heart shaped locket that was her mothers, and the bow.
She remembered the talk about the Dusicyon, and she debated and decided that it might be her best bet to try and find out what had happened to her family, assuming that it might have criminal connections given that she had heard it through the smugglers talk.
She approached the ship when it was docked, and asked for any sort of job, deciding to keep what her true intentions were for now. If something bad had happened to her parents and brothers, she didn't want to tip anyone off. So it was that she came to work on the ship, doing any sort of task that was required of her, and still practiced with her bow.
Extra:
Her hand- |
51,312 | 1,385 | 15 | 1,355 | 857 | As Nathan entered the messhall, he'd make his way swiftly to where he had been seated. Though in the back of his mind he had convinced himself that the bag would still be there, that was not the case.
"Shit..." Quickly he began scouring over the nearby area, looking under and around the table before setting off to scan the rest of the room. Sure enough, it was no longer there, "Shit, shit, shit..."
"Are you looking for the bag that was over here?" an unfamiliar voice resounded behind Nathan, causing the man to turn his attention form his search. A rather unremarkable man stood before him, but he had Nathan's complete attention at the mention of his bag.
"Yes! Did you see who snagged it?"
"One of the officers. Gerlach, I think. She picked it up, and headed off-" As the man began pointing out the direction fo which the woman had left, Nathan bolted past him before the crew-mate could finish talking. Sure enough, the visage of a limping woman carrying his bag over her shoulder came into view. A mix of relief and surprise washed over the man, debating how he should approach the situation as his frantic sprint now turned into a purposeful walk. He didn't want to see too eager to get his effects back, but as he came close, his fingers twitched in anticipation.
"Officer Gerlach, right?" He spoke out, his voice seeming rather calm despite his racing thoughts, "Appreciate you holding onto that... Must've slipped my mind to pick it up as I left." | Name:
Nathaniel Norstrom
Title:
Nate, Nathan, Niel
Age:
27
Gender:
Male
Appearance
Armor
Weapons:
Pistol x2
Superheated Katana
Shaped Charges x4
Miscellaneous items:
Ballcap
Radio
Binoculars
Biography:
Born to a simple cyber-merchant family, Nico had been around technology for about as long as he'd been alive. Tinkering with different mechanisms and gizmos, the innermost workings of a machine became almost second nature to the boy. It was this prodigious talent that his father had come to nurture, often taking the boy to his shop so he could better hone and temper the skills of his offspring. By the time the boy turned 10, he was a sought after craftsman by the local people, able to fix and create things others deemed impossible at the time.
Being so focused on his skills, didn’t leave Nic a lot of time to converse with kids his age, often sitting and overhearing stories from the different tradesmen and vagabonds that had been passing through. It wasn’t long before the child felt lonely, but his attempts to connect with those his age were often met with blank stares and ridicule. He was wise beyond his years, seeming almost alien to those he now reluctantly called his ‘peers’, but that didn’t stop him yearning for social connection. As such, Faris was born.
Faris, a very simple automaton, was merely meant to be a plaything for the child of his own design. Though highly unremarkable when dormant, Faris sprung to life at a moment’s notice, retrieving small tools and effects at his creators request. Secretly, he confided in this little machine more than any living thing, seeing it as his only true friend out of all the world.
As Nicholas grew older, he couldn’t help but notice that things were changing around him. His father seemed a bit more on edge, and a sudden influx of unsavory customers had begun making trips to the shop. Nic didn’t really mind it all that much, until his father forbade him from coming into the shop anymore. This was a heavy blow to the boy, one that he would not accept lying down. Machines were his life! How dare his father try to take his only joy in the world from him? So Nicholas began plotting, trying to devise a way that he could sneak into his father’s shop undetected. It was with this idea that he began retrofitting Faris, placing recording hardware and crafting an interface of which to receive information from his newly re-purposed contraption. One night, he decided it was his time to act, and with that, the boy made his way back to his father’s shop.
It wasn’t odd for Nic’s father to spend extra time at the shop, but tonight was odd even for him. It had been well over a few hours, and part of the reason Nic snuck out that night versus waiting any longer. As he crept up behind the shop, an uneasy feeling settled over him. There was a series of loud noises coming from the shop, but this wasn’t the wielding and hammering he had become accustomed to… No, this was much more chaotic. Commanding Faris to scout out the building, the boy ducked against the back wall of the building, slipping inside the door that his father always kept unlocked.
What the boy saw next stunned him, a bloody and beaten man strewn about the floor as a gang of men stood above him, some with blood still fresh on their knuckles. Though he couldn’t get a clear view, he was sure Faris was now in position to see what was going on. Triggering the hud for his machination, the images that were present to the machine would become present to his master… But why was Faris watching him? As the boy began to ponder why his machine was observing him, a harrowing voice rang out from behind him.
“It’s not polite to eavesdrop, kid!” Shaken, Nicholas attempted to turn himself towards the source of the sound, only to feel himself shoved forward to the floor. Even before looking up, he knew all eyes were upon him, “This kid’s snoopin‘ around boss. Want a round in him?”
Looking up from his prone position, Nic’s eyes began to scan the room. Though much remained clouded, the fear distorting his sight, one image was perfectly clear… The body on the floor? His father’s.
“Dad!” the boy pushed himself up from the floor, attempting to rush to his father’s side. He wouldn’t make it very far, as he was pushed down again.
“Nico…” Was all the battered man could utter in reply, reaching out for his boy before one of the men kicked his arm away, causing a heavy groan from the man.
“So, this is your boy, Marcus? I’ve heard so much about him,” A well-dressed figure spoke from the front doorway. It was clear that this was the leader of the group before the boy, his flesh littered with tattoos and piercings that seemed almost as outlandish as his clothes. Still, his mere presence provoked fear in the boy as the man began to make his way towards him.
“Tell me,” the man spoke again, placing himself merely a foot from the boy, “is that little contraption yours?” As Nic followed the man's gaze, he realized Faris was the object in question. Hesitant at first, the boy eventually nodded. “I see… And where did you get such a thing, hmm?”
“I- I made it…” Nic whispered inaudibly, before hanging his head. A heavy hand snapped to his chin and forced his head to raise, forced to match his assailants gaze once more.
“Come again?” The man spoke once more, his entire form clouded in a stench of liquor and smoke.
“I made it!” the boy replied, practically shouting in panic.
An odd silence fell over the room as his head was released, the leader turning his back on the boy and directed his attention to his father. After what seemed like an eternity of silence, the man spoke again, “I think this will settle your debts... For now.”
And with that, the boy was knocked unconscious; the last thing he heard was the sound of his father’s protest.
And so the boy would work as a captive for the bandits for many years, patching up their equipment and repairing their machines. Very rarely was he given time to himself to actually enjoy his work, relying on Faris to keep his sanity intact and provide him a symbol of what he longed for. Over time, his despair turned to rage, and fueled his desire to escape. Spending so much time around the bandit’s weapons, he began remembering their schematics and sneaking parts away to replicate them. But that wasn’t enough… He knew as he was, he’d merely get himself killed the moment he stepped out of line, but something had to be done. As time went by, Nich feared he would never get the chance to truly be free, and be doomed to a life of slavery.
Yet, out of his darkness, a glimmer of hope emerged. After a raid, the bandit’s returned to the base with their spoils, all too eager to boast and brag about their new trophies. However, one piece stood out. At first glance, it seemed to be nothing more than a tattered recon suit. To the uninitiated, it was merely a worthless piece of scrap, but to Nicholas… This was his moment. Without fail, his captives tossed their ill-gotten wears on the man for repairs, and with this, he began his work. It took the better part of a year and with it several more bruises and scars, but the armor was finally ready. It was designed to enhance the wearers agility and speed, all while bolstering as little bulk as possible. With this, Nich may actually have a chance to escape. Using Faris, he began surveying the compound; keeping track of patrol routines and guard rotations over the span of a few days.
With all the information he could obtain analyzed and processed, Nicholas made his move. With armor and weapons dawned, he snuck out of his cell and about the compound. He did well not to draw attention, his movements spurred on by a mixture of fear and purpose… But it wouldn’t be long before the bandits noticed his absence and raised the alarms. Luckily, he had managed to rig explosives to several of the vehicles before making his escape in one he had commandeered; but not before casting a short glance behind him as the bombs ignited in a glorious burst of flame.
Now free to do as he wished, Nicholas set out to return to his family, only to discover they had packed up and moved on some time ago. Part of the locals said it was to escape the bastards that had been harassing them for protection; others said it was to escape a tragic memory. No one knew the truth of what had happened but Nicholas knew this… He was on his own once more. Since his discovery, he’d begin traveling about the world, looking for a purpose for him and his machinations.
For awhile, he merely took odd jobs that others overlooked. Smuggling, demolition work, maintence, or crafting custom gear and machines, all of which he had done in the 3 year span he was alone. However, there was never a day where he didn't look back over his shoulder at least once. Though free from his captors, the fear they had instilled in him was still relevant. Though a freeman in body, he was a slave in mind. Try as he might, he was never able to convince himself that he was truly free... Until the Sky Pirates of the Crimson Dusicyon gave him that chance. With an opportunity to make name for himself and banish his innate fears, Nicholas signed on as a mechanic for the vessel. With Faris at his side, the young man stands ready to face whatever adversity comes his way.
Extra:
Considered a mechanical genius.
Values his machines as if they were people
Standoffish and cynical
Has a soft spot for Faris (his robotic companion shown in picture)
Doesn’t speak on his past
Novice in combat, yet excels in stealth |
51,313 | 1,385 | 16 | 2,600 | 607 | Night started to descend upon the small island where the Dusicyon was docked. Though most of the crew was still out and enjoying their last night of solid ground under their feet, the officers had gathered into the officer's lounge. The lights, though dimmed and relaxing, did not hide them or their faces as they sat at a small round table. Six of them while Cyrus stood nearby and washed down the bar.
Renault sat at the "head" of the circular table, Faulkner to his right with Cassandra past him. Grissom sat across from Renault with Carson next to him, and Greyson finishing up the line on Renault's left. "Glad to have us all assembled...an hour late." He glared at Faulkner. He simply smiled in response.
Reaching forward, The Captain placed a small metal sphere in the middle fo the table. He positioned it so that a button was upwards. He hit it and small legs popped out the bottom half of the sphere, holding it in place as a holographic map was projected above the table. It filled with vibrant colors as the sphere adjusted to pictures taken by Renault's spies and informants and the officers watched as A City was shown.
"This is Tirbetha, our home to be. Do not let the look fool you, there are very few people here nowadays. Ulysses Tronik and less than a hundred of his Lost Wolves are left there to defend the place. Just a few days ago, his first lieutenant incited a rebellion, a mass mutiny that spread across his fleet. Hundreds were killed and hundreds more fell under the lieutenant's command and took off. His officers were killed and Ulysses could do nothing. We are the first to hear about this, thus is why we're pushing to take it." He waited a moment for anybody to speak up before continuing.
When nobody did, he clicked the button on the hologram sphere again and it cycled images, producing a shot at many of the City Streets.. "There are a lot of nooks and crannys in Tirbetha, I know much of it like the back of my hand. Grissom, Faulkner, and I have been devising strategy and we have come up with one that works quite well. Carson." He looked at her, locking eyes with her. "You will be the highest ranking combat specialist on the ship. Grissom will be piloting while you provide support, hand pick your gunnery crew in the morning. Faulker, myself, and several others will be hot dropping out to the ground and besieging the villas and clearing out wolves. Soon after landfall I'll be splitting off to hunt down Ulysses. I refuse to let him escape. Questions?"
"Several, actually," Greyson spoke with a hint of cynicism. When Renault turned his way, he spoke up again, "But for your sake, I'll give you just the one: Do you know if Ulysses has an airship of his own?" An important issue by far, Grey believed, and hoped Renault could share some level of concern. While the Crimson Dusicyon seemed to hold air superiority in the coming battle, even so much as one other airship could dramatically alter the course of the plan; whether it be a gunship to fight back, or a personal escape craft for Ulysses himself.
"When the mutiny took place, my spies sabotaged any ships that remained. They were thorough, they're sitting ducks."
Greyson made no more than a grunt of acknowledgement at the captain's answer, apparently satisfied. After a brief moment more, he raised a pointing hand up and called out, "Whiskey on the rocks."
"While this all sounds very cut and dry what are your plans should things... Not go according to plan? Disastrous or otherwise?" Carson asked.
"Don't stop killing until your last breath is drawn. We're in the cloud sea, there is nowhere to run. "
"Ah, so we win or die. I guess I'll be helping myself to another chocolate malt then. Tomorrow should be interesting," she smiled a little.
Cyrus yelled out from the bar, stuttering a bit. "A-a malt? I think I have some milk somewhere....WAIT. FOUND IT. Making Malts! I've...never actually had one...shit, I have to melt a chocolate bar for this...WHY IS THERE CHOCOLATE BARS BACK HERE AND NO FRICKEN CHOCOLATE SYRUP BY THE WAY?!" More grumblings could be barely heard from where the officers were sitting as Cyrus whined to nobody in particular, taking out chocolate bars and heating them over an open flame.
____
As the captain finished the meeting, Cyrus strode up with a small cloth pouch in hand. "Sir, sensors were tripped at the beginning of the meeting. Didn't want to disturb, and don't get mad, but I found this." He opened the bag and inside was a small spider bot, Faris. It was disabled for the most part. The crease on the captain's brow furrowed deep with anger and he took the bag.
"Thank you for this, Cyrus. I will take care of this personally."
Later that night.
Nathaniel would find himself in searing pain, shocked out of sleep as a boot kicked him in the ribs, knocking him out of bed. He sprang up to see the Captain's face in normal lighting. The rest of the crew looked on the scene from all around in their various bunks. "At attention, Norstrom." He did as he was ordered and stepped around and stood at attention. The captain held out the cloth bag that was found earlier and grabbed it from the bottom, holding it upside down and dumping out the contents. Disassembled pieces and parts fell out. Faris was completely dismantled and it's pieces clattered and clanged on the ground. The motherboard and memory chip landed near each other and Renault wasted no time using his foot to push them into a small stack and plant his foot just above them, threatening to crush them.
"Let me make something clear, Norstrom. I do not tolerate spying on my ship, nor do I tolerate insubordination or mutiny. If I catch you spying on my dealings, dealings that you have no business knowing, I will personally ensure that you are introduced to the concept of "Flogging." Is that completely understood?"
Slightly confused and infuriated by the sudden events, Nathan did his best to bite his tongue. However, his attention was suddenly drawn to the contents of the bag that now laid strewn upon the floor beneath them. Though confused at first, the realization came upon him... The random pile of parts? Faris. All at once, his ire turned to fear, his eyes flickering back and forth between the captain's and the parts at his feet.
"No!" Nathan shouted, reaching out for the pieces of the dismantled Faris as Renault's boot thrust down towards them. When the captain held his stomp, Nortstrom swallowed hard, the captain now having his undivided attention. Nathan couldn't help but feel the sweat forming upon his brow, his hands twitching slightly in anticipation. The threatening of physical violence against himself did not phase Nathan at all, but the fact that his childhood friend was in danger -inanimate though it was- was enough to make him submit, "Understood, Sir." Though he did his best to maintain his composure, it's clear the events had shaken the man.
The Captain brought away his foot, letting the crewman pick up the pieces. "Good." He turned towards the other crew members and nodded once, walking out of the room without another word.
______
The crew wasn't allowed to sleep away the morning like the previous day. They were abruptly woken up at a brisk five AM and were told to report to the cafeteria for briefing. Once the crew was in the cafeteria, Renault stood on the same spot above the cafeteria as the previous evening. "Crew of the Dusicyon. Today, we assault the haven of the infamous Lost Wolves. Terrors of the cloud sea and beyond. We will be attacking the city in two squads. A ground team, and a sky team. General Faulkner and myself will lead the ground team while Liason Gerlach will control the sky team. Faulkner, if you would."
Faulkner stepped forward from behind and placed his hands on the rail, his voice boomed over the Cafeteria, giving everybody a shock. "Alright, Maggots! Ground team will have two goals! Disable artillery and executing that scraggly faced fuck, Captain Ulysses. Cyrus, Cari, Travis, Nathaniel, and Niesha. You will be joining the Captain and I on our crusade. Go to the armory and ready up. We will be hot dropping right into the city and killing any pirate we see. The rest of the crew will remain on the ship and make sure not one single bastard gets off of the island! SPEAKING of which, Gerlach, if you would." | Age: 45
Gender: Male
Appearance: Full
Facial appearance: Face
Armor: Heavy leather armor and a heavy shield.
Clothing: Dark blue silk clothing.
Weapons: A high caliber Lever action rifle.
A jewel encrusted electrified saber.
Miscellaneous items: He has a golden locket that contains an old holo-message of somebody waiting for him to return home after his endless voyage comes to an end.
Biography: "Captain, we will be arriving at Shax within the hour. Will you be performing some final inspections?" The captain sat alone at his desk looking out of a window at the approaching landmass. He was holding something in his hand. "No, Matthiew. I will leave that to you today."
The navigator stood silent for a moment before talking again. "Are you okay, boss?" The captain did not move much as he stared at something in his hands. Grissom approached and looked over his shoulder for a moment. The Captain was looking at the back of an eyepatch. His eyepatch. There was a picture embroidered into it, that of a young woman with long black hair. "Who is that, boss?"
The captain kept silent for a time. He had taken off his eyepatch to look at the picture on the back again. Normally it sat over his missing eye, but now it stood bare, the darkness within the socket being a cruel reminder of his past. "An old lover. Gone now." He covered the wound again and stared out the window. "I never did tell you her story, did I?"
"You did not, no."
Standing across from one another in front of an open hatch in the bottom of a large airship, James and a woman with pitch black hair with black and red combat armor fitting snuggly on her body looked at each other and smiled. They both clicked buttons on their chests and a black cord popped out of their backs and latched onto the wall. They both jumped down the hole and plummeted to the firefight that was going on below.
"She and I were part of a pirate clan called the Tiranade. We fought every battle together. We were inseparable. For a time, we thought we were invincible."
The two stood on top of a fallen skiff, dead all around as the clan rejoiced, their two greatest soldiers standing on top the enemy captain's flagship, triumphant.
"But, then the gaze of The Lost Wolves fell upon us. The Tiranade haven was attacked. It was a slaughter."
They stood together now, back to back, pistols in their hands as they stared down the group of black and red garbed pirates before them. They smiled and leaped into action.
"There was our last stand. Our clan had no survivors besides myself. I never even had the chance to say goodbye to her, her body was...unrecognizable among the corpses."
A hand coated in blood sprung from underneath a pile of corpses, the area around it was on fire, filling the air with smoke and death. Renault's head emerged from the pile and he took in a sharp, deep, breath. He pulled himself out slowly, his right eye was missing, leaving only darkness in its place. He was covered in blood and bile. He gasped for air as he clawed his way out, rolling to the ground as he broke free of the thralls of his once living friends.
"I remember well what I did after I narrowly avoided death. I went hunting."
Standing atop a small sky scraper, Renault looked down onto a smaller building that had been rumored to be a small headquarters for the Lost Wolf command. He held up a small black detonator with a red button on it. When he clicked it, the building erupted into fire. He turned and walked away.
"I had hunted them down until they were almost nothing. But their captain...Ulysses Tronik. Here covered recovered from every attack in mere days. For three months I had single handedly been wiping out hundreds of his men, even capturing his prized flagship, "The Deceit." The very ship you're standing in now. But...he was back the next week, even more powerful than before. He and his Lost Wolves simply came back again and again...."
He sighed and wrung his hands for a few moments before standing up slowly and gesturing for him to lead the way.
"I had taken the last photo I had of her and imprinted it to this eyepatch, so that I may always see her in whatever I do." He followed him out the door and to the cafeteria where the rest of the crew was waiting. They were a small group now, but soon they would be a force to be reckoned with. "...but you know the rest of the story. You were my first recruit."
"Aye, boss, I am."
"Now...you and I. We have him now. He's in Tirbetha, cornered like a rat. With this new crew, we will have him in our clutches. We'll rob him blind of everything he's ever valued, just as he did to me."
Extra: His pet crow Asphexia is the only companion that he has had over the years. Fast, armed with an unshackled A.I. and an on-board stealth field. Asphexia is a powerful ally for the captain.
Age: 29
Gender: Male
Appearance: Clothing and face
Armor: Lightly armored clothing with a bullet proof vest underneath. He likes to keep it quick and loose.
Weapons: A heavy caliber sniper rifle that he carries in nearly all situations.
In addition to his rifle he always carries his Revolver on him at all times.
He also has a single Single black metal sword normally situated on his back.
Miscellaneous items: He carries several magazines of ammo with him for all his weapons in a small bag at his side. He also carries a small bottle of brandy for particular nights when he can't sleep. He's always able to sleep when he's drunk.
Biography:
"So, I have a story for you guys today. About this guy I once knew that died a few weeks ago. His name was Brom. Brom was Born on a pathetic little rock out in the middle of nowhere, near the equator, on a really hot and sweltering monday, in the middle of the hottest season, on the anniversary of his late brother's death, mere hours after his father crashed into a tree with a hoverbike, breaking most of his bones."
"Brom's birthday always sucked. He grew up poor, having to do nothing but watch the occasional trader ship pass by day in and day out for years, waiting, watching, for the perfect moment. See, he was the type of kid to want to explore but his parents paid little attention to him, instead letting him just learn how to be human from a computer monitor and feed him every now and then. But then one day...the trader ship decided to give him a visit. His parents never heard from him again."
"At the ripe young age of ten, he was out on his own. He had joined the trader ship as a dishwasher, barely earning enough for him to rent the room that was on the ship, which was a cramped storage room with no bed. But to him, it was the best home he had ever had and he has had only two. It wasn't long before he jumped ship and found a new home in a large city island. A garden island named New Attica. What old Attica was like he'll never know, but the people were kind and he was able to get a job pretty easily. Things worked out very well until he turned 16, where he then joined the Nesychian military. He actually compared it to his childhood life there at first. He was beaten into the ground, served barely more than gray goop for food, and the water was 80% rust, 20% liquid substance that was NOT water. He knew things would get better, least somewhere in the back of his mind he did. He was able to ascend the ranks over the coarse of ten years and, with a lot of perseverance, the gray goop became freshly cloned Duck à l'orange, the crappy water became Cabernet Sauvignan, and he was getting laid every night."
"That was until his superiors started ordering him to kill children. Then he had an issue, and he made it vocal. They had ordered him to wipe out an school because an enemy officer was visiting there at the time. Not just the officer, but the whole school, because it wasn't like he was trained as a military sniper during his time in the military...but fuck that noise, right? He was having none of that and resisted it, told his superiors to go screw themselves and he went and became a mercenary for the enemy side. They sent assassins after him, robots, a few hookers. He sent some of them back to their masters in pieces, others were too incompetent to shoot the guy with the sniper rifle and instead tried to kill civilians. Didn't end up well for him.
He spent a few years with them, but he drifted away after awhile, sick of the war and sick of having to shoot people doing their jobs in the face. So he went freelancing and was immediately hired on by a captain with an eyepatch, and thus I'm a pirate now and here I am."
"Wait, I thought this was a st-"
"Shut up, Brom!"
Extra: In addition to being a sniper and long range support for the group, Cyrus is also the resident bartender in the officer's lounge. For the officers, they get a very classically insane bartender to share secrets to that shall remain secret. For Cyrus: Free booze.
All pictures are clickable.
Non-player-characters
Lead Navigator and 2nd in command: Matthiew "Matty" Grissom
A large man weighing in just under 300 pounds. Matthiew takes pride in being the lead navigator and Captain Renault's second in command. He is not a fighter in any way, so how he exactly help up in the face of insurmountable danger at Renault's side is a mystery known only to him and the captain.
Head mechanic Teddy Grufman.
An toublemaker in his youth, Teddy grew up a farm boy that fixed tractors for a living before taking off when he was sixteen to join an engineering core. He doesn't speak much about his past and the captain doesn't ask considering the man is a wiz with machinery. He and his protege' Nikola have been keeping the engines in tip top shape with barely enough supplies for years. |
51,314 | 1,385 | 17 | 1,700 | 2,632 | Cari Cruz
A sudden thud was heard as Cari's body hit the floor. As she placed her hands on the hard surface she pushed herself up into a sitting position so she leaned against the side of her bed, and slowly ran her fingers through her hair. Looking forward she could see the empty bottle of spirits resting on the floor on the other side of the room. Not knowing how she got it or why she decided to drink it she let out a subtle groan and leaned over towards the mess pile on the end of her bed in order to grab her clothes.
As she sat there in her underwear she slowly pulled a shirt over her head and then proceeded to try and stand so she could put on her skirt, jumper and stockings. The room swayed slightly as her head gained altitude and in an effort to regain balance she tipped over towards the wall and used her hand as a prop.
"Definitely a bit much to drink last night..."
Several moments later Cari stepped out of her room and closed the door behind her, hearing the familiar click of it locking. As she walked along the corridor she threw her uniquely designed jacket over her shoulders, allowing the neon urban print to announce itself to the world that this was 'Cari Cruz'. While she moved towards her destination she reached behind her back and felt around for the pair of pistols that she usually had equipped, making sure that her hangover state hadn't forgotten a key part of her survival. Satisfied, she swung her arms back around crossing them over back and forth as she warmed herself up for the day ahead.
Cari stepped into the Cafeteria just as Captain Renault began his speech and listened to the proposed plan for the day. | Name: Nikola Quirke, 'Gentleman, Adventurer, Inventor' (Pronounced: Quirk)
Title: N/A
Age: 28
Gender: Male
Appearance: Nikola
Facial appearance:
Armor: His armor consists of a collared chest plate, brassy in color with a rubber interior. On the back of his armor, secured around his waist by a belt is a leather satchel containing a battery pack, a wire from said pack leads up the back of the armor and around the collar, connected to the metal surface of the chest plate by vacuum tube arrays, one positioned on the lower back and two over the shoulder blades; these vacuum tubes are encased in brass cages to protect them from damage in a gun fight. The way the army works is right before a projectile impacts the surface of the armor, an electrical field activates due to the presence of nearby metal and prevents the projectile making contact. The electric field can only work for a few shots before it needs to recharge, thus rendering the chest plate a standard piece of armor.
Clothing: When not wearing his armor, Nikola indulges in the finer clothing that comes with being the ship's resident handyman; An old, red suit-vest with many, many patches, underneath said suit-vest he wears an off white shirt and around it's collar a blue neck tie (in the style of the one in the picture). On his legs he wears a simple pair of grey trousers and brown boots with magnetic discs beneath, giving him excellent stability on the decks, walls and ceilings of the vessel. Over his attire he wears a white apron with many pockets in the front where he deposits his tools and notebook. Atop his head he wears a white bandana, on top which is a pair of green lensed goggles.
Weapons: 'Buck Kick' T-9 Revolver, modified to fire electric bullets.
Miscellaneous items:
-Jotter: His personal notebook of scribbles, notes, diagrams and annotations. When not at his table tinkering, or in the engine room running maintenance, he can be seen penning things down in that little book of his and even when he is doing the prior mentioned he finds time to jot.
-Pocket of Ferret Nibbles: Hand made food for his ferret, it consists of breadcrumbs made soggy in soup and left to dry on his windowsill, he is occasionally seen feeding them to his pet and sometimes feeding them to himself.
Biography: Born some time in mid Pluviôse, Nikola never had the had the good life. Nikola was initially brought into the world stillborn; during his transportation to the morgue however, he woke up screaming and wailing but otherwise completely healthy. He was taken home soon afterwards, home being a cramped apartment on an island of tenement buildings and smokey factories. Most of his childhood was spent in the dirty, tiny apartment that was his life and most of that time was spent lying on the floor and looking at the cracked display of a broken radio.
When he must have been nine or ten a sudden epiphany struck him, it was a small wrapped box knocking him in the back of the head. Turing around to see where the offensive missile came form, he found the tired smile of his father entering the apartment, "happy birthday Nikola.." he mumbled before heading off to his room to collapse on the mattress. Nikola looked down at the wrapped parcel and began unwrapping it's brown paper skin; inside was a black plastic case with a see-through cover. The case was filled with small screwdrivers and a wrench kit, he furrowed his brows for a moment then turned to the radio. It was time.
Nikola spent three days on the radio, cooped up in his room under the stairs, working by the hot light of his desk lamp. On the third day he put the back panel back on and with fingers crossed flicked the power nob. The display flickered to life, then died, then the entire radio exploded in a shower of sparks.
6 years later he found himself in the middle of adolescence and jumping from job to job with no success at holding one down, he was constantly being submitted into factories as a repairman and constantly fired for being found tinkering with the machines, though in truth he was making them better. So there he was, out on his ass again with no job and aging parents; in a huff he wondered the streets, his only companion Dorkface scurrying around his body before resting on Nikola's shoulder. He soon found himself walking down an air dock in some ramshackle (well more then normal) part of town, grumbling to himself and kicking a can down the pier. The smell of oil and ionized gas soon filled his nose, looking up he saw the inner workings of the most beautiful engine he had ever seen.
It was attached to 'The Crimson Dusicyon'.
Nikola ascended a set of scaffolding that lead up towards the engine, it creaked and groaned as he climbed but once at the top he was entranced. It was like looking up at the ceiling of a cathedral, a cathedral that was an engine and it was glorious; however upon closer inspection he found that it was plagued with problems. Locking round to see if anyone was nearby, he dived right in and began working on it, soon enough though he was disturbed from his deep, technical intercourse. Nikola was yanked out of his mechanical stupor by a gruff looking man, he appeared as if he were about to yell before he looked up and found everything in order and even some stuff improved upon.
"Say.. Did you do this kid?" he asked a bit confused, Nikola nodded excessively, keeping his mouth shut to prevent his 'eep' from escaping, "very good," said the man with a nod of appreciation, "I could use someone like you," he looked down at the cowering boy, "well maybe when you're a bit older, keep practicing though, we might just dock here again and I'd like to see how you'll along." with that the man let him go and he scrambled back down the scaffold.
Sure enough, 7 years later, the ship came back and Nikola was quick to get to he air dock, a young man in his early twenties itching for excitement... And the company of those luscious machines. He went straight to the Gruff man, ironically named Grufman and asked if there was any space for him.
Though Grufman himself couldn't accept Nikola onto the crew, he could advertise him to the captain.
Nikola was lead into the bridge and hunched over some charts was the captain, his face awash in the amber glow of a lamp and intense concentration. The pair, Grufman and Nikola strode over to the thoughtful figure, though it was Grufman doing most of the striding and Nikola scurrying behind.
Nikola found himself living on a gantry hanging above the engine room, it was unpleasant to start with but after a few years he's turned that strip of catwalk into a little home for himself, installing a few shelfs and dragging down an old mattress. He was content, showing the ship's machines much love and attention and tinkering around with small inventions.
Extra:
-A pet ferret by the name of Dorkface.
-Speaks in a soft slavic accent.
-Has nervous/apprehensive tendencies that usually materialize in forms like bitting extremities and stuttering. |
51,315 | 1,385 | 18 | 1,355 | 857 | The Previous Evening
Nikola
Nikola had never been askeed that question before and thus was never given the excuse to come up with an answer, not even for his own sake. He looked over at Dorkface and nodded, she indeed did not have a dorky face and he knew that beneath that animal head was intelligence far beyond what should be there. His mind went off track for a few moments beofre he openned his mouth, an answer had come to him out of the blue of his distraction and it seemed to suit the question quite nicely.
"You will have to forgive," he began, "My english is... Not good." he began to explain the origins of his pet's name.
Nikola came to know Dorkface when he was an adolescent, wandering the streets of his smokey, smoggy island looking for work. He was plonked on top of a crate, taking a break from his job searching, when a small furry creature romped over; it sat infront of the crate, on it's hindlegs, and looked up at him. As a young boy going through rough times he had only one thing to say to it.
"Go away! Dork face!" to add insult to injury he spat at the little rodent and it seemed to have gotten the message as it instantly scurried off. After that day the little creature popped up constantly and again an again he had to get it to leave by yelling the same phrase, as his english was bad and he didn't know anything else to call it. Eventualy he grew use to having the animal around and with no thought of naming it, Dorkface kind of stuck.
Sometime Later
Dorkface had not slept because Nikola had not slept, the prior night she had followed Nikola to his bed room thinking that it was time to sleep but it seemed that Nikola had other things in mind. From it's position leaned up against the wall, he hefted up a sheet of glass and plonked it down on top of his desk, it had grid lines all over it and upon brushing his hands over it a white light glowed on it's surface beofre a hologram projected upwards. It was a map of Tirbetha; from what he assumed, black beard still had a ship and after scanning the city over he decided that there would only be a few locations that it would be. Why was he intersted? Parts.
He estimated that the ship did not have long left before the engines would break down to the point they could not be repaired, scrap parts would no longer do as they only seemed to last a few months, he kept teling himself that at least, the truth was that the ship was running dangerously low on scrap and with prey fewer and farther between, it was becoming harder to maintain the engines.
Nikola sighed and looked down at the grated cat-walk beneath his feet, there the engine purred soundly, not knowing the fate that would befall it if parts were to run out; Nikola's heart reached out to it, he wasn't going to let anything happen to his baby.
The Present
Nikola could not wait and hear what Gerlach had to say, he needed to speak with the captain immediatly. Ducking out of the cafeteria, Nikola rushed to the elevator with a small, frightened Dorkface on his shoulder. 'Why is he in such a hurry?' as she was rocked around, letting out a silent sigh of relief as he stepped into the elevator and punched a button to take them to the officer's area, 'Going Down.' she thought as they whizzed downwards.
The doors to the elevator whooshed open and Nikola was hit by the gentle draft of an air-conditioned room, it felt like he was being kissed by thousands of tiny mouths; he looked down to see Dorkface licking his chin.
"My captain?" he hissed, looking around for their one-eyed leader. | Name:
Nathaniel Norstrom
Title:
Nate, Nathan, Niel
Age:
27
Gender:
Male
Appearance
Armor
Weapons:
Pistol x2
Superheated Katana
Shaped Charges x4
Miscellaneous items:
Ballcap
Radio
Binoculars
Biography:
Born to a simple cyber-merchant family, Nico had been around technology for about as long as he'd been alive. Tinkering with different mechanisms and gizmos, the innermost workings of a machine became almost second nature to the boy. It was this prodigious talent that his father had come to nurture, often taking the boy to his shop so he could better hone and temper the skills of his offspring. By the time the boy turned 10, he was a sought after craftsman by the local people, able to fix and create things others deemed impossible at the time.
Being so focused on his skills, didn’t leave Nic a lot of time to converse with kids his age, often sitting and overhearing stories from the different tradesmen and vagabonds that had been passing through. It wasn’t long before the child felt lonely, but his attempts to connect with those his age were often met with blank stares and ridicule. He was wise beyond his years, seeming almost alien to those he now reluctantly called his ‘peers’, but that didn’t stop him yearning for social connection. As such, Faris was born.
Faris, a very simple automaton, was merely meant to be a plaything for the child of his own design. Though highly unremarkable when dormant, Faris sprung to life at a moment’s notice, retrieving small tools and effects at his creators request. Secretly, he confided in this little machine more than any living thing, seeing it as his only true friend out of all the world.
As Nicholas grew older, he couldn’t help but notice that things were changing around him. His father seemed a bit more on edge, and a sudden influx of unsavory customers had begun making trips to the shop. Nic didn’t really mind it all that much, until his father forbade him from coming into the shop anymore. This was a heavy blow to the boy, one that he would not accept lying down. Machines were his life! How dare his father try to take his only joy in the world from him? So Nicholas began plotting, trying to devise a way that he could sneak into his father’s shop undetected. It was with this idea that he began retrofitting Faris, placing recording hardware and crafting an interface of which to receive information from his newly re-purposed contraption. One night, he decided it was his time to act, and with that, the boy made his way back to his father’s shop.
It wasn’t odd for Nic’s father to spend extra time at the shop, but tonight was odd even for him. It had been well over a few hours, and part of the reason Nic snuck out that night versus waiting any longer. As he crept up behind the shop, an uneasy feeling settled over him. There was a series of loud noises coming from the shop, but this wasn’t the wielding and hammering he had become accustomed to… No, this was much more chaotic. Commanding Faris to scout out the building, the boy ducked against the back wall of the building, slipping inside the door that his father always kept unlocked.
What the boy saw next stunned him, a bloody and beaten man strewn about the floor as a gang of men stood above him, some with blood still fresh on their knuckles. Though he couldn’t get a clear view, he was sure Faris was now in position to see what was going on. Triggering the hud for his machination, the images that were present to the machine would become present to his master… But why was Faris watching him? As the boy began to ponder why his machine was observing him, a harrowing voice rang out from behind him.
“It’s not polite to eavesdrop, kid!” Shaken, Nicholas attempted to turn himself towards the source of the sound, only to feel himself shoved forward to the floor. Even before looking up, he knew all eyes were upon him, “This kid’s snoopin‘ around boss. Want a round in him?”
Looking up from his prone position, Nic’s eyes began to scan the room. Though much remained clouded, the fear distorting his sight, one image was perfectly clear… The body on the floor? His father’s.
“Dad!” the boy pushed himself up from the floor, attempting to rush to his father’s side. He wouldn’t make it very far, as he was pushed down again.
“Nico…” Was all the battered man could utter in reply, reaching out for his boy before one of the men kicked his arm away, causing a heavy groan from the man.
“So, this is your boy, Marcus? I’ve heard so much about him,” A well-dressed figure spoke from the front doorway. It was clear that this was the leader of the group before the boy, his flesh littered with tattoos and piercings that seemed almost as outlandish as his clothes. Still, his mere presence provoked fear in the boy as the man began to make his way towards him.
“Tell me,” the man spoke again, placing himself merely a foot from the boy, “is that little contraption yours?” As Nic followed the man's gaze, he realized Faris was the object in question. Hesitant at first, the boy eventually nodded. “I see… And where did you get such a thing, hmm?”
“I- I made it…” Nic whispered inaudibly, before hanging his head. A heavy hand snapped to his chin and forced his head to raise, forced to match his assailants gaze once more.
“Come again?” The man spoke once more, his entire form clouded in a stench of liquor and smoke.
“I made it!” the boy replied, practically shouting in panic.
An odd silence fell over the room as his head was released, the leader turning his back on the boy and directed his attention to his father. After what seemed like an eternity of silence, the man spoke again, “I think this will settle your debts... For now.”
And with that, the boy was knocked unconscious; the last thing he heard was the sound of his father’s protest.
And so the boy would work as a captive for the bandits for many years, patching up their equipment and repairing their machines. Very rarely was he given time to himself to actually enjoy his work, relying on Faris to keep his sanity intact and provide him a symbol of what he longed for. Over time, his despair turned to rage, and fueled his desire to escape. Spending so much time around the bandit’s weapons, he began remembering their schematics and sneaking parts away to replicate them. But that wasn’t enough… He knew as he was, he’d merely get himself killed the moment he stepped out of line, but something had to be done. As time went by, Nich feared he would never get the chance to truly be free, and be doomed to a life of slavery.
Yet, out of his darkness, a glimmer of hope emerged. After a raid, the bandit’s returned to the base with their spoils, all too eager to boast and brag about their new trophies. However, one piece stood out. At first glance, it seemed to be nothing more than a tattered recon suit. To the uninitiated, it was merely a worthless piece of scrap, but to Nicholas… This was his moment. Without fail, his captives tossed their ill-gotten wears on the man for repairs, and with this, he began his work. It took the better part of a year and with it several more bruises and scars, but the armor was finally ready. It was designed to enhance the wearers agility and speed, all while bolstering as little bulk as possible. With this, Nich may actually have a chance to escape. Using Faris, he began surveying the compound; keeping track of patrol routines and guard rotations over the span of a few days.
With all the information he could obtain analyzed and processed, Nicholas made his move. With armor and weapons dawned, he snuck out of his cell and about the compound. He did well not to draw attention, his movements spurred on by a mixture of fear and purpose… But it wouldn’t be long before the bandits noticed his absence and raised the alarms. Luckily, he had managed to rig explosives to several of the vehicles before making his escape in one he had commandeered; but not before casting a short glance behind him as the bombs ignited in a glorious burst of flame.
Now free to do as he wished, Nicholas set out to return to his family, only to discover they had packed up and moved on some time ago. Part of the locals said it was to escape the bastards that had been harassing them for protection; others said it was to escape a tragic memory. No one knew the truth of what had happened but Nicholas knew this… He was on his own once more. Since his discovery, he’d begin traveling about the world, looking for a purpose for him and his machinations.
For awhile, he merely took odd jobs that others overlooked. Smuggling, demolition work, maintence, or crafting custom gear and machines, all of which he had done in the 3 year span he was alone. However, there was never a day where he didn't look back over his shoulder at least once. Though free from his captors, the fear they had instilled in him was still relevant. Though a freeman in body, he was a slave in mind. Try as he might, he was never able to convince himself that he was truly free... Until the Sky Pirates of the Crimson Dusicyon gave him that chance. With an opportunity to make name for himself and banish his innate fears, Nicholas signed on as a mechanic for the vessel. With Faris at his side, the young man stands ready to face whatever adversity comes his way.
Extra:
Considered a mechanical genius.
Values his machines as if they were people
Standoffish and cynical
Has a soft spot for Faris (his robotic companion shown in picture)
Doesn’t speak on his past
Novice in combat, yet excels in stealth |
51,316 | 1,385 | 19 | 377 | 26,000 | the previous night
Niesha smiled at the story and commented that Dorkface then was a fine name for the ferret, before excusing herself, deciding that that was enough socialization today, and that she might risk insulting Nikola if she continued any further. She retreated to her bed, and gathered her bow and arrows.
She rigged up a target, not wanting to damage the ship with any arrow, she wasn't particularly worried about strays. It had been a long time since she had missed her target.
She shot arrows for a few hours, before retreating to bed. There were times when Niesha felt extremely Lonely, and now was one of those times. She sighed to herself, wondering if she should hunt someone up, or if she should have asked Nikola if ferrets were a high maintenance pet. She cleaned herself up, before falling asleep.
the morning-present time
Niesha woke early, as was her habit. She rarely slept long in any case. It was, she suspected, due to the years she had been imprisoned, and on the street. So it was that she was awake when the announcement to go to the cafeteria was made. She trudged there, and claimed a seat, looking up at the announcement:
She went pale when her name was called for the ground team. She told herself it meant that her skills were recognized, but Niesha was terrified. She stared at her hands for a moment, before swallowing, and rising. She trudged to the armory, she stopped to get her bow and quiver. She closed her eyes, taking three deep breaths before continuing on.
She noticed Nikola hurrying off somewhere, Dorkface on his shoulder looking frightened and put out, clearly wondering what Nikola was doing why he was off in such a hurry. It made Niesha feel better and she smiled, continuing on her way. It didn't take her long to find the Armor that she wanted; going for light rather then heavy, she also chose gloves that would protect her hands, but allow her free movement. Her modified hand might be stronger then her non modified hand, but that didn't mean it still couldn't be damaged.
Besides, wearing one glove was just foolish.
She took another deep breath, and moved out the armory. She had many doubts about herself. Like would she be able to kill someone? She didn't know. But she knew she couldn't allow herself to let the captain, and the crew down. It just wasn't possible. She slung her bow over one shoulder when it was strung up, and the quiver over the other, after testing the feel of the gloves and that it wouldn't hinder her ability to shoot.
She headed to meet up, ready for the drop. | Niesha Shin
Age:
26
Gender:
female
Clothes:
Armor:
Weapons:
Miscellaneous items:
A gold heart shaped locket
Biography:
Niesha grew up the youngest of seven, the only daughter, in the outskirts of the city. She was pretty sheltered, but had a fearless nature due to this. She was quite young when, out walking one day she was kidnapped. She was transferred by several smugglers several times during the years where during that time she heard about the Dusicyon. She figured the dream of actually seeing it herself was just as useless as the dream of escaping and finding her family.
She didn't know how much time had passed, but one day, she managed to escape when a fight broke out between the smugglers and the captives. She didn't escape unharmed, suffering a severally maimed hand, that was replaced eventually with a cybernetic/bionic hand. But that's a story for another time.
She eventually returned home, after searching for what seemed to the young girl years only to find it ransacked with many of the personal items and furniture still in place. She searched the house from top to bottom, but there was no indication on what had happened, on where her family was, but she found her fathers bow, and it's arrows.
She struggled with indecision, and eventually headed out, scavenging some of her mothers clothes, and some other items before leaving, mainly golden heart shaped locket that was her mothers, and the bow.
She remembered the talk about the Dusicyon, and she debated and decided that it might be her best bet to try and find out what had happened to her family, assuming that it might have criminal connections given that she had heard it through the smugglers talk.
She approached the ship when it was docked, and asked for any sort of job, deciding to keep what her true intentions were for now. If something bad had happened to her parents and brothers, she didn't want to tip anyone off. So it was that she came to work on the ship, doing any sort of task that was required of her, and still practiced with her bow.
Extra:
Her hand- |
51,317 | 1,385 | 20 | 618 | 302 | Thank you General, she nodded.
Carson took the stand before the crew. She was already in her armor with her dreads pulled back into a neat tail. Expectant and sleepless eyes turned toward her as she hooked her hands behind her back, cleared her throat and began to speak.
"Blackbeard's forces are weakened and fractured, not defeated. Never underestimate the enemy especially when he is corned. Every single one of you will be on high alert through the entirety of the mission. Anyone found not at their post, woolgathering or otherwise slacking about will answer to me. Gunners, we will be providing cover and distraction for the ground team while they work to take the initial pressure off of us. We are not expecting ships, but there will be soldiers, ground units, barracks, walls and other obstacles along side the anti-air. Johannes, Grissom, keep our canons' line of sight open, but do not sacrifice our speed. We are more than likely to take a knock or two, let us just make it a challenge for them, shall we?'
'On that note; Gruffman, Quirke, Krusek. I need a preliminary inspection on our artillery, defenses and major systems. Keep maintenance on their toes and make sure you have everything you could possibly need to keep us in the air before we go in. You will keep us updated on the Dusicyon's status at all times and notify navigation and myself of any issues large or small. You are our last line of defense.'
'And Dr. Bishop, though we hope for the best, we cannot rule out the possibility of casualties when engaged in combat of any sort. I expect you at your post as well.'
'Should each one of us bring our full ferocity vigilance to this fight, we will succeed, we will be sitting on assets beyond imagination and we will show every person on this god-forsaken planet who really owns the skies."
With a slight bow and a glance toward the captain she stepped back. As the crowd dispersed and began to ready themselves she reported to the gun batteries to begin her own preparations. | Name: Carson Gerlach
Title: Gunner
Age: 30
Gender: Female
Appearance:
Armor:
Clothing: As shown in appearance.
Weapons:
-ZX-1
-Standard Knife
-Boarding Axe
Miscellaneous items:
-Signal Flares
-Journal
-Wallet
-Dog Tags
Biography:
"Lieutenant! Your boarding party is clear to move. Secure the vessel and clear out survivors."
"Yes, Sir!" Lieutenant Gerlach affirmed through her headset.
The belly of the massive battleship opened before them over the infinite layer of clouds below and a smoking enemy airship flying a white flag. A squad of soldiers stood with her, fully armed and ready to repel down to seize the ship.
"Move out!" She gave the order and watched as the squad fearlessly took the dive into the sky, with nothing but their ropes and descenders to hold them. She was the last one out of the ship. The wind whipped and tore at her clothes for several long moments as she made her rapid drop and she felt her stomach rise into her throat. Soon enough she was putting on the pressure to slow herself down for the last dozen feet or so and her heavy combat boots made a satisfying THUNK on the rigid balloon top. The squad was already moving to the deck proper by way of the maintenance ladders. Before she had made it down behind them shots had already rang out.
Lieutenant Gerlach arrived as the last uniformed crew member fell to the ground clutching at the hole where a laser had punched through his chest. Five others like him lay scattered in the corridor.
"Get to the bridge," she ordered, stepping over one of the bodies. They made their way up the ship with remarkable speed and efficiency. Once one of the enemy officers came at them with a gun, but the squad was ready. The crew of this frigate was not. They had barely fired on them when the two ships first engaged and surrendered quickly, but she knew as well as anybody else that the Nesychian Navy did not take anyone aside from high ranking officers as prisoners. The crew in the bridge was warned of their coming by the sounds of death coming from the two men that stood guard. The squad entered swiftly.
"ON YOUR KNEES! NOW!" Gerlach screamed at them.
Her squad joined in with the orders. With rifles pointed at them and their hands in the air the officers willingly went to the ground. She saw a lot of stripes. A few of them would make useful bargaining chips, especially the captain. Said captain was eying her as she made the call back to her commander.
"The bridge is secure, Commander."
"Rodger that. Hold them there until we get the rest of our boarding parties down."
"Yes, Sir."
"Please," the captain begged her, "The rest of the people on this ship, please let them go. They aren't military, this is a transport ship."
Gerlach put her rifle back in his face, "What are you talking about? You're flying colors and wearing naval uniforms. Don't play with me."
"Refugees! They're refugees from the war. Not soldiers, please let them go."
"What!?"
Gerlach stood with her Commander over-looking a cargo hold laden with cots, tents, makeshift lavatories, tables and terrified civilian families. The Commander sighed as he took a long drag off of his cigarette.
"Stupid bastards, sailing through captured airspace like this. Got what was coming to 'em," he growled, "Lieutenant, you and the rest of the men finish up here. Pitch the garbage, bodies and anything we can't use out of the loading bay. I want the lower decks completely cleared."
"Sir? What about the refugees?" she asked.
"You heard me. We have all the prisoners we need and most of the crew have already been executed. Just need to finish the clean up."
"Sir, most of these refugees are children. They aren't soldiers. They aren't a threat to us."
"Lieutenant are you questioning your orders?"
"I-- No, Sir. I just--"
"Lieutenant, if this deck isn't cleared in the next two hours I will personally see to it that you are flogged, stripped of your rank, sent to the captains quarters, then to my quarters and then thrown in the brig for the rest of this war. The only reason you've been able to climb the ranks is because of your dear daddy Admiral, but don't think that is going to make anybody give a rat's ass if you make it out of this shit storm intact or not," he breathed a puff of smoke into her face, "Understood?"
"Yes, Sir," she said quietly.
Gerlach wiped the vomit from her mouth and staggered out of the women's lavatory. She did her best to straighten her uniform but her hands fumbled with the fabric and she was so dizzy she wouldn't have been able to tell if it was right side out or not. She put her hand on the wall to steady herself before walking down the narrow hall to the lounge. She couldn't bring herself to eat. The food on the ship was turning sour and beginning to make the crew sick. She hadn't been able to keep even good food down since that day. The liquor had long since dried up making it impossible to ignore the pain they all felt. Moral had plummeted, fights broke out, whipping and flogging was occurring on a daily basis and they were still weeks out from their next port. All while the Captain raided any passing, non-military ship, even ships from their own nation. Most of the goods plundered were either sent back to the home land or kept for himself.
As she entered the lounge her eyes were on the floor. Suddenly a hand was clapped around her mouth and an arm hooked around her neck in a choke hold. The poor sap that held her found himself with a foot swept out from under him and thrown in an arch before landing on his back and staring up at the ceiling and the young, dazed lieutenant. Two other men came after her, grabbing each arm and forcing her to the ground.
"Lieutenant, stop! Please!" one of the men hissed, "We aren't going to hurt you, just be quiet."
"Damnit I think she broke my arm, the man on the ground," moaned.
"Yeah? Well that's your own fault. What the hell were you thinking, shit-for-brains?" another standing beside a table full of soldiers in various states of shock said.
She was allowed up once she relaxed but found that the two men who had subdued her were now blocking the exit. All around the room gaunt men and women in uniforms and serious, tired expressions stared at her with a sort of malice. She felt cold. They had all been facing one direction. None of them had food or drink, cards or books, paperwork or letters.
"What's going on here?" she demanded.
Petty Officer Wells approached her slowly, "Make your move wisely, Sir," he warned, "Not that I don't trust you, but you report to the assholes at the top and we aren't taking chances. We're armed and we will make sure nobody finds you if you cause trouble."
She stood still and glared at him, "Explain."
"We're done," he said, "We're done with the war, we're done starving and eating rotting food, we're done fighting for the royal fatass' stupid territory disputes, we're done being beaten and raped, and we're done killing people so the higher ups can get their rocks off."
"You're not suggesting..."
"Mutiny. We're taking the ship."
Gerlach's eyes widened and she cast a frantic glance around the faces in the room once more. They were serious.
"That's treason," she said, "Every single one of us will be tortured to death if we're caught."
"Of course we will," Wells shrugged, "Pretty good incentive to not get caught, huh? The way I see it, most of us are on our way to a slow, painful death anyway. Would you rather die as some sad sorry pawn of an oppressive nation, or drunk, happy and fighting?"
"What will you do afterward? This is rash, Wells."
"So is butchering civilians and throwing the ship into unnecessary combat... No, 'rash' really isn't the word I'd use for that actually, but you get the point. Afterward," he shrugged, "Some of us want to defect, others want to take the ship and get out of the combat zone all together. Leave this place and settle somewhere more peaceful. Anything is better than this. I saw you after we captured the Koraaga. I know you want out."
Gerlach frowned at him and took a deep breath, the fatigue showing in her face, "This is insane."
"Yes it is."
"... I'm in."
Blood and scorch marks painted the upper decks where many of the officers had made their last stand. The captain's laser riddled body hung stiff and dripping from a chain hooked to one of the steel support beams. A demonstration to the captured officers now on display for the angry pirates. Gerlach stood beside Wells on the raised platform where the captain and commanders usually addressed assemblies. All of them were now with out rank and rallied as equals. She watched with a rifle in her hands and a fire in her eyes. There had been little resistance. The fifty or so officers could not stand up against several hundred enlisted men for long. A handful allowed themselves to be captured quietly.
One by one they were passed before the assembly for judgment. The cruel, corrupt and unjust were met with hails of hissing, insults, and curses before being put to a quick death. One round in the back of the head. Those who had proven themselves to be good soldiers and good men only doing what they had to in order to survive were given a vote and a second chance so long as they joined the cause and allowed themselves to be stripped of rank like the rest of them. A pile of bodies soon grew. Then her former Commander was brought out.
The consensus was reached almost immediately. The man was a killer, a rapist, sadistic, cruel and sick. Some of the things that were screamed at him embarrassed the members of the mob even.
"I want this one," Gerlach whispered to Wells.
He sized her up for a moment, "Fine. I understand."
She didn't put the bullet into the back of the man's head. She walked around him while he was on his knees so that he would have to look at her face. She put the barrel between his eyes. He spat and smiled. She pulled the trigger.
Six weeks later Carson was dragging herself and her broken leg across the jagged rocks of an unsettled island to the south. Cannon fire continued to rain down on the crash site and scream through the skies above as the two ships fought. One with Nesychian colors, the other unmarked. The newly renamed Tarakan towered out of the ground where it had collided with the rocks in a massive catastrophic heap of hellfire and twisted metal. The ship they had risked their lives to steal away from their home land had been struck down by its previous owners. It was apparent they would rather see her torn to shreds than in the hands of traitorous pirates.
Blood coated her face and limbs. Charred corpses and mortally wounded men were scattered across the island's edge. She scrambled as best as she could to find cover from the flames and debris. A shockwave ripped through her body and the air as one of the Nesychian ship's engines exploded. She found her way into the trees and into a shallow cavern formed by collapsed boulders. There she stopped to catch her breath and allow the pain to subside a little. She propped herself up with her back to the rocks and a rifle in her arms to watch the ship go down. It fell slow and heavy. It's side scrapped against the island's shore but missed any sort of safe landing doomed to plummet into the thick abyss. The unmarked ship had sailed out of sight.
Now she was alone, wounded and hand in hand with death if she could not find rescue, medical attention and resources. She could barely move. Shell shocked and with no idea what to do next, she clung to the gun and waited for her thoughts to untangle. Her blood was pooling beside her hip. She struggled to blink it out of her eye. Her hearing was nothing more than static. She was loosing track of time and struggling to hold her head up. Her hands started to shake. It was some time before the burning ambiance was interrupted.
Several figures combed the beach some distance away from the cavern. One locked eyes with her. He yelled back to his comrades before they hurriedly approached her. With what little strength she had left, Carson snapped the rifle up.
"STAY BACK!" she yelled, "DON'T TRY ME! I'LL FUCKING SHOOT YOU!"
They stopped, put their hands up and tried to reason with her, but at this point only a few words were making it through to her. From what she could see none of them were wearing an official uniform of any kind. They carried a hodge-podge of non-standard equipment and weapons. Pirates. Not from her crew though. It was then that a man with an eye patch came through the group and crouched down beside her. He was unarmed and asked her to put the gun down several times. Finally she ran out of strength to hold it up. When she wasn't immediately seized she allowed herself to relax. She really didn't have a choice.
"Help me up," she managed to growl at him.
Extra: Carson's skills are largely in coordination. She is an experienced gunnery liaison on war ships and specializes in big guns and artillery. She has made it a point to make the Dusicyon's armament her business. She can handle a rifle like the best but would rather stay out of close combat. She has never been one for pistols or small caliber weapons and struggles to aim them without constant practice. Though she can handle herself in a fight like any other member of the crew, her hand to hand skills are nothing too remarkable. She is quiet and serious and has a fierce will to fight, survive and be free. |
51,318 | 1,385 | 21 | 2,600 | 607 | Greyson gave a steep yawn as he managed to pull himself out of bed early that morning. The room didn't seem much larger than a cell, but the bunk was only uncomfortable at worst - it would still take some getting used to, all in all. He went though his mourning routine as quickly as he could afford, which now had to include him taking along his rifle and spare ammo for that. While he didn't shave too thoroughly anyway, Grey skipped out on that completely today, resulting in him seeming a bit more grizzly.
In the brief interval of time Greyson waited in the cafeteria, he ruminated over the plans laid down last night. Ultimately, even with the airship, some of the odds still seemed to be stacked against Renault. Blackbeard and his mates had a fairly large city to prance about in, and knowledge of all the places to look didn't always work so well in a practice like this. There was especially the idea that Renault would split away to deal with Blackbeard personally, essentially putting himself at great risk for a captain-to-captain struggle. Grey could only expect that something was going to come up, some fact or thing they couldn't anticipate that could turn the whole thing upside down.
Why the hell are you even complaining? You're not even being dropped into the fray, you just get to sit in the ship while the gunner mow down the opposition. God knows you've wanted some medium of actual control for years now.
Grey shook his head to clear his thoughts as the captain made his announcements. He had to get through this day first before he could start moaning about it. This was a ship of dirty pirates, but as long as he was aboard, Grey had to fight for it. Surely, after this first mission, things would start looking up with the Crimson Dusicyon having a dedicated base.
As the briefing ended, the assembly dispersed, with crew either moving to man the ship's battle stations or to join the drop team. Grey followed the streaming trails of people out of the cafeteria, soon making his own way towards the bridge. Though something of an able sharpshooter, Greyson was primarily being trusted with navigation alongside Grissom. If anything happened to the Dusicyson, he was going to take the brunt of the blame, so it was important he tossed aside all bias for the next few hours.
The mechanical glove moved his hand into a fist, tightening with a leathery crinkle. This wouldn't be the first time a ship was placed into his trust, but this would the time that truly mattered. | Age: 45
Gender: Male
Appearance: Full
Facial appearance: Face
Armor: Heavy leather armor and a heavy shield.
Clothing: Dark blue silk clothing.
Weapons: A high caliber Lever action rifle.
A jewel encrusted electrified saber.
Miscellaneous items: He has a golden locket that contains an old holo-message of somebody waiting for him to return home after his endless voyage comes to an end.
Biography: "Captain, we will be arriving at Shax within the hour. Will you be performing some final inspections?" The captain sat alone at his desk looking out of a window at the approaching landmass. He was holding something in his hand. "No, Matthiew. I will leave that to you today."
The navigator stood silent for a moment before talking again. "Are you okay, boss?" The captain did not move much as he stared at something in his hands. Grissom approached and looked over his shoulder for a moment. The Captain was looking at the back of an eyepatch. His eyepatch. There was a picture embroidered into it, that of a young woman with long black hair. "Who is that, boss?"
The captain kept silent for a time. He had taken off his eyepatch to look at the picture on the back again. Normally it sat over his missing eye, but now it stood bare, the darkness within the socket being a cruel reminder of his past. "An old lover. Gone now." He covered the wound again and stared out the window. "I never did tell you her story, did I?"
"You did not, no."
Standing across from one another in front of an open hatch in the bottom of a large airship, James and a woman with pitch black hair with black and red combat armor fitting snuggly on her body looked at each other and smiled. They both clicked buttons on their chests and a black cord popped out of their backs and latched onto the wall. They both jumped down the hole and plummeted to the firefight that was going on below.
"She and I were part of a pirate clan called the Tiranade. We fought every battle together. We were inseparable. For a time, we thought we were invincible."
The two stood on top of a fallen skiff, dead all around as the clan rejoiced, their two greatest soldiers standing on top the enemy captain's flagship, triumphant.
"But, then the gaze of The Lost Wolves fell upon us. The Tiranade haven was attacked. It was a slaughter."
They stood together now, back to back, pistols in their hands as they stared down the group of black and red garbed pirates before them. They smiled and leaped into action.
"There was our last stand. Our clan had no survivors besides myself. I never even had the chance to say goodbye to her, her body was...unrecognizable among the corpses."
A hand coated in blood sprung from underneath a pile of corpses, the area around it was on fire, filling the air with smoke and death. Renault's head emerged from the pile and he took in a sharp, deep, breath. He pulled himself out slowly, his right eye was missing, leaving only darkness in its place. He was covered in blood and bile. He gasped for air as he clawed his way out, rolling to the ground as he broke free of the thralls of his once living friends.
"I remember well what I did after I narrowly avoided death. I went hunting."
Standing atop a small sky scraper, Renault looked down onto a smaller building that had been rumored to be a small headquarters for the Lost Wolf command. He held up a small black detonator with a red button on it. When he clicked it, the building erupted into fire. He turned and walked away.
"I had hunted them down until they were almost nothing. But their captain...Ulysses Tronik. Here covered recovered from every attack in mere days. For three months I had single handedly been wiping out hundreds of his men, even capturing his prized flagship, "The Deceit." The very ship you're standing in now. But...he was back the next week, even more powerful than before. He and his Lost Wolves simply came back again and again...."
He sighed and wrung his hands for a few moments before standing up slowly and gesturing for him to lead the way.
"I had taken the last photo I had of her and imprinted it to this eyepatch, so that I may always see her in whatever I do." He followed him out the door and to the cafeteria where the rest of the crew was waiting. They were a small group now, but soon they would be a force to be reckoned with. "...but you know the rest of the story. You were my first recruit."
"Aye, boss, I am."
"Now...you and I. We have him now. He's in Tirbetha, cornered like a rat. With this new crew, we will have him in our clutches. We'll rob him blind of everything he's ever valued, just as he did to me."
Extra: His pet crow Asphexia is the only companion that he has had over the years. Fast, armed with an unshackled A.I. and an on-board stealth field. Asphexia is a powerful ally for the captain.
Age: 29
Gender: Male
Appearance: Clothing and face
Armor: Lightly armored clothing with a bullet proof vest underneath. He likes to keep it quick and loose.
Weapons: A heavy caliber sniper rifle that he carries in nearly all situations.
In addition to his rifle he always carries his Revolver on him at all times.
He also has a single Single black metal sword normally situated on his back.
Miscellaneous items: He carries several magazines of ammo with him for all his weapons in a small bag at his side. He also carries a small bottle of brandy for particular nights when he can't sleep. He's always able to sleep when he's drunk.
Biography:
"So, I have a story for you guys today. About this guy I once knew that died a few weeks ago. His name was Brom. Brom was Born on a pathetic little rock out in the middle of nowhere, near the equator, on a really hot and sweltering monday, in the middle of the hottest season, on the anniversary of his late brother's death, mere hours after his father crashed into a tree with a hoverbike, breaking most of his bones."
"Brom's birthday always sucked. He grew up poor, having to do nothing but watch the occasional trader ship pass by day in and day out for years, waiting, watching, for the perfect moment. See, he was the type of kid to want to explore but his parents paid little attention to him, instead letting him just learn how to be human from a computer monitor and feed him every now and then. But then one day...the trader ship decided to give him a visit. His parents never heard from him again."
"At the ripe young age of ten, he was out on his own. He had joined the trader ship as a dishwasher, barely earning enough for him to rent the room that was on the ship, which was a cramped storage room with no bed. But to him, it was the best home he had ever had and he has had only two. It wasn't long before he jumped ship and found a new home in a large city island. A garden island named New Attica. What old Attica was like he'll never know, but the people were kind and he was able to get a job pretty easily. Things worked out very well until he turned 16, where he then joined the Nesychian military. He actually compared it to his childhood life there at first. He was beaten into the ground, served barely more than gray goop for food, and the water was 80% rust, 20% liquid substance that was NOT water. He knew things would get better, least somewhere in the back of his mind he did. He was able to ascend the ranks over the coarse of ten years and, with a lot of perseverance, the gray goop became freshly cloned Duck à l'orange, the crappy water became Cabernet Sauvignan, and he was getting laid every night."
"That was until his superiors started ordering him to kill children. Then he had an issue, and he made it vocal. They had ordered him to wipe out an school because an enemy officer was visiting there at the time. Not just the officer, but the whole school, because it wasn't like he was trained as a military sniper during his time in the military...but fuck that noise, right? He was having none of that and resisted it, told his superiors to go screw themselves and he went and became a mercenary for the enemy side. They sent assassins after him, robots, a few hookers. He sent some of them back to their masters in pieces, others were too incompetent to shoot the guy with the sniper rifle and instead tried to kill civilians. Didn't end up well for him.
He spent a few years with them, but he drifted away after awhile, sick of the war and sick of having to shoot people doing their jobs in the face. So he went freelancing and was immediately hired on by a captain with an eyepatch, and thus I'm a pirate now and here I am."
"Wait, I thought this was a st-"
"Shut up, Brom!"
Extra: In addition to being a sniper and long range support for the group, Cyrus is also the resident bartender in the officer's lounge. For the officers, they get a very classically insane bartender to share secrets to that shall remain secret. For Cyrus: Free booze.
All pictures are clickable.
Non-player-characters
Lead Navigator and 2nd in command: Matthiew "Matty" Grissom
A large man weighing in just under 300 pounds. Matthiew takes pride in being the lead navigator and Captain Renault's second in command. He is not a fighter in any way, so how he exactly help up in the face of insurmountable danger at Renault's side is a mystery known only to him and the captain.
Head mechanic Teddy Grufman.
An toublemaker in his youth, Teddy grew up a farm boy that fixed tractors for a living before taking off when he was sixteen to join an engineering core. He doesn't speak much about his past and the captain doesn't ask considering the man is a wiz with machinery. He and his protege' Nikola have been keeping the engines in tip top shape with barely enough supplies for years. |
51,319 | 1,385 | 22 | 1,700 | 2,632 | Cari Cruz
Cari stood with her other companions at the launch bay awaiting for the drop to take place. Earlier that morning she had just previously listened to her captain and one of his officers, Carson Gerlach, give their brief on the raid that they were about to embark on. She took note of the team that Cari was allocated to and each person she was accompanying. First there was Travis, a man that would probably put up a good fight with the amount of weapons he had equipped; followed by Niesha, an archer that used a modified weapon of the old world, but sometimes those weapons were more reliable and precise when compared to the technology of today that they had all become dependent on; thirdly Nathaniel, a very mechanically minded individual with a personal scout droid and skill in stealth that Cari would find useful to team up with...
"Oh hey there, Cari. I like the crayola hood."
...and Cyrus, their specialty sniper and bartender. His identity was fairly obvious as he was the only one on the list of attendees who's face was not visible to the rest of the crew. Cari rolled her eyes at the statement and took a side look at him, noting the humble like composure that he was currently expressing.
"Every time!" Cari laughed quietly, loosing count at how often Cyrus referred to her jacket as the 'Crayola Hoody', "Oh, and you owe me a proper drink. I had to resort to this battery acid like crap last night."
After each crew member was given a very half-arsed tutorial on how to use the wing sticks, Renault and Faulkner made their dive for the rendezvous point, leaving the crew to follow in their steps. Cari stepped forward onto the open ledge and felt the wind whip against her body and forcing her hoodie to slip off her head. As her hair to wave wildly behind her she held within her right hand the wing stick that Faulkner has issued them. Cari stepped forward, taking the first paces slowly before proceeding with a small jog, before finally ending with graceful leap of fate.
Cari fell out of the belly of the great beast and pulled apart the wing sticks in order to create the Hologram like squirrel suit. She could feel the change in speed and air pressure as it opened out, allowing her to glide along the sea of vaporised water. Around her were other crew members, all experiencing the same rush as her as they felt like birds traveling through the open skies.
Tirbetha came into view as the team passed through the haze and followed Renault to their landing zone. Each flyer landed on the open surface and they all quickly gathered together for a team meeting. Renault announced his plan of action to the others before heading off on his own personal endeavor towards Blackbeard. The disgruntled General turned towards the members he had left before kneeling down on the ground and dropping a small metallic cube into the center of the group. Instantly a holographic 3D map of the city arose and slowly rotated around showing off every angle of the city.
"Alright. Our Captain has decided to head off, ON HIS OWN, towards the City Mansion. The three remaining AA guns are located here, here, and here," With each point a bright blip ignited on the map. "Remember! Under no circumstances are we to destroy these stations."
Cari stood there looking down at the map, noting that their first AA meeting point was only 15 minutes away. With little warning, Faulker closed the map, stood up and commanded his troops to move out. Cari headed off towards the AA's location, entering the city limits and moved towards the first alleyway she came across. Staying out in the open like a sitting duck was not her style and it would be easier to avoid any unwanted conflict the longer she stayed in the dark. It wasn't to say that she couldn't put up a decent fight, it was more to preserve her energy for when she would need it the most. She looked behind her, noting that a few of the other members were following her lead, possibly because they had the same idea as her in regards for their safety. | Name: Nikola Quirke, 'Gentleman, Adventurer, Inventor' (Pronounced: Quirk)
Title: N/A
Age: 28
Gender: Male
Appearance: Nikola
Facial appearance:
Armor: His armor consists of a collared chest plate, brassy in color with a rubber interior. On the back of his armor, secured around his waist by a belt is a leather satchel containing a battery pack, a wire from said pack leads up the back of the armor and around the collar, connected to the metal surface of the chest plate by vacuum tube arrays, one positioned on the lower back and two over the shoulder blades; these vacuum tubes are encased in brass cages to protect them from damage in a gun fight. The way the army works is right before a projectile impacts the surface of the armor, an electrical field activates due to the presence of nearby metal and prevents the projectile making contact. The electric field can only work for a few shots before it needs to recharge, thus rendering the chest plate a standard piece of armor.
Clothing: When not wearing his armor, Nikola indulges in the finer clothing that comes with being the ship's resident handyman; An old, red suit-vest with many, many patches, underneath said suit-vest he wears an off white shirt and around it's collar a blue neck tie (in the style of the one in the picture). On his legs he wears a simple pair of grey trousers and brown boots with magnetic discs beneath, giving him excellent stability on the decks, walls and ceilings of the vessel. Over his attire he wears a white apron with many pockets in the front where he deposits his tools and notebook. Atop his head he wears a white bandana, on top which is a pair of green lensed goggles.
Weapons: 'Buck Kick' T-9 Revolver, modified to fire electric bullets.
Miscellaneous items:
-Jotter: His personal notebook of scribbles, notes, diagrams and annotations. When not at his table tinkering, or in the engine room running maintenance, he can be seen penning things down in that little book of his and even when he is doing the prior mentioned he finds time to jot.
-Pocket of Ferret Nibbles: Hand made food for his ferret, it consists of breadcrumbs made soggy in soup and left to dry on his windowsill, he is occasionally seen feeding them to his pet and sometimes feeding them to himself.
Biography: Born some time in mid Pluviôse, Nikola never had the had the good life. Nikola was initially brought into the world stillborn; during his transportation to the morgue however, he woke up screaming and wailing but otherwise completely healthy. He was taken home soon afterwards, home being a cramped apartment on an island of tenement buildings and smokey factories. Most of his childhood was spent in the dirty, tiny apartment that was his life and most of that time was spent lying on the floor and looking at the cracked display of a broken radio.
When he must have been nine or ten a sudden epiphany struck him, it was a small wrapped box knocking him in the back of the head. Turing around to see where the offensive missile came form, he found the tired smile of his father entering the apartment, "happy birthday Nikola.." he mumbled before heading off to his room to collapse on the mattress. Nikola looked down at the wrapped parcel and began unwrapping it's brown paper skin; inside was a black plastic case with a see-through cover. The case was filled with small screwdrivers and a wrench kit, he furrowed his brows for a moment then turned to the radio. It was time.
Nikola spent three days on the radio, cooped up in his room under the stairs, working by the hot light of his desk lamp. On the third day he put the back panel back on and with fingers crossed flicked the power nob. The display flickered to life, then died, then the entire radio exploded in a shower of sparks.
6 years later he found himself in the middle of adolescence and jumping from job to job with no success at holding one down, he was constantly being submitted into factories as a repairman and constantly fired for being found tinkering with the machines, though in truth he was making them better. So there he was, out on his ass again with no job and aging parents; in a huff he wondered the streets, his only companion Dorkface scurrying around his body before resting on Nikola's shoulder. He soon found himself walking down an air dock in some ramshackle (well more then normal) part of town, grumbling to himself and kicking a can down the pier. The smell of oil and ionized gas soon filled his nose, looking up he saw the inner workings of the most beautiful engine he had ever seen.
It was attached to 'The Crimson Dusicyon'.
Nikola ascended a set of scaffolding that lead up towards the engine, it creaked and groaned as he climbed but once at the top he was entranced. It was like looking up at the ceiling of a cathedral, a cathedral that was an engine and it was glorious; however upon closer inspection he found that it was plagued with problems. Locking round to see if anyone was nearby, he dived right in and began working on it, soon enough though he was disturbed from his deep, technical intercourse. Nikola was yanked out of his mechanical stupor by a gruff looking man, he appeared as if he were about to yell before he looked up and found everything in order and even some stuff improved upon.
"Say.. Did you do this kid?" he asked a bit confused, Nikola nodded excessively, keeping his mouth shut to prevent his 'eep' from escaping, "very good," said the man with a nod of appreciation, "I could use someone like you," he looked down at the cowering boy, "well maybe when you're a bit older, keep practicing though, we might just dock here again and I'd like to see how you'll along." with that the man let him go and he scrambled back down the scaffold.
Sure enough, 7 years later, the ship came back and Nikola was quick to get to he air dock, a young man in his early twenties itching for excitement... And the company of those luscious machines. He went straight to the Gruff man, ironically named Grufman and asked if there was any space for him.
Though Grufman himself couldn't accept Nikola onto the crew, he could advertise him to the captain.
Nikola was lead into the bridge and hunched over some charts was the captain, his face awash in the amber glow of a lamp and intense concentration. The pair, Grufman and Nikola strode over to the thoughtful figure, though it was Grufman doing most of the striding and Nikola scurrying behind.
Nikola found himself living on a gantry hanging above the engine room, it was unpleasant to start with but after a few years he's turned that strip of catwalk into a little home for himself, installing a few shelfs and dragging down an old mattress. He was content, showing the ship's machines much love and attention and tinkering around with small inventions.
Extra:
-A pet ferret by the name of Dorkface.
-Speaks in a soft slavic accent.
-Has nervous/apprehensive tendencies that usually materialize in forms like bitting extremities and stuttering. |
51,320 | 1,385 | 23 | 377 | 26,000 | Niesha listened to the more then inadequate instruction on just how to land safely. It left a lot of room for doubt, in Nieshas mind. The wind was already whipping at her clothes, making her feel like she was going to leave the ground at any moment and be swept away by her shirt. She swallowed, and knelt, lowering her centre of gravity and making it harder for the wind to pick at her, tucking in her pants to her boots, and tighten her leather jerkin. She had no way of securing her bow other then to loop it through one arm.
Niesha was terrified of heights. Probably a weird thing to be terrified off in an aircraft, but it wasn't bad on the ship itself. Looking down, feeling the wind, that scared her. It made her feel weak and small, something she promised herself she would never be again. She shivered, and pretended it was from the cold of the wind buffering her. As the instructions were over, Niesha grimaced and rose. She couldn't refuse to go, nor could she linger, knowing that that would make it worse. As soon as she was clear enough to jump out, she did so, squeezing her eyes tight shut.
The wind rushed passed her, harder and faster then it had on the ship. Her hair billowed out, whacking painfully back against her skin like a whip. Her clothes snapped and flapped despite all she had done to prevent that, and Niesha, already small, felt miniscule. A sob racked up her chest and out her mouth, to travel soundlessly through the air. She fought with her sticks for a moment, panic setting in, her normal hand feeling clumsy, her fingers thick and slow, while her other hand fought for purchase.
Just when she thought she was going to just keep on falling, she managed to succeed in pulling them apart, focusing on the instructions, poor as they were, that they had been given. Twist it in the middle, disconnect, and make an X with your body seemed simply enough, but the wind tore at her, gravity and pressure making it hard to move. Her bow almost slipped away, and she was sure she lost at least one arrow to the winds pull.
"NO!" she shrieked when her bow started to slip, jolting and twisting slightly to keep it in position, forgetting for the moment the flight sticks, until it was secure again. As the sticks activated, and caught her, she couldn't help letting out another sob, using the remainder of her time in the air to compose herself, so that when they all landed, she was ready for whatever they would face. She hoped no one else had seen her struggle, or heard her screech.
As the plan seemed to be put in motion right away, Niesha stalked off with some others, but at first chance she went her own way. She had an arrow in hand, and her bow in her other hand, as she stalked onwards, the map in her mind. She would do her best, but she didn't know how she would be in a fight. Perhaps she shouldn't have broken off from the others. Niesha was more long range then hand to hand combat, more support then anything else. Still, she was quick and arrows were virtually impossible to hear unless you had really really really good hearing, unlike bullets which were loud messy things.
She hesitated, and then darted back the way she had come, and followed the path of someone else, soon seeing Cari. Niesha didn't know Cari's skills, but she knew if she herself stayed alone then she wouldn't survive long, and Niesha needed to survive, at least as long as it took to find out what had happened to her family, so she followed after Cari, silent and ready to attack | Niesha Shin
Age:
26
Gender:
female
Clothes:
Armor:
Weapons:
Miscellaneous items:
A gold heart shaped locket
Biography:
Niesha grew up the youngest of seven, the only daughter, in the outskirts of the city. She was pretty sheltered, but had a fearless nature due to this. She was quite young when, out walking one day she was kidnapped. She was transferred by several smugglers several times during the years where during that time she heard about the Dusicyon. She figured the dream of actually seeing it herself was just as useless as the dream of escaping and finding her family.
She didn't know how much time had passed, but one day, she managed to escape when a fight broke out between the smugglers and the captives. She didn't escape unharmed, suffering a severally maimed hand, that was replaced eventually with a cybernetic/bionic hand. But that's a story for another time.
She eventually returned home, after searching for what seemed to the young girl years only to find it ransacked with many of the personal items and furniture still in place. She searched the house from top to bottom, but there was no indication on what had happened, on where her family was, but she found her fathers bow, and it's arrows.
She struggled with indecision, and eventually headed out, scavenging some of her mothers clothes, and some other items before leaving, mainly golden heart shaped locket that was her mothers, and the bow.
She remembered the talk about the Dusicyon, and she debated and decided that it might be her best bet to try and find out what had happened to her family, assuming that it might have criminal connections given that she had heard it through the smugglers talk.
She approached the ship when it was docked, and asked for any sort of job, deciding to keep what her true intentions were for now. If something bad had happened to her parents and brothers, she didn't want to tip anyone off. So it was that she came to work on the ship, doing any sort of task that was required of her, and still practiced with her bow.
Extra:
Her hand- |
51,321 | 1,385 | 24 | 618 | 302 | Less than an hour ago the lower decks had been a cacophony of chatter, yelling, screeching, banging, clanging, stomping, running, sparking and other such clamor. Additional ammunition, parts, coolant and supplies were moved into position. Engineers performed their final inspections and touch ups on armor and guns. The crew went over battle plans and targeting priorities. Now all that remained was the ever-present warm hum of the engines and the occasional mumbled exchange. In Carson's mind there was only silence. She stood at the fore of the battery with her eyes closed and breathing slowly.
Here was a large computer screen flanked by smaller clones topping a super computer which was used to aim the massive laser cannons on either side of them with deadly accuracy. Four of the behemoths, the same girth and two and a half times the length of a bus were each under the control of a small squad at their base and a gunner seated at a spot at the computer. Most of the main gun deck was devoted to them though the EMP mines could be dropped from this station as well. A gunner each was posted at the ship's dozen Vulcans and a team of three assigned to load and fire each of the three rocket pods.
There was little visible of the outside world on this dark and cramped deck save for the spaces in the various gun housings and on the large computerized display that now showed what lay ahead of them thanks to cameras on the outside of the ship.
A sudden static over her head set had her opening her eyes slightly and looking over the virtual cloud sea.
"Ground team is away," she was informed, "We are moving in to support."
"Rodger that," there was something of a feral and barely controlled growl in her voice. She cleared her throat in an attempt to be rid of it.
The engines revved up faster and louder now. The entire ship heaved forward with the acceleration. While others were rocked or stumbled she did not budge. She approached the four tactical gunners at the computer and stood directly behind them. Her eyes flicked back and forth across the screen and the information displayed. A smattering of tiny dots with tiny labels plummeting downward marked the ground team as they descended. It tracked them until the weak signal went out of range or was perhaps obstructed by the structures on Tirbetha. But where they had once been more signals replaced them. Unidentified electromagnetic, thermal and radio readings lit up the screen. No visuals yet. They were still too deep into the cloud cover. Even still an area the size of a city was rapidly being traced before them.
"All canons online. Gathering coordinates on possible targets," one of the tactical gunners, a small female, reported.
"Readying tracking decoys," another, a large male with a cybernetic lower jaw, followed suit.
Carson nodded and linked her headset to the other on-site gunners, "Cloud cover will be breaking momentarily. Wait for my command."
More silence sealed over the sudden flux of communication. Wind whipped past the gun housings and cameras and rushed into the deck creating a eerie breeze. Carson held her breath. In mere seconds the fog was cleaved apart as the Dusycion ripped her way into the open skies. Long ropes of vapor clung to her contours and billowed along the in the displaced air washing over her like ribbons. Steam billowed from the jets behind the ship dropping down on the city like a furious archangel.
"Laser priority targets are in range, Sir!" one of the gunners snapped.
"Lock the canons," Gerlach hissed.
A moment passed where she could feel every drop of blood scraping through her veins.
"Canons, locked! Rockets in range."
Gerlach opened her comm again, "All gunners at the ready."
"Vulcans in range..." the gunner paused, "Now."
"Open fire!" Gerlach commanded.
All four canons hummed with a charge and then roared out and were blown back on their bearings. The first brilliant fireballs were sent screaming downward. They smashed into walls, towers and barracks blasting holes right through the foundations and setting everything they touched alight. The drone of the machine guns joined them and brought a burning steel rain to ruin the day of anything and anyone unfortunate enough to be within their reach. The first of the rockets flew from their launchers and went twisting through the sky like dragons before finding marks on the ground as well.
In only a matter of seconds Tirbetha was thrown into chaos. Air raid sirens began to blare through the streets. Laser canons charged and fired again. Again. And again. They began to offset each other to a constant chorus of deep booms and explosions. Mortar and brick was thrown into the air. Glass shattered. Pirates, soldiers and civilians alike screamed and ran for cover and battle positions. They scrambled for their weapons and pointed toward the huge beast in the sky. They were now completely unaware of the invisible beasts that moved among them.
Gerlach clenched her fists tightly. A wicked smile that nobody could see spread across her lips.
Another, less beautiful sound interrupted her guns. The distant crack of the anti-air defenses. Flack exploded around the hull of the ship. They were coming in hot, but she trusted the navigators knew what they were doing. They had given them a marvelous first strike after all.
A wretched clatter rang against the steel outside like thunder. Shrapnel blasted off the walls and into the deck. Another blast rocked them and forced her to reset her footing. The ship was taking damage already. But a few scrapes and bruises wouldn't stop her. Though the Dusicyon may have a few punctures, Tirbetha was slowly lighting up like a disgusting, violent Christmas tree.
"Keep it together!" she ordered, "I want those blood sucking, ground kissing cretins bathed in the fires of Hell! We've only just lit the match." | Name: Carson Gerlach
Title: Gunner
Age: 30
Gender: Female
Appearance:
Armor:
Clothing: As shown in appearance.
Weapons:
-ZX-1
-Standard Knife
-Boarding Axe
Miscellaneous items:
-Signal Flares
-Journal
-Wallet
-Dog Tags
Biography:
"Lieutenant! Your boarding party is clear to move. Secure the vessel and clear out survivors."
"Yes, Sir!" Lieutenant Gerlach affirmed through her headset.
The belly of the massive battleship opened before them over the infinite layer of clouds below and a smoking enemy airship flying a white flag. A squad of soldiers stood with her, fully armed and ready to repel down to seize the ship.
"Move out!" She gave the order and watched as the squad fearlessly took the dive into the sky, with nothing but their ropes and descenders to hold them. She was the last one out of the ship. The wind whipped and tore at her clothes for several long moments as she made her rapid drop and she felt her stomach rise into her throat. Soon enough she was putting on the pressure to slow herself down for the last dozen feet or so and her heavy combat boots made a satisfying THUNK on the rigid balloon top. The squad was already moving to the deck proper by way of the maintenance ladders. Before she had made it down behind them shots had already rang out.
Lieutenant Gerlach arrived as the last uniformed crew member fell to the ground clutching at the hole where a laser had punched through his chest. Five others like him lay scattered in the corridor.
"Get to the bridge," she ordered, stepping over one of the bodies. They made their way up the ship with remarkable speed and efficiency. Once one of the enemy officers came at them with a gun, but the squad was ready. The crew of this frigate was not. They had barely fired on them when the two ships first engaged and surrendered quickly, but she knew as well as anybody else that the Nesychian Navy did not take anyone aside from high ranking officers as prisoners. The crew in the bridge was warned of their coming by the sounds of death coming from the two men that stood guard. The squad entered swiftly.
"ON YOUR KNEES! NOW!" Gerlach screamed at them.
Her squad joined in with the orders. With rifles pointed at them and their hands in the air the officers willingly went to the ground. She saw a lot of stripes. A few of them would make useful bargaining chips, especially the captain. Said captain was eying her as she made the call back to her commander.
"The bridge is secure, Commander."
"Rodger that. Hold them there until we get the rest of our boarding parties down."
"Yes, Sir."
"Please," the captain begged her, "The rest of the people on this ship, please let them go. They aren't military, this is a transport ship."
Gerlach put her rifle back in his face, "What are you talking about? You're flying colors and wearing naval uniforms. Don't play with me."
"Refugees! They're refugees from the war. Not soldiers, please let them go."
"What!?"
Gerlach stood with her Commander over-looking a cargo hold laden with cots, tents, makeshift lavatories, tables and terrified civilian families. The Commander sighed as he took a long drag off of his cigarette.
"Stupid bastards, sailing through captured airspace like this. Got what was coming to 'em," he growled, "Lieutenant, you and the rest of the men finish up here. Pitch the garbage, bodies and anything we can't use out of the loading bay. I want the lower decks completely cleared."
"Sir? What about the refugees?" she asked.
"You heard me. We have all the prisoners we need and most of the crew have already been executed. Just need to finish the clean up."
"Sir, most of these refugees are children. They aren't soldiers. They aren't a threat to us."
"Lieutenant are you questioning your orders?"
"I-- No, Sir. I just--"
"Lieutenant, if this deck isn't cleared in the next two hours I will personally see to it that you are flogged, stripped of your rank, sent to the captains quarters, then to my quarters and then thrown in the brig for the rest of this war. The only reason you've been able to climb the ranks is because of your dear daddy Admiral, but don't think that is going to make anybody give a rat's ass if you make it out of this shit storm intact or not," he breathed a puff of smoke into her face, "Understood?"
"Yes, Sir," she said quietly.
Gerlach wiped the vomit from her mouth and staggered out of the women's lavatory. She did her best to straighten her uniform but her hands fumbled with the fabric and she was so dizzy she wouldn't have been able to tell if it was right side out or not. She put her hand on the wall to steady herself before walking down the narrow hall to the lounge. She couldn't bring herself to eat. The food on the ship was turning sour and beginning to make the crew sick. She hadn't been able to keep even good food down since that day. The liquor had long since dried up making it impossible to ignore the pain they all felt. Moral had plummeted, fights broke out, whipping and flogging was occurring on a daily basis and they were still weeks out from their next port. All while the Captain raided any passing, non-military ship, even ships from their own nation. Most of the goods plundered were either sent back to the home land or kept for himself.
As she entered the lounge her eyes were on the floor. Suddenly a hand was clapped around her mouth and an arm hooked around her neck in a choke hold. The poor sap that held her found himself with a foot swept out from under him and thrown in an arch before landing on his back and staring up at the ceiling and the young, dazed lieutenant. Two other men came after her, grabbing each arm and forcing her to the ground.
"Lieutenant, stop! Please!" one of the men hissed, "We aren't going to hurt you, just be quiet."
"Damnit I think she broke my arm, the man on the ground," moaned.
"Yeah? Well that's your own fault. What the hell were you thinking, shit-for-brains?" another standing beside a table full of soldiers in various states of shock said.
She was allowed up once she relaxed but found that the two men who had subdued her were now blocking the exit. All around the room gaunt men and women in uniforms and serious, tired expressions stared at her with a sort of malice. She felt cold. They had all been facing one direction. None of them had food or drink, cards or books, paperwork or letters.
"What's going on here?" she demanded.
Petty Officer Wells approached her slowly, "Make your move wisely, Sir," he warned, "Not that I don't trust you, but you report to the assholes at the top and we aren't taking chances. We're armed and we will make sure nobody finds you if you cause trouble."
She stood still and glared at him, "Explain."
"We're done," he said, "We're done with the war, we're done starving and eating rotting food, we're done fighting for the royal fatass' stupid territory disputes, we're done being beaten and raped, and we're done killing people so the higher ups can get their rocks off."
"You're not suggesting..."
"Mutiny. We're taking the ship."
Gerlach's eyes widened and she cast a frantic glance around the faces in the room once more. They were serious.
"That's treason," she said, "Every single one of us will be tortured to death if we're caught."
"Of course we will," Wells shrugged, "Pretty good incentive to not get caught, huh? The way I see it, most of us are on our way to a slow, painful death anyway. Would you rather die as some sad sorry pawn of an oppressive nation, or drunk, happy and fighting?"
"What will you do afterward? This is rash, Wells."
"So is butchering civilians and throwing the ship into unnecessary combat... No, 'rash' really isn't the word I'd use for that actually, but you get the point. Afterward," he shrugged, "Some of us want to defect, others want to take the ship and get out of the combat zone all together. Leave this place and settle somewhere more peaceful. Anything is better than this. I saw you after we captured the Koraaga. I know you want out."
Gerlach frowned at him and took a deep breath, the fatigue showing in her face, "This is insane."
"Yes it is."
"... I'm in."
Blood and scorch marks painted the upper decks where many of the officers had made their last stand. The captain's laser riddled body hung stiff and dripping from a chain hooked to one of the steel support beams. A demonstration to the captured officers now on display for the angry pirates. Gerlach stood beside Wells on the raised platform where the captain and commanders usually addressed assemblies. All of them were now with out rank and rallied as equals. She watched with a rifle in her hands and a fire in her eyes. There had been little resistance. The fifty or so officers could not stand up against several hundred enlisted men for long. A handful allowed themselves to be captured quietly.
One by one they were passed before the assembly for judgment. The cruel, corrupt and unjust were met with hails of hissing, insults, and curses before being put to a quick death. One round in the back of the head. Those who had proven themselves to be good soldiers and good men only doing what they had to in order to survive were given a vote and a second chance so long as they joined the cause and allowed themselves to be stripped of rank like the rest of them. A pile of bodies soon grew. Then her former Commander was brought out.
The consensus was reached almost immediately. The man was a killer, a rapist, sadistic, cruel and sick. Some of the things that were screamed at him embarrassed the members of the mob even.
"I want this one," Gerlach whispered to Wells.
He sized her up for a moment, "Fine. I understand."
She didn't put the bullet into the back of the man's head. She walked around him while he was on his knees so that he would have to look at her face. She put the barrel between his eyes. He spat and smiled. She pulled the trigger.
Six weeks later Carson was dragging herself and her broken leg across the jagged rocks of an unsettled island to the south. Cannon fire continued to rain down on the crash site and scream through the skies above as the two ships fought. One with Nesychian colors, the other unmarked. The newly renamed Tarakan towered out of the ground where it had collided with the rocks in a massive catastrophic heap of hellfire and twisted metal. The ship they had risked their lives to steal away from their home land had been struck down by its previous owners. It was apparent they would rather see her torn to shreds than in the hands of traitorous pirates.
Blood coated her face and limbs. Charred corpses and mortally wounded men were scattered across the island's edge. She scrambled as best as she could to find cover from the flames and debris. A shockwave ripped through her body and the air as one of the Nesychian ship's engines exploded. She found her way into the trees and into a shallow cavern formed by collapsed boulders. There she stopped to catch her breath and allow the pain to subside a little. She propped herself up with her back to the rocks and a rifle in her arms to watch the ship go down. It fell slow and heavy. It's side scrapped against the island's shore but missed any sort of safe landing doomed to plummet into the thick abyss. The unmarked ship had sailed out of sight.
Now she was alone, wounded and hand in hand with death if she could not find rescue, medical attention and resources. She could barely move. Shell shocked and with no idea what to do next, she clung to the gun and waited for her thoughts to untangle. Her blood was pooling beside her hip. She struggled to blink it out of her eye. Her hearing was nothing more than static. She was loosing track of time and struggling to hold her head up. Her hands started to shake. It was some time before the burning ambiance was interrupted.
Several figures combed the beach some distance away from the cavern. One locked eyes with her. He yelled back to his comrades before they hurriedly approached her. With what little strength she had left, Carson snapped the rifle up.
"STAY BACK!" she yelled, "DON'T TRY ME! I'LL FUCKING SHOOT YOU!"
They stopped, put their hands up and tried to reason with her, but at this point only a few words were making it through to her. From what she could see none of them were wearing an official uniform of any kind. They carried a hodge-podge of non-standard equipment and weapons. Pirates. Not from her crew though. It was then that a man with an eye patch came through the group and crouched down beside her. He was unarmed and asked her to put the gun down several times. Finally she ran out of strength to hold it up. When she wasn't immediately seized she allowed herself to relax. She really didn't have a choice.
"Help me up," she managed to growl at him.
Extra: Carson's skills are largely in coordination. She is an experienced gunnery liaison on war ships and specializes in big guns and artillery. She has made it a point to make the Dusicyon's armament her business. She can handle a rifle like the best but would rather stay out of close combat. She has never been one for pistols or small caliber weapons and struggles to aim them without constant practice. Though she can handle herself in a fight like any other member of the crew, her hand to hand skills are nothing too remarkable. She is quiet and serious and has a fierce will to fight, survive and be free. |
51,322 | 1,385 | 25 | 1,700 | 2,632 | Cari Cruz
Cari was dashing throughout the corridors like a shadow trying to escape the light, stopping occasionally so that she could get behind some cover and scout what lied further ahead. She could see Niesha behind her following in her footsteps, making sure that the fellow pirate didn't fumble in her steps. The two of them could see from behind the cover the AA gun. At about a hundred metres away it looked like an easy sprint, but with the soldiers operating around the perimeter Cari knew that going in through the front door was a bad option.
The sound of shells constantly being fired at the Dusicyon resonated throughout the alleyways and Cari turned towards her companion. She spoke as clearly as possible but the occasional words were muffled beyond recognition, requiring her to perform some rudimentary hand gestures to explain the plan.
"We'll enter in from higher up and use your bow to create a zip line over towards the AA. I can climb up that building and throw the rope down to you so you can make your way up," her yelling whispers were enough to see that Niesha would understand their plan, and Cari finished the brief with her fingers pointing towards a multi story building that they were close to.
Leaving her partner where she was, Cari crouch walked her way around the corner and towards a concrete and brick tower. She placed her fingers on the seems of the brickwork and used her enhanced grip to give her the strength that she needed in order to climb up such an impossible surface. With every reach she managed to gain that little bit of height until she ended up placing her fingers over the edge of the rooftop.
Cari peaked over the top of the edge to see a lone guard watching the AA building. A smart defensive move as any frontal assault would have been left with an ambush from above, but that all relied on the enemy not working out where the soldier was stationed. Carefully she reached back and pulled out one of her hand pistols and took aim at the head of the stranger, and began to count.
"One, two, three, four," *KATHUMP* "five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten," *KATHUMP*
She took note of the six seconds between shots and used this information to her advantage. Cari waited patiently and pulled the trigger, using the sound of the AA to muffle the sound of her own firearm. | Name: Nikola Quirke, 'Gentleman, Adventurer, Inventor' (Pronounced: Quirk)
Title: N/A
Age: 28
Gender: Male
Appearance: Nikola
Facial appearance:
Armor: His armor consists of a collared chest plate, brassy in color with a rubber interior. On the back of his armor, secured around his waist by a belt is a leather satchel containing a battery pack, a wire from said pack leads up the back of the armor and around the collar, connected to the metal surface of the chest plate by vacuum tube arrays, one positioned on the lower back and two over the shoulder blades; these vacuum tubes are encased in brass cages to protect them from damage in a gun fight. The way the army works is right before a projectile impacts the surface of the armor, an electrical field activates due to the presence of nearby metal and prevents the projectile making contact. The electric field can only work for a few shots before it needs to recharge, thus rendering the chest plate a standard piece of armor.
Clothing: When not wearing his armor, Nikola indulges in the finer clothing that comes with being the ship's resident handyman; An old, red suit-vest with many, many patches, underneath said suit-vest he wears an off white shirt and around it's collar a blue neck tie (in the style of the one in the picture). On his legs he wears a simple pair of grey trousers and brown boots with magnetic discs beneath, giving him excellent stability on the decks, walls and ceilings of the vessel. Over his attire he wears a white apron with many pockets in the front where he deposits his tools and notebook. Atop his head he wears a white bandana, on top which is a pair of green lensed goggles.
Weapons: 'Buck Kick' T-9 Revolver, modified to fire electric bullets.
Miscellaneous items:
-Jotter: His personal notebook of scribbles, notes, diagrams and annotations. When not at his table tinkering, or in the engine room running maintenance, he can be seen penning things down in that little book of his and even when he is doing the prior mentioned he finds time to jot.
-Pocket of Ferret Nibbles: Hand made food for his ferret, it consists of breadcrumbs made soggy in soup and left to dry on his windowsill, he is occasionally seen feeding them to his pet and sometimes feeding them to himself.
Biography: Born some time in mid Pluviôse, Nikola never had the had the good life. Nikola was initially brought into the world stillborn; during his transportation to the morgue however, he woke up screaming and wailing but otherwise completely healthy. He was taken home soon afterwards, home being a cramped apartment on an island of tenement buildings and smokey factories. Most of his childhood was spent in the dirty, tiny apartment that was his life and most of that time was spent lying on the floor and looking at the cracked display of a broken radio.
When he must have been nine or ten a sudden epiphany struck him, it was a small wrapped box knocking him in the back of the head. Turing around to see where the offensive missile came form, he found the tired smile of his father entering the apartment, "happy birthday Nikola.." he mumbled before heading off to his room to collapse on the mattress. Nikola looked down at the wrapped parcel and began unwrapping it's brown paper skin; inside was a black plastic case with a see-through cover. The case was filled with small screwdrivers and a wrench kit, he furrowed his brows for a moment then turned to the radio. It was time.
Nikola spent three days on the radio, cooped up in his room under the stairs, working by the hot light of his desk lamp. On the third day he put the back panel back on and with fingers crossed flicked the power nob. The display flickered to life, then died, then the entire radio exploded in a shower of sparks.
6 years later he found himself in the middle of adolescence and jumping from job to job with no success at holding one down, he was constantly being submitted into factories as a repairman and constantly fired for being found tinkering with the machines, though in truth he was making them better. So there he was, out on his ass again with no job and aging parents; in a huff he wondered the streets, his only companion Dorkface scurrying around his body before resting on Nikola's shoulder. He soon found himself walking down an air dock in some ramshackle (well more then normal) part of town, grumbling to himself and kicking a can down the pier. The smell of oil and ionized gas soon filled his nose, looking up he saw the inner workings of the most beautiful engine he had ever seen.
It was attached to 'The Crimson Dusicyon'.
Nikola ascended a set of scaffolding that lead up towards the engine, it creaked and groaned as he climbed but once at the top he was entranced. It was like looking up at the ceiling of a cathedral, a cathedral that was an engine and it was glorious; however upon closer inspection he found that it was plagued with problems. Locking round to see if anyone was nearby, he dived right in and began working on it, soon enough though he was disturbed from his deep, technical intercourse. Nikola was yanked out of his mechanical stupor by a gruff looking man, he appeared as if he were about to yell before he looked up and found everything in order and even some stuff improved upon.
"Say.. Did you do this kid?" he asked a bit confused, Nikola nodded excessively, keeping his mouth shut to prevent his 'eep' from escaping, "very good," said the man with a nod of appreciation, "I could use someone like you," he looked down at the cowering boy, "well maybe when you're a bit older, keep practicing though, we might just dock here again and I'd like to see how you'll along." with that the man let him go and he scrambled back down the scaffold.
Sure enough, 7 years later, the ship came back and Nikola was quick to get to he air dock, a young man in his early twenties itching for excitement... And the company of those luscious machines. He went straight to the Gruff man, ironically named Grufman and asked if there was any space for him.
Though Grufman himself couldn't accept Nikola onto the crew, he could advertise him to the captain.
Nikola was lead into the bridge and hunched over some charts was the captain, his face awash in the amber glow of a lamp and intense concentration. The pair, Grufman and Nikola strode over to the thoughtful figure, though it was Grufman doing most of the striding and Nikola scurrying behind.
Nikola found himself living on a gantry hanging above the engine room, it was unpleasant to start with but after a few years he's turned that strip of catwalk into a little home for himself, installing a few shelfs and dragging down an old mattress. He was content, showing the ship's machines much love and attention and tinkering around with small inventions.
Extra:
-A pet ferret by the name of Dorkface.
-Speaks in a soft slavic accent.
-Has nervous/apprehensive tendencies that usually materialize in forms like bitting extremities and stuttering. |
51,323 | 1,385 | 26 | 377 | 26,000 | Niesha was relieved when Cari didn't send her off somewhere else. She trotted up beside Cari when she stopped, studying the lay of the land around them, and looked to Cari as she began to speak, paying attention to her comrade, trying to catch all the words, but paying attention to the hand gestures as well. Niesha gave a nod to indicate she understood what Cari was trying to say to her. But creating a zip line? Niesha had never really done anything like that with her bow before. Still, there was always a first, and her aim was excellent.
Niesha watched as Cri climbed up the wall, glancing about and making sure there was no one going to attack them, especially with Cari in such a vulnerablel poition. Cari seemed to make the climb with ease, and Niesha let out soft breath of releif when Cari reached the top Niesha didn't think she could have done it.
Unable to just stand around anymore, and Assuming that Cari had dealt with any trouble, she took aim with her bow, a rope tied to it. She let it go, unable to see where it went, but she pulled on the rope and it seemed to be holding fast. Niesha took a deep breath, and began to scale the building, using the rope to keep herself upright, and climbing the wall as if she was just walking bent over. She made sure that her bow was secured over one shoulder, and that her arrows couldn't fall out.
She clasped the rope in both hands, feeling the differences in strength between her normal one, and her enhanced one, making a note of that so she could work on evening the strengths up. She breathed in, and out, before climbing.
She didn't look down. She knew if she did, she wouldn't be able to continue. Niesha distracted herself by counting her footsteps, and promising herself that just one more step, and she'd be there. It was a battle of wills within her, until she finally reached where Cari was, relieved. She breathed easier, and waited to see what would happen next | Niesha Shin
Age:
26
Gender:
female
Clothes:
Armor:
Weapons:
Miscellaneous items:
A gold heart shaped locket
Biography:
Niesha grew up the youngest of seven, the only daughter, in the outskirts of the city. She was pretty sheltered, but had a fearless nature due to this. She was quite young when, out walking one day she was kidnapped. She was transferred by several smugglers several times during the years where during that time she heard about the Dusicyon. She figured the dream of actually seeing it herself was just as useless as the dream of escaping and finding her family.
She didn't know how much time had passed, but one day, she managed to escape when a fight broke out between the smugglers and the captives. She didn't escape unharmed, suffering a severally maimed hand, that was replaced eventually with a cybernetic/bionic hand. But that's a story for another time.
She eventually returned home, after searching for what seemed to the young girl years only to find it ransacked with many of the personal items and furniture still in place. She searched the house from top to bottom, but there was no indication on what had happened, on where her family was, but she found her fathers bow, and it's arrows.
She struggled with indecision, and eventually headed out, scavenging some of her mothers clothes, and some other items before leaving, mainly golden heart shaped locket that was her mothers, and the bow.
She remembered the talk about the Dusicyon, and she debated and decided that it might be her best bet to try and find out what had happened to her family, assuming that it might have criminal connections given that she had heard it through the smugglers talk.
She approached the ship when it was docked, and asked for any sort of job, deciding to keep what her true intentions were for now. If something bad had happened to her parents and brothers, she didn't want to tip anyone off. So it was that she came to work on the ship, doing any sort of task that was required of her, and still practiced with her bow.
Extra:
Her hand- |
51,324 | 1,385 | 27 | 2,600 | 607 | Cyrus kept tabs on Cari below him, hidden from all by his active camouflage. He sprinted over rooftops as Cari moved below him. When she came to her destination, he slid down the roof of a large residential building. Small spikes ejected from his heels and planted themselves into the roof, stopping his momentum and allowing him to settle against the roof. He set up shop and got comfortable. Looking through the scope, he watched as Cari took down soldiers at short range through the booms of the Anti-air cannon as it attacked the Dusicyon.
He snapped his scope around the battlefield, marking several targets on his HUD. There were many on the rooftops and on the ground, most of which carried heavy assault weaponry in addition to the heavy assault armor they wore. Each was a walking sentry that was there only to protect the only thing that kept the city safe from other pirate clans. Today, they would fail their one job.
Taking a deep breath and closing his eyes to focus for a moment before zeroing in on some poor unsuspecting fool's head, Cyrus fired when the AA cannon did, hiding both the sound of the powerful rifle going off and the explosion of the guard's skull as the explosive tipped bullet made short work of his helmet. He had but a few seconds to set up the next shot and just got it off as the cannon fired off its next volley. This time, the guard took the round in the chest and sprawled on the ground with most of his chest cavity splattered all over the place.
Cyrus shifted positions then to get a better angle on the next few guards, taking his time in eliminating them all. He was thorough and precise in the work he loved so much. The shot of dopamine he gets every time he kills some half baked pirate scum was half the reason why he took this job. He didn't enjoy killing innocents but these people were murderers and rapists and deserved every bullet. Every one that fell meant his business would get more profitable and business was devilishly good...even with how good at conducting business he was, he tended to make mistakes quite a bit when he's under pressure...like now.
He had enjoyed himself a bit too much and he downed a guard while the AA was reloading. The sound of the shot echoed throughout the yard and the last of the regiment there looked straight up to where he was and pointed their guns.
"Ah shit." he cursed as his boots unhooked and he slipped the rest of the way down to the edge and jumping off just as the bullets started to fly. As he landed, with a thud that is, the alarms started to sound and the rest of the area was alerted to his shenanigans, as well as the rest of the ground team. "Oh this is going splendid! Best assault ever! Good job Cyrus! You dun fucked up!" He sprinted for cover and let his rifle fall to his back via the magnet before reaching for his revolver. He stayed cloaked but now that they were looking for them it wouldn't be easy to hide. | Age: 45
Gender: Male
Appearance: Full
Facial appearance: Face
Armor: Heavy leather armor and a heavy shield.
Clothing: Dark blue silk clothing.
Weapons: A high caliber Lever action rifle.
A jewel encrusted electrified saber.
Miscellaneous items: He has a golden locket that contains an old holo-message of somebody waiting for him to return home after his endless voyage comes to an end.
Biography: "Captain, we will be arriving at Shax within the hour. Will you be performing some final inspections?" The captain sat alone at his desk looking out of a window at the approaching landmass. He was holding something in his hand. "No, Matthiew. I will leave that to you today."
The navigator stood silent for a moment before talking again. "Are you okay, boss?" The captain did not move much as he stared at something in his hands. Grissom approached and looked over his shoulder for a moment. The Captain was looking at the back of an eyepatch. His eyepatch. There was a picture embroidered into it, that of a young woman with long black hair. "Who is that, boss?"
The captain kept silent for a time. He had taken off his eyepatch to look at the picture on the back again. Normally it sat over his missing eye, but now it stood bare, the darkness within the socket being a cruel reminder of his past. "An old lover. Gone now." He covered the wound again and stared out the window. "I never did tell you her story, did I?"
"You did not, no."
Standing across from one another in front of an open hatch in the bottom of a large airship, James and a woman with pitch black hair with black and red combat armor fitting snuggly on her body looked at each other and smiled. They both clicked buttons on their chests and a black cord popped out of their backs and latched onto the wall. They both jumped down the hole and plummeted to the firefight that was going on below.
"She and I were part of a pirate clan called the Tiranade. We fought every battle together. We were inseparable. For a time, we thought we were invincible."
The two stood on top of a fallen skiff, dead all around as the clan rejoiced, their two greatest soldiers standing on top the enemy captain's flagship, triumphant.
"But, then the gaze of The Lost Wolves fell upon us. The Tiranade haven was attacked. It was a slaughter."
They stood together now, back to back, pistols in their hands as they stared down the group of black and red garbed pirates before them. They smiled and leaped into action.
"There was our last stand. Our clan had no survivors besides myself. I never even had the chance to say goodbye to her, her body was...unrecognizable among the corpses."
A hand coated in blood sprung from underneath a pile of corpses, the area around it was on fire, filling the air with smoke and death. Renault's head emerged from the pile and he took in a sharp, deep, breath. He pulled himself out slowly, his right eye was missing, leaving only darkness in its place. He was covered in blood and bile. He gasped for air as he clawed his way out, rolling to the ground as he broke free of the thralls of his once living friends.
"I remember well what I did after I narrowly avoided death. I went hunting."
Standing atop a small sky scraper, Renault looked down onto a smaller building that had been rumored to be a small headquarters for the Lost Wolf command. He held up a small black detonator with a red button on it. When he clicked it, the building erupted into fire. He turned and walked away.
"I had hunted them down until they were almost nothing. But their captain...Ulysses Tronik. Here covered recovered from every attack in mere days. For three months I had single handedly been wiping out hundreds of his men, even capturing his prized flagship, "The Deceit." The very ship you're standing in now. But...he was back the next week, even more powerful than before. He and his Lost Wolves simply came back again and again...."
He sighed and wrung his hands for a few moments before standing up slowly and gesturing for him to lead the way.
"I had taken the last photo I had of her and imprinted it to this eyepatch, so that I may always see her in whatever I do." He followed him out the door and to the cafeteria where the rest of the crew was waiting. They were a small group now, but soon they would be a force to be reckoned with. "...but you know the rest of the story. You were my first recruit."
"Aye, boss, I am."
"Now...you and I. We have him now. He's in Tirbetha, cornered like a rat. With this new crew, we will have him in our clutches. We'll rob him blind of everything he's ever valued, just as he did to me."
Extra: His pet crow Asphexia is the only companion that he has had over the years. Fast, armed with an unshackled A.I. and an on-board stealth field. Asphexia is a powerful ally for the captain.
Age: 29
Gender: Male
Appearance: Clothing and face
Armor: Lightly armored clothing with a bullet proof vest underneath. He likes to keep it quick and loose.
Weapons: A heavy caliber sniper rifle that he carries in nearly all situations.
In addition to his rifle he always carries his Revolver on him at all times.
He also has a single Single black metal sword normally situated on his back.
Miscellaneous items: He carries several magazines of ammo with him for all his weapons in a small bag at his side. He also carries a small bottle of brandy for particular nights when he can't sleep. He's always able to sleep when he's drunk.
Biography:
"So, I have a story for you guys today. About this guy I once knew that died a few weeks ago. His name was Brom. Brom was Born on a pathetic little rock out in the middle of nowhere, near the equator, on a really hot and sweltering monday, in the middle of the hottest season, on the anniversary of his late brother's death, mere hours after his father crashed into a tree with a hoverbike, breaking most of his bones."
"Brom's birthday always sucked. He grew up poor, having to do nothing but watch the occasional trader ship pass by day in and day out for years, waiting, watching, for the perfect moment. See, he was the type of kid to want to explore but his parents paid little attention to him, instead letting him just learn how to be human from a computer monitor and feed him every now and then. But then one day...the trader ship decided to give him a visit. His parents never heard from him again."
"At the ripe young age of ten, he was out on his own. He had joined the trader ship as a dishwasher, barely earning enough for him to rent the room that was on the ship, which was a cramped storage room with no bed. But to him, it was the best home he had ever had and he has had only two. It wasn't long before he jumped ship and found a new home in a large city island. A garden island named New Attica. What old Attica was like he'll never know, but the people were kind and he was able to get a job pretty easily. Things worked out very well until he turned 16, where he then joined the Nesychian military. He actually compared it to his childhood life there at first. He was beaten into the ground, served barely more than gray goop for food, and the water was 80% rust, 20% liquid substance that was NOT water. He knew things would get better, least somewhere in the back of his mind he did. He was able to ascend the ranks over the coarse of ten years and, with a lot of perseverance, the gray goop became freshly cloned Duck à l'orange, the crappy water became Cabernet Sauvignan, and he was getting laid every night."
"That was until his superiors started ordering him to kill children. Then he had an issue, and he made it vocal. They had ordered him to wipe out an school because an enemy officer was visiting there at the time. Not just the officer, but the whole school, because it wasn't like he was trained as a military sniper during his time in the military...but fuck that noise, right? He was having none of that and resisted it, told his superiors to go screw themselves and he went and became a mercenary for the enemy side. They sent assassins after him, robots, a few hookers. He sent some of them back to their masters in pieces, others were too incompetent to shoot the guy with the sniper rifle and instead tried to kill civilians. Didn't end up well for him.
He spent a few years with them, but he drifted away after awhile, sick of the war and sick of having to shoot people doing their jobs in the face. So he went freelancing and was immediately hired on by a captain with an eyepatch, and thus I'm a pirate now and here I am."
"Wait, I thought this was a st-"
"Shut up, Brom!"
Extra: In addition to being a sniper and long range support for the group, Cyrus is also the resident bartender in the officer's lounge. For the officers, they get a very classically insane bartender to share secrets to that shall remain secret. For Cyrus: Free booze.
All pictures are clickable.
Non-player-characters
Lead Navigator and 2nd in command: Matthiew "Matty" Grissom
A large man weighing in just under 300 pounds. Matthiew takes pride in being the lead navigator and Captain Renault's second in command. He is not a fighter in any way, so how he exactly help up in the face of insurmountable danger at Renault's side is a mystery known only to him and the captain.
Head mechanic Teddy Grufman.
An toublemaker in his youth, Teddy grew up a farm boy that fixed tractors for a living before taking off when he was sixteen to join an engineering core. He doesn't speak much about his past and the captain doesn't ask considering the man is a wiz with machinery. He and his protege' Nikola have been keeping the engines in tip top shape with barely enough supplies for years. |
51,325 | 1,385 | 28 | 1,700 | 2,632 | Nikola
Nikola was back in the engine room, not feeling any more assured about the engine; it was not that he didn't trust Renault's word, it was that he didn't trust himself to keep the engine running if they were of run out of parts, which was going to happen if for some reason black beard's ship was to not have the parts needed.
He rushed around on the catwalks, checking dials, and levels, and meters to ensure that everything was in order. As he approached the reactor pressure valve, he noticed that the pressure was low, the needle dancing on the boundary of the red zone. He looked around, scanning the room for where the leak may be and he spotted it, a geyser of steam bellowing out of a loose pipe connector. On his wrist he wore a boxy device, looking like a small intercom with a red button bellow the speaker, he pushed the button.
"Dorkface, bring a 40mm bolt screw to reactor valve 3." from his position, he saw Dorkface bounding over to a tool box and pull out a fixture that screwed on to the top of Nikola's power drill. She dumped it on top of her head like a hat and started to squirrel her way over to the before-mentioned pipe. Nikola did the same, he leapt over the railing that separated the catwalk from the floor below and grabbed hold of a suspended chain, with his momentum the chain rolled along a track fixed into the ceiling. Once above the leaking valve, he jumped hard on the hook he was standing on and the locking mechanism above disengaged, sending him quickly down to the ground.
Nikola retrieved the bolt screw from a patiently waiting Dorkface and gave her an affectionate stroke on the head, much to her pleasure. Fixing the attachment to the top of his drill, he pushed it onto the loose nut and pulled the trigger, sending the drill spinning.
In the background he heard a muted whistle and thought nothing of it, assuming it was the whine of another leaking pipe but the more he listened to it, the louder it became and it started to unnerve him.
The side of the room opposite him, on the other side of the reactor, exploded into a gaping hole in the side of the engine room. Air rushed past him as the room decompressed and he had to hold himself against the steam spraying pipe to avoid being sucked out; once the room decompressed, he noticed the red light flashing on and off. Climbing over pipes and machines, he made his way to the other side of the room and upon seeing the state of the machines, bit back a pained howl. That side of the engine was completely wrecked. | Name: Nikola Quirke, 'Gentleman, Adventurer, Inventor' (Pronounced: Quirk)
Title: N/A
Age: 28
Gender: Male
Appearance: Nikola
Facial appearance:
Armor: His armor consists of a collared chest plate, brassy in color with a rubber interior. On the back of his armor, secured around his waist by a belt is a leather satchel containing a battery pack, a wire from said pack leads up the back of the armor and around the collar, connected to the metal surface of the chest plate by vacuum tube arrays, one positioned on the lower back and two over the shoulder blades; these vacuum tubes are encased in brass cages to protect them from damage in a gun fight. The way the army works is right before a projectile impacts the surface of the armor, an electrical field activates due to the presence of nearby metal and prevents the projectile making contact. The electric field can only work for a few shots before it needs to recharge, thus rendering the chest plate a standard piece of armor.
Clothing: When not wearing his armor, Nikola indulges in the finer clothing that comes with being the ship's resident handyman; An old, red suit-vest with many, many patches, underneath said suit-vest he wears an off white shirt and around it's collar a blue neck tie (in the style of the one in the picture). On his legs he wears a simple pair of grey trousers and brown boots with magnetic discs beneath, giving him excellent stability on the decks, walls and ceilings of the vessel. Over his attire he wears a white apron with many pockets in the front where he deposits his tools and notebook. Atop his head he wears a white bandana, on top which is a pair of green lensed goggles.
Weapons: 'Buck Kick' T-9 Revolver, modified to fire electric bullets.
Miscellaneous items:
-Jotter: His personal notebook of scribbles, notes, diagrams and annotations. When not at his table tinkering, or in the engine room running maintenance, he can be seen penning things down in that little book of his and even when he is doing the prior mentioned he finds time to jot.
-Pocket of Ferret Nibbles: Hand made food for his ferret, it consists of breadcrumbs made soggy in soup and left to dry on his windowsill, he is occasionally seen feeding them to his pet and sometimes feeding them to himself.
Biography: Born some time in mid Pluviôse, Nikola never had the had the good life. Nikola was initially brought into the world stillborn; during his transportation to the morgue however, he woke up screaming and wailing but otherwise completely healthy. He was taken home soon afterwards, home being a cramped apartment on an island of tenement buildings and smokey factories. Most of his childhood was spent in the dirty, tiny apartment that was his life and most of that time was spent lying on the floor and looking at the cracked display of a broken radio.
When he must have been nine or ten a sudden epiphany struck him, it was a small wrapped box knocking him in the back of the head. Turing around to see where the offensive missile came form, he found the tired smile of his father entering the apartment, "happy birthday Nikola.." he mumbled before heading off to his room to collapse on the mattress. Nikola looked down at the wrapped parcel and began unwrapping it's brown paper skin; inside was a black plastic case with a see-through cover. The case was filled with small screwdrivers and a wrench kit, he furrowed his brows for a moment then turned to the radio. It was time.
Nikola spent three days on the radio, cooped up in his room under the stairs, working by the hot light of his desk lamp. On the third day he put the back panel back on and with fingers crossed flicked the power nob. The display flickered to life, then died, then the entire radio exploded in a shower of sparks.
6 years later he found himself in the middle of adolescence and jumping from job to job with no success at holding one down, he was constantly being submitted into factories as a repairman and constantly fired for being found tinkering with the machines, though in truth he was making them better. So there he was, out on his ass again with no job and aging parents; in a huff he wondered the streets, his only companion Dorkface scurrying around his body before resting on Nikola's shoulder. He soon found himself walking down an air dock in some ramshackle (well more then normal) part of town, grumbling to himself and kicking a can down the pier. The smell of oil and ionized gas soon filled his nose, looking up he saw the inner workings of the most beautiful engine he had ever seen.
It was attached to 'The Crimson Dusicyon'.
Nikola ascended a set of scaffolding that lead up towards the engine, it creaked and groaned as he climbed but once at the top he was entranced. It was like looking up at the ceiling of a cathedral, a cathedral that was an engine and it was glorious; however upon closer inspection he found that it was plagued with problems. Locking round to see if anyone was nearby, he dived right in and began working on it, soon enough though he was disturbed from his deep, technical intercourse. Nikola was yanked out of his mechanical stupor by a gruff looking man, he appeared as if he were about to yell before he looked up and found everything in order and even some stuff improved upon.
"Say.. Did you do this kid?" he asked a bit confused, Nikola nodded excessively, keeping his mouth shut to prevent his 'eep' from escaping, "very good," said the man with a nod of appreciation, "I could use someone like you," he looked down at the cowering boy, "well maybe when you're a bit older, keep practicing though, we might just dock here again and I'd like to see how you'll along." with that the man let him go and he scrambled back down the scaffold.
Sure enough, 7 years later, the ship came back and Nikola was quick to get to he air dock, a young man in his early twenties itching for excitement... And the company of those luscious machines. He went straight to the Gruff man, ironically named Grufman and asked if there was any space for him.
Though Grufman himself couldn't accept Nikola onto the crew, he could advertise him to the captain.
Nikola was lead into the bridge and hunched over some charts was the captain, his face awash in the amber glow of a lamp and intense concentration. The pair, Grufman and Nikola strode over to the thoughtful figure, though it was Grufman doing most of the striding and Nikola scurrying behind.
Nikola found himself living on a gantry hanging above the engine room, it was unpleasant to start with but after a few years he's turned that strip of catwalk into a little home for himself, installing a few shelfs and dragging down an old mattress. He was content, showing the ship's machines much love and attention and tinkering around with small inventions.
Extra:
-A pet ferret by the name of Dorkface.
-Speaks in a soft slavic accent.
-Has nervous/apprehensive tendencies that usually materialize in forms like bitting extremities and stuttering. |
51,326 | 1,385 | 29 | 377 | 26,000 | S**t.. Nikola mumbled to himself, peering out of the gaping hole in the side of the engine room, he turned to look at the engine and his heart sank further, "F**k." It was in a state, or at least that side was, a puddle of plasma was forming on the ceiling, ripples forming on its surface as blobs of plasma floated up from wrecked pipes. He did a quick analysis, he would need more pipe, that was simple enough but he'd also need a magnetic field oscillator, a plasma recycler, a coolant chipset and a bunch of other things he couldn't fabricate.
Looking through the hole again, he saw black flack clouds bursting around the ship. Nikola ran to the far end of the room and ascended ladder that lead to his 'room'; he scrambled up the final rung and went straight for his cabinet, he threw the metal doors wide open and instantly found what he was looking for. Tucked at the back of the cabinet was a polyester jumpsuit, he pulled out and threw off his clothes.
Dorkface watched as Nikola stripped down to his underwear, she was intrigued with the human anatomy, they were so hairless compared to her but they were so much bigger then her as well, she concluded that they couldn't be related as they were too different.
Nikola zipped up the suit and looked into the cabinet to see his armor glinting at him from inside, it pained him to leave it behind but the suit wouldn't work if he were to wear the brassy chest plate. He gingerly picked Dorkface up and slipped her into a small pocket at the front of the jumpsuit; he picked up his revolver from inside one of his desk drawers and threw the bandolier over his head, so it was draped across his chest.
Nikola proceeded to the massive hole in the side of the room and stood at the edge, his magnetic boots keeping him from being flung out by the speed of the ship. He dared a look down and regretted it, below him the city sprawled out in all directions, that wasn't what scared him though, ironically it was the height.
"Come on.." He mumbled to himself, "you can do it." He looked over the edge one more time and swollowed hard. Nikola had never tested the suit out but as he leapt off the edge of the ship, his boots disengaging and letting him fall, it suddenly came to him that it just might not work, the stitching could fail or the chute might have been packed badly, anything could happen. He extended his arms out and parted his legs, and suddenly his whole body jerked as air was caught in the wings. He sailed closer and closer to the ground, his speed reduced significantly but he was still far off safe landing speeds.
Then his heart sank into his stomach, he heard a tear. The back end of the suit's left wing was flailing around, the stitching having failed to keep it in place. Much to his horror, the tear was creeping up the suit and holding his trajectory was getting harder as the rushing air made him want to role; his heart was thumping but he couldn't hear it over his terrified screams.
Nikola decided to try his luck, he pulled hard on the tab that released the chute, relieved to see the arched shape fold open instead of come out a tangled mess. A bullet whizzed by his head as he neared street level, then another came dangerously close to hitting his leg. The third bullet to be shot at him however did hit something; it clipped the bracket holding the steering lines to the upper chute and his smooth descent quickly devolved into a gag inducing spiral. As he neared the street, he spotted a colorful hoodie and recognized who it was.
"CARI LOOK OUT!" If she didn't move, he'd slam right into her. | Niesha Shin
Age:
26
Gender:
female
Clothes:
Armor:
Weapons:
Miscellaneous items:
A gold heart shaped locket
Biography:
Niesha grew up the youngest of seven, the only daughter, in the outskirts of the city. She was pretty sheltered, but had a fearless nature due to this. She was quite young when, out walking one day she was kidnapped. She was transferred by several smugglers several times during the years where during that time she heard about the Dusicyon. She figured the dream of actually seeing it herself was just as useless as the dream of escaping and finding her family.
She didn't know how much time had passed, but one day, she managed to escape when a fight broke out between the smugglers and the captives. She didn't escape unharmed, suffering a severally maimed hand, that was replaced eventually with a cybernetic/bionic hand. But that's a story for another time.
She eventually returned home, after searching for what seemed to the young girl years only to find it ransacked with many of the personal items and furniture still in place. She searched the house from top to bottom, but there was no indication on what had happened, on where her family was, but she found her fathers bow, and it's arrows.
She struggled with indecision, and eventually headed out, scavenging some of her mothers clothes, and some other items before leaving, mainly golden heart shaped locket that was her mothers, and the bow.
She remembered the talk about the Dusicyon, and she debated and decided that it might be her best bet to try and find out what had happened to her family, assuming that it might have criminal connections given that she had heard it through the smugglers talk.
She approached the ship when it was docked, and asked for any sort of job, deciding to keep what her true intentions were for now. If something bad had happened to her parents and brothers, she didn't want to tip anyone off. So it was that she came to work on the ship, doing any sort of task that was required of her, and still practiced with her bow.
Extra:
Her hand- |
51,327 | 1,385 | 30 | 618 | 302 | We are not going to blow up everything, Gerlach purred at Greyson over the comm, "Just raising a spot of hell and getting attenti--"
The woman was rocked off her feet and nearly sent toppling to her hands and knees when the ship was thrown violently to the side. Klaxon horns and red lights began to go off. She righted herself quickly and steadied as the navigators took the ship out of range of the guns. Their own ordinance was quieting as the gunners took the maneuver as a chance to reload and get ready for the next blitz, but there was panic over communications. Something about smoke and one of the engines but Gerlach was having a hard time getting anything useful out of the chatter. One thing was for sure; that mechanical howl from the depths of the ship was wrong.
"Quirke!" she snapped into her headset, "What is your situation? What did they hit?"
There was no response.
"Quirke!"
She could feel the ship slowing down and what was left of the engines turning over at a much higher RPM. Another blast of flack struck the ship. This time blowing through two ports where Vulcans were bolted. The guns and their crews were torn apart. Shrapnel ripped through the battery, ricocheted dangerously off the interior and embedded itself into equipment, walls and people.
"Damn it all!" Gerlach cursed and barked at one of the men on deck, "Get someone working on those guns and then get up to the engine rooms and find out what the hell is going on!"
"Johannes, Grissom! I've lost contact with--" she began to call up to navigation but was interrupted.
"Sir! Outside!"
Carson's eyes shot up to the display where a single little marker popped up on something falling and falling fast. It looked identical to when the ground team had made their descent. She ground her teeth together.
"Is that..." she didn't need to ask, "Son of a bitch! Navigation, it seems our engineer has gone AWOL. I had hoped that our orders to fight to the death wouldn't become quite so pressing, but we're ready to make another pass when you are." | Name: Carson Gerlach
Title: Gunner
Age: 30
Gender: Female
Appearance:
Armor:
Clothing: As shown in appearance.
Weapons:
-ZX-1
-Standard Knife
-Boarding Axe
Miscellaneous items:
-Signal Flares
-Journal
-Wallet
-Dog Tags
Biography:
"Lieutenant! Your boarding party is clear to move. Secure the vessel and clear out survivors."
"Yes, Sir!" Lieutenant Gerlach affirmed through her headset.
The belly of the massive battleship opened before them over the infinite layer of clouds below and a smoking enemy airship flying a white flag. A squad of soldiers stood with her, fully armed and ready to repel down to seize the ship.
"Move out!" She gave the order and watched as the squad fearlessly took the dive into the sky, with nothing but their ropes and descenders to hold them. She was the last one out of the ship. The wind whipped and tore at her clothes for several long moments as she made her rapid drop and she felt her stomach rise into her throat. Soon enough she was putting on the pressure to slow herself down for the last dozen feet or so and her heavy combat boots made a satisfying THUNK on the rigid balloon top. The squad was already moving to the deck proper by way of the maintenance ladders. Before she had made it down behind them shots had already rang out.
Lieutenant Gerlach arrived as the last uniformed crew member fell to the ground clutching at the hole where a laser had punched through his chest. Five others like him lay scattered in the corridor.
"Get to the bridge," she ordered, stepping over one of the bodies. They made their way up the ship with remarkable speed and efficiency. Once one of the enemy officers came at them with a gun, but the squad was ready. The crew of this frigate was not. They had barely fired on them when the two ships first engaged and surrendered quickly, but she knew as well as anybody else that the Nesychian Navy did not take anyone aside from high ranking officers as prisoners. The crew in the bridge was warned of their coming by the sounds of death coming from the two men that stood guard. The squad entered swiftly.
"ON YOUR KNEES! NOW!" Gerlach screamed at them.
Her squad joined in with the orders. With rifles pointed at them and their hands in the air the officers willingly went to the ground. She saw a lot of stripes. A few of them would make useful bargaining chips, especially the captain. Said captain was eying her as she made the call back to her commander.
"The bridge is secure, Commander."
"Rodger that. Hold them there until we get the rest of our boarding parties down."
"Yes, Sir."
"Please," the captain begged her, "The rest of the people on this ship, please let them go. They aren't military, this is a transport ship."
Gerlach put her rifle back in his face, "What are you talking about? You're flying colors and wearing naval uniforms. Don't play with me."
"Refugees! They're refugees from the war. Not soldiers, please let them go."
"What!?"
Gerlach stood with her Commander over-looking a cargo hold laden with cots, tents, makeshift lavatories, tables and terrified civilian families. The Commander sighed as he took a long drag off of his cigarette.
"Stupid bastards, sailing through captured airspace like this. Got what was coming to 'em," he growled, "Lieutenant, you and the rest of the men finish up here. Pitch the garbage, bodies and anything we can't use out of the loading bay. I want the lower decks completely cleared."
"Sir? What about the refugees?" she asked.
"You heard me. We have all the prisoners we need and most of the crew have already been executed. Just need to finish the clean up."
"Sir, most of these refugees are children. They aren't soldiers. They aren't a threat to us."
"Lieutenant are you questioning your orders?"
"I-- No, Sir. I just--"
"Lieutenant, if this deck isn't cleared in the next two hours I will personally see to it that you are flogged, stripped of your rank, sent to the captains quarters, then to my quarters and then thrown in the brig for the rest of this war. The only reason you've been able to climb the ranks is because of your dear daddy Admiral, but don't think that is going to make anybody give a rat's ass if you make it out of this shit storm intact or not," he breathed a puff of smoke into her face, "Understood?"
"Yes, Sir," she said quietly.
Gerlach wiped the vomit from her mouth and staggered out of the women's lavatory. She did her best to straighten her uniform but her hands fumbled with the fabric and she was so dizzy she wouldn't have been able to tell if it was right side out or not. She put her hand on the wall to steady herself before walking down the narrow hall to the lounge. She couldn't bring herself to eat. The food on the ship was turning sour and beginning to make the crew sick. She hadn't been able to keep even good food down since that day. The liquor had long since dried up making it impossible to ignore the pain they all felt. Moral had plummeted, fights broke out, whipping and flogging was occurring on a daily basis and they were still weeks out from their next port. All while the Captain raided any passing, non-military ship, even ships from their own nation. Most of the goods plundered were either sent back to the home land or kept for himself.
As she entered the lounge her eyes were on the floor. Suddenly a hand was clapped around her mouth and an arm hooked around her neck in a choke hold. The poor sap that held her found himself with a foot swept out from under him and thrown in an arch before landing on his back and staring up at the ceiling and the young, dazed lieutenant. Two other men came after her, grabbing each arm and forcing her to the ground.
"Lieutenant, stop! Please!" one of the men hissed, "We aren't going to hurt you, just be quiet."
"Damnit I think she broke my arm, the man on the ground," moaned.
"Yeah? Well that's your own fault. What the hell were you thinking, shit-for-brains?" another standing beside a table full of soldiers in various states of shock said.
She was allowed up once she relaxed but found that the two men who had subdued her were now blocking the exit. All around the room gaunt men and women in uniforms and serious, tired expressions stared at her with a sort of malice. She felt cold. They had all been facing one direction. None of them had food or drink, cards or books, paperwork or letters.
"What's going on here?" she demanded.
Petty Officer Wells approached her slowly, "Make your move wisely, Sir," he warned, "Not that I don't trust you, but you report to the assholes at the top and we aren't taking chances. We're armed and we will make sure nobody finds you if you cause trouble."
She stood still and glared at him, "Explain."
"We're done," he said, "We're done with the war, we're done starving and eating rotting food, we're done fighting for the royal fatass' stupid territory disputes, we're done being beaten and raped, and we're done killing people so the higher ups can get their rocks off."
"You're not suggesting..."
"Mutiny. We're taking the ship."
Gerlach's eyes widened and she cast a frantic glance around the faces in the room once more. They were serious.
"That's treason," she said, "Every single one of us will be tortured to death if we're caught."
"Of course we will," Wells shrugged, "Pretty good incentive to not get caught, huh? The way I see it, most of us are on our way to a slow, painful death anyway. Would you rather die as some sad sorry pawn of an oppressive nation, or drunk, happy and fighting?"
"What will you do afterward? This is rash, Wells."
"So is butchering civilians and throwing the ship into unnecessary combat... No, 'rash' really isn't the word I'd use for that actually, but you get the point. Afterward," he shrugged, "Some of us want to defect, others want to take the ship and get out of the combat zone all together. Leave this place and settle somewhere more peaceful. Anything is better than this. I saw you after we captured the Koraaga. I know you want out."
Gerlach frowned at him and took a deep breath, the fatigue showing in her face, "This is insane."
"Yes it is."
"... I'm in."
Blood and scorch marks painted the upper decks where many of the officers had made their last stand. The captain's laser riddled body hung stiff and dripping from a chain hooked to one of the steel support beams. A demonstration to the captured officers now on display for the angry pirates. Gerlach stood beside Wells on the raised platform where the captain and commanders usually addressed assemblies. All of them were now with out rank and rallied as equals. She watched with a rifle in her hands and a fire in her eyes. There had been little resistance. The fifty or so officers could not stand up against several hundred enlisted men for long. A handful allowed themselves to be captured quietly.
One by one they were passed before the assembly for judgment. The cruel, corrupt and unjust were met with hails of hissing, insults, and curses before being put to a quick death. One round in the back of the head. Those who had proven themselves to be good soldiers and good men only doing what they had to in order to survive were given a vote and a second chance so long as they joined the cause and allowed themselves to be stripped of rank like the rest of them. A pile of bodies soon grew. Then her former Commander was brought out.
The consensus was reached almost immediately. The man was a killer, a rapist, sadistic, cruel and sick. Some of the things that were screamed at him embarrassed the members of the mob even.
"I want this one," Gerlach whispered to Wells.
He sized her up for a moment, "Fine. I understand."
She didn't put the bullet into the back of the man's head. She walked around him while he was on his knees so that he would have to look at her face. She put the barrel between his eyes. He spat and smiled. She pulled the trigger.
Six weeks later Carson was dragging herself and her broken leg across the jagged rocks of an unsettled island to the south. Cannon fire continued to rain down on the crash site and scream through the skies above as the two ships fought. One with Nesychian colors, the other unmarked. The newly renamed Tarakan towered out of the ground where it had collided with the rocks in a massive catastrophic heap of hellfire and twisted metal. The ship they had risked their lives to steal away from their home land had been struck down by its previous owners. It was apparent they would rather see her torn to shreds than in the hands of traitorous pirates.
Blood coated her face and limbs. Charred corpses and mortally wounded men were scattered across the island's edge. She scrambled as best as she could to find cover from the flames and debris. A shockwave ripped through her body and the air as one of the Nesychian ship's engines exploded. She found her way into the trees and into a shallow cavern formed by collapsed boulders. There she stopped to catch her breath and allow the pain to subside a little. She propped herself up with her back to the rocks and a rifle in her arms to watch the ship go down. It fell slow and heavy. It's side scrapped against the island's shore but missed any sort of safe landing doomed to plummet into the thick abyss. The unmarked ship had sailed out of sight.
Now she was alone, wounded and hand in hand with death if she could not find rescue, medical attention and resources. She could barely move. Shell shocked and with no idea what to do next, she clung to the gun and waited for her thoughts to untangle. Her blood was pooling beside her hip. She struggled to blink it out of her eye. Her hearing was nothing more than static. She was loosing track of time and struggling to hold her head up. Her hands started to shake. It was some time before the burning ambiance was interrupted.
Several figures combed the beach some distance away from the cavern. One locked eyes with her. He yelled back to his comrades before they hurriedly approached her. With what little strength she had left, Carson snapped the rifle up.
"STAY BACK!" she yelled, "DON'T TRY ME! I'LL FUCKING SHOOT YOU!"
They stopped, put their hands up and tried to reason with her, but at this point only a few words were making it through to her. From what she could see none of them were wearing an official uniform of any kind. They carried a hodge-podge of non-standard equipment and weapons. Pirates. Not from her crew though. It was then that a man with an eye patch came through the group and crouched down beside her. He was unarmed and asked her to put the gun down several times. Finally she ran out of strength to hold it up. When she wasn't immediately seized she allowed herself to relax. She really didn't have a choice.
"Help me up," she managed to growl at him.
Extra: Carson's skills are largely in coordination. She is an experienced gunnery liaison on war ships and specializes in big guns and artillery. She has made it a point to make the Dusicyon's armament her business. She can handle a rifle like the best but would rather stay out of close combat. She has never been one for pistols or small caliber weapons and struggles to aim them without constant practice. Though she can handle herself in a fight like any other member of the crew, her hand to hand skills are nothing too remarkable. She is quiet and serious and has a fierce will to fight, survive and be free. |
51,328 | 1,385 | 31 | 2,600 | 607 | The fire had become to intense for Cyrus to handle, the cover he had chosen had been reduced to dust and ash and now he had relocated into a warehouse. As soon as he stepped into it, bullets tore through the weak metal walls and ricocheted off of the stone floor, going all about the room. The room was an explosives ordinance storage facility and was filled with boxes full of bombs, explosives, missiles, and all sorts of fun toys for pirates. Cyrus sprinted and got down behind a large crate of who-knows-what and leaned against it, breathing shallowly. He looked down nearly lost it when he saw all the blood starting to pool. Four, maybe five, bullets tore through his armor. Turns out running at somebody with the cloak on wasn't a good idea. He groaned as he hefted up his left arm. It had felt heavy since sitting down and only now did he realize that there was a knife sticking in his forearm. He screamed with agony as he ripped it out and flexed his hand a little. He went to work digging two bullets out of his back and forcing his fingers through the bullet holes in his legs to get the bullets out.
Once he was done, he grabbed his rifle and checked the ammo. He was pleased to see that he still had plenty, but his pistol was in a sorry shape. Just one magazine left. He shook his head and rose from his position, getting against the crate and looking around. He spied a couple windows he could scale up to and get a good position on the outside battle, but before he did so he froze and held his breath. He heard voices and footsteps from the door he had come through.
"Find him and rip out his throat. No Pirate gets to attack my sky boomstick without MY SAY SO!" The other two fanned out while their leader slowly scanned the upper stacks of crates. The right pirate slowly made his way through the eastern side of the crates while his partner closed in Cyrus' position in the west. She heard something scrambling from around a corner and popped out at the loction screaming "Ahaha!" With her rifle pointed, but saw nothing but a rat running away. "See something, dawn?!" Said the eastern guard.
"Nah, not a thing, gi-" She froze as a gun was placed on her back and a hand wrapped over her mouth. She was dragged into the hallway of boxes she had surprised the rat in and felt her heartbeat pick up as Cyrus whispered into her ear. "Say a word and I'll blow you and whatever you had for breakfast all over the crates," she forced a nod out and shallowly sighed through her nose as Cyrus put her on her hands and knees.
"I don't make enough for me to get violated! Don't!" Cyrus paused and looked at the woman with a cocked head. "I'm...just going to conk you on the back of the head and come back later to get you to a doctor...geeze. Stop watching Law and Order: Skyward." "Oh. Wait, really? I'm...in the wrong type of pirate crew aren't I?"
"Yep." She simply grunted when Cyrus hit her in the back of the head with his pistol, knocking her out cold. He picked up her Rifle as well as a couple of magazines. Smiling under his mask, he fired a couple rounds into the ceiling before climbing onto one of the boxes and hiding in the darkness.
The other two pirates came to investigate the noise when they stumbled upon Dawn's body. "Shit, she's dead!" The captain said as he approached her. As he drew close though, he heard a slicing noise from behind and turned just in time to see Cyrus' blade pushing into his throat. Cyrus ran him through the adam's apple and ripped the blade out. With one pirate decapitated and the other bleeding out on the ground, Cyrus grabbed Dawn, picking her up, and placed her on top of a crate so she wouldn't get swarmed by rats.
Using his belt to steady his climb, Cyrus made his way up to the rafters and one of the windows. With the new rifle on his back, it was a bit more difficult, especially considering his wounds, but he made it up there alright and got against a steel beam before kicking out the window. Thankfully, nobody was watching at the moment and he was able to get set up without anymore incident.
Before he could get firing however, a crew-wide transmission came in on the transceivers for the ground team from Faulkner. "AttenSHUN maggots! Your little...diversion had been more of a boon than a mishap! I have cleared out thew western most AA gun myself have it under control. Good job! Now just don't die!"
___
Carson's own transceiver would pick up Faulkner's next message then giving her a little much needed intelligence. "Attention, Carson. I have cleared a landing pad for you at the western AA Gun. If you need to touch down for repairs: DOOOO SO! The second and third AA Guns should be dealt with shortly! Faulkner out!"
A second message would come through just after Faulkner's. But it was the captain instead. "Mansion AA gun is down, repeat. Mansion AA gun is down." The transmission was cut then as the captain went back to work. | Age: 45
Gender: Male
Appearance: Full
Facial appearance: Face
Armor: Heavy leather armor and a heavy shield.
Clothing: Dark blue silk clothing.
Weapons: A high caliber Lever action rifle.
A jewel encrusted electrified saber.
Miscellaneous items: He has a golden locket that contains an old holo-message of somebody waiting for him to return home after his endless voyage comes to an end.
Biography: "Captain, we will be arriving at Shax within the hour. Will you be performing some final inspections?" The captain sat alone at his desk looking out of a window at the approaching landmass. He was holding something in his hand. "No, Matthiew. I will leave that to you today."
The navigator stood silent for a moment before talking again. "Are you okay, boss?" The captain did not move much as he stared at something in his hands. Grissom approached and looked over his shoulder for a moment. The Captain was looking at the back of an eyepatch. His eyepatch. There was a picture embroidered into it, that of a young woman with long black hair. "Who is that, boss?"
The captain kept silent for a time. He had taken off his eyepatch to look at the picture on the back again. Normally it sat over his missing eye, but now it stood bare, the darkness within the socket being a cruel reminder of his past. "An old lover. Gone now." He covered the wound again and stared out the window. "I never did tell you her story, did I?"
"You did not, no."
Standing across from one another in front of an open hatch in the bottom of a large airship, James and a woman with pitch black hair with black and red combat armor fitting snuggly on her body looked at each other and smiled. They both clicked buttons on their chests and a black cord popped out of their backs and latched onto the wall. They both jumped down the hole and plummeted to the firefight that was going on below.
"She and I were part of a pirate clan called the Tiranade. We fought every battle together. We were inseparable. For a time, we thought we were invincible."
The two stood on top of a fallen skiff, dead all around as the clan rejoiced, their two greatest soldiers standing on top the enemy captain's flagship, triumphant.
"But, then the gaze of The Lost Wolves fell upon us. The Tiranade haven was attacked. It was a slaughter."
They stood together now, back to back, pistols in their hands as they stared down the group of black and red garbed pirates before them. They smiled and leaped into action.
"There was our last stand. Our clan had no survivors besides myself. I never even had the chance to say goodbye to her, her body was...unrecognizable among the corpses."
A hand coated in blood sprung from underneath a pile of corpses, the area around it was on fire, filling the air with smoke and death. Renault's head emerged from the pile and he took in a sharp, deep, breath. He pulled himself out slowly, his right eye was missing, leaving only darkness in its place. He was covered in blood and bile. He gasped for air as he clawed his way out, rolling to the ground as he broke free of the thralls of his once living friends.
"I remember well what I did after I narrowly avoided death. I went hunting."
Standing atop a small sky scraper, Renault looked down onto a smaller building that had been rumored to be a small headquarters for the Lost Wolf command. He held up a small black detonator with a red button on it. When he clicked it, the building erupted into fire. He turned and walked away.
"I had hunted them down until they were almost nothing. But their captain...Ulysses Tronik. Here covered recovered from every attack in mere days. For three months I had single handedly been wiping out hundreds of his men, even capturing his prized flagship, "The Deceit." The very ship you're standing in now. But...he was back the next week, even more powerful than before. He and his Lost Wolves simply came back again and again...."
He sighed and wrung his hands for a few moments before standing up slowly and gesturing for him to lead the way.
"I had taken the last photo I had of her and imprinted it to this eyepatch, so that I may always see her in whatever I do." He followed him out the door and to the cafeteria where the rest of the crew was waiting. They were a small group now, but soon they would be a force to be reckoned with. "...but you know the rest of the story. You were my first recruit."
"Aye, boss, I am."
"Now...you and I. We have him now. He's in Tirbetha, cornered like a rat. With this new crew, we will have him in our clutches. We'll rob him blind of everything he's ever valued, just as he did to me."
Extra: His pet crow Asphexia is the only companion that he has had over the years. Fast, armed with an unshackled A.I. and an on-board stealth field. Asphexia is a powerful ally for the captain.
Age: 29
Gender: Male
Appearance: Clothing and face
Armor: Lightly armored clothing with a bullet proof vest underneath. He likes to keep it quick and loose.
Weapons: A heavy caliber sniper rifle that he carries in nearly all situations.
In addition to his rifle he always carries his Revolver on him at all times.
He also has a single Single black metal sword normally situated on his back.
Miscellaneous items: He carries several magazines of ammo with him for all his weapons in a small bag at his side. He also carries a small bottle of brandy for particular nights when he can't sleep. He's always able to sleep when he's drunk.
Biography:
"So, I have a story for you guys today. About this guy I once knew that died a few weeks ago. His name was Brom. Brom was Born on a pathetic little rock out in the middle of nowhere, near the equator, on a really hot and sweltering monday, in the middle of the hottest season, on the anniversary of his late brother's death, mere hours after his father crashed into a tree with a hoverbike, breaking most of his bones."
"Brom's birthday always sucked. He grew up poor, having to do nothing but watch the occasional trader ship pass by day in and day out for years, waiting, watching, for the perfect moment. See, he was the type of kid to want to explore but his parents paid little attention to him, instead letting him just learn how to be human from a computer monitor and feed him every now and then. But then one day...the trader ship decided to give him a visit. His parents never heard from him again."
"At the ripe young age of ten, he was out on his own. He had joined the trader ship as a dishwasher, barely earning enough for him to rent the room that was on the ship, which was a cramped storage room with no bed. But to him, it was the best home he had ever had and he has had only two. It wasn't long before he jumped ship and found a new home in a large city island. A garden island named New Attica. What old Attica was like he'll never know, but the people were kind and he was able to get a job pretty easily. Things worked out very well until he turned 16, where he then joined the Nesychian military. He actually compared it to his childhood life there at first. He was beaten into the ground, served barely more than gray goop for food, and the water was 80% rust, 20% liquid substance that was NOT water. He knew things would get better, least somewhere in the back of his mind he did. He was able to ascend the ranks over the coarse of ten years and, with a lot of perseverance, the gray goop became freshly cloned Duck à l'orange, the crappy water became Cabernet Sauvignan, and he was getting laid every night."
"That was until his superiors started ordering him to kill children. Then he had an issue, and he made it vocal. They had ordered him to wipe out an school because an enemy officer was visiting there at the time. Not just the officer, but the whole school, because it wasn't like he was trained as a military sniper during his time in the military...but fuck that noise, right? He was having none of that and resisted it, told his superiors to go screw themselves and he went and became a mercenary for the enemy side. They sent assassins after him, robots, a few hookers. He sent some of them back to their masters in pieces, others were too incompetent to shoot the guy with the sniper rifle and instead tried to kill civilians. Didn't end up well for him.
He spent a few years with them, but he drifted away after awhile, sick of the war and sick of having to shoot people doing their jobs in the face. So he went freelancing and was immediately hired on by a captain with an eyepatch, and thus I'm a pirate now and here I am."
"Wait, I thought this was a st-"
"Shut up, Brom!"
Extra: In addition to being a sniper and long range support for the group, Cyrus is also the resident bartender in the officer's lounge. For the officers, they get a very classically insane bartender to share secrets to that shall remain secret. For Cyrus: Free booze.
All pictures are clickable.
Non-player-characters
Lead Navigator and 2nd in command: Matthiew "Matty" Grissom
A large man weighing in just under 300 pounds. Matthiew takes pride in being the lead navigator and Captain Renault's second in command. He is not a fighter in any way, so how he exactly help up in the face of insurmountable danger at Renault's side is a mystery known only to him and the captain.
Head mechanic Teddy Grufman.
An toublemaker in his youth, Teddy grew up a farm boy that fixed tractors for a living before taking off when he was sixteen to join an engineering core. He doesn't speak much about his past and the captain doesn't ask considering the man is a wiz with machinery. He and his protege' Nikola have been keeping the engines in tip top shape with barely enough supplies for years. |
51,329 | 1,385 | 32 | 1,700 | 2,632 | Cari Cruz
Just as Cari predicted, the locals rushed to the sound of the explosion and responded to the hysterical acting of Niesha. The distraction plan had gone perfectly to plan with Niesha's suggestion for using the zip line a now possible option again. Cari watched as Niesha prepared her bow and fired a shot over towards the side of the AA Gun. The arrow lodged itself through a thin metal facing and with a slight pull of the rope, the arrow itself created a decent anchor point for the zip line. The two began to tie off the rope on their end when a startling scream of panic caught them off guard.
"CARI LOOK OUT!"
Cari turned towards the voice and was greeted with a body pound that held enough force to knock her completely off balance and push her over to the side of the rooftop. She had lost her grounding, her feet drunkenly repositioned themselves in an attempt to try and stabilise her body, but this only resulted in her tripping over the very rope that they were tying off and she rolled over edge that she was attempting to avoid.
The sight of a blue sky filled Cari's vision. She could see the white clouds above with the occasional flash of brightly coloured rounds skimming across her view, scaring it's majestic beauty. Each moment that passed meant that she could see the edge of the rooftops rise around her as if they were encasing her in a tomb. With little time to think and acting on instinct she rotated her body around so that it faced the wall and with her fingers held straight, she punched into the hard facing. She felt her decent begin to slow as bits of debris exploded out of the trail that her hand left behind. Her shoes landed on the surface adding additional support for her body, but these attempts were only performed in vain as she saw her two middle fingers snap back in the reverse direction with her grip of the wall letting go and forcing her body to land on the hard surface below.
She laid there on the ground in pain, looking up to the ceiling. A high pitched ringing sound echoed throughout the room. Smoke filled the air and the smell of something burning tickled the nostrils with it's foul odour, an odour that was diluted by the taste of blood. As Cari screamed in pain no words came out of her mouth except for a bubbling gargle. She reached up in an attempt to feel what had happened to her jaw, but she caught glimpse of the stump like arms with fragments of bone and twitching nerves hanging out of the ends. Cari felt the tears begin to fall down her cheeks, just as her eyes reopened to once again reveal the buildings of Tirbetha.
Cari's arms shot straight up in the air as she laid there motionless on the ground. She examined her forearms and hands slowly, turning them around in an almost soothing dance so she could see every form of detail in the cybernetic design. Her right hand however was in sorry shape with the fingers bent in different directions and occasionally twitching in the wrist from a short circuit somewhere. She breathed a sigh of relief as her hands where bought back down onto her chest. Closing her eyes she listened to what her body had to say. She could feel her toes, she could feel her body's movement, but a faint pain in her chest area was something that she noticed. A possible broken bone? A fracture? She wasn't completely sure but this tingling sensation crept over her body and up towards her face. As she opened her eyes Cari could see two beady black gems from a familiar face staring right back at her.
"Hello there Shitface," she responded in a snarly remark realising who it was that created this scenario. She lifted her left hand and began scratching behind the ferret's neck, waiting for a moment to pass so she could have enough energy to pick herself back up. | Name: Nikola Quirke, 'Gentleman, Adventurer, Inventor' (Pronounced: Quirk)
Title: N/A
Age: 28
Gender: Male
Appearance: Nikola
Facial appearance:
Armor: His armor consists of a collared chest plate, brassy in color with a rubber interior. On the back of his armor, secured around his waist by a belt is a leather satchel containing a battery pack, a wire from said pack leads up the back of the armor and around the collar, connected to the metal surface of the chest plate by vacuum tube arrays, one positioned on the lower back and two over the shoulder blades; these vacuum tubes are encased in brass cages to protect them from damage in a gun fight. The way the army works is right before a projectile impacts the surface of the armor, an electrical field activates due to the presence of nearby metal and prevents the projectile making contact. The electric field can only work for a few shots before it needs to recharge, thus rendering the chest plate a standard piece of armor.
Clothing: When not wearing his armor, Nikola indulges in the finer clothing that comes with being the ship's resident handyman; An old, red suit-vest with many, many patches, underneath said suit-vest he wears an off white shirt and around it's collar a blue neck tie (in the style of the one in the picture). On his legs he wears a simple pair of grey trousers and brown boots with magnetic discs beneath, giving him excellent stability on the decks, walls and ceilings of the vessel. Over his attire he wears a white apron with many pockets in the front where he deposits his tools and notebook. Atop his head he wears a white bandana, on top which is a pair of green lensed goggles.
Weapons: 'Buck Kick' T-9 Revolver, modified to fire electric bullets.
Miscellaneous items:
-Jotter: His personal notebook of scribbles, notes, diagrams and annotations. When not at his table tinkering, or in the engine room running maintenance, he can be seen penning things down in that little book of his and even when he is doing the prior mentioned he finds time to jot.
-Pocket of Ferret Nibbles: Hand made food for his ferret, it consists of breadcrumbs made soggy in soup and left to dry on his windowsill, he is occasionally seen feeding them to his pet and sometimes feeding them to himself.
Biography: Born some time in mid Pluviôse, Nikola never had the had the good life. Nikola was initially brought into the world stillborn; during his transportation to the morgue however, he woke up screaming and wailing but otherwise completely healthy. He was taken home soon afterwards, home being a cramped apartment on an island of tenement buildings and smokey factories. Most of his childhood was spent in the dirty, tiny apartment that was his life and most of that time was spent lying on the floor and looking at the cracked display of a broken radio.
When he must have been nine or ten a sudden epiphany struck him, it was a small wrapped box knocking him in the back of the head. Turing around to see where the offensive missile came form, he found the tired smile of his father entering the apartment, "happy birthday Nikola.." he mumbled before heading off to his room to collapse on the mattress. Nikola looked down at the wrapped parcel and began unwrapping it's brown paper skin; inside was a black plastic case with a see-through cover. The case was filled with small screwdrivers and a wrench kit, he furrowed his brows for a moment then turned to the radio. It was time.
Nikola spent three days on the radio, cooped up in his room under the stairs, working by the hot light of his desk lamp. On the third day he put the back panel back on and with fingers crossed flicked the power nob. The display flickered to life, then died, then the entire radio exploded in a shower of sparks.
6 years later he found himself in the middle of adolescence and jumping from job to job with no success at holding one down, he was constantly being submitted into factories as a repairman and constantly fired for being found tinkering with the machines, though in truth he was making them better. So there he was, out on his ass again with no job and aging parents; in a huff he wondered the streets, his only companion Dorkface scurrying around his body before resting on Nikola's shoulder. He soon found himself walking down an air dock in some ramshackle (well more then normal) part of town, grumbling to himself and kicking a can down the pier. The smell of oil and ionized gas soon filled his nose, looking up he saw the inner workings of the most beautiful engine he had ever seen.
It was attached to 'The Crimson Dusicyon'.
Nikola ascended a set of scaffolding that lead up towards the engine, it creaked and groaned as he climbed but once at the top he was entranced. It was like looking up at the ceiling of a cathedral, a cathedral that was an engine and it was glorious; however upon closer inspection he found that it was plagued with problems. Locking round to see if anyone was nearby, he dived right in and began working on it, soon enough though he was disturbed from his deep, technical intercourse. Nikola was yanked out of his mechanical stupor by a gruff looking man, he appeared as if he were about to yell before he looked up and found everything in order and even some stuff improved upon.
"Say.. Did you do this kid?" he asked a bit confused, Nikola nodded excessively, keeping his mouth shut to prevent his 'eep' from escaping, "very good," said the man with a nod of appreciation, "I could use someone like you," he looked down at the cowering boy, "well maybe when you're a bit older, keep practicing though, we might just dock here again and I'd like to see how you'll along." with that the man let him go and he scrambled back down the scaffold.
Sure enough, 7 years later, the ship came back and Nikola was quick to get to he air dock, a young man in his early twenties itching for excitement... And the company of those luscious machines. He went straight to the Gruff man, ironically named Grufman and asked if there was any space for him.
Though Grufman himself couldn't accept Nikola onto the crew, he could advertise him to the captain.
Nikola was lead into the bridge and hunched over some charts was the captain, his face awash in the amber glow of a lamp and intense concentration. The pair, Grufman and Nikola strode over to the thoughtful figure, though it was Grufman doing most of the striding and Nikola scurrying behind.
Nikola found himself living on a gantry hanging above the engine room, it was unpleasant to start with but after a few years he's turned that strip of catwalk into a little home for himself, installing a few shelfs and dragging down an old mattress. He was content, showing the ship's machines much love and attention and tinkering around with small inventions.
Extra:
-A pet ferret by the name of Dorkface.
-Speaks in a soft slavic accent.
-Has nervous/apprehensive tendencies that usually materialize in forms like bitting extremities and stuttering. |
51,330 | 1,385 | 33 | 377 | 26,000 | At the scream, the warning, Niesha looked up. She was slightly away from Cari, checking to make sure everything was okay with her arrow, her bow hanging loosely from her bionic hand, which was, she learned seconds later, a mistake. As Nikola crashed into Cari, Niesha tried to grab Cari, to prevent her from falling, but only succeeding in nearly wrenching her pathetic human hand back completely, nearly breaking it.
She bit back a curse, stumbling forward quickly, she tried to assess her options. She planted her feet against the wall, leaning over to watch Cari's sickening fall. Nausea rose in Niesha's stomach like a tsuanmi, threatening to spill out her mouth in a fountain of vomiting, but she swallowed hard, and knocked an arrow, as if she could pierce Cari and hold her, but she knew she couldn't. Knew it would just end in disaster, but she couldn't just do nothing.
Niesha let out a frustrated growl, knowing all she could do at the moment was make her way down to Cari. She couldn't very well just leave her there, she would need defending. To Niesha, the plan was gone. She couldn't just let a team mate die, so she put the mission behind her, and she brought an arrow, rope tied to the end, down hard enough to embedded in the wall with her cybernetic hand, testing it with a few quick pulls.
Her fear of heights forgotten for the moment, Niesha swung a leg over the side of the building, took a deep breath, and holding the rope in both hands, let herself fall. She slid down the wall, falling faster then she wanted, and hung tight to the rope. It slipped through her hands, burning the skin on them with friction, but Niehsa didn't let go until her feet hit solid ground.
She stumbled, and looked around for Cari, seeing her lying on the ground, Dorkface by her. "Cari!" She cried, darting over to her, but as much as she wanted to kneel and check Cari over, she didn't, instead, she stayed standing, bow in front of her, an arrow in one hand, looking about them, ready to shoot an arrow at the slightest movement or sign that they were being attacked. | Niesha Shin
Age:
26
Gender:
female
Clothes:
Armor:
Weapons:
Miscellaneous items:
A gold heart shaped locket
Biography:
Niesha grew up the youngest of seven, the only daughter, in the outskirts of the city. She was pretty sheltered, but had a fearless nature due to this. She was quite young when, out walking one day she was kidnapped. She was transferred by several smugglers several times during the years where during that time she heard about the Dusicyon. She figured the dream of actually seeing it herself was just as useless as the dream of escaping and finding her family.
She didn't know how much time had passed, but one day, she managed to escape when a fight broke out between the smugglers and the captives. She didn't escape unharmed, suffering a severally maimed hand, that was replaced eventually with a cybernetic/bionic hand. But that's a story for another time.
She eventually returned home, after searching for what seemed to the young girl years only to find it ransacked with many of the personal items and furniture still in place. She searched the house from top to bottom, but there was no indication on what had happened, on where her family was, but she found her fathers bow, and it's arrows.
She struggled with indecision, and eventually headed out, scavenging some of her mothers clothes, and some other items before leaving, mainly golden heart shaped locket that was her mothers, and the bow.
She remembered the talk about the Dusicyon, and she debated and decided that it might be her best bet to try and find out what had happened to her family, assuming that it might have criminal connections given that she had heard it through the smugglers talk.
She approached the ship when it was docked, and asked for any sort of job, deciding to keep what her true intentions were for now. If something bad had happened to her parents and brothers, she didn't want to tip anyone off. So it was that she came to work on the ship, doing any sort of task that was required of her, and still practiced with her bow.
Extra:
Her hand- |
51,331 | 1,385 | 34 | 2,600 | 607 | Dorkface
The moment the parachute began to go out of control, Dorkface felt Nikola grab her from her little pocket on his chest. He didn't do it gently either, grabbing her torso and squeezing the air out of her lungs before hurling her out and away from him. For a moment she free fell, her little legs scrambling to find a purchase in the rushing air around her, she panicked, she screamed in her little head, she even tinkled in fear as she plummeted to what she assumed was going to be her untimely death. A small click sounded from behind her head, then she heard some springs and gears whirr within a small box attached to her back, she was suddenly and violently jerked to what she thought was a stop. She tremored with her eyes shut, she thought she was dead and dared not open her eyes to see what kind of afterlife she was living, it was starkly quiet but for the gentle sound of a slow breeze; except that the breeze wasn't the only thing she heard, it was a gentle whirr, a continuous shoomp, shoomp, shoomp. She dared a glance at the sound above her. To her suppose, spinning a few inches above her head, was a small set of 'Rotor-blades' she thought to herself in amazement, 'Nikola, you ingenious ba-' then it occurred to her, she couldn't see Nikola anywhere. As she looked around in panic, her slow decent brought her to the ground, she looked around, scanning for any sight of him but found nothing. She was about to scurry off and find him but was stopped when a hand gave her a gentle stroke, she flinched, rolling on her back to see the hand and the arm and then the body that it was attached to, coincidentally Dorkface was lying on the body. 'Cari! She can help me find Nikola!'
Nikola
Nikola watched in horror as his feet hit Cari square in the chest, he tried to lift them out of the way of her but it was no use. He watched her free fall down the side of the building and his guts felt watery, 'Did I kill Cari?' he never managed to answer himself. Moments later his body smashed through a large pane of glass, the glass turning into reflective shards as he sailed into the building. His body hit the floor, then bounced, then hit the floor again, the process repeating over and over as he was violently pounded against the shattered glass until he was jerked to a stop, his paracables taught as the rest of the chute was snagged on a scary looking piece of glass. Nikola had come to a stop on his back, facing the ceiling above him, for a moment he couldn't feel anything but bliss because he had survived the jump but then he was overcome with dread when he remembered throwing Dorkface away from him and kicking Cari off the roof; finally he felt immense pain. His side hurt like hell, he was certain that he had broken a few ribs and his arm hung limply at his side, most likely dislocated at the shoulder. Nikola staggered to his feet, his body awash with pain but he was alive, he stripped off his parachute harness and let the breeze whip up the chute and send it and the cables flying off; he reached for his radio to find a shattered, crunched piece of plastic at his hip, looks like he couldn't inform command of his brash actions. 'Now to get out of here and get those parts.' He looked around and found himself in a massive room occupied by cubicles, it appeared to have once been an office building but what didn't come to him as fast was the location of the elevator.
'But first lets find a way out.' | Age: 45
Gender: Male
Appearance: Full
Facial appearance: Face
Armor: Heavy leather armor and a heavy shield.
Clothing: Dark blue silk clothing.
Weapons: A high caliber Lever action rifle.
A jewel encrusted electrified saber.
Miscellaneous items: He has a golden locket that contains an old holo-message of somebody waiting for him to return home after his endless voyage comes to an end.
Biography: "Captain, we will be arriving at Shax within the hour. Will you be performing some final inspections?" The captain sat alone at his desk looking out of a window at the approaching landmass. He was holding something in his hand. "No, Matthiew. I will leave that to you today."
The navigator stood silent for a moment before talking again. "Are you okay, boss?" The captain did not move much as he stared at something in his hands. Grissom approached and looked over his shoulder for a moment. The Captain was looking at the back of an eyepatch. His eyepatch. There was a picture embroidered into it, that of a young woman with long black hair. "Who is that, boss?"
The captain kept silent for a time. He had taken off his eyepatch to look at the picture on the back again. Normally it sat over his missing eye, but now it stood bare, the darkness within the socket being a cruel reminder of his past. "An old lover. Gone now." He covered the wound again and stared out the window. "I never did tell you her story, did I?"
"You did not, no."
Standing across from one another in front of an open hatch in the bottom of a large airship, James and a woman with pitch black hair with black and red combat armor fitting snuggly on her body looked at each other and smiled. They both clicked buttons on their chests and a black cord popped out of their backs and latched onto the wall. They both jumped down the hole and plummeted to the firefight that was going on below.
"She and I were part of a pirate clan called the Tiranade. We fought every battle together. We were inseparable. For a time, we thought we were invincible."
The two stood on top of a fallen skiff, dead all around as the clan rejoiced, their two greatest soldiers standing on top the enemy captain's flagship, triumphant.
"But, then the gaze of The Lost Wolves fell upon us. The Tiranade haven was attacked. It was a slaughter."
They stood together now, back to back, pistols in their hands as they stared down the group of black and red garbed pirates before them. They smiled and leaped into action.
"There was our last stand. Our clan had no survivors besides myself. I never even had the chance to say goodbye to her, her body was...unrecognizable among the corpses."
A hand coated in blood sprung from underneath a pile of corpses, the area around it was on fire, filling the air with smoke and death. Renault's head emerged from the pile and he took in a sharp, deep, breath. He pulled himself out slowly, his right eye was missing, leaving only darkness in its place. He was covered in blood and bile. He gasped for air as he clawed his way out, rolling to the ground as he broke free of the thralls of his once living friends.
"I remember well what I did after I narrowly avoided death. I went hunting."
Standing atop a small sky scraper, Renault looked down onto a smaller building that had been rumored to be a small headquarters for the Lost Wolf command. He held up a small black detonator with a red button on it. When he clicked it, the building erupted into fire. He turned and walked away.
"I had hunted them down until they were almost nothing. But their captain...Ulysses Tronik. Here covered recovered from every attack in mere days. For three months I had single handedly been wiping out hundreds of his men, even capturing his prized flagship, "The Deceit." The very ship you're standing in now. But...he was back the next week, even more powerful than before. He and his Lost Wolves simply came back again and again...."
He sighed and wrung his hands for a few moments before standing up slowly and gesturing for him to lead the way.
"I had taken the last photo I had of her and imprinted it to this eyepatch, so that I may always see her in whatever I do." He followed him out the door and to the cafeteria where the rest of the crew was waiting. They were a small group now, but soon they would be a force to be reckoned with. "...but you know the rest of the story. You were my first recruit."
"Aye, boss, I am."
"Now...you and I. We have him now. He's in Tirbetha, cornered like a rat. With this new crew, we will have him in our clutches. We'll rob him blind of everything he's ever valued, just as he did to me."
Extra: His pet crow Asphexia is the only companion that he has had over the years. Fast, armed with an unshackled A.I. and an on-board stealth field. Asphexia is a powerful ally for the captain.
Age: 29
Gender: Male
Appearance: Clothing and face
Armor: Lightly armored clothing with a bullet proof vest underneath. He likes to keep it quick and loose.
Weapons: A heavy caliber sniper rifle that he carries in nearly all situations.
In addition to his rifle he always carries his Revolver on him at all times.
He also has a single Single black metal sword normally situated on his back.
Miscellaneous items: He carries several magazines of ammo with him for all his weapons in a small bag at his side. He also carries a small bottle of brandy for particular nights when he can't sleep. He's always able to sleep when he's drunk.
Biography:
"So, I have a story for you guys today. About this guy I once knew that died a few weeks ago. His name was Brom. Brom was Born on a pathetic little rock out in the middle of nowhere, near the equator, on a really hot and sweltering monday, in the middle of the hottest season, on the anniversary of his late brother's death, mere hours after his father crashed into a tree with a hoverbike, breaking most of his bones."
"Brom's birthday always sucked. He grew up poor, having to do nothing but watch the occasional trader ship pass by day in and day out for years, waiting, watching, for the perfect moment. See, he was the type of kid to want to explore but his parents paid little attention to him, instead letting him just learn how to be human from a computer monitor and feed him every now and then. But then one day...the trader ship decided to give him a visit. His parents never heard from him again."
"At the ripe young age of ten, he was out on his own. He had joined the trader ship as a dishwasher, barely earning enough for him to rent the room that was on the ship, which was a cramped storage room with no bed. But to him, it was the best home he had ever had and he has had only two. It wasn't long before he jumped ship and found a new home in a large city island. A garden island named New Attica. What old Attica was like he'll never know, but the people were kind and he was able to get a job pretty easily. Things worked out very well until he turned 16, where he then joined the Nesychian military. He actually compared it to his childhood life there at first. He was beaten into the ground, served barely more than gray goop for food, and the water was 80% rust, 20% liquid substance that was NOT water. He knew things would get better, least somewhere in the back of his mind he did. He was able to ascend the ranks over the coarse of ten years and, with a lot of perseverance, the gray goop became freshly cloned Duck à l'orange, the crappy water became Cabernet Sauvignan, and he was getting laid every night."
"That was until his superiors started ordering him to kill children. Then he had an issue, and he made it vocal. They had ordered him to wipe out an school because an enemy officer was visiting there at the time. Not just the officer, but the whole school, because it wasn't like he was trained as a military sniper during his time in the military...but fuck that noise, right? He was having none of that and resisted it, told his superiors to go screw themselves and he went and became a mercenary for the enemy side. They sent assassins after him, robots, a few hookers. He sent some of them back to their masters in pieces, others were too incompetent to shoot the guy with the sniper rifle and instead tried to kill civilians. Didn't end up well for him.
He spent a few years with them, but he drifted away after awhile, sick of the war and sick of having to shoot people doing their jobs in the face. So he went freelancing and was immediately hired on by a captain with an eyepatch, and thus I'm a pirate now and here I am."
"Wait, I thought this was a st-"
"Shut up, Brom!"
Extra: In addition to being a sniper and long range support for the group, Cyrus is also the resident bartender in the officer's lounge. For the officers, they get a very classically insane bartender to share secrets to that shall remain secret. For Cyrus: Free booze.
All pictures are clickable.
Non-player-characters
Lead Navigator and 2nd in command: Matthiew "Matty" Grissom
A large man weighing in just under 300 pounds. Matthiew takes pride in being the lead navigator and Captain Renault's second in command. He is not a fighter in any way, so how he exactly help up in the face of insurmountable danger at Renault's side is a mystery known only to him and the captain.
Head mechanic Teddy Grufman.
An toublemaker in his youth, Teddy grew up a farm boy that fixed tractors for a living before taking off when he was sixteen to join an engineering core. He doesn't speak much about his past and the captain doesn't ask considering the man is a wiz with machinery. He and his protege' Nikola have been keeping the engines in tip top shape with barely enough supplies for years. |
51,332 | 1,385 | 35 | 1,700 | 2,632 | We are not going to blow up everything, Gerlach purred at Greyson over the comm. Grey wasn't convinced. "Just raising a spot of hell and getting attenti--"
And then the impact hit, knocking the ship asunder. Grey yelled his vain concern, while Grissom wrestled with the controls. Flak pattered against the hull as the airship struggled to turn. The navigator felt himself heating up in his clothes, a layer of sweat threatening his forehead. Had one of the engines been taken out with that hit? He didn't quite have time to worry, as the Dusicyon suddenly dipped lower into the city's skyline to use the buildings as cover. A clever tactic, but not when they were flying at 100 miles per hour.
"TODAY WOULD BE NICE!"
Greyson's panicked yell was finally met with response as the Dusicyon narrowly pulled up and away from an oncoming skyscraper. Grissom cried back in frustration "I'm workin' on it, ya whiner! The controls aren't responding right! One of the engines must've-" Another interruption, as a blast of flak from the north tore into the bow of the ship. Desperately, the airship climbed up, up, away from the city, and well out of the range of the guns before it was able to bank about again.
"That's just it," Grey returned fire with his worries, "One of our engines must've been shredded in the first blast. And that second blast just hit..." The implications began to sink in with the navigation team when Gerlach barked up over the communications:
"Johannes, Grissom! I've lost contact with--"
Greyson grew a concerned frown with her sudden silence following- the comms were still running, based on the windy feedback the crew was getting over the receiver. "What? Could you finish that thought for us, please?"
"Is that...?" Another moment of silence, and then, "Son of a bitch! Navigation, it seems our engineer has gone AWOL." Eyes widened on the bridge, and Grisson pounded a fist on his console in frustration. "I had hoped that our orders to fight to the death wouldn't become quite so pressing, but we're ready to make another pass when you are."
"Very funny," Grissom growled back over the comms. In the span of 10 seconds, the Dusicyon had been turned into a limping mass with a chunk of its guns lost- he had the right to be angry about it. Not to mention how the Captain was going to tear into them if the ship got any worse off.
Luckily, their break came soon, in the from of Faulkner from the ground team: "Attention, Carson. I have cleared a landing pad for you at the western AA Gun. If you need to touch down for repairs: DOOOO SO! The second and third AA Guns should be dealt with shortly! Faulkner out!"
Before Carson or anyone else could say anything more, Grisson bleated out into his headset, "We're gonna be taking a pit stop at your new landing pad, Faulkner. Not because we have several wrecked Vulcans and a gaping hole in one of our engines, but because our primary asshole qualified to fix 'em decided to hot drop into the field!" A pause for dramatic effect (actually just moving away from the mic to breathe), and he continued, "That's right! Quirke's gone and flown himself somewhere into the city, so if any of you in the ground team find him, bring him to the western gun so I can CHEW OUT HIS STUPID HEAD!"
And with that, the Crimson Dusicyon, still on a wing and a prayer, dipped back down into the fray to fly over the western gun. Luckily, Greyson was able to point out to the pilot that the path tracing from the northern gun was open now, thanks to the Captain's intervention. | Name: Nikola Quirke, 'Gentleman, Adventurer, Inventor' (Pronounced: Quirk)
Title: N/A
Age: 28
Gender: Male
Appearance: Nikola
Facial appearance:
Armor: His armor consists of a collared chest plate, brassy in color with a rubber interior. On the back of his armor, secured around his waist by a belt is a leather satchel containing a battery pack, a wire from said pack leads up the back of the armor and around the collar, connected to the metal surface of the chest plate by vacuum tube arrays, one positioned on the lower back and two over the shoulder blades; these vacuum tubes are encased in brass cages to protect them from damage in a gun fight. The way the army works is right before a projectile impacts the surface of the armor, an electrical field activates due to the presence of nearby metal and prevents the projectile making contact. The electric field can only work for a few shots before it needs to recharge, thus rendering the chest plate a standard piece of armor.
Clothing: When not wearing his armor, Nikola indulges in the finer clothing that comes with being the ship's resident handyman; An old, red suit-vest with many, many patches, underneath said suit-vest he wears an off white shirt and around it's collar a blue neck tie (in the style of the one in the picture). On his legs he wears a simple pair of grey trousers and brown boots with magnetic discs beneath, giving him excellent stability on the decks, walls and ceilings of the vessel. Over his attire he wears a white apron with many pockets in the front where he deposits his tools and notebook. Atop his head he wears a white bandana, on top which is a pair of green lensed goggles.
Weapons: 'Buck Kick' T-9 Revolver, modified to fire electric bullets.
Miscellaneous items:
-Jotter: His personal notebook of scribbles, notes, diagrams and annotations. When not at his table tinkering, or in the engine room running maintenance, he can be seen penning things down in that little book of his and even when he is doing the prior mentioned he finds time to jot.
-Pocket of Ferret Nibbles: Hand made food for his ferret, it consists of breadcrumbs made soggy in soup and left to dry on his windowsill, he is occasionally seen feeding them to his pet and sometimes feeding them to himself.
Biography: Born some time in mid Pluviôse, Nikola never had the had the good life. Nikola was initially brought into the world stillborn; during his transportation to the morgue however, he woke up screaming and wailing but otherwise completely healthy. He was taken home soon afterwards, home being a cramped apartment on an island of tenement buildings and smokey factories. Most of his childhood was spent in the dirty, tiny apartment that was his life and most of that time was spent lying on the floor and looking at the cracked display of a broken radio.
When he must have been nine or ten a sudden epiphany struck him, it was a small wrapped box knocking him in the back of the head. Turing around to see where the offensive missile came form, he found the tired smile of his father entering the apartment, "happy birthday Nikola.." he mumbled before heading off to his room to collapse on the mattress. Nikola looked down at the wrapped parcel and began unwrapping it's brown paper skin; inside was a black plastic case with a see-through cover. The case was filled with small screwdrivers and a wrench kit, he furrowed his brows for a moment then turned to the radio. It was time.
Nikola spent three days on the radio, cooped up in his room under the stairs, working by the hot light of his desk lamp. On the third day he put the back panel back on and with fingers crossed flicked the power nob. The display flickered to life, then died, then the entire radio exploded in a shower of sparks.
6 years later he found himself in the middle of adolescence and jumping from job to job with no success at holding one down, he was constantly being submitted into factories as a repairman and constantly fired for being found tinkering with the machines, though in truth he was making them better. So there he was, out on his ass again with no job and aging parents; in a huff he wondered the streets, his only companion Dorkface scurrying around his body before resting on Nikola's shoulder. He soon found himself walking down an air dock in some ramshackle (well more then normal) part of town, grumbling to himself and kicking a can down the pier. The smell of oil and ionized gas soon filled his nose, looking up he saw the inner workings of the most beautiful engine he had ever seen.
It was attached to 'The Crimson Dusicyon'.
Nikola ascended a set of scaffolding that lead up towards the engine, it creaked and groaned as he climbed but once at the top he was entranced. It was like looking up at the ceiling of a cathedral, a cathedral that was an engine and it was glorious; however upon closer inspection he found that it was plagued with problems. Locking round to see if anyone was nearby, he dived right in and began working on it, soon enough though he was disturbed from his deep, technical intercourse. Nikola was yanked out of his mechanical stupor by a gruff looking man, he appeared as if he were about to yell before he looked up and found everything in order and even some stuff improved upon.
"Say.. Did you do this kid?" he asked a bit confused, Nikola nodded excessively, keeping his mouth shut to prevent his 'eep' from escaping, "very good," said the man with a nod of appreciation, "I could use someone like you," he looked down at the cowering boy, "well maybe when you're a bit older, keep practicing though, we might just dock here again and I'd like to see how you'll along." with that the man let him go and he scrambled back down the scaffold.
Sure enough, 7 years later, the ship came back and Nikola was quick to get to he air dock, a young man in his early twenties itching for excitement... And the company of those luscious machines. He went straight to the Gruff man, ironically named Grufman and asked if there was any space for him.
Though Grufman himself couldn't accept Nikola onto the crew, he could advertise him to the captain.
Nikola was lead into the bridge and hunched over some charts was the captain, his face awash in the amber glow of a lamp and intense concentration. The pair, Grufman and Nikola strode over to the thoughtful figure, though it was Grufman doing most of the striding and Nikola scurrying behind.
Nikola found himself living on a gantry hanging above the engine room, it was unpleasant to start with but after a few years he's turned that strip of catwalk into a little home for himself, installing a few shelfs and dragging down an old mattress. He was content, showing the ship's machines much love and attention and tinkering around with small inventions.
Extra:
-A pet ferret by the name of Dorkface.
-Speaks in a soft slavic accent.
-Has nervous/apprehensive tendencies that usually materialize in forms like bitting extremities and stuttering. |
51,333 | 1,385 | 36 | 2,600 | 607 | Step right into the...Danger zone! The sound of Cyrus' rifle firing and the bolt being cycled filled the warehouse where he still sat, ignoring the fact that he was probably going to bleed out soon. "Danger zone! OW" The sound bounced off of the walls again and echoed back to him, though he helmet kept him from losing his hearing. After his next shot, he nearly off of the beam he was sitting on as he burst into laughter. "Oh my god, his head. Oh man. I hope somebody saw that, it was all like...PPPTHHH. I'm going to have to tell faulkner about that one." He regained his composure and looked back into the scope to kill somebody else advancing on his position. He froze for a moment and looked over the scope and out the window. "Oh shit." He rolled over and off of the beam, barely having time to connect the grapple and rappel down to the floor. The second he touched down the side of the building exploded inward and metal shards rained down onto his head. He dove for cover and got up against a box as the metal monstrosity pushed through what was left of the wall and into the warehouse, spreading smoke and debris everywhere. "A Spider tank?! REALLY?!" he screamed as the tank stepped out of the smoke and fired it's gun at a grouping of boxes near where Cyrus was hiding, obliterating the bombs in them and setting off a chain reaction as the ammunition inside started to go off like fireworks. Cyrus covered his face and tried to shield himself as a string of curses poured out of his mouth. He took at least a half dozen bullets as they went all over the place and screamed as he felt his collar bone break from a bullet smashing into it. Hefting himself up, he sprinted through the pain and smoke across the warehouse. "Shitfuckpissshitwhoreassmotherfucker can't fight a tank, won't fight it. Nope nope nope NOPE! Crap, the woman. DAMN MY SELF RIGHTEOUS SENSE OF HONOR." He screeched to a halt next to where he had lay down the woman soldier from his previous encounter and reached down to lift her up. He lifted her up and onto his shoulder and started to book it. Even though he was a strong man, this woman was heavy in her armor and as he ran, he unstrapped her armor bit by bit.
Making it out of the warehouse and across the alleyway, he reached a door just as the wall he had just came out of exploded as the spider tank drew closer to his position. He panicked and tried to open the door but it wouldn't budge. He couldn't get the strength to bash it down with nameless soldier #3 on his back so he turned and ran around the corner with his knees smashing into his chest as he did. Thankfully, he had chosen the back side of the building instead of the front. Running along, he noticed that the building was a large, empty, office building. He knew that the building would slow the tank down and just kept running. He hoped that he would run into Cari or something as he did because at the moment, dying by tank was not a way to go.
Least not without some flair at least.
________
Though the two were on their last legs, a helping hand from behind them lifted them to their feet. They'd both look to see the Captain helping them along. He took over for Niesha and hefted Cari himself. Faulkner approached with his rifle at the ready. "General, there is a tank to the west of this building. Deal with it and get it to the western AA. Niesha, scout ahead, find us an escape route. Travis. " The outlaw came from around the corner behind them and approached. "Assist her." The captain commanded and didn't wait for an answer from Niesha or Travis. Faulkner sped off to do as he was told while the captain set down Cari against the wall nice and gently. "You're not done yet." he said and procured a first aid kit from his satchel. He knew she had a lot of cybernetics but she was just as human as the rest of them and the gauze would go a long ways towards keeping her alive.
He paused for a moment and held up her quickly sagging head. "No, look at me, stare at my face, stay awake. Do not close your eyes for a second." He forced her to stare at him while he applied medical gel to her deep wounds. He grabbed an adrenaline pen finally and injected it into her thigh. "Now get up. Come on. Fight's not done yet. We will retake this AA in time, we just need to get to the western AA." | Age: 45
Gender: Male
Appearance: Full
Facial appearance: Face
Armor: Heavy leather armor and a heavy shield.
Clothing: Dark blue silk clothing.
Weapons: A high caliber Lever action rifle.
A jewel encrusted electrified saber.
Miscellaneous items: He has a golden locket that contains an old holo-message of somebody waiting for him to return home after his endless voyage comes to an end.
Biography: "Captain, we will be arriving at Shax within the hour. Will you be performing some final inspections?" The captain sat alone at his desk looking out of a window at the approaching landmass. He was holding something in his hand. "No, Matthiew. I will leave that to you today."
The navigator stood silent for a moment before talking again. "Are you okay, boss?" The captain did not move much as he stared at something in his hands. Grissom approached and looked over his shoulder for a moment. The Captain was looking at the back of an eyepatch. His eyepatch. There was a picture embroidered into it, that of a young woman with long black hair. "Who is that, boss?"
The captain kept silent for a time. He had taken off his eyepatch to look at the picture on the back again. Normally it sat over his missing eye, but now it stood bare, the darkness within the socket being a cruel reminder of his past. "An old lover. Gone now." He covered the wound again and stared out the window. "I never did tell you her story, did I?"
"You did not, no."
Standing across from one another in front of an open hatch in the bottom of a large airship, James and a woman with pitch black hair with black and red combat armor fitting snuggly on her body looked at each other and smiled. They both clicked buttons on their chests and a black cord popped out of their backs and latched onto the wall. They both jumped down the hole and plummeted to the firefight that was going on below.
"She and I were part of a pirate clan called the Tiranade. We fought every battle together. We were inseparable. For a time, we thought we were invincible."
The two stood on top of a fallen skiff, dead all around as the clan rejoiced, their two greatest soldiers standing on top the enemy captain's flagship, triumphant.
"But, then the gaze of The Lost Wolves fell upon us. The Tiranade haven was attacked. It was a slaughter."
They stood together now, back to back, pistols in their hands as they stared down the group of black and red garbed pirates before them. They smiled and leaped into action.
"There was our last stand. Our clan had no survivors besides myself. I never even had the chance to say goodbye to her, her body was...unrecognizable among the corpses."
A hand coated in blood sprung from underneath a pile of corpses, the area around it was on fire, filling the air with smoke and death. Renault's head emerged from the pile and he took in a sharp, deep, breath. He pulled himself out slowly, his right eye was missing, leaving only darkness in its place. He was covered in blood and bile. He gasped for air as he clawed his way out, rolling to the ground as he broke free of the thralls of his once living friends.
"I remember well what I did after I narrowly avoided death. I went hunting."
Standing atop a small sky scraper, Renault looked down onto a smaller building that had been rumored to be a small headquarters for the Lost Wolf command. He held up a small black detonator with a red button on it. When he clicked it, the building erupted into fire. He turned and walked away.
"I had hunted them down until they were almost nothing. But their captain...Ulysses Tronik. Here covered recovered from every attack in mere days. For three months I had single handedly been wiping out hundreds of his men, even capturing his prized flagship, "The Deceit." The very ship you're standing in now. But...he was back the next week, even more powerful than before. He and his Lost Wolves simply came back again and again...."
He sighed and wrung his hands for a few moments before standing up slowly and gesturing for him to lead the way.
"I had taken the last photo I had of her and imprinted it to this eyepatch, so that I may always see her in whatever I do." He followed him out the door and to the cafeteria where the rest of the crew was waiting. They were a small group now, but soon they would be a force to be reckoned with. "...but you know the rest of the story. You were my first recruit."
"Aye, boss, I am."
"Now...you and I. We have him now. He's in Tirbetha, cornered like a rat. With this new crew, we will have him in our clutches. We'll rob him blind of everything he's ever valued, just as he did to me."
Extra: His pet crow Asphexia is the only companion that he has had over the years. Fast, armed with an unshackled A.I. and an on-board stealth field. Asphexia is a powerful ally for the captain.
Age: 29
Gender: Male
Appearance: Clothing and face
Armor: Lightly armored clothing with a bullet proof vest underneath. He likes to keep it quick and loose.
Weapons: A heavy caliber sniper rifle that he carries in nearly all situations.
In addition to his rifle he always carries his Revolver on him at all times.
He also has a single Single black metal sword normally situated on his back.
Miscellaneous items: He carries several magazines of ammo with him for all his weapons in a small bag at his side. He also carries a small bottle of brandy for particular nights when he can't sleep. He's always able to sleep when he's drunk.
Biography:
"So, I have a story for you guys today. About this guy I once knew that died a few weeks ago. His name was Brom. Brom was Born on a pathetic little rock out in the middle of nowhere, near the equator, on a really hot and sweltering monday, in the middle of the hottest season, on the anniversary of his late brother's death, mere hours after his father crashed into a tree with a hoverbike, breaking most of his bones."
"Brom's birthday always sucked. He grew up poor, having to do nothing but watch the occasional trader ship pass by day in and day out for years, waiting, watching, for the perfect moment. See, he was the type of kid to want to explore but his parents paid little attention to him, instead letting him just learn how to be human from a computer monitor and feed him every now and then. But then one day...the trader ship decided to give him a visit. His parents never heard from him again."
"At the ripe young age of ten, he was out on his own. He had joined the trader ship as a dishwasher, barely earning enough for him to rent the room that was on the ship, which was a cramped storage room with no bed. But to him, it was the best home he had ever had and he has had only two. It wasn't long before he jumped ship and found a new home in a large city island. A garden island named New Attica. What old Attica was like he'll never know, but the people were kind and he was able to get a job pretty easily. Things worked out very well until he turned 16, where he then joined the Nesychian military. He actually compared it to his childhood life there at first. He was beaten into the ground, served barely more than gray goop for food, and the water was 80% rust, 20% liquid substance that was NOT water. He knew things would get better, least somewhere in the back of his mind he did. He was able to ascend the ranks over the coarse of ten years and, with a lot of perseverance, the gray goop became freshly cloned Duck à l'orange, the crappy water became Cabernet Sauvignan, and he was getting laid every night."
"That was until his superiors started ordering him to kill children. Then he had an issue, and he made it vocal. They had ordered him to wipe out an school because an enemy officer was visiting there at the time. Not just the officer, but the whole school, because it wasn't like he was trained as a military sniper during his time in the military...but fuck that noise, right? He was having none of that and resisted it, told his superiors to go screw themselves and he went and became a mercenary for the enemy side. They sent assassins after him, robots, a few hookers. He sent some of them back to their masters in pieces, others were too incompetent to shoot the guy with the sniper rifle and instead tried to kill civilians. Didn't end up well for him.
He spent a few years with them, but he drifted away after awhile, sick of the war and sick of having to shoot people doing their jobs in the face. So he went freelancing and was immediately hired on by a captain with an eyepatch, and thus I'm a pirate now and here I am."
"Wait, I thought this was a st-"
"Shut up, Brom!"
Extra: In addition to being a sniper and long range support for the group, Cyrus is also the resident bartender in the officer's lounge. For the officers, they get a very classically insane bartender to share secrets to that shall remain secret. For Cyrus: Free booze.
All pictures are clickable.
Non-player-characters
Lead Navigator and 2nd in command: Matthiew "Matty" Grissom
A large man weighing in just under 300 pounds. Matthiew takes pride in being the lead navigator and Captain Renault's second in command. He is not a fighter in any way, so how he exactly help up in the face of insurmountable danger at Renault's side is a mystery known only to him and the captain.
Head mechanic Teddy Grufman.
An toublemaker in his youth, Teddy grew up a farm boy that fixed tractors for a living before taking off when he was sixteen to join an engineering core. He doesn't speak much about his past and the captain doesn't ask considering the man is a wiz with machinery. He and his protege' Nikola have been keeping the engines in tip top shape with barely enough supplies for years. |
51,334 | 1,385 | 37 | 618 | 302 | We will be doing far more than just "touching down, Carson thought among all the yelling.
With the change of plans she started barking orders once more, "Get me a maintenance report and try to get this smoke cleared! Prepare a second ground team to secure the areas around the landing site as soon as we are down! We will need a foothold to take the rest of the city from. I need sharpshooters on all sides! Nobody comes within two hundred meters of this ship, is that clear?"
The woman leaned with both hands on the control panel between two officers. As they descended and the flak cleared and more of the city came into detail she searched frantically for any sign of this landing pad Faulkner said he had cleared for them. There was the inactive AA gun up on the screen, but where... Carson couldn't help but notice a rather wide and very long main street flanked by low rise buildings leading to a huge plaza under the shadow of the gun. Not a landing pad. A street. No anti-gravity suspension, no holding field, no magnetic locks. Just a God damned street.
A question that had never occurred to her before crept to the forefront of her thoughts: How does one "land" an airship? The navigators must have seen it too. The fact that the ship was lining up with this makeshift runway did not escape her attention. She found herself gripping the sides of the panel until her knuckles turned white.
"Boys," she called up to the bridge again, all the while watching the ground come closer and closer, "I have concerns. Many of them." | Name: Carson Gerlach
Title: Gunner
Age: 30
Gender: Female
Appearance:
Armor:
Clothing: As shown in appearance.
Weapons:
-ZX-1
-Standard Knife
-Boarding Axe
Miscellaneous items:
-Signal Flares
-Journal
-Wallet
-Dog Tags
Biography:
"Lieutenant! Your boarding party is clear to move. Secure the vessel and clear out survivors."
"Yes, Sir!" Lieutenant Gerlach affirmed through her headset.
The belly of the massive battleship opened before them over the infinite layer of clouds below and a smoking enemy airship flying a white flag. A squad of soldiers stood with her, fully armed and ready to repel down to seize the ship.
"Move out!" She gave the order and watched as the squad fearlessly took the dive into the sky, with nothing but their ropes and descenders to hold them. She was the last one out of the ship. The wind whipped and tore at her clothes for several long moments as she made her rapid drop and she felt her stomach rise into her throat. Soon enough she was putting on the pressure to slow herself down for the last dozen feet or so and her heavy combat boots made a satisfying THUNK on the rigid balloon top. The squad was already moving to the deck proper by way of the maintenance ladders. Before she had made it down behind them shots had already rang out.
Lieutenant Gerlach arrived as the last uniformed crew member fell to the ground clutching at the hole where a laser had punched through his chest. Five others like him lay scattered in the corridor.
"Get to the bridge," she ordered, stepping over one of the bodies. They made their way up the ship with remarkable speed and efficiency. Once one of the enemy officers came at them with a gun, but the squad was ready. The crew of this frigate was not. They had barely fired on them when the two ships first engaged and surrendered quickly, but she knew as well as anybody else that the Nesychian Navy did not take anyone aside from high ranking officers as prisoners. The crew in the bridge was warned of their coming by the sounds of death coming from the two men that stood guard. The squad entered swiftly.
"ON YOUR KNEES! NOW!" Gerlach screamed at them.
Her squad joined in with the orders. With rifles pointed at them and their hands in the air the officers willingly went to the ground. She saw a lot of stripes. A few of them would make useful bargaining chips, especially the captain. Said captain was eying her as she made the call back to her commander.
"The bridge is secure, Commander."
"Rodger that. Hold them there until we get the rest of our boarding parties down."
"Yes, Sir."
"Please," the captain begged her, "The rest of the people on this ship, please let them go. They aren't military, this is a transport ship."
Gerlach put her rifle back in his face, "What are you talking about? You're flying colors and wearing naval uniforms. Don't play with me."
"Refugees! They're refugees from the war. Not soldiers, please let them go."
"What!?"
Gerlach stood with her Commander over-looking a cargo hold laden with cots, tents, makeshift lavatories, tables and terrified civilian families. The Commander sighed as he took a long drag off of his cigarette.
"Stupid bastards, sailing through captured airspace like this. Got what was coming to 'em," he growled, "Lieutenant, you and the rest of the men finish up here. Pitch the garbage, bodies and anything we can't use out of the loading bay. I want the lower decks completely cleared."
"Sir? What about the refugees?" she asked.
"You heard me. We have all the prisoners we need and most of the crew have already been executed. Just need to finish the clean up."
"Sir, most of these refugees are children. They aren't soldiers. They aren't a threat to us."
"Lieutenant are you questioning your orders?"
"I-- No, Sir. I just--"
"Lieutenant, if this deck isn't cleared in the next two hours I will personally see to it that you are flogged, stripped of your rank, sent to the captains quarters, then to my quarters and then thrown in the brig for the rest of this war. The only reason you've been able to climb the ranks is because of your dear daddy Admiral, but don't think that is going to make anybody give a rat's ass if you make it out of this shit storm intact or not," he breathed a puff of smoke into her face, "Understood?"
"Yes, Sir," she said quietly.
Gerlach wiped the vomit from her mouth and staggered out of the women's lavatory. She did her best to straighten her uniform but her hands fumbled with the fabric and she was so dizzy she wouldn't have been able to tell if it was right side out or not. She put her hand on the wall to steady herself before walking down the narrow hall to the lounge. She couldn't bring herself to eat. The food on the ship was turning sour and beginning to make the crew sick. She hadn't been able to keep even good food down since that day. The liquor had long since dried up making it impossible to ignore the pain they all felt. Moral had plummeted, fights broke out, whipping and flogging was occurring on a daily basis and they were still weeks out from their next port. All while the Captain raided any passing, non-military ship, even ships from their own nation. Most of the goods plundered were either sent back to the home land or kept for himself.
As she entered the lounge her eyes were on the floor. Suddenly a hand was clapped around her mouth and an arm hooked around her neck in a choke hold. The poor sap that held her found himself with a foot swept out from under him and thrown in an arch before landing on his back and staring up at the ceiling and the young, dazed lieutenant. Two other men came after her, grabbing each arm and forcing her to the ground.
"Lieutenant, stop! Please!" one of the men hissed, "We aren't going to hurt you, just be quiet."
"Damnit I think she broke my arm, the man on the ground," moaned.
"Yeah? Well that's your own fault. What the hell were you thinking, shit-for-brains?" another standing beside a table full of soldiers in various states of shock said.
She was allowed up once she relaxed but found that the two men who had subdued her were now blocking the exit. All around the room gaunt men and women in uniforms and serious, tired expressions stared at her with a sort of malice. She felt cold. They had all been facing one direction. None of them had food or drink, cards or books, paperwork or letters.
"What's going on here?" she demanded.
Petty Officer Wells approached her slowly, "Make your move wisely, Sir," he warned, "Not that I don't trust you, but you report to the assholes at the top and we aren't taking chances. We're armed and we will make sure nobody finds you if you cause trouble."
She stood still and glared at him, "Explain."
"We're done," he said, "We're done with the war, we're done starving and eating rotting food, we're done fighting for the royal fatass' stupid territory disputes, we're done being beaten and raped, and we're done killing people so the higher ups can get their rocks off."
"You're not suggesting..."
"Mutiny. We're taking the ship."
Gerlach's eyes widened and she cast a frantic glance around the faces in the room once more. They were serious.
"That's treason," she said, "Every single one of us will be tortured to death if we're caught."
"Of course we will," Wells shrugged, "Pretty good incentive to not get caught, huh? The way I see it, most of us are on our way to a slow, painful death anyway. Would you rather die as some sad sorry pawn of an oppressive nation, or drunk, happy and fighting?"
"What will you do afterward? This is rash, Wells."
"So is butchering civilians and throwing the ship into unnecessary combat... No, 'rash' really isn't the word I'd use for that actually, but you get the point. Afterward," he shrugged, "Some of us want to defect, others want to take the ship and get out of the combat zone all together. Leave this place and settle somewhere more peaceful. Anything is better than this. I saw you after we captured the Koraaga. I know you want out."
Gerlach frowned at him and took a deep breath, the fatigue showing in her face, "This is insane."
"Yes it is."
"... I'm in."
Blood and scorch marks painted the upper decks where many of the officers had made their last stand. The captain's laser riddled body hung stiff and dripping from a chain hooked to one of the steel support beams. A demonstration to the captured officers now on display for the angry pirates. Gerlach stood beside Wells on the raised platform where the captain and commanders usually addressed assemblies. All of them were now with out rank and rallied as equals. She watched with a rifle in her hands and a fire in her eyes. There had been little resistance. The fifty or so officers could not stand up against several hundred enlisted men for long. A handful allowed themselves to be captured quietly.
One by one they were passed before the assembly for judgment. The cruel, corrupt and unjust were met with hails of hissing, insults, and curses before being put to a quick death. One round in the back of the head. Those who had proven themselves to be good soldiers and good men only doing what they had to in order to survive were given a vote and a second chance so long as they joined the cause and allowed themselves to be stripped of rank like the rest of them. A pile of bodies soon grew. Then her former Commander was brought out.
The consensus was reached almost immediately. The man was a killer, a rapist, sadistic, cruel and sick. Some of the things that were screamed at him embarrassed the members of the mob even.
"I want this one," Gerlach whispered to Wells.
He sized her up for a moment, "Fine. I understand."
She didn't put the bullet into the back of the man's head. She walked around him while he was on his knees so that he would have to look at her face. She put the barrel between his eyes. He spat and smiled. She pulled the trigger.
Six weeks later Carson was dragging herself and her broken leg across the jagged rocks of an unsettled island to the south. Cannon fire continued to rain down on the crash site and scream through the skies above as the two ships fought. One with Nesychian colors, the other unmarked. The newly renamed Tarakan towered out of the ground where it had collided with the rocks in a massive catastrophic heap of hellfire and twisted metal. The ship they had risked their lives to steal away from their home land had been struck down by its previous owners. It was apparent they would rather see her torn to shreds than in the hands of traitorous pirates.
Blood coated her face and limbs. Charred corpses and mortally wounded men were scattered across the island's edge. She scrambled as best as she could to find cover from the flames and debris. A shockwave ripped through her body and the air as one of the Nesychian ship's engines exploded. She found her way into the trees and into a shallow cavern formed by collapsed boulders. There she stopped to catch her breath and allow the pain to subside a little. She propped herself up with her back to the rocks and a rifle in her arms to watch the ship go down. It fell slow and heavy. It's side scrapped against the island's shore but missed any sort of safe landing doomed to plummet into the thick abyss. The unmarked ship had sailed out of sight.
Now she was alone, wounded and hand in hand with death if she could not find rescue, medical attention and resources. She could barely move. Shell shocked and with no idea what to do next, she clung to the gun and waited for her thoughts to untangle. Her blood was pooling beside her hip. She struggled to blink it out of her eye. Her hearing was nothing more than static. She was loosing track of time and struggling to hold her head up. Her hands started to shake. It was some time before the burning ambiance was interrupted.
Several figures combed the beach some distance away from the cavern. One locked eyes with her. He yelled back to his comrades before they hurriedly approached her. With what little strength she had left, Carson snapped the rifle up.
"STAY BACK!" she yelled, "DON'T TRY ME! I'LL FUCKING SHOOT YOU!"
They stopped, put their hands up and tried to reason with her, but at this point only a few words were making it through to her. From what she could see none of them were wearing an official uniform of any kind. They carried a hodge-podge of non-standard equipment and weapons. Pirates. Not from her crew though. It was then that a man with an eye patch came through the group and crouched down beside her. He was unarmed and asked her to put the gun down several times. Finally she ran out of strength to hold it up. When she wasn't immediately seized she allowed herself to relax. She really didn't have a choice.
"Help me up," she managed to growl at him.
Extra: Carson's skills are largely in coordination. She is an experienced gunnery liaison on war ships and specializes in big guns and artillery. She has made it a point to make the Dusicyon's armament her business. She can handle a rifle like the best but would rather stay out of close combat. She has never been one for pistols or small caliber weapons and struggles to aim them without constant practice. Though she can handle herself in a fight like any other member of the crew, her hand to hand skills are nothing too remarkable. She is quiet and serious and has a fierce will to fight, survive and be free. |
51,335 | 1,385 | 38 | 377 | 26,000 | Niesha knew that they had to move, but she wasn't stronger enough to assist Cari, so she had done the next best thing, which was defend he. As Cari rose, Niesha kept herself ready to fire her bow, but constantly looked back to Cari. How could anyway survive something like that? Unsettled, Niesha knew that it was now her job to defend Cari in her somewhat helpless state.
At the approach of someone, Niesha spun about, an arrow knocked and ready to let it fly, when she recognised the captain. She let out a soft breath, but was then told to scout ahead, with Travis. She wasn't given a chance to answer, so Niesha grimaced, looking to Cari. "Stay safe, okay? And no more falling off buildings" She said, managing a smile, before going to do her job, figuring that Travis would catch up, or find her.
She kept her bow in hand, an arrow ready to in her other hand to knock and fly. She didn't particularly enjoy this, but she would follow orders. She used every bit of stealth skills she had to make sure she wasn't seen by anyone she didn't want to be seen by, looking and searching for an escape route.
Niesha never would have thought that she would be doing this, even a few months ago. She wanted to do well, and didn't want to be a burden, but so far, she hadn't really done much. Unsettled she searched, looking for the perfect place to escape from. | Niesha Shin
Age:
26
Gender:
female
Clothes:
Armor:
Weapons:
Miscellaneous items:
A gold heart shaped locket
Biography:
Niesha grew up the youngest of seven, the only daughter, in the outskirts of the city. She was pretty sheltered, but had a fearless nature due to this. She was quite young when, out walking one day she was kidnapped. She was transferred by several smugglers several times during the years where during that time she heard about the Dusicyon. She figured the dream of actually seeing it herself was just as useless as the dream of escaping and finding her family.
She didn't know how much time had passed, but one day, she managed to escape when a fight broke out between the smugglers and the captives. She didn't escape unharmed, suffering a severally maimed hand, that was replaced eventually with a cybernetic/bionic hand. But that's a story for another time.
She eventually returned home, after searching for what seemed to the young girl years only to find it ransacked with many of the personal items and furniture still in place. She searched the house from top to bottom, but there was no indication on what had happened, on where her family was, but she found her fathers bow, and it's arrows.
She struggled with indecision, and eventually headed out, scavenging some of her mothers clothes, and some other items before leaving, mainly golden heart shaped locket that was her mothers, and the bow.
She remembered the talk about the Dusicyon, and she debated and decided that it might be her best bet to try and find out what had happened to her family, assuming that it might have criminal connections given that she had heard it through the smugglers talk.
She approached the ship when it was docked, and asked for any sort of job, deciding to keep what her true intentions were for now. If something bad had happened to her parents and brothers, she didn't want to tip anyone off. So it was that she came to work on the ship, doing any sort of task that was required of her, and still practiced with her bow.
Extra:
Her hand- |
51,336 | 1,385 | 39 | 1,700 | 2,632 | Cari Cruz
With her hazy sight and lack of awareness Cari felt a hand grip her jaw and pull it in line with the eye and patch of a familiar face. There she sat staring at her captain as he mouthed a command for her to follow before punching a needle into her thigh. Starting gradually and building up across her body she could feel the blood begin to pump harder and harder with her heart's increased pounding spreading up to her ears where she felt as if she could now hear each and every individual beat. Cari opened her mouth, gasped for air and felt her body reawaken almost giving it new life on this battlefield.
"Now get up." Captain Renault instructed to which she firmly acknowledged. She pushed herself up, making sure to use the wall as support so that she could readjust her balance, "Come on. Fight's not done yet. We will retake this AA in time, we just need to get to the western AA."
Renault could see Cari's pupils begin to dilate as her sense of awareness began to return. With this, she spun her head over towards some office buildings in the west and heard the sounds of a mechanical contraption and random explosions. "Shit, yeah I agree," she swore, realising the gravity of their current situation and the immediate danger that they were in.
Niesha and Travis had been sent on ahead to scout for a suitable route as the tank was going to be a bit of an obstacle, while the General was assigned the task of taking the said tank head on. A suicide mission for the average person, but for a man of his grand stature it would be more a challenge to his ego than anything else. With the the ground units all dispersing to complete their set missions an airship could be seen making it's way towards the location of the Western AA.
The Dusicyon was descending onto the island to make it's landing... No, that was incorrect. With smoke and fire pluming out of one of the engines and it's angle of entry all wrong, it looked like it was on the verge of ploughing into the ground itself. It was going to take an absolute miracle for it to land and with Carson at the helm Cari knew that she would be working in absolute overdrive to not only save her crew but protect as much of the vessel as possible.
The Captain and Cari began to move, making their way through the streets and avoiding as much exposure as possible. She held her gun firmly within her hand and cautiously peeked around every corner for the first signs of trouble. They didn't need any more surprises as they made their way towards the western rendezvous point. | Name: Nikola Quirke, 'Gentleman, Adventurer, Inventor' (Pronounced: Quirk)
Title: N/A
Age: 28
Gender: Male
Appearance: Nikola
Facial appearance:
Armor: His armor consists of a collared chest plate, brassy in color with a rubber interior. On the back of his armor, secured around his waist by a belt is a leather satchel containing a battery pack, a wire from said pack leads up the back of the armor and around the collar, connected to the metal surface of the chest plate by vacuum tube arrays, one positioned on the lower back and two over the shoulder blades; these vacuum tubes are encased in brass cages to protect them from damage in a gun fight. The way the army works is right before a projectile impacts the surface of the armor, an electrical field activates due to the presence of nearby metal and prevents the projectile making contact. The electric field can only work for a few shots before it needs to recharge, thus rendering the chest plate a standard piece of armor.
Clothing: When not wearing his armor, Nikola indulges in the finer clothing that comes with being the ship's resident handyman; An old, red suit-vest with many, many patches, underneath said suit-vest he wears an off white shirt and around it's collar a blue neck tie (in the style of the one in the picture). On his legs he wears a simple pair of grey trousers and brown boots with magnetic discs beneath, giving him excellent stability on the decks, walls and ceilings of the vessel. Over his attire he wears a white apron with many pockets in the front where he deposits his tools and notebook. Atop his head he wears a white bandana, on top which is a pair of green lensed goggles.
Weapons: 'Buck Kick' T-9 Revolver, modified to fire electric bullets.
Miscellaneous items:
-Jotter: His personal notebook of scribbles, notes, diagrams and annotations. When not at his table tinkering, or in the engine room running maintenance, he can be seen penning things down in that little book of his and even when he is doing the prior mentioned he finds time to jot.
-Pocket of Ferret Nibbles: Hand made food for his ferret, it consists of breadcrumbs made soggy in soup and left to dry on his windowsill, he is occasionally seen feeding them to his pet and sometimes feeding them to himself.
Biography: Born some time in mid Pluviôse, Nikola never had the had the good life. Nikola was initially brought into the world stillborn; during his transportation to the morgue however, he woke up screaming and wailing but otherwise completely healthy. He was taken home soon afterwards, home being a cramped apartment on an island of tenement buildings and smokey factories. Most of his childhood was spent in the dirty, tiny apartment that was his life and most of that time was spent lying on the floor and looking at the cracked display of a broken radio.
When he must have been nine or ten a sudden epiphany struck him, it was a small wrapped box knocking him in the back of the head. Turing around to see where the offensive missile came form, he found the tired smile of his father entering the apartment, "happy birthday Nikola.." he mumbled before heading off to his room to collapse on the mattress. Nikola looked down at the wrapped parcel and began unwrapping it's brown paper skin; inside was a black plastic case with a see-through cover. The case was filled with small screwdrivers and a wrench kit, he furrowed his brows for a moment then turned to the radio. It was time.
Nikola spent three days on the radio, cooped up in his room under the stairs, working by the hot light of his desk lamp. On the third day he put the back panel back on and with fingers crossed flicked the power nob. The display flickered to life, then died, then the entire radio exploded in a shower of sparks.
6 years later he found himself in the middle of adolescence and jumping from job to job with no success at holding one down, he was constantly being submitted into factories as a repairman and constantly fired for being found tinkering with the machines, though in truth he was making them better. So there he was, out on his ass again with no job and aging parents; in a huff he wondered the streets, his only companion Dorkface scurrying around his body before resting on Nikola's shoulder. He soon found himself walking down an air dock in some ramshackle (well more then normal) part of town, grumbling to himself and kicking a can down the pier. The smell of oil and ionized gas soon filled his nose, looking up he saw the inner workings of the most beautiful engine he had ever seen.
It was attached to 'The Crimson Dusicyon'.
Nikola ascended a set of scaffolding that lead up towards the engine, it creaked and groaned as he climbed but once at the top he was entranced. It was like looking up at the ceiling of a cathedral, a cathedral that was an engine and it was glorious; however upon closer inspection he found that it was plagued with problems. Locking round to see if anyone was nearby, he dived right in and began working on it, soon enough though he was disturbed from his deep, technical intercourse. Nikola was yanked out of his mechanical stupor by a gruff looking man, he appeared as if he were about to yell before he looked up and found everything in order and even some stuff improved upon.
"Say.. Did you do this kid?" he asked a bit confused, Nikola nodded excessively, keeping his mouth shut to prevent his 'eep' from escaping, "very good," said the man with a nod of appreciation, "I could use someone like you," he looked down at the cowering boy, "well maybe when you're a bit older, keep practicing though, we might just dock here again and I'd like to see how you'll along." with that the man let him go and he scrambled back down the scaffold.
Sure enough, 7 years later, the ship came back and Nikola was quick to get to he air dock, a young man in his early twenties itching for excitement... And the company of those luscious machines. He went straight to the Gruff man, ironically named Grufman and asked if there was any space for him.
Though Grufman himself couldn't accept Nikola onto the crew, he could advertise him to the captain.
Nikola was lead into the bridge and hunched over some charts was the captain, his face awash in the amber glow of a lamp and intense concentration. The pair, Grufman and Nikola strode over to the thoughtful figure, though it was Grufman doing most of the striding and Nikola scurrying behind.
Nikola found himself living on a gantry hanging above the engine room, it was unpleasant to start with but after a few years he's turned that strip of catwalk into a little home for himself, installing a few shelfs and dragging down an old mattress. He was content, showing the ship's machines much love and attention and tinkering around with small inventions.
Extra:
-A pet ferret by the name of Dorkface.
-Speaks in a soft slavic accent.
-Has nervous/apprehensive tendencies that usually materialize in forms like bitting extremities and stuttering. |
51,337 | 1,385 | 40 | 2,600 | 607 | Nikola
Eventually, Nikola found a way down, though it was not the elevator he told himself would be there, instead he had to descend a flight of steps that seemed to go on for infinity, as he climbed down he felt as if he were unconscious, like his body went on auto pilot from the monotony of the task; he mused that if he were to die then he would continue to walk down the stairs. Upon reaching the bottom, he was relieved to feel the glow of sunlight from the windows, a welcome respite from the eery darkness of the long stairwell. Though it seemed that the moments of relief were just the universe's way of making him drop his guard.
Looking around for an exit, he found that the nearest one was a back door, propped shut with a chair, as he approached it, he suddenly found himself being hurled backwards. The wall had exploded into a cloud of cement dust and chunks of debris, sending him flying into a pillar, his body lanced with a blinding, white pain. As his vision cleared and the ringing in his ears died away, he heard the deep, guttural rumble of an engine and felt the floor tremble as the vibration neared, in the cloud he saw the easily distinguishable figure of a spider tank. He panicked and jerked to the left but instantly recoiled in pain, looking down, he found himself pinned to the pillar, a jagged rebar post sticking jaggedly out of his shoulder, right between the dislocated ball and socket joint.
At that moment, his adrenaline that had been expended on the climb down had suddenly returned, the pain that he still felt from crashing into the building was replaced by a deep of fear of dying. He struggled, slowly, trying to free himself of the metal, inching forward slowly and feeling the bar sink into his flesh, grinding abrasively against his bones. Nikola stifled a scream, he knew he must not scream but the pain was intense and he felt like he was going to back out, he could only hope that he could free himself before the tank spotted him. | Age: 45
Gender: Male
Appearance: Full
Facial appearance: Face
Armor: Heavy leather armor and a heavy shield.
Clothing: Dark blue silk clothing.
Weapons: A high caliber Lever action rifle.
A jewel encrusted electrified saber.
Miscellaneous items: He has a golden locket that contains an old holo-message of somebody waiting for him to return home after his endless voyage comes to an end.
Biography: "Captain, we will be arriving at Shax within the hour. Will you be performing some final inspections?" The captain sat alone at his desk looking out of a window at the approaching landmass. He was holding something in his hand. "No, Matthiew. I will leave that to you today."
The navigator stood silent for a moment before talking again. "Are you okay, boss?" The captain did not move much as he stared at something in his hands. Grissom approached and looked over his shoulder for a moment. The Captain was looking at the back of an eyepatch. His eyepatch. There was a picture embroidered into it, that of a young woman with long black hair. "Who is that, boss?"
The captain kept silent for a time. He had taken off his eyepatch to look at the picture on the back again. Normally it sat over his missing eye, but now it stood bare, the darkness within the socket being a cruel reminder of his past. "An old lover. Gone now." He covered the wound again and stared out the window. "I never did tell you her story, did I?"
"You did not, no."
Standing across from one another in front of an open hatch in the bottom of a large airship, James and a woman with pitch black hair with black and red combat armor fitting snuggly on her body looked at each other and smiled. They both clicked buttons on their chests and a black cord popped out of their backs and latched onto the wall. They both jumped down the hole and plummeted to the firefight that was going on below.
"She and I were part of a pirate clan called the Tiranade. We fought every battle together. We were inseparable. For a time, we thought we were invincible."
The two stood on top of a fallen skiff, dead all around as the clan rejoiced, their two greatest soldiers standing on top the enemy captain's flagship, triumphant.
"But, then the gaze of The Lost Wolves fell upon us. The Tiranade haven was attacked. It was a slaughter."
They stood together now, back to back, pistols in their hands as they stared down the group of black and red garbed pirates before them. They smiled and leaped into action.
"There was our last stand. Our clan had no survivors besides myself. I never even had the chance to say goodbye to her, her body was...unrecognizable among the corpses."
A hand coated in blood sprung from underneath a pile of corpses, the area around it was on fire, filling the air with smoke and death. Renault's head emerged from the pile and he took in a sharp, deep, breath. He pulled himself out slowly, his right eye was missing, leaving only darkness in its place. He was covered in blood and bile. He gasped for air as he clawed his way out, rolling to the ground as he broke free of the thralls of his once living friends.
"I remember well what I did after I narrowly avoided death. I went hunting."
Standing atop a small sky scraper, Renault looked down onto a smaller building that had been rumored to be a small headquarters for the Lost Wolf command. He held up a small black detonator with a red button on it. When he clicked it, the building erupted into fire. He turned and walked away.
"I had hunted them down until they were almost nothing. But their captain...Ulysses Tronik. Here covered recovered from every attack in mere days. For three months I had single handedly been wiping out hundreds of his men, even capturing his prized flagship, "The Deceit." The very ship you're standing in now. But...he was back the next week, even more powerful than before. He and his Lost Wolves simply came back again and again...."
He sighed and wrung his hands for a few moments before standing up slowly and gesturing for him to lead the way.
"I had taken the last photo I had of her and imprinted it to this eyepatch, so that I may always see her in whatever I do." He followed him out the door and to the cafeteria where the rest of the crew was waiting. They were a small group now, but soon they would be a force to be reckoned with. "...but you know the rest of the story. You were my first recruit."
"Aye, boss, I am."
"Now...you and I. We have him now. He's in Tirbetha, cornered like a rat. With this new crew, we will have him in our clutches. We'll rob him blind of everything he's ever valued, just as he did to me."
Extra: His pet crow Asphexia is the only companion that he has had over the years. Fast, armed with an unshackled A.I. and an on-board stealth field. Asphexia is a powerful ally for the captain.
Age: 29
Gender: Male
Appearance: Clothing and face
Armor: Lightly armored clothing with a bullet proof vest underneath. He likes to keep it quick and loose.
Weapons: A heavy caliber sniper rifle that he carries in nearly all situations.
In addition to his rifle he always carries his Revolver on him at all times.
He also has a single Single black metal sword normally situated on his back.
Miscellaneous items: He carries several magazines of ammo with him for all his weapons in a small bag at his side. He also carries a small bottle of brandy for particular nights when he can't sleep. He's always able to sleep when he's drunk.
Biography:
"So, I have a story for you guys today. About this guy I once knew that died a few weeks ago. His name was Brom. Brom was Born on a pathetic little rock out in the middle of nowhere, near the equator, on a really hot and sweltering monday, in the middle of the hottest season, on the anniversary of his late brother's death, mere hours after his father crashed into a tree with a hoverbike, breaking most of his bones."
"Brom's birthday always sucked. He grew up poor, having to do nothing but watch the occasional trader ship pass by day in and day out for years, waiting, watching, for the perfect moment. See, he was the type of kid to want to explore but his parents paid little attention to him, instead letting him just learn how to be human from a computer monitor and feed him every now and then. But then one day...the trader ship decided to give him a visit. His parents never heard from him again."
"At the ripe young age of ten, he was out on his own. He had joined the trader ship as a dishwasher, barely earning enough for him to rent the room that was on the ship, which was a cramped storage room with no bed. But to him, it was the best home he had ever had and he has had only two. It wasn't long before he jumped ship and found a new home in a large city island. A garden island named New Attica. What old Attica was like he'll never know, but the people were kind and he was able to get a job pretty easily. Things worked out very well until he turned 16, where he then joined the Nesychian military. He actually compared it to his childhood life there at first. He was beaten into the ground, served barely more than gray goop for food, and the water was 80% rust, 20% liquid substance that was NOT water. He knew things would get better, least somewhere in the back of his mind he did. He was able to ascend the ranks over the coarse of ten years and, with a lot of perseverance, the gray goop became freshly cloned Duck à l'orange, the crappy water became Cabernet Sauvignan, and he was getting laid every night."
"That was until his superiors started ordering him to kill children. Then he had an issue, and he made it vocal. They had ordered him to wipe out an school because an enemy officer was visiting there at the time. Not just the officer, but the whole school, because it wasn't like he was trained as a military sniper during his time in the military...but fuck that noise, right? He was having none of that and resisted it, told his superiors to go screw themselves and he went and became a mercenary for the enemy side. They sent assassins after him, robots, a few hookers. He sent some of them back to their masters in pieces, others were too incompetent to shoot the guy with the sniper rifle and instead tried to kill civilians. Didn't end up well for him.
He spent a few years with them, but he drifted away after awhile, sick of the war and sick of having to shoot people doing their jobs in the face. So he went freelancing and was immediately hired on by a captain with an eyepatch, and thus I'm a pirate now and here I am."
"Wait, I thought this was a st-"
"Shut up, Brom!"
Extra: In addition to being a sniper and long range support for the group, Cyrus is also the resident bartender in the officer's lounge. For the officers, they get a very classically insane bartender to share secrets to that shall remain secret. For Cyrus: Free booze.
All pictures are clickable.
Non-player-characters
Lead Navigator and 2nd in command: Matthiew "Matty" Grissom
A large man weighing in just under 300 pounds. Matthiew takes pride in being the lead navigator and Captain Renault's second in command. He is not a fighter in any way, so how he exactly help up in the face of insurmountable danger at Renault's side is a mystery known only to him and the captain.
Head mechanic Teddy Grufman.
An toublemaker in his youth, Teddy grew up a farm boy that fixed tractors for a living before taking off when he was sixteen to join an engineering core. He doesn't speak much about his past and the captain doesn't ask considering the man is a wiz with machinery. He and his protege' Nikola have been keeping the engines in tip top shape with barely enough supplies for years. |
51,338 | 1,385 | 41 | 1,700 | 2,632 | Cari Cruz
The crew of the Dusicyon scurried around like ants in a nest, each one picking up it's own role and helping out in as much of the cleanup as possible. Cari on the other hand was sitting over on the ground to the side. In her condition she couldn't do much for too long before she would feel the familiar signs of exhaustion sink in. With her was Doctor Bishop.
The doctor had the back of Cari's shirt up and was examining the deep bruising that she obtained after the fall. She gently felt around, making sure none of the possible broken bones had shifted. Until she was able to get to a proper working medical bay, this was going to be the best that she could do.
"I'm surprised you're still alive after what Neisha and Nikola told me," she opened quietly, trying to break the silence.
"Nikola has a lot to answer for," Cari replied as she gently stroked the back of the ferret that was asleep on the ground next to her, "But even still this was a bit of a suicide mission anyway. Taking on a fortress with nothing more than a row boat."
Cassandra understood where Cari was coming from. The crew had won the battle, but the cost was more than what they all envisioned. The real question was what were they going to do now? Ulysses had escaped and it wouldn't be too out of the ordinary to expect him to plan some sort of counter attack. On top of that there seemed to be some connection between the two captains, something more than what Captain Renault was letting on. Cari had rarely spent the time to sit down and talk to 'James'. Most of the times that they talked it was about supplies and tactics but never anything too personal. She often wondered if he knew how much the bounty was on her head with more zeros than you could count on one hand. An amount that would tempt the majority of people if they at all knew.
The doctor pulled down Cari's shirt and placed her bright jacket over her shoulders.
"I'll have to perform a few scans and checks when I get the chance, but miraculously you don't seem to have any broken bones. I couldn't tell if there are a few fractures and you seem to be suffering from shock and post-traumatic stress..."
"I had a relapse," Cari cut off the doctor, looking down at her right hand and seeing it twitch from the damage it had taken.
"Sorry, didn't mean to bring up old memories," Cassandra spoke, realising that Cari probably already knew what was going on inside her own head. "I've got to go tend to Cyrus now. Shout out if you need any more assistance." She stood up and tuened to walk away before asking one last question. "Oh, and if you don't mind, where 'did' you get that jacket?"
Cari chucked for a moment and calmly responded, "Where else... I stole it." | Name: Nikola Quirke, 'Gentleman, Adventurer, Inventor' (Pronounced: Quirk)
Title: N/A
Age: 28
Gender: Male
Appearance: Nikola
Facial appearance:
Armor: His armor consists of a collared chest plate, brassy in color with a rubber interior. On the back of his armor, secured around his waist by a belt is a leather satchel containing a battery pack, a wire from said pack leads up the back of the armor and around the collar, connected to the metal surface of the chest plate by vacuum tube arrays, one positioned on the lower back and two over the shoulder blades; these vacuum tubes are encased in brass cages to protect them from damage in a gun fight. The way the army works is right before a projectile impacts the surface of the armor, an electrical field activates due to the presence of nearby metal and prevents the projectile making contact. The electric field can only work for a few shots before it needs to recharge, thus rendering the chest plate a standard piece of armor.
Clothing: When not wearing his armor, Nikola indulges in the finer clothing that comes with being the ship's resident handyman; An old, red suit-vest with many, many patches, underneath said suit-vest he wears an off white shirt and around it's collar a blue neck tie (in the style of the one in the picture). On his legs he wears a simple pair of grey trousers and brown boots with magnetic discs beneath, giving him excellent stability on the decks, walls and ceilings of the vessel. Over his attire he wears a white apron with many pockets in the front where he deposits his tools and notebook. Atop his head he wears a white bandana, on top which is a pair of green lensed goggles.
Weapons: 'Buck Kick' T-9 Revolver, modified to fire electric bullets.
Miscellaneous items:
-Jotter: His personal notebook of scribbles, notes, diagrams and annotations. When not at his table tinkering, or in the engine room running maintenance, he can be seen penning things down in that little book of his and even when he is doing the prior mentioned he finds time to jot.
-Pocket of Ferret Nibbles: Hand made food for his ferret, it consists of breadcrumbs made soggy in soup and left to dry on his windowsill, he is occasionally seen feeding them to his pet and sometimes feeding them to himself.
Biography: Born some time in mid Pluviôse, Nikola never had the had the good life. Nikola was initially brought into the world stillborn; during his transportation to the morgue however, he woke up screaming and wailing but otherwise completely healthy. He was taken home soon afterwards, home being a cramped apartment on an island of tenement buildings and smokey factories. Most of his childhood was spent in the dirty, tiny apartment that was his life and most of that time was spent lying on the floor and looking at the cracked display of a broken radio.
When he must have been nine or ten a sudden epiphany struck him, it was a small wrapped box knocking him in the back of the head. Turing around to see where the offensive missile came form, he found the tired smile of his father entering the apartment, "happy birthday Nikola.." he mumbled before heading off to his room to collapse on the mattress. Nikola looked down at the wrapped parcel and began unwrapping it's brown paper skin; inside was a black plastic case with a see-through cover. The case was filled with small screwdrivers and a wrench kit, he furrowed his brows for a moment then turned to the radio. It was time.
Nikola spent three days on the radio, cooped up in his room under the stairs, working by the hot light of his desk lamp. On the third day he put the back panel back on and with fingers crossed flicked the power nob. The display flickered to life, then died, then the entire radio exploded in a shower of sparks.
6 years later he found himself in the middle of adolescence and jumping from job to job with no success at holding one down, he was constantly being submitted into factories as a repairman and constantly fired for being found tinkering with the machines, though in truth he was making them better. So there he was, out on his ass again with no job and aging parents; in a huff he wondered the streets, his only companion Dorkface scurrying around his body before resting on Nikola's shoulder. He soon found himself walking down an air dock in some ramshackle (well more then normal) part of town, grumbling to himself and kicking a can down the pier. The smell of oil and ionized gas soon filled his nose, looking up he saw the inner workings of the most beautiful engine he had ever seen.
It was attached to 'The Crimson Dusicyon'.
Nikola ascended a set of scaffolding that lead up towards the engine, it creaked and groaned as he climbed but once at the top he was entranced. It was like looking up at the ceiling of a cathedral, a cathedral that was an engine and it was glorious; however upon closer inspection he found that it was plagued with problems. Locking round to see if anyone was nearby, he dived right in and began working on it, soon enough though he was disturbed from his deep, technical intercourse. Nikola was yanked out of his mechanical stupor by a gruff looking man, he appeared as if he were about to yell before he looked up and found everything in order and even some stuff improved upon.
"Say.. Did you do this kid?" he asked a bit confused, Nikola nodded excessively, keeping his mouth shut to prevent his 'eep' from escaping, "very good," said the man with a nod of appreciation, "I could use someone like you," he looked down at the cowering boy, "well maybe when you're a bit older, keep practicing though, we might just dock here again and I'd like to see how you'll along." with that the man let him go and he scrambled back down the scaffold.
Sure enough, 7 years later, the ship came back and Nikola was quick to get to he air dock, a young man in his early twenties itching for excitement... And the company of those luscious machines. He went straight to the Gruff man, ironically named Grufman and asked if there was any space for him.
Though Grufman himself couldn't accept Nikola onto the crew, he could advertise him to the captain.
Nikola was lead into the bridge and hunched over some charts was the captain, his face awash in the amber glow of a lamp and intense concentration. The pair, Grufman and Nikola strode over to the thoughtful figure, though it was Grufman doing most of the striding and Nikola scurrying behind.
Nikola found himself living on a gantry hanging above the engine room, it was unpleasant to start with but after a few years he's turned that strip of catwalk into a little home for himself, installing a few shelfs and dragging down an old mattress. He was content, showing the ship's machines much love and attention and tinkering around with small inventions.
Extra:
-A pet ferret by the name of Dorkface.
-Speaks in a soft slavic accent.
-Has nervous/apprehensive tendencies that usually materialize in forms like bitting extremities and stuttering. |
51,339 | 1,385 | 42 | 377 | 26,000 | Niesha did what she was told. At times, she had to detour, assuming that Travis was following her, around too many soldiers to fight, but she found a route to escape in. Returning was harder, but she managed to do it, sometimes getting rid of opponents but mostly trying to stay out of sight, as she made her way back.
Over the next few hours, Niesha did what she could to help, whether it be cleaning up, or taking out some last few soldiers, or even acting as a runner and getting more supplies if needed, she just didn't want to be standing around doing nothing, and she knew she'd be hopeless are helping to fix the ship. So she worked to her other skills, doing her best.
From time to time she found her way to Cari, wanting to make sure she was alright, still seeing the horrifying few seconds of Cari falling in her head. There were just some things that never left you, and Niesha figured this was one. So it was that by the time things seemed to be okay, Niesha was exhausted. Muscles she didn't know she had ached, but she was better off them some. She only had a few scratches that were nothing, and being tired was just fine.
She didn't know what her next move was, what she was meant to do now. Things just seemed to...level out, from the hectic battle and capture to this, and it made Niesha feel edgy, like something else was going to happen even if it wasn't. She glanced about her, and ran a hand through her hair, which had escaped the tie she had put it in and was now a mess, but she used her fingers to try and smooth it over, before putting it back up. She took a few moments, taking a couple of deep breaths, and checking to make sure she didn't have any injuries she was unaware of, but all seemed well.
There was probably still lots to do, and so Niesha went to see what else she could do, even if it was simply fetching a drink or some food for someone who couldn't, or if it was just cleaning up the ship some. She liked to feel useful. | Niesha Shin
Age:
26
Gender:
female
Clothes:
Armor:
Weapons:
Miscellaneous items:
A gold heart shaped locket
Biography:
Niesha grew up the youngest of seven, the only daughter, in the outskirts of the city. She was pretty sheltered, but had a fearless nature due to this. She was quite young when, out walking one day she was kidnapped. She was transferred by several smugglers several times during the years where during that time she heard about the Dusicyon. She figured the dream of actually seeing it herself was just as useless as the dream of escaping and finding her family.
She didn't know how much time had passed, but one day, she managed to escape when a fight broke out between the smugglers and the captives. She didn't escape unharmed, suffering a severally maimed hand, that was replaced eventually with a cybernetic/bionic hand. But that's a story for another time.
She eventually returned home, after searching for what seemed to the young girl years only to find it ransacked with many of the personal items and furniture still in place. She searched the house from top to bottom, but there was no indication on what had happened, on where her family was, but she found her fathers bow, and it's arrows.
She struggled with indecision, and eventually headed out, scavenging some of her mothers clothes, and some other items before leaving, mainly golden heart shaped locket that was her mothers, and the bow.
She remembered the talk about the Dusicyon, and she debated and decided that it might be her best bet to try and find out what had happened to her family, assuming that it might have criminal connections given that she had heard it through the smugglers talk.
She approached the ship when it was docked, and asked for any sort of job, deciding to keep what her true intentions were for now. If something bad had happened to her parents and brothers, she didn't want to tip anyone off. So it was that she came to work on the ship, doing any sort of task that was required of her, and still practiced with her bow.
Extra:
Her hand- |
51,340 | 1,386 | 0 | 71 | 6,312 | Miranda Westlake was at her Uncle Jeremiah Dunny’s funeral. She was thinking of losing her husband just twelve months ago. Now she had to go through her Uncle’s funeral where she was welcomed after the death of Seth Westlake. No one else would even think of taking her in.
More thoughts flew through her head as she sat there in a corner mourning while all of the cousins were talking to everyone else at the funeral home. Most of these so called ‘mourners’ had not seen or talked to Jeremiah Dunny since childhood. But everyone knew the old eccentric man.
“Too bad that she came to the funeral. I mean she was over in some god forbidden desert when her husband died of who knows what. It must have been a god awful disease since he was cremated before being brought home.” Annette spoke to Cassandra in another corner just behind Miranda.
“Don’t I know it. I am not getting very close since some people are carriers of diseases and then they spread it all over. To anyone that comes within 6 feet of them. I expect that at least one of us will dies within the next 2-3 months. Besides that things like deaths come in threes.” Cassandra spoke as she held a perfumed hanky against her nose.
“I need to go refresh my hanky. Want to come?” Annette spoke
“Oh yes, that would be so nice. Thank you, Annette, for asking me to join you in my time of need. My eyes feel so sore and they have been watering so bad today.” Miranda spoke as she slid her arm into the crook of Annette and pulled her close to her side.
“Oh Cassandra, dear. It was you that I heard talking about things happen in threes. Yes, I have heard that theory as well. Perhaps we can chat about it while we are refreshing ourselves in the ladies lounge. My hanky is a bit damp but I am sure that you will understand….” Miranda spoke as she easily slipped her arm into Cassandra’s.
“Now shall we go? I feel so weak today… So I did need the help….”
The three cousins slowly walked to the ladies lounge and spent the next half hour in there ‘freshening up’ before the usher came to the door to announce that it was time to start.
Miranda was the first out and gladly took the usher’s arm who escorted her to her seat in the front row which was reserved for the next of kin.
The funeral was over after an hour and after people paid their last respects, everyone was to gather at the restaurant a couple blocks away. There was one table on a stage and two chairs. The lawyer escorted Miranda up the stage and seated her gallantly. The dinner was then served but very little conversation was floating around except in soft whispers. After a few people decided to leave but was not able to open the doors to the private dining room, they glared at the lawyer.
“After desert I will read the will of Jeremiah Dunny. Please be seated until it is time to leave.” The lawyer spoke firmly as the wait staff began to take away the dishes into the kitchen with a stern butler keeping an eye on who was going in and out of the kitchen.
A file of police officers walked into the dining room and stood attention as the lawyer stood up.
“Please give me your attention for I am about to read the last will of Jeremiah Dunny.” The lawyer announced with no clearing of his throat.
“I, Jeremiah Dunny, have very little to give to those who have not spoken to me in the last twenty or more years. For most of you, you have not spoken to me, visited nor even write to me. The rest of you only come to be given money. You did not even attempt to repay me. I have given my accountant the list several years ago after I had my first heart attack. He will be collecting from you today as you leave the restaurant.
To each and every one of you, I give you this last meal. For most of you this is your only gift. Be grateful that nothing is tainted. Or is it?
This will is short for there is only person who cared enough to visit me before I was ill, before my heart attacks and even has lived with me as a nurse since she was shunned by the rest of the family after an unfortunate accident to her newly wed husband. Miranda Westlake will receive her inheritance after she leaves this room.
The rest of you please be patient. You will be called and released by my accountant.
Sincerely,
Count Jeremiah Obadiah Dunny, 17th , heir of Dunny Manor
Lady Miranda and I will take our leave to discuss her inheritance.
Good day to one and all.” The lawyer spoke as he turned to Miranda who was in shock. She accepted his arm and was escorted out of the room as an elderly miserly looking man came inside.
“There are several copies of the will which was read and signed by the deceased and myself in front of Lawyer Thomas Dawson, may his soul rest in peace.” There was a slight pause before the account went on.
“I am Horton B. Wentworth, accountant to the deceased for over fifty years. He was my very first client and later a good friend.
My young assistant has placed the copies of the will on the table before me. As I call out your name, please come forward to pay what you owe or make a promissory note to a new accountant who will be taking over the accounting services. ….”
The door closed quickly after them and all the shouting starting. They were silent as they walked upstairs meeting room. There was a table with a maid who had a pot of tea ready. They sat down and the lawyer spoke as the maid poured the tea and sat a cup in front of the two of them.
“I did not reveal my name on purpose. I am Lawyer Thomas Dawson, like my grandfather. You will be my first client and I am to take over the new lawyer practice in Folkstone. I would appreciate it very much if you will stay with my practice.” The lawyer spoke quietly.
“As long as you serve me well, I see no reason to change lawyers. Now to the will?” Miranda spoke as she held her hands in her lap.
“You have inherited a vast sum of several million dollars. How all of the money was attained, I do not know. Of course, not all of it is liquid. There are five strings to the inheritance.
Number one is that you must take in unloved, unmarried and widowed female for a second chance at love.
Number two is that you will house, clothe and educate them.
Number three is that you must find decent men to marry them and they must be willing to marry the man.
Number four is that you must remarry within ten years. You are a lovely lady of twenty years.
Lastly, you must find some kind of a business to run.
If you do not agree to the terms, then you will receive a hundred thousand dollars.
Will you accept his offer and continue his legacy in a new place?” he asked as he passed the final agreement towards Miranda.
“Yes, I will do this for Uncle Jeremiah. What about the belongings in this house?” Miranda asked after reading the agreement.
“You may keep the house here in London or sell it. It belongs to you.” He spoke as he unscrewed the pen and handed it to Miranda who signed both copies.
“We will be seeing a lot of each other, I suspect.” Miranda spoke as she handed Lawyer Thomas Dawson.
“I expect so. Now let’s talk about what you wish to do with this house?” Lawyer Thomas Dawson spoke as he too signed both papers. | Name: Mrs Miranda Westlake
Age: 23
Gender: female
Where do you work and/or live: Independently wealthy
Why you consider yourself Unloved: lost my husband in an accident in Egypt then all except one relative, refused to associate with me.
What would you do for a Chance for Love: I will honer my uncle's request that he left in his will.
Your hobbies: needlework, gardening, bird watching
Your likes: horse back riding, reading, dancing
Your dislikes: rudeness, disrespect for the females,
Anything else that you would like for us to know: You will learn more about Miranda in the RP. |
51,341 | 1,386 | 1 | 71 | 6,312 | The Front of the Home for the Unloved
The Main Floor
The Bedroom Floor
More Floors yet to come! | Name: Mrs Miranda Westlake
Age: 23
Gender: female
Where do you work and/or live: Independently wealthy
Why you consider yourself Unloved: lost my husband in an accident in Egypt then all except one relative, refused to associate with me.
What would you do for a Chance for Love: I will honer my uncle's request that he left in his will.
Your hobbies: needlework, gardening, bird watching
Your likes: horse back riding, reading, dancing
Your dislikes: rudeness, disrespect for the females,
Anything else that you would like for us to know: You will learn more about Miranda in the RP. |
51,342 | 1,386 | 2 | 71 | 6,312 | Miranda Westlake was at her Uncle Jeremiah Dunny’s funeral. She was thinking of losing her husband just twelve months ago. Now she had to go through her Uncle’s funeral where she was welcomed after the death of Seth Westlake. No one else would even think of taking her in.
More thoughts flew through her head as she sat there in a corner mourning while all of the cousins were talking to everyone else at the funeral home. Most of these so called ‘mourners’ had not seen or talked to Jeremiah Dunny since childhood. But everyone knew the old eccentric man.
“Too bad that she came to the funeral. I mean she was over in some god forbidden desert when her husband died of who knows what. It must have been a god awful disease since he was cremated before being brought home.” Annette spoke to Cassandra in another corner just behind Miranda.
“Don’t I know it. I am not getting very close since some people are carriers of diseases and then they spread it all over. To anyone that comes within 6 feet of them. I expect that at least one of us will dies within the next 2-3 months. Besides that things like deaths come in threes.” Cassandra spoke as she held a perfumed hanky against her nose.
“I need to go refresh my hanky. Want to come?” Annette spoke
“Oh yes, that would be so nice. Thank you, Annette, for asking me to join you in my time of need. My eyes feel so sore and they have been watering so bad today.” Miranda spoke as she slid her arm into the crook of Annette and pulled her close to her side.
“Oh Cassandra, dear. It was you that I heard talking about things happen in threes. Yes, I have heard that theory as well. Perhaps we can chat about it while we are refreshing ourselves in the ladies lounge. My hanky is a bit damp but I am sure that you will understand….” Miranda spoke as she easily slipped her arm into Cassandra’s.
“Now shall we go? I feel so weak today… So I did need the help….”
The three cousins slowly walked to the ladies lounge and spent the next half hour in there ‘freshening up’ before the usher came to the door to announce that it was time to start.
Miranda was the first out and gladly took the usher’s arm who escorted her to her seat in the front row which was reserved for the next of kin.
The funeral was over after an hour and after people paid their last respects, everyone was to gather at the restaurant a couple blocks away. There was one table on a stage and two chairs. The lawyer escorted Miranda up the stage and seated her gallantly. The dinner was then served but very little conversation was floating around except in soft whispers. After a few people decided to leave but was not able to open the doors to the private dining room, they glared at the lawyer.
“After desert I will read the will of Jeremiah Dunny. Please be seated until it is time to leave.” The lawyer spoke firmly as the wait staff began to take away the dishes into the kitchen with a stern butler keeping an eye on who was going in and out of the kitchen.
A file of police officers walked into the dining room and stood attention as the lawyer stood up.
“Please give me your attention for I am about to read the last will of Jeremiah Dunny.” The lawyer announced with no clearing of his throat.
“I, Jeremiah Dunny, have very little to give to those who have not spoken to me in the last twenty or more years. For most of you, you have not spoken to me, visited nor even write to me. The rest of you only come to be given money. You did not even attempt to repay me. I have given my accountant the list several years ago after I had my first heart attack. He will be collecting from you today as you leave the restaurant.
To each and every one of you, I give you this last meal. For most of you this is your only gift. Be grateful that nothing is tainted. Or is it?
This will is short for there is only person who cared enough to visit me before I was ill, before my heart attacks and even has lived with me as a nurse since she was shunned by the rest of the family after an unfortunate accident to her newly wed husband. Miranda Westlake will receive her inheritance after she leaves this room.
The rest of you please be patient. You will be called and released by my accountant.
Sincerely,
Count Jeremiah Obadiah Dunny, 17th , heir of Dunny Manor
Lady Miranda and I will take our leave to discuss her inheritance.
Good day to one and all.” The lawyer spoke as he turned to Miranda who was in shock. She accepted his arm and was escorted out of the room as an elderly miserly looking man came inside.
“There are several copies of the will which was read and signed by the deceased and myself in front of Lawyer Thomas Dawson, may his soul rest in peace.” There was a slight pause before the account went on.
“I am Horton B. Wentworth, accountant to the deceased for over fifty years. He was my very first client and later a good friend.
My young assistant has placed the copies of the will on the table before me. As I call out your name, please come forward to pay what you owe or make a promissory note to a new accountant who will be taking over the accounting services. ….”
The door closed quickly after them and all the shouting starting. They were silent as they walked upstairs meeting room. There was a table with a maid who had a pot of tea ready. They sat down and the lawyer spoke as the maid poured the tea and sat a cup in front of the two of them.
“I did not reveal my name on purpose. I am Lawyer Thomas Dawson, like my grandfather. You will be my first client and I am to take over the new lawyer practice in Folkstone. I would appreciate it very much if you will stay with my practice.” The lawyer spoke quietly.
“As long as you serve me well, I see no reason to change lawyers. Now to the will?” Miranda spoke as she held her hands in her lap.
“You have inherited a vast sum of several million dollars. How all of the money was attained, I do not know. Of course, not all of it is liquid. There are five strings to the inheritance.
Number one is that you must take in unloved, unmarried and widowed female for a second chance at love.
Number two is that you will house, clothe and educate them.
Number three is that you must find decent men to marry them and they must be willing to marry the man.
Number four is that you must remarry within ten years. You are a lovely lady of twenty years.
Lastly, you must find some kind of a business to run.
If you do not agree to the terms, then you will receive a hundred thousand dollars.
Will you accept his offer and continue his legacy in a new place?” he asked as he passed the final agreement towards Miranda.
“Yes, I will do this for Uncle Jeremiah. What about the belongings in this house?” Miranda asked after reading the agreement.
“You may keep the house here in London or sell it. It belongs to you.” He spoke as he unscrewed the pen and handed it to Miranda who signed both copies.
“We will be seeing a lot of each other, I suspect.” Miranda spoke as she handed Lawyer Thomas Dawson.
“I expect so. Now let’s talk about what you wish to do with this house?” Lawyer Thomas Dawson spoke as he too signed both papers.
((Fades to black....)) | Name: Mrs Miranda Westlake
Age: 23
Gender: female
Where do you work and/or live: Independently wealthy
Why you consider yourself Unloved: lost my husband in an accident in Egypt then all except one relative, refused to associate with me.
What would you do for a Chance for Love: I will honer my uncle's request that he left in his will.
Your hobbies: needlework, gardening, bird watching
Your likes: horse back riding, reading, dancing
Your dislikes: rudeness, disrespect for the females,
Anything else that you would like for us to know: You will learn more about Miranda in the RP. |
51,343 | 1,387 | 0 | 1,478 | 473 | .
Mezzar, a city lost in time which has stuck to the old ways from when Humans had first arrived on Erith, was a land where any man had the right to be free. Many noble houses took root in such a city, upstarts and old blood alike who sought to profit off of such unlimited freedom. Those who have risen to prominence were appointed to the position of Senator, a member of the ruling class of Mezzar and capable of deciding how the city goes about its affairs. Sadly, that means that corruption runs wild in the Free City for there are none who would turn down honest coin and fewer even who would wish to be on the bad side of those with the coin to pay for them to simply… disappear. The Journeymen who have came to Mezzar can often leave as rich men, a few hundred coins in their pouch from the proper hand looking for the less legal kind of help.
However, the city still flowed on like a river, unaffected by the ripples which the Journeymen could make by ending someone’s life or taking part in extortion. Even now on the very week that five new Journeymen arrived in the city, the city seems practically filled to the brim with life, even more so than usual as the preparations for a festival has begun. But the festival nor a contract was why any of them had been ordered to go to the city of Mezzar. No, they were here to meet their new captain, the woman who would issue their contracts and occasionally battle with them. Their new captain was known to be a hardass, allowing none to stray from the path of the Order nor cause problems for the citizens of whatever town they visit for a contract. However, these five were misfits, known for causing trouble with those who they were suppose to serve, the villagers, or simply their comrades.
This festival period may just be a time to test their abilities, both in combat and outside of it, as forces stir and begin to pull the strings on their machinations. | Veira Hawthorne
Age: 35
Alias: One-Eye Veira
Gender: Female
Race: Human
Personality:
None have ever met a woman so distant yet warm, a woman who closes herself off from others yet exudes an embracing kindness which few bear in these dark times. Veira never raises her hand to strike someone who doesn’t deserve it yet is lenient on thieves and bandits, knowing full well that they are simply doing what they can to survive similar to what she does. Never once has anybody heard Veira raise her voice yet her very presence seems to draw all attention to her. She has always been a natural leader, strong and capable of bringing men and women in line for combat and never faltering in her decisions. Perhaps that is why she is distant though, that she must accept that her decisions can kill someone.
As a Journeymen captain, she has realized that men will die to monsters and there is little she can do it for it is not her fault but simply the weakness of the fighter being greater than the strength of the monster. She cannot grow attached to her comrades for they may simply be tossed aside the very next day while they dig a grave. As such, she comes off as cold to them, only granting them a little of her time and presenting good manners. However, she seems overly fond of reminding them that they are a unit and that they work together, lest she have to reprimand them.
Equipment:
-Oaken Shield: A simple shield painted with hydra, the symbol of her clan. It is reinforced with a thin layer of iron in between the wood.
-Arming Sword: A gift she received from a blacksmith for saving his daughter. It is well crafted iron, tough and always kept sharp.
-Hand Axe: Veira’s favored weapon. An axe with a shaft made from oak and a head made from iron. Quite good at breaking shields when the need be.
-Woolen Doublet: Veira wears a light woolen doublet underneath her clothing.
-Iron Reinforced Leather: Veira likes to be mobile and she can’t have heavy armor for that. However, pure leather is impractical against most monsters so her’s has been studded with iron or layered with iron plates, like scalemail, to provide her better protection.
Skills
-Huntress: Veira was always a passionate huntress, willing to wait hours for her pray to cross its usual paths and strike. This carried over to her time in the Order and allowed her to harness the inherent strength of tracking to find her prey. She has more than enough skill at it to determine the freshness of tracks and, with enough time, could find out when the prey comes into a certain area.
-Shield Breaker: Veira’s combat is very much aggressive, relying on hitting the opponent hard and taking hits with her shield. Through her training, she realized that fighting humans with a shield was far easier than fighting a monster. As such, she seems overly capable of finding the weakness in a foe’s shield to break it. Or she simply gets consumed by the thrill of battle and just hammers away at it. Nobody is really sure which she does.
-Shield Maiden: Veira’s job in combat is not to take a hit directly, fire arrows from afar, or pound the foe with hits. Her job is to hit the monster, distract it, and draw attention to herself so that the others may attack directly. For this, she took up the shield and learned to wield it well, training her arm over the years to be able to withstand some of the hardest hits from monsters.
Magic:
Vlar: A simple darkness rune which causes its caster to be engulfed in a magical darkness which only she can see through. It lasts for a few seconds at most and exacts its toll when cast. Where Veira has it tattooed, nobody is sure.
Tava: A bit of a complex rune, one with many twists and curves to channel its power through. The activation of the rune only lasts a second at most however its toll it heavy, almost as if she had used it constantly for nearly twenty seconds. The fire rune envelops the foe in a blue flame which dances across its body, burning until the creature finds a way to put it out. However, regular water doesn’t put it out. |
51,344 | 1,387 | 1 | 2,395 | 1,412 | The outdoor market district of Mezzar was always busy, always crowded, always… sort of smelly. Loud voices calling from stalls with merchants and farmers peddling their wares and food, children running through the streets playing with toys and knick knacks while close by, their mothers purchased dinner for the evening. It was a nice scene for most. Many people would consider this idyllic, not Daveon however. He was too busy arguing with a merchant over the price of a loaf of bread and a bottle of wine. The normally cheery corner of this part of the market was quite handily disturbed by the small man, his gruff demeanor and loud voice making all around them very aware of the Little Wolverine’s fury.
”Ya means t’ tell me that yous are gonna charge me, ME! Daveon Axebane! You’re going to charge me fifteen copper for this shite wine and this stale bread?! Are you out of yer fuckin’ mind!” The little man stomped and was getting ready to climb over the display, a hand reaching instinctively to the handle of his axe, his rage bubbling up as he felt offended. Instead he simply spat at the merchant and tossed the coin at the man. ”Yer lucky I’m here of order business, else I’d be takin’ yer hand, ya sack o’ shit. Fuckin filthy humans ripping off good halffolk… Thinkin’ we less than them, over chargin’ us for fuckin’ bread…” Daveon grumbled to himself as he bit into the somewhat stale bread and walked through the rest of the market, curious about if there were a quality blacksmith in these parts, he’d never been to Mezzar before and wanted to find out what their quality and standards for weaponry would be and if there were pits to make some cash. He knew there was a mission ready for him, but he wanted fun… adventure… Blood. A swig of wine hear, a crunch of bread there, a casual insult tossed at a group of Free Elves.
Daveon was really just wasting time at this point, knowing that if he were to show up to the meeting on time… or even worse… first, then it would damage his reputation as a smart mouthed jackass that could careless about the team. He would die for any of them, he knew this deep down, even that shitty Dusty Knife-Ear, Shayzani. Daveon fought alongside of them for some time now and even against one of them. He never let people in, never let other races close enough to gain his trust, but this group had proven themselves capable and he knew in a pinch he could rely on any one of them to help him out of a tight spot, even if he did constantly say he hated them. ”Buncha filthy bastards, the whole lot of them…” He whispered to himself as he kept roaming the market square. | Hans Iikka GuiomarWitch-Slayer
Age: 31
Alias(es): Witch-Slayer Hans
Gender: Male
Race: Human
Hans stands approximately 1.82 meters in height, and weighs approximately 60 kilograms. His overall frame is somewhat stocky with thinner, oddly lanky extremities. Hans' musculature and weight are both shades of what they used to be, during the prime of his early career he weighed a full 80 kilograms, most of which was muscle, which has since deteriorated due to a combination of age as well as a maturation of ability. The younger Hans was dumber and less experienced, and spent 90% of his job running nonstop after fleeing would-be sorcerers while fighting their hired help. The older, more pragmatic Hans prefers to ambush his marks, cut off potential escape routes, lay traps, and on occasion even let them run just so he can catch them later - which while more efficient has led to a general atrophy over time. Signs of Hans' prior build are still evident in his shoulders and hips, both of which are broader than would otherwise be expected of his build.
Hans' face, rarely seen from behind his helmet, is softly rounded about the cheeks with a narrow nose and slim jawline, unusual features made all the more distinctive by his orange-colored eyes. Hans' skin is a light bronze in coloration, and his scraggly hair is a light, yew-brown coloration.Hans is, in a word, pragmatic. Having lost everything multiple times in his life whilst also being gifted with unprecedented good fortune in the face of catastrophe, Hans is at ease dealing with situations both queer and dire in stride, and can be counted on to keep calm during moments of contention and chaos. However, this same calm is detrimental in the sense that Hans does not value material possessions, and during his first few years within the Order was responsible for an exorbitant amount of property damage as a result, only having become somewhat more accustomed to having permanent possessions semi-recently.
Hans is also extremely judgmental and dismissive of sellswords, mercenaries, and other 'worthless arrow-catchers,' seen in both his general aversion to dealing with them or in engaging in most forms of conventional combat. Hans prefers grossly uneven fights stacked entirely in his favor and has no qualms with cheating, dirty tricks, low-blows, craven tactics, and foul methods. He also views himself in somewhat of a self-deprecating light, freely describing himself as a glorified assassin and cutthroat. He has an odd respect for thieves and beggars, and despite his frequent reminders that he is a mage-slayer he holds very little ill-will towards sorcerers and their ilk, albeit he still prefers killing them to keeping their company - an attribute which Hans himself has described as a 'habitually developed sentiment.' Hans has readily alienated and distanced himself from magic users within the Order, claiming no particular animus beyond a professional desire to keep a skeptical, observant eye on them while not getting too attached. When confronted with the strict technical fact that he himself is also a mage, Hans prefers to maintain that he is a different breed and class of magical entity.
Hans has a peculiar aversion to the company of women, and he is known to brandish the hilt of his bastard sword in the face of every woman he meets just on the offchance they happen to be a wraith attempting to use glamour. He has an odd fondness for gambling combined with a penchant for shamelessly cheating, which has seen him banned from every local gambling hall in the region. In his spare time, Hans likes to hear and tell stories of mythical creatures and night terrors, being a frequent sight at taverns and inns where he can be seen sitting amongst a rapt audience or else sitting at the forefront, telling the grossest bold-faced lies possible dappled with the occasional truth. More recently, he has taken up collecting various forms of minerals and stones, such as those found in his bastard sword, although he has been known to frequently misplace and lose them due to his habitual carelessness with his possessions. He has also once, to his own dismay, had his bastard sword stolen and been forced to buy it back - and no, it is completely a coincidence the broker was found dead four days later.
Although Hans was willing to join the Order of the Traveler & Journeymen readily enough, he is greatly disaffected with Haedrion and has not great amount of patriotism or love for the ruling King or Nobility. He sees statesmen and war heroes the same way he sees himself -glorified scum, no matter how prettily they might like to dress up and pretend otherwise. He is thus somewhat more loose with his tongue around his betters than is strictly advisable. Thus far, the better part of others' discretion and his dwindling reputation have allowed him to avoid retribution, but his superiors know that he is quickly winding down the thread of that particular yarn. He will follow most orders and instructions readily enough, when convenient, but is very broad in his interpretation of them and usually does his utmost to avoid any kind of tactic resulting in him being in direct, heated conflict with others.
Hans prefers not to talk about the one time he killed a Witch. When in his cups, he is known to declare that it was almost unintentional and that it was really nothing exceptional, and also that if he ever saw another witch ever again he would turn around and run in the opposite direction.Hans was born to unknown parents in a region of the Everwood of Eastern Gaelia. Hans has no memories of his brief infancy in the forest, as before he had turned two his parents abandoned him in the wilderness to die of exposure. It was only thanks to his discovery by a group of traveling missionary Predicants that saved him, who took and began the task of raising him as a member of their religious order, based near the Haedrion border of Gaelia. During his brief education as a young child within the confines of their Monastary, Hans was taught to read and write, and introduced to the most basic theory of rune magic by the time he was eight. His early teachings would then save his life during a border skirmish when he was eight, during which the monastery was sacked and the Predicants murdered. Only Hans was spared, being seen as too young to be a threat and just young enough to be reeducated and trained, while having already been introduced to the basics of rune magic.
Thus, Hans came to be levied by a group of mercenary skirmishes unofficially working for one of the noble houses of Haedrion. Still too young to properly use a blade, Hans was instructed to maintain, repair, and guard the group's crossbows, and trained in their use. The mercenary's longevity proved to be largely transient, and after taking heavy casualties in a raid gone wrong they scattered and dispersed, leaving Hans abandoned once more. Hans attempted to sell the crossbows he had been entrusted with at a nearby settlement, only to be robbed and imprisoned by the local militia for disturbing the peace. Although Hans was reduced to begging in the streets when he was eventually released, word had spread of the circumstances of his imprisonment and he was given an opportunity to demonstrate his knowledge in maintaining the temperate mechanisms of crossbows when he was hired by a passing mercenary to tighter some stringing. This impressed a local smith sufficiently to take Hans in as an apprentice. The township itself, thanks to its close proximity to the border of Gaelia, saw a constant stream of mercenaries and sellswords passing through to skirmish across it, many of whom often sought enchanted armaments. The smith happened to employ a mage as a partner and consultant, who recognized Hans' introductory teachings in the use of rune magic and entered into a bargain with the smith to train Hans' further, so as to enable him to enchant armaments.
But a few years later however, Hans' apprenticeship was once again cut short when the town in question was raided and sacked by a group of skirmishers from Gaelia, once again reducing Hans to homelessness and poverty. Angry and yearning for revenge, despite not even knowing the true identity of the attackers, Hans traveled to the nearest town and joined up with the next band of mercenaries he found heading for the Gaelian border, promising them enchantments for their blades and armor as well as being able to maintain their equipment. Being young, impetuous, and eager to fight despite being a frail and relatively malnourished youth of fourteen, Hans insisted on joining in on the band's raids. Having no formal training with a blade, Hans instead stuck to using a crossbow from afar. After several months of some modest success, the mercenaries began to truly appreciate Hans' enthusiasm for their work and began to teach him in the ways of the sword. Hesitant to risk the life of their young enchanter, they nonetheless encouraged Hans to only engage lone opponents who were neither too heavily armed or armored.
That single piece of advise proved most portentous in its effect - during the band's very next raid, the mercenaries were being suppressed by a competent and powerful arcane sorcerer defending the small village they had chosen to attack, hiding behind a line of levied farmers. The sorcerer's skill in a straight battle, even when working with mere peasants, proved to be great enough to completely suppress the hardened mercenaries who might have been defeated - had it not been for Hans who, in his enthusiasm to fight combined with his adherence to the advice he had been given, had identified the sorcerer himself as the safest target to attack, being located behind most of the fighting, unarmed, and unarmored. Hans spent most of the battle simply skirting around its edges unnoticed until he managed to get behind the levied militia and simply shot the sorcerer in the back of the head, turning the battle and securing victory for the sellswords.
And so it followed. The same band of skirmishes disbanded shortly afterwards, but with the heightened state of hostilities between Haedrion and Gaelia, Hans found no shortage of mercenary bands to sign on with, and no shortage of glowing praise for his usefulness from hardened warriors, and every time he passed between parties there was always word of the time he had crept behind enemy lines in order to take out an otherwise insurmountable mage or sorcerer. As time went by, the word changed - soon word was spoken of the two mages he had slain. Then of three. Then tales flew abound of how Hans enchanted his bolts so as to fly straight through magical wards.
By the time Hans turned eighteen and was actually old enough to be expected to participate in a proper fight, he immediately realized that fighting in the middle of a packed vanguard or frontline was awful and that he much preferred simply sneaking around, shooting unaware people in the back of the head - but he was no longer so young that he could get away with simply sitting out on fights where there were no mages conveniently sitting in the back lines, and fearing he would eventually wind up dead in some nameless border-village he quit the border skirmishes and began to ply his trade as simple hired muscle for debt collectors and criminals in Haedrion cities. He carried with him his then-nascent reputation as a burgeoning slayer of sorcerers and mages, and so was soon able to take on several high-paying jobs with mages as his bounties.
Hans' adolescent years marked the full flourishing of his skills and abilities. Able to apply his wide breadth of talents relatively unhindered, had made a fair fortune as a bounty-hunter, gaining some local repute as the go-to troubleshooter for dealing with troublesome magic users. He invested most of what he earned in pursuit of stolen university tomes and scrolls of magical knowledge, seeking not only information on how to better mark his preferred quarry, but also to further his own modest magical abilities.
This period too, came to an end when his activities finally ran afoul of the local guard and law, who made it very clear he would either depart the city or else the mortal realm if he did not leave. With a small fortune left over from his efforts, and still not having grown past his deep-vested yearning for revenge against the people of Gaelia - whom he incorrectly remembered from vague childhood memories as having been responsible for the sack of the Predicant monastery - Hans invested his wealth in forming his own band of mercenaries with which to enlist with a noble house of Haedrion, and head across the border to wreck havoc upon the people of the land. This proved to be a poor move, as Hans' gifts for assassination and bounty hunting had not bestowed him with any exceptional qualities of leadership, tactics, or even any great ability to excel in a fair fight. Hans' personal mercenary band was shattered and broken apart in less than two weeks due to a combination of his antagonizing his subordinates in addition to simply being a very poor leader in battle, leaving him broke in the middle of the Gaelian wilderness.
Hans had immediately turned tail to head back for Haedrion when he was, for the first time in his life, attacked by a creature of the night. Having only heard exaggerated stories and legends of such creatures before, Hans, terrified, fled for his life and sought refuge in a nearby Gaelian village where, assisted by the townspeople, managed to drive the creature back. Once again, Hans' predicament turned to his benefit, as when he mentioned the name of the Monastery that had raised him during his childhood years one of the villagers was both old and knowledgeable enough to correct Hans' mistaken impression that it had been located in Haedrion. Overcome with both rage and grief, Hans swore to discover the ruined remnants of the Monastery in order to validate his decisions and to prove the lives lost because of his acts had not been for naught. Unfortunately, none in the village knew precisely where the Monastery had been located prior to its sack, and Hans was relatively isolated within the Gaelian wilderness without any means.
Hans then learned that the village had been facing increasingly frequent attacks by creatures of the night in recent years, and having few warriors amongst their number were willing to pay Hans in order to protect the village as well as to go out and hunt the creatures in the wild, after dispersing his misconceptions of the creatures and teaching him what they knew of their vulnerabilities. Hans found that hunting such creatures, although ultimately tedious and not to his taste, shared enough overlaps with his prior profession that he could pursue it in relative safety. He then wandered from town to town in Gaelia within the Everwoods, seeking information on the location of the ruined Monastery, slaying monstrous beings and night terrors to pay his way in the meantime.
Finally, when Hans was 28, discovered the location of the Monastery and returned there - and found waiting for him in the ruins a Witch.
Hans does not speak of that day much or in any great detail, but what is known is that during that same night, the moon was overtaken by shadow, casting the whole in the land in unnatural darkness - illuminated by a great fire in the Everwoods about the locale of the ruined monastery, set ablaze with flames that burned with an alien turquoise color that could be seen for kilometers. Hans came to the town he had just left, bearing with him the head of the Witch. Word of his success, combined with the ominous sights that had been witnessed from afar, spread akin a wildfire - and soon, the name of 'Witch-Slayer' Hans was on the lips of barroom drunks and noblemen alike in both Gaelia and Haedrion, for a time. His repute was such that, upon his return to Haedrion, Hans was invited to join the Order of the Traveler & Journeymen in recognition for his accomplishment and ability, and has been working with them since then.
Clothing & Armor
Hans wears a long beige coat with a dull green cloak over a deceptive leather plate jack, complimented by fluted steel greaves and gauntlets. The ensemble is light overall, affording Hans good agility and maneuverability. Although its protective qualities are limited, Hans has deliberately arranged his attire so as not to leave a single patch of skin exposed, with every surface protected by a bare minimum of thick leather and cloth. His clothes are intended to protect him from various hazards in the wild, from warding off insects and nettles up to deterring snake bites and monster claws. The heaviest and thickest item of armor Hans possesses is a highly distinctive plate helmet, with a mask rendered so as to resemble the grotesque face of a gargoyle, complete with small horns and elongated ears. Unlike the rest of his armor, Hans' helmet is intended to deter manmade weapons and armaments, being capable of withstanding most slashing and piercing strikes with the exception of anything akin to a mace. It could even hypothetically turn an arrow or bolt, although this is not a theory Hans is keen to test.
Tools & Armaments
Hans has not always been well-off, and this is reflected in a skillset enabling him to survive using any weapon or tool that happens to be available. If necessary, Hans could discard and of his personal arms and replace them without a significant loss in combat ability, but as much as he likes to claim otherwise his recent good fortune has burnt something of a hole in his pocket - and it clearly shows in the fine quality of the weapons he bears.
Hans' blade is a bastard sword, suitable for either one or two-handed use. Contrary to expectation, the blade and guard are wrought from simple steel, albeit the length of the weapon has been finely engraved with intricate, patterned channels to assist in the use of runic magic. The true utility of the blade lies in its guard and pommel, which contain nuggets of silver, cold iron, meteoric nickel, ammolite, jet, coral, and pitchblende. Combined with select runic spells and the design of the blade itself, the weapon is effective against every monstrous creature and aberrant being known to man, terrestrial or otherwise. Even when not combined with magic, the simple act of flourishing the blade or holding out the guard is sufficient to drive back less intelligent night creatures, and give those with the capacity for higher thought pause. Moreover, the weapon is curiously resilient to runic and arcane magic directed at it that are not channeled explicitly through the handle and pommel, due in part to the particular design of its engravings. The blade can thus disrupt or otherwise deflect magical effects that it comes into contact with.
Although Hans prefers close-quarter engagement, those who have traveled with him know well that he prefer to begin every engagement by shooting at something with his crossbow. Hans is not a dedicated crossbowman by any means, and typically only fires a single bolt before setting the device aside, preferring not to waste time that could be spent closing distance on reloading and redrawing the temperamental mechanisms. For that reason alone however, Hans has developed a expert talent for striking true with that one shot. Although he is unlikely to win any marksman competitions for precision, there is nothing more natural to Hans than shooting a moving target, particularly humanoid targets running while flailing their arms about in every direction and screaming like waylaid women. The crossbow itself is neither exceptional nor mundane, being of Dwarven make with a higher-than-average draw force along with a few simple metal designs for assistance in channeling runic magic, albeit not to the same extent and efficacy as Hans' bastard sword.Mage-Bane: Although Hans has become steadily more and more familiar with hunting and slaying night creatures and despite his particular fame for slaying a particularly powerful Witch, when Hans began he was little more than a cutthroat or assassin who took out bounties and hunted mages and sorcerers, both for coin and on occasion just because he felt like it. Hans has not forgotten his roots, and there are few more skilled than he at tracking mages, predicting how they will act or what they will do, and most importantly - safely closing the gape and cutting off their heads.
Bane of Woes: Also he is, if tales are believed, quite proficient in dealing with night creatures and horrific terrors beyond the ken of men. If pressed, Hans will usually indicated there simply happens to be a significant overlap between the two distinct arts of mage and monster hunting, and that combating the latter is not wholly to his taste. As a practical matter and possibly much to his own chagrin, Hans is truthfully better at slaying night creatures than mages, as his abilities to protect himself and incapacitate others are typically all the more effective against certain aberrant beings. However, contrariwise, Hans has little to no ability to track unnatural creatures down in the wild, as he is more suited to hunting and understanding the thoughts and motivations of people in urban environments.
Skirmisher: Hans is a Mage-slayer. Which means he kills mages and, on occasion, horrific creatures of the night. As a matter of course, Hans does not go out of his way to pick fights with armored knights, cutthroats, lawyers, or irate but mundane animals - contending with those kinds of threats is some other idiot's job. Hans is a specialist, and during most fights will focus and tunnel on enemy magic users or unspeakable horrors, which often means he finds himself ducking and weaving through enemy formations and lines in order to get around to the back rows, or alternatively spends most of the fight running down empty hallways just in order to flank or cut off a mage. Hans is competent in a fair fight, but little more.
The Better Part of Valor: Hans is a filthy, dirty cheat, especially in a fight. He is not an exceptional swordsman, but makes up for it by pulling every foul trick imaginable. Nothing is too low or shameful for him to abuse or exploit - he will go to any means in order to secure victory, and if victory is not possible, he often will not fight at all, and live to fight another day.The Law of Light: Using a Light-based rune that can be conjured and evoked at a moment's notice, even reflexively, Hans can conjure a faint burst of light that completely and wholly deflects any magical projectile that makes contact with it, and completely negates and prevents the occurrence of any magic within its boundary. The duration of the spell is very brief - lasting anywhere from a fraction of a second to a second and a half. It is extremely quick and easy for Hans to use, not being terribly intensive to cast, and can be used on the move. However, it is limited strictly to melee range, and can only be released from a free extremity - in most cases, Hans' left hand.
Trophic Barrier: Hans can create runes that automatically activate whenever his body is touched or proximal to a foreign magical effect, which causes his body to be enveloped in an aura of light-based magic that causes most magical effects to simply slide and flow across and past Hans' body like water past a rock in a riverbed for as long as the aura remains active, which is typically around five seconds. The main advantage of the rune is that they can be cast far in advance of battle, and the energy needed to cast them is spent at the time the are made rather than when they are activated. This allows for Hans to go into most battles with multiple runes ready at a time. For technical reasons relating to interactions between runes and the body, Hans can only maintain three such runes on his person at a time.
Trophic Current: Hans can channel a bolt or current of Light-based magic as a stream with a meter in range in any direction, which upon contact with most wards or auras will cause them to immediately evaporate or disperse.
Elemental Enchantment: Hans can enchant most weapons and armaments with a variety of basic elemental enchantments. He is largely limited to mono-elemental infusions and runes, having never received an extensive formal education in such craft.
Scattering: Hans creates a rune suspended in the air which flashes with a burst of light so intense it will temporarily blind anybody who can see it even out of the corner of their eyes. The burst of light only lasts a fraction of a second, making the spell relatively easy to use.
Lambent Mirror: Hans uses a light rune to bend and twist light in the surrounding area in such a way as to completely disturb one's visual perception of space, completely confusing and confusing their vestibulary functions and throwing them off balance in addition to likely making them nauseous.
Divining Rod: Hans fires a long, thin, rod-shaped projectile of light that pierces through all obstructions, magical, mundane, or otherwise, and then hardens as if made from stone, sealing everything connected to it in place. Although the rod of light itself seems solid, the length of it piercing and embedded within targets is harmless, and as such the spell is used primarily to immobilize rather than harm targets.
Secret: He does not speak of it, but you have seen it, once or twice. A spell you have never seen before. It is straight out of myth and legend. How did he come to learn of such a power? It is wholly beyond his means to have learnt. |
51,345 | 1,387 | 2 | 141 | 759 | It seemed these last five years had given him purpose. As much as he didn’t like to admit it, he truly believed the Order had given him some purpose in life. Though he missed the sand and his home, this felt like where he was supposed to be. Being in the Order meant a lot over the last five years. One of them meant compromise. At least now he was not always being hunting. Instead he had met many allies, he was looking forward to seeing Daveon again.
A man he owed his life to after he pulled him from the fires that took away not only lives of his people, but trust of his people surely. A man he had great respect for, even if he chose to use vulgar language at times. There were others Shayzani had met as well that he respected, admired. Hoped to be like some, someday.
Maksa groaned from boredom. Their journey uneventful. To maybe perhaps her disappointment more than his. Many on the roads didn’t know how to react to him. Some stared at him with little conviction, others terror. He supposed he understood.
Even without ears the bandages scared them. They did not understand the purpose of the veil of modesty either and that made them see him as suspicious. He did not meet their suspicions with ill thought, instead he met them with understanding as he understood when he there was elven fear. To understand and to forgive were very different concepts though.
The road long. The heat barely bothered him, while others toil away in fields wiping sweat from their brows. The Asto far hotter in the dry season than this subtle coolness in the air. The wetter season though was troublesome, always had been. Maksa made the most of it through complaining. Though he eventually came to where he was meant to be Mezzar city.
He heard the stories and the things they said about this city. Though he did not chase stories without their merit. He tried not to enter cities often, even as an Order member they made him nervous unless he was with a group who could stand for his honor. Especially when his common could not always convey the complexities of language as those born to speak the common language could.
They stood at the gates, Maksa and him prepared to enter. Till two guards stared at him. He could only assume they were looking at him. Their helmets made it hard for him to track their eyes. Getting off of Maksa he bowed to them.
“Aaye,” he told them.
One of them huffed in his helmet.
“You’re not permitted to pass,” he said through his helm.
Ah this was something he should have expected. Honestly it was something that should have been expected from the others who summoned him here. He would try to navigate this misunderstanding though he feared for the worse circumstances.
“Amin no harm,” he tells them, “Amin here to work. With Order.”
The guard laughs.
“You work for the Order?” the second one questions with skepticism.
“Yes,” Shayzani tells them with another bow, they seem on edge when he walks to Maksa to take his sigal out.
“Lemme take a look at that,” the second one walks up and stares into the sigal of his bandaged hands.
Both helmed guards look at each other and turn to the other side facing their backs to him. This didn’t seem to be going as well as he had hoped. He simply waited, already understanding where this might go. It was a disappointment. He didn’t like to be late to his affairs. Neither did he like to be made to be some liar.
The guards finally turned back to him. The first one to talk on the right walked forward in order to clear the gap between their distance.
“It is clear to me this is a forgery,” the guard told him.
It wasn’t. He would not argue though. He only gave a humble bow.
“You’re hereby placed into custody for impersonating an Order member until someone can vouch for your identification, if they can,” the guard on the left said.
Shayzani gave them another bow.
“Understand,” he said to at least acknowledge their decision. He would respect it. It being their city. Living his life with the prejudice of others he knew not to fight it. Defensism only made you look like what you are already not to them. The truth would come out eventually if in fact his Order members came for him. He trusted they would because he would for them. He hoped his year of service meant something to whom he was to meet, or else the purpose he so felt on the way here may feel lost or misplaced of all things.
The guards merely huffed and sighed. His understanding also made him suspicious. Though he had faith in his Order. He also saw no need to argue with them, as he understood what he looked to them. Their reaction valid, because he may once have had the same opinion about himself.
He wished he had the reputation Hans had. Though that came out of admiration from the man who showed few admiration to others. At times Shay believed them to hate each other, though he hated few, but feared those who earned the reputation to be feared.
He stuck his hands out to allow them to place the shackles on his bandaged arms. One of the guards made a noise.
“Pretending to be on our side isn’t going to make us change our minds,” he told him.
“Arguing helps little,” Shayzani told them with a simple bow of his head.
Slinging on the irons, he felt little shame for this moment. It was bound to happen here and there, that he got use to the quick judgment.
The guard at least gave the courtesy of leading him by his shackles without dragging him. Now to walk the city. He wished he didn’t have to do so in shackles.
**
People were quick to assume things. They see a man pass the markets in prison and assume he done something wrong. They believe their observations without observing. Still quite the spot to be in where he needed to be wasn’t too far to where he ended up. In a tight narrow row of cells. They went from a large security checkpoint, through a gate and down some stairs in a dimly lit, tight narrow hallway. It smelled of mildew, mold, there was perhaps the faint smell of blood, and urine.
“In there,” told one of the guards from the security checkpoint.
Shoved into a cramped prison with the door closing fast behind him and the sound of a lock. They were sending an envoy to ask his Commander at the Order to confirm his identity. He didn’t like strange roundabout detours to getting where he needed to be, but he supposed this is what he would have to do for now.
It became clear to him he wasn’t alone. A human man sat in the corner, with hair missing atop his head, he had a few scabs, he was barefoot, in nothing, but rags for clothes. He gives him a toothy grin.
“In ‘ere for spreadin’ shit too?” he ask.
“Excuse?” Shayzani responded.
“Aye,” the man showed his hands which appeared dirty, and indeed there was the scent of feces coming from his corner of the cell, “Took sum horsey manure. Spread it all over a merchant’s cart. He be trying to cheat me I tell ya. But the guards wanna ‘ere nothin’ ‘bout it.”
Shayzani wasn’t sure what to respond with. He simply nodded in acknowledgment.
“Amin Common not good,” Shayzani told him.
“Aye, names Kraven, figure if wes goin’ be in ‘ere together we should know each other’s names, you elfy people won’t make it ‘round here,”
Shayzani once again nodded his head. How else is should he respond? There was ratherly due process in this world.
“Zani,”
“Weird name innit, but I don’t knock ‘nother man’s name,” Kraven tells him, “So. Watcha in for?”
“Nothing,”
“Ooo one of thems stories. I like a good mystery,”
He hoped his commander would get here soon. He trusted she would. He trusted in her word. He wasn't sure how to navigate talking with this human. | Daveon Axebane
Age: 28
Alias(es): Ankle Hewer, Daveon the Small, Little Wolverine.
Gender: Male
Race: Halfling
Personality: Daveon is, for lack of a better term, a dick. He has no respect for the larger races of the world. And why should he? They’ve done nothing for him or his people outside of treat them as lesser because of their stature. He is a tenacious fighter and stubborn to the core, refusing to back down from a fight or an argument, even to his own detriment. His love of coin is also one of his defining features, never able to turn down a full purse or the promise of wealth as a reward for his unique skill set of being able to bring foes down to his level. Daveon is arrogant, angry and a bit racist, never shirking a chance to insult an elf by calling them ‘Knife Ear’. He has a particular distrust for human barkeeps, not sure if they’re taking advantage of him for his size and charging him more for ale and then giving him a smaller portion than he gives the humans and elves, or if they are really just offering him the good stuff. Not that he can can tell, all alcohol goes down the same for him.
Daveon has only two loves in the whole world, coin and slaying monsters. He doesn’t even love his own mum that much, though she’s a saint. Daveon fights and kills not for glory, though he gives off that appearance, but rather he fights for the people of his home town, donating much of the money he makes to the needy and takes care of his kind. He believes that the halflings have been put down by the full sized people of the world, less so from the dwarves, as they have been kind and fair to Daveon whenever he’s been to their settlements. Much of what Daveon does is a show, being a dick to the larger people who have put his kind down for years and being callous. He only shows his true passion in the midst of combat, sword and axe flailing in his fury to cut down any foe brave enough to fight him.
Biography: Daveon started out as many of the other pitfighters like him did, as a street rat. He stole and fought to survive, believing that he could punch his way out of any situation, and it was mostly true. Dav found himself on the receiving end of many a brutal beat down while he was growing up, gaining a sort of resilience to physical injury and a callous personality that allowed him to brush off insults and rude comments like they were water off a duck’s back. Daveon spent a lot of time with his mother when he wasn’t on the streets learning to brawl, learning about what it meant to stand for something, and that something was the little people of his slums, his home… The halfling people were a race left disregarded by the taller, more importantly, a race of people who were given the scraps, treated worse than the slaves. Daveon felt that his people had always been regarded as inferior and unfit for anything, even slave labor. This belief manifested itself in unchecked rage and aggression, which got him into a lot of trouble.
Daveon spent his late teen years being trained on how to focus that rage when he decided he was going to use his natural talent for bludgeoning people to make money, focusing all of his hatred and anger into the Pits, an arena in his hometown that was designed to pit those who were truly brave, or stupid, enough to battle some of the most dangerous monsters capable of being captured and restrained long enough to be killed in the arenas. He learned how to let that rage become his weapon, a force within him to drive himself forward and accomplish feats that many of the other pitfighters would have struggled to survive, with the exception of one. A human fighter name Riance Stranger was able to meet and match Daveon every step of the way, creating a bitter rivalry between the two fighters. With Daveon being like a wild beast set off the chain, and Riance being a more calculated and measured fighter, the two enjoyed a very successful run in the pits fighting against and alongside of each other. Daveon often found himself wondering if he would surpass the man or remain his equal until the end of time, but he always remembered that his feats were great, even by the standards of a human, let alone a halfling.
Daveon often took his winnings and spent them on food and feeding the homeless halflings of his village, helping build shelters and homes for them. He was an active member of the community, even though he always felt the call to battle. He held a battle lust in his heart that could not be quenched no matter how much he wanted to give back to the people that raised him, his true family… the halflings of the lower slums of Headrion. It was during his time within the pits that he was discovered by the Order, and was watched quite diligently. Dav showed promise as a warrior and as a good face among the common-folk, a folk hero amongst the halflings and a legend of the arena. The spitfire that was Daveon Axebane, the Little Wolverine, a vicious predator that would strike with fury and with a frenzy unlike any sane being. Two members of the Order of Journeymen would approach Daveon after a particular bout of his against a group of about twenty five boggards. He was covered head to toe with blood, some his own and some boggard, he wasn’t sure, the events of that day were hazy. The members of the order asked him if he’d be interested in using his talents to save the realm from worse creatures, an offer to which Daveon responded with a laugh and rude gesture, until they tossed a bloated sack of coins at his feet, promising more if he were to join. The rest is history as they say, the angry halfling now fighting and killing his way to riches and making a better life for the slum that he calls home.
Equipment: Daveon barely wears any armor outside of the steel pauldrons on his shoulders, preferring the freedom of movement that loose fitting clothing gives him while he’s fighting. Daveon carries a straight sword and an axe on his back as well as several daggers on his belt. The most protection he wears, outside of the pauldrons are a pair of loose fitting leather pants.
Skills: Primal Rage - After years of rage buried deep inside of him, Daveon is able to channel that rage into his combat ability, allowing him to shrug off blows that would look fatal to any normal man. When the primal fury takes him over, he loses much of his ability to conjure intelligent thought and speech, but his blows become much more devastating. Daveon also has his senses honed in this state of rage, able to react to incoming attacks many times faster than most fighters of his size or larger, allowing him to dodge out of the way of incoming projectiles and avoid being seriously injured by magics, while also being immune to any magic that might strike fear into him or charm him otherwise. Daveon can only enter this state four times over the course of a day and only for ten minutes at a time. |
51,346 | 1,387 | 3 | 1,478 | 473 | 12 Maer’s Day, Valencia,Third Era
Morning, the Free City of Mezzar
Order of the Traveler Outpost
Waiting for her crew to appear was keeping Veira on edge, though there wasn’t much she could do about it since the misfits would arrive whenever they saw fit. As such, she decided to use her time to train with the recruits in the yard. Though, her training session was cut short when a messenger dressed in the Free City’s colors ran through the gates. “You there, I am looking for a Order Captain named,” the young man looked down at his note in hesitation, “Veira? We have a damned Elf who claims to be a Journeymen and the guards demand that he is verified by his supposed captain.” The young man instantly shrank away from the woman at the look of utter disgust and anger she had on her face.
“You fools can’t do your jobs properly can you? Not only did I message your Captain about my incoming Journeymen, I explicitly stated that he is to let anybody who has the proper papers and sigil in. I’ll have to have a word with him later but for now, let’s go have a word with the prison guards before I cut your fucking tongue out in anger,” She said with her hand on her sword. Veira knew full well that the guards stopped the man, who was most likely Shayzani, purely because he was an elf. However, she also knew that she had to calm down unless she wanted to make a tense situation even worse. The guards were already on edge with the Festival and she had no desire to get on their bad side.
She and the messenger marched out of the Outpost, heading straight for the prison, when she noticed a man milling around the Outpost. He worse the sigil of the Order yet obviously wasn’t working, the perfect person for her to drag along to be backup in case things go sour in the prison. “You there, Journeyman!” Her shout startled the crowd milling in the streets, drawing more than a few stares though they only lasted a few seconds. “You are going to come with me since you aren’t busy. I’ve got some business to take care of at the Prison and I’d prefer to have somebody with me while I’m doing it. Hurry up.” She turned heel and followed the messenger once more, leaving the Journeyman behind as she moved on.
Central Market
The Market was bustling as usual and, though it was only morning, a few stalls had sold out of their normal stock and begun pressing into their backup stock. Many bought food and drinks, rushing to watch the combat in the arena, met with friends to talk about how time had passed, and trade their wares from outside the city. The tight crowds created a terrible smell, the smell of unwashed men and women who were too busy working the fields to care about washing. But it also created a prime setting for thieves and scoundrels to swindle the common folk. It didn’t take long before the scream for the guards erupted from the crowd. “Stop that man, Guards! He has stolen something of great value from me!” Whoever it was that was yelling was hidden among the crowd but the thief certainly wasn’t as men and women stumbled out of the way to avoid him.
It was by luck that the man had actually managed to steal from a rich person mingling among the common folk. However, it was certainly not their luck which drew them into the path of Daveon. The halfling was directly in the path of the thief, both unaware of the other until the thief narrowly avoided completely running over him. Instead, he managed to knock into Daveon’s left side and cause the bread which he had been eating to fall into the dry dirt of the market. “Watch where you are going you fucking midget,” Was the only response the thief had as he once again broke into a full run. | Veira Hawthorne
Age: 35
Alias: One-Eye Veira
Gender: Female
Race: Human
Personality:
None have ever met a woman so distant yet warm, a woman who closes herself off from others yet exudes an embracing kindness which few bear in these dark times. Veira never raises her hand to strike someone who doesn’t deserve it yet is lenient on thieves and bandits, knowing full well that they are simply doing what they can to survive similar to what she does. Never once has anybody heard Veira raise her voice yet her very presence seems to draw all attention to her. She has always been a natural leader, strong and capable of bringing men and women in line for combat and never faltering in her decisions. Perhaps that is why she is distant though, that she must accept that her decisions can kill someone.
As a Journeymen captain, she has realized that men will die to monsters and there is little she can do it for it is not her fault but simply the weakness of the fighter being greater than the strength of the monster. She cannot grow attached to her comrades for they may simply be tossed aside the very next day while they dig a grave. As such, she comes off as cold to them, only granting them a little of her time and presenting good manners. However, she seems overly fond of reminding them that they are a unit and that they work together, lest she have to reprimand them.
Equipment:
-Oaken Shield: A simple shield painted with hydra, the symbol of her clan. It is reinforced with a thin layer of iron in between the wood.
-Arming Sword: A gift she received from a blacksmith for saving his daughter. It is well crafted iron, tough and always kept sharp.
-Hand Axe: Veira’s favored weapon. An axe with a shaft made from oak and a head made from iron. Quite good at breaking shields when the need be.
-Woolen Doublet: Veira wears a light woolen doublet underneath her clothing.
-Iron Reinforced Leather: Veira likes to be mobile and she can’t have heavy armor for that. However, pure leather is impractical against most monsters so her’s has been studded with iron or layered with iron plates, like scalemail, to provide her better protection.
Skills
-Huntress: Veira was always a passionate huntress, willing to wait hours for her pray to cross its usual paths and strike. This carried over to her time in the Order and allowed her to harness the inherent strength of tracking to find her prey. She has more than enough skill at it to determine the freshness of tracks and, with enough time, could find out when the prey comes into a certain area.
-Shield Breaker: Veira’s combat is very much aggressive, relying on hitting the opponent hard and taking hits with her shield. Through her training, she realized that fighting humans with a shield was far easier than fighting a monster. As such, she seems overly capable of finding the weakness in a foe’s shield to break it. Or she simply gets consumed by the thrill of battle and just hammers away at it. Nobody is really sure which she does.
-Shield Maiden: Veira’s job in combat is not to take a hit directly, fire arrows from afar, or pound the foe with hits. Her job is to hit the monster, distract it, and draw attention to herself so that the others may attack directly. For this, she took up the shield and learned to wield it well, training her arm over the years to be able to withstand some of the hardest hits from monsters.
Magic:
Vlar: A simple darkness rune which causes its caster to be engulfed in a magical darkness which only she can see through. It lasts for a few seconds at most and exacts its toll when cast. Where Veira has it tattooed, nobody is sure.
Tava: A bit of a complex rune, one with many twists and curves to channel its power through. The activation of the rune only lasts a second at most however its toll it heavy, almost as if she had used it constantly for nearly twenty seconds. The fire rune envelops the foe in a blue flame which dances across its body, burning until the creature finds a way to put it out. However, regular water doesn’t put it out. |
51,347 | 1,387 | 4 | 2,629 | 2,920 | The guards stick their noses where they shouldn't be. Always. 'We don't know shit about any Journeyman in the city' or 'Scram ya bandit filth". He'd rather stay away from being seen by the guards and loitered until an opportunity presents itself with the appearance of a horse-drawn carriage.
The steed let out a weary neigh and the merchant was restless... Seated on the shotgun of the well-worn cart wiping the sweat that dribbled softly along his tanned face as the guard approached him with their weapons stowed on their shoulders. "Yeah, yeah. This just the normal goods I be bringing from the South. Here's your damn papers..." The man continued to babble on as the guards seemed to contently allow the cart to pass. With a swift yoke of his reins, the horse carried on into the city and took a street towards the stables.
Mezzar. City's damn well crowded. Cities are always crowded. Center of trade, business and fuck-all partnership that ends with a pointy stick up your arse. He wasn't sure exactly why they chose this city in the first place-- but I guess it being a 'Free City', guess jobs are aplenty. The carriage finally arrived at its desired destination-- a stable structurally held together by a few misplaced rocks that supported the ceiling competently. He relaxed his limbs and allowed his fingers to leap away from the bottom of the merchant's cart, resting onto the stable's dry dirt floor tattered with hay and rolled to the side quickly. The merchant took notice.
"Hey... Hey you!" The tanned man called to him. Riance paid him no mind and continued walking as he frantically went to check his goods-- whom the man believe that he stole something.
It didn't take him long to stumble upon a busy market where people are strewn about with the attractions of merchants across the land. Baubles and trinkets that shine steal the eye... Almost a perfect set up for pickpockets and thieves to operate in. Problem was, most of the folk who were interested were poor, ragged and smelled like piss. Perhaps their pockets even have piss in it. Occasionally you could spot a wealthy man; surrounded by a group of guards who made the way for'em by forcefully pushing others aside. Then there's the wise rich men who dressed themselves the part of common folk. If only they don't smell so clean or have pale complexions.
He pushed people gently along their shoulders trying to cover some distance. The stream of people walking against his direction were vast. His pace doubled as he found a break among the wandering men and realised that people began to voluntarily open a path. Someone was coming. Riance took notice of the man running frantically with great strides. No doubt a thief based on the speed in which he ran and the body language he displayed. He was unsure if he had gotten away judging from his quick head turn. Should he leap into action? The Journeyman's code would suggest that he does. Then maybe...
He took hold of the neck of his spear and began his own stride. The man was running towards his direction; all Riance had to do was intercept. He swiftly slipped and slithered along the crowd, sliding the spear gently as to not cut any innocent man he passed. It wasn't exactly the thick forestry he was used to navigate but people make for good cushioning than trees or dirt. He was able to reach the runner just in time in front of him and swung the shaft of his spear towards the running man's chest. That's when he underestimated the man. He was able to duck under the shaft... Despite losing balance but quickly gathered his pace as he slipped away from Riance. "Athletic. Or at least good enough to have anticipated that." He gathered his breath and stowed the spear away. Riance had lost interest in the thief... He got away.
"Wasting my time thinking about him." Riance continued to walk towards his destination from the market, to the Journeyman's Headquarters. | Riance Stranger
Age: 30
Alias(es): The Stranger, Midget Slayer, Fox Hound
Gender: Male
Race: Human
Personality:
A hoodlum who found his fame through pit fighting. Riance is a patient and calculating man who ensures to exploit any weaknesses he finds. As a person he is quite honest and could be remarked as sarcastic at times. Speaking his mind whilst putting a twist of humour that he himself has grown fond of. He discovered that its the best way to reveal a person's weakness by taunting them to act rashly. While cautious, it does not mean that he is incapable of empathising with others... Although weirdly at that he may appear to be too accommodating.
Among one thing he hates most is recklessness. It is reflected through Riance's battles with Daveon, another pit fighter whom he has lost as many times as he won against. Its with great dishonour to be admitting that even sometimes recklessness could achieve a better result than patience.
Biography:
Cunning is Riance's middle name. Riance Cunning Stranger. A hoodlum without the smarts to be efficient in the slums could prove to be fatal. Every objective is met with precision and careful coordination of his natural assets. He never shy away from retreating if his cunning plan had folded for the worse. Countless trial and error refined him to become a proficient guerrilla fighter-- instilling fear and fury with his tactics that reveals weaknesses of his enemies. One day, he was made aware that there were an organised fighting pit hosted by one of the local lords and he travelled there looking to see if he could make a fortune using his ability sets.
Everything had went according to plan. Until a certain halfling stopped him in his tracks to be at the top. The fighter known as Daveon Axebane-- A midget whose name claims to be the breaker of all axes... Was a strange specimen for Riance to dissect. The halfling uses rage and recklessness as if that was his own middle name. His tactics while effective, do not often guarantee his victory. Daveon seems to reveal very little weaknesses... Maybe he has such a tiny brain that it doesn't register a wound like a normal halfling would.
Equipment: Long Hewing Spear, with Cross Guard. This pointy stick could also pass as a shortsword in the nick of the moment. Riance utilises this spear to keep enemies at bay or to capitalise upon his foe's weaknesses with powerful thrusts and cuts. He is clad with a suit of half-plate armour that protect parts of his body and limbs, allowing for better mobility and sufficient protection.
Skills:
Float like a Butterfly, Sting like a Bee - Riance carefully studies his opponent and attempts to find their weaknesses. Once found, he will exploit them until his enemy cease to live. During this time, he will appear to be fighting defensively; dodging attacks by a hair's distance and wrestling his enemy away from him to keep them at bay until he is ready to strike.
Hit Hard and Hit Fast - Usually the result of the understanding his opponent. His movements will become more erratic to accommodate for his opponent's attacks and begin striking at vital points and retreating out of reach.
Agile and Mobile - Self-explanatory. His lithe structure allows for easy getaways and flashy acrobatics.
Self-Teaching - He learns and understands skill his own way.
Magic:
Light Rune - Uses a blast of light to blind his opponent in a pinch.
Misc: |
51,348 | 1,387 | 5 | 141 | 759 | This was a peculiar situation. The guards had probably gotten in contact with the Order by now, as the Order’s official headquarters wasn't too far from the prisons. Kraven seemed oddly chipper in a cell and seemed oddly friendly for a man who picked horse dung off the market floor and flung it at a merchant trying to cheat him.
If that was the true story. Trying to adjust himself in the small corners, Shayzani ended up backing too far into the corner into another person. It was clear to him it was another person. A hardy built guy, with a warrior stripe mohawk, bulging muscles, and a single braid. His jaw alone looked like it could cut steel.
Shayzani bowed.
“Excuse,” Shayzani told the man in hopes that he could appease the man with a simple kind gesture.
“You should watch where you are going next time,” the man replied gruffly, “else you may very well bump into someone more likely to break your fuckin’ neck mate. However, I ain’t lookin’ to get a murder charge added to the list, elf.” The man pushed a small stool over into the corner and sat down, trying his best to not get too near to Kraven and the smell of shit.
Shayzani bowed one more time. It was odd being in this circumstance. Normally he was an outsider looking into cells. Not stepping into one. This felt like an odd world, a world he didn’t fully understand and he barely understood the human’s world in the first place. This seemed a place to gather experience. To look at another’s view.
“Yes, I should have,” Shayzani paused, “to look.” he added with a nod of his head, “Would you lend insight? How did you come to this circumstance?”
The man sighed audibly and crossed his arms with a bored look. “Normally I ain’t much of one to talk to people but since we are in this nice and cozy room,” He said with a wide gesture, “I might as well be so kind as to tell you. Now, I work hard all year round just to pay for my wife and son. Come the Harvest Festival and I says to myself ‘I’m gonna go into town and drink for the night.’ And I drink for the night. Got in a fight with a man over the tab and now I’m ‘ere. Happy?”
Happy? He never understood this expression well. Daveon says people mean it sardonically, when they are jesting when you ask a probing question. It just seemed like an odd turn of phrase didn’t it. Then again everything in Common had extra words that didn’t connect with another. Shayzani only nods his head as he processes the story.
“Ah,” Shayzani says in thought, “Less happy. More understand. To understand you. So you’d say the guards are?” he pauses for a second what was the word again, “corrupt? Or ah to pick on a certain group of people?”
“The guards don’t care about anybody but the ones who foot their bills,” He said as he leaned forward. “If you pay them a little extra then they’ll do whatever they can to make your day better. Dwarves, Elves, they might have it worse. If they get caught in the wrong kind of business like you have, they can end up in the slave trade. ‘Course, ain’t nobody going to admit that there is a slave trade at all. But we all know it. We all see the men and women who go to the docks to never come back.”
Shayzani nodded. Though the statement harbored a bitter taste in the back of his throat. Elven people as slaves. Ever since he entered more close to this world, proud to be in the Order feeling like he has done something to represent his people, the more close he had gotten to their politics. It saddened him with sorrow deeply to know elven people were suffering.
Though at the same time there was nothing his people or other Elven people could do for them. They were warned centuries ago that humans would betray them. And what ended up happening? Humans betrayed them. Enslaved the working men. Some women were sold off to unsavory acts for their exotic beauties.
His own caravans attacked by prejudice and frightened humans. He knew the reason why he was thrown in here. Not enough people looking for other people’s perspectives. They were taught to look outside a dirty glass and never thought to clean it off to see a better picture.
Cockroaches. Bred. Kill one. More cropped out of the cracks.
“Isn’t bribery,” Shayzani paused, “illegal? Amin thought guards not allowed to take money.”
“Take money or not, they have to pay their bills some way,” He sighed. He seemed conflicted for a while in his choice of words, silently looking at the guard’s shadow on the wall across the way. “Bein’ a guard is dangerous. Someone could kill ya any day over somethin’ small. You choose the life but you don’t choose yer death, ya know? I’d take the money if I were them. I’d need it, for my wife and child. So that I can retire early and not risk dyin’ every day. Illegal to bribe them, yes. Can I blame them, not really.”
What a flimsy reason. Most likely because he had seen death already that he was willing to accept a job that paid little and he may die, but he would not take money he didn’t rightfully earn. A loose lack of morals and ethics it seemed on their side.
And to excuse it away with just the simple words of family. In the Dust you worked hard everyday to ensure survival. Not just the adults. Children as well. If they didn’t make it, they were not strong to live in this cycle.
He didn’t understand that perspective. It was hard for him to put himself in their minds when he lived his life in the Dust, as the Dust, by the Dust.
“Death is,” Shayzani didn’t know how to word it in common too well, “kirma lithlad. Great cycle. Val gwaith.”
He would not understand that. Shayzani looked at the man.
“One grain of sand,” Shayzani uses his hand, “is one person. If one person thinks for itself. No desert. Sand is stronger together. Bribes. Rich. Make sand separate.”
“I’m not sure how to make o’ that but I ain’t one to question how an Elf was raised. Here in the human empires though, money is what makes you strong. Money can buy anything. A home, food, water. It can even buy you a wife in some places!” The man seemed amused by his attempt at a joke but sighed once more after a brief smile. “You see, money can and will buy you anything. Here, it can buy you the less self righteous guards. It can buy you a nice woman to sleep in your bed at night. It can also lead to you being an idiot and endin’ up right here in the jail like we ‘ave. If you think that is bad then I don’t know if you want to get involved with them noble houses and their politics.”
“Aye, ‘eir a lot worse ‘an anythin’ you’d ‘ve seen,” Kraven chimed in, “what with all ‘eir lyin’, cheatin’, and not to mention payin’ for people to die. Just last year one o’ ‘em supposedly paid a woman to lay with the son of ‘nother house just to cause a scene. Gossip says he was askin’ for it, was too hot headed and didn’t want none o’ the trade split between his house and the others. Next thing ya know, kid was run outta the Council and they had the spot all to ‘em selves.”
Shayzani looked between the two men. Taking a second he was distracted by the sound of a guard dragging a man to another cell. He watched for a second. Money bought everything. Humans willing to eat their own straight from the womb. Value money over community. It was hard sometimes to clean these windows to understand. He tried to understand.
Shayzani turned back to Kraven.
“What made,” Shayzani paused, “merchant cheat you?”
“Likely what makes all o’ ‘em do it. The coin. Bein’ a merchant is no easier than working in a field. Just as he worries about crops growin’, the merchant worries about his supplies running out. He gotta pay the men to guard them. He gotta pay ‘em to not steal from him. And then he gotta sell ‘em to people like me. People who work hard to get food. Doesn’t change that he is a dirty fuckin’ cheat for overchargin’ me but the world ain’t pure ‘nough to undercharge. Lest ya want to be broke and homeless,” He said with a toothless chuckle.
Shayzani shuffles. Their lives seemed sad. To be concerned about things like life. Which was so virtually important more than goods. Death and life were to be honored and respected as part of the great cycle that weaved them all into one net. He looks around the cells. How does Daveon word it? How would Hans ask the question?
“What,” Shayzan pauses, “to happen. If say neither of us are cleared. Where do we go?”
“If yer like me,” The man in the corner said with a shake of his head, “Then you just spend a few days in here and then go. Shit hands over there probably will only spend the night. You though, you might end up in the arena. To fight to the death for your crimes. Many end up being thrown to rabid wolves and rare bears in the arena. All for the laughs of others.”
Shayzani nods. He looks outside the cell again. Where could there Commander be? He gave an oath and owed some debt to Daveon. He could not go to this human arena. Not just yet. Not when he felt close to achieving something. He rather die in achieving something or not. But not locked in a cell.
Moving to the cell door with a humble bow to Kraven and the man he didn’t catch his name before turning to the guard.
“Has my commander been found?” Shayzani asked the guard in hopes that he could give him the answer.
“As if I’d know whether or not your commander has been found. The messenger was sent, yeah but it ain’t my business if he takes his sweet time gettin’ there. As far as we care, he can just not come back at all and you can rot in there,” The guard said as he approached the door. “I’d rather ‘em take their sweet time getting here so that you can learn a lesson from the rest of the scum in here, Elf.”
Shayzani had heard it all before. Poison spat from the mouth because of what he is. It spoken so harshly. Yet Shayzani closed his eyes and nodded his head.
“Kyremcoia antvarna. Heren uummali ten loth,” Shayzani told the guard, “We are sand. Together we are powerful. Individually we are a speck. Karma is cruel.”
“I don’t care about none of yer talk about karma you fuckin’ elf. Come the end of the day, you are no different than anybody in this city. Nobody will think twice about your death in the arena. I’m sure you’ll make a beautiful scene with the bears,” He replied with a cruel laugh before walking down the hall.
This city seemed filled with sorrow. That is how Shayzani felt. Poison from the mouth. Value of material over people. And everyone seemed in peace with this because they could not change it. He felt like clearing the mind would be better than simply waiting with uncertainty. Turning to his new cell mates, hopefully temporary and not permanently.
“Would you,” Shayzani “to meditate with me. Helps clear mind. Gains new perspective.”
“Don’t think I am much o’ one for meditating,” the man in the corner said, “but if it passes the time then I might as well. Show me the way.” Kraven simply nodded his head in agreement and smiled at Shay with a slightly toothless grin.
Shay sat down on the cold stone and stared at the man. Silently instructing them to do the same. They tried to sit on the stone as well, the man he still had no name for was much bigger and his knees extended out stabbing Kraven in the thigh. Though Shayzani didn’t allow that be his distraction.
“My common not good,” Shayzani told them “Think of vastness. A forest with whispering trees. A desert with sand blowing in swirls. A sea crashing on crags. Hold onto this image. This image is seere. Ah peace. Let this image be the guide. Now close your eyes. With image in mind.”
He demonstrates. Back in the heat of the desert. The cell walls fading. He wasn’t sure if the other two had actually fallen suit. But he continued.
“Now this is your peace,” Shayzani said, “Your inner mind. Embrace this peace.”
He waited for four seconds.
“Now in your soul is conflict,” Shayzani told them more trance like, “This conflict. This problem. Disrupts your inner peace. The goal is to figure how to make that conflict resolved. Mental. Then in physical you know how to resolve it.”
Prejudice. Hate. Greed. These things disturbed him about this world he entered. The Order a second chance, but the world seemed to be a void of darkness. It was not a problem so easily and readily resolved through just words of humility. It meant he had to let go of his own thoughts he harbored on. Today he gave into his resentment. That was something he could pass to the desert winds. Let it swirl. To fight cruelty. You fought with modesty. You fought with the opposites. If it is cruel, it is love. It is hate, it is care.
“Your weapon is changing the environment,” Shayzani told them.
To the Plains of Ashes. He would be the model of behavior for his kind. The ambassador. A message. A symbol. He would not let the humans darkness birth an evil germ in his heart. He would not let prejudice become a toxin in his system. To the Dust it would go. | Daveon Axebane
Age: 28
Alias(es): Ankle Hewer, Daveon the Small, Little Wolverine.
Gender: Male
Race: Halfling
Personality: Daveon is, for lack of a better term, a dick. He has no respect for the larger races of the world. And why should he? They’ve done nothing for him or his people outside of treat them as lesser because of their stature. He is a tenacious fighter and stubborn to the core, refusing to back down from a fight or an argument, even to his own detriment. His love of coin is also one of his defining features, never able to turn down a full purse or the promise of wealth as a reward for his unique skill set of being able to bring foes down to his level. Daveon is arrogant, angry and a bit racist, never shirking a chance to insult an elf by calling them ‘Knife Ear’. He has a particular distrust for human barkeeps, not sure if they’re taking advantage of him for his size and charging him more for ale and then giving him a smaller portion than he gives the humans and elves, or if they are really just offering him the good stuff. Not that he can can tell, all alcohol goes down the same for him.
Daveon has only two loves in the whole world, coin and slaying monsters. He doesn’t even love his own mum that much, though she’s a saint. Daveon fights and kills not for glory, though he gives off that appearance, but rather he fights for the people of his home town, donating much of the money he makes to the needy and takes care of his kind. He believes that the halflings have been put down by the full sized people of the world, less so from the dwarves, as they have been kind and fair to Daveon whenever he’s been to their settlements. Much of what Daveon does is a show, being a dick to the larger people who have put his kind down for years and being callous. He only shows his true passion in the midst of combat, sword and axe flailing in his fury to cut down any foe brave enough to fight him.
Biography: Daveon started out as many of the other pitfighters like him did, as a street rat. He stole and fought to survive, believing that he could punch his way out of any situation, and it was mostly true. Dav found himself on the receiving end of many a brutal beat down while he was growing up, gaining a sort of resilience to physical injury and a callous personality that allowed him to brush off insults and rude comments like they were water off a duck’s back. Daveon spent a lot of time with his mother when he wasn’t on the streets learning to brawl, learning about what it meant to stand for something, and that something was the little people of his slums, his home… The halfling people were a race left disregarded by the taller, more importantly, a race of people who were given the scraps, treated worse than the slaves. Daveon felt that his people had always been regarded as inferior and unfit for anything, even slave labor. This belief manifested itself in unchecked rage and aggression, which got him into a lot of trouble.
Daveon spent his late teen years being trained on how to focus that rage when he decided he was going to use his natural talent for bludgeoning people to make money, focusing all of his hatred and anger into the Pits, an arena in his hometown that was designed to pit those who were truly brave, or stupid, enough to battle some of the most dangerous monsters capable of being captured and restrained long enough to be killed in the arenas. He learned how to let that rage become his weapon, a force within him to drive himself forward and accomplish feats that many of the other pitfighters would have struggled to survive, with the exception of one. A human fighter name Riance Stranger was able to meet and match Daveon every step of the way, creating a bitter rivalry between the two fighters. With Daveon being like a wild beast set off the chain, and Riance being a more calculated and measured fighter, the two enjoyed a very successful run in the pits fighting against and alongside of each other. Daveon often found himself wondering if he would surpass the man or remain his equal until the end of time, but he always remembered that his feats were great, even by the standards of a human, let alone a halfling.
Daveon often took his winnings and spent them on food and feeding the homeless halflings of his village, helping build shelters and homes for them. He was an active member of the community, even though he always felt the call to battle. He held a battle lust in his heart that could not be quenched no matter how much he wanted to give back to the people that raised him, his true family… the halflings of the lower slums of Headrion. It was during his time within the pits that he was discovered by the Order, and was watched quite diligently. Dav showed promise as a warrior and as a good face among the common-folk, a folk hero amongst the halflings and a legend of the arena. The spitfire that was Daveon Axebane, the Little Wolverine, a vicious predator that would strike with fury and with a frenzy unlike any sane being. Two members of the Order of Journeymen would approach Daveon after a particular bout of his against a group of about twenty five boggards. He was covered head to toe with blood, some his own and some boggard, he wasn’t sure, the events of that day were hazy. The members of the order asked him if he’d be interested in using his talents to save the realm from worse creatures, an offer to which Daveon responded with a laugh and rude gesture, until they tossed a bloated sack of coins at his feet, promising more if he were to join. The rest is history as they say, the angry halfling now fighting and killing his way to riches and making a better life for the slum that he calls home.
Equipment: Daveon barely wears any armor outside of the steel pauldrons on his shoulders, preferring the freedom of movement that loose fitting clothing gives him while he’s fighting. Daveon carries a straight sword and an axe on his back as well as several daggers on his belt. The most protection he wears, outside of the pauldrons are a pair of loose fitting leather pants.
Skills: Primal Rage - After years of rage buried deep inside of him, Daveon is able to channel that rage into his combat ability, allowing him to shrug off blows that would look fatal to any normal man. When the primal fury takes him over, he loses much of his ability to conjure intelligent thought and speech, but his blows become much more devastating. Daveon also has his senses honed in this state of rage, able to react to incoming attacks many times faster than most fighters of his size or larger, allowing him to dodge out of the way of incoming projectiles and avoid being seriously injured by magics, while also being immune to any magic that might strike fear into him or charm him otherwise. Daveon can only enter this state four times over the course of a day and only for ten minutes at a time. |
51,349 | 1,387 | 6 | 2,395 | 1,412 | “You there, Journeyman! You are going to come with me since you aren’t busy. I’ve got some business to take care of at the Prison and I’d prefer to have somebody with me while I’m doing it. Hurry up.”
Hans froze mid-query about the relative slant of drainage ditches in the Mid-western Narrows when a tense woman with long, dirty blonde hair wearing red cloth over armor stormed out of the outpost and called out to him out of the blue, picking him out of the crowd like a cuckoo egg. She did it with naught but a single irritated glance after looking over the crowd once and then looking back to him.
After hastily tipping the woman at the market-stall, Hans hurriedly adorned his helmet once more and then looked himself up and down, trying to figure out what had given him away. Without his occasionally thrice-damned distinctive helmet on, there was no way she should have been able to pick him out from-
As he patted himself down, Hans' hand hit the dirtied and battered Journeyman's sigil still pinned to his overcoat, and he swore as he looked at the grimy, partly corroded badge. He had not coated it with enough dirt! Whoever the blonde woman in red was, she had probably been able to just make out enough of its color and contour to identify him!
"Traveler fucking damn a son of a harpy..." He swore under his breath as he jogged in order to catch up with Veira. Giving her a quick twice-over, he hastily brushed the crusts of filth off of his Journeyman insignia before falling into step with her. He opened his mouth to speak as he turned to look at her, and then stopped, subconsciously thankful that his grotesque helmet obscured his face and saved him from appearing as a star-struck idiot. Something about the way Veira held herself commanded attention. Her face had a sort of light to, a sort of striking grace and firmness to it despite the scars that demanded both respect and obedience. He was left staring at her for a full two seconds before he managed to shake the haze from his eyes, chastising himself for being so easily caught-up by the first striking face he had seen in weeks. Attempting to sound casual, he broached the subject of what the hell they were doing.
"You mentioned the prison. Are we interrogating someone? Carrying out a proscription? Are we remunerating the guards to aid their blind and deaf veterans-" His voice briefly caught as he glanced at Veira's scars again. "-or are we taking a cut from them?" | Hans Iikka GuiomarWitch-Slayer
Age: 31
Alias(es): Witch-Slayer Hans
Gender: Male
Race: Human
Hans stands approximately 1.82 meters in height, and weighs approximately 60 kilograms. His overall frame is somewhat stocky with thinner, oddly lanky extremities. Hans' musculature and weight are both shades of what they used to be, during the prime of his early career he weighed a full 80 kilograms, most of which was muscle, which has since deteriorated due to a combination of age as well as a maturation of ability. The younger Hans was dumber and less experienced, and spent 90% of his job running nonstop after fleeing would-be sorcerers while fighting their hired help. The older, more pragmatic Hans prefers to ambush his marks, cut off potential escape routes, lay traps, and on occasion even let them run just so he can catch them later - which while more efficient has led to a general atrophy over time. Signs of Hans' prior build are still evident in his shoulders and hips, both of which are broader than would otherwise be expected of his build.
Hans' face, rarely seen from behind his helmet, is softly rounded about the cheeks with a narrow nose and slim jawline, unusual features made all the more distinctive by his orange-colored eyes. Hans' skin is a light bronze in coloration, and his scraggly hair is a light, yew-brown coloration.Hans is, in a word, pragmatic. Having lost everything multiple times in his life whilst also being gifted with unprecedented good fortune in the face of catastrophe, Hans is at ease dealing with situations both queer and dire in stride, and can be counted on to keep calm during moments of contention and chaos. However, this same calm is detrimental in the sense that Hans does not value material possessions, and during his first few years within the Order was responsible for an exorbitant amount of property damage as a result, only having become somewhat more accustomed to having permanent possessions semi-recently.
Hans is also extremely judgmental and dismissive of sellswords, mercenaries, and other 'worthless arrow-catchers,' seen in both his general aversion to dealing with them or in engaging in most forms of conventional combat. Hans prefers grossly uneven fights stacked entirely in his favor and has no qualms with cheating, dirty tricks, low-blows, craven tactics, and foul methods. He also views himself in somewhat of a self-deprecating light, freely describing himself as a glorified assassin and cutthroat. He has an odd respect for thieves and beggars, and despite his frequent reminders that he is a mage-slayer he holds very little ill-will towards sorcerers and their ilk, albeit he still prefers killing them to keeping their company - an attribute which Hans himself has described as a 'habitually developed sentiment.' Hans has readily alienated and distanced himself from magic users within the Order, claiming no particular animus beyond a professional desire to keep a skeptical, observant eye on them while not getting too attached. When confronted with the strict technical fact that he himself is also a mage, Hans prefers to maintain that he is a different breed and class of magical entity.
Hans has a peculiar aversion to the company of women, and he is known to brandish the hilt of his bastard sword in the face of every woman he meets just on the offchance they happen to be a wraith attempting to use glamour. He has an odd fondness for gambling combined with a penchant for shamelessly cheating, which has seen him banned from every local gambling hall in the region. In his spare time, Hans likes to hear and tell stories of mythical creatures and night terrors, being a frequent sight at taverns and inns where he can be seen sitting amongst a rapt audience or else sitting at the forefront, telling the grossest bold-faced lies possible dappled with the occasional truth. More recently, he has taken up collecting various forms of minerals and stones, such as those found in his bastard sword, although he has been known to frequently misplace and lose them due to his habitual carelessness with his possessions. He has also once, to his own dismay, had his bastard sword stolen and been forced to buy it back - and no, it is completely a coincidence the broker was found dead four days later.
Although Hans was willing to join the Order of the Traveler & Journeymen readily enough, he is greatly disaffected with Haedrion and has not great amount of patriotism or love for the ruling King or Nobility. He sees statesmen and war heroes the same way he sees himself -glorified scum, no matter how prettily they might like to dress up and pretend otherwise. He is thus somewhat more loose with his tongue around his betters than is strictly advisable. Thus far, the better part of others' discretion and his dwindling reputation have allowed him to avoid retribution, but his superiors know that he is quickly winding down the thread of that particular yarn. He will follow most orders and instructions readily enough, when convenient, but is very broad in his interpretation of them and usually does his utmost to avoid any kind of tactic resulting in him being in direct, heated conflict with others.
Hans prefers not to talk about the one time he killed a Witch. When in his cups, he is known to declare that it was almost unintentional and that it was really nothing exceptional, and also that if he ever saw another witch ever again he would turn around and run in the opposite direction.Hans was born to unknown parents in a region of the Everwood of Eastern Gaelia. Hans has no memories of his brief infancy in the forest, as before he had turned two his parents abandoned him in the wilderness to die of exposure. It was only thanks to his discovery by a group of traveling missionary Predicants that saved him, who took and began the task of raising him as a member of their religious order, based near the Haedrion border of Gaelia. During his brief education as a young child within the confines of their Monastary, Hans was taught to read and write, and introduced to the most basic theory of rune magic by the time he was eight. His early teachings would then save his life during a border skirmish when he was eight, during which the monastery was sacked and the Predicants murdered. Only Hans was spared, being seen as too young to be a threat and just young enough to be reeducated and trained, while having already been introduced to the basics of rune magic.
Thus, Hans came to be levied by a group of mercenary skirmishes unofficially working for one of the noble houses of Haedrion. Still too young to properly use a blade, Hans was instructed to maintain, repair, and guard the group's crossbows, and trained in their use. The mercenary's longevity proved to be largely transient, and after taking heavy casualties in a raid gone wrong they scattered and dispersed, leaving Hans abandoned once more. Hans attempted to sell the crossbows he had been entrusted with at a nearby settlement, only to be robbed and imprisoned by the local militia for disturbing the peace. Although Hans was reduced to begging in the streets when he was eventually released, word had spread of the circumstances of his imprisonment and he was given an opportunity to demonstrate his knowledge in maintaining the temperate mechanisms of crossbows when he was hired by a passing mercenary to tighter some stringing. This impressed a local smith sufficiently to take Hans in as an apprentice. The township itself, thanks to its close proximity to the border of Gaelia, saw a constant stream of mercenaries and sellswords passing through to skirmish across it, many of whom often sought enchanted armaments. The smith happened to employ a mage as a partner and consultant, who recognized Hans' introductory teachings in the use of rune magic and entered into a bargain with the smith to train Hans' further, so as to enable him to enchant armaments.
But a few years later however, Hans' apprenticeship was once again cut short when the town in question was raided and sacked by a group of skirmishers from Gaelia, once again reducing Hans to homelessness and poverty. Angry and yearning for revenge, despite not even knowing the true identity of the attackers, Hans traveled to the nearest town and joined up with the next band of mercenaries he found heading for the Gaelian border, promising them enchantments for their blades and armor as well as being able to maintain their equipment. Being young, impetuous, and eager to fight despite being a frail and relatively malnourished youth of fourteen, Hans insisted on joining in on the band's raids. Having no formal training with a blade, Hans instead stuck to using a crossbow from afar. After several months of some modest success, the mercenaries began to truly appreciate Hans' enthusiasm for their work and began to teach him in the ways of the sword. Hesitant to risk the life of their young enchanter, they nonetheless encouraged Hans to only engage lone opponents who were neither too heavily armed or armored.
That single piece of advise proved most portentous in its effect - during the band's very next raid, the mercenaries were being suppressed by a competent and powerful arcane sorcerer defending the small village they had chosen to attack, hiding behind a line of levied farmers. The sorcerer's skill in a straight battle, even when working with mere peasants, proved to be great enough to completely suppress the hardened mercenaries who might have been defeated - had it not been for Hans who, in his enthusiasm to fight combined with his adherence to the advice he had been given, had identified the sorcerer himself as the safest target to attack, being located behind most of the fighting, unarmed, and unarmored. Hans spent most of the battle simply skirting around its edges unnoticed until he managed to get behind the levied militia and simply shot the sorcerer in the back of the head, turning the battle and securing victory for the sellswords.
And so it followed. The same band of skirmishes disbanded shortly afterwards, but with the heightened state of hostilities between Haedrion and Gaelia, Hans found no shortage of mercenary bands to sign on with, and no shortage of glowing praise for his usefulness from hardened warriors, and every time he passed between parties there was always word of the time he had crept behind enemy lines in order to take out an otherwise insurmountable mage or sorcerer. As time went by, the word changed - soon word was spoken of the two mages he had slain. Then of three. Then tales flew abound of how Hans enchanted his bolts so as to fly straight through magical wards.
By the time Hans turned eighteen and was actually old enough to be expected to participate in a proper fight, he immediately realized that fighting in the middle of a packed vanguard or frontline was awful and that he much preferred simply sneaking around, shooting unaware people in the back of the head - but he was no longer so young that he could get away with simply sitting out on fights where there were no mages conveniently sitting in the back lines, and fearing he would eventually wind up dead in some nameless border-village he quit the border skirmishes and began to ply his trade as simple hired muscle for debt collectors and criminals in Haedrion cities. He carried with him his then-nascent reputation as a burgeoning slayer of sorcerers and mages, and so was soon able to take on several high-paying jobs with mages as his bounties.
Hans' adolescent years marked the full flourishing of his skills and abilities. Able to apply his wide breadth of talents relatively unhindered, had made a fair fortune as a bounty-hunter, gaining some local repute as the go-to troubleshooter for dealing with troublesome magic users. He invested most of what he earned in pursuit of stolen university tomes and scrolls of magical knowledge, seeking not only information on how to better mark his preferred quarry, but also to further his own modest magical abilities.
This period too, came to an end when his activities finally ran afoul of the local guard and law, who made it very clear he would either depart the city or else the mortal realm if he did not leave. With a small fortune left over from his efforts, and still not having grown past his deep-vested yearning for revenge against the people of Gaelia - whom he incorrectly remembered from vague childhood memories as having been responsible for the sack of the Predicant monastery - Hans invested his wealth in forming his own band of mercenaries with which to enlist with a noble house of Haedrion, and head across the border to wreck havoc upon the people of the land. This proved to be a poor move, as Hans' gifts for assassination and bounty hunting had not bestowed him with any exceptional qualities of leadership, tactics, or even any great ability to excel in a fair fight. Hans' personal mercenary band was shattered and broken apart in less than two weeks due to a combination of his antagonizing his subordinates in addition to simply being a very poor leader in battle, leaving him broke in the middle of the Gaelian wilderness.
Hans had immediately turned tail to head back for Haedrion when he was, for the first time in his life, attacked by a creature of the night. Having only heard exaggerated stories and legends of such creatures before, Hans, terrified, fled for his life and sought refuge in a nearby Gaelian village where, assisted by the townspeople, managed to drive the creature back. Once again, Hans' predicament turned to his benefit, as when he mentioned the name of the Monastery that had raised him during his childhood years one of the villagers was both old and knowledgeable enough to correct Hans' mistaken impression that it had been located in Haedrion. Overcome with both rage and grief, Hans swore to discover the ruined remnants of the Monastery in order to validate his decisions and to prove the lives lost because of his acts had not been for naught. Unfortunately, none in the village knew precisely where the Monastery had been located prior to its sack, and Hans was relatively isolated within the Gaelian wilderness without any means.
Hans then learned that the village had been facing increasingly frequent attacks by creatures of the night in recent years, and having few warriors amongst their number were willing to pay Hans in order to protect the village as well as to go out and hunt the creatures in the wild, after dispersing his misconceptions of the creatures and teaching him what they knew of their vulnerabilities. Hans found that hunting such creatures, although ultimately tedious and not to his taste, shared enough overlaps with his prior profession that he could pursue it in relative safety. He then wandered from town to town in Gaelia within the Everwoods, seeking information on the location of the ruined Monastery, slaying monstrous beings and night terrors to pay his way in the meantime.
Finally, when Hans was 28, discovered the location of the Monastery and returned there - and found waiting for him in the ruins a Witch.
Hans does not speak of that day much or in any great detail, but what is known is that during that same night, the moon was overtaken by shadow, casting the whole in the land in unnatural darkness - illuminated by a great fire in the Everwoods about the locale of the ruined monastery, set ablaze with flames that burned with an alien turquoise color that could be seen for kilometers. Hans came to the town he had just left, bearing with him the head of the Witch. Word of his success, combined with the ominous sights that had been witnessed from afar, spread akin a wildfire - and soon, the name of 'Witch-Slayer' Hans was on the lips of barroom drunks and noblemen alike in both Gaelia and Haedrion, for a time. His repute was such that, upon his return to Haedrion, Hans was invited to join the Order of the Traveler & Journeymen in recognition for his accomplishment and ability, and has been working with them since then.
Clothing & Armor
Hans wears a long beige coat with a dull green cloak over a deceptive leather plate jack, complimented by fluted steel greaves and gauntlets. The ensemble is light overall, affording Hans good agility and maneuverability. Although its protective qualities are limited, Hans has deliberately arranged his attire so as not to leave a single patch of skin exposed, with every surface protected by a bare minimum of thick leather and cloth. His clothes are intended to protect him from various hazards in the wild, from warding off insects and nettles up to deterring snake bites and monster claws. The heaviest and thickest item of armor Hans possesses is a highly distinctive plate helmet, with a mask rendered so as to resemble the grotesque face of a gargoyle, complete with small horns and elongated ears. Unlike the rest of his armor, Hans' helmet is intended to deter manmade weapons and armaments, being capable of withstanding most slashing and piercing strikes with the exception of anything akin to a mace. It could even hypothetically turn an arrow or bolt, although this is not a theory Hans is keen to test.
Tools & Armaments
Hans has not always been well-off, and this is reflected in a skillset enabling him to survive using any weapon or tool that happens to be available. If necessary, Hans could discard and of his personal arms and replace them without a significant loss in combat ability, but as much as he likes to claim otherwise his recent good fortune has burnt something of a hole in his pocket - and it clearly shows in the fine quality of the weapons he bears.
Hans' blade is a bastard sword, suitable for either one or two-handed use. Contrary to expectation, the blade and guard are wrought from simple steel, albeit the length of the weapon has been finely engraved with intricate, patterned channels to assist in the use of runic magic. The true utility of the blade lies in its guard and pommel, which contain nuggets of silver, cold iron, meteoric nickel, ammolite, jet, coral, and pitchblende. Combined with select runic spells and the design of the blade itself, the weapon is effective against every monstrous creature and aberrant being known to man, terrestrial or otherwise. Even when not combined with magic, the simple act of flourishing the blade or holding out the guard is sufficient to drive back less intelligent night creatures, and give those with the capacity for higher thought pause. Moreover, the weapon is curiously resilient to runic and arcane magic directed at it that are not channeled explicitly through the handle and pommel, due in part to the particular design of its engravings. The blade can thus disrupt or otherwise deflect magical effects that it comes into contact with.
Although Hans prefers close-quarter engagement, those who have traveled with him know well that he prefer to begin every engagement by shooting at something with his crossbow. Hans is not a dedicated crossbowman by any means, and typically only fires a single bolt before setting the device aside, preferring not to waste time that could be spent closing distance on reloading and redrawing the temperamental mechanisms. For that reason alone however, Hans has developed a expert talent for striking true with that one shot. Although he is unlikely to win any marksman competitions for precision, there is nothing more natural to Hans than shooting a moving target, particularly humanoid targets running while flailing their arms about in every direction and screaming like waylaid women. The crossbow itself is neither exceptional nor mundane, being of Dwarven make with a higher-than-average draw force along with a few simple metal designs for assistance in channeling runic magic, albeit not to the same extent and efficacy as Hans' bastard sword.Mage-Bane: Although Hans has become steadily more and more familiar with hunting and slaying night creatures and despite his particular fame for slaying a particularly powerful Witch, when Hans began he was little more than a cutthroat or assassin who took out bounties and hunted mages and sorcerers, both for coin and on occasion just because he felt like it. Hans has not forgotten his roots, and there are few more skilled than he at tracking mages, predicting how they will act or what they will do, and most importantly - safely closing the gape and cutting off their heads.
Bane of Woes: Also he is, if tales are believed, quite proficient in dealing with night creatures and horrific terrors beyond the ken of men. If pressed, Hans will usually indicated there simply happens to be a significant overlap between the two distinct arts of mage and monster hunting, and that combating the latter is not wholly to his taste. As a practical matter and possibly much to his own chagrin, Hans is truthfully better at slaying night creatures than mages, as his abilities to protect himself and incapacitate others are typically all the more effective against certain aberrant beings. However, contrariwise, Hans has little to no ability to track unnatural creatures down in the wild, as he is more suited to hunting and understanding the thoughts and motivations of people in urban environments.
Skirmisher: Hans is a Mage-slayer. Which means he kills mages and, on occasion, horrific creatures of the night. As a matter of course, Hans does not go out of his way to pick fights with armored knights, cutthroats, lawyers, or irate but mundane animals - contending with those kinds of threats is some other idiot's job. Hans is a specialist, and during most fights will focus and tunnel on enemy magic users or unspeakable horrors, which often means he finds himself ducking and weaving through enemy formations and lines in order to get around to the back rows, or alternatively spends most of the fight running down empty hallways just in order to flank or cut off a mage. Hans is competent in a fair fight, but little more.
The Better Part of Valor: Hans is a filthy, dirty cheat, especially in a fight. He is not an exceptional swordsman, but makes up for it by pulling every foul trick imaginable. Nothing is too low or shameful for him to abuse or exploit - he will go to any means in order to secure victory, and if victory is not possible, he often will not fight at all, and live to fight another day.The Law of Light: Using a Light-based rune that can be conjured and evoked at a moment's notice, even reflexively, Hans can conjure a faint burst of light that completely and wholly deflects any magical projectile that makes contact with it, and completely negates and prevents the occurrence of any magic within its boundary. The duration of the spell is very brief - lasting anywhere from a fraction of a second to a second and a half. It is extremely quick and easy for Hans to use, not being terribly intensive to cast, and can be used on the move. However, it is limited strictly to melee range, and can only be released from a free extremity - in most cases, Hans' left hand.
Trophic Barrier: Hans can create runes that automatically activate whenever his body is touched or proximal to a foreign magical effect, which causes his body to be enveloped in an aura of light-based magic that causes most magical effects to simply slide and flow across and past Hans' body like water past a rock in a riverbed for as long as the aura remains active, which is typically around five seconds. The main advantage of the rune is that they can be cast far in advance of battle, and the energy needed to cast them is spent at the time the are made rather than when they are activated. This allows for Hans to go into most battles with multiple runes ready at a time. For technical reasons relating to interactions between runes and the body, Hans can only maintain three such runes on his person at a time.
Trophic Current: Hans can channel a bolt or current of Light-based magic as a stream with a meter in range in any direction, which upon contact with most wards or auras will cause them to immediately evaporate or disperse.
Elemental Enchantment: Hans can enchant most weapons and armaments with a variety of basic elemental enchantments. He is largely limited to mono-elemental infusions and runes, having never received an extensive formal education in such craft.
Scattering: Hans creates a rune suspended in the air which flashes with a burst of light so intense it will temporarily blind anybody who can see it even out of the corner of their eyes. The burst of light only lasts a fraction of a second, making the spell relatively easy to use.
Lambent Mirror: Hans uses a light rune to bend and twist light in the surrounding area in such a way as to completely disturb one's visual perception of space, completely confusing and confusing their vestibulary functions and throwing them off balance in addition to likely making them nauseous.
Divining Rod: Hans fires a long, thin, rod-shaped projectile of light that pierces through all obstructions, magical, mundane, or otherwise, and then hardens as if made from stone, sealing everything connected to it in place. Although the rod of light itself seems solid, the length of it piercing and embedded within targets is harmless, and as such the spell is used primarily to immobilize rather than harm targets.
Secret: He does not speak of it, but you have seen it, once or twice. A spell you have never seen before. It is straight out of myth and legend. How did he come to learn of such a power? It is wholly beyond his means to have learnt. |
51,350 | 1,387 | 7 | 2,169 | 138 | “If he is here, then someone will have gotten him already; the bounty you have on his head is certainly big enough.”
Adrianna was on the trail of an old associate of her father’s. She had heard through the city gossip that he had wound up losing the Emperor’s graces. While that alone meant little more than the occasional government harassment, it barely took a little bribery and blackmail to engineer a scandal that deposed him from his lands. The bounty on his head was just laziness on her part.
“Politics can be violent and ruthless, even in peacetime. Those who stand against you can and will use every blunder you make against you however they can.” Adrianna recalled her mentor's lessons on politics, corruption, and morality.
“Isn’t that illegal?” younger Adrianna asked.
“All is fair in love and war, child. Make no mistake that politic is a war ... a war of word and of wit.”
To that end, the Travelers’ insignia stitched loosely onto her cloak served a similar purpose. It commanded power, authority, and sometimes fear without having to initiate with a threat of force. Here it was all she needed to get a lowly merchant talking. She had flushed the rat and set an abundance of traps. All that was needed now was for the trap to be sprung. She just sat back and waited for word he may have been caught. She had arrived in Mezzar to follow up on one such lead.
“Where would someone hold him if they captured him? How would I find that captor?” she questioned the merchant.
“If the soldiers knew how much you made his head worth, then he would be kept at the prison.”
“And what if someone else got to him first?”
“It wouldn’t matter. They’d make up a reason to seize him and claim the bounty themselves. They’re not paid enough to pass that by.”
“Right. Where is the prison?”
She approached the prison gate. Four guards stood fairly laxly at their posts. One who she presumed to be in charge amongst them noticed her approach first. The rather inhospitable response she received was hardly to be blamed. She had on her breastpiece, tassets, and bracers - the bracers not being visible beneath her cloak however - and a bladed staff slung across her back. She was far from the picture of innocence. “Halt! You are not permitted to enter!”
She tugged on her cloak just slightly, enough for the insignia on her shoulder to become visible. “I’m looking for a fugitive. I’m here to collect him and deliver the bounty owed.”
She extended a rolled parchment from inside her cloak. The guard took it and examined the wanted poster. “You can’t possibly be able to pay that much. What kind of trickery is this?” the guard demanded.
“I most certainly can. Now I would like you to show me to the warden of this facility so I may speak with him instead,” Adrianna replied calmly though her expression grew impatient, so she pulled a gold coin that she started twiddling between her fingers, “now let me pass.”
“You dare expect me to take a bribe?!” the guard bellowed, “I am not some dishonest pig for you to insult as such!”
Adrianna had put away the gold coin, instead thumbing the sling of her staff. She could easily take these four without unsheathing her blade, but that would just be the start of her problems should she need to strike. | Adrianna Corvello
Age: 20-21
Race: human
Gender: female
Appearance:
Adrianna is on the short side, but not significantly so. Her caramel blonde hair is a frizzed mess from wind riding through Nagath … still stretching down well past her shoulders. She pulls it back sometimes when she’s expecting a fight. She seems like a soft, caring person at first from her face but there is a fire in her eyes when one looks closely. Gentleness is only skin-deep; there is something sinister behind those eyes.
Her normal attire is far too elegant and valuable to have come from anywhere other than nobility. She sticks out like a sore thumb as an outcast from both the world around her and the world behind her; she is overly conscious of this fact, further feeding her paranoia. She wears dark pants, shin-high leather boots, a loose fitting top, and parts of her armor all under a brown cloak. She keeps the upper chest piece, shoulder guards, bracers, and thigh pieces on most of the time, as she doesn’t fully trust anything or anyone farther than she can throw them at first meeting.
She wears a turquoise pendant necklace - typically concealed by the high collar of her armor pieces - bought from the town market when she was 15. She still has no idea the gemstone is in fact a Wraith Pendant.
Biography:
Adrianna is the firstborn daughter of House Corvello, a lordship under the Empire of Gaelia. A son followed years later and only a year beyond that, twin boys. Her eldest brother is still four years her minor. Despite this, he is to inherit the family’s kingdom. In all her studies and her fight training and her grooming to be a baroness herself, she was always told that it was the firstborn who would inherit the land. Nowhere was it stated it must be a son. She knew in all the lordships of the empire that the daughters were married off, yet Adrianna persisted with the intent to be a Baroness herself and not a trophy.
Her parents did try. They found themselves however in a predicament as House Corvello was not in need of any diplomatic marriages. Adrianna knew this from her studies of current politics. She proved to be “quite the handful” as one suitor put it. Her hand was offered to three men from other houses. Her eagerness & tact for governance was often considered as ‘overbearing’ from the men who merely wanted a simple wife. She is famously (within the family at least) quoted saying “I am a warrior and a diplomat. I am not some housewife to a spoiled man-child,” after the second attempt to give away her hand. Though Adrianna had evaded attempts to marry her off, her father - ever the traditionalist - still decided it must be the eldest son who ascends to power.
At first she was shocked and could not believe that he would deny her perceived birthright from her. She jumped at every opportunity to prove herself worthy, as her father had promised he would allow. Every task, every challenger, and every single time she pushed herself hard and was the best she could possibly be. Still she was told time and again “Better.” Her disbelief turned into cynicism and disgust that she was to be barred from having what was hers by right. She was constantly angry at her brothers for being given the golden spoon – at her expense nonetheless – while she had to work to her limits and past them in vain to regain her claim to the throne.
Her older adolescent years were far from her most pleasant or most personable. In her cynicism she was snappy and perpetually disgruntled by the smallest of things. Her temper was always short. The perpetual negativity on her mind was a force powerful enough to awaken the spirit that sat upon her neck. On her 18th, she saw an armorer who fit her for a quality set of plate leather. While it was acknowledgement of her skills as a fighter, she still was unsatisfied. She had spent hours studying politics & diplomacy while her brothers played. Token recognition did not suit her. Even though she felt the gesture underhanded, she was quite pleased weeks later with the end result. Her personal armor set is something to behold: as much a status symbol as sturdy protection.
Her spoiled brother constantly made jokes about how it seemed so plain. Adrianna hadn’t wanted any large plates or elaborate helmets or shoulder spikes and similarly ridiculous garb her brothers were all obsessed with. The decoratives were in the details. A light scroll pattern on the plate and nothing more. Her forearm bracers though were as much a fashion statement as their other two purposes: protection and an improvised weapon.
In her permanent frustration, she was vulnerable to suggestion. The soul she had awakened within the pendant existed as the tiniest of voices in her subconscious reinforcing her greed and her darker, harsher thoughts. Her cynical complacence turned to a stubborn refusal to accept no for an answer. She became convinced not to be turned away quietly. More than once she confronted her father far more aggressively now, at one point straight up demanding she be given what is hers. With each successive denial and with their relationship straining, her father became the object of her fixation, and her fixation treaded into dangerously hostile waters.
After a final argument escalated to the point of guards being summoned – and summarily beaten into submission by a very angry Adrianna – she stormed out of the castle, hell-bent on proving herself worthy, dying trying, or finding a way to claim the throne she believes she is owed ... by lethal force if necessary.
Personality:
She was raised to be a baroness. She knows how to be a lady of many hats and which face to wear in which situations. She is who she needs to be. Should someone be of power and thus of interest to her, she’s cheerful and nice and someone most people want to keep around. This more outgoing persona rarely shows anymore however, owing to the gruff cynicism she’s developed. Most of the time she comes across as far more of a realist – sometimes overly so – always preparing for whatever can be thrown at her.
Choose the right topic of conversation with her and you can bait out her darker side. She doesn’t ever choose to reveal it to people, but get her talking about the right things and it just kind of happens. Her goals, her ambitions, her family, etc. These bring out a side of her born of years of frustration and dark influences upon her mind. This is the side of her that will move Hell and Earth to get what she wants. Her ultimate goal: reclaiming the throne she considers her birthright, only ever exists in the back of her mind most of the time. When the pieces fall into place and she grows close enough to taste her victory (if ever), she becomes fixated – dangerously tunnel-visioned in fact – on finishing what she started, everything else be damned.
Adrianna maintains strong loyalties with anyone she believes can prove beneficial to her intents. She has no interest in maintaining relationships that have no present or future benefit to her. Her studies in politics and the arts of persuasion & coercion were primarily focused on the types of people she would deal with as Baroness. She could rhetorically twist the arm of a nobleman to get exactly what she wanted without even batting an eye. As she travels now far beyond the walls of nobility however, the people are far different and her silver tongue is worth little more than pewter. Her powers of persuasion are often limited at best.
Equipment:
(She does not carry all of these weapons at once ever. These are merely the selection I choose from.)
-Full set plated leather armor – custom tailored. The bracers are one of the heaviest plates and also well decorated with a light scrolling work, hand-etched. She wears the upper part of the torso armor, the shoulder pieces, and the bracers most of the time.
Her armor is durable enough to resist a slashing attack from many bladed weapons. Powerful stabs that land in the leather and not the plate however can go right through. While this example doesn't quite look like what I imagine her armor does, it gives the general idea quite well:
-Svardstav - a norse bladed staff (literally: sword-staff) with a fourteen inch double-edged steel blade on one end. The weapon caters to her speed-fighting skill and helps keep distance over an opponent, mitigating her moderate frailty.
Skills:
Adrianna is a pickup fighter. Though she does carry weapons of her own, she often fights hand to hand and uses an opponent’s weapon against them, both while still in their hand and once she wrests it from them. This makes her skilled and dangerous against a human opponent. Against not-so-human adversaries that roam in the dark, she is of little threat and would easily become food. Her armor can resist a man’s blade but not the fatal touch of a spectre or the crushing claws & jaws of many a beast.
She remains a trained diplomat. When negotiating - or threatening if the situation has appropriately devolved to such a point - with someone who wields power, she is well versed in the etiquette and skillset to do it. Inversely however her tact and subtlety has been somewhat blunted in recent years.
Motivations:
There is no glory to be had in deeds, not in her eyes. A deed done out of benevolence earns one nothing. There is always a prize or payment that she believes will help her get closer to her goal: claiming the throne she believes is rightfully hers. Along that she became wrapped up in a group calling themselves “journeymen”. She cared not what benevolent purpose they had as long as it proved beneficial to her for the time. The earnings were certainly not to be complained about.
Vengeance is also at the top of that list. She feels spurned by her family - especially by her father and by her eldest brother. She desperately wishes that one day her brother can know the struggle she went through to fight for what he was handed. She holds nothing but contempt for her father who made his choice to forsake her.
Wraith Pendant:
Adrianna’s pendant charm is a Wraith Pendant: a turquoise gemstone that harbors a fragmented soul of the infamous dark sorcerer Abaddon Othgar. Othgar sought to become the most powerful being imaginable. In his quest for power, he learned a way to transcend his corporeal form, becoming himself a terrifying haunt as his power grew still. After a decade of reigning terror, he was vanquished and his soul was destroyed with his incorporeal form. A fragment however still resides in this gemstone.
Inside the pendant, the soul fragment draws minute amounts of Adrianna’s life force to sustain itself. It is not enough to affect her in any way. The fragment is weak for not being whole and cannot compel her. It can only subtly influence her thoughts. She has not yet learned to isolate and hear its voice, as she does not know its there yet. It also cannot possess a host which is unwilling. It is too weak. Nor could it have full control over a host it possesses.
If/when she begins to understand what she holds and the power it contains, she could call upon the wraith and allow it into her to harness its power. The soul can only control her body as long as her mind allows it. While it does it pushes her body harder than her conscious mind could and confers superior technique with her weapon in hand. Neither of these however could save her if she were in trouble, as they do little to improve upon her natural ability. Of note is the arcane abilities known to the Sorcerer Abaddon that now become her own to wield. The soul is so weak it cannot summon arcane power as it once could. Instead it draws off the host’s life force instead both to sustain its increased exertion and to fuel its magical abilities in an unusual middle-ground between the arcane and more common runic spells. Entering into this wraith form is exhausting and dangerous, effects greatly accelerated the more heavily she and the wraith call upon its arcane power.
When the soul retreats into its shelter of the gemstone after the two have merged for a time, she is left with crippling exhaustion for at least several hours. If she were to push the form to its limits, the result would be days spent unconscious ... or even death. When the soul does take hold of her, the telltale blur of its incorporeal form is visible from Adrianna’s body as well. There are also black marks that appear across her body - notably creating a mask-like appearance around her eyes - resembling decorative tattoos of a pattern similar to that scrolled on her armor. These fade with time after the soul has departed her at roughly the same rate her strength returns to her. |
51,351 | 1,387 | 8 | 2,476 | 120 | Ah yes, Mezzar. You had to love a good city like the free city. He chuckles to himself. Such a thought was amusing to him really. He loved cities like this because they tended to cover up what was screwed up about the city with nice looking homes, laws, and rules that made them look civilize. Then they had the place like an arena for a man who may not have gotten any due process.
He knew how the system worked. Granted he might have deserved to be placed behind bars if you’re going by the laws of these civil savages, but back in the day he would have, and had been praised for many of his actions. Look at these penises in their helmets, guarding a god damn gate like they were important somehow because they barked orders at the common folk.
He stuck to not being seen. Despite being part of the Order there was some mixture of resentment that he didn’t fooking hang that day and reverence because he was part of the Order. They needed him for some reason. He didn’t really see how. Maybe he would have perhaps seen the purposes of keeping him around if they didn’t already have their own alchemist or assassins. But really he was being kept around because he knew boats.
That or they were worried the alchemist were getting their tips stuck in their bottles and the assassins were using their grappling hooks for some unsavory business back where the sun don’t shine. He jest to himself with such depravity.
He didn’t really think much of these knobheads. They’ll always tell you in their finery for clothes, their well constructed buildings, their civil manners, and law abiding citizens that they don’t have some dirt. But everyone had dirt. The ones who tried to cover it with the nicer shit were often the ones with more blood to hide than the ones who were earnest about skull fooking you.
The rampants thoughts he was currently experience would not be the for the faint of heart in this city. The free city. The name got a laugh out of him. It seemed ironic to him that a city be called free, but that freedom was paid the price of fear. Free and fear were similar in their contextual sums.
Just like that they didn’t really check the back very well. Probably underpaid, they just lifted the flap up of the merchant’s caravan. Did a quick scan of the goods and sent the merchant on their way. For sure he could have been a gob shitter showing off his Order badge and waving around that he was a freed man. When civil savages would contest that he should have ever been freed.
He cracked his knuckles. He was looking forward to this. If you’re going to free a man and give him a sense of purpose he supposed it should be in the Order. Who took on more stray cats than old woman in a leaky hut. He had been working with them for what seemed like ages now. On some hand he resented the Order. He prefered the liberty of leaving and coming when he pleased. On another hand he had met some interesting folks.
Hans was the type of man someone on the islands he hailed from he would have been asked to kill. While Daveon would have probably been given an offer, not too much unlike the Order, to join the high seas and do some overseas plundering and murdering especially in spring time.
While that elf, Shay, how the fuk was it pronounced? Well he had nothing against elves. Some fled the mainland to join the Fellows in the past. But he did have a problem with an elf that forced him to sit in a way that his legs didn’t go and to think of god damn daisies and meadows.
He wondered which pricks he would be working with this time around. He meant that as a compliment. Though few would probably see the compliment in it. He looked forward to working with whomever, as long as they were capable or had proved themselves capable.
Stepping out of the caravan and careful to not be seen, Clive shuffled off with his bag of ingredients and slipped into the crowd. He took in a deep breath. The free city. Got a chuckle out of him every time. Free city his ass.
He scanned the market. Busy and crowded, but the Order’s outpost wasn’t too far from this location. As he continued to skulk around the crowds, little pockets of market commotion. Broken up by a wandering soldiers presence.
It wasn’t too hard for Clive to pick out the one thing that didn’t fit. Daveon making his way through the market as well. Clive just wore a crooked smile and meandered through the crowds as if it were a natural thing anyone knew how to do.
Clive cleared his throat, “Daveon.” was all he greeted with. | Clive The Reaper of Knaves
Before you know the man. You must understand where he came from. This story starts here in The Blooded Archipelago. Given such a name by sailors who told stories of a chain of islands run by a renegade society formed by a so called “Raider King” in a town created by prostitutes, stolen daughters from farms on the mainland, pirates, bandits escaping the gallows, con men, and children who learned to scam and steal.
In the Blood Archipelago are tales of Mather’s Lighthouse said to lure sailors trading goods from one mainland to the next to their dooms. Purposely luring them to dangerous waters near rocky crags. While the most feared place is the Deadman’s Port.
Where lost merchants, lost sailors, and even soldiers from the mainland had met unsavory fates setting foot on the ports of several little towns all connected by their ships. Each given a name and earned a reputation based on the captain who's made a name for himself.
There’s no imperial law here. Only raider law. The law designed by the Raider King, old Butcher Mad Eyes. Whose reputation trails all the way back to his younger years like breadcrumbs. Ruthless, cutthroat and said to have at least three wives. And many children. He’s spurred a generation of psychopathic nutso that all claim the rocky crags, stormy seas, and sea cliffs as their home.
No prey, No Pay
A ratty, faded placard hangs up in the Leaping Fish Tavern to remind raiders what they have agreed to in staying Deadman’s Port as a sanctuary from the mainland’s gallows.
I - Every man sitting next to you is an equal in affairs. Every man has a right to share the claims of goods, fresh provisions or liquor at his pleasure, unless the rarity of said item is in question.
II- In regards to law, every man at your side has shared value to say. But if a conclusion cannot be decided by the crew, the Captain or Leader has final say. His vote may be questioned by his Quartermaster if the final word is considered unfair in any circumstance.
III - Every man is to be called fairly in turn by list on board to receive his prizes, every man is given clothes for his days on board with no questions, but if any man is founded to defrauding the company to the value of money in plates, jewels, or money he must serve the punishment. His ears and nose will be slit as a message to any incoming boats that may try to pick him up. He will be left somewhere that will ensure hardship before a pain and slow death.
IV - You do not cheat your equal. There will be no gaming at cards or dice for money among your fellows.
V - All lights and candles should be put out by nine o’clock and if any man wants to drink after the lights are out, he must do it on the deck or on the bay side port.
VI- Your weaponry must be clean and fit for service. And may not be used to dispute disagreements among your fellow while on deck or in city. Affairs will be decided by the crew, and will not be deadly, unless the crime befits the punishment.
VII- No boy or woman is allowed on deck or to raid with the party. No boy allowed onto a raid until he is considered befit for the job at hand. No woman disguised and snuck on board, nor to engage the latter sex on board. To do so with the latter sex is punishment of death, sterilization or marooning. Choice is subjected to the Captain or Quartermaster. No fellow should have a say. If a boy is found among the crew, he is subjected to marooning and must find his way on his own.
VIII - No man should abandon his ship or quarters in battle. To do is death or marooning. Punishment is subjected to the Captain’s final word.
IX - No man should retire until he has shared one thousand pounds with his fellows. If any man should lose a limb or become cripple in their service he is to have seventy six hundred pounds paid to him out of the public stock and for lesser injuries proportionally to the injury.
X - The Captain and Quartermaster are to receive two shares of a prize, all medicines go the ship doctors and anyone caught stealing or trying to take medicines from the ship doctors quarters will have their right ring finger cut off and marooned. The master, boatswain, and gunner to receive one share and a half, and other officers one and quarter.
XI - No fellow is to steal another fellows woman. Unless he pays out his fellow based on the value of the woman. A woman’s value will be based on who she has mated where she is located in the port, the value of the fellows home, and the value on the woman’s beauty compared to the fellow. The woman may contest the buy out if she has a feasible reasoning, either pregnancy, already have children with the fellow, and or in some way devalues the marriage by buying herself out more than the sum of the men then the fellow must forfeit the woman. If he tries to take her afterward, he will be marooned or may be feasibly killed by the fellow whose woman was taken.
XII- A boy who wants to accompany a raid must complete determination of his manhood. Often a task given to him by the Captain or Quartermaster of the crew he wishes to join. The task is an individual task subjected to the Captain and/or Quartermaster’s discretion.
XIII - A boy may accompany a crew, against VII if he is given a suitable task for his age. He may not join in on raids or be given any prize or reward. But may earn prizes or rewards for the crew. He is not to be able to claim these rewards for himself. If he tries to claim the rewards for himself may lose his pointer finger, and marooned. The boy has no rank in the crew, no word, and may not speak out against even the lowest of crew members till he has earned his title, or his manhood.
XIV - Any traveler who comes to the island is greeted by a swift death. Unless he or she provides some set of service. Bards and entertainers will be welcomed among the fellows and treated with the same discipline we show our fellows.
XV - If a Fellow is dead and has a claim on a woman. She is to receive one quarter of prizes from the public stock. This is one hundred and a quarter when she is considered too old to provide children.
These were the rules and laws everyone born or brought here were expected to follow. Or they were left out on islands, marooned for punishment. And any crew that tried to pick up an exiled crew member were subjected to long disputes.
Now that you understand the place, who is Clive the Reaper of the Knaves? He was born to Cleve the Shark, officer on Darrius the Menace’s ship Portside Stalker.
His mother a mistress at the Shipwrecked Brothel where he was raised by several whores and the lady of the house until he was deemed old enough to start serving a crew without claims.
A young boys duty was to learn and imitate the behaviors he saw the Fellows perform on a daily basis. To learn the Captains and their Quartermasters name. In hopes that one day they would claim the name of the Captain they would work under when they entered manhood.
Age: 35
Race: Human
Gender: Male
Alias: The Reaper of Knaves
Age has not slowed down Clive. In fact you could argue the man is exactly in his prime. His age has only given him more experience and made him more determined towards his indiscriminate actions. Wearing a long layered cloak over his clothes, the man sports a crew cut with very little hair receding at the top. His skin is actually quite tan from the years in the sun.
He stands at 175cm, 5’9”. He weighs 58 kg, 130 pounds. While he may not be muscular, he is quite toned, and fit. His frame is actually quite stocky and compact, but lean. His irises are steel gray.
Clive is not a complicated man his words are like the steel of a blade, they get to the point quickly, in a rather matter of fact way. He speaks with clarity for a man born on an island of anarchy and raiding. A clarity that makes him understandable to others, but what he has to say may shake their sense of sensibility.
Personality:
The Shark may have been his father, but The Menace was his mentor.
Cunning and calculative for a man people would claim is nothing, but a no good killer from an island of anarchy. Mainland educated for a man people would claim he was not raised by anyone civil. Clive is a rather respected man among his Fellows.
While the Knight Captain who wanted to capture may have painted him as some daft winded idiot, Clive is a lot more than some daft retard from the seas. Just because they were pirates, raiders, schemers and con men didn’t mean he wasn’t educated.
Clive’s a man who likes to get straight to the point of things. Which may seem ironic considering the man doesn’t fight considerably in the front lines, but he doesn’t like to bullshit or dance around a subject. He hates bullshit and worse he hates dumb twits, who don’t know the difference between their own dick and another man’s dick, trying to lie to him.
He hates an idiot who thinks they can con him. He hates an idiot who thinks they can manipulate him. He also hates the idiot who doesn’t think he knows a thing or two because they think he’s just a barbarian. Crude in his mannerisms, unashamed of his past life, Clive comes off a merciless, cutthroat. Which is not a wrong assumption.
A cunning mastermind, who prefers tactical thinking over rushing in. He may fight from the shadows, but he fights with just as much teeth and claws as someone in the front lines would. Maybe even more as his methods are ruthless, barbaric, and he seems to get some sick satisfaction watching something squirm in pain.
With that said he might be the sociopathic killer everyone paints him off to be, he does have a few soft spots. He has a code of honor that he follows. Whether or not that redeems him is a question the company has to ask themselves. A complicated moral and ethical system, he plays by a different set of rules. And while he may be ruthless at least for now it seems he is loyal to his latest company in the Order.
He won’t betray someone that is a part of his crew. No matter the current circumstances.
Weapons:
Mayhem and Madness; Razor’s of the Wretched
Every blade has a tale. Every tip has burrowed into someone’s flesh. Blood is just as much a part of the steel that crafted the blade.
Mayhem and Madness are dual combat knives that sit behind him in a sheath that looks like a scroll. It is obvious to any onlooker that these blades were not something he could have afforded even on his piracy salary. Instead they were one of the many items he helped himself to after a raid. He named them Mayhem and Madness. Others called them the Razor’s of the Wretched.
They belonged to some wealthy bloke that they terrified into submission somehow. And helped themselves to the wealth of his goods in his wagon. Mayhem and Madness since then though have been well taken care of, polished, sharpened, cleaned. As per the rules of when one wants to lead their services for a crew.
Death’s Kiss
There are very few things Clive has that have sentimental value. Death’s Kiss being the blade given to him by his father after he became a man. While Clive has no real feelings towards his father. He has feelings towards the sense of pride he felt when he completed the task given to him. Death’s Kiss ended up have more sentimental value towards his own pride than compassionate love towards his father. He sees it as something he finally earned.
Various Throwing Knives
A various set of throwing knives with unbalanced and balanced knives for different occasions.
Clothing:
It’s clear to anyone that Clive is not a man meant to fight in the frontlines. In fact he is majorely an ambush support fighter. He provides backup to his team with his various bombs, oils, throwing knives, poisons, and cleans up weakened enemies for the final blow with his dagger. Because of this he rarely is seen in anything cumbersome to wear, for easier movement.
Considering he’s a still well known wanted man for his assassinations despite his clearance from the Order three years ago, in the city he tends to wear a cloak over his clothing in order to disguise himself from the Guards or some sort of nosy sort. The cloak is gray and rather tatty looking. He doesn’t seem to mind it.
-Black Tabard with hood
-Metal arm guards
-Hide boots
-Black breeches
-Tan tunic
Around his waist. Carries 5 potions. Pouches for various usages.
Carries his bombs
Equipment:
What he cannot break with strength, he annihilates with poison, uses various oils, and bombs. Which he carries in his pockets and or his worn satchel.
He carries with him flask that you’d associate with alchemy, a pestle and mortar, various ingredients and their recipes, and smaller empty vials that he places in his pocket. Too often stash his stache somewhere else while he is ambushing his prey.
Bag doesn't come with him on missions in fact it often stays at camp.
Poisons
3 vials to coat on his blade in combat
1 bottle to pour into his vials out of combat
Ingredients
2 Nightmare Leaf - 2 leaves left
3 Fiendish Thorn - 1 root left
2 Slug Stalk - 4 roots left
If you ever wished for your body to feel like it’s on fire then Fiendish Fire is your wish. A deadly poison that quickly processes through the body, it has the victim of it’s effect have a sudden sense of neuropathy in less than four to five minutes.
While the pain may not kill you, victims in agony have done lethal and deadly things to themselves in order for them to not experience the pain of the poison any further. Fiendish Fire is perfect in use for interrogations.
3 vials to coat on his blade in combat
2 bottles left to put in his vials out of combat
Ingredients
3 Bleeding Spore - 3 Bleeding spore mushrooms left
3 grams of Bonemeal - 1 gram left
3 Shrew Seed - 1 Shrew Seed left
1 cup beast blood - 0
4 grams axiom powder - 2 grams left
It’s all in the name. The Necron Toxin is not something you wish even on your worse enemies. While it is a slow acting poison, there is little cure for its deadly effects. Once the poison enters an open wound there is little in the way of help as it begins to eat away at healthy tissue at an unnerving quick rate. While a poison it acts far more like an infection of gangrene and rot.
And while it’s victims may be able to live without a limb or two, it’s not a guarantee that they will survive the amputation of the rotting away arm or that the Necron Toxin has completely left their symptoms. Victims who have lost a singular limb from the poison, may find themselves months later with another dying leg or foot or hand.
1 vial to coat on his blade in combat
1 bottle to pour into his vials out of combat
Ingredients
1 Lost Petal - 2 petals left
4 grams Axiom Powder - 2 grams left
3 Grave Seed - 3 Grave Seed left
3 Wicked Spore - 4 Wicked Spore mushroom Left
4 Bleeding Spore - 3 Bleeding Spore mushroom Left
1 Blistering Grudge - 0 Blistering Grudge mushroom left
Do not let the name fool you into believing this is a love potion. In fact it’s one of the more lethal poisons he has in his arsenal. The Heartache poison will make you wish it was a lovers potion as it enters the body it attacks the sinuses. Quickly moving to the victim’s eyes, it blinds them first, then within a few short minutes it begins to destroy the sinuses.
Due to the fact that the sinuses are being attacked, the tear ducts begin to work over time, like when you’re being attacked by allergies stuffy nose and watery eyes, the victim dies looking like they cried themselves to death from heartache.
Not even a full bottle.
Ingredients
8 Shavings of silver - 0 left
1 Divine Petal - 0 left
1 Divine Stalk - 0 left
½ cup Basilisk Water - 0 left
1 Pandemonium Flower
This is not your traditional poison. In fact it has two properties. The first property is that it acts as a poison for any undead creatures. It often kills them in the same way healing or light magic may kill them. As the Divine Flower and Basilisk Water are so often used for their healing components. Because of this the poison may act as a healing salve for any non undead being instead.
Because of the small components of silver it does seem to also affect incorporeal beings in an unusual way. It often makes them flicker between corporeal and not for a few short seconds. It’s not the most effective against them, but it works in a pinch. It’s mainly a poison meant to damage the undead.
Half a bottle
Ingredients
1 Ember Bloom - 0 Left
4 Leaves of Queen’s Weed - 1 Queen’s Weed Left
8 Water Barberries - 1 Barberry left
1 Mountain Clove - 0 left
4 Golden Blooms - 0 left
2 teaspoons Cinnamon - 1 teaspoon left
5 Teaspoons Nutmeg - 0 left
Not everything in Clives arsenal is deadly. And his allies should be lucky. The Pain Soother is less a poison or a potion and more like a bitter, but sweet tea that is a medical antidote. The Pain Soother does as it’s name implies, it soothes pain.
While it doesn’t heal wounds, it does cut off someone’s mind from feeling the pain of their wounds. Allowing them enough time to amble to medical treatment or in order to sooth them before they pass. The Pain Soother is probably the kindest thing Clive has.
He also carries a small bottle of oil, that he can douse on his enemies for errr explosive results with his bombs. While it may not cover a whole area, even the smallest of area catching fire is enough for them to light up like a fucking kindling.
Bombs
The last of Clive’s arsenal is in his bombs. Which he throws into battle with indiscriminate glee. He tries his best to not throw them in an area close to his allies. But sometimes it’s less his throw and their situational awareness. Or that’s what he tells them.
Traditional gunpowder bombs ,about the size of a baseball, he carries with him. In his side bags he can carry at least five or six bombs. And he tends to chose a various set. His regular gunpowder bombs are often infused with runes for different results. Fire infused bombs cause a burst of flames with the natural explosion as well. Perfect combo with his oil and one of his personal favorites.
Light runes allow him to throw them and make wraiths and ghost become incorporeal for a short period of time. A dark rune allows him to weaken monsters in the area with the initial explosion.
Skills:
Sabotage and Ambush
In his younger years, Clive was the smallest boy on Menace’s ship. And while they were not allowed to raid or pillage with the crew nor had any claims to the rewards and items. Clive was small enough to squeeze into windows and unlock doors. There he had to learn also not to be detected by whomever would be in the homestead, farm, or even estate. Using all these tools of the trade as he got older into his own style.
He used his ability to trick the idea or sneak around others to use it support the other Fellows, who fought frontlines, from behind. Throwing bombs, using knives for combat, and daggers. To only slip back into the shadows by falling behind his enemies blind spots.
Knife Fighter
The Deadman’s Port had always been sort of a hub for other sailors and other sailing individuals to meet up. Other unsavory types from the other sides of the world would come and bring interesting inventions and gadgets.
Annie Razortooth, one of the few woman who earned a rank among the Fellows only due to her own personal history, always tended to bring back interesting skills and things from other parts of the world. She rather explore the open seas than go back to the mainland. One of those things she brought were a few people with slanted eyes, their knives, and they taught them to any curious boy.
Clive of course being that curious boy learned to throw knives from the slanted eyed individuals. And learned how to fight with the knives.
Quiet Step
What would the Raiding Pirate Assassin be if it wasn’t mentioned his quiet step? At an early age he was already exploring the boundaries of the world. Being that he wasn’t allowed on raids and pillages, he often found ways to entertain himself. One of his favorite games was sneaking up on squiiddish animals like deer. It became sort of a game to see how close he could get.
This game became less and less of a game the more and more useful it became to the Fellows. It’s the skill that allowed him to complete his task in the first place. Years of practicing walking softly and surveying the landscape for the quietest depressions.
Alchemy
Clive learned a few things here and there from the Deadman’s Port doctors. When he wasn’t out on the seas with the Fellows he tried to find ways to entertain himself. Knife fighting lessons with Fast Fingers and Annie. Potion creation with Ansley Three Fingers. And he indeed had three fingers.
Sailing and Marine Navigation
Being a Fellow meant a lot of time on the sea. And escaping the mainland meant knowing the ocean deeper than anyone. He knows how to set the sails, and work a boat. He also knows how to navigate the seas better than anyone beside probably a sailor doing it longer than him.
History:
It is not a man’s early life that makes the man’s name. His early life seems to be a drop of untouchable innocence that is the seed to grow. Except Clive’s life was never really innocent. As a young child he was learned to scam, con, spot a cheater and a liar, he was taught how to sneak into homes, watched violence. Saw blood woven into the soil.
He was taught the savage truth about a society raised on the edge of anarchy. He grew up a cynical child, exposed to brutality since he was very young. There’s nothing special about that man back then. Young and only learning there’s nothing more that can be said.
What changes a boy to a man? Is actions that highlight their path.
The difference between a Fellow and just a boy imitating a Fellow is the task they are given and how they complete it. The Menace had high expectations for Clive. Not because he was The Shark’s son, but because Clive had set an expectation of someone who could someday lead a group of Fellows.
To prove his worth among the Fellows and climb through the ranks he was asked to steal Lady Cecilia's ruby necklace. An impossible task many Fellows said, no one had ever been able to raid, let alone sneak into Crescentwood Chateau. Some say Lady Cecilia’s husband, Earl Romford had insulted Darrius the Menace many years ago.
He was fifteen at the time. The Shark, Colborn Razor Darrius’ quartermaster had decided and agreed upon the task for Clive. It was then asked by Darrius to Clive, that if he could he had a target for him to eliminate as well.
That being Earl Romford himself. Romford had hidden for many years in his impenetrable mansion for too long. To kill Romford was only really an optional step. Though Clive never really questioned any shameful act he had been witnessed to for the fifteen years he had lived.
Clive then proved himself. Not only taking the ladies necklace, but managing to kill Romford. Though his work then at fifteen being sloppy. Considering the amount of security he had to kill. And nearly getting caught on his way in and out. But the success of that task is what separated and define Clive as a child and as a man.
He spent many of his years after that climbing the ranks. Earning rewards. Taking out people who insulted the Fellows to send messages to those who owed them money. He earned the nickname Reaper in his late teens and early twenties by the Fellows. He was a bruiser among them, though the mainland commonly mistook or called him an assassin.
In his mid twenties he had earned enough recognition that at least eight years ago began to run his own crew of Fellows. He was said to be a cunning mastermind. A cutthroat who lacked remorse for his actions. He never seemed to weep nor care for the lives he took. Many of them were messages he sent to those who had insulted him somehow, many of them were messages to the mainland to fear his Ravagers.
And for many years they did. No one could catch sight of this so called bandit reaper and his knaves. The Knight Captain Dunnam at the time scoured the mainland looking for the Ravagers. To find no trace nor clue of them. At Deadman’s Port Clive was beginning to earn himself some mild success. Some saw him as someone who would be a great captain of history someday.
But fate has a strange way of changing. Roughly three years ago, at the age of thirty-two Clive and his Ravagers were caught. At least a few of them. Knight Captain Dunnam who had been madly searching for the group had finally found them by sheer accident as they were gearing up to leave the mainland with their goods. There was no due process. No negotiations. Willy One Eye was sentenced to death as well as Clive at the gallows. While Jimmy the Swindler and Calypso the Danger were given “mercy” if being torn apart by the Knights hunting dogs is considered merciful.
Even then Clive showed no shame nor remorse for his actions. He still doesn’t know where to find that. And it doesn’t bother him that he doesn’t feel it. He would have died three years ago if not for the Order who had him released into their custody. Who found his skills useful. Not only had he evaded being caught for seventeen years. Ran the most successful criminal group even among the Fellows. And had managed to leave a trail of blood with no trace of himself or his Ravagers.
In the Order he is not been allowed to contact his Fellows at Deadman’s Port. But he has been given his freedom and allowed to walk peacefully among the civilian cities. He provides the Order his perspective, but don’t think that’s some deep philosophical pondering. |
51,352 | 1,387 | 9 | 1,478 | 473 | 12 Maer’s Day, Valencia,Third Era
Mid-Morning, the Free City of Mezzar
The Prison
“I wouldn’t blame you for thinking that we are here to take a bribe,” Veira said with a brief sigh, “However, that is not what we are here for at all. Rather, a member was put in the prison this morning, likely because he is and Elf and a member of the Order. Such things are not common down in here in Mezzar as you may have noticed.” She looked over to Hans and assessed him. He looked to be a strong man, though not one she had ever met in her years with the Order. Though, there was something vaguely familiar about him that she couldn’t quite figure out but that would have to wait for another time. “Also, I wouldn’t suggest pointing out the corruption to any of the higher ups here. They don’t quite like it when we meddle in their business.
As they got closer to the prison, Veira noticed the two figures standing at its entrance. One was a guard in the Free City’s normal garb, the other a woman with a staff on and a cloak with the insignia of the Traveler. “What goes on here, guard,” Veira called out as he huffed over, “I get called here to pull one of my men out of your damned prison and I find you halting the progress of another member of the Order. Are you all dunces or do you simply not give two shits about the orders I gave your commander?” The guard shrank back at Veria’s reprisal, sliding closer to the wall and door to the prison.
“I.. uh… sorry but we were given orders to only allow select people into the prisons. I know she is a member of the Order but I couldn’t just let her in even if she is here on business. It is my ass if she kills someone while she is in there,” The guard said as he moved to the door. “I-I didn’t mean anything of it. You all can go right on ahead if you are here on business. I don’t want no trouble.” With that, the guard opened the door for Veira and the others to go in, taking a position behind the door so as to avoid Veira’s glare.
She motioned for the other two to follow her in, taking the lead into the antechamber of the prison and standing before a desk. “I’m looking for a prisoner, brought in today for supposedly impersonating a member of the Order. He’s an Elf.” Veira paused in thought for a moment so see if there were anymore details that were truly important to the guard. It took her a moment before she found one however she was cut off before she was able to say it.
“He’ll be down the hall to your left, fifth cell on the right. Warning that he is with a man who smells like shit and a dude who got in a drunken brawl,” Was all the guard said as he pointed down the hall. Veira nodded in thanks and turned towards the woman she had brought in with her from outside.
“We’ll handle whatever business you have here later once we are done with my business. I don’t know who you are or whether you are new to the city but you don’t act alone in the prisons of Mezzar,” She said as she leaned in close to the two, “The prisoners aren’t who you have to worry about here.” With that, she lead them all down the hall to the cell she was told. It was a small place, like all of the other cells of the prison. However, the silence which came from it seemed to be the most unusual thing. That is, until they arrived to find the Elf sitting in meditation along with the two other humans in the cell. “Guard, get over here and unlock this cell. This is definitely my man,” She said with a yell before turning to address Shay, “So you get yourself arrested on your way into the city to attend the meeting with your new commander, wait for me to arrive, and I find you fucking meditating with two bums. No wonder they said you were a misfit if this is the kind of shit you do.” | Veira Hawthorne
Age: 35
Alias: One-Eye Veira
Gender: Female
Race: Human
Personality:
None have ever met a woman so distant yet warm, a woman who closes herself off from others yet exudes an embracing kindness which few bear in these dark times. Veira never raises her hand to strike someone who doesn’t deserve it yet is lenient on thieves and bandits, knowing full well that they are simply doing what they can to survive similar to what she does. Never once has anybody heard Veira raise her voice yet her very presence seems to draw all attention to her. She has always been a natural leader, strong and capable of bringing men and women in line for combat and never faltering in her decisions. Perhaps that is why she is distant though, that she must accept that her decisions can kill someone.
As a Journeymen captain, she has realized that men will die to monsters and there is little she can do it for it is not her fault but simply the weakness of the fighter being greater than the strength of the monster. She cannot grow attached to her comrades for they may simply be tossed aside the very next day while they dig a grave. As such, she comes off as cold to them, only granting them a little of her time and presenting good manners. However, she seems overly fond of reminding them that they are a unit and that they work together, lest she have to reprimand them.
Equipment:
-Oaken Shield: A simple shield painted with hydra, the symbol of her clan. It is reinforced with a thin layer of iron in between the wood.
-Arming Sword: A gift she received from a blacksmith for saving his daughter. It is well crafted iron, tough and always kept sharp.
-Hand Axe: Veira’s favored weapon. An axe with a shaft made from oak and a head made from iron. Quite good at breaking shields when the need be.
-Woolen Doublet: Veira wears a light woolen doublet underneath her clothing.
-Iron Reinforced Leather: Veira likes to be mobile and she can’t have heavy armor for that. However, pure leather is impractical against most monsters so her’s has been studded with iron or layered with iron plates, like scalemail, to provide her better protection.
Skills
-Huntress: Veira was always a passionate huntress, willing to wait hours for her pray to cross its usual paths and strike. This carried over to her time in the Order and allowed her to harness the inherent strength of tracking to find her prey. She has more than enough skill at it to determine the freshness of tracks and, with enough time, could find out when the prey comes into a certain area.
-Shield Breaker: Veira’s combat is very much aggressive, relying on hitting the opponent hard and taking hits with her shield. Through her training, she realized that fighting humans with a shield was far easier than fighting a monster. As such, she seems overly capable of finding the weakness in a foe’s shield to break it. Or she simply gets consumed by the thrill of battle and just hammers away at it. Nobody is really sure which she does.
-Shield Maiden: Veira’s job in combat is not to take a hit directly, fire arrows from afar, or pound the foe with hits. Her job is to hit the monster, distract it, and draw attention to herself so that the others may attack directly. For this, she took up the shield and learned to wield it well, training her arm over the years to be able to withstand some of the hardest hits from monsters.
Magic:
Vlar: A simple darkness rune which causes its caster to be engulfed in a magical darkness which only she can see through. It lasts for a few seconds at most and exacts its toll when cast. Where Veira has it tattooed, nobody is sure.
Tava: A bit of a complex rune, one with many twists and curves to channel its power through. The activation of the rune only lasts a second at most however its toll it heavy, almost as if she had used it constantly for nearly twenty seconds. The fire rune envelops the foe in a blue flame which dances across its body, burning until the creature finds a way to put it out. However, regular water doesn’t put it out. |
51,353 | 1,388 | 0 | 694 | 2,138 | The meeting place for the students being picked up was a rather inconspicuous looking location. A few miles out of New York City, in a field of a worn down looking farm. The students ranging from just hanging out and talking, to others that seemed a bit confused about the location and reason for being there.
One such student, although he looked like he was quite fit, was also carrying enough luggage to equate what seemed like more than just two people. A few duffle bags slung around an arm and across his back. Wearing an athletic sleeveless shirt, and green cargo pants. Theodore, or Teddy as most people knew him, was glancing around at where him and his boyfriend were instructed to be. While there was a lot to be said about the secretive nature of where they were going. A farm, one which looks abandoned much less. Seemed like a weird place to have an academy for super powered teenagers.
"I don't know..." Teddy finally muttered as he leaned against his rolling luggage. "SHIELD never stuck me as the trolling type. Are you sure this is where we're suppose to be?" Teddy asked looking over.
"I'm about as sure as you are Ted." Billy replied, taking a furtive glance at the stragglers lingering about here and there. Billy wasn't sure who was who or even what they were. He knew he and Teddy were "super-powered" or whatever the correct term SHIELD was using. "Captain America didn't exactly leave a detailed map or anything."
The entire affair seemed ... incredibly unremarkable, given their powers at least, then again, maybe the other teens are like him, maybe they were hiding it, after all, all their powers would be on show once they hit class right?
"You sure you don't want a hand with those bags?" Billy asked, looking up at Teddy who effortlessly carried them all, his rather fine arms on show with his sleeveless shirt. Billy almost blushed almost. Teddy really was the cutest boyfriend anyone could ask for. He still sometimes found himself wondering how on earth he'd found Teddy and why on earth Teddy picked him. Billy Kaplan. The skinny Asgardian-fanboy, uber-geek who couldn't even hide his power-level as he wore a shirt with a space ship and the quote "Please Take Me" on it.
What was even better ... Teddy was not only gorgeous, but a massive geek as well. Sometimes Billy thought he'd dreamed him up, but he really was too good to imagine.
"I was expecting some guys in suits or something ... I dunno." Billy shrugged, "I sorta hopped Thor would show up too, how cool would that be?!"
Teddy chuckled, grinning with pearly whites showing as Billy had a moment of geeking out at the idea of Thor showing up. That boy and his loving of the Norse mythology turned strangely real. "Last I heard Thor's probably got Avengers business to be babysitting us." Teddy noted as he adjusted the bags on his shoulder.
"Captain America basically made a housecall to get us to join up y'know." Billy pointed out, although Teddy had a point... Thor was busy looking after Asgard and Midgard and every other bloody realm. Why would he wrangle a bunch of teenagers to class?
"It's alright, I have the power to handle all this. Not unless you'd like to figure out how to make yourself all big and strong to handle it all." Teddy joked, licking his chops a little at the thought. Still he glanced around at the other probably students. At least it was a nice late summer day.
Suddenly though the sunshine started to be blotted out by a massive shadow overhead. When Teddy started to look up his eyes widened at the massive ship overhead. It touched down nearby, the back opening to reveal a small group of people dressed in admittedly nice suits. Led by a man with balding hair and shades on. "Alright, those of you that aren't freshmen you know the drill." He started, seemingly undermining the big impressive entrance. "Those of you who are new, have your papers ready, we'll shuttle your luggage and vehicles on board. When you get on go ahead and take a seat in the designated area. As soon as everyone's on board we'll be heading out to the academy. It's out in the Atlantic Ocean just for today." He told everyone.
As Teddy hoisted the rest of the luggage up. His arm turning green as it stretched out, wrapping around the rest of the luggage with no problems. His other hand tapped Billy on his shoulder. "You have the paperwork right?" He asked, praying today wasn't the day Billy had a brain fart. Leaving the paperwork at his parents' house or in the car his mom drove them there in.
Billy was lost in thought, looking in awe at the huge vessel that touched down so cavalierly. The tap on the shoulder snapped him back into the present. "Oh- Papers, right..." Billy rustled around his pockets, his shoulder bag- Oh no, today could not be one of those days.
"Dammit" he grumbled, his search proving fruitless. "Nice one Kaplan. You had ONE job, one easy job."
Billy pouted and ducked his head down, knowing full well Teddy would notice that he had mislaid their papers. Good thing he had powers, hopefully he wouldn't need to use his powers to stop Teddy teasing him afterwards.
"IwishIhadourpapersIwishIhadourpapersIwishIhadourpapersIwish-" BAM! Billy exhaled in relief, flipping through the slips to make sure everything they needed was there. At least he hadn't screwed up entirely. He perked his head up and flapped the papers in Teddy's face.
"Yep. Papers. Check."
Billy looked over at the groups of students shuffling toward the man who'd stepped out of the ship. A lot seemed confused, much like Billy and Teddy, others lazily tagged along, seemed more at ease. One girl stood out though. Long blonde hair and a confident stride.
"Out of the way. Move it losers." the mysterious girl swanned her way through, pushing a paper into the suited mans hand. She tapped her foot impatiently as he scanned the paper, not that he needed to, she was hardly forgettable.
"Karla."
"Coulson." she replied, disinterested, she just wanted to get this show on the road, she and Melissa had plenty to catch up on (or rather she had to find a way to one-up Melissa in their constant competitions...).
Billy inched a little closer to Teddy, unconsciously, not really noticing. He had no idea who this girl was, but if there were other students like her... he hoped this wouldn't be like high school only with people who could blast him to pieces.
"...Delightful..." Was the only thing Teddy could say or even felt like saying about the girl who had just boarded. She seemed like a real winner in life. Either way Teddy just quietly rolled his eyes as the two got up to the agent.
"So thankfully Billy you're only partially a goof." Teddy teased Billy as Coulson was given the paperwork. Coulson examining all of it before noticing their names.
Billy nudged Teddy in response to the teasing, but kept quiet as Coulson looked over their documents.
"Ah Steve mentioned the both of you..." Coulson noted. Pointing to both boys. "The two of you are some of the first to be... in a relationship like this." Coulson visibly tried to think of a mature way of putting it but just went with the simple route. "He's been considering the rooming request the both of you had. But wanted me to pass on he's accepting it so long as the both of you maintain good grades and it doesn't prove to be a distraction..."
Billy blushed at the mention... 'Captain America ... specifically mentioned me and Teddy...?' his brain spiraled, half fan girling, half-terrified they were in trouble since the requested to room together.
Teddy beamed at the news, his free hand going up for a high five from Billy. "Awesome!" He exclaimed. Both at the personal consideration from the awesome one, to being able to stay with Billy.
Billy blinked, dumbstruck, before returning Teddy's high-five, though the news was so good he would rather have kissed him, but that would hardly reassure Coulson that this wouldn't be a "distraction".
"Wicked!" Billy agreed, a shy grin unfurling across his face.
Teddy unloaded all the luggage for the SHIELD agent who began putting them into the bay of the ship. As Teddy teased Billy some more, seeing if Billy needed to conjure up something else before they leave. As the two got into the seating area it felt like something out of a roller coaster. The horizontal facing seats were encased in little bays, with a buckle which looked like those ones on roller coasters.
Teddy began to strap himself in, patting the seat next to him. "Man this is crazy, like we're in a SHIELD ship. We're going to a school that's on a bigger ship. Plus now that I'm thinking about it..." Teddy noted, "Didn't the Fantasticar even show up at one point while we were all waiting for this thing to arrive? Man this is all weird..." Teddy noted as he got himself strapped in.
Billy eased into the seat beside Teddy. They'd fought some petty criminals together with their awesome powers, and that had been exhilarating ... but this was something else entirely. Billy was anxious, excited too, but still anxious. Worried about not being good enough, being too good and accidentally hurting someone ... His hand slipped into Teddy's. Teddy always calmed him down when he was nervous or upset or angry.
"Yeah ... I can't quite believe we're here either." he agreed. It was nothing short of surreal. | Full name: Theodore “Teddy" Altman/Dorrek VIII
Alias/Codename: Hulkling
Year: Freshman
Skills: Athletic talent in basketball, soccer, baseball, and golf, a pro in superhero and pop culture trivia (captain of the high school quizbowl team), master cuddler...
Powers: Teddy's super-human abilities stem from his parentage: a Skrull mother and a super-powered Kree father. As part-Skrull, Hulking is able to change his appearance by altering his size, shape, and color. When he increases his mass his strength also increases. He typically manifests claws and wings as necessary in battle. His Skrull physiology also gives him the ability to heal from injury at an accelerated rate and sub-consciously move and reshape his vital organs to protect himself from mortal damage. Teddy's shape-shifting abilities are detailed enough to bypass highly sensitive eye-scans and voice-scans. As part-Kree, Hulkling inherited superpowers from his father Captain Marvel. This grants him super-human strength (far greater than the average Skrull or Kree) and enhanced durability.
Brief bio:Growing up Teddy was raised by his mother, his father having died of cancer during her pregnancy. Teddy was athletic and popular in school. But as he grew up he began to notice his super powers and homosexuality. He figured his powers were a mutant based power, not realizing that his mom was Skrull royalty, and his father was Kree legend Captain Marvel. Afraid of the stigma against mutants and homosexuals Teddy keep both hidden from others.
As Teddy started going to high school he ended up meeting and getting into a relationship with Greg Norris, Class president and captain of the basketball team Teddy was on. One night Teddy revealed his powers to Greg who showed support to him. The two then used Teddy’s powers to pull pranks and cons with Teddy pretending to be various people. When the Avengers announced their old mansion was going to be retired and Stark Tower was going to be the team’s new home. Greg had Teddy help him break into the mansion. Teddy figured it was just to see the place, only to find Greg trying to steal things from it. For Teddy, The Avengers were his role models, and the mansion might as well been a holy place. Teddy and Greg got into an argument, and Greg threatened to reveal to the school that Teddy was gay and a mutant. Teddy became furious, and used his powers to threaten Greg if he even considered such a thing.
As Teddy left the mansion, hurting inside. It was late as he strolled through Central Park, still fuming when he came across a similarly aged man sitting at a park bench alone and bruised. Teddy mildly recognized him from school and the two talked. On that night Teddy met Billy Kaplan for the first time, who would become his boyfriend in short time.
Soon the two realized one another’s powers, and began to roam the streets at night as small time makeshift superheros. Teddy, since his powers usually left him big and green, gave him the idea of naming himself Hulkling. It's a play on changling, only with more Hulk. While Billy took on the alias of Asgardian, and kept his magic to flight and lightning based powers. Their antics got the attention of the Avengers and SHIELD. Who saw their unprepared nature and offered them a place at the Avengers Academy. The two accepted immediately. Though Teddy during the summer convinced Billy to get an alias change. When the other students find out about their relationship. Asgardian is going to become an unfortunate alias very quickly....
(For official use only)
The information herein is For Official Use Only (FOUO) which must be protected under the Privacy Act of 1974, as amended. Unauthorized disclosure or misuse of this PERSONAL INFORMATION may result in criminal and/or civil penalties.
Initial observation report: Certainly very excited and eager, Theodore is showing plenty of early raw potential in our analysis of him.
Training regimen/expertise: The main focus will be on giving Theodore a more focused and concentrated fighting style. As Theodore only currently usually resorts to wild flailing in his strikes. Many staff have suggested Theodore could gain a lot in something combining kickboxing with freestyle wrestling. On top of that, Theodore’s penchant for making dragon like wings for himself are reason enough he should be enlisted into flight classes to make sure he can handle himself in the air. Finally, acting classes so Theodore can more effectively use his shape shifting for more covert operations.
Potential outlook: A strong but versatile asset who can work in many different positions and angles for potential future assignments. Although Theodore doesn’t seem to quite have leadership qualities. He does possess a strong workmanship and ability to get along with others.
Best case scenario: A very dependable Avenger who will provide numerous strengths with very few down sides.
Worst case scenario: His past with the Kree and Skrulls can cause severe problems if careful procedure isn’t used when the situation arises, and when Teddy is finally told about his background.
//SIGNED
NICHOLAS J. FURY, COL., SHIELD
Public Director |
51,354 | 1,388 | 1 | 305 | 6,674 | It had been a sombering day in the Baxter Building as the roof's bay for the fantasticar opened. In the back of it was a heafty amount of luggage and furnature. Susan and Reed Richards, along with Susan's brother Johnny and Ben Grimm, all having helped to take care of all of it. Although there was a good mood in the air, it wasn't hard to see the married couple looking wistful as it was going.
The reason, was that Franklin Richards, their older son, was leaving. After SHIELD reached out to them to have Franklin attend their academy. They jumped on the idea, Franklin could use further training on his powers and ability. More so though, they knew Franklin was a good kid, and seemingly got along well with others. It was still there though, that lingering difficulties Franklin had that came from the time Doom kidnapped him. So the two hoped the academy would help him there. Maybe even give him more of a social life outside of the Baxter Building.
"Alright everything's packed up and ready to go right?" Susan asked around as the Fantastic Four were all at the bay. She glanced around at the men who all gave nods and thumbs up. "Should be all good ta go Sus..." Ben noted, stopping for a moment to give Franklin a supportive rub on the head. "Kid should be all good ta go. Bet you're glad to be flying outta da coop huh?" Ben asked.
Franklin was a mix of emotions, excitement but also a slight worry. What if he did something wrong? He shook the thoughts out of his head and went to help out somewhat. He stopped as Ben gave him the head rub and chuckled. "Glad is one word." He grinned at his godfather before looking at his mother. He could see that wistfulness in her eyes and moved to her giving her a hug. "It'll be great." He hoped that would help her feel better, but knew she would miss him.
He looked over at Ben. "Now who are you going to use as a buffer between you and Uncle Johnny?" His beam of a smile showing. He then made his way to get ready for lift off.
As Franklin got into the Fantasticar Susan turned to Johnny. The two talking quietly with one another for a moment before Johnny patted Susan's shoulder. Soon Susan and Reed hopped in, with Reed starting up the flying vehicle before it started to leave. Despite the open air concept of the vehicle, the ride was very quiet. Finally Reed turned to look at Franklin, trying to give his son a warm smile. "So Rogers told me they have high hopes for you..." He noted, from a meeting Rogers had with them a few weeks ago when they signed the final paperwork. "He said he sees a lot of potential in you. I know your mother and I certainly feel the same way." Reed assured his son.
Franklin blinked at his father before managing a smile. "That is awesome!" He nodded. "Thank you I will make you proud." He meant that. Part of him felt like he had to make up for what happened. That maybe he had to prove himself in a way. Though, he hoped he could live up to whatever it was Rogers saw. He shook his head as his mind trailed back to his kidnapping and what happened. He refused to let that damage who he was now. He wanted to create a new path and this was the way to do it. Work in a team and show what he was capable of.
The rest of the ride over was fairly uneventful, small talk between Susan and Reed. Soon they arrived to the field where everyone in the area was meeting up. SHIELD was going to bring them from there to the helicarrier that serves as the academy grounds. As the two touched down the crowd of young people already there did look star struck by the arrive of a famous super hero family. Some even approaching Reed and Susan for photos and autographs which they did. Though tried to keep things quick so they could focus on their son. Getting Franklin's things unpacked before finally there was a moment with Susan and Reed in front of their son.
"Well... this is it." Susan noted, clearly putting on a brave face, but the moment was building a bit. "The big day." She added. Finally she leaned in, giving Franklin a big warm hug. "Its a good thing I won't have to wait long to see you for Thanksgiving and Christmas break huh?" She asked before finally letting go. Turning away for a moment as Reed approached his son.
"Alright you show the academy what a member of the Future Foundation can do okay?" Reed told his son. Finally stretching his arms around Franklin for a hug of his own which had the arms go around Franklin a few times. "Come on, give your old man a nice stretchy hug." Reed suggested playfully.
Franklin seemed to ignore the crowd that apprached and did their usual thing of autographs and pictures. Luckily, this round was kept short and there could be more of a family moment. Franklin looked at susan and hugged her back. "Yeah, I'll see you soon I promise." She turned and soon he was approached by his father. He grinned and nodded. "Yes sir!" the playfulnes in his tone showing while he used sir he in no way meant it in a very serious way.
Franklin found himself in an arm cocoon thanks to his father and laughed before wrapping his own arms around him. In hind sight, both of them stretching arms around each other might not have been the best idea since it could result in tanglement, but Franklin did not seem to care at the moment.
As Reed and Franklin hugged one another in the hug they've done even since Franklin's power switch. One that has resulted in them getting into a tangled mess with one another a time or two. Reed pulled away, giving a long sigh himself, which caused his chest to puff out notably under his button up shirt before shrinking back. "Alright you have our number, please call us whenever you feel like it. I promise no matter what we're doing we'll respond." Reed told Franklin.
Finally as Susan and Reed got back into the Fantasticar. Susan clearly finally giving into her emotions and tearing up. The two took off into the sky, leaving Franklin on his own for the first time ever.
Franklin waved as his family flew off and braced himself before turning around. He exhaled and made his way to Coulson. He pulled the papers from a pocket of his jeans he was wearing and waited as he scanned them. When he was allowed on board he made his way on board and quickly scanned the place before finding an open seat and nestling in there.
Warren looked at his home filled with mutants packing in the moments they had before leaving. He shifted the duffel he held from one hand to the other before nodding and patting a wall. This was it, his time to join a team. He lightly made his way out of there and shot into the air before the rest of the mutants were even on board the black bird.
His powerful white wings carried him with ease ahead of the black bird meant for the mutants. He had a good head start on the plane and while Warren could have sat in that thing, he much preferred to use his wings. He held his things in his arms and had a carefree smile on his face. Flying was his favorite thing to do. The freedom these wings gave him were so much more valuable then anything else he had.
He landed lightly and folded his wings to his back. There were teenagers all over the place and that made him a tad uncomfortable. Some shot glances at his wings while others continued to ignore him. He rolled his shoulders. He would be fine. He made his way to Coulson and handed him his papers. A look from the papers to him and then a nod lead to him making his way on board. He would have preferred to fly, but not choice with this he guessed. A quick scan around the place and he found a secluded seat away from the others. His wings tight against his back as he sat down and prepped himself for take off. | Full name: Franklin Benjamin Richards
Alias/Codename: Fantastic Lad
Year: Freshman
Skills:
-Unarmed Combat
-Stealth
Powers:
-Healing
-Elasticity
-Energy Shield
-Force Field
-Intellect
-Invisibility
Brief bio:
Franklin was born in New York to the Invisible Woman and Mr. Fantastic. The boy was born a very powerful mutant which made his childhood quite interesting. He was liked by any who met him and was overall very outgoing. At a young age Franklin was kidnapped by Dr. Doom who wanted to use his powers for evil. The machine Dr. Doom was going to use could have damaged him. When he was saved by his family he decided to use his own reality warping abilities to change his abilities to resemble his parents.
(For official use only)
The information herein is For Official Use Only (FOUO) which must be protected under the Privacy Act of 1974, as amended. Unauthorized disclosure or misuse of this PERSONAL INFORMATION may result in criminal and/or civil penalties.
Initial observation report:
Franklin is skilled with his abilities, but not much else. He relies too heavily on his abilities
Dr. Doom whom affected him so heavily has not been seen since certain events occurred.
Training regimen/expertise:
Weapon training and group training
Potential outlook:
Franklin would be an asset with his stealth and his abilities, but he needs to work on weapon skills. Can’t rely on just his powers all the time.
Best case scenario:
He could potentially lead groups into needed areas
Worst case scenario:
He could get himself killed. If Dr. Doom resurfaces it is uncertain how that fight would unfold.
//SIGNED
NICHOLAS J. FURY, COL., SHIELD
Public Director
Full name: Warren Worthington III
Alias/Codename: Angel
Year: freshman
Skills:
-unarmed combat
-aerial combat
-cooking
-non verbals (communication without speaking is the best)
-Agile
Powers:
-Flight
-Stamina
-Super Hearing:
-Super Sight
-Super Strength
-Wind Bursts
Note: Angel's natural wings give him the ability to fly. They are super-humanly strong, easily capable of breaking a man's bones and tossing someone through a wall, and allow him to lift an additional 200 pounds. He has super-humanly sharp vision and hearing, and his eyes can withstand high-speed winds. His body is accustomed to low temperatures at high altitudes, and his lungs can breath easily even at full flight speed. Warren prefers to fly under the clouds, and can normally fly nonstop for half a day. However, he can reach the highest recorded altitude of a bird (equivalent to the height of Mount Everest), which quickly tires him out.
Brief bio:
There is not much to say about Warren's past. Considering not much happened to the wealthy teen when he was younger.
Warren was born to the rich Worthingtons and just as soon disowned by them. His mother found his wings repulsive and therefore, Warren was raised in a separate home by servants so his parents would never have to look at him. His life was well supplied with money, but lacking parental love. He was allowed to go to school once, but the reactions toward his wings resulted in him being kept in that house. Along with that he struggles with the confusion of being bi sexual. No one speaks of that week.
This incident however, resulted in the mutant community finding out about him and approaching his parents. They were all to happy to hand over Warren at the age go 10. They still send him money, but other then that they keep their distance. He was then taught several skills and by exceeding expectations, was approached by the avenger's academy.
(For official use only)
The information herein is For Official Use Only (FOUO) which must be protected under the Privacy Act of 1974, as amended. Unauthorized disclosure or misuse of this PERSONAL INFORMATION may result in criminal and/or civil penalties.
Initial observation report: Warren is very skilled in the air, but terrible with weapons. He could use weapons training. He seems to be unable to trust.
Training regimen/expertise: Weapons training and group training. He needs to be more skilled in other areas besides hand to hand and flying.
Potential outlook: Warren could become a good team player once he becomes more trusting. Eyes in the sky are a large asset.
Best case scenario:A key asset to seeing from above and if he becomes more trusting a help to the team.
Worst case scenario:unable to trust would lead to failed missions or him leaving to find someone to trust elsewhere. |
51,355 | 1,388 | 2 | 694 | 2,138 | As the jet flew through the sky on its way out to what was presumably the academy. The long windows on both sides of the jet showed various other jets joining in. The jets coming in from all around the world. Soon though after what didn’t seem like much time. The view of the academy finally came into view as it laid out in the currently calm waters of the Atlantic Ocean.
Although a large portion of it is inside of its metallic frame. The top of the helicarrier actually resembles more of a traditional academy or even college looking setting. The grounds were set up to have natural grass, stone paths, and buildings that although look like they were made with traditional bricks. Are more structurally strong metal buildings that led into various areas of the academy.
Still the jets landed inside of a large hollowed out opening at the front. Pulling in before letting the students leave. Although some students clearly needed some space to empty their stomaches from the jet ride. The majority of students got their luggage and were making their way to numerous places. Some going to find old friends to reunite and make up for lost time. Others headed out to go check out their new home for the next few months. The majority though were heading over to a long table where students were getting their dorm rooms, and their ID cards.
Teddy got separated from Billy as the two got off the jet. Though Teddy didn’t mind, he already knew from the earlier news they got they’re both sharing a room. Teddy hasn’t been able to stop smiling after that, hell he hasn’t been able to stop smiling ever since the day started. Especially looking around and seeing all the different people. Some normal people, some who certainly didn’t look normal under any means. There was a lot of infectious excitement in the air still.
As Teddy got to the long table, a row of staffers at laptops awaited him. Thank God he only had to go to one of them, he’d probably be there all day. As he handed the older looking woman his paperwork she keyed in the details onto her laptop. “Alright you’re rooming with...” Before she could finish Teddy held up a hand to politely cut her off.
“Billy Kaplan... I was given the spoiler alert earlier today.” Teddy joked as the woman gave him an understanding nod. The woman used a small camera to get a picture of Teddy before she went to get his ID card. Which according to the paperwork doubled as his dorm room key. ‘Ooo like a fancy hotel...’ Teddy thought to himself while he waited. As he waited though he turned, noticing the girl standing next to him. Who was also waiting for her ID card.
Although she pulled it up for her picture. Her purple tinted shades were the first thing Teddy noticed on her. Along with the stylish looking shirt and jeans. The girl was chewing away on a piece of bubble gum as she glanced around half bored herself. Only when she noticed Teddy she took a deep breath.
“Okay let me go ahead and start with this...” She noted with an index finger. “If you start talking about someone you hate like you’re about to have a hot make out with them. I’m going to scream and I can’t promise I’ll stop.” She told Teddy who paused, slowly fighting the laugh he wanted to belt out. His face not hiding it very well.
“Uh... well I mean I do have a boyfriend who I’ll probably make out with later. I don’t know if I feel like talking about him though.” Teddy noted, “No you just look familiar...”
The girl paused, finally sighing in relief before chuckling herself. “Oh... sorry.” She cringed slightly, “Some girl on the ride over wouldn’t shut up about some Kayla chick. Like she hated her but loved her at the same time. God I wanted to punch her in the mouth...” She giggled it off before raising her shades up onto the top of her head. Holding out her other hand. “Kate Bishop, Eagle Eye...”
Teddy felt his brain go into motion at the name when he reached out to shake her hand. “Teddy Altman, Hulkling.” He paused for a moment as he retracted his hand, only to snap his fingers. “Oh I remember you! You’re the one who saved her sister’s wedding from those terrorists. Now you’re being personally mentored by Hawkeye.” Teddy rattled off like the walking superhero wikipedia he was.
Kate, stunned for a moment by Teddy’s freakish knowledge, finally smiled and shook her head. “Damn, you sure know your people who shoot arrows trivia...” Kate teased.
Teddy blushed slightly, scratching the back of his head. “Its more Avengers trivia in general, its kind of pathetic how much I know about all of them.” Teddy noted before looking around. Curiously he watched Billy start to walk up behind him. Though if it wasn’t the fact Billy had changed clothes, wearing a different t-shirt with athletic pants and a beanie covering the top of his head. It was the demeanor, something that didn’t feel like Billy at all. Still, there was no denying the guy was Billy by the look of things.
“Hey Billy, why did you change your clothes babe?” Teddy asked, mildly concerned. “Oh check it out by the way, its Hawkeye’s pupil Kate Bishop!” Teddy noted as he gestured to Kate who gave him a nod of the head. | Full name: Theodore “Teddy" Altman/Dorrek VIII
Alias/Codename: Hulkling
Year: Freshman
Skills: Athletic talent in basketball, soccer, baseball, and golf, a pro in superhero and pop culture trivia (captain of the high school quizbowl team), master cuddler...
Powers: Teddy's super-human abilities stem from his parentage: a Skrull mother and a super-powered Kree father. As part-Skrull, Hulking is able to change his appearance by altering his size, shape, and color. When he increases his mass his strength also increases. He typically manifests claws and wings as necessary in battle. His Skrull physiology also gives him the ability to heal from injury at an accelerated rate and sub-consciously move and reshape his vital organs to protect himself from mortal damage. Teddy's shape-shifting abilities are detailed enough to bypass highly sensitive eye-scans and voice-scans. As part-Kree, Hulkling inherited superpowers from his father Captain Marvel. This grants him super-human strength (far greater than the average Skrull or Kree) and enhanced durability.
Brief bio:Growing up Teddy was raised by his mother, his father having died of cancer during her pregnancy. Teddy was athletic and popular in school. But as he grew up he began to notice his super powers and homosexuality. He figured his powers were a mutant based power, not realizing that his mom was Skrull royalty, and his father was Kree legend Captain Marvel. Afraid of the stigma against mutants and homosexuals Teddy keep both hidden from others.
As Teddy started going to high school he ended up meeting and getting into a relationship with Greg Norris, Class president and captain of the basketball team Teddy was on. One night Teddy revealed his powers to Greg who showed support to him. The two then used Teddy’s powers to pull pranks and cons with Teddy pretending to be various people. When the Avengers announced their old mansion was going to be retired and Stark Tower was going to be the team’s new home. Greg had Teddy help him break into the mansion. Teddy figured it was just to see the place, only to find Greg trying to steal things from it. For Teddy, The Avengers were his role models, and the mansion might as well been a holy place. Teddy and Greg got into an argument, and Greg threatened to reveal to the school that Teddy was gay and a mutant. Teddy became furious, and used his powers to threaten Greg if he even considered such a thing.
As Teddy left the mansion, hurting inside. It was late as he strolled through Central Park, still fuming when he came across a similarly aged man sitting at a park bench alone and bruised. Teddy mildly recognized him from school and the two talked. On that night Teddy met Billy Kaplan for the first time, who would become his boyfriend in short time.
Soon the two realized one another’s powers, and began to roam the streets at night as small time makeshift superheros. Teddy, since his powers usually left him big and green, gave him the idea of naming himself Hulkling. It's a play on changling, only with more Hulk. While Billy took on the alias of Asgardian, and kept his magic to flight and lightning based powers. Their antics got the attention of the Avengers and SHIELD. Who saw their unprepared nature and offered them a place at the Avengers Academy. The two accepted immediately. Though Teddy during the summer convinced Billy to get an alias change. When the other students find out about their relationship. Asgardian is going to become an unfortunate alias very quickly....
(For official use only)
The information herein is For Official Use Only (FOUO) which must be protected under the Privacy Act of 1974, as amended. Unauthorized disclosure or misuse of this PERSONAL INFORMATION may result in criminal and/or civil penalties.
Initial observation report: Certainly very excited and eager, Theodore is showing plenty of early raw potential in our analysis of him.
Training regimen/expertise: The main focus will be on giving Theodore a more focused and concentrated fighting style. As Theodore only currently usually resorts to wild flailing in his strikes. Many staff have suggested Theodore could gain a lot in something combining kickboxing with freestyle wrestling. On top of that, Theodore’s penchant for making dragon like wings for himself are reason enough he should be enlisted into flight classes to make sure he can handle himself in the air. Finally, acting classes so Theodore can more effectively use his shape shifting for more covert operations.
Potential outlook: A strong but versatile asset who can work in many different positions and angles for potential future assignments. Although Theodore doesn’t seem to quite have leadership qualities. He does possess a strong workmanship and ability to get along with others.
Best case scenario: A very dependable Avenger who will provide numerous strengths with very few down sides.
Worst case scenario: His past with the Kree and Skrulls can cause severe problems if careful procedure isn’t used when the situation arises, and when Teddy is finally told about his background.
//SIGNED
NICHOLAS J. FURY, COL., SHIELD
Public Director |
51,356 | 1,388 | 3 | 2,286 | 691 | Billy had the tremendous misfortune of running into Karla Sofen ... whom he promptly tried to distance himself from. She didn't do anything mean off the bat ... she was just hella intimidating. How could someone have so much self confidence and such a commanding presence?! Fortunately a girl with a pink streak through her silvery-blonde hair seemed to catch the blonde girls attention. It seemed they were students from last year, quick to pick up an old rivalry. If Billy wasn't so acutely afraid, he'd have grabbed popcorn (or rather he'd have conjured some popcorn magically) and watched the sparks fly like in Mean GIrls.
"Karla"
"Melissa"
"Did you spend all summer on your ass topping up your tan or are you going to be some healthy competition in combat training this year? That would make a change"
"Cute" Melissa smirked sarcastically. "You still stealing powers or have you finally developed some talent of your own?"
"I'm not going to say I missed you ... but I guess Avengers Academy would be dull as shit without you"
Girls are confusing ... I'm so glad I'm gay Billy mused to himself, gladly separating himself from Moonstone and Songbirds reunion. Billy wandered around campus to the various checkpoints he was supposed to go to for registration. He wondered how Teddy was getting on but barely had a second to dwell on him before he ran into Franklin, immediately recognising him of course, becauseof his ties to the famous Fantastic Four.
"Oh my god!" he gasped. "You're Franklin Richards- Whoa" It took Billy a couple of seconds to realise he ought to extend his hand for a handshake and he politely presented it to Franklin. "Are you new here too?" he realised he'd stupidly forgot to introduce himself, standing around awkwardly gawping at Franklin, and Franklin having no idea who on earth this strange fanboy was. "Sorry I- Um, I'm Billy Kaplan, Asg-" Wait ... his brain slammed on the breaks ... he was supposed to be working on a new nickname. Don't say Asgardian, Don't say Asgardian ...
"I have like um ... Asgardian ...Thor powers, yknow but without the hammer ... shooting lightning ... flight ... Yeah" he corrected himself. Smooth Kaplan ... real smooth ...
Tommy on the other hand impatiently wandered around campus. He'd already sped through the registration, now he was bored and he tended to get into mischief when he was bored. That wouldn't be a great start ... He sorta wanted to impress Captain America ... anything was better than juvie. He was loitering around like a spare part until Teddy started talking at him ... Not to him, but rather in his general direction, enough to catch his attention at least.
"Who the hell is Billy?" Tommy asked, looking up at the tall blonde who was yammering on about some Billy kid and looking right at him. He scrunched up his nose in confusion (kinda sorta exactly the same way that Billy did when he was confused). Aside from the silvery white hair ... Tommy was utterly identical to Billy, he moved similar (though a little faster ... or a lot when he used his powers), they had the same physique and facial features. Their attitudes were considerably different though. Tommy was brash and bold, Billy was quite reserved and hesitant.
He gave a confused wave as Teddy introduced him ... or rather Billy whom he thought he was talking to, to Kate Bishop.
"Tommy" he replied to Kate, correcting Teddy whom he shot a funny glance before focusing back on Kate.
"What are you in for then?" they didn't just select anyone for Avengers Academy it seemed ... so what made Kate so special, why'd she get to hang out with Hawkguy? | Full name: William "Billy" Kaplan/Maximoff
Alias/Codename: Wiccan/Demiurge
Year: Freshman.
Skills: Hero Trivia & Norse Mythology.
Powers: Electrokenisis, teleportation, flight,
Brief bio: The reincarnated son of Wanda Maximoff a.k.a the Scarlet Witch. Billy's soul was lost, when Mephisto cast his soul, and the soul of his twin brother, into worlds unknown. As a result of the loss of her twin boys, Scarlett Witch lost control of her powers wreaking devastating destruction. In her grief, she vanished, never to be seen again ... but the fate of her two boys was not quite over yet... Nor was she. Those two lost souls reincarnated, Billy was one, his brother Tommy (a.k.a Speed) was the other. Taking after his mother, Billy inherited devastating magical abilities which lay dormant for most of his childhood.
Billy was raised with two younger brothers in a Jewish family completely unaware of his "other" birth and his extraordinary powers, Billy had an average upbringing. High school was tough, he got bullied because of his nerdy-obsession with Heroes, Norse Mythos and comicbooks and also his homosexuality.
As luck would have it ... Billy wasn't entirely alone in the world. After another incident of bullying in school, he met Teddy Altman and encountered Scarlet Witch, whom told him he had great powers, he had to stand up and believe in himself.
Instilled with confidence thanks to Teddy and Wanda, Billy faced up to his bullies, accidentally awakening his powers and electrocuting the thugs. Fortunately there were no fatalities.
This terrifying awakening startled Billy and he refrained from using his powers, for fear he couldn't control this mysterious force. He was later coaxed into experimenting with and learning to control his powers by fellow "mutant" Teddy Altman (Hulkling). Unaware of their origins, the two believed they were both "mutants" and found comfort in one another and quickly formed a relationship.
Despite initial hesitance, for fear of losing control of his abilities. Billy showed great promise, particularly when Hulkling helped him practice controlling his power (through self-help books no less). Together they discovered that chanting a spell helped Billy to stay focused and maintain some control of his powers. The pair began using their powers to clean up the streets, under the aliases "Asguardian" and "Hulkling" and came under SHIELD's radar. In the field, "Asguardian" greatly reduced the level of his power, to protect his partner and civilians and also to try and keep a low profile. He limited his attacks to lightning based and flight, emulating one of his heroic idols, the Asguardian prince, Thor Odinson, however the true extent of his powers goes far deeper than levitation and lightning bolts.
(For official use only)
The information herein is For Official Use Only (FOUO) which must be protected under the Privacy Act of 1974, as amended. Unauthorized disclosure or misuse of this PERSONAL INFORMATION may result in criminal and/or civil penalties.
Initial observation report: William exhibits great potential but lacks confidence in his ability to control his power, limiting his skill-pool and refraining from pushing himself to achieve his full potential.
Training regimen/expertise: Training in flight/levitation is required to ensure safety in combat. William will also require tutoring in electrokenisis/precision training to prevent cases of accidental friendly-fire from stray shocks. Reality-warping magic lessons should be approached carefully and incrementally, focusing on maintaining control primarily and secondarily focus on increasing magical strength and dexterity.
Potential outlook: A powerful asset. He shows a desire to protect his peers and would be a valuable asset on any team if he can maintain control of his emotions and his powers.
Best case scenario: A loyal Avenger with the ability to devastate enemies of SHIELD.
Worst case scenario: If he loses control of his powers/emotions, particularly after achieving Demiurge level of power, the results could be catastrophic. SHIELD must also be cautious about introducing William to his long-lost twin brother, Thomas a.k.a. Speed |
51,357 | 1,388 | 4 | 694 | 2,138 | Teddy’s very warm and happy disposition immediately soured into hurt and confusion. Nothing about what was happening made sense. It was Billy, but... it wasn’t? Kate could tell something was up, although she gave Teddy a look that suggested that his ‘boyfriend’ wasn’t exactly great. Though she was a bit confused as well as Teddy seemed perplexed by the situation.
“Well no I came here by choice...” Kate noted folding her arms at Tommy and shrugging her shoulders. The guy had a bit of a sour attitude to him. Still the situation was uneasy as Kate still acknowledged the other guy next to Teddy. Kate though was given her academy ID and immediately started turning and leaving the boys.
Teddy glanced over at Tommy one more time, not sure what to say or do before leaving to catch up to Kate. “Hey uh... sorry about that.” Teddy awkwardly muttered as he rubbed the back of his head. “I swore that was my boyfriend Billy... I mean like it was seriously him.” Teddy told Kate who just stopped him before he could babble out anything more pathetically.
“Look don’t worry about it, first day jitters I’m sure.” Kate suggested to Teddy who glanced back, barely seeing ‘Tommy’ in the crowd now.
Teddy sighed before looking back, it couldn’t have been that. Still he tried to let it slip from his head. “Yeah, I guess...” He finally half-admitted. He hoped he wasn’t coming off as a complete looney to the archer. She seemed like she wasn’t really having a problem with him, more just the moment the two found themselves in just a moment ago.
“Hey...” Kate piped up with, “You seem like a fitness guy, you want to come check out the athletics area? Clint was telling me how amazing it is and I really want to go see it!” Kate suggested to Teddy who also quickly perked up at the idea.
“Oh yeah! I really want to go check it out too. You know in high school I was varsity in a few sports.” Teddy started into, Kate listening as the two headed over to check out the athletic area of the academy. | Full name: Theodore “Teddy" Altman/Dorrek VIII
Alias/Codename: Hulkling
Year: Freshman
Skills: Athletic talent in basketball, soccer, baseball, and golf, a pro in superhero and pop culture trivia (captain of the high school quizbowl team), master cuddler...
Powers: Teddy's super-human abilities stem from his parentage: a Skrull mother and a super-powered Kree father. As part-Skrull, Hulking is able to change his appearance by altering his size, shape, and color. When he increases his mass his strength also increases. He typically manifests claws and wings as necessary in battle. His Skrull physiology also gives him the ability to heal from injury at an accelerated rate and sub-consciously move and reshape his vital organs to protect himself from mortal damage. Teddy's shape-shifting abilities are detailed enough to bypass highly sensitive eye-scans and voice-scans. As part-Kree, Hulkling inherited superpowers from his father Captain Marvel. This grants him super-human strength (far greater than the average Skrull or Kree) and enhanced durability.
Brief bio:Growing up Teddy was raised by his mother, his father having died of cancer during her pregnancy. Teddy was athletic and popular in school. But as he grew up he began to notice his super powers and homosexuality. He figured his powers were a mutant based power, not realizing that his mom was Skrull royalty, and his father was Kree legend Captain Marvel. Afraid of the stigma against mutants and homosexuals Teddy keep both hidden from others.
As Teddy started going to high school he ended up meeting and getting into a relationship with Greg Norris, Class president and captain of the basketball team Teddy was on. One night Teddy revealed his powers to Greg who showed support to him. The two then used Teddy’s powers to pull pranks and cons with Teddy pretending to be various people. When the Avengers announced their old mansion was going to be retired and Stark Tower was going to be the team’s new home. Greg had Teddy help him break into the mansion. Teddy figured it was just to see the place, only to find Greg trying to steal things from it. For Teddy, The Avengers were his role models, and the mansion might as well been a holy place. Teddy and Greg got into an argument, and Greg threatened to reveal to the school that Teddy was gay and a mutant. Teddy became furious, and used his powers to threaten Greg if he even considered such a thing.
As Teddy left the mansion, hurting inside. It was late as he strolled through Central Park, still fuming when he came across a similarly aged man sitting at a park bench alone and bruised. Teddy mildly recognized him from school and the two talked. On that night Teddy met Billy Kaplan for the first time, who would become his boyfriend in short time.
Soon the two realized one another’s powers, and began to roam the streets at night as small time makeshift superheros. Teddy, since his powers usually left him big and green, gave him the idea of naming himself Hulkling. It's a play on changling, only with more Hulk. While Billy took on the alias of Asgardian, and kept his magic to flight and lightning based powers. Their antics got the attention of the Avengers and SHIELD. Who saw their unprepared nature and offered them a place at the Avengers Academy. The two accepted immediately. Though Teddy during the summer convinced Billy to get an alias change. When the other students find out about their relationship. Asgardian is going to become an unfortunate alias very quickly....
(For official use only)
The information herein is For Official Use Only (FOUO) which must be protected under the Privacy Act of 1974, as amended. Unauthorized disclosure or misuse of this PERSONAL INFORMATION may result in criminal and/or civil penalties.
Initial observation report: Certainly very excited and eager, Theodore is showing plenty of early raw potential in our analysis of him.
Training regimen/expertise: The main focus will be on giving Theodore a more focused and concentrated fighting style. As Theodore only currently usually resorts to wild flailing in his strikes. Many staff have suggested Theodore could gain a lot in something combining kickboxing with freestyle wrestling. On top of that, Theodore’s penchant for making dragon like wings for himself are reason enough he should be enlisted into flight classes to make sure he can handle himself in the air. Finally, acting classes so Theodore can more effectively use his shape shifting for more covert operations.
Potential outlook: A strong but versatile asset who can work in many different positions and angles for potential future assignments. Although Theodore doesn’t seem to quite have leadership qualities. He does possess a strong workmanship and ability to get along with others.
Best case scenario: A very dependable Avenger who will provide numerous strengths with very few down sides.
Worst case scenario: His past with the Kree and Skrulls can cause severe problems if careful procedure isn’t used when the situation arises, and when Teddy is finally told about his background.
//SIGNED
NICHOLAS J. FURY, COL., SHIELD
Public Director |
51,358 | 1,388 | 5 | 305 | 6,674 | Franklin had been making his way along each check point. Not really meeting people, simply going through the motions. He was at another point when he heard someone gasp. He turned and tilted his head. "Yep I'm Franklin" he shook the guys hand and nodded. "I most certainly am new here" the guy started stuttering and Franklin slipped his hands into his pockets.
Franklin did not seem fazed by the need out or the stuttering and smiled. "That is really cool." He paused a moment then gave a head tilt once more. "So want to hit the rest of the check ins with me?" He hadn't met anyone else yet so why not. He was supposed to try to be better around people anyway.
As soon as warren stepped off of that plane his wings spread out. That metal tube had felt very constricting to say the least. Getting his id he looked around at all the new faces. He then shrugged and started heading to the athletic area.
His way of dealing with feeling cramped was doing exercise of some form. The down side to having wings is small spaces feel ever so uncomfortable. He would fly, but given that he just got here he probably should not do that. | Full name: Franklin Benjamin Richards
Alias/Codename: Fantastic Lad
Year: Freshman
Skills:
-Unarmed Combat
-Stealth
Powers:
-Healing
-Elasticity
-Energy Shield
-Force Field
-Intellect
-Invisibility
Brief bio:
Franklin was born in New York to the Invisible Woman and Mr. Fantastic. The boy was born a very powerful mutant which made his childhood quite interesting. He was liked by any who met him and was overall very outgoing. At a young age Franklin was kidnapped by Dr. Doom who wanted to use his powers for evil. The machine Dr. Doom was going to use could have damaged him. When he was saved by his family he decided to use his own reality warping abilities to change his abilities to resemble his parents.
(For official use only)
The information herein is For Official Use Only (FOUO) which must be protected under the Privacy Act of 1974, as amended. Unauthorized disclosure or misuse of this PERSONAL INFORMATION may result in criminal and/or civil penalties.
Initial observation report:
Franklin is skilled with his abilities, but not much else. He relies too heavily on his abilities
Dr. Doom whom affected him so heavily has not been seen since certain events occurred.
Training regimen/expertise:
Weapon training and group training
Potential outlook:
Franklin would be an asset with his stealth and his abilities, but he needs to work on weapon skills. Can’t rely on just his powers all the time.
Best case scenario:
He could potentially lead groups into needed areas
Worst case scenario:
He could get himself killed. If Dr. Doom resurfaces it is uncertain how that fight would unfold.
//SIGNED
NICHOLAS J. FURY, COL., SHIELD
Public Director
Full name: Warren Worthington III
Alias/Codename: Angel
Year: freshman
Skills:
-unarmed combat
-aerial combat
-cooking
-non verbals (communication without speaking is the best)
-Agile
Powers:
-Flight
-Stamina
-Super Hearing:
-Super Sight
-Super Strength
-Wind Bursts
Note: Angel's natural wings give him the ability to fly. They are super-humanly strong, easily capable of breaking a man's bones and tossing someone through a wall, and allow him to lift an additional 200 pounds. He has super-humanly sharp vision and hearing, and his eyes can withstand high-speed winds. His body is accustomed to low temperatures at high altitudes, and his lungs can breath easily even at full flight speed. Warren prefers to fly under the clouds, and can normally fly nonstop for half a day. However, he can reach the highest recorded altitude of a bird (equivalent to the height of Mount Everest), which quickly tires him out.
Brief bio:
There is not much to say about Warren's past. Considering not much happened to the wealthy teen when he was younger.
Warren was born to the rich Worthingtons and just as soon disowned by them. His mother found his wings repulsive and therefore, Warren was raised in a separate home by servants so his parents would never have to look at him. His life was well supplied with money, but lacking parental love. He was allowed to go to school once, but the reactions toward his wings resulted in him being kept in that house. Along with that he struggles with the confusion of being bi sexual. No one speaks of that week.
This incident however, resulted in the mutant community finding out about him and approaching his parents. They were all to happy to hand over Warren at the age go 10. They still send him money, but other then that they keep their distance. He was then taught several skills and by exceeding expectations, was approached by the avenger's academy.
(For official use only)
The information herein is For Official Use Only (FOUO) which must be protected under the Privacy Act of 1974, as amended. Unauthorized disclosure or misuse of this PERSONAL INFORMATION may result in criminal and/or civil penalties.
Initial observation report: Warren is very skilled in the air, but terrible with weapons. He could use weapons training. He seems to be unable to trust.
Training regimen/expertise: Weapons training and group training. He needs to be more skilled in other areas besides hand to hand and flying.
Potential outlook: Warren could become a good team player once he becomes more trusting. Eyes in the sky are a large asset.
Best case scenario:A key asset to seeing from above and if he becomes more trusting a help to the team.
Worst case scenario:unable to trust would lead to failed missions or him leaving to find someone to trust elsewhere. |
51,359 | 1,388 | 6 | 2,286 | 691 | ((I'm finally back!!!))
"So want to hit the rest of the check ins with me?" He hadn't met anyone else yet so why not. He was supposed to try to be better around people anyway.
Billy had to reign in his emotions and stop himself from immediately nodding his head like a bobble-head toy when Franklin asked if he wanted to join him for the rest of the registration process. Holy Heimdall this is too cool! Billy still couldn't believe he was talking to Franklin Richard's, the guy who's parents made up half of the Fantastic Four...
"I heard you can wield Chaos magic, right?" he asked, he'd kept his own powers somewhat secret, downplaying his own potential because he wasn't sure what he was capable of, and it frightened him sometimes, but Franklin ... maybe he knew more about Chaos magic, looking at his parents alone, Franklin had the means to learn more about Chaos magic than Billy. He often shuddered at the thought of telling his very Jewish parents that he was a practicing witch, much less asking them to explain that to him ... At the very least, Franklin's parents knew what he was, plus Sue and Reed were super geniuses, if they didn't know much about Chaos magic, they'd find out something, they'd assess Franklin's abilities and potential.
Billy adored his parents, but it was hard keeping things secret from them ... like his boyfriend ... Although they liked Teddy they just didn't know they were dating ... Being able to confide in Teddy and learn about his powers with Teddy's help had been a tremendous relief, and now Captain America ... the Captain America was interested. He didn't have to hide here, and yet ... He still played down his powers, it was safer that way, but learning ought to help him sleep better at night and where better to learn about his abilities than Avengers Academy?!
"Where are you goin' in such a rush Grandpa?" Karla scoffed, giggling with Melissa out on the green.
"Rush? You ain't seen nothin' yet, Barbie" Tommy scoffed, glaring at the blonde haired girl staring him down.
"Really? Prove it." she shot back.
Tommy hated being bitched at ... before she could even blink, he moved, lightning quick, pushing her over, she landed right on her ass and he reappeared in his original position looking smug.
Karla blinked and growled, before her frown melted into a smirk and she started laughing. Melissa watched, dumbfounded.
"Who are you?" she asked, Melissa pulling her back up onto her feet.
"None of your business, Barbie" Tommy grumbled.
To his surprise, the blonde didn't seem particularly phased by Tommy's curt responses. "I'm Karla, this is Melissa ... Come find us if you get bored of Stark and Rogers breathing down your neck."
"Whatever." Tommy wandered off. Was everyone on this campus a complete dunderhead or was he just exceptionally unlucky today to bump into every idiot on campus?! First that stupid blond dude, now this bitch ugh! | Full name: William "Billy" Kaplan/Maximoff
Alias/Codename: Wiccan/Demiurge
Year: Freshman.
Skills: Hero Trivia & Norse Mythology.
Powers: Electrokenisis, teleportation, flight,
Brief bio: The reincarnated son of Wanda Maximoff a.k.a the Scarlet Witch. Billy's soul was lost, when Mephisto cast his soul, and the soul of his twin brother, into worlds unknown. As a result of the loss of her twin boys, Scarlett Witch lost control of her powers wreaking devastating destruction. In her grief, she vanished, never to be seen again ... but the fate of her two boys was not quite over yet... Nor was she. Those two lost souls reincarnated, Billy was one, his brother Tommy (a.k.a Speed) was the other. Taking after his mother, Billy inherited devastating magical abilities which lay dormant for most of his childhood.
Billy was raised with two younger brothers in a Jewish family completely unaware of his "other" birth and his extraordinary powers, Billy had an average upbringing. High school was tough, he got bullied because of his nerdy-obsession with Heroes, Norse Mythos and comicbooks and also his homosexuality.
As luck would have it ... Billy wasn't entirely alone in the world. After another incident of bullying in school, he met Teddy Altman and encountered Scarlet Witch, whom told him he had great powers, he had to stand up and believe in himself.
Instilled with confidence thanks to Teddy and Wanda, Billy faced up to his bullies, accidentally awakening his powers and electrocuting the thugs. Fortunately there were no fatalities.
This terrifying awakening startled Billy and he refrained from using his powers, for fear he couldn't control this mysterious force. He was later coaxed into experimenting with and learning to control his powers by fellow "mutant" Teddy Altman (Hulkling). Unaware of their origins, the two believed they were both "mutants" and found comfort in one another and quickly formed a relationship.
Despite initial hesitance, for fear of losing control of his abilities. Billy showed great promise, particularly when Hulkling helped him practice controlling his power (through self-help books no less). Together they discovered that chanting a spell helped Billy to stay focused and maintain some control of his powers. The pair began using their powers to clean up the streets, under the aliases "Asguardian" and "Hulkling" and came under SHIELD's radar. In the field, "Asguardian" greatly reduced the level of his power, to protect his partner and civilians and also to try and keep a low profile. He limited his attacks to lightning based and flight, emulating one of his heroic idols, the Asguardian prince, Thor Odinson, however the true extent of his powers goes far deeper than levitation and lightning bolts.
(For official use only)
The information herein is For Official Use Only (FOUO) which must be protected under the Privacy Act of 1974, as amended. Unauthorized disclosure or misuse of this PERSONAL INFORMATION may result in criminal and/or civil penalties.
Initial observation report: William exhibits great potential but lacks confidence in his ability to control his power, limiting his skill-pool and refraining from pushing himself to achieve his full potential.
Training regimen/expertise: Training in flight/levitation is required to ensure safety in combat. William will also require tutoring in electrokenisis/precision training to prevent cases of accidental friendly-fire from stray shocks. Reality-warping magic lessons should be approached carefully and incrementally, focusing on maintaining control primarily and secondarily focus on increasing magical strength and dexterity.
Potential outlook: A powerful asset. He shows a desire to protect his peers and would be a valuable asset on any team if he can maintain control of his emotions and his powers.
Best case scenario: A loyal Avenger with the ability to devastate enemies of SHIELD.
Worst case scenario: If he loses control of his powers/emotions, particularly after achieving Demiurge level of power, the results could be catastrophic. SHIELD must also be cautious about introducing William to his long-lost twin brother, Thomas a.k.a. Speed |
51,360 | 1,388 | 7 | 305 | 6,674 | Franklin stopped moving as soon as Billy mentioned chaos magic. His form went rigid and he shook his head. His voice was lowered a stark difference from the more upbeat self a moment ago. "Not anymore....I....don't have that ability now" his eyes shut before a hand went roughly through his hair and he managed to put on a facade.
Franklin smiled and it was obvious by his eyes that his past was something he'd rather not think about. "I'm guessing that's something you can do? That's cool" Often Franklin wondered if he had made the right choice. That changing his own abilities was thee right path. Though, after what happened, he did not think he wanted those abilities back. They simply reminded him of that...event.
Franklin turned and motioned for Billy to walk with him. Billy seemed cool and it wasn't his fault that he triggered the pain Franklin had. Franklin was broken and that was not anyone else's fault.
Warren had been heading to the athletic area before he paused. He really should check on his room and see if his roommate was there. Kind of get to know who he would be bunking with. He looked at the bag he was holding before changing directions and heading toward the rooms.
Moments later he opened the door to his room and headed in. He dropped his bag on a bed and stretched his wings ruffling as he did so. | Full name: Franklin Benjamin Richards
Alias/Codename: Fantastic Lad
Year: Freshman
Skills:
-Unarmed Combat
-Stealth
Powers:
-Healing
-Elasticity
-Energy Shield
-Force Field
-Intellect
-Invisibility
Brief bio:
Franklin was born in New York to the Invisible Woman and Mr. Fantastic. The boy was born a very powerful mutant which made his childhood quite interesting. He was liked by any who met him and was overall very outgoing. At a young age Franklin was kidnapped by Dr. Doom who wanted to use his powers for evil. The machine Dr. Doom was going to use could have damaged him. When he was saved by his family he decided to use his own reality warping abilities to change his abilities to resemble his parents.
(For official use only)
The information herein is For Official Use Only (FOUO) which must be protected under the Privacy Act of 1974, as amended. Unauthorized disclosure or misuse of this PERSONAL INFORMATION may result in criminal and/or civil penalties.
Initial observation report:
Franklin is skilled with his abilities, but not much else. He relies too heavily on his abilities
Dr. Doom whom affected him so heavily has not been seen since certain events occurred.
Training regimen/expertise:
Weapon training and group training
Potential outlook:
Franklin would be an asset with his stealth and his abilities, but he needs to work on weapon skills. Can’t rely on just his powers all the time.
Best case scenario:
He could potentially lead groups into needed areas
Worst case scenario:
He could get himself killed. If Dr. Doom resurfaces it is uncertain how that fight would unfold.
//SIGNED
NICHOLAS J. FURY, COL., SHIELD
Public Director
Full name: Warren Worthington III
Alias/Codename: Angel
Year: freshman
Skills:
-unarmed combat
-aerial combat
-cooking
-non verbals (communication without speaking is the best)
-Agile
Powers:
-Flight
-Stamina
-Super Hearing:
-Super Sight
-Super Strength
-Wind Bursts
Note: Angel's natural wings give him the ability to fly. They are super-humanly strong, easily capable of breaking a man's bones and tossing someone through a wall, and allow him to lift an additional 200 pounds. He has super-humanly sharp vision and hearing, and his eyes can withstand high-speed winds. His body is accustomed to low temperatures at high altitudes, and his lungs can breath easily even at full flight speed. Warren prefers to fly under the clouds, and can normally fly nonstop for half a day. However, he can reach the highest recorded altitude of a bird (equivalent to the height of Mount Everest), which quickly tires him out.
Brief bio:
There is not much to say about Warren's past. Considering not much happened to the wealthy teen when he was younger.
Warren was born to the rich Worthingtons and just as soon disowned by them. His mother found his wings repulsive and therefore, Warren was raised in a separate home by servants so his parents would never have to look at him. His life was well supplied with money, but lacking parental love. He was allowed to go to school once, but the reactions toward his wings resulted in him being kept in that house. Along with that he struggles with the confusion of being bi sexual. No one speaks of that week.
This incident however, resulted in the mutant community finding out about him and approaching his parents. They were all to happy to hand over Warren at the age go 10. They still send him money, but other then that they keep their distance. He was then taught several skills and by exceeding expectations, was approached by the avenger's academy.
(For official use only)
The information herein is For Official Use Only (FOUO) which must be protected under the Privacy Act of 1974, as amended. Unauthorized disclosure or misuse of this PERSONAL INFORMATION may result in criminal and/or civil penalties.
Initial observation report: Warren is very skilled in the air, but terrible with weapons. He could use weapons training. He seems to be unable to trust.
Training regimen/expertise: Weapons training and group training. He needs to be more skilled in other areas besides hand to hand and flying.
Potential outlook: Warren could become a good team player once he becomes more trusting. Eyes in the sky are a large asset.
Best case scenario:A key asset to seeing from above and if he becomes more trusting a help to the team.
Worst case scenario:unable to trust would lead to failed missions or him leaving to find someone to trust elsewhere. |
51,361 | 1,389 | 0 | 1,399 | 8,776 | On that day, just a week ago, the Capital World of Subspace was attacked by a dark force. It was just like 8 years ago, during the events we now call The Brawl, only it was on a bigger scale, and without the guidence of Master or Crazy Hand. Yes, the shadow bugs were indeed back, but they were backed up by dark and infected Koopas, Knights, Space Pirates, ghosts, demons, and various others. The heroes protected Subspace with all of their might, killing many that stood in their way, yet they were quickly picked off, one by one, by unknown slashes coming seemingly out of nowhere!
Mario was the first to be turned into a trophy, followed by his brother Luigi, then Link, DK, Samus, Pikachu, Marth, Megaman, Ike, everyone protecting the Capital had fallen. As they lay helplessly frozen in gold, small transport skiffs came and quickly picked them up with their large, mechanical claws. Not even Megaman, Pac-Man, Lucas, and Ryu were spared as they became prisoners frozen in the trophies that were cursed upon them. Eventually, even the heroes and "villains" from the nearby regions were also captured as well.
Only three of the entire hero force of Subspace survived... who head into hiding beyond the outer perimeters of the territory to the east. They were; Pit, the Angel-Captain of Goddess Palutena's army, Lucina, the warrior princess and daughter of Chrom, and the newcomer Cloud Strife, a powerful swordsman that wields the legendary Buster Sword. Those three were the only survivors of the invasion and thanks to their wits and capabilities, they were able to fight another day. They will become known as The Big 3, for being the original roster survivors of the invasion.
They had to defeat this new threat, its a must, but what does one do when all but three of the original roster members had been captured? They just need to contact fighters from beyond the boundaries. Surely there has to be some out there right? With that, they casted a message that was be sent to the outer and unknown regions and provinces of Smash. This message was now their only hope, the fate of Smash. Weather it will reach to new heroes or not, weather they accepted it or not, all the 3 warriors need to do now... is wait and hope for the best...
And so... our story begins, one week later...
Monster Hunter
Gerudo Valley. A hot and rather desolate place, its known for being one of the main stages for a fight to take place, usually amongst Link, Zelda, Sheik, Ganon, and even Toon Link, along with anyone related to the Zelda realm. The stage is mostly flat, with the middle being a large gap, with a river running through it, only being connected by a wooden bridge. Two platforms can also be seen, one on each side, along with a tent on the left side. The trail is otherwise used by coming citizens and miis, which connects Hyrule, to the left, and Subspace, on the right, respectively.
Walking down this path, a male Monster Hunter stops several meters behind the bridge as he takes a look at his surroundings. His armor, made of a Rathalos he killed, gleams in the sunlight as he slightly pants from the running he did previously. Forming from the ground, he seems to have encountered several shadow troops, these being in the form of Bulblins and skeletons. He takes out one of the weapons he uses, that being a charge axe, and runs towards them, issuing a dash attack by swinging his hammer down on them, taking out three of the units. Another skeleton rushes behind him, but the hunter greets it with a forward smash, using his great sword to jab and knock him out of the stage. Then the last bulbin leaps towards the hunter, only to be hit by his up special, Hammer Swing, initially getting hit on the hammers ascend and then pounded into oblivion on its decent, taking it out of the match too.
The fight was indeed quick and easy, with the Monster Hunter making a slight grunt as he goes about his way. Yet after walking across the stage, he senses that the battle was not over yet. More shadow units began to form from the ground, along with new Shadow Knights wanting to join the fray. With a sigh, the hunter simply takes his great sword out once again as he prepares to do combat with the enemy once more... | Name: Monster Hunter (Monster Hunter Series)
Attributes: Ike-Weight, can also move as fast as Ike, medium jump height, yet hard to launch.
Attacks:
Neutral: Repeatedly slashes with Dual Swords ended in a final cross-slash.
Side tilt: A three-hit Charge Axe combo. Two Sword and Shield slashes, followed by a blow from the Axe
Up tilt: An upward slash, which starts from the ground.
Down tilt: A quick kick.
Dash attack: Sticks out Longsword while slowing to a halt.
Forward smash: Jabs Great Sword forward. With a full Charge, the sword will explode on impact.
Up smash: Pulls out Lance and Thrusts upwards. Hurts most at the tip. With a full Charge, explodes at tip.
Down smash: Two sweeping hits with the Switch Axe. With a full Charge, explodes on impact.
Neutral aerial: Shoots arrows from a Bow in three directions.
Forward aerial: Hammer swings forward, spiking when hit.
Back aerial: Slashes backwards with Longsword.
Up aerial: Swings Axe straight up.
Down aerial: Jabs Lance at a downward angle.
Grab: An average grab.
Pummel: Headbutts opponent.
Forward throw: Throws opponent small distance upward then baseball bats them with their Hammer.
Back throw: Throws enemy back then uses Insect Rod to summon a bug that slams into the enemy.
Up throw: Throws opponent straight up then does an arching swing with his Great Sword.
Down throw: Slams enemy straight down then slashes at them twice with Dual Swords.
Floor attack (front): Hunter does a rising spin slash.
Floor attack (back): Hunter swings sword around his body.
Floor attack (trip): Hunter does circular swing while getting up.
Edge attack: Makes a downwards kick.
Specials:
Neutral special: Hunter’s Bowgun - Hunter equips bowgun with amno projectiles. Charging increases the speed, distance and damage dealt by the amno.
-Custom 1: Hunter’s Bow - Hunter carries a bow with him. Weaker then the bowgun but can be decently spammable, but with low range and damage.
-Custom 2: Heavy Bowgun - Bowgun is slower to charge up, but can cause more significant damage then the regular bongun. Also explodes upon impact.
Side special: Vault: Pulls out Insect Rod and vaults forward by pressing the rod into the ground and pushing off. Goes further when used on the ground, and even further while running.
-Custom 1: Fire Vault - Vaults forward that does fire damage, but is slightly slower and shorter.
-Custom 2: Ice Vault - Vaults forward that deals ice damage, which is weaker but takes more ground
Up special: Hammer Swing - Hunter swings hammer, then throws himself upwards and then downwards. Can act out of this move.
-Custom 1: High Swing - Hunter’s attack power goes directly up, but no down attack. Goes significantly higher then Hammer Swing
-Custom 2: Hammer Slam - Hunter swings hammer slightly upwards, but most attack power goes on it’s decent, causing a small shockwave
Down special: Bouncy Bomb - Hunter throws a medium sized bomb that detonates when contacted with the surface. Can also hurt the Hunter if thrown at him or doesn’t throw in time.
-Custom 1: Giant Bomb - Hunter rolls a Large Barrel Bomb that detonates after 5 seconds or after hitting opponent. Can also hurt Hunter.
-Custom 2: N/A
Final Smash: Cross "X" - (Based off the upcoming Monster Hunter X "Cross") - If an immediate person is in his sights, he will rush towards the opponent and do 2 massive strokes with his Great Sword. Then flipping back, he uses his Heavy Bowgun to charge up a powerful ball of energy, which hits the opponent and engulfs him in a ball of orange plasma, sending him flying once it ends into a KO.
Taunts:
Up taunt: Flaunts.
Side taunt: Backs down into a lunge and makes a "Come-On" gesture with both hands.
Down taunt: Kick Back - Sits down and wiggles his legs slightly until getting back up.
Alternate colors:
1. Regular Red Rathalos Armor
2. Azure/Blue Rathalos Armor
3. Green Rathian Armor
4. Pink Rathian Armor
5. Silver Rathalos Armor
6. Golden Rathian Armor
7. Tigrex Armor
8. Zinogre Armor
Palutena's Guidance:
Pit: Woah! Look at that guy's armor! I bet he's ready for taking on a big monster!
Palutena: That's because it's literally his job. He is a Monster Hunter and he hunts monsters for, well, a living.
Viridi: More like massacring them and wearing their hide! His armor is made off the parts of the wild creatures he killed and leaves the rest to rot! *Sigh* What poor creatures...
Pit: I'm sure he uses EVERYTHING that one has to offer right?
Palutena: Anyways, the Hunter has a variety of weapons at his disposal, ranging from Great Swords, Hammers, Axes, Bowguns, and even bombs. Make sure to be light on your toes and reflect those arrow shots.
Pit: How does he even have room to fit all of these weapons on him anyways???
Palutena: A hunter is always prepared for the worst of circumstances. However, your agility should keep him from getting a good swing at you. Use that to your advantage.
Theme: |
51,362 | 1,389 | 1 | 1,363 | 2,451 | Adam Jensen
It was rather convenient, the timing of the call. Everything was starting to die down, and the sense of adventure and danger was slightly rubbing off of him. Bringing justice was something that usually only occurred once, and it was unlikely that even the slightest riot would've, though it could've, broken out in this day of age. As far as he enjoyed it, peace can be somewhat disappointing in the terms of doing your job. If you were in this position, you'd have done your job, and would serve little purpose. Having this opportunity, which he knew very little about, proved to be one hell of a chance to get back into the saddle. However, this was something slightly different to what Adam was used to, he had no idea what he was getting into. His whereabouts, his role...all just seemed a little too bleak for his liking.
Adam Jensen looked from his window. The rural ground below him began to fly past quickly as the VTOL kept on moving. He wasn't so sure to even trust this whole mission area, as things seemed a bit skinny information wise. Perhaps another attempt to bring down the New-Age legend. Instead, he decided to call up the communications call to the man responsible for agreeing to this contract. Sarif, of course. Typing in the specific frequency code and pin number that allowed him to directly communicate to his superior. Soon enough, the voice communication, though mildly unstable, seemed to pop in within seconds.
"This is about the job, isn't it?" The voice was slow, not very excited to hear his field-operator calling in.
"Maybe if I got a Little more information than 'You are going to do some stuff.' then maybe we wouldn't be having this conversation..." Adam said glumly. It was clear that this wasn't the everyday 'Shoot-A-Terrorist-In-The-Back' sort of thing.
"All I can say, from what I know is that something is going on far-out where you are headed. Something about a transmission distress signal for help, asking for some of the greatest fighters and what-not. Who's better to send instead of the one and only Mr Jensen, ey?" There was no response. "Alright, that's all I know. The message didn't really send very well from the distance it must've been sent."
"So you didn't hear the entire message because of the distant frequency? Basically, this could be people asking for the greatest fighters to hunt down some sort of hospital, for all we kno-"
"Sceptic, as usual, I see. Try to relax, for once in a while. You should be there in about 10 to 20 minutes. For now, just watch the scenery go by..." The comm-link cut itself out. A deep sigh exited from his mouth as he sat back down, waiting for the arrival to the ever-strange world outside his own. | Name:
Adam Jensen
Attributes:
Solid Snake-Weight - Medium movement speed - Medium Jump Height - Moderately Difficult to Launch
Attacks
Neutral:
A simple thrust of the augmented arms.
Side tilt:
The Forward hit of the in-arm Blades.
Up tilt:
A Two-Hit combo. One Upper-Cut followed by a slightly more ranged Blade Upwards.
Down tilt:
Leg Sweep
Dash attack:
Both-Fist Attack
Forward charge:
Typhoon Rockets
Up charge:
Handheld Crossbow-Grapple
Down charge:
Duel Blade Twist
Neutral aerial:
Aerial Duel Blade Twist
Forward aerial:
Duel Blade Thrust
Back aerial:
Counter-Typhoon Barrage
Up aerial:
Upwards-Duel Blade Thrust
Down aerial:
Icarus Landing System
Grab:
Hand Spread
Pummel:
Blade Swiping
Forward throw:
Chest-Kick
Back throw:
Over-head Blade Throw
Up throw:
Typhoon Trip
Down throw:
Head-Leap
Floor attack :
HandBow Grapple
Floor attack :
Reverse Blade
Floor attack :
Blade Spin
Edge attack:
Blade Contraction
Specials:
Neutral special:
-Custom 1: Buzzkill Threat Negation Device
Side special:
-Custom 1: Plasma Lance
-Custom 2: Lineback GL
Up special:
-Custom 1: Rearward Blade Uppercut
-Custom 2: Augmented Legs
Down special:
-Custom 1: Fragmentation Mine
-Custom 2: Gas Mine
Final Smash:
Sarif's Power
Taunts:
Up taunt:
Arm Check
Side taunt:
Adam's Work "I always get what I need..."]
Down taunt:
Hurry Up "Come on, I have places to be."]
Alternate colors:
1. Regular Attire
2. Brown Attire
3. Urban Attire Clourings]
4. Non-Augmented
5. Saxon Attire
6. Jaron Attire
7. Treatment Attire
8. Armoured Attire
Palutena's Guidance:
Pit: "So...who's this walking machine, eh?"
Palutena: "He's not a Machine, not quite...This is Adam Jensen, a Sarif Industrial Worker, Chief of Security."
Pit: "So machines are getting Genders and Names now?"
Palutena: "Actually, if you'd pay attention, you'd notice that he was, and partially, still is Human. He suffered a traumatic body disfigurement after a Terrorism Act from a Man named Jaron. His body had to be Augmented in order for his survival."
Pit: "So...a man-bot...why does he remind me a lot of Snake?"
Palutena: "You could say they are alike...liking quiet approaches and being lethal up close, except this man has got all the physical abilities anyone could desire, although it does bug him slightly."
Pit: "Abilities? In what way? How is he combat-able?"
Palutena: "Those little pods on his arms hold lethal Blades, both able to spin, come out front or rearwards. These aren't the worst weapons you've encountered, but they are more than enough to do some damage. Adam's keen on stunning people, so be sure to tread lightly and keep moving when he's got his little Stunning device and Ground-placement gas mines...You've got certain projectiles of light and explosives that you might want to stay clear of, as well as the augmented hand-to-hand combat he is prone to delivering. What's more, who doesn't fear a man-machine with the ability to fire small seeking-explosive projectiles from his body..."
Pit: "Who has the right mind to think that's a good idea?"
Palutena: "He's not really a well known person, through our Public Eye. However, I can at least inform you to make sure that none, or as little as possible, of those body-projectiles hit you...keep a sharp eye on where they travel to look for places to move through..."
Theme: |
51,363 | 1,389 | 2 | 1,941 | 696 | Isaac sighed. Things had calmed down after his adventure that took him to every corner of Weyard. Now that the seal on Alchemy was gone, it was up to him and his fellow Adepts to make sure that power wasn't abused. However, it looked like that particular job would have to wait...
Isaac stared at the location he'd found himself in. All he'd done was head towards Mt. Aleph, which is where the message seemed to be coming from. Oh, sure, the Elders weren't too keen to let Isaac through until he reminded them just how strong he'd gotten over his journey. After that, they were a bit more willing to let him through. Once he'd reached the entrance, however, he saw something unusual. A slight distortion in space. Isaac stepped through and found himself gaping.
He'd arrived on a stage-like area that reminded him of his time spent as an Assist Trophy during The Brawl. He was on a big platform, with three moving platforms above him. In the background, Mt. Aleph (before the Golden Sun Event) loomed in the distance. Before Isaac could contemplate his location any further, a familiar black substance started forming shapes from the ground. The shapes soon formed into some of the local monsters (Skeletons , Ghosts, Zombies ). Isaac drew his Sol Blade. Did these things think they would really be able to best him with those forms?
One of the Zombies had formed close to where Isaac was, and wound up being hit with a three-hit combo. After a quick casting of Quake, that Zombie was out of the fight. Another Zombie and a Ghost were approaching from behind. Isaac charged up for a strike, feeling his Sol Blade unleash some of its hidden power. As Isaac turned around, he felt the Centurion unleash go into effect. At first, Isaac was disappointed when he only caught his foes at the tip of the attack, until he saw just how far they went flying off the stage... enough for a couple more KO's. A Skeleton decided to go hand-to-hand with Isaac, who backstepped out of the way and used Catch to grab his foe. After hitting it twice with his Sol Blade, he cast Psynergy Slam, sending it flying forward and off the stage. The poor thing tried to recover, but didn't have the jumping power needed.
The rest of the foes were quickly taken care of (especially the three that were caught up in Isaac's Odyssey attack). Isaac panted, sheathing the Sol Blade. So, this is what it was like to be a Smash fighter, huh? Isaac continued forward, and was about ready to step into the distortion that led into Subspace, when he felt more beings behind him. Isaac unsheathed his Sol Blade again. Did these things ever learn? | Name: Isaac (Golden Sun, 2001)
Attributes: Middleweight, decent speed, decent jump, kinda hard to launch. His Psynergy-based specials deal less damage on average, but they have higher launch power.
Attacks:
Neutral: A 3-hit combo with his Sol Blade
Side tilt: A horizontal blow with his Sol Blade.
Up tilt: An upward stab with his Sol Blade
Down tilt: A low sweeping kick
Dash attack: A horizontal blow with his Sol Blade
Forward charge: His Sol Blade unleashes Centurion, where he stabs a foe several times (up to 6 hits, combo lock, more powerful and higher launch at the tip)
Up charge: The Sol Blade unleashes Radiatn Fire. Isaac swings upward, and a flame energy emerges from the Sol Blade. Foes hit by the blade take more damage and are launched further than those merely caught in the blast.
Down charge: The Sol Blade unleashes Purgatory. Isaac strikes the ground in front of him, causing a small, fiery explosion in front of Isaac. Foes hit by the blade take more damage and are launched further than those merely caught in the blast.
Neutral aerial: A vertical spinning swing with the Sol Blade
Forward aerial: A forward swing with the Sol Blade.
Back aerial: A backward stab with the Sol Blade
Up aerial: An upward stab with the Sol Blade
Down aerial: Isaac casts Spire (meteors foes that are directly below it)
Grab: Uses Catch to grab a foe. Acts as a tether grab.
Pummel: Isaac strikes a foe with the Sol Blade.
Forward throw: Isaac casts Psynergy Slam, forcefully charging himself into them to send them flying.
Back throw: Isaac throws a foe backwards while casting Rockfall (a rock comes up and slams into the foe)
Up throw: Isaac throws a foe upward before casting Briar to send them flying up.
Down throw: Isaac casts Psynergy Surge, grasping his foe before jumping up and slamming them into the ground.
Floor attack (front): Isaac rolls into a vertical swing with the Sol Blade
Floor attack (back): Isaac kicks backwards with his feet before getting up.
Floor attack (trip): Isaac flips standing, swing the Sol Blade in a vertical circle
Edge attack: Isaac pulls himself up, stabbing forward
Specials:
Neutral special: Isaac casts Gaia, causing the earth to erupt in front of him, pelting foes with pure Venus energy.
Side special: Isaac casts Quake, which causes a chunk of earth to launch a foe to the side.
Up special: Isaac casts Helm Splitter, where he leaps up before plummeting to the earth. The second half of the attack can be cancelled out. Deals lower damage than even his other specials, but has a higher launch power too.
Down special: Isaac casts Oddysee, which may pin a foe with four mini energy swords before he strikes. Each mini-sword deals 1%.
Final Smash: Megiddo- The Sol Blade visibly flashes and lets out a howl. Then, Isaac leaps high enough to wind up in outer space, where he hits an oncoming meteor downward. The meteor crashes into the battlefield. Isaac then follows, striking one foe (or more, if they are close enough). Any foe above 85% that Isaac strikes is KO'd instantly.
Taunts:
Up taunt: Isaac assumes his battle Psynergy casting stance
Side taunt: Isaac pulls out a Venus Djinni, which flies around before disappearing
Down taunt: Isaac swings the Sol Blade, beckoning his foes to come closer.
Alternate colors:
1. Color scheme based on Garet
2. Color scheme based on Ivan
3. Color scheme based on Mia
4. Color scheme based on Dora
5. Color scheme based on Kyle
6. Color scheme based on Felix
7. Color scheme based on
8. Color scheme based on
Palutena's Guidance:
Pit: Lady Palutena, who is that! I sense a strong power coming from him.
Palutena: Be careful, Pit! That's Isaac, a Venus Adept!
Pit: Venus Adept? What's that?
Viridi: Isaac hails from a planet called 'Weyerd'. There, several people are born with the ability to manipulate one of the four elements of Earth, Fire, Water, and Wind. These people are called 'Adepts'. Venus Adpets use the power of plants, rocks, and the earth itself to attack.
Palutena: In addition, Isaac is a very skilled warrior. Be wary of his Sol Blade, as it is a very powerful blade, and one that Isaac is used to using.
Pit: Wow, this guy's pretty strong! Anything to watch out for?
Viridi: His Psynergy is weaker than most other special attacks, but they have a higher luanch power as well.
Palutena: In addition, the Sol Blade has four unique attacks which Isaac has at his disposal. |
51,364 | 1,389 | 3 | 1,363 | 2,451 | Adam Jensen
There was a strange whir in the cabin, where sirens bleeped and buzzed from the cockpit's console. The craft shook slightly, making Adam tumble in and out of his seating area. The window became a dark-purple matter, and the sky seemed to begin to vanish. Communication telegrams from within the headsets of both Malik and Jensen. He turned drastically to put his entire face against the window. They seemed to be entering some sort of hole...a rift tearing time and space apart in a single spot. It was almost huge, possibly able to fit 6 VTOLs inside at the same instant. Turning back to his pilot, he began to ask questions.
"What is this? Where are we heading?!"
"Calm down, Adam...apparently we are supposed to go through here...at least that's what the instruction given to me said..." Malik spoke, seeming rather casual about the whole incident. "Did I not mention it being a bumpy ride?" Her cheek was always the cause of Adam's glumness, especially on flights like these. "Don't gimme that look, Adam, this ain't going to be a life-threatening trip, so we should hope. Now hold on...I think I see the other side..." The craft jolted around more and more. It became uncomfortable, discouraging for even Adam himself. The craft was bound to lose control and crash at this rate, and everything would mess up at just the start. And at the point where everything seemed to be shaking the most, where he felt that everything was going to tear apart or implode...it stopped. Just like that, instantaneous halt. It felt weird, and a sigh of relief came from both of them. "Huh...you checked this view, huh? Looks.....unnatural?" Adam returned to the window, seeing the fields of strange hills and mountains, metallic platforms embedded into the ground and ruins with strange figures carved into mountains and temple-tops. This didn't look like any mountain range he had seen or heard of. It was at that point where a small purple-dark speck fluttered its way onto the window. Adam jumped back slightly, even though it was pretty much tiny. Slowly, he moved back to the window, as it began to shake and jolt against the window. At the instant it began moving, an alert siren went off from the console again. "Something's not right? Apparently we are being interfered with...like...unnatural turbule-" Suddenly, the front cockpit viewpoint, the windows...all of it was starting to be consumed with these dots.
"Malik? What's going on?!" He demanded, feeling the craft slow down.
"I-I don't know?! We are losing power? It's weighing us down?!" The craft's nose began to dip downwards. Adam was completely stunned by what was going on, as the right engine outside the window seemed to suck in more of those dots, bursting into flames and shaking the craft even further. He was shook about, feeling a sense of weightlessness with the descent. Malik began to blurt things out into the radio-set of his, finding herself strapping into her seat. Adam took it to advantage, following the same action as he reached, holding himself into place and beginning to brace for the impact. The craft spiralled, leaving a large smoke trail dipping down from the sky, one visible to many from afar. And as if they weren't prepared for it, a large crunch faced onto the ground made everything become clear...this wasn't the ordinary mission... | Name:
Adam Jensen
Attributes:
Solid Snake-Weight - Medium movement speed - Medium Jump Height - Moderately Difficult to Launch
Attacks
Neutral:
A simple thrust of the augmented arms.
Side tilt:
The Forward hit of the in-arm Blades.
Up tilt:
A Two-Hit combo. One Upper-Cut followed by a slightly more ranged Blade Upwards.
Down tilt:
Leg Sweep
Dash attack:
Both-Fist Attack
Forward charge:
Typhoon Rockets
Up charge:
Handheld Crossbow-Grapple
Down charge:
Duel Blade Twist
Neutral aerial:
Aerial Duel Blade Twist
Forward aerial:
Duel Blade Thrust
Back aerial:
Counter-Typhoon Barrage
Up aerial:
Upwards-Duel Blade Thrust
Down aerial:
Icarus Landing System
Grab:
Hand Spread
Pummel:
Blade Swiping
Forward throw:
Chest-Kick
Back throw:
Over-head Blade Throw
Up throw:
Typhoon Trip
Down throw:
Head-Leap
Floor attack :
HandBow Grapple
Floor attack :
Reverse Blade
Floor attack :
Blade Spin
Edge attack:
Blade Contraction
Specials:
Neutral special:
-Custom 1: Buzzkill Threat Negation Device
Side special:
-Custom 1: Plasma Lance
-Custom 2: Lineback GL
Up special:
-Custom 1: Rearward Blade Uppercut
-Custom 2: Augmented Legs
Down special:
-Custom 1: Fragmentation Mine
-Custom 2: Gas Mine
Final Smash:
Sarif's Power
Taunts:
Up taunt:
Arm Check
Side taunt:
Adam's Work "I always get what I need..."]
Down taunt:
Hurry Up "Come on, I have places to be."]
Alternate colors:
1. Regular Attire
2. Brown Attire
3. Urban Attire Clourings]
4. Non-Augmented
5. Saxon Attire
6. Jaron Attire
7. Treatment Attire
8. Armoured Attire
Palutena's Guidance:
Pit: "So...who's this walking machine, eh?"
Palutena: "He's not a Machine, not quite...This is Adam Jensen, a Sarif Industrial Worker, Chief of Security."
Pit: "So machines are getting Genders and Names now?"
Palutena: "Actually, if you'd pay attention, you'd notice that he was, and partially, still is Human. He suffered a traumatic body disfigurement after a Terrorism Act from a Man named Jaron. His body had to be Augmented in order for his survival."
Pit: "So...a man-bot...why does he remind me a lot of Snake?"
Palutena: "You could say they are alike...liking quiet approaches and being lethal up close, except this man has got all the physical abilities anyone could desire, although it does bug him slightly."
Pit: "Abilities? In what way? How is he combat-able?"
Palutena: "Those little pods on his arms hold lethal Blades, both able to spin, come out front or rearwards. These aren't the worst weapons you've encountered, but they are more than enough to do some damage. Adam's keen on stunning people, so be sure to tread lightly and keep moving when he's got his little Stunning device and Ground-placement gas mines...You've got certain projectiles of light and explosives that you might want to stay clear of, as well as the augmented hand-to-hand combat he is prone to delivering. What's more, who doesn't fear a man-machine with the ability to fire small seeking-explosive projectiles from his body..."
Pit: "Who has the right mind to think that's a good idea?"
Palutena: "He's not really a well known person, through our Public Eye. However, I can at least inform you to make sure that none, or as little as possible, of those body-projectiles hit you...keep a sharp eye on where they travel to look for places to move through..."
Theme: |
51,365 | 1,389 | 4 | 732 | 8,842 | Dillon The Armadillo
Dillon smashed another skeleton monster off the edge. These things were practically endless, he'd already killed at least five of them. Or at least as dead as skeletons made of darkness can be. It looked like he had a brief break however. More monsters were coming and Dillon had no desire to fight them so he carefully stepped through another one of those portals. He wasn't sure exactly what the trouble was but if he'd gotten a call it must be dire. Dillon peered at his new surroundings, it appeared as though there was a heavily armored warrior preparing to fight more of those creatures. So he curled into a ball, spun briefly, then launched forward at a tremendous speed crashing into the front row of slowly forming enemies and bouncing back next to the warrior. Dillon merely tipped his hat at the warrior and prepared to fight the oncoming wave of enemies. Two heads were better than one after all, also meant less work for him. | Name: Scizor (Pokémon Gold and Silver, 1999)
Attributes: Kinda-heavyweight, difficult to launch, moves rather slow on foot but is a decent jumper and can get around well by dashing. If the jump button is pressed in mid-air, Scizor will flap its wings to controllably float up for a few seconds. Can also dash in mid-air.
Attacks:
Neutral: Scizor nips twice with its Pincers.
Side tilt: Pimp-slaps with the side of its Pincer.
Up tilt: Lifts up one Pincer and attempts to nip anyone above.
Down tilt: Drops its body onto its Pincers and tries to spike the Opponent with its sharp legs.
Dash attack: Lunges at the opponent with both Pincers before coming to a halt.
Forward charge: Winds up one Pincer before lunging at the opponent.
Up charge: Hops in the air slightly and does a backflip.
Down charge: Does a sort of Backhand Clothesline with one Pincer, aimed at the Opponent's legs.
Neutral aerial: Performs a sort of 'Hugging' attack by throwing a Hook with both Pincers.
Forward aerial: Lunges forward slightly, headbutting the Opponent.
Back aerial: Does a mid-air Spinning attack which can hit multiple times.
Up aerial: Performs a mid-air Backflip, similar to its Up Charge.
Down aerial: Spikes the Opponent beneath with both legs.
Grab: Grabs the Opponent's head with one of its Pincers.
Pummel: Squeezes the Opponent's head for gradual damage.
Forward throw: Spins around and tosses the Opponent away.
Back throw: Throws the Opponent overhead, slamming them into the ground opposite.
Up throw: Spins the Opponent around like a lasso before tossing them in the air.
Down throw: Powerbombs the Opponent into the floor.
Floor attack (front): Slams its Pincers into the ground next to it, tossing it to its legs.
Floor attack (back): Rapidly flaps its wings, slicing up any Opponents nearby.
Floor attack (trip): Lifts itself up on its Pincers and spikes the Opponent with its sharp legs, similar to its Down Tilt.
Edge attack: Vaults itself into the air and slams self back to ground level, spiking nearby Opponents with its legs.
Specials:
Neutral special: Bullet Punch: Scizor rushes up to nearby Opponents in the blink of an eye, leaving behind a faint image, before rapidly punching them with both Pincers.
Side special: Metal Claw: Scizor flies forward a considerable distance before slashing at the opponent with both Pincers with a metallic 'SHING' sound. Will travel even further if used while dashing. Has priority over most projectiles.
Up special: Steel Wing: Scizor will hop a short distance above the ground, roll into a ball and rapidly spin around with Wings sticking out, hitting nearby opponents multiple times and has a slight 'vacuum' effect. The 'hop a short distance into the air' part is skipped if used while airborne.
Down special: Catch and Fling: Scizor will hold out its open Pincer for a moment, 'catching' any Projectiles that come in contact. The next attack will release the Projectile in question back at the thrower. Has no effect on Final Smash Projectiles.
Final Smash: Mega Scizor: Scizor will transform into Mega Scizor, greatly enhancing its abilities for a short time period. It is now immunised against all moves and can now fully fly about and move much faster overall. It can also grab two Opponents in its Pincers at the same time and move around while still shaving off their health, or slam them into the ground for massive damage. It also has access to an enhanced version of Steel Wing (activated via any Special Attack command) which sucks in Opponents from across the entire stage.
Taunts:
Up taunt: Stretches its whole body up, as if tired, and rapidly flaps its wings.
Side taunt: Says "Sci...zor!" while stretching out its arms, clamping each of its Pincers twice.
Down taunt: Clamps both of its Pincers against each other and grinds them apart, creating sparks, and going "Sciiiii!"
Idle Animation: Scizor pulls its Pincers closer to its face, clamping them a few times to intimidate the opponent.
Alternate colors:
1. Regular Red (pictured above).
2. Shiny (Green with Yellow Eyes).
3. Gen III Sprite (Bright Orange).
4. Beedrill (Yellow with Red Eyes).
5. Heracross (Blue with Yellow Eyes).
6. Genesect (Purple with Red Eyes).
7. White with Purple Eyes.
8. Black with Orange Eyes.
Palutena's Guidance:
Pit: Woah... is that one of those Space Pirate guys I've heard about?
Viridi: What? No, you dolt! That's Scizor! You know, the evolution of Scyther?
Pit: Hey, cut me a break. It's been a while since I read that Pokédex I always have on me. All the time.
Palutena: Sarcasm? That's not like you at all. ...Anyway, I wouldn't compare it to Scyther too much. Scyther moves like lightning but can faint from a stiff breeze. But upon evolution, it takes a U-turn. Scizor hits with mind-numbing force and can take a great deal more punishment, thanks to its steel exoskeleton.
Pit: Well, all that metal's gotta weigh it down quite a bit. Like a Lead Balloon.
Palutena: You're absolutely right. Luckily for you, those wings aren't really for flying. They're for heat regulation. But that doesn't stop it from slowing its descent when it needs to. And watch out for its Bullet Punch. You may think it's going to take a week to lumber over to you, but just like that, it's punching with the speed of a machine gun. Oh, and it can also fling your arrows back at you by catching them inside its Pincers.
Viridi: Has your cocky attitude been deflated yet? It better. Scizor is, like, the Anti-Angel Pokémon. It can kinda-fly, brush off everything you throw at it, chuck your arrows back at you, plow through more arrows and smack you all the way to Hades...
Pit: Okay, I get it! I underestimated the big, bad bug. I'll be careful.
Palutena: That's more like it.
Theme: ♫Goldenrod Game Corner♫ |
51,366 | 1,390 | 0 | 1,358 | 1,312 | The Watchdogs of Farron; an infamous legion of undead whom have dedicated themselves to the Wolf, and the eradication of the abyss.
It is a task that even the greatest have failed to accomplish, leaving the once legendary knight of Gwyn, Artorias, corrupted, mad with the abyss that tainted his very being, ironic, that the very thing he spent his life aiming to destroy, in turn, will be his destruction.
Where his sword fell though, a legion picked it up and carried on with his quest; in Farron keep, deep below the great city of Lordan do the watchers wait, for that hint of a taint; for that smallest piece of evidence that suggests the abyss existing in any place other than Majula.
For if it does, most of Lordan soon becomes aware of this, as the gates in farron keep open, a mass of torches light a solitary path, and the boots of the legion go on the march.
They are feared and equally they are respected, for their diligence, their strength as individuals and as a group - but above all; the blatant disregard for anything but the destruction of the Abyss and its unending corruption.
Today, a number of new recruits are expected to make their way to the fort; there they will pledge their souls to the Watchdogs of Farron, and in turn the Watchers of the abyss.
At that mmoent, all past alliances with any other covenant or band will be nullified; their devotion must exist purely for the Legion; if not straight away, then eventually.
Awaiting them, was none other than the current Commander of the legion, a role that was once held by the mighty Farron himself; Dravon Raventii, a fiercely loyal and exceptionally powerful Legionnaire - his blows are as brutal as his demands upon those that serve him - his only rule is that the taint must bee crushed, by all means necessary.
Who, today would offer their blades to him, and in turn, what little humanity they have, for this dark but noble cause. | Character Name:
Dravon Reventii - Commander of the Undead Legion
"The Legion demands everyhting from you, and in return it will make you one of the strongest fighters in all of Lordan - Pray to the wolf, and serve it, and in turn it shall serve you too."
Age and Age at time of original death:
87, died at the age of 36.
Sex:
Male
Class: Alpha Wolf.
Skills:
Vitality - 18
Endurance - 32
Attunment - 8
Vigor - 30
Strength - 35
Dexerity - 58
Intelligence - 12
Faith - 50
Adaptability - 40
Dravon has been a commander in the Watchdogs for many years now, and his body and face show it - weathered, grizzled and scarred, if the occasion that he ever takes his helmet off arises you can see a network of scars trace his face, old and new mixing with one another, it makes him a bit unsightly to look at but it doesn't take much to see that this man is one of the most experienced men in the Watchers.
His hair is thick and unruly - and is whiter than the snows of Eleum Loyce, it shows slightly when he wears his helmet, at the nape of the neck.
His eyes are stern and cold, despite being a warm sea green in colour - it is the equivalent at staring into the depths an ocean, you can admire them and appreciate their beauty, but is cold and can easily claim your life.
They do not fit the man they belong too.
Standing at 6'5 he makes for a daunting figure and not one to underestimate his height seems only to be exemplified by his slim frame that hides an underlying strength - his body is clearly built for dexterity and to be able to use the Legions uncanny sword style that requires a great command of ones own body and muscles.
His darksign is burnt into his right inner thigh, contrasted heavily by his pale and lethargic skin.
Weapons and Armour/Clothing: The Farron Ultra Greatsword and Undead Legion armour as well as the Ring of the wolf and Ring of Favour.
Personality:
Cold and unfeeling are the best words to describe Dravon - he feels only for the Legion, his unwavering loyalty the only fuel he has left to keep his humanity.
When you set the Legion aside (something that is exceptionally difficult to do for this man) then what you have is a man with a morbid sense of humour and curiosity, he is gravely interested in the abyss and its origins as well as what it does to its hosts; on occasion he will let the abyss consume someone in front of his eyes as they scream in pain merely to understand it better.
The better they understand it, the better they can kill it - fire works more oft than not and his equipment is littered with items that start fire in order to hold the cancer back.
He has condemned several towns to be torched after recovering the slightest bit of evidence of the taint - typically with residents all still in it; any whom escape the flames meet blades or a volley of arrows.
When the abyss is involved the man is almost mechanical in his actions - anyone whom is tainted and this man sees it - their life is over.
Biography:
Unknown
Spells/Pyromancies/Hexes/Miracles:
None.
Inventory:
10x Budding Green Blossoms
10x Black Firebombs
10x Charcoal pine resin
10x Green blossoms
15x Estus Flask |
51,367 | 1,390 | 1 | 1,445 | 9,369 | Some joined the Legion for vengeance; the Abyss had taken everything they loved. Some joined for glory; this legendary army was as well known as their founder. And then there were some who joined for whimsy, who weren’t so much loyal to the legion as they were bored and looking for something to do with their lives. Rekka would be one of those people. Oh sure, he too drank of the wolve’s blood and swore and oath to serve the Legion and fight the abyss, renouncing all his previous covenants… But he did that too when he joined the Chaos Servants, so long ago. He was certain that should the opportunity present itself he would do so again.
Of course Rekka wasn’t so foolish to say this outloud. But his snide smirk and laidback attitude spoke much about his personality, and it shouldn’t be hard to guess he didn’t care much for “oaths”. The legion needed strong arms to fight their battles, and that’s what Rekka would give them. His loyalty, his faith, his word, these meant nothing. Only his axe mattered. So Rekka stood in the Farron Keep courtyard, where he had been for some time now. He had seen the legion train their warriors and Rekka even procured himself one of their torches. He showed off his proficiency with their weapons, utilizing his signature fire breathing to weave patterns and flames in ways unexpected.
In turn, Rekka was fairly impressed with the legion’s odd swordsmanship. Utilizing a great amount of strength and acrobatics, they flipped and spun around the battlefield, stopping only to parry a strike or take a moment to breath. Truly, these were some good warriors. But the more Rekka watched, the more he figured out their flaws and weaknesses. Certainly they were powerful and confusing fighters, but once you got rid of the confusing part they become more predictable. Still strong fighters, but Rekka could deal with strong fighters.
Aside from watching the Legion train, Rekka didn’t do much else. He had himself a few sticks and a bag of feathers. He also had a few stones he gathered during his walk around as well, and given some time, Rekka could craft himself some simple stone-tipped arrows. The Legion may favor their big swords or fire, but Rekka made due with what he could get. Though if he could find some of their charcoal resins, then he could certainly offer them firepower. As he carved some arrows, he wondered who the new recruits would be. The Legion had their numbers bolstered everyday, so he wouldn’t be surprised if a hundred undead show up. Of course he also imagined that being an Abyss Watcher was grueling work, and only those with both the skill in arms and the will of iron could stay. He imagined that if a hundred join, only ten would make it. Rekka wondered if any women would join, and his mind was filled with perverted thoughts.
Before anyone would notice him leering he quickly composed himself. If he intended to court women, then he would need to keep a stoic, yet emotional exterior. To be relaxed in the face of imminent danger but not so careless as to be distracted. So as he fletched arrows, Rekka whistled. He wasn’t really sure of the tune, but it felt familiar, almost appropriate. He made a note that he should remember this tune for later. Maybe if he could find someone with a pleasant voice, he could make this into a song.
“Yeah, a song… That’d be nice.” | Character Name: Rekka Firebelly
Age and Age at time of original death: First death at 27, and he was around during the existence/fall of Lordran.
Sex: Male
Class: Bandit
Skills:
Vitality - 21
Endurance - 20
Attunment - 10
Vigor - 14
Strength - 24
Dexerity - 14
Intelligence - 1
Faith - 1
Adaptability - 5
Appearance:
Young, strong, and healthy (Relative for being a hollow of course), Rekka is just the type of man the Watchdog needs to fill it's ranks. While under the influence of humanity his skin is fair and tanned, yet his hair is a dull grey and his eyes are a pale green, like swamp water. Rekka's Dark Sign is located on the back of his neck, always burning, always reminding him of his damnation.
Weapons and Armour/Clothing:
Weapons
Bandit Axe - An axe of bandits of the Forossan outskirts. Very sturdily built for the armament of a bandit. When Forossa fell to war, its citizens were left landless, and entirely to their own devices. Many were reduced to thievery, while Forossan knights scattered to other lands as sellswords. Rekka dabbled in a bit of both, robbing the weak or selling his blade to... Rob the weak.
Composite Bow - Composite short bow emphasizing power. Its size allows for quick shots. Though more powerful than standard bows, it also requires more strength of the user, and its range is short. Rekka is skilled enough in it's use that he can unleash a rapid fire salvo of arrows, though weaker per shot.
Arrows - Standard Arrows for bows. Rekka is skilled enough to make his own from time to time.
Follower Torch - An offensive torch used by the Farron Followers. Provides light and doubles as a weapon. Some forms of the Abyss manifest as pus within the body, treated from ancient times with fire. Rekka's moniker was earned for his particular skill at using a torch as an offensive weapon, and upon joining the Legion upgraded to a torch that would accommodate such a style.
Armor -
Bandit's Set - Armor of bandits of the Forossan outskirts. The territory of Forossa became lawless after the kingdom fell to war. Citizens became bandits, and scattered to other lands. Rekka's armor is not particularly unique in and of itself, matching the general aesthetics of the bandits without quite standing out. Perhaps that is how he managed to survive the cutthroat nature of Forossan.
Spider Shield - A shield bearing a large etching of a spider. Shields of this style are commonly used by savage mountain bandits, and offer high resistance to poison. As one of said savage mountain bandits, Rekka often employed this shield against other bandits, who would coat their weapons in rotten pine resins to ensure that even the slightest cut would become fatal.
Rings -
Rusted Iron Ring - This iron ring was used to shackle the guilty. It is terribly rusted, and faintly stained with blood. Those who find this strange ring to their liking will be pleased to find it easier to gain footing on poor ground such as swamps. Rekka made good use of this ring to ambush unwary prey in the thick marshlands where he once preyed upon.
Old Witch Ring - Old ring from an old witch. Engraved minutely with indecipherable script, but seemingly useless. Rekka has no idea where he had obtained this ring from, only that it radiates a sadness and warmth that he's loath to part with.
Ring of Evil Eye - According to legend, this ring contains the spirit of the evil eye, a dark beast which assaulted Astora. The strength of the evil eye does not waver, and lifeforce is absorbed from fallen enemies. Rekka found this ring when he first explored the sewer depths near Blighttown, where he learned of the annoying nature of Basalisks.
Redeye Ring - A cursed ring depicting a demon eye. Becomes easier to be detected by enemies.
If it is tranquility that you seek, then you should never have left your home. If you seek strife, then fair enough, but no need to overdo it. Rekka obtained this particular ring during his time in Forossa, where he had disengaged from his unit to battle a heavily armed and armored champion. It was a hard fought battle but eventually Rekka came out on top, taking this ring as his trophy.
Personality:
As it is, Rekka is only a few steps away from going completely hollow. While he once resorted to banditry in order to survive, after discovering that he had fallen to the curse of undead, he continued his bandit ways to relish in his functional immortality. Rekka is murderous and bloodthirsty, quick to resort to violence and murder as solutions. In these lands rife with undead, it only makes sense that life is cheap. Rekka often holds very little regret about killing people, innocent or guilty, and as soon as they draw their weapons they are his enemy, regardless of what their prior relationship was before. Rekka dislikes those who try to do things "peacefully" or use negotiations where murdering them would be simpler or even easier. He respects strength however, and if you could prove to be stronger then him, he'll tolerate whatever pansy decision you make.
Honor and such has it's place, and even Rekka could respect it, but he doesn't always apply it and it's more a passing fancy then something he lives by. To bow to an opponent is a sign of respect, but once it times to get to the dirty business of killing another, Rekka respects whatever means possible. Even if it's cheap tactics like relying on certain weapons or using dirty tricks, in the end the winner of the fight isn't the most honorable, but the one who is still alive. Rekka reflects this mentality, as while he is certainly a glory seeking berserker, he has a certain cunning that allows him to exploit the surrounding or his enemy to his advantage, assuming of course he doesn't take the straightforward method and just chop you to bits.
But deep down, Rekka doesn't just desire to fight and kill, but to fight and kill with purpose. Though lost to the fog of ages, Rekka seeks a lady to champion, someone who he would willingly lay his life down for and fight for her honor, even at the lost of his own. He seeks a noble, beautiful woman to whom he could court and show a almost chivilous romance for, though he would also like to partake in some more carnal pleasures as well. Of course, while he wishes to fight and defend his lady, he also has no issue if she's more than capable of handling herself. Quite the opposite in fact: he loves a woman who could defeat him in battle. Hence, Rekka has an affable personality, which he hopes would one day earn him a lady's favor.
Biography:
Rekka’s origins first start with his mother and father. His mother was a Great Swamp pyromancer and healer, using her talents with flame to create a soothing warmth that healed wounds. His father was a minor noble of Catarina, a knight errant looking for honor and glory. The two met one day when his mother, banished from her home due to monsters, was saved her Rekka’s father. They fell in love after fending off the dark beasts, and soon Rekka was born in his father’s home country.
Rekka took after his father mostly, as the knight dearly wished for his son to become a knight as well. Even as a lad, he began his training with his father, and as he grew older and stronger Rekka became more accustomed to his father’s skills. Unlike most knights of Catarina, his father favored heavy weapons like the axe or hammer, citing that while a sword can slay beasts, one needs a heavier blade against a worthy foe (I.e. other knights). Indeed, while his father was certainly a skilled knight of Catarina, there were some dark rumors that he often turned his blade against other noble knights for pretty reasons. But as his father tells him, Rekka’s father only used his blade against the unjust and corrupt. And while the Catarina knights are generally known for being jovial and honorable, Rekka’s father assures him that no one is perfect.
But Rekka was still only a young man when his mother and father were struck ill by a plague. His father was the first to die, as he caught the plague while he was out on a campaign with his fellow knights. Widowed and grieving, Rekka and his mother left the lands of Catarina and hoped to find somewhere where they would be safe from the plague. They intended to head to Astora, but Rekka’s mother was stricken with the plague and died as well. Well aware from any friend, family, or home, Rekka was left alone in the wilderness with nothing but the momento of his mother and father.
With no other choice, Rekka turned to thievery and robbery to try and survive. But he was far from successful, and even the few times he managed to get away with something, it was only a minor victory. Soon Rekka became envious of the knights and nobility who were free to feast and fatten themselves on the labor of others, while Rekka starved in a ditch. He grew more desperate to the point that instead of robbing others, he simply invaded people’s homes and killed them for their belongings. Countless amounts of people, from peasants to minor nobility, were slain by Rekka’s blade, to feed his hunger.
Of course it wasn’t long before wandering knights heard of his menace, and soon a mob was formed to hunt him down. When they found him, Rekka fought long and hard, but was ultimately slain. But not for long. Soon he rose back up again, near an old campsite he had passed so long ago. He was no longer hungry. No longer tired. He felt no pain, and his body was whole despite being drawn and quartered. But when he felt a pain on his neck, and saw something in a water’s reflection, that Rekka realized what had befallen him; he had become an undead.
Rekka had heard of the undead, and relished in it. Still filled with fury and vengeance, he sought out those who participated in his execution hunted them down, killing them in whatever fashion he felt most satisfying at the time. He relished in other acts of violence and banditry as well, typically robbing and pillaging, with a side of raping and burning. Once more a band of knights joined together to take Rekka down, as well as other brigands and hollows, and once more Rekka fought until he was ultimately defeated. Knowing that simply killing him wouldn’t stop him, Rekka was put into chains and sent to the Undead Asylum, in the far off lands of Lordran.
It was here that Rekka spent many a unknown years rotting in his cell. Without any way to gather humanity or even company, Rekka was slowly going more insane. He lashed out against the walls, attempted to commit suicide many times, but alas, he was confined to his cell. It wasn’t until one fateful moment when a corpse fell into his cell did Rekka find his freedom. The key was dropped by a fellow inmate, another hollow seeking to liberate himself from the asylum. Rekka, in his insane state, chose to follow this man in hopes for some sort of freedom. Of course, he didn’t realize he was being used.
Soon Rekka and the inmate were confronted by the Asylum Demon, where Rekka was left behind as bait. With nothing but a broken short sword as his weapon, Rekka was sure he would die. And he did. Many times. And each time his fate was the same, attempting to bypass the demon only to find no escape. It wasn’t until after one resurrection that he came across the same inmate who had betrayed him. Rekka didn’t listen to his excuses and attacked him, disarming the hollow of his knife and slaying him with his barehands. With the key to his freedom, and more importantly a weapon, Rekka was able to escape the asylum demon and flee.
From there Rekka was left to explore Lordran. There were a scant few people where, aside from hollows and those soon to be hollows. There was a morose fellow who gave him some direction in the form of ”ringing the bells”, but this was something he only did when it presented the opportunity for himself. With little else to go off of however, Rekka did go and explore the area, trying to figure out what to do now.
Later Rekka would be recognized as a “Chosen Undead”, but he knew this title was empty. He wasn’t chosen for anything, he thought. He was merely another piece of fodder to throw into a fire. While he initially journeyed throughout Lordran to find something to do, meeting a few friends and killing many enemies along the way, he wasn’t until he arrived in Blight Town did he find purpose. It was there he met her, Quelaag. At the time, she was not immediately hostile to him. She simply told him to turn away, lest she turn him into a feast for her gross chaos beast. But Rekka refused, admitting a certain one-sided infatuation with the Daughter of Chaos. With her interest piqued, she decided to make use of Rekka and allowed him to join her covenant: the Chaos Servants.
His task was simple: Collect Humanity and give it to Quelaag. She was honest with Rekka as well, stating that she needed it to alleviate the pain of her sister. Her sister whom under no circumstances would Rekka ever get to meet, which was fine with him. He felt… Fulfilled collecting humanity for her. More so since one of the best ways to collect humanity involved his most favorite activity, hunting rats killing other hollows. To best facilitate this, he was given strange objects known as cracked red eye orbs, which would allow him to invade other worlds as an ethereal phantom and slay its host for their souls and humanity. While Rekka wasn’t always successful in this task, he made a steady career of hunting down other hollows and their allies for their sweet, sweet humanity, which he offered to Quelaag.
However, his supply of red eye orbs were limited. He needed to find more, but without anyone who sells them or knowing a foe that could reliably have them (And basilisk proving too much of a nuisance to farm), Rekka unknowingly continued on his quest as a Chosen Undead in search of humanity. He braved many hazardous zones, such as Sen’s Fortress and Ando Londo, obtaining the Lordvessel and having no idea what to do with it (It had been quite some time since he had returned to the Firelink Shrine). And though Gwynevere was certainly a tempting misstress to be a knight of, Rekka had already made his vows to Quelaag, and thus departed from the Princess of Sunlight’s company in search for humanity.
It was during this search that things spiralled out of control. Rekka had arrived to the ruins of New Londo. Rekka had learned of the existence of another covenant that would facilitate his need to gather humanity from other hollows: The Darkwraiths. Little was known about this faction, only that they reside in the flooded ruins. There he would need to traverse a realm known as “the Abyss” to contact it’s dark lord. However as this area was unfamiliar to him, Rekka dared not risk traveling through without knowing what he’ll be facing. Thus, he laid down a white soapstone sign near the entrance, and awaited for someone to call him. This way he could scout the area and learn what to expect when he goes through here.
But the flow of time itself is convoluted, with heroes centuries old phasing in and out. The very fabric wavers, and relations shift and obscure. When Rekka was summoned, he arrived in New Londo unlike the version he knew himself. Here New Londo appeared, not as a ruin, but as a city. A city under siege. He looked around and saw his host, some sort of knightly fellow. He asked Rekka to accompany him on this siege, as the gates have fallen and now they must clear it of its defenders. Rekka was unsure why or how he arrived here, but did not question it and followed.
But much to Rekka’s surprise and awe, he had not merely arrived to another parallel world. He had traveled back into time, because as he accompanied his host to the next enemy, Rekka came across none other than Artorias The Abysswalker. Not only him, but also the other four knights, such as Dragon Slayer Ornstein, Lord’s Blade Ciaran, and Hawkeye Gough. These four knights were here to beseige New Londo, and from what Rekka could understand, they were here to rid the city of the Darkwraiths. The same Darkwraiths that Rekka had wanted to meet. He wasn’t sure what exactly was going on, but he wasn’t going to miss this opportunity to fight alongside these legendary warriors.
Truly it was glorious thing. Their enemies, the Dark Wraith and the monsters from the abyss, were fearsome opponents indeed. Often Rekka nearly lost his life to the wretched beings. But time after time, the knights saved him from an early demise. He cut down foes with Artorias, riddled enemies alongside Gough, assassinated Dark Wraiths next to Ciaran, and faced off against great beast beside Ornstein. For the first time, Rekka could feel the joys of jolly cooperation.
Unfortunately it would not last. As they neared the inner sanctum of the Dark Wraiths, great abyssal monsters emerged. Though the four knights held their own they were occupied handling their own foes while Rekka’s host was in a bind. Swarmed by Dark Wraiths Rekka rushed to his aid, cutting down a few of the skeleton knights before falling to their life draining magics. Rekka’s last memories of that fight was seeing Hawkeye Gough fire a great arrow at the Darkwraiths, impaling two at once and causing an explosion that knocked the rest off their feet.
When Rekka returned to his world he had tried to be summoned again, wishing once more to fight alongside those knights. But alas, there was no response. He had waited for some time but he was never summoned. Growing tired of waiting, Rekka made his way back towards Blighttown, to the inner sanctum of Quelaag.
But the world has changed.
When he went to find Quelaag, she was nowhere to be found. He had waited in her chambers where he always met her for days on end, but she never arrived. The only thing he found there was an old ring. As his mind was slowly beginning to crack under the pressure of not only his time in the Abyss, but from the thought of losing his mistress, Rekka dared venture further into the ruins to look for Quelaag. But what he had found instead… Was the Fair Lady. Quelaag’s sister. She was paler than ice, with hair as white as snow. Her body was fair and weak. Unlike Quelaag, her sister would have no hope in defending herself… And then she spoke. Rekka could understand her perfectly, and for the first time since he was undead, Rekka cried.
He cried because he knew Quelaag had died. During his absence, she was slain. He cried because her sister, his Fair Lady, thought Rekka her sister, and appreciates all that he has done to alleviate her pain. Despite all the blighted sacks of pus surrounding her, the dead eggs from her body, the humanity that Rekka had worked so hard for was, in some ways, healing the Fair Lady. But Rekka was lost now. Because while he still called himself a Chaos Servant, Quelaag was dead. He had failed her, and was unworthy of servicing the Fair Lady, less he fail her too. Grief stricken Rekka poured his humanity into the Fair Lady, leavening behind much of his belongings. He exiled himself from the lands of Lordran, believing that even if he followed the path as a Chosen Undead, he is unworthy of whatever fortune he had in the end.
Rekka walked, one by one losing his belongings. His weapons, his equipment, his gifts. The only few things he kept were his rings, and the silver pendent. Even his memories began to fade as he only vaguely remembers Lordran, and whenever he remembers them he always felt sadness. He traveled for what felt like eternity until he was confronted by armed brigands looking to rob him of his few possessions. But while Rekka had lost much of his memories and nearly all his equipment, he never lost his bloodlust. These brigands, more used to robbing hollow peasants then hollow warriors. Despite being weaponless Rekka disarmed one of the robbers of his short sword, and proceeded to make short work of the other two. He donned their armor bits and continued onwards, assaulted by more bandits. They too fell to Rekka’s blade as he collected their arms and armor until soon he was able to piece together crude, rather intimidating armor.
After dealing with even more bandits, Rekka left one alive to question. This bandit told Rekka that he was in the lands of Forossa, which has recently begun to fall apart due to it’s constant state of war with it’s neighbors. It’s common citizens have now become bandits, much like the ones Rekka had slain recently, with many warlords trying to unique what is left of Forossa to reclaim the kingdom’s glory. Rekka cared little about the politics, but felt that this was a good opprotunity to revel in some good old fashioned violence. So slaying the helpful bandit, Rekka finished his armor and found himself another axe, and proceeded to sell his service to the warlords.
Rekka’s memories of the war is vague considering that there was very little of it that he considers interesting. Sure there were plenty of fights that had brought him to the brink of death (And quite a few more where he did die), and he remembered prominent figures such as the Lion Knights, Vengarl, and even fought alongside the renowned Ivory King. But these battles were just fodder to stave off Rekka’s approaching hollowing. Without a sense of purpose, the only thing that fueled him was his bloodlust and battle rage, and soon even that would be consumed by the oppressive darkness consuming his fire.
At some point Forossa was lost. The Lion Knights became nothing more than mercenaries, Vengarl was reported dead, and the Ivory King left the lands of Forossa to found his own kingdom. Once more Rekka was left with nothing to do, nothing but time and other hollows to kill. So he traveled once more, lost, bored, and slowing growing mad when he heard of an order of warriors made to counter the growth of the Abyss. A familiar concept to the mad warrior. And upon hearing more about these “Abyss Watcher”, a hint of nostalgia and regret resonated inside of him. Rekka could not remember why he felt these feelings, but he felt that this group was far more… Relevant than being a mercenary right now. Although uncertain, Rekka sought these Abyss Watchers, hoping to find meaning among their ranks.
Spells/Pyromancies/Hexes/Miracles:
None
Inventory:
Estus Flask
Green Blossom (x5)
Black Firebombs (x10)
Poisoned Throwing Knives (x20)
Rotten Pine Resin (x3) |
51,368 | 1,390 | 2 | 2,040 | 1,498 | If there's one thing that Kaliyah learned as a Spook, it's that you get the first impressions of your target before they get yours. Facing off against an opponent without knowing what they're capable of is an easy way to get yourself trapped, as anything as small as a dagger could prove to be your downfall if you don't know about it. Hence why Kaliyah had infiltrated the Farron Keep. Well, not quite infiltrate. That would imply she was intruding. No, she simply made sure to keep a low profile, blending in with the other acolytes and servants as if she's suppose to be there, yet beneath notice. Many people would dismiss insects as being weak and lowly, but Kaliyah knew all too well what sort of dangers mere insects could bring. Being such small creatures allowed them to deliver their poisons to even the strongest of giants.
AS for why Kaliyah insisted on such subterfuge, it was simply habit. It wasn't as if she suspected that the Abyss Watchers were going to deny her, or try to kill her on the spot. They shouldn't be the ones to judge her sins, knowing fully well that the Abyss Watchers had spread more blood these past few days then Kaliyah had in her entire life. Some of them were even guilty. As for the girl, she watched the others from a hidden but high position. Should any hostilities occur, she could easily shoot down foes from above, or use her spell to dive onto an enemy without harming herself in the process. Worse comes to worse, someone spots her and calls Kaliyah out. She was certain that the commander or someone else of high authority would most likely do that; Kaliyah herself wasn't quite hiding herself so much as continuing to maintain a low profile. A sort of test, as it were, to see who among the new recruits could tell who does and doesn't belong. A test for Kaliyah to see who was observant and who was subservient. | Character Name:
Kaliyah The Sharp (Kali for short)
Age and Age at time of original death:
Died when she was 16, but has been living as Undead for 32 years.
Sex:
Female
Class:
Assassin
Skills:
Vitality - 10
Endurance - 14
Attunment - 15
Vigor - 10
Strength - 10
Dexerity - 20
Intelligence - 15
Faith - 15
Adaptability - 1
Appearance:
Kali is a fairly short girl, as she died while she was still a very young woman. Barely above five feet and lithe she could be mistaken as a child. Her hair and eyes are a reddish brown, though these turn dark when she is seen as a hollow. She's otherwise conventionally pretty, though the lack of physical maturity makes her arguably less beautiful then other women. Her Dark Sign is on her chest between her collar bones, where her cleavage would be if she had a more prominent bust.
Weapons and Armour/Clothing:
Weapons: Kali mainly uses her Estoc for combat, as she is a well trained duelist and knows how to use a thrusting sword against all many of opponents. While she lacks the sheer strength to break through armor and shields with a regular sword, she has the agility and dexterity to work her blade to their weak points, and make sure her strikes hit critical areas. She also has a Sorcerer Staff, a common tool given to all Vinheim mages. It's not particularly unique, but it serves it's purpose as a casting catalyst.
Armor/Clothing: Kali wears a variant of sorcerer clothing, except that she forgoes the gloves for a set of manchettes to protect her arms while fencing, and her clothing is notably darker with a gold trim then the usual deep blue robes most Vinheim Dragon School mages wear. Her clothing, as well as the spells she knows, are the only indication of the surreptitious purpose she was trained to preform.
Rings: Kali wears the Darkwood Grain Ring and the Ring of the Dead. The Darkwood Grain Ring she obtained during her training as a Vinheim assassin, where she had defeated another assassin, taking this ring as her trophy. With it she feels that her body is lighter, allowing her to preform acrobatics more easily and dodge enemy attacks. The Ring of the Dead she obtained after she had become a hollow and saw the horrible effect it had on her appearance. The young girl, still horrified by the curse, sought this ring to retain her humanity, if only in appearance. Kali has also obtained a Ring of Fog, which allows her body to be obscured from afar, and if she stands still could almost be invisible. Her last ring is the Clear Bluestone Ring, which enables her to cast her spells more quickly, and among her general dexterity, shortens her spell casting time just enough that Che could even use her spells while jumping around or falling.
Personality:
As an assassin, Kali had to learn to be two-faced without being false. She had to be able to act with nearly two different personalities without relying on masks, as her targets could sense lies, but deception was a harder thing to perceive. Thus while Kali can seem like two different people at times, in truth both sides are her truth self, one more exaggerated then the other.
The side that Kali shows to others is an innocent, curious girl who believes in the best of others. Even if they are notorious for villainy, she can hold onto the hope that their skills could be used for good. She can have a bit of an active imagination and at times, can be quite superstitious. She is the type of person who will make monsters out of shadows, mountains out of molehills. But she can be loyal to a fault, siding with others even when they are wrong, but she does have a sense of justice that would at least allow her to try and convince her wrong-doing friends to change their ways, either gradually or immediately.
But there is another side to Kali, the side that she uses when she must be a professional. This side makes decisions, is often pragmatic, and cares only for the success of a goal, regardless of how it's accomplished. This is Kali's personality for assassination, as it holds no room for emotions like guilt, regret, or even fear. It will think about how to best complete an objective in the most quickest, efficient matter, sacrificing whatever is unnecessary or temporary for greater prizes. This side of Kali cares very little about morality such as good or evil, and sees everything as merely a tool to use for good or evil.
Both sides of Kali are simply different perspectives of a same trait, which she uses to masquerade into people's good graces even if she is suppose to kill them. Her accepting, pragmatic side of her, the one that can see the goodness even in evil and cares only for what it's capable of, not what it was made for or by whom, also has given her an interest in studying Hexes and Abyss Magic, even though such things are exactly what the Abyss Walkers fight against. She intends to use it against the Abyss of course, but all the same, she is exposing herself to the very thing they seek to destroy. She wishes to harness it's power, even if it may destroy her in the attempt.
Biography:
Kali is was a student of the Vinheim Dragon School. From a young age she earned the name "Kaliyah The Sharp" for showing not only a great aptitude for magic, but also cunning swordplay. Indeed, while she was quick to attune herself to her staff at the age of ten, by the age of thirteen she had shown promise at fencing. Kaliyah's parents, both still students of the Vinheim Dragon School, were interested in what sort of education their daughter would obtain. As they were both purist mages, they had hoped her daughter would use her wits to also pursue a mastery of sorceresses. And while Kali certainly did show interest, the way of the blade caught her interest much more.
When her teachers found her talent with a rapier nearly matched her skills with a staff, they enrolled her in classes focused around stealth and sound manipulation. These teachers were grooming Kali to become a Spook, an assassin who combined deadly swordplay and spellcasting to become skilled and well-paid killers. And being sharp, Kali was well aware of this. She knew that her teachers intended to sell her service to high bidders, reaping the rewards of her actions while considering her expendable. If she had resisted them, then they would have denied her education at the school and prevent her from ever furthering her career as a sorcerer. So Kali played along, acting as if she was merely a student eager to please. This two-faced personality would serve her well in the future.
It wasn't long however before tragedy struck. One day while Kali was out training, she was attacked by her fellow students. She was unaware of their jealousy and the perceived threat she was against their futures, and together they had waited until she was alone and away from the teachers to personally assassinate her. She fought them off and killed many through her skillful swordplay and cunning tactics, but ultimately was taken down after being overwhelmed by their blades and spells. But that was not the last they would hear of Kali. As she was left to bleed out in the grass, she felt a burning sensation in her chest. It was painful, more painful then swords piercing her body. It harmed not only her body, but her soul. When she looked down she had seen that she was branded with the Darksign. That she was now one of the accursed undead.
When Kali came to she was exactly where she had been slain. Her wounds were gone, her clothes mended, and oddly enough she felt much better than she had prior to blacking out. However her memories were still lucid. Around her she saw the bloodstains of the students she had killed, their bodies taken away with the survivors. Seeking vengeance for her death Kali utilized her skills taught to her and hunted down her killers. One by one she got the drop on the students who had participated in her assassination, killing them in their sleep or stabbing them in the back when their guards were lowered. As she slew more of her students, the survivors as well as other staff at the school were on guard. But Kali's vengeance would not be so easily slated.
Knowing that her current skills would not be enough, she started to expand her repository of spells. She learned how to imbue her weapon with magic, to improve it's cutting edge against her foes. She practiced her swordplay in not only offense, but also defense, being able to parry and riposte her foe with greater ease. Kali learned how to grow and harvest valuable herbs and moss to treat her wounds or give her the boost she needed for an assassination. Eventually she gathered all knowledge she needed for one last job: to kill the one responsible for her death.
As it turns out, it was not just a student who wanted her dead, but a teacher. Not because she was any threat to him, but because he wanted her to improve and become a better assassin. He had killed her on the off-chance that she could possibly be undead, knowing that she would seek vengeance and slay her killers. If she was a fool she would have simply tried to storm the school and take our her targets by force, though such barbaric tactics would never work against them, let alone against those who protect the school from such brutes. But the fact she instead resorted to stealth and subtly, improving her skills right underneath the nose of her murderers, just proved that he had made Kali into a better killer. And he certainly saw first hand just how good of an assassin she was when she impaled him through the chest, her blade glowing with magic energy, and his mansion burning around him.
Before Kali had left, she had taken the liberties to scour the teacher's library for valuable information. She was originally looking for scrolls and tomes of magic she could try to learn from on her own time. Normally the teachers would have to give lessons and explain each page of their magic tomes before students could even begin to understand the spells stored inside, but Kali was confident that she could learn more than enough by herself. However one of the tomes she came across was very, very interesting. For it detailed of a dark and mysterious force known as the Abyss. Though feared for it's corrupting influence even on such powerful beings as gods and kings, there were powerful sorceries that could be harnessed from the dark. Curious, Kali decided that she had graduated the Dragon School and left Vinheim to seek out this Abyss. It was during this journey that she found Farron's Undead Legion, such as the Abyss Watchers. An order of warriors who fight the Abyss's corruption. Kali cared very little about stopping it's spread, but she pretended she did and joined the Undead Legion. This way she would have all the reason to be close to the dark powers of the Abyss, and harness it for her own gain.
Spells/Pyromancies/Hexes/Miracles:
Spook
Magic Weapon
Farron Dart
Inventory:
Estus Flask x5
Silver Talisman x5
Green Blossom x3
Sovereignless Soul x3
Binoculars |
51,369 | 1,390 | 3 | 1,763 | 2,266 | This was the moment she was waiting for. This was where her first actual journey would end, and a new, better mission would begin. In the Past, all the woman ever did was kill, maim, and fight for no other reasons than to enjoy and feed herself. She was set upon by human terrors of the world, and lived through it all. Now was simply a challenge of patience. She was to wait with the other recruits that had arrived. Others had yet to arrive, but once they did, they can finally get started. They would finally be judged and see if they were worthy of taking up a position among the Watchdogs of Farron. It was a chance for the woman to find a new passion. An actual quest.
...Hm? Who is this woman? She is known as Brangwen the Estranged. A wandering challenger of warriors across the city. A duelist that doesn't take loss easily. An individual that fought and murdered her way to where she was today. She had grown bored with her life of dueling and fighting. It had not the spirit that once coursed through her. That spirit now belonged in the Watchdogs of Farron. This is where she would find a true purpose. This is where she could kill with a just blade, rather than a pitiful one. This is where she would prove that the skill and strength she gained over the years would be put to the test.
For now, however, Brangwen simply waited. The recruits were all different in personality. Some raised suspicion, some were too full of themselves, some were crazy, or old, or headstrong, or something. Everyone was so unique. Honestly, if she wasn't there for a specific reason, she'd have challenged them to duel her one at a time. But now was not the time, so she simply leaned against the wall, hood up covering her face with shadows. | Character Name:
Brangwen the Estranged
Age and Age at time of original death:
Current Age: 27 years
Age at First Death: 23 years
Sex:
Female
Class:
Flame Swordswoman
Skills:
Vitality - 16
Endurance - 12
Attunment - 15
Vigor - 10
Strength - 10
Dexerity - 13
Intelligence - 10
Faith - 10
Adaptability - 14
Appearance:
5'8" tall, with pale skin unbefitting her flame, attire, and weaponry. She has jet-black hair, and heterochromia. She is a beautiful woman by all rights, her slim figure hides a strength and skill. Though her scant clothes and soft-looking skin may lead one to think she would be deceptive and seductive most of the time, she wears a hood to hide her bloodlust. Her clothes belonged to the woman responsible for her death. She claimed those clothes as a trophy after killing her, wearing them as a reminder of her first death, that there is always a possibility she can die again, and that there are none that cannot be felled.
Weapons and Armour/Clothing:
Desert Sorceress Set - Clothes taken from the woman that first killed her.
Speckled Stoneplate Ring - A ring taken from the woman that first killed her. It allows a bit of protection against sorceries, miracles, and pyromancies.
Pyromancy Flame - A flame that had been shared with Brangwen during her brief time in the Great Swamp. She hopes to become more skilled with it when she's with the watchers.
Falchion - A curved blade taken from a bandit. Her skill with it improved over her years of dueling.
Personality:
At first glance, one would expect the woman to be a seductress who uses her looks to manipulate the hearts and minds of others through desire. That would only be partially true. She has used seduction to aid herself before, but only on rare occasions. For the most part, she is an overconfident braggart that taunts any foe that cares to listen. She is impatient and rarely hesitates to so something if she thinks that it is the right course of action, making her seem merciless. It doesn't help that she becomes gleeful when she enters combat, and holds a hatred towards nobles and commonfolk alike.
Still, Brangwen is passionate about everything that she does. She acts quickly on her ideas and is steadfast in her beliefs. The reason she wished to join the Watchers was to both quench her desire to kill, and finally do something that she thinks would be right for once. She wishes to actually do good by exterminating something that threatens the lands.
Biography:
There aren't many memories from when she was an infant, but the happiest moments of Brangwen's life came about during childhood. Her parents had abandoned her as an infant, but she was raised by the street rats in the country of Carim. They were a strange bunch, sticking out among the religious folk, but they did what they could. Sure, there were thieves in their numbers, but most others attempted to support each others through more legitimate means. Brangwen herself took a liking to street performances. It didn't make much, but the streetrats were her family. They had their ups, downs, and funtimes, but she was content with her life with them.
Of course, most of her happy memories ended when a so-called scholar from Vinheim arrived. The man told them that he was only searching for assistants. He promised to pay them for their services, and they easily fell for the ruse. Needless to say, the streetrats were never seen again, save for Brangwen. She witnessed the experimentation and butchery of those closest to her, and lost herself in a flurry of strong emotions. When she found a chance, she killed the scholar, and put an end to her friends' misery. By the time she regained her senses, she found herself on a raft that beached near the land of Berenike.
The years she spent in Berenike were not memories she would like to recount. She spent her years in that land penniless and starving. In order to survive, she became part of a brothel, where she was mercilessly raped and ravaged by men who had called themselves "honorable knights." If there were any truly noble men or women, Brangwen never met them. She spent one year in that brothel before she snapped and murdered a man who had paid for her "services." She fled the country before anyone had a chance to catch her.
Brangwen wandered the lands for a moment, until she found herself in the Great Swamp. The people there were much kinder than she was used to, even taking time to teach her how to use pyromancy. Still, her view of people had been corrupted so much that she suspected treachery, and fled once again. She spent time on the roads, aimlessly wandering, and took to looting and scavenging in order to survive. One day, she was found by a bandit, who had attempted to kill her for laughs. She burned him alive, and finally realized that she was good at killing.
After taking the bandit's sword for herself, she traveled to towns and villages, challenging people to duels to better herself and earn money to buy food and water. Occasionally, she would murder her opponents the night afterwards, usually after her opponent reminded her of the scholar or the knight from her past. Brangwen would eventually become skilled enough to brag about her own abilities. She began winning duels one after the other, and became full of herself.
Then, one day... Brangwen was challenged by a woman that adorned strange clothes. The woman's abilities far exceeded Brangwen's own, and she suffered her first death when the woman's own pyromancies overpowered hers, and obliterated her. When Brangwen awoke, she found that she had been cursed as an Undead, and took it as a second chance to seek revenge. She found the woman who had killed her, and with a smile, Brangwen slit her throat. She took the woman's clothes and ring as her prize, and burnt the corpse to ashes.
Years would pass, and Brangwen had gained a small reputation. She earned the title "Estranged" from those who witnessed her duels, thinking that her personality and fighting style were much too different from her appearance. She would have enough money to buy what she needed for her fights, and her pleasures, and every time someone she disliked arrived, she would kill them.
However, despite being able to get almost anything she wanted, Brangwen would grow bored of her actions. She felt empty, and longed for the contentment that she had felt when she was a child. Then, she heard about the "Watchers of the Abyss." The tale of their exploits, marches, and mission inspired a feeling she had not felt since she acted on the streets of Carim as a child. As she sought them to join their numbers, she had come to realize that most of her life had come to nothing but murder and violence. By the time she found them, her reasons for wanting to join had expanded to more noble thoughts, mixed a bit of twisted ones. Still, she would pledge herself to their beliefs and orders in an attempt to become the type of warrior she had acted as in childhood.
Spells/Pyromancies/Hexes/Miracles:
Fireball
Combustion
Inventory:
Repairbox
5 Throwing Knives
2 Charcoal Pine Resin
1 Gold Pine Resin
1 Rotten Pine Resin |
51,370 | 1,390 | 4 | 2,788 | 1,592 | Biorr stood among the other recruits and legionnaires with no other intention than waiting for the commander. He bore the legion armor like the others but what made him stand out was his sword, one of the large greatswords favored by the Berenike, and his height, towering well above most of the others. He had actually been a bit confused when he was treated as a recruit upon his return...er, arrival apparently, he had remembered having a higher rank before, it took a bit of explaining and a closer examination of his arms and armor for him to realize he had only held that rank with the Berenike, recalling some faint memories of serving with them though he couldn't quite remember why he left, not exactly anyway, besides fighting the abyss seemed a worthwhile cause...wasn't he fighting it before anyway?
Earlier statement of his intention aside, he was still looking around at the others. He noticed the woman hiding up on high watching the rest, another woman covering her face with a hood, and a man who looked...actually a little approachable honestly, relatively speaking. Not by the likes of Biorr though, not right now at least. Not that the man was looking to converse with that others anyway, seeing them all really only prompted a "odd lot, this" from him before his attention turned to fiddling with the gauntlet on his arm again...this armor was so light, he felt as if he could go flipping around with this gear, despite the large sword he wielded, he was used to his heavy armor, and he was missing his shield already too...hopefully he could get those back soon. | Character Name:
Sir Biorr of The Knights of Berenike
Age and Age at time of original death:
Original Death: 47
Full age: 127
Sex:
Male
Class:
Heavy Knight
Skills:
Vitality - 15
Endurance - 20
Attunment - 4
Vigor - 23
Strength - 20
Dexerity - 10
Intelligence - 3
Faith - 6
Adaptability - 9
Appearance:
Biorr approaches almost 7 feet in height with a very muscular build befitting of a Knight of Berenike. He keeps his brown hair short but doesn't do much with it other than that so it is somewhat messy. The only place on his body with a scar is his face, which bears a horizontal scar just below his eyes, a fact that could be attributed to the heavy armor he almost never removes. His darksign can be found on the back of his right shoulder.
Weapons and Armour:
Greatsword, Greatshield, Steel set, Heavy crossbow, Ring of Steel Protection
Personality:
Though he's become a bit somber and quiet from time Biorr can be ever so slightly jovial and he does enjoy the company of friends, even if most of his outward behavior is rather stoic and he prefers to let actions speak for him. He is usually patient and calm but is a relentless fighter and shows a reckless persistence in his endeavors, in contrast to his usual self he fights very aggressively and the sound of his roars and warcries often accompany his attacks. He does specifically have a disdain for those of an imperious nature and takes no small pleasure in knocking them off their perch should they annoy him and he has still retained a slight bit of a competitive nature from his time as a Forest Hunter
Biography:
Biorr can remember as far back as Sen's fortress during the Berenike Knights' assault, the reason behind their march is lost to him now but he knows that many of the mighty knights, including himself, died in the battle. He stood alongside a good friend during the fighting, a fellow knight by the name of Tarkus, and one of his few distinct memories is striking down several of the fortress' defenders to secure Tarkus' advance forward to the Iron Golem at the top as well as witnessing his friend's victory. Before he could even attempt to follow in his friend's footsteps he found himself facing down former comrades that had gone completely hollow, and he was barely able to retreat from the fortress with his humanity.
From there he had...well nothing, he could not take on both the fortress' defenders and his former comrades and as such had to turn away. Among the first places that Biorr wandered to was the darkroot forest, where he came across the Forest Hunters, they initially tried to keep him out but after defeating several hunters Alvina offered him a place among them, which he accepted gladly. He came to enjoy the competition that came with their defense of the forest but found that he often lost out, He had ample strength to crush trespassers in the forest but his kills would often be stolen by his much quicker compatriots. This prompted him to take up using an old crossbow to secure his kills and even steal some from other hunters.
Somewhere along the line he and a few other hunters came across a patrol from Farron's legion passing through the forest, they quickly descended upon the group and actually made swift work of them but the undead legionnaires kept returning, rising after they had been slain again and again until Biorr was the only one of the Hunters left, and even then only because he had the same curse. They continued to kill each other for quite some time, until both sides had forgotten why they were there. Both he and the Abyss watchers had confused him as an ally, and as such he continued on as a watchdog of Farron.
Inventory:
-Estus Flask x 5
-Brightbug x 3
-Divine blessing |
51,371 | 1,390 | 5 | 2,238 | 2,226 | Groot hated wearing the bland uniform of the Legion, but he was told he had to wear it and that if he didn't he couldn't join. Luckily he was allowed to keep his weapon so that was a plus in his mind, Groot stood about a head taller than most of the other recruits while he did see a few others around his height it was the giant of a man that stood nearer to the front of the crowd of recruits that caught his attention. Groot was instantly jealous of the man, normally Groot was the tallest person but this man was taller and that had Groot in a bit of a mood. Then Groot saw the handle of the weapon the man had, he recognized it but he couldn't place where he recognized it from. Other than the giant, Groot saw nothing that interested him besides the man who stood before him and the rest of the recruits.
There was a man that could kill with just a look, and Groot was for the first time in his undeath impressed by someone other than himself. He wanted to be jealous of the man but he felt that if he tried any of his normal jealous actions towards the man he would know what true death was and he did not want that. Groot was starting to get restless, so he began to straighten his uniform, which had started to bug him because it was very uncomfortable. He couldn't say that the armor was impractical but, Groot preferred practicality that would also make him stand out he wanted so badly to be back in his old armor it was practical, comfortable, and made him stand out from the others. | Character Name: Groot
Age and Age at time of original death: 28 at first death, 42 age currently
Sex: Male
Class: Bandit
Skills:
Vitality - 15
Endurance - 15
Attunment - 10
Vigor - 10
Strength - 15
Dexerity - 15
Intelligence - 10
Faith - 10
Adaptability - 10
0 Unallocated points
Appearance: Standing at 6 foot even, Groot is pale skinned with grey eyes and short brown hair. He is of a medium build, not too muscled, but muscled enough to wield his Claymore. A large X shaped scar lays across his face, the scar was made by the weapon that caused his first death. Along with the scar on his face, Groot's entire left arm is covered in scars and burns while his right shoulder has a singular tattoo of a wolfs head.(Tattoo was from before his first death)
Weapons and Armour/Clothing: Thief Hood, Eastern Armor, Bandit legs, Balder Gauntlets. Claymore.
Personality: (Despite his name) Groot is loud, bossy, sarcastic, and is just full of himself. He likes to be the center of attention and will do almost anything to make people notice him, be it doing every little thing in has flashy a way as possible to just being as loud as possible. He enjoys being around lots of people, especially those he can impress easily. He hates not getting noticed and can become very petty when someone else is in the spotlight, while he usually just seethes in anger he has on a few occasions tried to make others look bad so he will look better.
Biography:
His father was a retired Knight from a far eastern land, his mother was an exiled Astorian woman. His mother named him after a distant ancestor who had fallen to the curse of undeath long ago. As he grew his father taught him many different blade techniques, introducing Groot too a multitude of different weapons, including the blade that Groot currently uses. Eventually Groot grew restless of living on the outskirts of society and one day with a blessing from his father, Groot left home to seek adventure. Before he left his father gave him two gifts, one of which was his old armor the other was the claymore he is using currently as a weapon.
On his adventures Groot learned many things, but he eventually fell to the curse of undeath,this was many years after both his parents had passed on. He then felt an urge deep inside him, something was pulling him towards a thing he couldn't describe. He eventually found what he was looking for, the Farron Legion. It would take him years before he could find any of them, as he had only heard about them in rumors and whispers, he did however evetuanlly find them near the Undead cathedral. He found a small patrol of soldiers unknown to him under attack by hollows. He jumped in to help fight off the hollows, he didn't learn until after the hollows had run off that he was assisting members of the Legion.
While, he stayed with the scout patrol for a few weeks, he was unable to find out how to join the Legion as none of the scouts would tell him. Groot soon parted ways with the scouts to find out more on how to join the Legion, on his journey he found that he liked saving people but only if those people looked at him as if he was the greatest warrior they had ever seen. He soon began craving the attention, he wanted more and more of it. He began to do more dangerous things, he began hunting down hollows who most considered dangerous,just so he could brag to others. He soon found himself back to where he first meet the scouts of the Legion killing Balder Knights who had hollowed and stayed in and around the Undead Cathedral. After his first victory against one of the Balder Knights he took their gauntlets as a trophy and because he enjoyed wearing them as people would recognize them and ask how he acquired them. He stayed at The Cathedral Killing the Balder Knights until he again heard whispers of the Legion, an idea formed and he knew that if he could actually join the Legion he would be able to get even more attention. He then set his sights on finding and joining the Legion.
Spells/Pyromancies/Hexes/Miracles: Groot does not use any of these.
Inventory: A singular sunlight medal he was giving after his first death by a weird but friendly knight. (No not Solaire.) Estus Flask (5 charges) |
51,372 | 1,391 | 0 | 256 | 2,259 | Are you sure? There is no way this rumor is false? A ruse to bait me out maybe?, Yashar asked, "I can't risk to be baited out by them and you know it". Despite trying his very best to look calm and confident, an experient observer would notice a note of both anger and despair on Yashar's voice.
"I... I wouldn't have came here if I had a doubt, s-sir", the little Skiurid said.
The skiurid was named Devon, in honor to Yashar's childhood friend. Yashar conjured the little squirrel by accident when trying a new spell, as a result the Skiurid lost it's ability to generate darkness by itself. The mage then proceeded to try out more spells on it's new summoned pet, granting him the ability to talk, think and some other minor things. More than a year passed since then, and Devon was now a spy for the mage who, in exchange for it's services, would summon the dark acorns that Devon needed to survive.
"They were gathered in a small room. Back of the tavern. Expensive, but they paid no money to be there", the skiurid talked fast and in short sentences, fast enough to test Yashar's tolerance, "Two guards were in the door to prevent people hearing it. And one dog. Tricking the dog was hard, he can smell me, I hope to get extra for fooling the—"
"Enough!", bursted the mage. If the information was real he had no time to waste and needed to form a plan. He couldn't risk himself to be baited out, but needed to directly intervene before the situation spiraled out of hand. "Repeat what you've heard. Calmly."
Devon took a breath and begun, "They were in the room. Four of them. Two big ones with big weapons and metal clothes. One small with pointy ears. He had a bow. And one tall and weird. He had no weapon, but had a shinny pendant. It was shinning without light." Devon slowly picked up speed up to his usual paced rhythm, "And there was one who did not belong. He was tall and his beard white. But he seemed young. He talked of a book made of skin. He knew the location and how to get there. He talked about old magic imprisioned in a room and of a powerful magic bound to the book. He gave the location to the quartet and talked on how he was working on dispelling some wards."
"Ok, leave now, I need to think", Yashar said pulling a small bag filled with dark acorns and throwing it to Devon "But don't wander too far, I might need you soon". He paced through the room torn between his options.
He knew he couldn't go to the ruins by himself. His tower was being watched. He couldn't see the watchers, or even who they were, but he knew someone, or something, was there. The second he decided to step outside of it and of it's magic protection he would be a dead man. On the other hand, his quest for the book was the reason why he was exiled from human society. This was his first solid lead in many years. And to have some other mage exhausting himself and his own resources to put down the wards was just too much of a perfect oportunity to let go.
"There must be something", he muttered to himself while searching through his books. He went through most of his library when he finally found it, "This! Thank you old friend." One partially burned book stood on Yashar's old hands, with a simple Communication scribled on it's cover. Inside that thin book, nothing but the guidelines for a single ritual was written.
The ritual had been created by Devon, right before his death, and was intended to be used as a way to send a message to a vast number of people. Devon never got around to finish it, so Yashar had to, despite being awful in creating rituals. The original would put one in a transcendent state, allowing them to travel as an energy towards anyone who shared similar desires, or were likely to answer positively to the request that led to the execution of the ritual.
However, Yashar never managed to make it work as intended. He did his very best, working around his own flaws with his limited knowledge of Emphaty and Blood Magic. The way the ritual would work would be fairly different. The life energy of another being would be subjugated to his will, and that energy would be pulled towards anyone who has a natural disposition to help him or his cause. After reaching it's target, the energy would engage in conversation, using of Empathy to read and understand the target's motivation and desires, which would in turn be used as leverage to increase the odds of the request being accepted. It mostly involved small fortunes, old relics or powerful weapons and create a bound that assured anyone who helped it's due pay. Thankfully, Yashar had enough of it to gather a small crew for himself. It wasn't only expensive to pay for the help, it was also expensive for casting. It would need the life energy of a magical being.
Yashar spent the rest of the night gathering his ingredients and formulating the plan. It would be simple: gather a small crew, give them some gear if needed and send them to fetch the book for him. Maybe have them kill the party who was being sent there as well. If he was lucky, they could even deal with that white bearded mage who seemed to know enough to cause him worries. With that in mind he went to sleep for the few hours he could afford.
The morning came soon, lighting up the dark room Yashar slept and waking him up. He woke up decided. What he would need to do next was not something he wanted nor was proud to, but rather what the situation forced him into.
He gathered his ingredients and set the ritual so he could start at any time. Putting on his robe, he left the room to look for Devon, the Skiurid which had become almost a friend to him. In all those years isolated, Devon had been the only one to keep the mage company. At least willingly.
Devon was resting near the fireplace, still half asleep, despite the light of day. "Wake up and come, I need your sevices once again". Hearing that, Devon quickly got up and followed the mage back to his dorm rooms. It wasn't common for his services to be needed with such a short space between them. Devon was half confused by the urgency in Yashar's voice and half excited at the chance of gathering more accorns.
Yashar opened the door, every muscle on his body tensing up with feelings he couldn't describe. He sat in front of the place where the ritual was set and Devon quickly followed. "Errm... What's all that?", asked the little roddent after climbing into the ritual table.
The wizard's movements were robotic. He grabbed Devon with one hand, with the other he broke his fragile neck. He held him upside down, slitting his throat while muttering an inaudible "I'm sorry". He continued with the ritual as if nothing had happened. He drained the little body of it's blood over a silver bowl, he threw the ingredients in it at the expected order and he said the words in the ancient tongue. A small dark orb floated over the bowl, now empty.
"For those who shall hear me, listen to what I say!", Yashar exclamated to noone at all. His voice echoing in the empty walls of the room. "I request your help! Aid me in my quest and you shall be greatly rewarded for your time. There is little I don't have. There is little I can't obtain. Aid me and whatever you can desire shall be yours!"
As soon as he fished the words, the dark orb absorbed Devon's body, becoming a dark silhouette of the dead Skiurid and left the room. Nothing but the silver bowl was left in the table. As the silhouette flew away, a single tear rolled through Yashar's face. It was done. | Name: Westley Stride
Appearance: Westley is a rather small and scrawny young adult, adorned with a red mage robe, with a lavender cloak over it and a white scarf made from the scales of many serpentines. Westley has bushy brown hair overlaying his face, casting a shadow over his eyes and creating a scowl look. His face is rather plain, and it doesn't stand out to many people, aside from his ears being pointed.
Race: Westley is a half-elf, with more genes leaning towards his human mother.
Class: Battlemage
Equipment: Westley has a wide array of weapons to his arsenal that are carried around in a bag of holding, including a sword made from red steel, but mainly revolves around Spell Tomes such as "Razorblade Typhoon" and "Golden Shower", and staves such as the Xeno Staff, the Life Drain. He also carries around a Mana Flower, a magical blue rose that allows for hands free usage of mana potions, which he carries 5 potions around normally.
Backstory:
Westley has been gone for most of this war, and really only caught wind of it recently. Although he came from a non-monster village, he was often resented because of how his mother and father were of different races, and while this wouldn't be a problem normally, the place where he grew up was against two different races mating, and he never visited the mainland when he was a boy, although he wanted to. When he finally did, he saw poverty, crime, and disgusting acts, and he caught wind of how there was a war and a time of peace. Through a grapevine he heard about how a king of the monsters planned on ending a peace treaty. He shortly left the mainland, and headed towards the regions that held 'monsters' to assist them in the war. He felt like he would connect with them more as he had a sour childhood with elves and humans, and he resents them equally as much.
Notes:
( ! ) Westley will not kill gnomes or children. Gnomes never felt like a nuisance to him, and killing children is just... just wrong.
( ! ) The Xeno Staff is only able to be used once until the summon dies, then it can be used again.
( ! ) The red sword he carries around doesn't do anything special. It's just a red sword.
Is it okay for the character to be half-elf if it hates humans and elves? |
51,373 | 1,391 | 1 | 15 | 3,140 | Cuz when dem gits get lookin at ye, da real rucka' beginz.
In the town was a great mess off monsters all doing their shit daily. It wasn't a nice town, but it was a town nevertheless. Not like you can expect much from towns made by orcs and other dum gits. But these monsters still decided to live in an orderly fashion, and imitate the life of da humans and spikies. That makes em nuthin more than them, without the spiky's scruffy hair. Their natural ways thrown away for things like shops and public services. Laughable gits.
In the middle of the town, two figures caused a ruckus. The main road was clogged with monsters from all species, and had a hard time going anywhere in the sea of people, expect two individuals. Nobody dared to stand in Woggha's way, and they pushed the others around not bo crushed by the giant armored beast. Some stopped to inspect him, whislt others started pointing at his rider. And there were those who were swearing at them for being rude ***** and going throught town like they own the place. Grox looked down at the miserable scum, and occasionaly threw back a rock at some rude gits. They usually got knocked out at an instant. He didn't come here to listen to monsters whining. If it was up to him he would have ignored the whole town, or let Woggha loose in it, but that was not the case. Woggha's armor needed fixin and patchin, and this was the only place within a week's travel that had a respectable blacksmith. It's a wonder why some monsters capture dwarfs and make em work, instead of killing them on spot. A good orc sword is worth more than a human army.
The crowd began spreading out as the dou reached the town square. Grox signaled Woggha to stop, and stood up to look around. He was above most buidlings, and he could clearly see the town. From up above it didn't seem all that big, but it was quite the settlement on foot. He snored, and spit down at the floor level, hitting a swearing gnoll on the way. He shadowed his eyes with his hands to see better in the broad daylight, and looked around once more at the square. Behind a group of trolls he could make out an anvil symbol. "Zogin gits in da way. Dem betta get movin hella fast!" He pulled woggha's leash and controlled the giant beast to make it's way towards the blacksmith. The people around jump in shock as the tower of flesh began moving again, and some smaller gobbos went screaming out of the way so they won't get crushed. it was only a few steps before the Wpggha suddenly started looking around as if something happened to him, and acted in a weird way. He was turning all directions, scaring the living shit out of everyone in the square, they tought the beast went beserk, and most of the smaller species ran away. Orks, trolls, and even some gnolls laughed at their fleeing bretheren, and continued to do their daily chores while making jokes about the puny gits. But Grox wasn't happy at all, he was trying his hardest to stop Woggha. "Oi, oi! Wat is up wiv ye? Get ya mood down ye git. Oi!" Grox pulled Woggha's leash hard with both hands, and slowed down the confused Woggha. It took a few seconds for him to calm down but it hapenned eventually. Thought he was still confused, he was only looking around suspiciously, but stopped raging around. Grox was about to say something mean again, but he was interrupted by a booming voice.
"For those who shall hear me, listen to what I say! I request your help! Aid me in my quest and you shall be greatly rewarded for your time. There is little I don't have. There is little I can't obtain. Aid me and whatever you can desire shall be yours!"
He looked down at Woggha who was now looking in one general direction. A tall tower in the middle of town with many small outcrops. A real wizard's tower for ya. "Did ya her' dat too Woggha? Sum magik git havin fun." Woggha let out a laughter that shook his body when he heard this comment. Quaggoth's had a weird sense of humor that Grox never got around to learn. Not that he was interested in Quaggoth show business either. He looked at the blacksmith, but after seeing that almost all the trolls were still there, he decided it was worth inspecting this voice. It was better than waiting around for sure. "Nuff sad, get goin ye fat git." Grox pulled Woggha's leash and the big beast began walking towards the tower throught the now sparsly populated square. Grox could still hear Woggha's silent laughter at his last comment. He'll never understand Quaggoth humour for sure. | Name: Grox Choppa
Race: Orc
Appearance:
History:
Grox grew up on the North, in an out of sight village of Orcs. Wars against humans were only mere tales spoken at night to scare teh kids so they would go to bed. Savageness was unknown to his people. But it all changed when the fire nation Empire attacked a neighbouring village. They razed the houses to ashes, and killed all the orcs. From that point on, him and all the other younglings were taught the art of fighting. Using their trademark weapons, the spiked chain and the two handed axe, they quickly began taking up arms to defend themselves. The young Grox was very keen on learning to fight, as he never wanted to be a slave or a mindless murderer like the rest of his bretheren to the south. But all did not go well. More and more villagers got raided, and the speed at which the orcs armed themselves began troubling the elders. No longer a defensive solution, but rather an all out war like the Southern orcs wage, they wanted to stop. But those from the razed villages hushed the elders, not wanting to let anyone else die. They formed a squadron of noble orcs and set out on their trusty Quaggoth companions to find and destroy the human outpost to save the villages. The next time the humans came, they brought giant metal monsters adored with the expedition party's heads. they attacked the village of Grox, and burnt all the houses. With little to no time and only his weapons as belongings, Grox made his way to the barns. By the time he arrived, only one untamed Quaggoth was standing, but one big at that. A rare breed that could be found in the mountains, one that was strong enough to fend off waves after waves of human attackers. Grox didn't hesitate and climbed on tha back of the beast. Whilst it resisted at first, after a few hushing Orc words, and dead humans the Quaggoth realised that Grox wasn't it's enemy. Then they rode off into the sunset Soon the metal monsters came and the two escpaed the fiery demise of the other villagers with a hasty retreat.
Grox and his tame, now called Woggha after Grox's dad, made their way into the forest. Soon months of escaping would begin, the two hunting humans whernever they could as a retribution for their village. Starving and freezing was a common issue, but these hardships forged the two into something more, not as a tame and rider, rather companions for life. After seeing the whole mountain razed by humans, and the Northern Orcs retreating further into teh mountains where humans could not get them, Grox made his way South, to find other Demihumans to aid him in his quest for revenge. Along the way he gathered many friends and enemies, soon earning a reputation as teh Greenskin that rode a giant Quaggoth. He himself is lightly armored, but he managed to buy very expensive armor for Woggha, turning his companion into the most fearsome beast that the region has seen. nowadays the two wander the area, looking for more and more places where they could put a stop to the crazed murder spree of the humans.
Equipment:
Mighty Choppa - A two handed battleaxe capable of immense damage. Forged from Dark Iron, it is sturdy, sharp, and very lightweight, but it tends to get rusty in rain, and attracts predators.
Hook'd Chainz - A set of chains with deadly hooks on their end, they are wrapped around Grox's body, acting both as armor, and easely accessible weaponary. It can take teh strongest of blows without breaking, and can be a versatile tool in the hands of an experienced user. The hook on the end sometimes fails to attach to things, as the soft surface of the Dark Iron makes it slip if on very hard surfaces.
Woggha's Armor - Woggha, the clever yet monstrous companion of Grox wears incredibly tough armor that protects it from most blows. Forged of Dark Steel, a material even stronger than Steel, crafted from Dark Iron using magic, it is resilient to both magic and physical attacks. Grox also made sure that his companion reminds the enemy of who they are and where they come from, as he installed a harpoon gun into Woggha's right arm that fires hooked chains like his. Both him and Woggha can fire it, and it is usually for dealing with vehicles or fortifications by pulling them apart. However this armor doesn't cover a 100% of Woggha's body, and mostly focuses on vital points. Without enough funds, it will take a long time to have a fully protective armor.
Powers:
Orcish Strenght - The strongest race of human-like races, the Orcs have brutal strenght, able to wield weapons in one hand that a human couldn't lift with two. Their blows are immensely strong, able to bring down most foes with a single hit. This comes at the price of increased metabolism.
Woggha is the companion of Grox. A mighty beast, and a rare breed of it's kin, he is sure to get the job done. Thought he may look stupid and primitive at first sight, behind the killing pair of eyes lie a sharp mind, able to pick up the events of the battlefield. Sure he cannot talk, but he is just a bit behind an Orc's intelligence. Which isn't saying much to be honest. Not if he wasn't Grox's companion, who has more in his head than most Orcs. Woggha's strenght is perfectly matched with his rider's talent in fighting, and he gladly uses the harpoon gun Grox gave him. He finds amusement in dismantling vehicles, often toying with their parts after a battle is over, trying to make something of them. He can never quite make it. Another one of his hobbies is torturing humans in gruesome ways, as he reminds himself of the time when his flock was killed by them back in the mountains. That said, he doesn't have problems with other Demi-humans or even dwarves for that matter. Not keen, sure, but he doesn't hate them.
In battle, Woggha tries his best to make armored spots face his enemies, whilst keeping them in an arms reach. He doesn't have a weapon, but he can easely rip trees out of the ground and use them as basic clubs, or throw rocks at the enemy from far away. |
51,374 | 1,391 | 2 | 653 | 1,095 | Yashar was pacing back and forth in the entry room of his tower. He had spent the last hour extremely busy trying to make the tower look impressive. In the entry room, he made sure to put all of his crystal balls over every flat surface, each showing different images that Yashar had no idea what were supposed to mean, but created an impressive view. The smallest one, he carried with him. This one showed what stood after his door. "Pretty useful to know who's coming and how to react. I do have my good moments", he praised himself.
On the way up, the long spiral staircase had all the decorations on the walls removed and any light sources covered and hidden. Torches were lit on the walls, shining in a dark shade of blue and providing no heat. This was supposed to be a small way to showing off.
The main room in which he was supposed to hold the meeting was covered with magical items he gathered through the years. Weapons, armors, staves and amulets. A big bag of gold was half opened at the corner of the red wood table. Behind that table, a fur covered chair was placed for him. In front of it, half a dozen wood chairs forming a half circle.
In all his efforts to make sure his tower was imposing enough, he almost forgot to place a ward at the door to make sure that the ones entering the tower meant no harm. He was barely started with the conjuration when he heard a knock on the door. "That was quicker than expected", he said to himself as he quickly finished the ward. The ward was another one created by Devon, but with Yashar's own twist. Anyone going through would feel an impact over their body, nothing too big, of course, only enough for the magic to go through them. Anyone who was downright aggressive towards the mage would suffer deep burns when stepping inside, as well as being thrown out of the turret. Or at least should do that. Yashar never got a chance to test it.
He looked at his crystal ball. Standing outside of his door was a Half-Elf, carrying what was apparently enough weaponry for a small army. He could clearly see two staves and a blood colored sword, but the ball also showed him that he carried some more magical artifacts with him. Looking a bit deeper, he could also see an Orc guiding some humongous beast by a chain. The pair was staring at his turret, even though from a safe distance.
With the ward settled, there was no reason why he shouldn't get things started. "Well, that unusual, to say the least", Yashar said as he opened the door to the half elf. Pointing in the distance to the Orc, he screamed "Are you coming or staring is good enough for you two? Of course the big one will have to stand outside, I don't think I have a big enough door for him!" | Name: Tugrok
Race: Ogre
Equipment: His "clothes" and his club
Tugrok never really was smart at all, even for an ogre. He could talk with others but logic and tactic was something he'd never understand. He lived in a ogre village with his parents. After years it was time for Tugrok to go his own path, so he wandered off, looking for a place to stay.
Personality: Unlike others of his kind, Tugrok doesn't see humans as evil at first, he just doesn't trust them completely. To him there are two types of beings, good ones and bad ones. This isn't bound to any race since there are also mean monsters and Tugrok doesn't like those. He also protects those who are nice to him and he deems as good.
Motivation: Showing all others that he isn't as stupid as everyone sees him.
Fighting Style: Smashing things with his club. That's it, there is no strategy to it.
Strengths:
Tugrok can take quite some hits before he would go down.
His physical strength.
His size.
Weaknesses:
His own Stupidity.
Enemies who use tactic.
Swift enemies.
His size. |
51,375 | 1,391 | 3 | 256 | 2,259 | I'm coming in, since ya offered. I've been gettin' a lotta dirty looks comin' from these blokes, and I'd rather be in a place where I can kill without worryin' about me arse gettin stabbed.
The Half Elf stepped inside, and felt a strong push on his body as he was in the middle of the doorway. Once on the other side, he looked at his hand and visibly saw a small amount of darker skin on his hand, smelling of charred flesh.
"Nice ward mate. I guess ya put it up as a safety thing."
The 1/2 elf wasn't 'hostile' towards the human before him, but wasn't about to let his guard down in case of a trap. He slowly climbed the staircase to the main room and stood, admiring it. It was a nice room, rather large, and full of regal-looking crystal balls, the elf also admired the magical items and weapons scattered about the room, even stopping to pick up a staff and examine it for a second. After putting it back. He went over to the table in the room and sat down in a chair beside it. He pulled out a blank tome and began to write in it. He kept one tome on him in case he wanted to get another spell, however this one was incomplete and would be far from being complete, mayhaps the evil-looking human downstairs could give him a suggestion for what spell the tome could cast. | Name: Westley Stride
Appearance: Westley is a rather small and scrawny young adult, adorned with a red mage robe, with a lavender cloak over it and a white scarf made from the scales of many serpentines. Westley has bushy brown hair overlaying his face, casting a shadow over his eyes and creating a scowl look. His face is rather plain, and it doesn't stand out to many people, aside from his ears being pointed.
Race: Westley is a half-elf, with more genes leaning towards his human mother.
Class: Battlemage
Equipment: Westley has a wide array of weapons to his arsenal that are carried around in a bag of holding, including a sword made from red steel, but mainly revolves around Spell Tomes such as "Razorblade Typhoon" and "Golden Shower", and staves such as the Xeno Staff, the Life Drain. He also carries around a Mana Flower, a magical blue rose that allows for hands free usage of mana potions, which he carries 5 potions around normally.
Backstory:
Westley has been gone for most of this war, and really only caught wind of it recently. Although he came from a non-monster village, he was often resented because of how his mother and father were of different races, and while this wouldn't be a problem normally, the place where he grew up was against two different races mating, and he never visited the mainland when he was a boy, although he wanted to. When he finally did, he saw poverty, crime, and disgusting acts, and he caught wind of how there was a war and a time of peace. Through a grapevine he heard about how a king of the monsters planned on ending a peace treaty. He shortly left the mainland, and headed towards the regions that held 'monsters' to assist them in the war. He felt like he would connect with them more as he had a sour childhood with elves and humans, and he resents them equally as much.
Notes:
( ! ) Westley will not kill gnomes or children. Gnomes never felt like a nuisance to him, and killing children is just... just wrong.
( ! ) The Xeno Staff is only able to be used once until the summon dies, then it can be used again.
( ! ) The red sword he carries around doesn't do anything special. It's just a red sword.
Is it okay for the character to be half-elf if it hates humans and elves? |
51,376 | 1,391 | 4 | 2,543 | 175 | The cool night's breeze made tree leaves sing in unison. In a clearing, the grass swirled in mesmerizing patterns and a lone owl flew across it in search for a meal. Rays of dim moonlight creeped through the foliage but were not enough to blot out a myriad stars from the firmament. They formed shapes of beauty indescribable, ones that drunken peasants and busy nobles did not normally appreciate. And all through the forest there was silence-
"SHIT. PISS. BADGER CUNTS. DAMMIT FUCK."
Yeah, no, there wasn't silence, alright. A great big skeleton, clad in fur and plate stomped heavily through the clearing, disregarding his surroundings and bashing his massive knuckle dusters together in anger. Well, they were more like massive "studded hexagonal steel slabs of death worn in the hands" than knuckles, but you get the idea. Right after tripping on a rather sizable (and visible) rock, it fell to the ground, and in a fit of even greater, hysterical rage it pummeled the stone until all that remained were pebbles and a fine powder. Having dug a small hole with his fists where the rock once stood, it once again went on its' way, mumbling in a low, incomprehensible tone, the shields strapped on his back clattering audibly as he moved, only allowing a bizarre sound that resembled "landboat" to escape from the overall ruckus and panic this one-monster tavern brawl created.
Before he could once again sink into the woods, he noticed a shadowy outline of a rodent approaching and swiftly turned around in a jerky fashion, arms flailing about. As it neared, his anger grew once again, and he realized that what awaited him would surely be a most bothersome experience. After all, the Skeleton knew quite well how much of a pain most incorporeal creatures were, always lamenting their lives being cut short and other such nonsense. The apparition being a "tree rat" as he referred them made the matter even worse. Once the rat had come close enough though, it stopped for a moment, as if to talk, and when it began to do so, the skeleton stood fuming, fingers clenched rigidly in a half-fist. Had it possessed a pair of lungs, he would be breathing heavily in annoyance. The squirrel delivered a surprisingly short bunch of sentences, but more than enough to piss the skeleton off.
"SHUT UP DAMMIT. FINE. WHO'S THERE? WHERE DO I GO? TALK. JUST GET OFF MY FACE." | Name: Only responds with "AARGH!" when asked. Is usually referred as The Irate Skeleton, or simply The Skeleton
Appearance: A towering, thick-boned skeleton, walking in a slight, perpetual hunch, this undead creature is nothing less than a being of pure, unadulterated rage. It's eye sockets are somehow twisted into a shape that reveal its' intentions, and his intentions are none other than being really, REALLY f@$%ing angry. Its' only garments are hides fashioned into a kilt, thick, heavy boots and gauntlets, and even though age-old and time-worn, they do display a noticeable degree of craftsmanship originating from the northern regions. When it comes to armor, he wears nothing other than a pair of slightly oversized shoulderplates, a helm, and two round wooden shields strapped on his back.
Race: Undead (skeleton)
Class: He beats sh!t with his fists.
Attributes:
+Very fast movements and reaction speed.
+Strong as sh!t.
+Insanely durable.
+/-Two and a half meters tall, a.k.a. Big motherf@ker.
-Slow footspeed.
-Holy magic hurts him very, very bad.
-Healing/life magic either hurts him or leaves him unaffected.
-Always angry. All the time. Subtlety and using anything but force to solve a problem are concepts all but alien to him.
-May be sort of smart, but too angry for it to show, matter, or have any practical application. Basically enraged to the point of stupidity.
-May become more of a burden than an aid to others.
Powers:
The Skeleton claims that he's able to "PUNCH EVERYTHING." And while whether or not the statement's exaggerated is up for debate, one thing's for certain. Creatures and things that would logically be unpunchable recoil back when the Skeleton strikes them. Slime monsters are seen rubbing their heads in defeat and even ghosts are left with black eyes. That's not to say that his punches become any stronger, though.
The nature of this ability remains a mystery, though it is believed by observers that the sheer willpower displayed by The Skeleton has conjured some kind of crude magical effect.
Equipment: Iron knuckle dusters, shoulderplates, helm, shields and the friends he'll make along the way.
Motivation: A complete mystery. It is unknown if The Skeleton has any motives at all, though he can be heard screaming profanity as if he just committed a massive blunder even when he thinks he's alone.
Background: Honestly, there's not much to say. After haunting a cemetery of some small, nondescript village, he was eventually annoyed by the other ghosts and ghoulies so much that he decided to wander the countryside instead. Not before giving a good beating to some of them. |
51,377 | 1,391 | 5 | 2,543 | 175 | The energy who once had been Devon felt an unsettling energy about that hulking pile of bones. Not only his anger was visible, it was literally palpable. If that energy was able to have feelings, it would be extremely afraid. Understanding the risks of talking to such a being, it quickly gave the general guidelines.
"Chance to hit living stuff. Plenty of reward for beating people up", as he seemingly got the Skeleton's interest, he quickly added "All you have to do is follow me, we're at a one day walk from the city."
Without waiting for an answer or a punch to the face, which was most likely, Devon's energy quickly started to move in the direction of the city. He wasn't sure what a punch from that skeleton would do to him, nor what would happen if he got killed in this form. However he wasn't willing to test and discover that today. Even without real feelings, the idea of being re-killed was not something Devon was looking foward to. | Name: Only responds with "AARGH!" when asked. Is usually referred as The Irate Skeleton, or simply The Skeleton
Appearance: A towering, thick-boned skeleton, walking in a slight, perpetual hunch, this undead creature is nothing less than a being of pure, unadulterated rage. It's eye sockets are somehow twisted into a shape that reveal its' intentions, and his intentions are none other than being really, REALLY f@$%ing angry. Its' only garments are hides fashioned into a kilt, thick, heavy boots and gauntlets, and even though age-old and time-worn, they do display a noticeable degree of craftsmanship originating from the northern regions. When it comes to armor, he wears nothing other than a pair of slightly oversized shoulderplates, a helm, and two round wooden shields strapped on his back.
Race: Undead (skeleton)
Class: He beats sh!t with his fists.
Attributes:
+Very fast movements and reaction speed.
+Strong as sh!t.
+Insanely durable.
+/-Two and a half meters tall, a.k.a. Big motherf@ker.
-Slow footspeed.
-Holy magic hurts him very, very bad.
-Healing/life magic either hurts him or leaves him unaffected.
-Always angry. All the time. Subtlety and using anything but force to solve a problem are concepts all but alien to him.
-May be sort of smart, but too angry for it to show, matter, or have any practical application. Basically enraged to the point of stupidity.
-May become more of a burden than an aid to others.
Powers:
The Skeleton claims that he's able to "PUNCH EVERYTHING." And while whether or not the statement's exaggerated is up for debate, one thing's for certain. Creatures and things that would logically be unpunchable recoil back when the Skeleton strikes them. Slime monsters are seen rubbing their heads in defeat and even ghosts are left with black eyes. That's not to say that his punches become any stronger, though.
The nature of this ability remains a mystery, though it is believed by observers that the sheer willpower displayed by The Skeleton has conjured some kind of crude magical effect.
Equipment: Iron knuckle dusters, shoulderplates, helm, shields and the friends he'll make along the way.
Motivation: A complete mystery. It is unknown if The Skeleton has any motives at all, though he can be heard screaming profanity as if he just committed a massive blunder even when he thinks he's alone.
Background: Honestly, there's not much to say. After haunting a cemetery of some small, nondescript village, he was eventually annoyed by the other ghosts and ghoulies so much that he decided to wander the countryside instead. Not before giving a good beating to some of them. |
51,378 | 1,391 | 6 | 2,543 | 175 | The undead creature stood silent for a moment, weighing his options before answering in a tone he never strayed too far from.
"BEAT UP? REWARD YOU SAY? FINE! LEAD DAMN YOU!"
The Skeleton was not fond of running. For one reason or another, he only took wide, calculated steps. Perhaps because he had no cares at all, perhaps he simply did not wish to do so or his build did not allow him. Whatever the case could be, his long limbs were more than enough to keep up with the shadowy tree rat. Grunting and cussing for hours on end along the way, he finally reached the gates of a peculiar city. He had not seen it before, nor heard of it. After all, he hated cities and avoided them at all costs, and the wilderness offered no gossip. Its' walls were crudely built, and the guards comprised of numerous inhuman races, indicating the nature of its' inhabitants. Well, the overwhelming noise that came from inside was a good hint too. The Skeleton was fuming.
Like a red-hot pot with a cork plugging it, he walked through the slum-like interior gritting his teeth, bumping into other denizens, and knocking a good few of them down without turning to look at them at all, for that would spell disaster. Grinding his fingertips against his fist weapons, he proceeded further and further into the derelict buildings, crowded bazaars and whatnot, when he finally saw a tower not too far away. It called to him. Whatever wizard tricks had conjured that rat drew him there, he almost felt it. The rodent went on ahead as his own pace slowed down. The crowd had thinned, after all, and he had no more use for a guide. Right when he was about to sink into his usual state, he saw two familiar silhouettes walking out of a nearby alleyway.
Ghouls. Vile, corpse eating vermin that had the audacity to gnaw on his bones once. This was far too much for the skeleton to handle. He charged at them with full force, his eyes seemingly ablaze, as he screamed loud enough for his voice to echo across the district. "BONE-BITING BASTARDS. I'LL CAVE YOUR HEADS." Though what was peculiar is that instead of lunging at him, the two corpse-eaters gave each other worried looks and skittered away, in a pace much faster than the skeleton had the patience to reach. Giving up the chase instantaneously, he resumed his walk to the tower. A few minutes had passed since he had lost sight of the ghost rat, but he made his way to the entrance. Bashing the door a few times in rapid succession, he awaited in relative silence, but not before feeling a peculiar wave of magic wash over him.
"DAMMIT. SHIT. HELL. WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT. OPEN UP." | Name: Only responds with "AARGH!" when asked. Is usually referred as The Irate Skeleton, or simply The Skeleton
Appearance: A towering, thick-boned skeleton, walking in a slight, perpetual hunch, this undead creature is nothing less than a being of pure, unadulterated rage. It's eye sockets are somehow twisted into a shape that reveal its' intentions, and his intentions are none other than being really, REALLY f@$%ing angry. Its' only garments are hides fashioned into a kilt, thick, heavy boots and gauntlets, and even though age-old and time-worn, they do display a noticeable degree of craftsmanship originating from the northern regions. When it comes to armor, he wears nothing other than a pair of slightly oversized shoulderplates, a helm, and two round wooden shields strapped on his back.
Race: Undead (skeleton)
Class: He beats sh!t with his fists.
Attributes:
+Very fast movements and reaction speed.
+Strong as sh!t.
+Insanely durable.
+/-Two and a half meters tall, a.k.a. Big motherf@ker.
-Slow footspeed.
-Holy magic hurts him very, very bad.
-Healing/life magic either hurts him or leaves him unaffected.
-Always angry. All the time. Subtlety and using anything but force to solve a problem are concepts all but alien to him.
-May be sort of smart, but too angry for it to show, matter, or have any practical application. Basically enraged to the point of stupidity.
-May become more of a burden than an aid to others.
Powers:
The Skeleton claims that he's able to "PUNCH EVERYTHING." And while whether or not the statement's exaggerated is up for debate, one thing's for certain. Creatures and things that would logically be unpunchable recoil back when the Skeleton strikes them. Slime monsters are seen rubbing their heads in defeat and even ghosts are left with black eyes. That's not to say that his punches become any stronger, though.
The nature of this ability remains a mystery, though it is believed by observers that the sheer willpower displayed by The Skeleton has conjured some kind of crude magical effect.
Equipment: Iron knuckle dusters, shoulderplates, helm, shields and the friends he'll make along the way.
Motivation: A complete mystery. It is unknown if The Skeleton has any motives at all, though he can be heard screaming profanity as if he just committed a massive blunder even when he thinks he's alone.
Background: Honestly, there's not much to say. After haunting a cemetery of some small, nondescript village, he was eventually annoyed by the other ghosts and ghoulies so much that he decided to wander the countryside instead. Not before giving a good beating to some of them. |
51,379 | 1,391 | 7 | 15 | 3,140 | Grox stopped Woggha a good 15 meters from the tower's entrance. This was the place for sure. Grox scratched his jaw and spit out next to him. It seemed like there was someone already at the door. A half elf with a huge bag of weapons on his back, and many more mounted on him. Grox patted Woggha's neck and the beast looked up at him. "Dem gits wid lotta weaponz can't fif. A propa Ork needs one gutta' to smash headz." Woggha and Grox let out an intrepid laughter that shook the air. If the elf didn't notice them before, he sure did now. But the duo's fun was over in a second as the door opened after the Elf bashed on it.
"Are you coming or staring is good enough for you two? Of course the big one will have to stand outside, I don't think I have a big enough door for him!"
Grox grabbed the leash and jump down from Woggha's back. He leashed him to a big stone monument of a wizard, the only thing that looked sturdy enough to hold Woggha. For a while at least. He pat his companion's head and then rushed up the stairs to the door. The human wizard was still standing in the door waiting for him. Grox cracked his knuckles, and grabbed the wizard by his robe. "What u want wizurd? I gat no time fo idlin!" He let out a ferocious battlecry into the face of the human and then let him go. He nodded to Woggha before entering the tower. | Name: Grox Choppa
Race: Orc
Appearance:
History:
Grox grew up on the North, in an out of sight village of Orcs. Wars against humans were only mere tales spoken at night to scare teh kids so they would go to bed. Savageness was unknown to his people. But it all changed when the fire nation Empire attacked a neighbouring village. They razed the houses to ashes, and killed all the orcs. From that point on, him and all the other younglings were taught the art of fighting. Using their trademark weapons, the spiked chain and the two handed axe, they quickly began taking up arms to defend themselves. The young Grox was very keen on learning to fight, as he never wanted to be a slave or a mindless murderer like the rest of his bretheren to the south. But all did not go well. More and more villagers got raided, and the speed at which the orcs armed themselves began troubling the elders. No longer a defensive solution, but rather an all out war like the Southern orcs wage, they wanted to stop. But those from the razed villages hushed the elders, not wanting to let anyone else die. They formed a squadron of noble orcs and set out on their trusty Quaggoth companions to find and destroy the human outpost to save the villages. The next time the humans came, they brought giant metal monsters adored with the expedition party's heads. they attacked the village of Grox, and burnt all the houses. With little to no time and only his weapons as belongings, Grox made his way to the barns. By the time he arrived, only one untamed Quaggoth was standing, but one big at that. A rare breed that could be found in the mountains, one that was strong enough to fend off waves after waves of human attackers. Grox didn't hesitate and climbed on tha back of the beast. Whilst it resisted at first, after a few hushing Orc words, and dead humans the Quaggoth realised that Grox wasn't it's enemy. Then they rode off into the sunset Soon the metal monsters came and the two escpaed the fiery demise of the other villagers with a hasty retreat.
Grox and his tame, now called Woggha after Grox's dad, made their way into the forest. Soon months of escaping would begin, the two hunting humans whernever they could as a retribution for their village. Starving and freezing was a common issue, but these hardships forged the two into something more, not as a tame and rider, rather companions for life. After seeing the whole mountain razed by humans, and the Northern Orcs retreating further into teh mountains where humans could not get them, Grox made his way South, to find other Demihumans to aid him in his quest for revenge. Along the way he gathered many friends and enemies, soon earning a reputation as teh Greenskin that rode a giant Quaggoth. He himself is lightly armored, but he managed to buy very expensive armor for Woggha, turning his companion into the most fearsome beast that the region has seen. nowadays the two wander the area, looking for more and more places where they could put a stop to the crazed murder spree of the humans.
Equipment:
Mighty Choppa - A two handed battleaxe capable of immense damage. Forged from Dark Iron, it is sturdy, sharp, and very lightweight, but it tends to get rusty in rain, and attracts predators.
Hook'd Chainz - A set of chains with deadly hooks on their end, they are wrapped around Grox's body, acting both as armor, and easely accessible weaponary. It can take teh strongest of blows without breaking, and can be a versatile tool in the hands of an experienced user. The hook on the end sometimes fails to attach to things, as the soft surface of the Dark Iron makes it slip if on very hard surfaces.
Woggha's Armor - Woggha, the clever yet monstrous companion of Grox wears incredibly tough armor that protects it from most blows. Forged of Dark Steel, a material even stronger than Steel, crafted from Dark Iron using magic, it is resilient to both magic and physical attacks. Grox also made sure that his companion reminds the enemy of who they are and where they come from, as he installed a harpoon gun into Woggha's right arm that fires hooked chains like his. Both him and Woggha can fire it, and it is usually for dealing with vehicles or fortifications by pulling them apart. However this armor doesn't cover a 100% of Woggha's body, and mostly focuses on vital points. Without enough funds, it will take a long time to have a fully protective armor.
Powers:
Orcish Strenght - The strongest race of human-like races, the Orcs have brutal strenght, able to wield weapons in one hand that a human couldn't lift with two. Their blows are immensely strong, able to bring down most foes with a single hit. This comes at the price of increased metabolism.
Woggha is the companion of Grox. A mighty beast, and a rare breed of it's kin, he is sure to get the job done. Thought he may look stupid and primitive at first sight, behind the killing pair of eyes lie a sharp mind, able to pick up the events of the battlefield. Sure he cannot talk, but he is just a bit behind an Orc's intelligence. Which isn't saying much to be honest. Not if he wasn't Grox's companion, who has more in his head than most Orcs. Woggha's strenght is perfectly matched with his rider's talent in fighting, and he gladly uses the harpoon gun Grox gave him. He finds amusement in dismantling vehicles, often toying with their parts after a battle is over, trying to make something of them. He can never quite make it. Another one of his hobbies is torturing humans in gruesome ways, as he reminds himself of the time when his flock was killed by them back in the mountains. That said, he doesn't have problems with other Demi-humans or even dwarves for that matter. Not keen, sure, but he doesn't hate them.
In battle, Woggha tries his best to make armored spots face his enemies, whilst keeping them in an arms reach. He doesn't have a weapon, but he can easely rip trees out of the ground and use them as basic clubs, or throw rocks at the enemy from far away. |
51,380 | 1,391 | 8 | 256 | 2,259 | What the flying fuck did I got myself into?, Yashar thought to himself while cleaning the orc's saliva from his face. "Do NOT TOUCH ME AGAIN. EVER. You are in MY tower. Do that again and you and that humongous beast outside will be vaporized before you have time to reach for that awfully oversized axe." Yashar's eyes were in a deep shade of red, his pupils and iris gone. His hands were glowing with a an energy that seemed to absorb all the light around them.
Yashar sighed heavily, returning to his normal state as quickly as he turned. "Now, if you could behave yourself for a few minutes, we have business to tend to." Without waiting for an answer, he went upstairs to find the half-elf who went straight ahead. The lack of education from those hirelings was surprising. "Who the fuck just goes upstairs without saying a word? I'd expect more from someone with humam blood. Even this fucking orc waited for me. And he just spat in my face. Hell, I can even smell his last meals!" He had another deep breath while on the way up, trying to not kill both of them and just hire a few human lowlifes instead.
"You have some balls, half blood. Walking around freely through my tower, touching my property without regard for even your own safety. And the biggest of your offences: coming here after being burned by my ward." He let his eyes turn red again before continuing "You'd think I wouldn't notice?".
"Now, if we're done with hostilities, I think we can get to the part where I get what I want and you get rich." His eyes were back to normal. He walked around the room casually, stopping behind his chair. "My name is Yashar and if you guys have something more than air between your ears, you'd notice I'm a wizard." He went around his chair and sat on it, crossing his legs in a rather feminine position. He examined something in his small crystal ball before putting it in a pocket in his robe and proceeding "One of my enemies wants to grab something I want", He was talking in a very condescending tone, as if they were stupid children who needed special care, "And I don't want him to have it. It's very, very important to me that you grab it before he does. When you get it, you bring it back to me, and you get what you want."
Yashar walked around the table and sat on top of it. He was talking in his normal tone again, maybe with a small cocky touch to it, "Now, if we're to make business, we ought to know each other. First tell me who you are, then why you came and finally what you expect. You boy", he said, turning once again to the half elf, "You also tell me what you're scribbling there!"
Standing up with a broad smile, he added with as a small side note "Ohh! And I truly hope you didn't touched anything here while you were alone. More than half of that stuff is actually cursed!"
Yashar crossed the room, standing next to the door, forcing his visitors to turn on the chairs if they wanted to see him. "If you could be quick, there is a big guy coming up, and I'd rather talk to him alone" | Name: Westley Stride
Appearance: Westley is a rather small and scrawny young adult, adorned with a red mage robe, with a lavender cloak over it and a white scarf made from the scales of many serpentines. Westley has bushy brown hair overlaying his face, casting a shadow over his eyes and creating a scowl look. His face is rather plain, and it doesn't stand out to many people, aside from his ears being pointed.
Race: Westley is a half-elf, with more genes leaning towards his human mother.
Class: Battlemage
Equipment: Westley has a wide array of weapons to his arsenal that are carried around in a bag of holding, including a sword made from red steel, but mainly revolves around Spell Tomes such as "Razorblade Typhoon" and "Golden Shower", and staves such as the Xeno Staff, the Life Drain. He also carries around a Mana Flower, a magical blue rose that allows for hands free usage of mana potions, which he carries 5 potions around normally.
Backstory:
Westley has been gone for most of this war, and really only caught wind of it recently. Although he came from a non-monster village, he was often resented because of how his mother and father were of different races, and while this wouldn't be a problem normally, the place where he grew up was against two different races mating, and he never visited the mainland when he was a boy, although he wanted to. When he finally did, he saw poverty, crime, and disgusting acts, and he caught wind of how there was a war and a time of peace. Through a grapevine he heard about how a king of the monsters planned on ending a peace treaty. He shortly left the mainland, and headed towards the regions that held 'monsters' to assist them in the war. He felt like he would connect with them more as he had a sour childhood with elves and humans, and he resents them equally as much.
Notes:
( ! ) Westley will not kill gnomes or children. Gnomes never felt like a nuisance to him, and killing children is just... just wrong.
( ! ) The Xeno Staff is only able to be used once until the summon dies, then it can be used again.
( ! ) The red sword he carries around doesn't do anything special. It's just a red sword.
Is it okay for the character to be half-elf if it hates humans and elves? |
51,381 | 1,391 | 9 | 15 | 3,140 | Well, you did came from a piece of shit city, that explains the lack of manners, Yashar talked to Westley but was looking at the Orc, who was strangely quiet. Maybe angry because of a reprimend, maybe just too stupid to have a full dialogue. Yashar couldn't be sure. "You might want to have a look at those books by the corner of the room. They have some nice spell instructions that I'm sure you would appreciate. Just don't touch anything else."
On the designed corner of the room, a small pile of books was beautifully arranged in an heaxgonal shape. The books were all covered in black leather, with golden letters on the cover indicating the nature of their spells. Beside the pile, lied a small golden chest, with a single ruby craved on top of it.
"Well my friend", the wizard was clearly talking to the orc now, "As you don't seem the talkative type, im going to bring in our second guest. I'd rather not have him waiting for too long". Walking with little concern through his tower, the wizard went for his front door. His crystal ball clearly showing a big figure in the middle of the crowd. A big ogre stood 6 feet above everything else around him.
Yashar opened the door, rather afraid of the giant Quaggot that the Orc left chained on his statue. "I swear to god, if this fucking beast ruins my statue I'll grab that orc and this humongous beast an stick their heads into each other's anuses. Anusii. Assholes. Fuck, I gotta see what many assholes are called."
Looking outside, Yashar could see a huge ogre looking at his tower, with a confused look on his face. The mage wasn't sure if he ogre came from his calling or just wasn't used to seeing anything bigger than him. Preparing for the worse, the mage screamed "Me has offer. You smash people. Me gives you things. Lots of shinny things! Come!" The look on the ogre's face wouldn't give if he understood what the mage said, but he clearly heard it. Yashar took a quick look at his statue. The giant beast was sitting as quietly as one could expect from such an uncontrollable race. His statue was safe. For now.
Upstairs, Westley felt his mouth fill with saliva. Before he could do anything to stop it, he started to uncontrolably drool. | Name: Grox Choppa
Race: Orc
Appearance:
History:
Grox grew up on the North, in an out of sight village of Orcs. Wars against humans were only mere tales spoken at night to scare teh kids so they would go to bed. Savageness was unknown to his people. But it all changed when the fire nation Empire attacked a neighbouring village. They razed the houses to ashes, and killed all the orcs. From that point on, him and all the other younglings were taught the art of fighting. Using their trademark weapons, the spiked chain and the two handed axe, they quickly began taking up arms to defend themselves. The young Grox was very keen on learning to fight, as he never wanted to be a slave or a mindless murderer like the rest of his bretheren to the south. But all did not go well. More and more villagers got raided, and the speed at which the orcs armed themselves began troubling the elders. No longer a defensive solution, but rather an all out war like the Southern orcs wage, they wanted to stop. But those from the razed villages hushed the elders, not wanting to let anyone else die. They formed a squadron of noble orcs and set out on their trusty Quaggoth companions to find and destroy the human outpost to save the villages. The next time the humans came, they brought giant metal monsters adored with the expedition party's heads. they attacked the village of Grox, and burnt all the houses. With little to no time and only his weapons as belongings, Grox made his way to the barns. By the time he arrived, only one untamed Quaggoth was standing, but one big at that. A rare breed that could be found in the mountains, one that was strong enough to fend off waves after waves of human attackers. Grox didn't hesitate and climbed on tha back of the beast. Whilst it resisted at first, after a few hushing Orc words, and dead humans the Quaggoth realised that Grox wasn't it's enemy. Then they rode off into the sunset Soon the metal monsters came and the two escpaed the fiery demise of the other villagers with a hasty retreat.
Grox and his tame, now called Woggha after Grox's dad, made their way into the forest. Soon months of escaping would begin, the two hunting humans whernever they could as a retribution for their village. Starving and freezing was a common issue, but these hardships forged the two into something more, not as a tame and rider, rather companions for life. After seeing the whole mountain razed by humans, and the Northern Orcs retreating further into teh mountains where humans could not get them, Grox made his way South, to find other Demihumans to aid him in his quest for revenge. Along the way he gathered many friends and enemies, soon earning a reputation as teh Greenskin that rode a giant Quaggoth. He himself is lightly armored, but he managed to buy very expensive armor for Woggha, turning his companion into the most fearsome beast that the region has seen. nowadays the two wander the area, looking for more and more places where they could put a stop to the crazed murder spree of the humans.
Equipment:
Mighty Choppa - A two handed battleaxe capable of immense damage. Forged from Dark Iron, it is sturdy, sharp, and very lightweight, but it tends to get rusty in rain, and attracts predators.
Hook'd Chainz - A set of chains with deadly hooks on their end, they are wrapped around Grox's body, acting both as armor, and easely accessible weaponary. It can take teh strongest of blows without breaking, and can be a versatile tool in the hands of an experienced user. The hook on the end sometimes fails to attach to things, as the soft surface of the Dark Iron makes it slip if on very hard surfaces.
Woggha's Armor - Woggha, the clever yet monstrous companion of Grox wears incredibly tough armor that protects it from most blows. Forged of Dark Steel, a material even stronger than Steel, crafted from Dark Iron using magic, it is resilient to both magic and physical attacks. Grox also made sure that his companion reminds the enemy of who they are and where they come from, as he installed a harpoon gun into Woggha's right arm that fires hooked chains like his. Both him and Woggha can fire it, and it is usually for dealing with vehicles or fortifications by pulling them apart. However this armor doesn't cover a 100% of Woggha's body, and mostly focuses on vital points. Without enough funds, it will take a long time to have a fully protective armor.
Powers:
Orcish Strenght - The strongest race of human-like races, the Orcs have brutal strenght, able to wield weapons in one hand that a human couldn't lift with two. Their blows are immensely strong, able to bring down most foes with a single hit. This comes at the price of increased metabolism.
Woggha is the companion of Grox. A mighty beast, and a rare breed of it's kin, he is sure to get the job done. Thought he may look stupid and primitive at first sight, behind the killing pair of eyes lie a sharp mind, able to pick up the events of the battlefield. Sure he cannot talk, but he is just a bit behind an Orc's intelligence. Which isn't saying much to be honest. Not if he wasn't Grox's companion, who has more in his head than most Orcs. Woggha's strenght is perfectly matched with his rider's talent in fighting, and he gladly uses the harpoon gun Grox gave him. He finds amusement in dismantling vehicles, often toying with their parts after a battle is over, trying to make something of them. He can never quite make it. Another one of his hobbies is torturing humans in gruesome ways, as he reminds himself of the time when his flock was killed by them back in the mountains. That said, he doesn't have problems with other Demi-humans or even dwarves for that matter. Not keen, sure, but he doesn't hate them.
In battle, Woggha tries his best to make armored spots face his enemies, whilst keeping them in an arms reach. He doesn't have a weapon, but he can easely rip trees out of the ground and use them as basic clubs, or throw rocks at the enemy from far away. |
51,382 | 1,391 | 10 | 256 | 2,259 | Holy crap on a cracker.
Stride stared at the hall of books, amazed by the amount of sheer spellcrafting instructions and guides there were. Comparing it to anything, it would be like if the god of literature and knowledge went to his bedroom for a bit of fun and 9 months later this appeared. Honestly Stride felt like he could drool just from being near the hall, let alone actually looking at it... wait... he was drooling?
Stride swallowed the excess saliva and rubbed it off his tome. There was a curse afoot, and rather than being harmful, this one was rather more of a nuisance than anything else. Westley closed his mouth and covered it with his scarf, stopping the excessive drooling before him. Thank God that serpent scales are incredibly breathable. He then went back to the hall of books, and went over to where the heavy-hitting spells were located, and he glanced over a spell known as Lunar Flare. He picked up the book and went downstairs to where he heard the orc call for him.
"It's Stride, and what's going on down here...?" | Name: Westley Stride
Appearance: Westley is a rather small and scrawny young adult, adorned with a red mage robe, with a lavender cloak over it and a white scarf made from the scales of many serpentines. Westley has bushy brown hair overlaying his face, casting a shadow over his eyes and creating a scowl look. His face is rather plain, and it doesn't stand out to many people, aside from his ears being pointed.
Race: Westley is a half-elf, with more genes leaning towards his human mother.
Class: Battlemage
Equipment: Westley has a wide array of weapons to his arsenal that are carried around in a bag of holding, including a sword made from red steel, but mainly revolves around Spell Tomes such as "Razorblade Typhoon" and "Golden Shower", and staves such as the Xeno Staff, the Life Drain. He also carries around a Mana Flower, a magical blue rose that allows for hands free usage of mana potions, which he carries 5 potions around normally.
Backstory:
Westley has been gone for most of this war, and really only caught wind of it recently. Although he came from a non-monster village, he was often resented because of how his mother and father were of different races, and while this wouldn't be a problem normally, the place where he grew up was against two different races mating, and he never visited the mainland when he was a boy, although he wanted to. When he finally did, he saw poverty, crime, and disgusting acts, and he caught wind of how there was a war and a time of peace. Through a grapevine he heard about how a king of the monsters planned on ending a peace treaty. He shortly left the mainland, and headed towards the regions that held 'monsters' to assist them in the war. He felt like he would connect with them more as he had a sour childhood with elves and humans, and he resents them equally as much.
Notes:
( ! ) Westley will not kill gnomes or children. Gnomes never felt like a nuisance to him, and killing children is just... just wrong.
( ! ) The Xeno Staff is only able to be used once until the summon dies, then it can be used again.
( ! ) The red sword he carries around doesn't do anything special. It's just a red sword.
Is it okay for the character to be half-elf if it hates humans and elves? |
51,383 | 1,391 | 11 | 653 | 1,095 | As Tugrok pushed his way through the crowd he did his best at not accidentally trampling anyone, like goblins and the like. After a while he reached the tower. Outside there was a statue and a beast chained to it. Tugrok scratched his bald head before he moved in front of it, looking at the creature. "Wolfie, are you voice Tugrok heard?" He even thought about trying to pet 'Wolfie', but its was then that the wizard made his appearance. "Me has offer. You smash people. Me gives you things. Lots of shinny things! Come!"
Slowly standing up the big stared at the wizard, unintentionally looking a bit intimidating like most ogres his size. "Humie, are you voice that speaked to Tugrok?" Then he shouldered his large club, because he can. He wasn't sure what to think of the Wizard, he was dressed a bit weird in Tugroks eyes.
"Errr, Tugrok doesn't mind helping, but Tugrok isn't looking for shiny. Tugrok is looking for- um..." While his brain was starting to work at full capacity he again scratched his head and looked up the tower. After a while he finally looked back at the wizard and continued "Tugrok can't remember what he was looking for." Meanwhile an orc has joined the wizard as well. It seemed like he had business with the human so he Tugrok decided to wait. Maybe he could try to pet the Quaggoth again while they were talking. That seemed like a good idea to Tugrok. | Name: Tugrok
Race: Ogre
Equipment: His "clothes" and his club
Tugrok never really was smart at all, even for an ogre. He could talk with others but logic and tactic was something he'd never understand. He lived in a ogre village with his parents. After years it was time for Tugrok to go his own path, so he wandered off, looking for a place to stay.
Personality: Unlike others of his kind, Tugrok doesn't see humans as evil at first, he just doesn't trust them completely. To him there are two types of beings, good ones and bad ones. This isn't bound to any race since there are also mean monsters and Tugrok doesn't like those. He also protects those who are nice to him and he deems as good.
Motivation: Showing all others that he isn't as stupid as everyone sees him.
Fighting Style: Smashing things with his club. That's it, there is no strategy to it.
Strengths:
Tugrok can take quite some hits before he would go down.
His physical strength.
His size.
Weaknesses:
His own Stupidity.
Enemies who use tactic.
Swift enemies.
His size. |
51,384 | 1,391 | 12 | 15 | 3,140 | Don't touch that! Yashar screamed as the ogre attempted to pet that giant Quaggoth. No matter how fun it would be to watch something like that to unfold, he wasn't willing to lose an stupid ogre who wanted to help. It was probably the biggest amount of muscle for the smallest amount of gold he would ever find. As Tugrok slowly turned to him, he continued, "Maybe as a reward I can make you remeber what you wanted as a reward?" The mage was starting to regret his decision to hire those monsters. Had he not been exiled from human society, he'd be more than glad to turn those monsters away and hire a bunch of mercenaries. The absence of this kind of bullshit would be worth the extra gold he'd have to pay.
"Come close to the door and I'll explain it all", Yashar shouted. He doubted that the Ogre would possibly fit through the door. If he dared to leave the tower, he'd probably would be forced to hold the meeting outside. When he turned to look for his other guests, he found the orc unconfortably close to him. The only ones who'd get this close of him were usually the city whores."Wat u need dat iz so shiny ta get us boyz fo?", the orc partially said, partially screamed. He was so close that the mage could smell not only his breath, but the putrid smell of that race. He stared the orc back in the eyes, desiring nothing but to set him ablaze and make him beg for mercy. But he quickly recomposed himself before continuing, "Do you even understand the concept of personal space? Sit in that chait and as soon as that Stride gets here I'll explain it all. By the way, you still haven't told me your name."
The orc sat on his preferred chair, making the mage think of the ridiculous amount of time he'd have to put to clean it later on. "Get down 'ere u midgut! Dem wizur haz a vizito'!", the orc screamed. He was clearly running out of patience. Fortunately, the half blood quickly answered "It's Stride, and what's going on down here...?" However, something seemed off in his voice. Sounded a little... muffled perhabs? Like he was eating or had something in his mouth. Then it finally hit the mage: the cursed staff! A gift given to him by a prankster gnome a few month ago. Yashar was doing his very best to not laugh at the situation and look respectable.
When Stride finally arrived he found the mage standing close to the door and poiting him to a chair. Yashar's face did not betrayed the fact that he knew about the drooling. He pointed a chair to the half elf before starting his small monologue.
"The reason I brought you all here is simple: an unkown mage found out about a book I've been searching for a long time. It is a very powerful book and the main reason why I was cast out of human society.", as his guests didn't seemed to be in a good mood, he quickly continued "The book is deeply tied to a powerful magic, which the origins I do not know. It is very important that you do not touch it. I should also warn you that there is a party of humans trying to get this book, which is why I need this to be done quickly." As the small party did not seemed to be happy about the perspective of fighting in what should be only a quick fetch quest, Yashar added "If that party is killed, not only I'll increase you rewards, but you shall also be able to get some great loot from their bodies. Even greater rewards await if you bring me the wizard who found out about the book. If he's brought alive, the reward will be greater."
Taking a quick look at it's crystal ball he decided to end the day there. "There is an inn near the market, I've made arrangements for you to stay there for free. For our big friends, the stable has been reserved so they have a place to stay. Further information shall be given to you once you get there. If you are willing to take this task, you shall be leaving in the day after the next by nightime."
"Any questions?" He said, with a broad smile on his face. | Name: Grox Choppa
Race: Orc
Appearance:
History:
Grox grew up on the North, in an out of sight village of Orcs. Wars against humans were only mere tales spoken at night to scare teh kids so they would go to bed. Savageness was unknown to his people. But it all changed when the fire nation Empire attacked a neighbouring village. They razed the houses to ashes, and killed all the orcs. From that point on, him and all the other younglings were taught the art of fighting. Using their trademark weapons, the spiked chain and the two handed axe, they quickly began taking up arms to defend themselves. The young Grox was very keen on learning to fight, as he never wanted to be a slave or a mindless murderer like the rest of his bretheren to the south. But all did not go well. More and more villagers got raided, and the speed at which the orcs armed themselves began troubling the elders. No longer a defensive solution, but rather an all out war like the Southern orcs wage, they wanted to stop. But those from the razed villages hushed the elders, not wanting to let anyone else die. They formed a squadron of noble orcs and set out on their trusty Quaggoth companions to find and destroy the human outpost to save the villages. The next time the humans came, they brought giant metal monsters adored with the expedition party's heads. they attacked the village of Grox, and burnt all the houses. With little to no time and only his weapons as belongings, Grox made his way to the barns. By the time he arrived, only one untamed Quaggoth was standing, but one big at that. A rare breed that could be found in the mountains, one that was strong enough to fend off waves after waves of human attackers. Grox didn't hesitate and climbed on tha back of the beast. Whilst it resisted at first, after a few hushing Orc words, and dead humans the Quaggoth realised that Grox wasn't it's enemy. Then they rode off into the sunset Soon the metal monsters came and the two escpaed the fiery demise of the other villagers with a hasty retreat.
Grox and his tame, now called Woggha after Grox's dad, made their way into the forest. Soon months of escaping would begin, the two hunting humans whernever they could as a retribution for their village. Starving and freezing was a common issue, but these hardships forged the two into something more, not as a tame and rider, rather companions for life. After seeing the whole mountain razed by humans, and the Northern Orcs retreating further into teh mountains where humans could not get them, Grox made his way South, to find other Demihumans to aid him in his quest for revenge. Along the way he gathered many friends and enemies, soon earning a reputation as teh Greenskin that rode a giant Quaggoth. He himself is lightly armored, but he managed to buy very expensive armor for Woggha, turning his companion into the most fearsome beast that the region has seen. nowadays the two wander the area, looking for more and more places where they could put a stop to the crazed murder spree of the humans.
Equipment:
Mighty Choppa - A two handed battleaxe capable of immense damage. Forged from Dark Iron, it is sturdy, sharp, and very lightweight, but it tends to get rusty in rain, and attracts predators.
Hook'd Chainz - A set of chains with deadly hooks on their end, they are wrapped around Grox's body, acting both as armor, and easely accessible weaponary. It can take teh strongest of blows without breaking, and can be a versatile tool in the hands of an experienced user. The hook on the end sometimes fails to attach to things, as the soft surface of the Dark Iron makes it slip if on very hard surfaces.
Woggha's Armor - Woggha, the clever yet monstrous companion of Grox wears incredibly tough armor that protects it from most blows. Forged of Dark Steel, a material even stronger than Steel, crafted from Dark Iron using magic, it is resilient to both magic and physical attacks. Grox also made sure that his companion reminds the enemy of who they are and where they come from, as he installed a harpoon gun into Woggha's right arm that fires hooked chains like his. Both him and Woggha can fire it, and it is usually for dealing with vehicles or fortifications by pulling them apart. However this armor doesn't cover a 100% of Woggha's body, and mostly focuses on vital points. Without enough funds, it will take a long time to have a fully protective armor.
Powers:
Orcish Strenght - The strongest race of human-like races, the Orcs have brutal strenght, able to wield weapons in one hand that a human couldn't lift with two. Their blows are immensely strong, able to bring down most foes with a single hit. This comes at the price of increased metabolism.
Woggha is the companion of Grox. A mighty beast, and a rare breed of it's kin, he is sure to get the job done. Thought he may look stupid and primitive at first sight, behind the killing pair of eyes lie a sharp mind, able to pick up the events of the battlefield. Sure he cannot talk, but he is just a bit behind an Orc's intelligence. Which isn't saying much to be honest. Not if he wasn't Grox's companion, who has more in his head than most Orcs. Woggha's strenght is perfectly matched with his rider's talent in fighting, and he gladly uses the harpoon gun Grox gave him. He finds amusement in dismantling vehicles, often toying with their parts after a battle is over, trying to make something of them. He can never quite make it. Another one of his hobbies is torturing humans in gruesome ways, as he reminds himself of the time when his flock was killed by them back in the mountains. That said, he doesn't have problems with other Demi-humans or even dwarves for that matter. Not keen, sure, but he doesn't hate them.
In battle, Woggha tries his best to make armored spots face his enemies, whilst keeping them in an arms reach. He doesn't have a weapon, but he can easely rip trees out of the ground and use them as basic clubs, or throw rocks at the enemy from far away. |
51,385 | 1,391 | 13 | 256 | 2,259 | Question, can you fix this droolin' issue for me, or at least gimme somethin' that'll lessen it?
This would be irritating and annoying in the long run. A limitless supply of spit is kinda nice in some situations, like if he needs to cause a distraction, but in most situations it's not helpful. Then an idea lit up in Westley's head. The saucer that followed him floated above his head and began to speak in a metallic echoey voice.
I may be able to talk like this for the time being. Telepathic links between my summon and me are pretty nice to have for situations like this."
Westley saw this small band of misfits, and realized that they were probably going to be doomed on this quest, although there was a bright idea in his head. He looked at the Quaggoth as the saucer began to speak again.
"I'll go on the quest if you give a bit more armor to the orc's mount in advance. It looks like it could use it."
If Yashar complied, Stride would know he was serious about this quest he had them going on.
"As for me in terms of a reward, I don't know just yet what I want. I'll think about it and I'll get back to you in a bit. Whether you send me a message via someway or I send my summon to you, we'll figure it out."
Westley stood looking at Yashar, his hair slightly blowing in a breeze.
"Well?" | Name: Westley Stride
Appearance: Westley is a rather small and scrawny young adult, adorned with a red mage robe, with a lavender cloak over it and a white scarf made from the scales of many serpentines. Westley has bushy brown hair overlaying his face, casting a shadow over his eyes and creating a scowl look. His face is rather plain, and it doesn't stand out to many people, aside from his ears being pointed.
Race: Westley is a half-elf, with more genes leaning towards his human mother.
Class: Battlemage
Equipment: Westley has a wide array of weapons to his arsenal that are carried around in a bag of holding, including a sword made from red steel, but mainly revolves around Spell Tomes such as "Razorblade Typhoon" and "Golden Shower", and staves such as the Xeno Staff, the Life Drain. He also carries around a Mana Flower, a magical blue rose that allows for hands free usage of mana potions, which he carries 5 potions around normally.
Backstory:
Westley has been gone for most of this war, and really only caught wind of it recently. Although he came from a non-monster village, he was often resented because of how his mother and father were of different races, and while this wouldn't be a problem normally, the place where he grew up was against two different races mating, and he never visited the mainland when he was a boy, although he wanted to. When he finally did, he saw poverty, crime, and disgusting acts, and he caught wind of how there was a war and a time of peace. Through a grapevine he heard about how a king of the monsters planned on ending a peace treaty. He shortly left the mainland, and headed towards the regions that held 'monsters' to assist them in the war. He felt like he would connect with them more as he had a sour childhood with elves and humans, and he resents them equally as much.
Notes:
( ! ) Westley will not kill gnomes or children. Gnomes never felt like a nuisance to him, and killing children is just... just wrong.
( ! ) The Xeno Staff is only able to be used once until the summon dies, then it can be used again.
( ! ) The red sword he carries around doesn't do anything special. It's just a red sword.
Is it okay for the character to be half-elf if it hates humans and elves? |
51,386 | 1,391 | 14 | 653 | 1,095 | He just wanted to pet him but then the wizard shouted all of a sudden "Don't touch that!". Togruks hand stopped mid-air before he could pet the Quaggoth, though he didn't understand why he shouldn't do that. "Tugrok just wanted to pet Wolfie." he said as he turned to the Wizard.
"Maybe as a reward I can make you remeber what you wanted as a reward? Come close to the door and I'll explain it all!" the Wizard offered Tugrok who came closer like like he requested. It took Tugrok only a few moments of thinking to respond, with a smart question for once "Okay... but what if Tugrok remembers first?" he wasn't sure though if the Wizard heard him.
Looking through the door Tugrok saw that there was another one joining them, Stride. Now that they were all gathered the Human explained why he had summoned them here. Get the book, maybe smash some hummies and maybe get the wizard, even Tugrok could remember that. The Wizard finished his explanation by asking if there were any questions. The first one who piped up was the orc, demanding a bigger axe, that could shoot thunder. Tugrok looked at his big wooden club, it wasn't the best weapon but he was ok with it.
After sealing the deal the orc headed outside to the Quaggoth, untying him. Before they made there exit, Woggha waved at Tugrok trying to smile. The ogre didn't mind the teeth and waved back "Bye Wolfie." Then he turned back to the wizard with a question "Where are stables humie talked about? Tugroks first time here." | Name: Tugrok
Race: Ogre
Equipment: His "clothes" and his club
Tugrok never really was smart at all, even for an ogre. He could talk with others but logic and tactic was something he'd never understand. He lived in a ogre village with his parents. After years it was time for Tugrok to go his own path, so he wandered off, looking for a place to stay.
Personality: Unlike others of his kind, Tugrok doesn't see humans as evil at first, he just doesn't trust them completely. To him there are two types of beings, good ones and bad ones. This isn't bound to any race since there are also mean monsters and Tugrok doesn't like those. He also protects those who are nice to him and he deems as good.
Motivation: Showing all others that he isn't as stupid as everyone sees him.
Fighting Style: Smashing things with his club. That's it, there is no strategy to it.
Strengths:
Tugrok can take quite some hits before he would go down.
His physical strength.
His size.
Weaknesses:
His own Stupidity.
Enemies who use tactic.
Swift enemies.
His size. |
51,387 | 1,391 | 15 | 256 | 2,259 | The mage looked to the Ogre, intrigued by how much sense that huge beast's statement made. Apparently, he wouldn't be able to cheat on his deal with the big one. "Smart observation, my friend! If you do remember what you want, let me know when you come back and I'll do my best to get it for you."
Yashar looked to the remaining of his guests. He was growing tired of their petulance. "I don't possess all this gear you want. Or at least can't give such powerful and expensive equipment before the job gets done. That's how rewards work." The lack of common sense on his new minions was astonishing. The fact that the Ogre was the only one showing some manners was baffling. "But I'll tell you what. Behind the inn you will find a blacksmith, he can direct you to a great friend of mine who can get you guys some gear. It won't be the best possible gear, but it should be good enough to kill some humans with it. Just hand this letter to the blacksmith and he will show you guys where you should go."
Pulling a small piece of paper from what seemed out of nowhere, in absolute silence he wrote a presumably short message on it. Finishing the message he folded the paper and fused both it's endings and the edges, making so the only way to read it would be by ripping the paper. Outside he simply wrote: "To ZE by Y". Walking to the half-elf, he said loud enough so the orc and the ogre could hear, "If you want gear, give this to the blacksmith and follow his instructions." Going back to his usual tone, he continued, "About this drooling... Look, I ain't a healer. You could always look for one in the city. It has a big market place and I know for sure two healers are there for this week."
"The inn you're going is at the east of the town. It is reasonably small, but painted in a vivid red color. It's named The Red Mug and..." He stood in silence for a while, looking at his guests. The half-elf staring at him with that weird metal object flying around. The orc was pulling his axe out of the wall. The ogre was standing there, smiling at the Quaggoth. No way in hell those three would be able to follow simple directions. "You know what? Take this map with you! It's enchanted so it will show you the area around you and how to get to a location of your choice. Currently, it's limited to the area of this city, but if you can find other maps and an enchanter, you could add other locations to it."
The orc didn't seemed to be even listening to him, too busy freeing his beast from the statue. The ogre was blinkly staring at him. The only one who seemed to be listening was Stride, but even then the mage wasn't very sure, so he simply added "Open the map. Say where you wanna go. Follow the big arrow that wil show up. As simple as that."
With nobody left in his tower, he finally closed the door and prepared to meet the last guest. | Name: Westley Stride
Appearance: Westley is a rather small and scrawny young adult, adorned with a red mage robe, with a lavender cloak over it and a white scarf made from the scales of many serpentines. Westley has bushy brown hair overlaying his face, casting a shadow over his eyes and creating a scowl look. His face is rather plain, and it doesn't stand out to many people, aside from his ears being pointed.
Race: Westley is a half-elf, with more genes leaning towards his human mother.
Class: Battlemage
Equipment: Westley has a wide array of weapons to his arsenal that are carried around in a bag of holding, including a sword made from red steel, but mainly revolves around Spell Tomes such as "Razorblade Typhoon" and "Golden Shower", and staves such as the Xeno Staff, the Life Drain. He also carries around a Mana Flower, a magical blue rose that allows for hands free usage of mana potions, which he carries 5 potions around normally.
Backstory:
Westley has been gone for most of this war, and really only caught wind of it recently. Although he came from a non-monster village, he was often resented because of how his mother and father were of different races, and while this wouldn't be a problem normally, the place where he grew up was against two different races mating, and he never visited the mainland when he was a boy, although he wanted to. When he finally did, he saw poverty, crime, and disgusting acts, and he caught wind of how there was a war and a time of peace. Through a grapevine he heard about how a king of the monsters planned on ending a peace treaty. He shortly left the mainland, and headed towards the regions that held 'monsters' to assist them in the war. He felt like he would connect with them more as he had a sour childhood with elves and humans, and he resents them equally as much.
Notes:
( ! ) Westley will not kill gnomes or children. Gnomes never felt like a nuisance to him, and killing children is just... just wrong.
( ! ) The Xeno Staff is only able to be used once until the summon dies, then it can be used again.
( ! ) The red sword he carries around doesn't do anything special. It's just a red sword.
Is it okay for the character to be half-elf if it hates humans and elves? |
51,388 | 1,391 | 16 | 653 | 1,095 | Yashar was already reinforcing his ward when the flying metal thing that followed Stride entered through his window. The object was shinning in the blue lighting of the torches, almost mesmerizing the mage. Never in his life he had seen an object like this. A metallic voice echoed from the object, snapping the wizard from his almost entranced state. "Thank ya for the stuff Yashar... and sorry about bein' a bit rude back there. I-It was uncalled fer." Did the half elf just apologized? That was unnexpected. Maybe his visitors had some kind of manners afterall. Hell, this was more surprizing than the flying object.
But he didn't had much time to waste. The visitors left his tower without causing many troubles, however the ward had lost much of it's power. Mostly due to the overly aggressive manners of it's visitors. Except for that Ogre. Tugrok had an unsettling aura around him. Different from most ogres, he showed something that could even pass as compassion to someone who never saw an ogre before. Sure thing, Tugrok was an idiot, but he seemed to have some aspects of a holy man. He even sensed some magical power surrounding the ogre. This gave him an idea. In the best case, he'd have a much more powerful minion doing his bidding. In the worst case, he'd have a hilarious story to tell the next time he ventured into a tavern.
Leaving the ward to be worked uppon the next day, he quickly went upstairs to pick an old book. It's cover was extremely dusty and it's pages partially eaten by a mices. On it's brown leatherty cover, letters were burned in forming it's title in a rude caligraphy "God evokation in combat situations". A smile covered Yashar's face. No matter the result, it would be hilarious. He needed a good laugh lately.
He spent the rest of the night preparing the tomes with the God Evoking ritual and a few basic spells. Holy Smite, Ressurect and Turn Evil. The spells were the simplest he could gather from the book, if the ogre managed to complete the ritual, he would surely be able to use those spells rather easily. Yashar finished the tomes and went to his bed.
The next morning came. Yashar felt as if he didn't had any sleep at all, waking up just as tired as he was when he went to sleep. He prepared a few of his morning rituals and quickly went down to work on the ward on his front door. For what he had seen on his crystal ball, the visitor that Devon's energy had found was extremely violent. It was better to prepare something that wouldn't cause physical damage to him.
In the matter of a few hours, a new ward was placed properly. It covered the entire tower and it would immobilize anyone who tried to cause damage to another being. Even Yashar could be restrained by this ward, but it was the price he had to pay for his safety. He was barely finished with the ward when he heard a massive amount of profanities shouted from outside his door. There were no doubt his guest had arrived.
Opening the door, he could see a giant skeleton of a man. He was surely surrounded by some kind of magic, although the mage couldn't identify which type. It seemed ancient and raw, but it wasn't time to dwell in such subjects now. Maybe he could try to identify it later. "Glad to see my offer interested you!", he smiled, assured that his ward would protect him from any harm. | Name: Tugrok
Race: Ogre
Equipment: His "clothes" and his club
Tugrok never really was smart at all, even for an ogre. He could talk with others but logic and tactic was something he'd never understand. He lived in a ogre village with his parents. After years it was time for Tugrok to go his own path, so he wandered off, looking for a place to stay.
Personality: Unlike others of his kind, Tugrok doesn't see humans as evil at first, he just doesn't trust them completely. To him there are two types of beings, good ones and bad ones. This isn't bound to any race since there are also mean monsters and Tugrok doesn't like those. He also protects those who are nice to him and he deems as good.
Motivation: Showing all others that he isn't as stupid as everyone sees him.
Fighting Style: Smashing things with his club. That's it, there is no strategy to it.
Strengths:
Tugrok can take quite some hits before he would go down.
His physical strength.
His size.
Weaknesses:
His own Stupidity.
Enemies who use tactic.
Swift enemies.
His size. |
51,389 | 1,391 | 17 | 2,543 | 175 | Glad to see my offer interested you!
Incoherent screaming was all that followed the phrase. That, and a rather impolite remark, possibly concerning a peculiar burst of magical energies the skeleton felt once he bashed the door. He was, after all, extremely distrustful of spellcasters, since their constant schemes and frequent visits to graveyards pestered every resident of said establishments including himself. The tower owner's appearance did not help at all, since he quite obviously looked the part. Still standing outside the door, it bellowed his response in a barely intelligible manner.
"WHAT THE UNHOLY ROOSTER FUCK IS THIS WIZARDRY?! YOU TRYING TO TRICK ME?!"
A hair's breadth away from flipping out, the undead creature raised a bony index finger inches away from the mage's face for a short while, and then stood silent, producing a low growling noise. Apparently, it was waiting for the mage to further elaborate, though whatever semblance of patience it had was running shorter by the second. | Name: Only responds with "AARGH!" when asked. Is usually referred as The Irate Skeleton, or simply The Skeleton
Appearance: A towering, thick-boned skeleton, walking in a slight, perpetual hunch, this undead creature is nothing less than a being of pure, unadulterated rage. It's eye sockets are somehow twisted into a shape that reveal its' intentions, and his intentions are none other than being really, REALLY f@$%ing angry. Its' only garments are hides fashioned into a kilt, thick, heavy boots and gauntlets, and even though age-old and time-worn, they do display a noticeable degree of craftsmanship originating from the northern regions. When it comes to armor, he wears nothing other than a pair of slightly oversized shoulderplates, a helm, and two round wooden shields strapped on his back.
Race: Undead (skeleton)
Class: He beats sh!t with his fists.
Attributes:
+Very fast movements and reaction speed.
+Strong as sh!t.
+Insanely durable.
+/-Two and a half meters tall, a.k.a. Big motherf@ker.
-Slow footspeed.
-Holy magic hurts him very, very bad.
-Healing/life magic either hurts him or leaves him unaffected.
-Always angry. All the time. Subtlety and using anything but force to solve a problem are concepts all but alien to him.
-May be sort of smart, but too angry for it to show, matter, or have any practical application. Basically enraged to the point of stupidity.
-May become more of a burden than an aid to others.
Powers:
The Skeleton claims that he's able to "PUNCH EVERYTHING." And while whether or not the statement's exaggerated is up for debate, one thing's for certain. Creatures and things that would logically be unpunchable recoil back when the Skeleton strikes them. Slime monsters are seen rubbing their heads in defeat and even ghosts are left with black eyes. That's not to say that his punches become any stronger, though.
The nature of this ability remains a mystery, though it is believed by observers that the sheer willpower displayed by The Skeleton has conjured some kind of crude magical effect.
Equipment: Iron knuckle dusters, shoulderplates, helm, shields and the friends he'll make along the way.
Motivation: A complete mystery. It is unknown if The Skeleton has any motives at all, though he can be heard screaming profanity as if he just committed a massive blunder even when he thinks he's alone.
Background: Honestly, there's not much to say. After haunting a cemetery of some small, nondescript village, he was eventually annoyed by the other ghosts and ghoulies so much that he decided to wander the countryside instead. Not before giving a good beating to some of them. |
51,390 | 1,391 | 18 | 256 | 2,259 | The summer sun shone uppon the sand filled market. A fading rock path showing the ways between the various shacks. In it's center three large barracks were guarded by a variety of humongous beasts. It's contents hidden inside it's frail woden walls. At the east, one could see a variety of merchants selling their so called goods at the street. Crystals, armors, weapons, books, tomes, jewelry. It all looked as shady as their merchants, who would loudly announce their offers.
The one thing that could match the diversity of the goods being sold in those two areas were it's crowd. From Flumphs to Gnolls to Trolls to Goblins. Every race was there, poluting the streets with it's foul body odors. Walking amongst that mass, one could feel the heat of their bodies. The combination of the odor, heat and the sheer number of people were enough to create a suffocating feeling, making anyone who dared to stay in there for too long desperate for fresh air.
A sinuous sand path led to the west. The fading rock road that paved the center and east side of the market now gone. That place was home for the city militia. A group of outlaws that would regularly raid human lands in search of treasures, power or just for fun. They had no fortifications in their base other than the ridiculously high amount of decaying shacks that were built around it. Not only the shacks would avoid any formation to reach the base, it's inhabitants would be less than happy to be disturbed. If one managed to reach through the decaying buildings, it would find about a dozen stone buildings.
Up in the north, the three main service providers of the city could be found. Sitting at the middle it was the famous brothel of the city, commonly called Sword Sheatery. It had an older name, long forgotten due to the rude humor of the inhabitants of the city. It was rummored that one could lay with any imaginable beast inside those walls, provided they had the coin. At it's west, an extremely tall building, made from a shinny black stone and polished brown wood stood. It was the famous Torn Ale Tavern. Nobody really knew the reason of the name, but the general belief was that the actual owner, a huge Gnoll named Sven, ripped the old goblin owner, Alessandra, in two with his bare hands. Judging by it's appearance and temperament, it was not a far fetched theory. To the east, the Red Mug. A small inn where the rare visitors to the city would stay. It's red walls the only thing worth of a mention.
Following a rocky road, one would find the Rich District. The name was given by the populace of the shacks on the west. Indeed, the ones living in those stone buildings were, in it's vast majority, filthy rich or powerful. Mages, slave traders, the owner of the brothel, and a few of the merchants made up the majority of it's population. Distinct among the others, two buildings deserved special attention: Yashar's Tower and Brut's Palace. The tower was know as the tallest building in the city, home of the famous Yashar. The descriptions given by the very few who ever saw it's interior were vastly diverse, leading the populace to belive that it was buil on magic, not stone. The palace had simpler origins: Brut, it's owner was a raider, who in less than a year gathered more gold and power than any person could hope to amass in ten lives. The means to realize such a feat are a mistery. The general consensus in the city is that he made a demonic pact for it. Wheter it's true or not, this is the only rummor he didn't blatantly denied.
______________________________________________________________________________________
Seriously, this is a piece of art. | Name: Westley Stride
Appearance: Westley is a rather small and scrawny young adult, adorned with a red mage robe, with a lavender cloak over it and a white scarf made from the scales of many serpentines. Westley has bushy brown hair overlaying his face, casting a shadow over his eyes and creating a scowl look. His face is rather plain, and it doesn't stand out to many people, aside from his ears being pointed.
Race: Westley is a half-elf, with more genes leaning towards his human mother.
Class: Battlemage
Equipment: Westley has a wide array of weapons to his arsenal that are carried around in a bag of holding, including a sword made from red steel, but mainly revolves around Spell Tomes such as "Razorblade Typhoon" and "Golden Shower", and staves such as the Xeno Staff, the Life Drain. He also carries around a Mana Flower, a magical blue rose that allows for hands free usage of mana potions, which he carries 5 potions around normally.
Backstory:
Westley has been gone for most of this war, and really only caught wind of it recently. Although he came from a non-monster village, he was often resented because of how his mother and father were of different races, and while this wouldn't be a problem normally, the place where he grew up was against two different races mating, and he never visited the mainland when he was a boy, although he wanted to. When he finally did, he saw poverty, crime, and disgusting acts, and he caught wind of how there was a war and a time of peace. Through a grapevine he heard about how a king of the monsters planned on ending a peace treaty. He shortly left the mainland, and headed towards the regions that held 'monsters' to assist them in the war. He felt like he would connect with them more as he had a sour childhood with elves and humans, and he resents them equally as much.
Notes:
( ! ) Westley will not kill gnomes or children. Gnomes never felt like a nuisance to him, and killing children is just... just wrong.
( ! ) The Xeno Staff is only able to be used once until the summon dies, then it can be used again.
( ! ) The red sword he carries around doesn't do anything special. It's just a red sword.
Is it okay for the character to be half-elf if it hates humans and elves? |
51,391 | 1,391 | 19 | 2,543 | 175 | The skeleton was much bigger than Yashar was led to believe. And much angrier. It had a raw aura around him of something dark and powerful that made the mage extremely happy to have set that ward. He calmly waited until the last profanities were shouted to begin "My name is Yashar. I am a mage and I'm in need of someone who can beat people up for me. If you help, I will give you a reward of your choosing."
The skeleton looked choleric, but for some reason he had retained himself from incoherent screaming for the past few seconds. Yashar took it as a sing of progress. Keeping his distance, he asked with a smile "You you accept my offer?" | Name: Only responds with "AARGH!" when asked. Is usually referred as The Irate Skeleton, or simply The Skeleton
Appearance: A towering, thick-boned skeleton, walking in a slight, perpetual hunch, this undead creature is nothing less than a being of pure, unadulterated rage. It's eye sockets are somehow twisted into a shape that reveal its' intentions, and his intentions are none other than being really, REALLY f@$%ing angry. Its' only garments are hides fashioned into a kilt, thick, heavy boots and gauntlets, and even though age-old and time-worn, they do display a noticeable degree of craftsmanship originating from the northern regions. When it comes to armor, he wears nothing other than a pair of slightly oversized shoulderplates, a helm, and two round wooden shields strapped on his back.
Race: Undead (skeleton)
Class: He beats sh!t with his fists.
Attributes:
+Very fast movements and reaction speed.
+Strong as sh!t.
+Insanely durable.
+/-Two and a half meters tall, a.k.a. Big motherf@ker.
-Slow footspeed.
-Holy magic hurts him very, very bad.
-Healing/life magic either hurts him or leaves him unaffected.
-Always angry. All the time. Subtlety and using anything but force to solve a problem are concepts all but alien to him.
-May be sort of smart, but too angry for it to show, matter, or have any practical application. Basically enraged to the point of stupidity.
-May become more of a burden than an aid to others.
Powers:
The Skeleton claims that he's able to "PUNCH EVERYTHING." And while whether or not the statement's exaggerated is up for debate, one thing's for certain. Creatures and things that would logically be unpunchable recoil back when the Skeleton strikes them. Slime monsters are seen rubbing their heads in defeat and even ghosts are left with black eyes. That's not to say that his punches become any stronger, though.
The nature of this ability remains a mystery, though it is believed by observers that the sheer willpower displayed by The Skeleton has conjured some kind of crude magical effect.
Equipment: Iron knuckle dusters, shoulderplates, helm, shields and the friends he'll make along the way.
Motivation: A complete mystery. It is unknown if The Skeleton has any motives at all, though he can be heard screaming profanity as if he just committed a massive blunder even when he thinks he's alone.
Background: Honestly, there's not much to say. After haunting a cemetery of some small, nondescript village, he was eventually annoyed by the other ghosts and ghoulies so much that he decided to wander the countryside instead. Not before giving a good beating to some of them. |
51,392 | 1,391 | 20 | 653 | 1,095 | Tugrok kneeled beside a small shack. The thundering sound of metal being hammered stopped as the minotaur black smith saw the ogre's head poppoing through his door. Osgar was huge, even for minotaur standarts. His muscles pumped from his hammering. The shack was dark, only lit by the fire comign from the forge in it's center. Piles of scrap metal, leather and other components piled in the corners, creating small mountains of garbage all over. In the back of the shack, various weapons, both finnished and unfinnished hang from the walls. All of them showed perfection on it's work. Even an ignorant in the art of smithing could tell that Osgar was a master at his craft.
Osgar rested his hammer against the anvil to receive his not so smart guest. "Hello friend! Yes, as you can see by all this blacksmith things laying around, you indeed found the best blacksmith in town. My name is Osgar, a pleasure to meet you!", the minotaur's voice was oddly happy and cheerful, "Tell me, who's that wolfie you speak of?" | Name: Tugrok
Race: Ogre
Equipment: His "clothes" and his club
Tugrok never really was smart at all, even for an ogre. He could talk with others but logic and tactic was something he'd never understand. He lived in a ogre village with his parents. After years it was time for Tugrok to go his own path, so he wandered off, looking for a place to stay.
Personality: Unlike others of his kind, Tugrok doesn't see humans as evil at first, he just doesn't trust them completely. To him there are two types of beings, good ones and bad ones. This isn't bound to any race since there are also mean monsters and Tugrok doesn't like those. He also protects those who are nice to him and he deems as good.
Motivation: Showing all others that he isn't as stupid as everyone sees him.
Fighting Style: Smashing things with his club. That's it, there is no strategy to it.
Strengths:
Tugrok can take quite some hits before he would go down.
His physical strength.
His size.
Weaknesses:
His own Stupidity.
Enemies who use tactic.
Swift enemies.
His size. |
51,393 | 1,391 | 21 | 653 | 1,095 | Tugrok listened carefully to the words of the minotaur, although he didn't understand everything. "Tell me, who's that wolfie you speak of?" was probably the toughest question. Thinking hard he Tugrok replied "Uhmm, you know, 'Wolfie', he's about this big and uhh..." gesturing with one of his hands he tried to show the blacksmith Wogghas' approximate height from what he could remember.
"Oh also man with spikey ears said I give this to smithy." saying this he handed the note from Yashar to the minotaur. | Name: Tugrok
Race: Ogre
Equipment: His "clothes" and his club
Tugrok never really was smart at all, even for an ogre. He could talk with others but logic and tactic was something he'd never understand. He lived in a ogre village with his parents. After years it was time for Tugrok to go his own path, so he wandered off, looking for a place to stay.
Personality: Unlike others of his kind, Tugrok doesn't see humans as evil at first, he just doesn't trust them completely. To him there are two types of beings, good ones and bad ones. This isn't bound to any race since there are also mean monsters and Tugrok doesn't like those. He also protects those who are nice to him and he deems as good.
Motivation: Showing all others that he isn't as stupid as everyone sees him.
Fighting Style: Smashing things with his club. That's it, there is no strategy to it.
Strengths:
Tugrok can take quite some hits before he would go down.
His physical strength.
His size.
Weaknesses:
His own Stupidity.
Enemies who use tactic.
Swift enemies.
His size. |
51,394 | 1,391 | 22 | 1,816 | 285 | Somewhere in the junk pile, a goblin was looking for his next big invention. He would have gone unnoticed as planned. Until the monstrosity on his back backfired again. It made a loud bang and smoke flowed upwards from it, quickly heading out any cracks or openings in the building. "Blasted thing.", was all that came out of his mouth as he gave a hard punch to the front of his armor. After a bit, an engine hummed it's revival as he was satisfied with it working again.
He made no attempt to get closer to the ogre. Instead, he was looking through the trash while talking. "So, what's an ogre doing here in a blacksmith's shop? I never thought you guys were bright enough to be errand fetchers. Or did you need someone to hold your hand?" With another obnoxious cloud of smoke coming off him, he held up a busted piece of scrap. Whatever it was, he looked at it like he struck gold. He was quick to pocket it. After all, they were just useless scraps to most.
When he stood up, he was covered in junk. There was just a mountain of various objects, weapons, and junk attached to him. Smoke was steadily surrounding him, and everything gave off sound. Gears turning, engines humming, the occasional spark of electricity. He almost forgot to introduce himself, that had to be corrected. He turned to the ogre and spoke quickly. "My name is The Grand Royal Doctor Maxwell the Third. I'm sure you have a name, but it probably has stick or rock somewhere in there. Although, if you are here, it seems something is about to happen. Oh, you probably have no clue what I'm saying, let me try again. Ahem, why ogre here?" | NPCs will be here. They won't possess any info that you can't get through the RP, but are good to keep tab of things.
A human mage, trapped in his own tower. His skin is marked for the many years he lived. From scars to wrinkles to burnings, his face has it all. Despite that, he still has a charming smile and the voice of a much younger man. He's usually dressed in one of his dark colored robes, with a scarf over his shoulders. Despite having a small frame and, apart from the scars, a friendly face, a unsettling aura revolves around him.
Status: Alive and well.
Other: A powerful mage in many areas. Specializes in destructive forces, but is also a very capable enchanter and summoner.
Yashar's childhood friend. He never had been able to use magic, but was a genius when it came to creating spells, runes, rituals and wards.
Not much is known about him or his death.
Status: Dead.
Yasha's spy. He was summoned from a dark realm by accident. Worked for Yashar for a few years, becoming almost a friend to him. Was killed to supply Yashar of the life energy he needed for a ritual.
Status: Dead/Energy State/mostly Dead. |
51,395 | 1,391 | 23 | 15 | 3,140 | Grox and Woggha left the others behind. First of all, Orcs HATE to wait around. And second, there was the promise of a lightning axe which Grox totally just bluffed to see if the wizard was for real, but now it is a legit thing he can acquire. He would be the first every Quaggoth riding orc with a lightning axe. The first Orc with a lightning axe. Such deliciously comforting items that could bring gore and blood to the battlefield made the though Orc drop some tears of joy. Woggha on the other hand was more interested in the armor he was getting. He was thinking very hard with his small brain to imagine what it would be like and almsot stepped on a few goblins who angrily threw rocks at him.
For hours the duo wondered both lost in their minds until Grox hit a signpost as Woggha passed udner it, seemingly unaware of his rider. "Oy ye git, wake up yer eyez!" Upon further inspection of the signpost it appeared that they stumbled into the right INN. Literally. "I be damned." He always said a proppa ork don't need no maps to get around. He jsut proved his point. Without much hesitation and a statisfied smile Grox jumped down from Woggha and dusted his face. They caused quite the stirr blocking the door so he quickly pulled his tame away before something really big and mean would come along. Maybe a giant spider. Especially a giant spider.
They amde their way around the back where they found the stable. The various mounts, ranging from wolves, boars horses and ponies all scewred back into the corner of their compartment as the giant Woggha smiled at them. Grox cahined him to one of the pillars. "Stay 'ere. I got sum'thin ta do." With that he went around to teh front of the Inn and observed the palce. Painted red walls, jsut like that robed guy said. He kicked down the doors to the inn, crashing the two pieces across the floor straight towards the counter. The few monsters inside looked at him with bored eyes. This thing must be something they see every day. The fresh hinges and the vivid red paint on the door's pieces just proved this.
As Grox approached the serving table the bartender was holding his head and murmuring soemthing to him. Strangely enough he was a human. "Oh no, this is the 4th time this week. I can't keep it up like this." Grox sat down on one of the chairs and grabbed the attention of teh bartender. Even stting he was taller than the guy and he was damn sure to sue it. He shouted at the bartender in a lousy tone. "Give meh ur best ale! Wiv haste!" | Name: Grox Choppa
Race: Orc
Appearance:
History:
Grox grew up on the North, in an out of sight village of Orcs. Wars against humans were only mere tales spoken at night to scare teh kids so they would go to bed. Savageness was unknown to his people. But it all changed when the fire nation Empire attacked a neighbouring village. They razed the houses to ashes, and killed all the orcs. From that point on, him and all the other younglings were taught the art of fighting. Using their trademark weapons, the spiked chain and the two handed axe, they quickly began taking up arms to defend themselves. The young Grox was very keen on learning to fight, as he never wanted to be a slave or a mindless murderer like the rest of his bretheren to the south. But all did not go well. More and more villagers got raided, and the speed at which the orcs armed themselves began troubling the elders. No longer a defensive solution, but rather an all out war like the Southern orcs wage, they wanted to stop. But those from the razed villages hushed the elders, not wanting to let anyone else die. They formed a squadron of noble orcs and set out on their trusty Quaggoth companions to find and destroy the human outpost to save the villages. The next time the humans came, they brought giant metal monsters adored with the expedition party's heads. they attacked the village of Grox, and burnt all the houses. With little to no time and only his weapons as belongings, Grox made his way to the barns. By the time he arrived, only one untamed Quaggoth was standing, but one big at that. A rare breed that could be found in the mountains, one that was strong enough to fend off waves after waves of human attackers. Grox didn't hesitate and climbed on tha back of the beast. Whilst it resisted at first, after a few hushing Orc words, and dead humans the Quaggoth realised that Grox wasn't it's enemy. Then they rode off into the sunset Soon the metal monsters came and the two escpaed the fiery demise of the other villagers with a hasty retreat.
Grox and his tame, now called Woggha after Grox's dad, made their way into the forest. Soon months of escaping would begin, the two hunting humans whernever they could as a retribution for their village. Starving and freezing was a common issue, but these hardships forged the two into something more, not as a tame and rider, rather companions for life. After seeing the whole mountain razed by humans, and the Northern Orcs retreating further into teh mountains where humans could not get them, Grox made his way South, to find other Demihumans to aid him in his quest for revenge. Along the way he gathered many friends and enemies, soon earning a reputation as teh Greenskin that rode a giant Quaggoth. He himself is lightly armored, but he managed to buy very expensive armor for Woggha, turning his companion into the most fearsome beast that the region has seen. nowadays the two wander the area, looking for more and more places where they could put a stop to the crazed murder spree of the humans.
Equipment:
Mighty Choppa - A two handed battleaxe capable of immense damage. Forged from Dark Iron, it is sturdy, sharp, and very lightweight, but it tends to get rusty in rain, and attracts predators.
Hook'd Chainz - A set of chains with deadly hooks on their end, they are wrapped around Grox's body, acting both as armor, and easely accessible weaponary. It can take teh strongest of blows without breaking, and can be a versatile tool in the hands of an experienced user. The hook on the end sometimes fails to attach to things, as the soft surface of the Dark Iron makes it slip if on very hard surfaces.
Woggha's Armor - Woggha, the clever yet monstrous companion of Grox wears incredibly tough armor that protects it from most blows. Forged of Dark Steel, a material even stronger than Steel, crafted from Dark Iron using magic, it is resilient to both magic and physical attacks. Grox also made sure that his companion reminds the enemy of who they are and where they come from, as he installed a harpoon gun into Woggha's right arm that fires hooked chains like his. Both him and Woggha can fire it, and it is usually for dealing with vehicles or fortifications by pulling them apart. However this armor doesn't cover a 100% of Woggha's body, and mostly focuses on vital points. Without enough funds, it will take a long time to have a fully protective armor.
Powers:
Orcish Strenght - The strongest race of human-like races, the Orcs have brutal strenght, able to wield weapons in one hand that a human couldn't lift with two. Their blows are immensely strong, able to bring down most foes with a single hit. This comes at the price of increased metabolism.
Woggha is the companion of Grox. A mighty beast, and a rare breed of it's kin, he is sure to get the job done. Thought he may look stupid and primitive at first sight, behind the killing pair of eyes lie a sharp mind, able to pick up the events of the battlefield. Sure he cannot talk, but he is just a bit behind an Orc's intelligence. Which isn't saying much to be honest. Not if he wasn't Grox's companion, who has more in his head than most Orcs. Woggha's strenght is perfectly matched with his rider's talent in fighting, and he gladly uses the harpoon gun Grox gave him. He finds amusement in dismantling vehicles, often toying with their parts after a battle is over, trying to make something of them. He can never quite make it. Another one of his hobbies is torturing humans in gruesome ways, as he reminds himself of the time when his flock was killed by them back in the mountains. That said, he doesn't have problems with other Demi-humans or even dwarves for that matter. Not keen, sure, but he doesn't hate them.
In battle, Woggha tries his best to make armored spots face his enemies, whilst keeping them in an arms reach. He doesn't have a weapon, but he can easely rip trees out of the ground and use them as basic clubs, or throw rocks at the enemy from far away. |
51,396 | 1,391 | 24 | 256 | 2,259 | It was late when Westley found the stables, and fortunately for him, the inn was pretty much directly next to it. Stride walked into the inn, and to no surprise to him, he saw the orc he had met earlier gulping down booze, ale, any kind of alcoholic beverage the inn had on hold. He sighed, and walked over to the bartender, and calmly placed a good amount of money in a small tankard with "tips" scrawled on it. He then went over to the table where Grox was sitting and pulled out the music box he had received from Grodlar and began to speak.
"Grox, can I ask a question to you?"
Without any approval, Westley continued to speak, after spitting his drool into an empty tankard beside him.
"I got this music box from a gnome who was at the marketplace, he said it was cursed to never play music again. I don't suppose you would know a way to get me to hear the music from this?"
A conveniently placed Jack o Lantern flickered at the table, acting as a source of light that was cast onto the ornate wooden box. | Name: Westley Stride
Appearance: Westley is a rather small and scrawny young adult, adorned with a red mage robe, with a lavender cloak over it and a white scarf made from the scales of many serpentines. Westley has bushy brown hair overlaying his face, casting a shadow over his eyes and creating a scowl look. His face is rather plain, and it doesn't stand out to many people, aside from his ears being pointed.
Race: Westley is a half-elf, with more genes leaning towards his human mother.
Class: Battlemage
Equipment: Westley has a wide array of weapons to his arsenal that are carried around in a bag of holding, including a sword made from red steel, but mainly revolves around Spell Tomes such as "Razorblade Typhoon" and "Golden Shower", and staves such as the Xeno Staff, the Life Drain. He also carries around a Mana Flower, a magical blue rose that allows for hands free usage of mana potions, which he carries 5 potions around normally.
Backstory:
Westley has been gone for most of this war, and really only caught wind of it recently. Although he came from a non-monster village, he was often resented because of how his mother and father were of different races, and while this wouldn't be a problem normally, the place where he grew up was against two different races mating, and he never visited the mainland when he was a boy, although he wanted to. When he finally did, he saw poverty, crime, and disgusting acts, and he caught wind of how there was a war and a time of peace. Through a grapevine he heard about how a king of the monsters planned on ending a peace treaty. He shortly left the mainland, and headed towards the regions that held 'monsters' to assist them in the war. He felt like he would connect with them more as he had a sour childhood with elves and humans, and he resents them equally as much.
Notes:
( ! ) Westley will not kill gnomes or children. Gnomes never felt like a nuisance to him, and killing children is just... just wrong.
( ! ) The Xeno Staff is only able to be used once until the summon dies, then it can be used again.
( ! ) The red sword he carries around doesn't do anything special. It's just a red sword.
Is it okay for the character to be half-elf if it hates humans and elves? |
51,397 | 1,391 | 25 | 1,748 | 279 | As anyone who has ever attempted to keep an inn, and managed to do so for longer than a week, knows, a cellar is highly practical asset for any establishment of this sort. Though seldom is it employed for such purposes as something as a cellar was originally intended for, such as preserving wine - which is often far too expensive, considering the financial resources of the average inn's patrons, to meet any demand worthy of that name - it can serve a variety of purposes. If there is no suitable dump or scrapyard not yet slavaged by goblins in the environs, it can contain prodigious amounts of refuse without its stench reaching the inn proper for months. It can keep carcasses fresh enough to please a ravenous orc's palate. And, last but not least, it can comfortably house lodgers whose appearance would be highly detrimental for business if exposed too frequently to the public eye.
The most recent of such lodgers having taken up temporary residence at the Red Mug presently gnashed his teeth, stretched his forelimbs and coiled and uncoiled his neck a few times as a loud crash from upstairs awoke him from his daily rest. Ah, new customers were beginning to arrive, it seemed, and energetic ones at that. It was probably already dark, anyway. Good, good. A gnarled, three-fingered claw caught an intact bone lying amid the assorted wreckage upon the cellar's floor and deftly tossed it in the approximate direction of the expectant jaws, which snapped it, sucked it dry of only slightly stale marrow and spat its remains into a corner. Next, eight revolting legs clicked in place, lifing the bloated, hairy abdomen enough for it not to scape the ground, skittered up the damp staircase and, impressively enough, kicked the cellar door open, revealing their burden's full glory to what tatters а the world had the misfoortune of being assembled in that inn.
Khri'zhatt blinked a few times - a sight fearsome enough for the three hobgoblins seated closest to him to hurriedly move to the further end of the room - and surveyed that evening's clientele. Regulars, mostly, veriefiedly uninteresting, suitable, scrawny as they mostly were, for neither business nor consumption, except... Ah, there. Two unfamiliar faces, or nearly, probably responsible for the door's mournful state - a boisterous-looking orc recklessly swallowing ale, or whatever resembled it, and a strange red-garbed figure - elf? Human? Neither, though he resembled both? It was a while since he had had some elf. He might as well try with this one, despite his tankard being full of what seemed to be saliva. Does he actually drink that? Khri'zhatt wondered, as he crawled toward the pair. If they proved less than tolerant of his presence, a sufficiently loud shriek should be sufficient to summon Thrik from the stable - by the bye, he would have to verify the umber hulk was fed well enough. Otherwise, he might consider feeding it the innkeeper next. Ah, well, there would be time enough for this.
"Well met, gentle-monsters" he hissed at the newcomers in his finest Honest John impression, "Are you in need of anything this lous- vely city has to offer? Some fine working-hands, perhaps? Fresh, obedient, cheaper by the dozen. Just say the word." | Name: Khri'zhatt
Race: Neogi
Appearance:
Class: "Slaver with a few magic tricks" is the closest he comes to one.
Personality: Ruthless, rapacious and generally unpleasant, Khri'zatt is in all and for all the typical Neogi. The only pursuit he recognises as worthwhile is increasing his own wealth, and the fact that this inevitably involves subjugating other creatures - which often are the wealth in question, as slaves are the only commodities a Neogi needs and desires - only seems to add to his enjoyment. For all this, though, there astonishingly seem to be some positive qualities, however minute, to him. He is genuinely attached (for a given definition of "attached") to Thrik, his umber hulk servant and the only being he trusts in the least measure (chiefly owing to it being deprived of free will), and has been known to treat monstrous slaves whom he deems satisfactory more indulgently (a relative term, to be sure) than his kin. One should know better than be fooled by this encomium, though - true to form, his standard approaches to interaction remain "enslave it, eat it, and, if neither works, smash it".
Background: Despite their marauding habits, Neogi lead, all things considered, fairly monotonous lives. All is an endless cycle of raiding, plundering and bartering, which, though amusing at first, can at length grow quite dull. On top of all, one cannot even enjoy what one has earned properly, since as soon as one has hoarded (nearly!) enough wealth they are promptly converted into breeding vats by their eager brethren. Khri'zhatt, gifted with a clarity of vision (or what he assumes to be such) uncommon for his kind (again, his own assumption), saw distinctly, since the day of his hatching, these grim perspectives for what they were, and decided he could do better than this. He soon conceived a grand vision for his own future - he would build a dungeon infested with the most fearsome of monsters, in themselves sufficient to arouse the envy of any other Neogi. But this was not all: dungeons inevitably attract miscellaneous heroes, many of whom carry valuable belongings. These he would loot, and use them to buy even more monsters, and so forth indefinitely.
Since Neogi collectives do not take kindly to being deserted by their members, Khri'zhatt carefully planned his secession - carefully enough to escape with all his limbs and his umber hulk, to say nothing of his modest hoard. Now he roams the lands far and wide, seeking the most horrible creatures of all to accomplish his lofty goal.
Motivation: Khri'zhatt is driven entirely by greed - which, in his case, manifests as searching for the most horrid creatures he can to make into his servants. And the occasional snack.
Equipment:
- His life's worth of savings in precious gems.
- His all-purpose servitor, Thrik.
As any self-respecting Neogi, Khri'zhatt is unfailingly accompanied by his personal umber hulk, which functions as anything he might require at the moment. Thrik is particularly notable for having been conditioned to obey its master alone by non-magical means, making its blind loyalty virtually unshakable, not less so for it not being exceedingly bright in its own right. Its only vice is occasionally chewing pieces off captives or bystanders if left unattended, and even that does not entirely play in its disfavour in a Neogi's opinion.
Skills and Abilities:
- Khri'zhatt is cunning enough to fend for himself in the wilderness, which mostly involves putting Thrik to good use.
- If necessary, he can bite his enemies to inject an enfeebling poison into them.
- As some members of his species, he possesses some spontaneous magic potential. As yet, it mostly amounts to summoning swarms of annoying gnats, but there is plenty of room for improvement.
- Arguably his most dangerous ability, Khri'zhatt can perform a ritual which binds a non-sentient monstrous creature to his will. The creature must remain immobilised for the incantation's entire duration of a day and a night.
Weaknesses:
- Greed. Risks be damned, Khri'zhatt will jump at any opportunity to increase his wealth by any means necessary.
- Gluttony. If it moves, he will probably want to eat it, and not moving is probably not a safe defense either. This can lead to fairly uncomfortable, when not potentially deadly, inconvenients for him and anyone unfortunate enough to be in his vicinity.
- And, of course, without Thrik he is not much more threatening in direct combat than a huge spider. |
51,398 | 1,391 | 26 | 653 | 1,095 | Osgar was already half way through the shack when a loud bang followed by profanities was heard in the back. He had almost forgotten about Bob being there. "This small guy is Bob. He hangs around collecting useless junk for his...", Osgar gave a quick look at Bob's armor and that aberration tied to the back of it, "Inventions. He's harmless. Just be careful with the ocasional explosion."
The explosion left a foul stench of rotten eggs in the air, strong enough to overpower the smell of red hot iron and burning logs Osgar was so used to. He crossed the shack in direction to the door and his unexpected guest, partially to see what such an unusual visitor was bringing for him, partially to breath air that had not been contamined by the goblin's inventions.
"That is a big wolf, but I can probably arrange something for him in a few weeks.", Osgar knew he was talking more to himself than to this Ogre, so he simplified as much as he could, "Tell Wolfie and his owner to come here, and I'll see about his armor", to negotiate an armor price with this Ogre would not only be a painful blow into his sanity, but also extremely unfair. All things considered, was highly unlikely this humongous ogre was carrying the kind of coin needed to pay for an armor that big.
"Oh also man with spikey ears said I give this to smithy." The ogre said, handing him a note. "To Z.E. by Y, eh? Yashar is planning on a new expedition again? You will want to talk to Zokox Explobomb, another goblin who happens to be an inventor. I seem to be plagued by those, you know? Come here tomorrow and bring your friends with you, and he will get you all some equipment." | Name: Tugrok
Race: Ogre
Equipment: His "clothes" and his club
Tugrok never really was smart at all, even for an ogre. He could talk with others but logic and tactic was something he'd never understand. He lived in a ogre village with his parents. After years it was time for Tugrok to go his own path, so he wandered off, looking for a place to stay.
Personality: Unlike others of his kind, Tugrok doesn't see humans as evil at first, he just doesn't trust them completely. To him there are two types of beings, good ones and bad ones. This isn't bound to any race since there are also mean monsters and Tugrok doesn't like those. He also protects those who are nice to him and he deems as good.
Motivation: Showing all others that he isn't as stupid as everyone sees him.
Fighting Style: Smashing things with his club. That's it, there is no strategy to it.
Strengths:
Tugrok can take quite some hits before he would go down.
His physical strength.
His size.
Weaknesses:
His own Stupidity.
Enemies who use tactic.
Swift enemies.
His size. |
51,399 | 1,391 | 27 | 256 | 2,259 | Westley saw the very large spider walk up to the duo of associates and, much to the surprise of him, began to see Grox start to get a little antsy. Poor bastard must be afraid of spiders, although that's quite a common fear. The spider spoke to them in a rather unsettling tone.
"Well met, gentle-monsters! Are you in need of anything this lous- vely city has to offer? Some fine working-hands, perhaps? Fresh, obedient, cheaper by the dozen. Just say the word."
Westley leaned over and whispered in Grox's ear. "I'll do the talking, you be ready for a fight if one breaks out." Westley then began speaking to the spider, but first spitting in the tankard so his voice wasn't muffled or garbled.
"Excuse me, I've been cursed to drool excessively, much to my dismay. Allow me to introduce myself to you. You can call me Stride, and this here is Grox, my..."
Westley actually considered what Grox was in this little rag-tag band of misfits he called his team, then he considered that Grox and him were at Yashar's tower first, so he figured they'd probably be this teams interim 'leaders' for the current moment.
"... first mate. We were recently assigned a job by an old mage in the tallest fucking tower in this goddamn cesspool of a city, and for right now we're waiting on the other members of our bloody squad. Enough about that, however. You said something about working hands...? Honestly, mate, the way you worded that makes me think that you're running a slave trade underneath this here inn. Now, I can hand you into the local authorities and have them deal with you (provided there are any even here), or I can extend an offer to you..."
Westley spit in the tankard again before continuing.
"... how about you join our little team of misfit mercenaries? I understand you have no idea who I am or who this orc is, but I can promise you that you will get a good time out of this, in addition to a reward which was told to us by our employer to be near limitless."
Stride spit one final time in the tankard, making it reach almost 3/4ths of the way filled.
"You in?"
Over at the blacksmith, Stride's UFO flew into the workshop, a small note attached to it with the words 'Not a threat'. It hovered beside Tugrok and began to speak.
>: I HAVE ORDERS FROM MY SUMMONER TO ASSIST YOU IN ANY WAY I CAN, UNTIL WE GET TO THE INN WHERE HE AND GROX ARE CURRENTLY LOCATED. | Name: Westley Stride
Appearance: Westley is a rather small and scrawny young adult, adorned with a red mage robe, with a lavender cloak over it and a white scarf made from the scales of many serpentines. Westley has bushy brown hair overlaying his face, casting a shadow over his eyes and creating a scowl look. His face is rather plain, and it doesn't stand out to many people, aside from his ears being pointed.
Race: Westley is a half-elf, with more genes leaning towards his human mother.
Class: Battlemage
Equipment: Westley has a wide array of weapons to his arsenal that are carried around in a bag of holding, including a sword made from red steel, but mainly revolves around Spell Tomes such as "Razorblade Typhoon" and "Golden Shower", and staves such as the Xeno Staff, the Life Drain. He also carries around a Mana Flower, a magical blue rose that allows for hands free usage of mana potions, which he carries 5 potions around normally.
Backstory:
Westley has been gone for most of this war, and really only caught wind of it recently. Although he came from a non-monster village, he was often resented because of how his mother and father were of different races, and while this wouldn't be a problem normally, the place where he grew up was against two different races mating, and he never visited the mainland when he was a boy, although he wanted to. When he finally did, he saw poverty, crime, and disgusting acts, and he caught wind of how there was a war and a time of peace. Through a grapevine he heard about how a king of the monsters planned on ending a peace treaty. He shortly left the mainland, and headed towards the regions that held 'monsters' to assist them in the war. He felt like he would connect with them more as he had a sour childhood with elves and humans, and he resents them equally as much.
Notes:
( ! ) Westley will not kill gnomes or children. Gnomes never felt like a nuisance to him, and killing children is just... just wrong.
( ! ) The Xeno Staff is only able to be used once until the summon dies, then it can be used again.
( ! ) The red sword he carries around doesn't do anything special. It's just a red sword.
Is it okay for the character to be half-elf if it hates humans and elves? |
51,400 | 1,391 | 28 | 1,748 | 279 | Local authorities? Are there still any left? Khri'zhatt eyed the elf (human? Whatever it was. "Stride" would do for the moment. He did not, after all, drink saliva. Good, good) curiously, his horrid head swaying atop his eel-like glabrous neck similarly to that of a slightly intoxicated snake, "That would do just fine. I have not had any proper breakfast yet. But we could leave that for another time. You mentioned a job, did you?" The large arachnoid's eyes - all of them - glimmered rapaciously. The presence of the words "reward" and "limitless" in a single sentence had, foreseeably, not failed to capture his attention.
He pondered his position. Despite having spent the last week and a half accosting various patrons of the inn offering his services, he did not dispose of any - stock, should we say, just at present, planning as he did to strike up a contract as a provider or, if the customer was gullible enough, obtain a conspicuous advance payment and disappear. However, thus far he had not had any success, and his patience was wearing thin. There was no monster-market to speak of here, and besides there was the constant threat of being spotted by some Neogi caravan, rare though these were, recognised as a rogue and forced to ingest one of their vile breeding brews. In brief, his stay in the city was unprofitable, unproductive and uncomfortable. And there always was the doubt of whether Thrik was being fed well enough. If not else, these purported mercenaries would offer some diversion.
"Who you are does not matter that much as long as this reward you speak of is truly almost limitless." Ah, these words again... Effectively, it did not matter at all who these fellows were, as long as he could be certain he would be able to subdue them were the necessity to arise. The orc did already not seem entirely confident. Excellent. "Consider me interested. What does this assignment you have involve, exactly?" | Name: Khri'zhatt
Race: Neogi
Appearance:
Class: "Slaver with a few magic tricks" is the closest he comes to one.
Personality: Ruthless, rapacious and generally unpleasant, Khri'zatt is in all and for all the typical Neogi. The only pursuit he recognises as worthwhile is increasing his own wealth, and the fact that this inevitably involves subjugating other creatures - which often are the wealth in question, as slaves are the only commodities a Neogi needs and desires - only seems to add to his enjoyment. For all this, though, there astonishingly seem to be some positive qualities, however minute, to him. He is genuinely attached (for a given definition of "attached") to Thrik, his umber hulk servant and the only being he trusts in the least measure (chiefly owing to it being deprived of free will), and has been known to treat monstrous slaves whom he deems satisfactory more indulgently (a relative term, to be sure) than his kin. One should know better than be fooled by this encomium, though - true to form, his standard approaches to interaction remain "enslave it, eat it, and, if neither works, smash it".
Background: Despite their marauding habits, Neogi lead, all things considered, fairly monotonous lives. All is an endless cycle of raiding, plundering and bartering, which, though amusing at first, can at length grow quite dull. On top of all, one cannot even enjoy what one has earned properly, since as soon as one has hoarded (nearly!) enough wealth they are promptly converted into breeding vats by their eager brethren. Khri'zhatt, gifted with a clarity of vision (or what he assumes to be such) uncommon for his kind (again, his own assumption), saw distinctly, since the day of his hatching, these grim perspectives for what they were, and decided he could do better than this. He soon conceived a grand vision for his own future - he would build a dungeon infested with the most fearsome of monsters, in themselves sufficient to arouse the envy of any other Neogi. But this was not all: dungeons inevitably attract miscellaneous heroes, many of whom carry valuable belongings. These he would loot, and use them to buy even more monsters, and so forth indefinitely.
Since Neogi collectives do not take kindly to being deserted by their members, Khri'zhatt carefully planned his secession - carefully enough to escape with all his limbs and his umber hulk, to say nothing of his modest hoard. Now he roams the lands far and wide, seeking the most horrible creatures of all to accomplish his lofty goal.
Motivation: Khri'zhatt is driven entirely by greed - which, in his case, manifests as searching for the most horrid creatures he can to make into his servants. And the occasional snack.
Equipment:
- His life's worth of savings in precious gems.
- His all-purpose servitor, Thrik.
As any self-respecting Neogi, Khri'zhatt is unfailingly accompanied by his personal umber hulk, which functions as anything he might require at the moment. Thrik is particularly notable for having been conditioned to obey its master alone by non-magical means, making its blind loyalty virtually unshakable, not less so for it not being exceedingly bright in its own right. Its only vice is occasionally chewing pieces off captives or bystanders if left unattended, and even that does not entirely play in its disfavour in a Neogi's opinion.
Skills and Abilities:
- Khri'zhatt is cunning enough to fend for himself in the wilderness, which mostly involves putting Thrik to good use.
- If necessary, he can bite his enemies to inject an enfeebling poison into them.
- As some members of his species, he possesses some spontaneous magic potential. As yet, it mostly amounts to summoning swarms of annoying gnats, but there is plenty of room for improvement.
- Arguably his most dangerous ability, Khri'zhatt can perform a ritual which binds a non-sentient monstrous creature to his will. The creature must remain immobilised for the incantation's entire duration of a day and a night.
Weaknesses:
- Greed. Risks be damned, Khri'zhatt will jump at any opportunity to increase his wealth by any means necessary.
- Gluttony. If it moves, he will probably want to eat it, and not moving is probably not a safe defense either. This can lead to fairly uncomfortable, when not potentially deadly, inconvenients for him and anyone unfortunate enough to be in his vicinity.
- And, of course, without Thrik he is not much more threatening in direct combat than a huge spider. |
51,401 | 1,391 | 29 | 1,816 | 285 | Bob wasn't that interested in most of the Minotaur's conversation. Scavenging was far more interesting, it was like a giant puzzle. Which piece could be used to finish his next invention? He was barely paying any attention till Zokox Exlpobomb was mentioned. He jumped up and looked towards Osgar, now he had his attention. With a clanking of parts, smoke, and the crackle of static surrounding him, he stepped out of the mountain of scrap. Or was the mountain moving with him? He had a scowl on his face, and looked like Osgar hurt his pride. He opened his mouth, the first few words being interrupted by more backfiring on his back.
"-you overgrown Minotaur. My inventions are far superior to any piles of junk that Zokox can ever build. I have harnessed the elements at my fingers, he just cheats with magic. How is it even a machine if you cut corners like that? I swear, you blow up a building three times and suddenly It's my fault. He stole that title of best inventor in our tribe. Sabotage and slander, he knew I was going to be declared the best so he had to cheat. My inventions don't fail, so he must have swapped my stuff for his poor quality equipment. He stole my designs, and my hard work. I should be the best inventor, and he darn well knows it..." He had a lot more he was going on about, but most likely, no one was paying attention to him anymore. He was steaming heavily from this, both figuratively and literally.
Turning his head to the ogre, he shouted at the ogre, "You there, rocks for brains. I don't care why you are here. If Zokox is involved, I will join whatever stupid quest you are on. Wait, Y... You don't mean Yashar do you? Oh, this is perfect. If I help you out, I can get rewarded as well. Then I can finally get back at Zokox. The great and powerful inventor Bob helps Yashar out. That settles it, I'm joining your quest. You can thank me for being helpful now." He gave a jump, his various gear clanking around, generally making more noise. If an ogre was involved, then he was probably going to be the smartest person involved. He can use that, no, exploit it.
His scheme was cut short when a small UFO with a crude sign tacked on it showed up near the ogre. The scrap this thing could be used for if he tore it apart. He was wondering if he could figure out how to make hover boots using this thing when it spoke. It spoke of it being a summon, someone named Grox and it was trying to help this ogre. He walked up to the strange UFO and spoke quickly, "Finally, someone intelligent enough to talk. So who are you, and how do I get in on whatever deal is good enough to get so many people together? If you don't feel like talking, I can always take this thing apart." | NPCs will be here. They won't possess any info that you can't get through the RP, but are good to keep tab of things.
A human mage, trapped in his own tower. His skin is marked for the many years he lived. From scars to wrinkles to burnings, his face has it all. Despite that, he still has a charming smile and the voice of a much younger man. He's usually dressed in one of his dark colored robes, with a scarf over his shoulders. Despite having a small frame and, apart from the scars, a friendly face, a unsettling aura revolves around him.
Status: Alive and well.
Other: A powerful mage in many areas. Specializes in destructive forces, but is also a very capable enchanter and summoner.
Yashar's childhood friend. He never had been able to use magic, but was a genius when it came to creating spells, runes, rituals and wards.
Not much is known about him or his death.
Status: Dead.
Yasha's spy. He was summoned from a dark realm by accident. Worked for Yashar for a few years, becoming almost a friend to him. Was killed to supply Yashar of the life energy he needed for a ritual.
Status: Dead/Energy State/mostly Dead. |
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