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  #41  
Old 06-20-2009, 04:21 PM
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Carissa Darlanny Carissa Darlanny is offline
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Hum... Is it long enought? And its still kind of shortened...

NAME: Carissa Darlanny
AGE: 23 living years, 34 dead years.
GENDER: Female
RACE: Undead (Though she keeps her living appearance.)
CLASS: Reaver
FACTION: Deadlands
LINEAGE: Xithan Feeder's Guild

EQUIPMENT: One hand scythe and one kukri is her main weaponry. She also carries few throwing daggers, and of course, a sharpening stone. In her backpack, she carries a tent, a bedroll, flint and steel, some few rations and rope with a grappling hook. She also carries materials so she can repair her dark leather armor, just in case. She also always keep her soul stone on herslef.

DESCRIPTION: The first thing you see ; someone under a big black cloak... But under this said cloak, there is a woman with short, black hair and fair skin, wich is still a little palish by the fact she's an undead. You'll see her wearing a dark leather armor, meant to be flexible. The right side of her body is covered with tattoos, that has familly meanings. Her gray eyes are not the ones you'll see every day... Espacially when the right one turns glowing green, and when this happens, you'll know her Wraith is there. Some of of the male gent may get their eyes on Carissa's generous curves first... Only if she's not wearing her cloak, that is.

Quote:
Thats what her tattoos looks like, but on a female body. http://www.finduniquetattoodesigns.c...s/Tattoo_1.jpg
HISTORY: Carissa's history isn't the most intriguing. In her living, she was the daughter of a small village's baker. A nice man, in anyways. Carissa's mother was also a baker, mostly because her father was. It was a peaceful village, where only a few guards were needed to keep order in and aroud the village. Carissa and her three brothers weren't the kind of child that stood on place, running around the village, tricking some of the villagers were their daily activities, and also going out in the forest on sunny days. And so they did, one day.

So they were playing hide and seek, as they liked to do. Before Carissa could even count to ten, her older brother yelled.

"Stop playing! Somone's hurt over here!"

The four youglings ran from where their older brother were, and they all round up close to a man, lying on the grass, a walking stick by his side.

"He's still alive, but he's unconcious... How did this happened?!"

"I don't know." Replied one of Carissa's brother. "We should bring him to the village."

So they brought the man to the Sheep's Pillow Inn. After a few hours and some buckets of water, the man regain consciousness. The man explained, after eating a plate of the inn's food, that he didn't have any food on his way here. He turned around to face the kids.

"Thanks, young sirs and young miss. I'll never forget what you did, I could have not survived if you didn't found me."

After not much time, the man left the village. After this day, this man has always been in the thought of Carissa, even if her brothers, with time, didn't seem to remember. So time past, until her 23 birthday. She decided she would move out of the village, now that her parents passed away. Carissa went with traveling merchants, to the next village. Unfortunately, this day, goblins were placed for an ambush. As they were going to pass a small rocky bridge, goblins came out of nowhere and slaughtered the merchant. Carissa tried to escape, only to be stroke on the neck by a poisoned dart. Carissa died, but not completely. She could still see, but none of her body part would respond to her command. Few hours later, all became cold, all became like a black veil...

When she awoke, everything was blurred and painful, she wanted to scream, but wasn't able to. When her vision became normal again, she felt a bit less pain.

"Whe... Where am I?" Said Carissa, with a weak voice.

"In my laboratory, young one." Answered back a deep voice.

"What happened?"

"You and your companions were attacked by goblins, everyone died."

"W-What? But... I'm still alive."

"Technically, no."

Carissa's eyes grew larger.

"Don't worry, you are still part of this world." Said the cloaked man.

"I-I don't understand..."

"In other words, I made you immortal, nor alive nor dead. Just between the two gates. Before you say why ; I made you this because my master told me you were one of the selected apprentices for our Guild, as I was long time ago. Lets just say my master has some... Strange way to work. Anyways, welcome to the Xithan Feeder's Guild. Feel free to look around, just rest up for now. Oh yes, and this will be your room from now on, here is the key."

He placed a small silvery key on the table, in the middle of the room, and left the room.

Many years later, Carissa was still in this strange guild, wich she called home. A Reaver, she had become. Learning the ways of supernatural assassination. The only thing she remembers of her living, her name, and the voice of a man... After years of training, the guild finally made Carissa an official Reaver, and gave to her, by a dinding ritual, her Wraith. The voice of the wraith, somtimes being heard, was very familliar to her... After a month, she just realised, by a flash back, that the Wraith was the man she saved.
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  #42  
Old 07-02-2009, 04:55 PM
Kearo Kearo is offline
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Name: Kearo Bladestorm
Age: Appears to be in his early twenties, although his real age has been lost through time since he became a Death Knight
Gender: Male
Race: Resurrected/Undead Human
Class: Death Knight
Faction: Deadlands

Equipment: Equipment: His armor, his steed and his weapons have changed so much through the years, that it was pointless to try and describe all the individual pieces he has wielded. Generally though, Kearo wears a mail haubergeon, over which lies his heavy plate armor. Although this makes his movement awkward in battle, it deflects most sword blows and provides good protection against spears and blunt weapons. As for his weapons, he prefers a large two-handed great sword that allows him to cut down groups of lesser mortals with one gigantic swing. The sword normally rests across his back and upon his hip lies a smaller bastard sword for closed quarter combat. However, his arsenal is not only compromised of steel weapons, Kearo also relies on his magic, his concentration being fire spells. It is rumored that the man made a pact with the demon lord of hell; in exchange for the knowledge and ability to wield the burning embers of hell, Kearo would feed the demon souls. Many a legions of lesser mortals have fallen to his ravaging firestorm spells.

Description: Standing at a colossal 6"5, Kearo tends to tower over most people, and as he is almost as wide, as he is tall. His intimidating stature, complete with bulging biceps, makes the man appear as if he was a wild barbarian. Yet, if you look closely upon his face, many can see the intelligence and controlled rage Kearo kept within his dark, azure eyes.

Despite being one of the undead, his skin retained the healthy tan he achieved when he was human, allowing him to blend in with the unsuspecting race when needed. Using a razor, he has shaved his dark hair down to a stubble and his face carried a neatly-kept beard along his jaw line. His most distinguishing feature is the scar dealt by a deathblow which ultimately sent him to the underworld. The scar stretches from his left eyebrow, over his eyelid, along the side of his left nostril and curves down by the left of his mouth, finishing by the edge of his chin. It remains upon his face as a solid reminder of the horror he has faced.

As for clothes, his armor is like his second skin, over which a worn, travel cloak covers him completely down to his knees. Complete with a vast hood, it effectively hides his entire face and shields the man from the elements nature unleashes upon him. On the rare occasion, when he isn’t wearing his armor, Kearo tends to host a coarse, black tunic over dark trousers which are tucked within a pair of black boots.

The only finery he wears, is a heavy signet ring upon his right hand, bearing the crest of his long forgotten family.


History: Born and raised in the country of Vitheka in the city of Bonekeep many centuries ago Kearo remembers hardly anything from his past life. What he does know is this, he was the second youngest of 6 children, although only 2 survived through childhood. He had always been a big guy and this got him into may fights with people trying to prove themselves by beating him, and beat him they did. For he had been a shy and retiring boy and spent all day working his fathers farm. The other child to survive was his youngest sister, who's name has been swallowed by time. He knows of her as she was the reason he was started on the warrior's path. When he was but 13 winters the family had left Bonekeep to visit a small village to get Kearo his first sword at his father's insistence. As they left the village a horde of Dreadmarsh erupted from the horizon and laid waste to the village, Kearo watched as they tore his mother, his father and his sister to shreds infront of him. As he stood there eyes closed awaiting the blow that would kill him he heard a thunderstorm approach, then a roar and then screaming. Standing there he opened his eyes and saw the army of Bonekeep thunder by him eviscerating the Dreadmarsh creatures. And then he was grabbed by the neck and hoisted onto a horse and taken back home.

With no family to look after him he was give to the army to train as a soldier. Throughout his teenage years he trained and trained determined to exact revenge for his sister. And at roughly the age of 20 he was given the chance, a small horde of Dreadmarsh was spotted near a local village, and Kearo's cavalry platoon was ordered to intercept. 50 fully armored men and horse's erupted from the city their war cry's repeated by the children lining the wall. They sped to the village and at the sight of the horde increased to a gallop, but something didn't feel right to Kearo, this horde was acting differently to another he had heard of, but the bloodlust had set in the men around them and Kearo's warnings fell on deaf ears. They reached the horde and began slaughtering them with ease before a collective roar erupted from the forest and a much larger horde erupted from the hidden shadows slaughtering the men. Kearo was unhorsed and surrounded, but a rage unlike any he had ever felt before took hold of him and he became a god of war slashing here jumping there. Crushing heads with the hilt of his sword before stepping back and cleaving a path through the horde, bodies dropping all around him he was swimming in their blood, he felt no pain only this fury that would not be sated until all around him where dead. Scores of Dreadmarsh fell under his sword but yet they still came and then he was hit in the head with such force that it took his helmet clean off, but such was his rage that he pivoted and plunged his sword into the belly of his attacker, stepping back to behead him he was struck in the face and he slumped to his knees, the last thing he saw was a lone rider, fire and lightening erupting from his hands.

When he awoke he was in a forest clearing on the ground next to a fire, he could see 3 bodies standing around him looking down at him. He had been saved by a necromancer of the worst kind a Death Knight. These people had been hunted in Vitheka banished to the far reaches of the land. But the blood lust, the rage that had killed scores upon scores of Dreadmarsh scum had still not been sated, infact it was worse and he had to feed it. He became an apprentice to this Death Knight and through years of study he to eventual joined the ranks.

For years he hid among the mortal souls of Vitheka bouncing from city to city when ever there was a battle he was there, his blood lust constantly needing fed. Soon his lust for battle lead him beyond Vitheka, or the Deadlands as he discovered the other peoples called it. His battle prowess became the stuff of legends in small villages, a lone rider covered in black fire spewing from his fingertips killing foes as though he was swatting a simple fly.

As necromancy took hold in the Deadlands Kearo felt the urge to return home to Bonekeep where he joined the order of the Bonekeep Dark Crusaders. He was dispatched to deal with a rogue necromancer who was said to be attempting to raise a greater demon lord from the hells. Kearo was to late to stop the summoning but managed to kill the necromancer before the demon could possess his soul. It was here that the Demon Lord offered him the fire magics of the hells if he would give get him the souls of the 4 villages that surrounded the summoning site. His blood lust urged him to accept for with greater power came the chance to finally fill the blood lust that had driven him for the last century. And so he destroyed the villages, no one survived and the Demon Lord kept his promise and gave Kearo the power.

The blood lust however demanded even more, and overcome with grief for the hundreds of innocents he had killed he went travelled to the Dreadmarsh and vowed not to return to civilization until he had mastered the blood lust.

For 2 centuries he hunted the foul creatures, but never really making a dent in their numbers. One day he had found Troll tracks and followed them out of the Dreadmarsh and into the Deadlands and happened upon a village the Troll was attacking, after killing the troll Kearo was amazed to find that the old urge to lay waste to the town was still there, but not controlling him, he had finally mastered it and could now return to the civilized lands.

Last edited by Kearo; 07-02-2009 at 06:40 PM.
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  #43  
Old 07-17-2009, 01:35 AM
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Ashen Ashen is offline
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Alright, so I haven't joined any RPs with these characters and I probably never will. Where would I fit that into the timeline with my stories? But since I'm bored, I decided to write up a few profiles anyway.

Name: Ashen Talon
Race: Human
Age: 16
Class: Cavalier
Faction: Steel Empire

Description: Ashen Talon is about six feet tall with either light brown or dark blonde hair, depending on his access to hygiene facilities, and green eyes. His hair is generally a mess, as it usually spends at least a few hours a day beneath his helmet and he generally considers it a bit futile to try and tame it again when it's going to be messed up with regularity. He has an athletic build which has been honed near to perfection by his training and experience on the battlefield.

Equipment: Ashen's weapons and armor are all battered and beaten because of his limited funds. He usually wields a sword, and while most Cavaliers have several back-up weapons, Ashen usually does not, although he is proficient with spears and maces. His armor is a combination of chain and plate, and his horse is, more often than not, dead.

Background: Ashen grew up in Bedua, in the poorest section of town known as Beggars Alley (the name is deceiving, Beggars Alley is significantly larger than a single alley). Almost everyone who managed to survive childhood in the Alley ended up joining the Thieves Guild as either a thug, thief, smuggler, assassin, or whatever other niche they managed to carve out for themselves. Ashen, however, was not interested in locking himself in the Alley forever by chaining himself to the Guild. He aspired to become a Cavalier and did his best to hone his body and fighting skill in spite of the constant fight for survival that is life in Beggars Alley. He eventually drew the attention of Sir Olric, an aging Cavalier. At the age of twelve, Ashen was made Page to Sir Olric, and at the age of fifteen he became an official Squire of Bedua.

Ashen fought in the Highland Campaign along with the rest of the Bedua Stables, and although he was initially kept out of the fiercest fighting on the front lines, as the Campaign progressed, heavy casualties eventually required him and other Squires to be rotated into battle. During this time, Ashen became known among some of the other soldiers as being nearly suicidally dedicated to victory, often taking massive risks in order to turn a losing battle around. Although the Campaign was something of a Pyrrhic victory for the Empire, Ashen emerged as a battle-hardened veteran.

A few months after the Campaign, Ashen was reassigned to the Skyclaw Ridge, which he observed and patrolled for the next two months, gaining a thorough knowledge of the place. Later on, his assignment was changed to support an Inquisitor named Kitsune in her efforts to destroy demonic presence in the Ridge.
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This is a sworded bunny. For every sworded bunny in the world, one regular bunny is defeated. If we get enough sworded bunnies on the internet, we can stop bunnies insidious plot for world domination.

- (\__/)
- (='.'=)==l--
- (")_(")

SWORDED!
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  #44  
Old 07-22-2009, 09:48 AM
Dizmalus Dizmalus is offline
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Name: The name that haunts my dreams. From what I remember, my name was once Itharius Oppenheimer... but now there is only - Dizmalus.

Gender: Male

Race: Half-demon (Possession)

Class: Previously, Court Bard in some forgotten kingdom, now Dread Minstrel... with plans of his own.

Age: He looks at you. A low growl resonates from his throat... He does not seem to want to answer this question. At a glance, he looks to be young. Judging closely by his appearance, possibly mid-20's.

Weapons: Among the few odd possessions he carries is a very strange looking, large leather bound tome inlaid with exotic runes. Scrawled in a small noble script on the inside cover are the letters D.I.O. Above it is written, seemingly as an after-thought, "With love, _____". The name is smudged and covered in dried, red stains. It is impossible to make out.

Slung across his back is a slim, darkened violin. Upon closer inspection it seems the majority of the neck and waist (C-Bouts) of the instrument have been scorched a charred black by an intense and destructive heat. Miraculously, the silver strings look to be in prime condition; which leads one to assume that the instrument must be playable in some form or another.

In a side-pouch, he carries a small white rat with him. He peaks out at you and Dizmalus states his name as "Whiskers". You reach a hand out to pet the creature and it shys away, returning to the safety of the pouch. The Minstrel locks his eyes on yours, like crimson bloodshead, shimmering in red. Giving you a cold stare that seems to bore into you, he turns away.


Armor: It is difficult for you to decide whether his clothes are extremely outdated or merely part of some eccentric bardic costume. But as it stands, it is nothing you recoginze as "in-style" at the moment. Though his outfit does appear impressive, if not expensive, it seems severly travelworn and unkempt. The vibrant colors you would expect from a performers outfit have long since been dull out... That blended with liberal use of the color black makes his appearance seem that of a much darker character. Moreover, you swear you can see a thin layer of dust covering his "stylish" coat. As he moves gracefully tiny bells, sown into his cuffs and his thin braid ring softly.

---WORK IN PROGRESS, I'LL BE BACK TO FINISH THIS UP CHEERS!---

Last edited by Dizmalus; 07-22-2009 at 09:59 PM.
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  #45  
Old 08-13-2009, 11:15 AM
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uUyeel uUyeel is offline
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BOOKS! Story books! You have tons of them... well, I'm sure you wouldn't mind me borrowing some ...
permenantly.
- Fahte to the late Duke Tilas of the Mountain Kingdoms



Name: Fahte an'Dminsade (Fa-hate Anne Dee-min-sa-day)
Race: Human
Age: 21
Class: Infiltrator

Description: Fahte stands at about 5ft 5" and is of slim built. Her flaming red hair is usually tied back but on occasion that she lets it down, it reaches past her shoulders till almost halfway down her back. The fiery waves frame a refined high cheekboned face that gives her a distinctly elven look. To top that off are her almond shaped eyes, their dark iris flecked with silver and her slightly pointed ears. However, her fair skin is marred by a scar, one which she carefully hides. A uniquely placed thin scar, caused by a rapier, runs from her right shoulder blade down under her arm till her right hip.

Equipment: Fahte carries a Crossblade. The crossblade is exactly as the name suggests, a crossbow and a sword into one. At first glance, the crossblade looks like an elaborate rapier: the protective hilt in the form of a coil of flowers made of silverish metal. Concealed at the base of the blade is a small crossbow-like device. A trigger is fixed just below the hilt, allowing Fahte to fire a small bolt at medium range. However, the crossblade can only store two bolts at any instance. As such Fahte only uses it when she is sure it'll be the last thing a foe sees, or when he is too surprised to know where the bolt came from. Despite that, Fahte prefers to fight with two elven forged daggers, nearly long enough to be short swords. Several throwing knives are kept hidden on her arms and belt to provide range attacks.

But as they say, weapons are merely tools in the hands of an inept. Fahte however, is far from that. Trained in Blister Peak Chapter of the Mountain Kingdoms, she was taught everything it took to be an infiltrator. Whether it be stealthing through the shadows or the masses of crowds, infiltrators can be seen and yet remain unseen. Whether it came to dispatching a whole platoon of soldiers without being noticed, or even assassinating a noble infront of hundreds of people at a ball, she was taught everything. Poisons, blades, hand-to-hand combat and even the insinuating influence of the tongue.

(If you need help picturing her, just visualize the Vanquisher class from the game Torchlight. Only with red hair and different equipment :I)

Background:
Fahte was not always Fahte, but she did not know that or at least, could not remember that. Born as Allura Valanir to a half elf father and human mother, she lived the early stages of her life in a small hamlet on the outskirts of the Mountain Kingdoms. That was probably as much as she knew of her past; vague with half formed images of meadows and voices which reminded her of how home felt, rather than what mom looked or sounded like.

Between that and her most recent memories was a dark void. A void filled with cold rainy streets, of hunger of desperation. It was also filled with fire. But the fire came not at her bidding, not when she tried to force out her memories of her past. It came in the dark of night when she slept. Oft she would wake up in the middle of the night drenched in cold sweat. Vivid tongues of flame dancing in her eyes as she covered her mouth in a silent scream, less she alert her pursuers. There was not a day where she longed for that nightmare to pass.

Then comes the present. Fahte's eyes flickered open when the first drop of rain fell upon her face. The sky was darkening even as dark clouds began to rumble overhead, signaling a storm. Looking around, she found herself to be in the middle of a small garden. Facing her was the door to a little cottage. Somehow, she knew that was her last destination before she blacked out. After a few knocks, the door opened and in front of her stood an elderly woman. The puzzled frown on her forehead turned into shock as she stared at Fahte. Puzzled herself, Fahte instinctively glanced down at herself and nearly fainted again from what she saw. Her hands, clothes, everything was covered in blood. It had long ago dried off but the metallic tinge was unmistakable. Fahte managed to allow the woman to help her inside and onto a bed before darkness took her again.

It was a couple of days later when she regained consciousness for the second time. What followed next was a series of embarrassing and awkward moments, on her part, as she tried to explain to the kindly woman what she was doing on her doorstep covered in blood because frankly, she did not know. All she knew was that she was being pursued by... some people and that somehow, she would know them when they came.

Nodding calmly, the woman turned to her, kindly eyes sparkling as she asked,

"My child, what is your name?"

"I am-" With a start Fahte realized she did not know! Frantically, she sought to remember the answer to such a simple yet vital question.

"Are you called Fahte an'Dminsade?" The woman hesitated over the clearly foreign pronunciation.

"What?! I...I..."
Fahte stammered.

"Here, I found this in your cloak..." The woman handed over what seemed to be a piece of parchment. The frayed edges clearly indicating that it was part of a larger piece of work. Written in black ink were the words:

"Fahte an'Dminsade"

"I...I... don't know..." Fahte stated simply, her eyes downcast when she realized how sad a situation she was in. Then she felt a warm hand clasp her own and she looked up to see the old woman smiling.

"Well... that's alright. Fahte your name is then, Fahte an'Dminsade! It does have a mysterious ring to it doesn't it? And this shall be your home for as long as you want."


"But I can't stay here... People are after me, who knows-"

"Nonsense! There is no one after you. We're so near the Dragon Tavern that you're probably some unfortunate adventurer who's been hurt so badly that she can't make her way back. Besides, I'm just an old widow, watching life go by until the day Damana Mathos calls me back to his sparkling halls. No, you stay here until you're well and then you can start helping me out with my garden." Old mother Rosettia finished with a wink.

Last edited by uUyeel; 06-03-2010 at 04:44 PM.
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  #46  
Old 09-01-2009, 02:31 PM
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tydog05 tydog05 is offline
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(iv rolled as dwarves many, many times in this game but now iv decided to bring my own swing to a human class just an experiment I was thinking of adding him to my story Dwarven Brothers Bond Blood and Stone hope you like him)
NAME: Rootert

AGE: 18

FRACTION: No one’s but nature

RACE: HUMAN

CLASS: SHAMAN

DESCRIPTION:
Rootert tall and slim not as muscular as thought he would be but there is strength in him. His hair is red and untamed much like the rest of his appearances but what is much of a shock to people is the way he speaks as if the voice is not his at all. He has a musk smell upon him not a bad smell but a attractive smell which drives you to him
He has a rough scruff of a beard and wild blue eyes that seem to have an animal cage in them. He’s always the first to laugh or smile even in the worst of times. He has a corky personality along with a curious side. He wears a wolf skin kilt he has a bare chest. His helm is also that of a wolf’s head even his boots are made of a wolf and at the tip the paws of a wolf
Rootert carries a mace called wolfs bite made of stone and metal seems to be a simple weapon just swing and hit but the old runes around the hilt say more. The frightening spikes upon the mace can bring any troll to its knees. A shield as well he carries but it is nothing of worth just something you can find on any battle field.

HISTORY:
Rootert was the son of a missionary who thought to spread the word of his lord to the people of the old way deep in the woods of the world where not even the suns light seem to penetrate through its canopy to a barbaric clan. They took them in Rooter was only the age of nine when he first encountered these strange humans of the old ways running half naked hair untamed speech of their own. The clan listened to the words of Rootert’s father not really caring but not distasteful or hateful of him they enjoyed his stories of his lord but that is all. Rootert was enjoying life in the clan running with the wild children learning there language and ways he became a friend of the clans shaman but all of this world would end soon as a rival clan attacked killing his father and many of the clan. The shaman took him in trained him in the ways of nature how to live off the land how nature is kind and hateful and that no man can conquer nature but only live along with it. As Rootert hit the age of 17 and his training was coming to the end the shaman put him to a quest to find his sprit animal and tame it. Rootert sat in the woods for seven days with no food searching for his sprit. On the night of a full moon it showed its self a large wolf walked out from the underbrush its eyes locking on his. Its head droped down he could see the hunger in its eyes. It drove to only to meet the end of his spear where it gave its sprit to him. From there he transformed in that of a wolf only thing that stayed the same was his blue eyes.
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The brothers are gone off in the world far in wide but what brings them together will bring the world apart

Last edited by tydog05; 09-01-2009 at 02:35 PM.
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  #47  
Old 09-05-2009, 11:51 AM
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Necronas Necronas is offline
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Name: There was a time I was called Hadriel. Now the world simply knows me as the Lord of Death - Necronas.

Race: I was once known as a human, but I lost my humanity a long time ago. Some call me a corpse, others call me a demon. I don't care in the least.

Age: Age is a measure of how close one is to death. I am death.

Class: As an outcast they called me Destroyer, as a warlord they called me Black Sage, as a king they called me Dark Lord, but now... Necronas will suffice.

Description: Necronas is not tall, standing at a below-average height of 5'8'', but the fact that he is always levitating means he looks at least 6' to a careless onlooker. Possessing flowing, pale white hair, fiery, bloodshot eyes so completely inundated in crimson that their original color is indistinguishable, and a pale facade that seems to always be smirking devilishly, his warped beauty shows both youth and years. He does often hide himself beneath a long, flowing cloak that often remains on the ground while he levitates a good few inches above it, since he hates having to actually touch the ground. He has a deep yet smooth voice, one that both unnerves and placates those he speaks to.

Equipment: Necronas wears a long, loose-hanging jet-black silk cloak with wicked, twisting silver embroidery, containing a hood which he occasionally wears or takes off depending on the situation. He rarely shows any weapons, but god knows how many hidden daggers he holds within his cloak. He has an assortment of cryptic talismans which he wears as rings, amulets, or other accessories around his body, so that his hands are free.

Background: Born Hadriel Seraphim Incontis, son of one of the most reputable storm lords of his time, Hadriel instantly showed an interest in his father's profession from day one. Where the winds of magic would eventually lead him he did not know, but he held his sail high, for he thirsted for power that could not be provided by any other. He learned quickly, for he quickly understood that the fastest way to power was to hold it in one's hands, and Hadriel was quite fond of showing off his power to the world. He made sure the other children feared him, for that was the only way he could keep from fearing them. Yet, while his father exhibited the noble, multi-faceted aspect of nature, Hadriel was interested only in destruction and its splendor. The quiet winds and harmless rain bore no interest for young Hadriel - he was far more interested in the thundering veins of the sky and the incendiary minions of devastation.

Initially his father ignored Hadriel's corruption, choosing to feed his acquisitive nature, for it created within him a thirst of knowledge that made the old man very proud. Hadriel was always top of his class, regardless of his magical training, so the storm lord had no complaints.He only gave small hints that his child should focus less on the destructive aspects of nature, and more on the solemn beauty of it, for the world was a double-edged blade which contained both. Later in life he understood, but for now the child was far too engrossed in his love of power and his addiction to making others fear.

Soon Hadriel grew to become a man, his teenage years coming with a burst of emotion that, unlike popular belief, does not foster love directly, but instead causes every emotion one feels to become a hundred times more potent. By then he had, spending almost every waking hour either in his father's study or in the vast library that he owned, the young prodigy had a deep-seated mastery of pyromancy and electropathy. He had become a Titan, and everyone knew that. And they feared him for it. And he loved it.

They wanted the storm lord to kill his son. They wanted to prevent the coming of the destroyer of the world, the man who could possibly overwhelm entire kingdoms single-handedly if left unchecked. And he agreed. Hadriel never took that against his father; it was the logical thing to do. Of course, Hadriel knew early. He always did. Paranoia had its advantages, especially if it is refined purposely. He left and was never head from again, hiding himself within the infinite mountains, raiding village after village in search for more knowledge, more books, more power. They called him Deleos, Destroyer, and they feared him more than any other.

And then his father finally came for him. The battle was seen from miles away, the cacophonic crack of lightning and the beautiful, blooming flames of Hell reigned the night sky. Hadriel had become far more proficient than his father in the destructive aspects, but was purely interested in nothing but those. Once his old father called in rain, half of Hadriel's power was gone, and the other half became uncontrollable. He was forced to flee, and found new sanctuary in the Deadlands, where he was able to continue his profession, and discovered another which seemed to fascinate him even more.

Death magic. Immensely powerful, utterly God-like. The concept of manipulating what Hadriel once thought was wasted resources excited him immensely, and being able to snatch back souls from what was once considered the point of no return intrigued him to no end. His power grew quickly, and before long he was able to control the horrible miasma of chaos, and integrated his new power within his old one, creating a magnificent blend of light and darkness. Nobody knows whether the man was ever part of the Gate Council, but one thing was for sure: he was now immortal.

But that was not enough for him. Hadriel needed concrete proof of his power; proof that could be seen and that would make the world tremble. Just as the whispering rumors, once uttered by the mothers of children who had felt the wrath of a budding psychopath, had proclaimed, the man devoured an entire kingdom alone, and became its sovereign. Abandoning his old name, he took the title Necronas, Lord of Death, for he had learned to master that fine line which separated the burning living from the horrific dead: He could bend and twist it into any shape he wished, and it would obey. He could blur it, push it, and utterly rip it apart.

But, once again, that was not enough. Necronas, as he was now called, the name which sent a fearful chill down the back of any who knew of it, desired more. Once he had a goal. However shallow it was, he had one. Now that he had become a God, he had no goal. There was nothing more for him, only the infinite rituals of an immortal legacy of royalty. Overcome with boredom, Necronas decided to leave everything. Within a single night he banished all his servants, and abandoned the castle to be overrun by the demons which thrived in the wildernesses of the vast Deadlands, and disappeared into the night.

Now the immortal, immensely bored God searches for little more than petty pleasures. Joy without sorrows, beauty without disappointment, excitement without ennui. He desires the adrenaline that made his heart pulse, his eyes widen, his lips curve, and his mind scream.

And he had learned that the best place to find what he seeked was in the fog of war.
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  #48  
Old 10-20-2009, 09:12 PM
Raelas Raelas is offline
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Posts: 1
Default Raelas

Name: Raelas
Age: 20
Gender: Male
Race: Human
Class: Reaver
Faction: Deadlands

Equipment: A pair of long voidsteel knives, a pair of regular steel knives, a set of lock picks,voidsilk clothes (although he tends not to wear them) and one rather sarcastic wraith.

Skills: Raelas is proficient with daggers, swords and claws, and somewhat with unarmed combat. Being a Reaver he's learned both mundane and wraith-related stealth techniques.

Description: About 5' 9 (about 175cm) and of a slender build. He has jet black hair that gets into his eyes occasionally. His eyes are a dark brown, unless he's drawing on his wraith, in which case his irises glow that unholy green. He tends to wear simple clothes, in grey.

History:His parents were necromancers of middling skill. However Raelas never had much interest in his parents' art. During one particular journey into the Dreadmarsh his parents were killed and, mostly, eaten by something unpleasant. Raelas turned his focus to liberating objects from others, a pursuit he'd been cultivating since before his parents died. After choosing a mark unwisely he found himself face down on the floor with a knife at his back and a choice (i.e become a Reaver, or become wraith fodder.) .

Last edited by Raelas; 11-18-2009 at 05:35 AM.
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  #49  
Old 01-23-2010, 07:03 AM
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Fortam Fortam is offline
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Posts: 1
Default The almighty Fortam the unscathed.

Name: Unknown

Alias One: George.
Alias Two: Henry.
Alias Three: Fortam.
Alias Four: Valentinez Alkalinella Xifax Sicidabohertz Gombigobilla Blue Stradivari Talentrent Pierre Andri Charton-Haymoss Ivanovici Baldeus George Doitzel Kaiser the Third.
Alias Five: Rosetta. (You don't want to know what he's doing while he uses this alias.)

Age: 23

Gender: Usually appears male.

Race: Human.

Class: Agent.

Faction: Steel Empire.

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Equipment: Being in a profession which requires trips of what can turn into years time, he always carries with him what he need. What little cannot be carried, he cannot bring with him, and as such all mystical devices of holding such as Armoires or Trunks of infinite capacity are regretfully left behind. Considering the considerably quantitative overlap between this category and 'description', I shall list weapons instead of all nick-knack-paddy-whacks he may carry. Six throwing knives (generally steel in make, though given the fact they are nine-tenths of the time left behind in a corpse, he constantly replenishes the supply with whatever he can afford in the next city over). Two daggers, measuring roughly just about or just under a foot in length, crafted from tempered steel and inscribed with all sorts of markings (mostly gibberish in a mix of Elvish to Orcish dialect). An ash bow, with iron plating along the sturdier areas of the wood, though no quiver to speak of. I'd make a joke about his fists being used as lethal weapons, as well, if I thought I could get away with it.

Skills: Exercise and rigorous training have left Fortam incredibly athletic, but never muscle-bound. He cannot match brute force, nor can he (in all honesty) fight to save his life. In fact, the last time he entered a fray, he was wielding a chair in an effort to beat an orc senseless. Of course, he can handspring backwards into a wall and launch himself upward to grip a ceiling support without bothering to look to see if there is in fact a wall behind him first, but trust me when I say; "If he has a bow pointed at you, keep walking towards him. If he's lucky, it'll hit the tree eight meters to your right. Assuming he has arrows on him."

Description: About 5' 9 (175cm) and of an incredibly athletic build. His shorter dark-brown hair is always unkempt and only washed on the off occasion. However, this is hidden by the fact he almost is always seen with a wide-brimmed hat of either midnight black or mud/dirt brown color. Below this is a single monocle that switches between his right and left eye as he sees fit. The cape he wears encircles his front, leaving only a thin slit open against the center of his body. Occasionally, the hood of said cloak (and in the effort of saving time and text, I shall point out all clothing is to be considered either dirty brown or dark black unless stated otherwise) is pulled over the wide-brimmed hat, stretching the loose fabric wide in a pointedly preposterous position. His arms hang loose inside the billowing cape, gloved in either leather or sturdy cloth depending on the occasion. Across his chest is strapped the throwing-knife belt, leading down to the belt around his hips. His chest-guard is a thin, tanned leather meant only to deter the slashing blade from cutting into him, and useless against stabbing. Fastened to the belt are the two sheaths for his daggers on either hip, which are in turn fastened to his legs to prevent them from bouncing when he walks. On his typically leather or chain belt are four to six hip flasks of assorted ale or beer, two cash pouches and a small bag at his front similar to a fanny-pack. Down his legs are two more pouches for assorted ingredients or spare change, with taught leather boots adorning his feet. A bow and small traveling knapsack with a makeshift tent and blanket are slung across his back, fastened by two bindings around his arms. His face is fair, except for a single, deep scar from he top of his forehead down to just above the right side of his lip.

History: At an early age, Fortam lived a quiet life in a local village with his mother and father. Being an only child, he was quite pampered, though loved by his family and befriended by the townspeople. His father a simple carpenter and mother a seamstress, he grew in secluded peace and decent prosperity. Both were cut short, however, when a roaming bandit clan burnt his home to the ground. His mother and father were both killed before his eyes, and before the boy himself could be killed, he was rescued by an agent of the Steel Empire. The leader of the bandits, as well as the vast majority, escaped before the agent could deal with them, and the boy swore allegiance to his new teacher. In return, the agent would teach the boy all he knew, so that one day, he may return to his homeland and take revenge upon the bandits who destroyed his life.
That was actually all rubbish, I just felt like writing something so hopelessly generic it would make you rub your forehead in despair. His history is his own buisness, go figure it out for yourselves you lazy sods.
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  #50  
Old 05-07-2010, 05:43 AM
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StarDebut StarDebut is offline
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Join Date: May 2010
Location: Isle of Wight, United Kingdom
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I am going to flesh my character out a bit, get to know him myself on a seperate thread before dedicating to this thread. Hope that's okay. Seems worthwhile and a good idea, as I need to know some things because I haven't had the opportunity to role-play for a while.

RESERVED:
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Last edited by StarDebut; 05-07-2010 at 05:44 AM. Reason: Shotgun a Reservation
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