ThreeDawg
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Voice of the Wastes
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Post by ThreeDawg on Mar 30, 2014 8:41:33 GMT -5
When the world turns dark, what do people cling to for survival? That the next dawn will be a familiar one, a time before everything turned sour. A time when the bread was warm and fresh, not sickly sweet and deathly. But what if all of those memories were an illusion? The world was never 'good', it never turned 'evil'. There was always fear, pain, death. There was always Evil, somewhere. This is the story of a group of people who came together and experienced the inherent Evil that the world had to offer, and the lengths they went to stop it, halt it, slow it down. Or at least warn people. For the night grows ever darker and the shadows dancing off the fire before you are not all your own.
Character Sheet: Name: Full name. Nicknames: Any and all. Race: One of the races listed in the Fantasy Mashup provinces. Homeland: The Province of your origin, make up a city if you wish to. Gender: Male, Female, Other, Non-Applicable. Age: How old are you? Appearence: Hair Colour and Style: How does your hair look? Eye Colour: Are your eyes anything special? General Appearence and Build: Let's see how you look. Distinguishing Features: Anything to distinguish you? Equipment: Apparal: What you wear or carry around with you. Weaponry: Swords, Axes, Magical Staves, Shields, what's your poison? Other Equipment: That stuff in your backpack. Followers: Do you have someone, or something, covering your back? Personals: Religious Belief: Any religious belief you may have, feel free to make up one or choose from any found in the Mashup thread. Allegience: Do you hold specific allegiance to a nation, faction or group? Personality: Tell us something about yourself. History: Tell us where you've been. [div align="center"][b][u]Character Sheet:[/u][/b][/div]
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ThreeDawg
Administrator
Voice of the Wastes
Posts: 1,219
Likes: 33
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Post by ThreeDawg on Mar 30, 2014 10:20:44 GMT -5
Character Sheet: Name: Namyra Nicknames: The Vindicator, Nam, Paladin. Race: Female Homeland: Shattrath City, Telar. Gender: Female. Age: 15,756 - although she claims to be on the 'early side' of her Sixteenth Millenia. Appearence: Hair Colour and Style: Her hair is kept long, layering towards the bottom. She generally keeps it up in a ponytail, tucked behind her curved horns, keeping it out of her face although a few large strands find their way out of the ornate cloth band binding her hair back. The band itself is a deep purple, like the crystals found on her body, lined with gold thread and decorated intrecately in alien ways that only the Draenei would think of. He hair colour is a rich brown, although it bares a purple tinge to it that is gently reflected in the light of day, flame or the glow of magic, giving her a (rightly so) unearthly halo. Eye Colour: Namyra's eyes are blue-ish white and typical of most Draenei they shine, a subtle glow that emenates from the very core of her pupil-lacking eyes. Lacking in pupils isn't quite the case, as a ring of darker blue swirls around a lighter patch if one looks passed the glow coming from her eyes. General Appearence and Build: Starting from the top is one of Namyra's more striking features, her horns. They begin as thick extensions of her skin at the base of her head, roughly where her hairline starts. They are ridged, slightly, and curve upwards into thick, clearly strong, horns that arch backwards, downwards and then finally up into a sharp point. Their colour is a deep ocean blue, like the colour of her skin. Below her hairlines, a gentle ridge of bone adorns her forehead. It looks to be a marking, rather than something that would naturally form although it has been there since her birth. The ridge forms an angular shape, roughly that of a point-cut diamond, although her forehead often crinkles into a frown around it. The rest of her face is flawless, clear cheekbones angle up to her eyes and are covered in a generous coating of skin and flesh that reduces the angular nature of her face. A number of wrinkles can be seen in the corner of her eyes, belieing her age. Her eyes too are angled, slightly, down towards her nose. Her nose is a common affair, with no 'alien' features about it other than its blue colour, it pales in comparison to the full lips it hangs over. Coming down from her long neck, just behind her almost elven ears, are two long tentacles. Each side of her neck has two tentacles, long, thin and tapering down to her chest. These appendages are adorned with golden bands, runed and symbolized with images only Draenei would understand. Fully dextrous, although they lie dormant most of the time and merely twitch subtly as she talks - her tentacles are an indicator of emotion as important to her people as facial expressions are to the other races of the world. Her build is very feminine, although it is hidden by the muscularity in her arms, legs and stomach. Her body would be pleasing to the eye, if you could look passed the strange appendages adorning it. Indeed it is below her shapely hips that her body takes on an uncomforting alien nature. A tail comes from low down on her spine, again a dextrous thing that tapers to a level just below her knees. It flicks from side to side as she walks, a disturbing sight like that of a lizard. But it is her legs that are the most unusual. They are thick in muscle, smooth of skin and taper backwards like those of a goat. They are hooved at the bottom, like the Minotaur, the Tauren and the Gor of the Hordelands. Powerful, black coloured two-split hooves that are adorned with a band of golden metal around their start. Distinguishing Features: One of the most distinguishing features of Namyra's body is its lack of scars. Draenei are incredibly good at healing, both naturally and through the Light, and so scars will fade over the millenia. The only scars upon her bodies that do not heal are the chips and cracks in her horns - of which their are many, an attest to her age and their continued use. Other than this, Namyra's only distinguishing feature is that she is a Draenei. Amongst Draenei she is quite typical. Equipment: Apparal: Namyra carries two sets of clothing in her backpack and one upon her body. The first stored set is that of knee-high leather anklets, forest green pants and blouse with a form-fitting leather breastplate over the latter. Protection and elegance. The second is a long, gold and brown robe. The robe is light and unmistakeably old, made of a type of cloth that is as soft as silk but as firm as wool. Deep gold lines extend from her chest to the golden hem, forming into patterns and elegent designs that encompass brown-orange sections without adornment, the arms and lower sections of the robe flow freely, like that of a Mage's robe. Her third and most important set of clothing is that of her armour, while not the white-gold set of plate armour she loves and has left back at Telar, this armour is equally as important to Namyra for her survival as it is her religion. This mission has called for a different approach than her usual heavy-plate front line warfare, the Hand of Argus has deemed it necessary to equip Namyra in a set of dark grey, lighter, scale-mail and leather armour for increased movement, stealth and a long, thick, hooded robe to aid her blending in with other races. The most important part of her armour is the purple crystals embedded within, these crystals amplify her connection to the Holy Light - allowing her to perform feats that would normally have completely drained her of energy with but a simple prayer and incantation. Around her gentle neck lies a golden pendant on a band in the shape of a Naaru. The 'crystals' of the Naaru's form were seemingly not connected by any physical means, floating in place around the main body of the pendant as if they were tied to it. Weaponry: For her mission, Namyra was granted use of a long, curve bladed sword made of the same strange crystaline substance that dots her armour. The blade is sharp and clean-cut on one side, with crystaline fragments forming a jagged edge on the other. The blade glows in the dark, emmiting a purplish-white glow, althouh Namyra has the power to dim or even dismiss the glow completely. This is not her usual weapon, prefering to wield a large claymore with her plate armour, or a crystaline axe and shield combination - but Namyra will do with what she has been granted. Other Equipment: Namyra carries with her a backpack, full with the salted meat rations, water bottles, dried fruits and travel breads for her journey. She also carries several relics, of a time long ago. Crystals of various colours, seemingly fragments of a larger whole, are found in satchel across her belt. These stones are precious to her, and often will she sit with them in her hands and meditate upon the situation - as each focuses a portion of the mind and provides clarity in thought and action. Followers: Namyra has none with her on her travels, her faithful Talbuk mount has been left behind at Telar. Personals: Religious Belief: Belief in the Holy Light of the Draenei, as described by the great Naaru and the Prophet Velen. Allegience: To the Prophet Velen and the Draenei people and their Naaru guardians. Namyra is an Exarch of the Hand of Argus - a military body of the Draenei people that oversees the safety and security of their species. Personality: Namyra can be defined as being war weary, for her fight is and always will be endless. The events of her history shadow her personality, even if she refuses to accept that they would. The end of days could come and Namyra would fight to save her species, she would put her life on the line for the Naaru and the Light - but she is clever about it. She doesn't know the exact time and location of her demise - only the Prophet would know that - but she knows when and how she would like to die and so far, nothing has been worthy of her death. When it comes to combat, she will either win or she will retreat. Her life would be thrown to the wolves only if it was for the greater good. But aside from this harsh, devout, militarily conditioned existence Namyra is still a person. She loves her people, she loves life, she believes that existence is worth saving and most importantly living. She'll smile and laugh, she'll enjoy her time spent with those she trusts, but most importantly she's friendly when she needs to be, and some times when she doesn't. History:{A village by the Sea}
The Draenei have always wandered, when they settled down it never lasted long. Well, by Draenei standards at least. Their peoples traveled from world to world, using the Naaru-gifted Interdimensional Vessels Oshu'tar, Oshu'tem and Oshu'mak. But they did not do so willingly, for each time they left they would be leaving a planet to its destruction. The worst part was, it was entirely their fault. For evil hunts the Draenei, evil that seeks the Ones That Got Away. The Exiled Ones. The Draenei.
Gabriola was not the only planet the Draenei had decided to truly settle on, believing they had finally escaped their pursuers. They had done it many times, but the most important to a little Draenei called Namyra was one called Ossigoth. The Draenei did not name this planet, as it already had inhabitants. Two species, small furry bipeds that had a tribal civilization known as the Grokon and tall, pale-skinned, bulge-eyed, bipeds known as the Grek. The Grek were the more advanced civilization on the planet, but they had not advanced far passed their seclued homelands. When the Draenei arrived, they did so in secrecy. It was unwise practice to settle upon a planet with species already present, but the Draenei have always had little control over their Interdimensional Vessels - which seem to make up their own mind about how to do things. So for a hundred years did the Draenei build their cities in secret, only then once their grand cathedral-cities and harborages were erected did the Draenei make contact with the Grek and the Grokon. The Grek nor the Grokon cared much, but it was with the Grokon that the Draenei would trade with upon occasions.
In one of the smaller harborages, Draenei went about their business creating exquisite silks, fishing and crafting works of metal to trade with the Grokon when one of the most wondrous events to a Draenei occured. A child was born. Draenei had always had few children, but since settling on this peaceful planet the birth rate had increased. The common saying was that there 'must be something in the water' of their new home, but in truth it was merely the lack of stress that constantly being hunted brings. The baby born was small, blue, with little nubs for horns and wailing like a Banshee. This child was given the name Namyra by her mother, a Priestess, and her father, a Baker.
The young girl was cared for with love and affection, for a Draenei child was a precious thing, especially a female in a village that so far had only birthed males. The village had a school, although it was run by the local Priesthood, and so the young girl was educated - quite well, for all Draenei are educated to a great degree over their younger years. But as they age, they must learn a role to perform. But that was far from Namyra's mind, for she enjoyed playing around the fields with her friends, all of which were boys, too much. When her general education had ended and an apprenticeship, of sorts was to be sought out, Namyra was sent off to the Priesthood - as tradition dictated within her village the girls (just her) would be sent off to the Monastery. While her friends were sent off to the local Justicars Camp to squire for the holy warriors, even if they were only still children.
A few years passed, but it was clear that Namyra was not priestly material. For the girl lacked the patience to meditate and a tendency to anger, although her affinity for the Holy Light was noted by her mother - the only thing keeping her being sent back to the village. It was with one specific incident that forced the High Priestess's hand, for Namyra had been rough housing with the young boys of the Monastery and had broken ones nose. The priests convened, and an alternative to sending Namyra back to be a tailor was concocted. For her talent with the Holy Light was something that would lend itself well to another profession.
Namyra was to be sent to the Justicar's Camp. {A Warriors Call}
"You need to focus, kinai."
An old warrior paced in front of a line of small blue-skinned warriors in training. His hooves clapped heavily against the floor, yet with every other step the sound seemed to drag on. This ancient Draenei had a limp, and the wise instructor now stood in front of the only girl in this group. Girls were uncommon in the Justicars, but not unheard of. Every Draenei had a Naaru-divined callings and it seemed to be the calling of this one young troublemaker to make an old Draenei's day harder.
The little one, for that was the title the Instructor had called her by, was clever he did not doubt and in mock combat she could best all the boys in this group. But she was unfocused - she swung with too much determination, a conviction that would see her open for a mortal wound in the battlefield.
The girl huffed and scowled in reaponse, raising the too-big metal sword up into the air and swung again at the air. Today's lesson was balance with the blade - a real blade, for the group has advanced passed training sticks. Of course, the blades were magically and physically dulled. At worst they would cause a harsh welt or a small cut, nothing the Healers - or even this strange girl - couldn't handle. But for the girl, her problem came with getting carried away with the blade. Her form was balanced, yes, but the method in which she swung the blade frustrated the elderly instructor.
"Here," the old Draenei said, pulling loose his own sword. It radiated a white light in his grasp, the crystal blade shining like the Naaru themselves in the powerful warriors hands. "watch closely."
The instructor shown her exactly how to perform the required move and she hated it. Hated not being good at something, and it made her sloppy. It was her strive for success that made her unfocused - and she had been told this time and time again.
The delicate blue eyes closed in an attempt to calm the young one and when she opened them, she swung the blade, and made her Instructor proud.
The next week, after days of the usual training, Namyra was pulled aside by her mentor. With his wrinkled hand he gently gripped her shoulder and led her away from regular practice - this time being taught by a younger Justicar running over the basics. Namyra was glad to be free of that.
"How are you finding training, Namyra?" The old Draenei asked of her, as they walked down an arched corridor lit by crystalline lanterns. It came as a shock to the little girl, her tutor had never used her actual name. In fact she wasn't sure he even knew it.
With a composure that would have made her Mother proud, Namyra his her shock and gave him a polite answer, even going so far as to use the honorific 'wise one'. "I love it here, shanai. I wouldn't change this for the world."
Her mentor smiled, the gesture of happiness lighting his face up. But he did not continue the conversation, instead he turned abruptly to the right and Namyra followed suit. They exited into a courtyard, the mid day Ossigoth sun shone down brightly upon the garden-cross-training ring, feeding the young sprig of a tree in the corner. For Namyra recognised it for what it was, the slight raise to the centre, the ring of stones embedded in the dirt. The old Draenei stepped into the ring and beckoned Namyra to stand opposite him.
"Namyra, you are flourishing here. Far faster than the others, but you still have much to learn and many problems to overcome." Namyra lowered her head, feeling as though she had been pulled aside for nothing more than yet another chastise on her abilities. "But," and Namyra looked up into the aged face to see a smile, born pridefully, and a twinkle of youth in the Draenei's deep silver eyes. "I have decided to advance your training personally. Every day, after regular training. We will meet here. For you are no longer a kinai, you have surpassed your group and now the real training begins."
Namyra could almost cry - it took all her training to keep her emotions in check as pride in her self mixed with happiness at the tutors words.
"Now, strike me, Namyra!"
With a grin of joy and a determined look in her eyes, Namyra charged the older Draenei.
The sound of her horns hitting the floor could be heard throughout the courtyard and the adjacent corridors. {A Light in the Dark}
"Hrrrrah!"
The sound of metal clashing against metal sounded out across a secluded secret courtyard, masked in a tall orange blossoming tree. Shadows danced beneath the boughs as the warm sun penetrated the leaves to reflect back off the silver armour encasing the tall Draenei woman stood in the centre of the ring. Her face was not covered by a helmet, unlike her quarry who was donned head to toe in the reflective - albeit his more ornate - armour.
Sweat trickled from her brow, curving along the subtle ridges of her skin to slide down her cheeks. Her breaths came ragged and for all purposes the young Draenei would appear to be exhausted but the blade within her hands did not falter, did not so much as twitch as her arms held it up before her in a defensive posture.
This time it was her opponents turn to attack and his crystalline sword spun around to strike at her left side, before shifting suddenly upwards to slash at her face - a move that would have taken her by surprise, if she were younger. But with a shifting of her weight onto her hooves and a flick of her wrist she managed to bring her sword up to deflect the strike and carry it forwards to strike at the combatants chest.
With a crash she fell backwards onto the stone floor, pain radiating from her abdomen. Her face bore a look of shock and outrage as she stared up at the sword nearly touching her nose. "T-that was cheating!" She stuttered out, her voice light and not quite fitting of her growing body yet.
The Draenei before her pulled the sword away and took off his helmet. The wrinkled face - unchanged over so many years it had taken Namyra to grow in both age and power - looked down at her with a smug smile. "It is not cheating to use your hooves in armed combat, Namyra. You know how to fight unarmed, why should you not mix the two? After all, any advantage in combat would save your life." He held out a hand to the prone Draenei and with a clear reluctance she accepted it and was pulled to her hooves.
Namyra had learnt more than just martial prowess in her time at the Justicar's camp - for a Justicar was more than just a warrior like those of the Grokon. Each Draenei warrior was taught the principles of the Holy Light spoken down from the Naaru and in doing so they harnessed powers not dissimilar from those of the Priesthood, albeit of a more martial spectrum.
As the training continued in their secret courtyard, the focus shifted more towards utilising the Holy Light in a combative manner. While every Justicar was taught the use of the Holy Light to bolster themselves, select few individuals with affinity for the Light could expand this aura to their companions, too. Her mastery over these abilities had impressed her Mentor enough to attempt to teach the girl lessons far beyond her years. Although Namyra had not been told that this training was anything but ordinary.
With a palm firmly against her chest and a long exhale, Namyra's hand radiated the Light itself and a shimmering bubble of Holy energy encased her form. She smiled up at her mentor, he soft features seeking approval for what she had managed to accomplish. But his face held no change in emotion and instead he raised his sword and swung it straight for the girl. She was told to make no move to defend herself, but she found it hard to fight back the reflexive motion of dodging - although her force contorted in a flinch. The blade sunk deep into her bubble before rebounding backwards. She noted a twinge somewhere in the back of her eyes, but soon it cleared.
Opening her eyes she looked up to her mentor, who's face now shone with the pride she longed to see. "Very good Namyra." He sounded genuinely impressed, a little in awe at her still pre-adult form managing to perform such a feat that would take many a century to master. Perhaps she was ready for offensive uses... "Now let us try to direct the Light at a foe."
As instructed for a further hour, The young Draenei held her palms out and concentrated on what she had been told. To focus the Light in a beam of Holy Fire was her aim - she had been told it would be troublesome and if all she could summon was a slight flicker of Holy Fire then that was excellent progress for a first time.
Smoke rose from the courtyard in the middle of the splendid compound, the thin stream of dark black waved in front of the sun. The din of bells ringing, the scattering of hooves and the slosh of water in buckets. {With Lessons Hard Learnt}
"By the Honour of the Naaru, the Light and our Prophet I accept the charge of the Justicar. I will perform with my all for the good of my people and the Light. By my Ancestors that live within us I will honour their decision of freedom over the tyranny of Evil."
She lay in her sleeping pod, the egg-shaped metal structure encompassed her all but from the front. The words she had spoken but two nights before echoed throughout her mind. Her oath had been taken, she was officially a Justicar. Her training had finaly finished, she had passed the tests set upon her by her mentor and the High Exarch of the Justicar's camp, a powerfully built Draenei that almost radiated the Holy Light.
Now, she had been granted her first mission. A storm had hit the night before, the day after her induction into the Justicar order. If she was one for portents she would have called it a bad omen, but Namyra cared not for the storm that had hit. The damage to the Draenei's hard buildings was minimal - a few cloths tore, some windows were shattered by debris. But the neighbouring Grokon village had been hard hit, and so the Justicars were sending some numbers to grant healing and physical aid to the broken Grokon. Namyra had been chosen, the excuse had been that it would make a humbling first task for the Justicar but in secret her mentor had lauded her abilities to his fellow Exarches and so she was granted this honour. For an honour it was, to be a chosen representative of your people to those of another.
They set out early that day, they rode Talbuk for speed - beasts native to their Ancient Home that had traveled with them from the coming storm. Her Talbuk was strong, a horned beast much like the cross of Gabriola's Horses and Antelope - although she would not know these alien beasts for thousands of years to come. Its fur was a bright silver, although dark lines striped its back and its horns were a deep purple. It squeeked beneath her weight, for that was the noise of a Talbuk should it choose to make one, as the Draenei in her silvered armour mounted the well trained beast. A crystaline sword hung from her hip, a gift from her mentor, while a circular shield bearing the seal of the Justicar order was strapped securely to her back. The shield held a subtle glow to the symbol, an enchantment to bolster its defensive properties against magic. All of this was fluff, of course, for the Grokon hold no aggression to the Draenei and it was merely tradition to ride out fully armed.
The Grokon village was not far from the Justicar's Camp. While the camp was built into forested hills - the Draenei cultural affinity for hiding their settlements in action - the Grokon had camped along the banks of the nearby river, down in the valley. Even from here, as the path down from the Justicar camp left the woods, Namyra could see the Gorkon camp nestled by the flowing water. Or, what was left of it. For wreckage was strewn across the grasslands. As the Draenei rode up towards the village, the much small Gorkon looked to them. Their faces, like those of apes, looked up at the Draenei who came to a slow. Their eyes radiated the pain they had gone through. Many looked down from them, continuing their desperate work to shore up the wreckages of their wooden huts and tents.
Namyra was first to lower herself from her Talbuk, which dutifuly stood where she left it as the Draenei walked over to the nearest Grokon. With a sad smile, she used her superior strength to help the small biped lift a wooden beam blocking the entrance into his hut. The Grokon looked up and in his native tongue uttered thanks. A hint of hope shone in his eyes as he shuffled into what was left of the structure.
With the Draenei's help, refuges were erected and rations handed out before nightfall. All would sleep safely tonight, their bellies full and a sense of comradery in the air as the Draenei healed the Grokon's ails and said prayers for their wellbeing. And as the second buffet of the storm struck that night, the Draenei's structures stood strong against the winds. Two races joined in a solemn event of laughter and mourning. {When Storms Rage}
The second storm never ended. That foggy morning, as rain buffeted the ground which had quickly saturated, the Draenei and Grokon emerged from their structures to a frightful sight. On the banks of the river was a body, a Grek. It was armed and armoured, and its pale flesh had not been parted with wounds or its bones cracked. The death seemed entirely natural, as if the river had washed him into the village from the storm. Namyra approached the body, examining it closely. Something felt wrong, unnatural. Not entirely was it the situation, but the body itself felt... Poisoned, for lack of a better word.
She was startled by the sound of horns in the distance - not Draenei horns and from the puzzled look on the faces of the Grokon nor were they horns belonging to them. The villagers came out of their makeshift structures, the rain buffeting their furred forms and matting it completely. The Draenei gathered in the center of the village, as the horns sounded again. The fog masked the direction of the blower, but it was definately closer than the first.
Then something flew by - narrowly skimming the Draenei and landing in the chest of a Grokon. The creature looked down at the wooden shaft erupting from his breast, he idly fingered the feathered tip in disbelief and horror, before stumbling backwards to the floor. Panic struck the Grokon, many ran into their ruined abodes, others grabbed for weaponry that they had to hand - bows, hatchets - and yet others just curled up and cowered in fear. Their too-long arms wrapping around their short stocky legs in a defensive stance.
The Draenei were far more organised in their response, their weapons drawn and shields out as the first of the mysterious attackers came from the mist outside the village. It was a Grek, armed with steel and armoured in chainmail. Its eyes, usually white with brown pupils, shone a crazed red. It was clumsy in its attack, charging and screaming at the Draenei rank - and falling quickly to the blade of an experienced male Justicar. The unhealthy black blood spilled across the soaked ground, mixing with the puddles of water in the mud.
Then they came. It was as if a tide was upon the Draenei, a sea of grey bodies, teeth bared like those of vicious predators. Namyra had no time to think upon the meaning of this conflict before she found her sword buried deep into the chest of an attacker.
A slam of her shield dropped the body, but before she could look up from the corpse her shield arm was battered down by a mace. Wincing in pain was all the shock she could manage, but her training soon shone through as she delivered the pummel of her sword into the Grek's face. A gruesome crunch followed and the being stepped backwards, only to fall as her crystalline blade cut a bloody swathe through its chest.
The Grek continued to flood into the small encampment, the Draenei were outnumbered - their compliment of six was up against forces three, four, five times their own. Maybe more, for the mist still shrouded the Grokon camp - the early morning sunlight hardly penetrating the barrier.
Black blood splattered over her blue face, it smelt rancid, rotten, to her senses. A rough scream of outrage and pain came to her ear, she knew the noise without needing to look. One of the Justicars had been overwhelmed, for only a Draenei could make such a touching noise on this battlefield. All was wrong with this attack, and as the Draenei and a small number of the Grokon fought desperately against the war party, Namyra had her first true taste of mortal fear. They would die here.
But they would not die without a fight. Namyra flexed her fingers, the sound of battle masked the quiet words of her appeal to the Naaru - but it was returned twofold by the roars of her companions. "For the Naaru!" They shouted as one, voices raised over the sound of their shields slamming against steel weapons and their hammers, swords and axes digging into the flesh of this once neutral race.
"For the Light!" Namyra cried in her own response, and as the words left her lips a great light shone forth from the glyphs on her shield. A golden light, warm like the summer sun and rich like honey, bathed the field before them. The Grek were blinded, dazed, their thin lips bared back in a grimace of pain. Their bulbous eyes closed tightly, they were left open to the pressed attack of the Draenei and their allies - who seemed completely unfazed by the magic. Scores died, cut down by Draenei hands.
Even as the light dimmed and the Grek begun to defend themselves. They found themselves unable to look upon the Justicars for long - for they were bathed in the same golden glow, their normally calm features twisted in righteous fury. The aura was their miracle, their saving grace. The heavy mists parted before their approach - and as the last of the Grek fell to the floor, his head detached from its body, the visual barrier seemed to dissipate.
Namyra stood over the headless corpse, rain and blood matted her long hair to her delicate face. She was panting, now. The energy lent to her by the Light fled her body like a sinking ship. The tip of her sword lowered shakily to the floor, sinking ever so slightly into the mud beneath.
Sounds pulled her back to reality, the cries of the Grokon. She turned to view the village, that the night before she had been so sure would recover. An attack like this had been unheard of, they were not prepared. The Grokon here had lived in peace for generations, their only weapons the tools of the hunt.
"Pack your things, prepare the dead." She called out in her native tongue, her voice amplified by the will of the Light. "In half an hour we are taking you to the Justicar's camp." None of the Grokon moved, although the mournful cries had abated for now, for none of them understood the words of the Draenei.
All except one, who shuffled out of the crowd and raised his own voice to his people. The first Grokon she had aided the day before. "I will tell them." He called out to the Draenei in a crude accent.
The other Justicars looked to Namyra with a mix of awe and pride. It had not been them who had saved their lives this day, for the feat of the Light had been hers to call upon not theirs. The eldest, their leader, bowed his head as a sign of respect to the young Draenei. He silently agreed to her instructions, and moved to gather carts for the deceased.
The storm raged high up into the mountains, the rapid streaks of lightning coming down would have seemed unnatural to Namyra. But everything had been strange today. {The Light Will Fade}
The Draenei convoy was slow moving. The injured Grokon limped alongside the Talbuk drawn carts, which bared the bodies of Grokon and the singular felled Draenei Justicar. The body would be interred into the great catacombs of the city-cathedral Chindai. The Grokon would burn their dead.
Namyra was thankful for the stones paving this path up to the Justicar's camp for the ground was naught but mud up here now, the carts would be stuck by now and the group would be at the mercy of the elements and any more Grek assaults.
Oh the pale skinned warriors no sign had been seen, but as the convoy rounded over a crest and the hidden Justicar's Camp came into view there they were. Countless pale skinned bodies surrounded the camp's walls. Draenei had always been defensively minded, so it was no surprise that the Grek hadn't managed to infiltrate the camp. Blue skinned warriors milled about outside the walls, several carrying large wooden spikes while other stood guard with crossbows and swords.
A new life hit the group, even the Talbuk could sense their home, and they moved at a remarkable speed to reach the safety of the camp. The great beige metal doors were open and the carts trundled into the open courtyard. Pyres burned, even in the downpour. Grek bodies were piled high amongst the burning logs. Namyra looked to the Draenei, but none looked her way for they were too busy in their assigned jobs. The highest ranking Justicar of the group ran ahead to the Exarch's Quarters, while the other Draenei slumped down to the wet floor. The Grokon unloaded their bodies and their goods, taking the bodies to the fires and cradling what they had managed to save from the desolation of their village.
Days passed like this, the Draenei stood around their communicators trying to contact outside aid. The Naaru gifted technology were truly a marvel, one would stand upon a circle and using a dais would attempt to contact another such circle. In the event of contact a lifelike representation of the Draenei on the other side would be outlined in purple lines of light. No one else replied.
Talbuk mounted messengers were sent out to the nearest Draenei city, Oshu'tar. It took thrice longer than expected for a reply to get through. Oshu'tar had been besieged by the Grek, but the Justicars had broken their lines. The Fist of Argus, the Council of Exarches, had convened with the Prophet Velen, hand of the Naaru. Any and all displaced civilians were to be sent to larger cities, like Oshu'tar, where they would be kept safe as refugees. Forts, camps and monastries would await further orders while the situation was looked into.
It took a week for the High Exarch of Namyra's camp to gather the citizens together and comply with his orders. Talbuk would pull carriages full of the citizens, Grokon and Draenei alike, while Justicars mounted and on foot would escort the convoy to Oshu'gun. The rest of the Justicar's would hold the camp until further orders arrived. It was only the day after the carriages set out that the Justicar's found themselves doing just that.
The Grek came in droves, their army masked by a forboding mist yet seemingly too large to just take this small camp - as if it had been roaming around in search of a city to claim. The storm had raged on for two weeks now, as if the world itself was drowning in its sorrow. The forests outside the Justicar's Camp had become so waterlogged as to represent a flood plain. This served the Draenei well, as the Grek forces that rushed to their walls floundered in the water while Draenei rained bolt and arrows upon their forces. It was only by sheer numbers that they managed to reach the curving walls. The Draenei metallic-stone walls bulged in the middle, it was hard for the Grek to get their grapples and ladders up to the top and when they did, they fell quickly to the Justicars manning the battlements.
Namyra was one of these Justicars, standing atop the walls with a greatsword to hand. The silvered metal was simply massive, with a deep purple crystal inlaid in the center and splitting the blade into two halves, yet she wielded it masterfully. Her armour was slick with the ebony black Grek blood, it did not run as it should instead it congealed almost as soon as it had left the body. Lightning struck down across the battlefield, it was tinged green and was clearly magical in nature yet it did not distinguish where it landed - striking the ranks of the Grek and the Draenei atop their walls alike.
Namyra brought her sword across in a great cleave, slicing the stomach out of a Grek and almost halfing one to its right when a great roar filled it her ears. All around her she saw Grek and Justicars stop mid-strike to see where the noise had originated. The Grek recovered first, striking with renewed vigour at the Draenei. Luckily, the Grek were outnumbered atop the walls. The great banging of drums came from with the Grek ranks - a dull 'thud, thud, thud'. Namyra peered into the murky depths of the fog-shrouded army. A great shadow outlined the direction of the noise, one that lurched slowly towards the Draenei walls. The Grek had managed to bring forth a siege weapon, it seemed. Yet as the object loomed closer, piercing through the fog, it was clear that this was no mere siege weapon. It was a siege beast.
Two great legs and two thick arms, as black as the blood that spilled from the Grek, supported the beast. It was easilly the size of the tallest Draenei tower, it would take 14 or more Draenei to match it in height. The body was thick and sloping down towards the rear. When Namyra first saw a Gorilla in the jungles north of Telar on Gabriola, it brought back terrifying memories of this moment. For that is what the beast resembled, only its muzzle was filled with sharp teeth - tusks curled around from the side of its mouth towards the front and great sloping horns not unlike her own sprouted from its head. But the worst part? This creature was completely unnatural, its eyes burnt with green fire - which sprouted along its back and around its neck in a mock of a mane. The beast was a Demon.
It tore the camp apart. The walls were nothing to this beast, which clambered over the Draenei defences and crushed those within the walls. Its hind legs kicked the wall through, allowing the Grek to swarm through. The Draenei fell in droves, Namyra too was struck from the walls by the great beast. As she lay, mind swimming, amidst the rubble of the fallen wall she had thought the Light had abandoned them to the Demons. Indeed it had, for where were the Naaru to face this great beast? The Draenei could do nothing, nothing but lie there and die.
She awoke some undetermined time later, her face was caked in her own blue blood. As she rose her head throbbed, calling her back down to the floors sweet embrace. Yet she got to her hands and knees, slipping twice in the mud before getting purchase with her hooves. Her vision was blurred and doubled, her body battered and weak. The ruins of the Justicar camp were all around her, every step took her over the body of another dead Draenei, Grek or the occasional Grokon. To her dismay the body of the great beast that assaulted their camp could not be found. No living Grek could be found either, so her hope of finding someone else alive drove her onwards. Hours of searching through the compounds broken halls finally paid off, she found a group of Draenei deep within the inner sanctum. Many were injured and it was clear others had died of these injuries once they had reached this safe place. For they were laid out in lines, dozens of them. Their faces were bloody, horns broken, bodies mangled. One of the Draenei caught her eye, it was her old mentor - as ancient as the Exile - lay stiff with the others.
It broke Namyra, tears streamed down her face and cleaned it of her blood. The months events dawned upon her for the Light had truly abandoned its champions, the Draenei had finally been found by Evil and it was going to destroy their entire way of life. {To Fight Again}
The Justicars in the inner sanctum did not stay for long. They interred what bodies they could within the catacombs, before the spoilage of the local waters forced them out. Of her Mentor, Namyra had taken a momento - a golden necklace on a band in the shape of a Naaru. The 'crystals' of the Naaru's form were seemingly not connected by any physical means, floating in place around the main body of the pendant as if they were tied to it. The weary Justicars fled to the only place they knew, Oshu'tar. Their journey was slow, for many were injured. They had no Talbuk to draw them, so instead they made do with each others arms. They were lucky, for as they wandered through the woods-turned-swamps not a Grek was found, not even a Demon. Nor a Grokon, nor a Draenei. The world was eerily quiet, even the birds and the insects did not dare give away their position.
When the weary party arrived at the hidden city of Oshu'tar, it was heartening to see that the strong walls surrounding the city itself still stood. In several places they were dinted, but the wreckage of siege engines outside the city's walls was a testemant to the Justicars and - Namyra realised - the Light. For three of the great beasts that had destroyed her camp lay amongst the carnage. The ground around their corpses was pooled in their blood, the grass with which they lay upon was dead. As Namyra came closer to the great walls of Oshu'tar, it became clear that almost everything outside these walls were dead. The short grass crunched under her hooves, bushes that had once been green were naught but twigs now. Trees were not even fit for firewood.
But the bright walls of Oshu'tar beckoned her forwards. The gates slid open to allow the Justicar's entry. The Draenei here were not bloodied, but clean and strong and proud. Refugees filled the space between the outer wall and the city itself. The city was walled off too, by a shorter less imposing wall. Behind the inner walls were many buildings all stood tall and grand. But the most impressive point was the white mountain at its heart. For the true Oshu'tar was the mountain, made entirely of a material that looks like diamonds. One giant gem, embedded within the ground. It seemed to radiate the Light, for within its halls sat the Naaru - or a collection of them - that the Draenei so revered.
"You have arrived just in time, Justicars." The words, spoken by one of the Vindicators that came to meet their group. His armour was not the silver of the Justicars, for he was of a different sect of the Hand of Argus, instead it was a purple - almost black - and the helmet fully covered his facial features. They had always intimidated Namyra, for they were the next step up from the Justicar order, but after what she had seen within the passed weeks - nothing so trivial intimidated her now.
"The Fist has convened, within two weeks we will be leaving this planet. The Naaru are already sending the messages, but if you had not shown you would have been left behind on this Light-forsaken world." she started at his words, this was the only world she had known. Even if it now fell under the sway of evil. But she bit back her tongue, in truth she would be glad to leave. To start again somewhere else, as the Draenei always had.
Namyra blended seamlesly into the crowds of refugees and displaced Justicars. She was ordered into enforced rest leave by the cities defenders, their army already bulged under the weight of refugee soldiers and volunteers. Alone, without military orders guiding her path, Namyra had time to think. She begun by searching the refugee camps for her family, of her mother the Priests had no knowledge, of her father she found no trace. But every time she asked, those who cared reminded her that the two other Naaru Vessels could have taken in her parents. It didn't much help to stop her from worrying, but the thought that they could still be alive and safe was enough. {The Naaru Provide}
Oshu'tar hummed with energy. It crackled from the mountains surface, destroying the buildings of the Draenei around it. The roar of the vessel tearing itself from the ground drowned those of the angered Grek and their Demonic allies. For more than just the great beasts had attacked the walls wihin the last two weeks. Gollums had rained from the sky, made of stone, both molten and solid, and bound together by green fire. Tentacled Horrors with many eyes had assaulted the defenders - alongside other unspeakably evil beings.
Each had been repelled and finally this day came. The defenders had abandoned the walls, each and every Draenei refugee, and a few families of Grokon, now slumbered within the great structure. The energy released by the vessel scorched the ground around it. It struck at the armies of Grek and Demon - obliterating them where they stood. With a deafening crack, the vessel split from the earth. Then in a blinding flash of Light - it was gone. The Demons had failed.
The Draenei settled on many planets after this, the cycle was the same. Sometimes it was Demons, catching up to the Draenei like on Ossigoth. Other times the worlds were too inhospitable, or the inhabitants too dangerous. The Grokon refugees settled upon a number of these planets until they too were left behind by the Draenei. Namyra begun to understand why the Vindicator seemed so willing to leave the planet to die - for that was the way of the Exiled Ones. Self preservation led them on an endless retreat from the forces of Evil. The Prophet claimed it was the Naaru's will - that the Draenei remain pure and free, while the Naaru prepare for the time when their Army of Light would finally destroy Evil's greatest champions.
The Naaru provided them the means for this escape, and for fifteen thousand years Namyra and the Draenei moved from planet to planet. The memories of the Draenei are impressive, but not infallible. The names of many of these places, Namyra can no longer forget. Of course many others she does, for the events that occured upon those foreign soils still weigh upon her today - her rise into the Vindicator order, and then to that of an Exarch, can all be attributed to life-or-death events upon those planets. Many of which were now probably lifeless rocks, void of even the life of water.
This unnamed world and the continent of Gabriola that they found themselves settled upon now was to be the same. The Draenei would watch, prepare for their eventual escape - many within their numbers, including the Prophet himself, wished to teach the local races to respect the Light and in doing so, give them hope of surviving the Evils that pervaded existence. Namyra was not entirely of that thought process, but the Prophets will was her own. She does her job and she does it admirably.
The most recent of which is to determine if the rumours of undead within the lands the locals name 'The Hordelands', namely the province of Kessig, were the sign of greater evils having discovered the Draenei's sanctuary. The information she seeks is important to the survival of the Draenei race, for if she stumbles upon the truth that this world is doomed - the Draenei will flee and avoid their needless massacre one more time. |
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Post by Possessedcheddar on Mar 30, 2014 15:40:08 GMT -5
Character Sheet: Name: Captain Abram Volnte Nicknames: N/A Race: Human Homeland: Muertia Gender: Male Age: 35 Appearence: Hair Colour and Style: Captain Volnte has a condition caused by a lack of melanin in his hair that has caused it to become prematurely gray with streaks of white shooting through it in a regular pattern. He keeps it tied up and back, in a shoulder length pony-tail. His deep widow’s peak hairline allows his hair to frame his face in an almost noble manner that adds to his powerful face and physique. Eye Colour: Captain Volnte’s eyes are the color of honey and are at odds with his colorless hair. General Appearence and Build: Captain Volnte is a tall and powerfully built man, standing several inches over six feet tall and weighing roughly 230 pounds (104kg). His body is scarred and hardened by his many years as a knight and commander. The Captain carries his arms and armor well because of his size and muscle mass. His large stature does not serve to slow the captain down as he is among the fastest and long winded men in the Blackguard. While not the strongest man, Volnte is the most creative in his approach of battle and his size does often lend a hand to his plan’s success. Distinguishing Features: Captain Volnte has a brand seared into his left bicep. The brand reads “We are the men who will live forever.” This brand is a rather grim and constant remembrancer to himself and by extension his men on their solemn task. In addition to the branding Volnte has a myriad of scars all over his body, most notably on his face where one large and painful looking scar follows the line of his jaw until crossing over the right cheek an inch from his lip. Another notable scar is the massive hand print burned into his right forearm. Both of these horrible scars came from the same battle and are reminders of its terrible toll. Equipment: Apparal: Captain Volnte wears the Plates of Volnte as his armor, an ancient and enchanted armor passed down from previous men who held the last name. Not every Volnte male becomes a member of the Blackguard (Abram is the first in over one hundred years) but when one man does make it through Blackguard training and eventually achieves his Captaincy, he then becomes worthy of donning the hero’s plate as his forefathers did before him. This plate is heavily enchanted with magics to ward off disease, pestilence, curses, poisons, and a great many other things. The most important enchantment is the Hero’s End enchantment which is threaded into the very metal of every suit of Blackguard armor. The Hero’s End is the ultimate price for a fallen Blackguard knight; the enchantment freezes their bodies in time and encases it in an impenetrable stone-like ice at the exact moment of their deaths. They never are allowed to fully die, thus ensuring that they can never be raised from the dead. In addition to his armor, Volnte wears standard issue greaves and thick leather boots covered by a shin guard. His gloves are highly enchanted as well. The Gauntlets of the Puppeteer, these gauntlets allow the wearer (if they are of sufficient enough magical prowess) to manipulate the limbs of people wearing the Blackguard armor to mirror their own movements. Used primarily as training tools to teach initiates the correct way to hold their weapons and move in battle, Volnte has discovered that they also have creative applications on the battlefield as well, much to the unhappiness of some of his men. Weaponry: Volnte uses a heavy cavalry sword as his main weapon. This one is named Deliverance and is enchanted to produce a kinetic impact that is calculated to be several times more than the force Volnte’s arm can put behind a stroke. A sword of this mark has been criticized for its lacking in the ability to slice or thrust very well but Volnte has modified it to be several inches shorter than original and sharpened the end of the blade to a thrusting point. The main focus of the weapon is still to crush the skulls of the undead he fights and in this act, it is a superb weapon. Other Equipment: Volnte carries a short knife called Skewer that has saved his life several times. It is absconded under his right pauldron, secured to the underside of the armor there. Aside from this Volnte carries a bedroll attached to the saddle of his horse, several pouches containing food, water, and horse feed, along with a long length of rope. He carries on his person a pouch containing enough gold to purchase whatever he may need and several enchantment stones of various types to ensure he can always have the correct enchantment for the job at hand. Followers: Volnte is a Captain of the Blackguard and Lord Fell-Hand’s second in command. As such, he commands all the Blackguard forces but generally travels with a group not exceeding 100 men and never dwindling below 10. Volnte is often sent on missions where a man who can dictate terms as well as fight brutally and ruthlessly is needed, where the stealth and subterfuge of Scout Captain Summers cannot take her. Volnte’s band of hardened warriors can take on most any enemy and survive, thanks to their battle prowess but also to Volnte’s superb leadership. Personals: Religious Belief: He doesn’t talk about it. “Why should I believe in something after death if I am never going to be allowed to die?” Allegience: Blackguard and anyone threatened by the Undead. Personality: Volnte has a massive presence and an infectious smile. His face, even with its scars, can still be as warm and friendly as a cozy fire when he is pleased or in the company of friends. But if he is angered or if innocents are threatened, his face becomes the very picture of wrathful and merciless anger as if he were an enraged god. His voice can range from a soft bass that he can make soothing or a terrifying rumble that seems to shake the earth itself. Volnte has extremely tight control of the minute magics that he can employ to change his own body and in speeches or in his dealings with people he must impress or intimidate often uses his ability to make his eyes glow a ghostly blue, and deepen his already bass filled voice. Admittedly Volnte does have a flair for the dramatic and his often impressive displays of skill and magic have earned him a reputation as a charismatic and monumental man. Beneath this veneer of grandiosity he is a selfless leader of his men and a valiant protector of people he meets. Before attaining the fame and rank he now possesses, Abram once sliced several silver buttons on his pants off to use as payment for a room to house his injured men from the cold fingers of a winter storm. This selfless act gained the devotion of his men and a sizable rent in that particular pair of pants. Before he will sleep, he ensures his men have food, water, and bedding themselves. Only when he is satisfied that their needs are met will he rest for the night. Several times in his career he has bravely, to the point of insanity, fended off the abhorrent monsters of the undead singlehandedly to ensure that his men could guide innocent peasants and citizens to safety. Several of his suicidally brave acts have almost cost him his life and many say that he does these things for glory. But those who know the Captain well will vouch for his pure intent in such matters and fall in step beside him until the end. History: {Early Life.} Volnte was born to a family living on past wealth and fame with dwindling prospects and a bleak future. With the only work for a family of this nature in coastal Muertia being positions as fishermen, carpenters, or coopers for the men and wash maids, nursemaids, house cleaners, fish curers, kitchen cooks, or scullery workers for the women the Volnte family had fallen on hard times.
Abram’s father had died at sea several months after his birth and Abram had no recollection of the man. Abram had watched his mother and sister struggle to make a passable life for them as he grew up and so from the time he was old enough to work, he did so.
Abram worked as an apprentice cooper and learned to shape wood, band iron rings, and water proof barrels and enchant them with simple preservative enchantments. The barrels made at the coopery were used to store all manner of things in such a way they would stay preserved for an indefinite amount of time. It was difficult and boring work. He earned several copper a day, barely enough to buy a meal. Whatever money he earned went to his mother to help pay their dues.
He worked here for two years, becoming better and better at his trade. He eventually earned one silver a day and managed to actually save some money that wasn’t needed to pay for food or dues. Abram knew the necessity of his job and the money but he still despised every second of it. He watched the fisherman during his breaks, the ones close enough to the shore to be seen anyway, and he daydreamed about joining them; to escape the monotony of his work as a cooper.
After his two years at the coopery, at the age of 13, Abram tried to find work as a fisherman. He was turned down at every place but he continued on undaunted. He snuck aboard one of the fishing ships at night and mended the nets he found broken in a pile on one side of the top deck. He refilled the oil lamps and re-coiled strung out rope. He fell asleep below decks in the galley under a mountain of empty meal sacks.
Abram awoke to find himself out to sea on the ship and felt the vessel rock back and forth gently as they sailed. The barks of laughter from the fishermen above caused Abram’s spirits to soar and he arose from the pile of bags to join them and prove his worth. As he moved, a skinning knife thunked into a post beside him. The ship’s cook stood with his hands on his hips and stared at the boy who now sheepishly stood in the open where he could be seen.
“Well aint you a slippery one, lad. You fix them nets, coil them ropes and fill these here lights?”
Abram nodded. The man smiled. “If’n you’re willing to work for free to find a job, I’ll damned sure pay you just to see how much better you do with some… Incentivizing.”
Abram later discovered that incentivizing meant several gold pieces a day for peeling potatoes and learning to cook from the ships’ cook in his galley. Abram enjoyed his work and enjoyed being around the fishermen out on the sea. As soon as they turned in to port he reported that he was quitting his job at the coopery and began his career as a fisherman.
As he worked and grew older, Abram’s body became strong and hard. He had gained several scars from his time aboard the ships where he had gone from galley cook to full-fledged harpooner. He was 16 now and his aim was impeccable. He was able to hit a Kraken, a whale sized beast that roamed off the coast, in the eye with a harpoon while it moved. He was good, one of the best, and though he was young he had developed skill beyond many of those around him. His easy going demeanor and infectious smile made sure he was welcome at any tavern and by any fire with a warm greeting and friendly smiles. For his feats of harpooning and massive hauls he helped bring in, Abram had amassed a small fortune over the past 3 years, enough for his mother and sister to live happily on for quite some time.
His life was good, it was exciting enough but he craved something more, a way to regain his family’s once high and noble status, to achieve the same fame as his ancestors. His sister advised against it, stating that his job as a fisherman was secure and lucrative so long as his arm was steady and strong. But his mother knew that once her son was determined to do something, no one would stop him. She didn’t even try. Abram continued fishing but he always came home with wishes to see far off places and fight in great battles on his lips. {First Encounter with Blackguard.}One day, in the middle of spring, a group of five men came into his town on war chargers, great black horses with massive bodies and huge heads. The men upon them were even more imposing. They were Blackguard Knights, protectors of the people and the talk of many many stories passed down through each generation of Muertian. The war chargers came to a stop and the people around them scattered in their wake. One man hopped out of the saddle and when he was out of the way Abram saw how the flank of the beast was flensed in several places, these men had rose their horses hard to get here. One of the men spotted him and waved him over in an urgent manner, not even looking to see if Abram was coming before he turned back around.
Abram hurried over and saw a man being gingerly lifted down by his comrades from his high perch on his horse. The man gritted his teeth against some pain and stood, aided by Abram’s shoulder. As soon as the man tried to walk, he faltered and fell, only saved the ignobility of falling to the ground by Abram’s quick reflexes and strength. He caught the man, armor and all, and supported his entire weight until another Blackguard could come help relieve some of the burden.
“What happened to him, sir?” Abram asked, grunting from exertion as he hefted half the man’s weight.
“Help me get him somewhere he can lie down and I’ll tell you everything I know. But he’s gonna die if we don’t get him help soon, lad. You know a place?”
Abram nodded and struggled along with the soldier and the man in full armor in tow to his house. He yelled for his mother to clear of the table and the man was carefully laid onto the long, solid wood. The wounded man let out a pained sigh and then violently coughed; flecks of maroon dotted his face afterwards.
His mother reappeared with towels and metal shears. Abram set to work cutting away the armor only to find that he could not, even with all his strength, cut through the metal. The man smiled a thin smile and said “This stuff aint cheap. You need to take it off how it was put on. Loosen the stra-“ His monologue was cut off by a gurgling cough and he laid down, clearly exhausted. “Loosen the straps. Cut those. Then the plates will move for you.”
Abram did as instructed and began removing the breast plate and then the padded jerkin beneath. The man’s chest bore the marks of many battles and one deep purple spot in particular spoke of crushed bones and internal hemorrhaging.
The other Blackguard walked in with the town healer and set his sword down next to the door, still sheathed, and removed his helmet. The town healer carried a box of potions rattling and sloshing in their long necked glass bottles. When he saw the state of the man, he set to work attempting to soothe the pain the soldier was experiencing. The soldier who had come with the healer had his head obscured by a leather hood, which he loosened and pulled back off his head to reveal a head full of bright blonde hair.
“We were ambushed, 12 of us out on patrol, a group of recently turned zombies washed up on the shore and went about infecting the people of the next town over. When we got there it was too late, the place was overrun. As we set about purifying the town, several of them came at us with weapons, took us by surprise, they did. We knew that sometimes the undead can retain their skills but we weren’t expecting several to have their wits about them in the same place. One leapt from a barn roof, leading with his hammer, and took the captain over there right out of his saddle. The captain fought ba-“
At this point the man on the table interjected himself with a loud guttural noise and said “I was careless!”
“Save your strength captain and just lie still.”
“Last I checked I was st-“ His sentence was interrupted by more coughing and still more blood, this time it looked a lot more wet.
The man lay back down and Abram held a hand up to the Blackguard soldier and said the he understood what had happened next. The man merely nodded and stood where he hoped he was out of the way.
The captain had been watching Abram the whole time and even when something hurt him and he winced, his eyes never left Abram’s.
“Lad, who are you?”
“Abram, I’m a harpooner.”
“Are you a Volnte, harpooner?”
Abram stiffened and nodded. The man smiled thinly, as if even this simple act was draining him. He said “come closer. I need your help, Volnte.”
Abram was drawn in, he went to the man’s side and he leaned down to hear the dying man speak.
“you’ve got that look about you, son. You crave adventure, a new type of life. Judging from this place you probably want to restore your family name too.”
Abram nodded, “Three for three, sir. What do you propose?”
Man coughed some more and said nothing but pointed at the Blackgaurd by the door and then removed his gauntlet. Inside was his name, inscribed in gold lettering with a small note attached stating that anyone who bore this gauntlet was permitted safe passage and was to be allowed to see a Lord Fell-Hand with all due haste. If the person bearing this gauntlet was not the captain, that meant he was now dead. The Blackguard at the door looked away, unable to watch as the gauntlet was passed to Abram because he too knew what it meant.
“You’re a Volnte son, and you have the hair too.” This elicited a small smile from Abram and he accepted the gauntlet. The captain lay down and gave a shuddering breath. It was obvious he was not long for this world.
The healer stopped his work, simply shaking his head and sitting heavily on a nearby chair, defeated, putting his head in his hands. The captain looked over at him. “Chin up healer. On this day a hero dies. But on this day you have witnessed the birth of another. It is a most momentous occasion, to know that I have not died in vain.”
The healer looked up and the other Blackguard bolted across the room shouting for them to move out of his way. He grabbed the limp body of his captain and threw it off the table into the street. A collective gasp of outrage sounded among the gathered people in Abram’s house but as soon as the body left the house they saw why the man had done it.
The captain’s body was now encased in some sort of ice, his body still in the motion it was in when life had left him. Abram looked up at the man for an explanation but he merely shook his head. “Hero’s End. It’s misnamed, really.” The other Blackguard approached and with extreme difficulty moved the body to a waiting wagon; the stone had not budged at all of even chipped in the slightest way.
Abram looked at the men struggling with the body encased in stone. “You don’t move people like that very often do you?”
The man never took his eyes off the captain. “No. we don’t. We usually leave them where they are, and once he is out of the city we will leave him there. He, like all the rest who went before him, will be left as a monument to our fight. A battle only we may face and survive. It is a very solemn thing, never truly knowing death. But it is necessary.” {Saying Goodbye to Family.}Abram didn’t understand, not really, but he nodded anyway. He looked down at the gauntlet in his hand and decided that he had gotten his wish, to reclaim his family’s glory; he must now become a Blackguard. He placed the metal band around his wrist and secured the straps embedded in it. He had no choice now but to honor his decision. “I will need some time to tell my family bye… will you be waiting for me?”
The soldier nodded. “We will wait. But not forever, men who live that long know the value of time well spent.”
Yet another thing Abram did not understand but nodded for anyway. He turned and walked back inside. His mother and sister were cleaning up and as he entered he held up his hand. I cannot betray my oath, especially to a dead man. You both know this.”
They nodded, his mother first, and then slowly his sister joined. Their eyes were brimming with tears that threatened to overflow at any moment. “I do not know when or even if I can come back from this. But I have enough here for you both to live happily for the rest of your lives. Sell my nets and harpoons; they will fetch a handsome price. My friends and co-workers on the boats, they have seen what happened but do not know why. Tell them this “He has an oath to a man who died in his home that he will reclaim the lost glory and fame of his family through protecting the people he has grown to love.” They will understand.”
Tears flowed freely down the faces of his mother and sister, Abram joined them. They all embraced for one last time and stood there for a moment, clinging to each other. Gently, Abram let go and stared at their faces as if to burn their memory into his mind forever. “I love you both. I will write and visit if I can. But I fear I will be gone for a very very long time.” They responded in kind and he turned away, never looking back at their sad faces. He knew that if he had, he would not have had the strength to go.
He walked back outside. People now lined the street, watching what was happening. As he passed a group of fisherman from his boat burst out into the street in front of him. He stopped and waited to see what they would do. The group stood awkwardly until the galley cook who had first given him a chance stepped forward, the speaker for the group.
“Lad, we heard what happened and what you’re doing. It has been a real pleasure having you work with us and share our food and fire. If you’re as good with a sword as you are with a harpoon, lad, we will all sleep a little more soundly at night.”
Abram smiled at the compliment, a little of the heaviness that had settled on his heart lifted. “You lot taught me most everything I know. You promise me you’ll take care of my family, treat them like you would have treated me. They need the support. I don’t know if I’ll ever see any of you again, but raise a glass in my honor if you would.”
He walked past them, the group fell silent again and the massive war chargers of the Blackguard pawed at the ground, kicking up small clouds of dust. The men atop these horses waited in absolute stillness, as statuesque as their fallen captain. “You know how to ride a charger, lad?” Abram shook his head that he did not.
“Well there will be time to correct that later. Take my hand and climb up. An eternity awaits.” {Becoming a Blackguard.}With this Abram Volnte set into motion a chain of events that would change his life forever. He rode with these men, hearing stories of their might, valor, heroics and their acts of compassion, selflessness, and sorrow. He heard tales of kingdoms ruled by gods in flesh, of great battles waged all over the world. He was told of great beasts, kindly members of other races whose looks were as exotic to him as he must appear to the kraken he slew. He rode with them for the month it took to make it to the Blackguard Keep, high in the mountains.
Once here, he began the life of a Blackguard Initiate and worked tirelessly, 14 hours of the day to train, exercise, drill, and learn the arts of magic. Volnte became proficient in all fields of training, but his swordplay bested even some of the tutors, even though he had yet to face his first battle. Volnte discovered he was a very powerful mage and could control the delicate magics tied into his own body with ease. His friendliness and charm ensured that though he was better than most any student, he was well liked. He was willing to share what he knew and took what little personal time he had to ensure that those he trained with had mastered the skills as well. He was a natural leader, ever patient, selfless and devoted to the men he trained with. When asked why he went to such great lengths to help his fellow students instead of himself he was said to have replied
“If they fall in battle and turn to stone, their bodies are only good to slow the enemy down. But if their bodies are turned to weapons… then things will be different. I am the hand that will help guide. They will become the bladed edge that kills.” His instructors were so pleased by his response and the utter conviction with which he said it that this became the official motto of the class of recruits Volnte was with “The hand that guides, the blade that strikes.”
After a full two years of training, at the age of 18 Abram was officially inducted into the Blackguard, along with 25 of his fellow aspirants. He served for 7 years in the rank and file, leading small contingents of troops to take towns back from necromancers that were all too common in Muertia, on patrols and through training exercises. When he was 25, he fought in the battle that would earn him his captaincy. {Battle that Earned Volnte's Captaincy.}Abram and his group of 20 men came to the small village where the reports of necromantic practices had led them. They entered the town and found it deserted. Many drag marks and blood stains lay all over the place within this town and they all led towards the massive church of the 9 holies at the edge of the townscape. “Steady lads, whatever is here will be waiting for us in that church. They’ll not be wanting alms I think, so keep your wits about you and ready your weapons.”
Cautiously they began their approach. Then all hell broke loose. The windows and massive banded wooden doors on the front of the church burst open and a chitterling army of mutilated and decaying monstrosities came at them. They poured out of the church like a flesh wave, many just being carried along by the press of bodies around them.
“They must have herded the entire town in that place. Ready yourselves men, form ranks and do not let them get in among us.” The men tightened up and the first of the undead reached them. Swords and hammers came down on skulls and magic burst the bodies of the zombies in front of them like rotten fruit. “Front rank kneel. Second rank, clear them out.” The front rank knelt and the mages behind them sprayed the assembled undead apart and into ragged bits of seared flesh with the combined magical power of ten Blackguard mages.
With the enemy repulsed for the moment, the men reformed their ranks. Volnte noticed that the magic had scattered the remaining zombies and that they were coming in bunches of 5 and 6. “Disperse. Keep a man at your side always and do not let them behind you.” As they had been trained, the Blackguard split ranks and formed hunter groups of 4 men. They would select a knot of zombies and strike them down. In small groups like this, the undead were not a huge threat. Then the first of his men died.
The man had closed with one of the zombies and as he had brought his hammer down on its skull, the thing grabbed him. When its flesh touched the man, it exploded with enough force to shake the ground. The man was crushed and before his body could begin to fall, the Hero’s End did its job and encased the man in its magical stone. Still more zombies poured from the church and for every one they put down, another two took their place.More and more of his men began dying and Abram realized his mistake. He had thought that the initial wave from the church was the main force. He realized now that they were a diversion, meant to scatter his men. There was a human mind behind these fiends, he realized. The necromancers must still be inside. “Form ranks men, these lot were just to get us all spread out! Form up, form up!” his men struggled to disengage from their battled and in the process he lost three more men. These necromancers must have enchanted these zombies to explode on contact with a person, knowing that Blackguard men would be sent to investigate this place. Bastards, thought Abram.
They church-front exploded and the wave of heat and debris forced the Blackguard to the ground, laid over like wind through a crop. As they regained their footing, the real horde came at them, several hundred zombies took to the field, every inch of the church must have been filled to the brim, the bodies of the townsfolk stacked like firewood in every nook and cranny. Behind them, a malevolent spectator loomed, straight and imposing he stood facing out from an alcove at the pulpit. Fires raged everywhere now and many buildings in the town had caught fire from the explosion from the church. His men formed a wedge and advanced through the undead ranks, crushing and pulping them with every swing and cast of magic. The horde was thinning, but 5 more of his men died in the advance.
By the time they waded through the zombies to the church, Abram had five men left. They knew what they had to do. They stayed at the church-front and fended off the zombies they had now gotten behind. If Volnte could kill the mind behind the zombies, they would falter and be struck down with ease. Volnte closed with the necromancer who rose above the pulpit on a cloud of light to meet him. The man screamed, hate distorted his every feature and his eyes ringed red and his cheeks hollow. The papery thin skin of the man seemed to glisten in the firelight and the sight was repulsive to the Sergeant.
Volnte dodged a bolt of lightning sent at him by the man and another and another still. They crashed all around him, setting the pews alight and burning the thick, plush carpet leading down the main isle of the building. Volnte looked up and saw a massive wrought iron candle chandelier above the necromancer. He used his own magic to wrench it free and it fell on the man, crushing his thin frame to the floor.
Volnte closed for the kill and saw that his quarry had fallen into a pile of burning timbers. He screamed a scream of hatred and pain, but never fear. The most evil never did. Volnte closed with the man and raised his sword to strike. His hit never connected. The necromancer, dripping skin as if it were melted wax, surged from under the chandelier, it gouged great rents in his back and his robes but the man ignored them, driven only by his need to kill Volnte.
Volnte grappled with the man and received a brutal slash across the face for his troubles. He staggered back and clutched his face, which had been flayed open to the bone of his jaw. The necromancer pushed the attack and grabbed Abram’s forearm. Even through his gauntlet, he could feel the touch of this man searing his skin. He hacked down on the hand with his sword, severing it, and buying himself time to retreat and regain his bearings.
Blood poured down his face now and his arm hurt badly. Volnte looked towards the door to see two more blocks of magical ice had formed around his men, but the other 3 fought on. He knew this needed to end quickly. He advanced on the necromancer and the two circled each other. When the man came at him again, Volnte was ready. He batted the arm stump spewing gore aside and slammed the guard of his sword into the man’s face. The necromancer stumbled backward and Volnte kicked him into the fire once more. Agony was an easy thing to hear in the wretch’s voice and Volnte ended it quickly with a massive boot to the face, crushing the screaming visage under 230 pounds of fury and skill.
A cheer went up from the remaining three men as the undead arrayed against them faltered. Volnte had no time to celebrate his victory and ran to the door to join them, shouldering past the ice encased forms of his men. He led the charge with just three men at his side out of the killing ground in front of the church and into the midst of the zombies. Striking while they were dazed and shambling, they died easily and in droves. From the road a bugle sounded and nearly 30 war chargers crashed into the fray, somehow, a Blackguard patrol had happened by and saw what was occurring. With the reinforcements, Volnte directed them to cleanse the town and finally, after several hours, the process of razing the place to the ground began.
Volnte and his men strode out of the city, tired, hurting, but alive. They sat down at the roadside and waited for the razing to end, they were too tired to join their comrades. A single war charger and its rider peeled away from the troops that were putting the town to the flame and rode up in front of Volnte and his men.
“Volnte. You did well. I’m terribly sorry about your men, they went down fighting, you can see it on their faces.” Volnte was surprised to hear the deep baritone of Lord Fell-Hand addressing him. “Sir, I didn’t know it was you” and even in their weakened state Volnte and his men kneeled. Fell-Hand said “My best do not kneel to me, Volnte.” The Sergeant nodded, “Aye sir, but they are your captains. I am one of your sergeants. I must kneel sir.” The man dismounted his horse and drew his sword. “Captain Volnte. Rise. No Captain will kneel before me, this I command!”
Volnte bolted up and a look of shock spread across his features that brought a smile to Lord Fell-Hand’s face. “You have finally done it Abram. After all these years you will join the vaunted ranks of the Captains of the Blackguard.” Abram looked back at his men. They were the real heroes in his eye. And they raised their hands to show that they accepted without question, Volnte’s new rank. He had achieved his fame. {Captaincy to Current Day.}For the next ten years of his life Captain Volnte served with distinction and honor among the many battlefields around the world that the Blackguard was called to. He led his men into the fray time after time after time, never balking from a fight and never retreating until the job was done. He was awarded every commendation for valor that could be given and eventually was named as Lord Fell-Hand’s replacement for Lord Blackguard whenever the time came. His men loved him, and if his enemy were capable of fear, they would have feared him. Captain Volnte epitomizes everything it means to be a Blackguard. Even his seemingly indomitable spirit and body will be tested beyond its limits in the coming days and with his next assignment, he would not know that the world as he knew it was coming to an end. But that is another story for another time. |
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Post by Stelpher on Mar 31, 2014 1:45:46 GMT -5
Full already? Hot damn.
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ThreeDawg
Administrator
Voice of the Wastes
Posts: 1,219
Likes: 33
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Post by ThreeDawg on Mar 31, 2014 3:43:53 GMT -5
Full before it was even conceived, me and Ched had been throwing this idea round for weeks and we only wanted a small thread. Word slipped out and that small thread bulged suddenly so I had to close it before it exploded  Just remember that this isn't the Fantasy Mashup thread, this is just taking place in that world before the whole Evil event. Everyone's free to do this. |
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Post by Court Baron Butters on Apr 1, 2014 19:06:27 GMT -5
Reserving my characters spot, hope I'm still good to join this, I think i'll be taking the temporary seat you offered me dawg.
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ThreeDawg
Administrator
Voice of the Wastes
Posts: 1,219
Likes: 33
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Post by ThreeDawg on Apr 1, 2014 19:30:47 GMT -5
Aye you're good to join. We'll see you in Fonte, unless you fancy a more permanent role.
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Post by Court Baron Butters on Apr 1, 2014 19:51:10 GMT -5
Character Sheet: Name: Heraldo Respulchi Nicknames: N/A Race: Human, Fontéan, Hispanic Homeland: Wickfall, The Kingdom of Fonté Gender: Male Age: 28 Appearence:  Hair Colour and Style: Tidy, black Eye Colour: Brown General Appearance and Build: Heraldo is a lean, and average sized human, with long hair on his head, and heavy hair on his chin, he has kept it this way ever since he graduated the academy. Distinguishing Features: Bushy beard, scarring across nose, and most of face, and goggles. Equipment: Apparel: Copper platemail covering his chest, and shoulders with a leather cover, dark black pants, and a similarly coloured gentleman's blouse, (underneath the platemail) and Several buckles, and harnesses securing pouches around his waist. Weaponry: a single shortsword Other Equipment: igniting fluid, and rags for lighting torches, and travel rations. Followers: The 10 holy's walk with Heraldo wherever he goes. Personals: Religious Belief: The 10 holy's Allegience: Ex-Fontéan Military Personality: Cunning, clever, quick-witted, and other such synonyms describe Heraldo, but not only is he sharp of mind, but also sharp of emotion, although he was raised conservatively to the beliefs of Fonté he has found compassion towards all living beings, be they man or beast, he is a sympathizer for the unheard voices of the land, he does not believe that the beasts are the ultimate obstacles to world unity, but he has deep-rooted respect for the traditions, and culture of his people. History: WIP Early life in Fonté, A beast-like confrontation. Life in the great kingdom wasn't always easy for young Heraldo, his upbringing was pockmarked with trial, and hardship, and through all of this he became the hardened yet compassionate warrior seen today. Heraldo was brought up in a large sub-capital of Wickfall known as "Found Foresight" his family was of average wealth, but offered little attention to their child. Heraldo spent most of his childhood parading through what little forest remained in the highly deforested province of Wickfall, but hidden dangers lurked in the isolated wooded areas... "Haha, Swish! Swish! Nobody can stop the mighty warrior Harold!" The boy swung his wooden sword back, and forth attacking the grey trunk of a long dead tree, he pranced forward, and backward swinging his 'blade' pretending to evade the attacks of his pseudo enemy. A shadow sprinted across the green landscape, the pervasive figure caught the eye of the observant lad. He panicked momentarily "Ay! What was that!" his eyes shot wide open at first, but as he turned to look behind himself, his eyes caught nothing, his heart rate slowed back down, and he scanned the woods that lie before him. "Aww, more bandito's trying to sneak up on the brave warrior, what shall the sharp-witted Hero do?" Another shadow dashed directly behind Heraldo, and just as quickly did he turn around to catch the figure, but to no avail, the figure was gone, and the young boy was leafed baffled, spinning in circles trying to catch the figure, when in a single instant the boy was knocked over from behind, he fell to the floor with a bloodied slash across the bridge of his nose. He stumbled across the ground gazing at the figure before him, a large grizzly bear foaming at the mouth towered over the boy, he was lucky the beast had not taken his entire head off (he was only glanced.) The bear leaned in, and sniffed the boy, it then stood back on its hind legs, and growled violently, the echo of the earth shattering noise could be heard across the entire province - luckily for the boy - The kid on his feet, and clutched his sword, he squared off with the bear for what seemed like an eternity, neither party making a move for fear of the other, sweat dripped from the forehead of Heraldo to the cold mud below his feet, as the sweat hit the ground an arrow streaked through the air driving itself into the skull of the forest creature, hit fell swiftly to the ground with a loud thud, Heraldo nearly fainted, and turned in the direction of the origin of the arrow. The head of the arrow was driven forward by the long wooden bow of a town guard dressed from head to toe in a silvery metal platemail, a tabard was draped over the front of this armor, with the crest of Kingdom of Fonté, a narrow ten-sided star all in glistening gold. The guard grabbed the kid by the arm, and swore 'Boy, what the hell are you doing this far out of town? Are you trying to get yourself killed? There are beasts out here, they want nothing more, but to end you!' The young Heraldo whimpered as his arm was aggressively gripped by the guard. Heraldo was taken back to the city, and taken to his parents where he was swiftly disciplined. Gods save Fonté! A new soldier enlists. 'What brave men have we here?...Well? I see none here myself, all I see is filth...skin, bone...cowards...But you've all heard these words before haven't you? Fortunately for you lads, you won't have to for much longer.' The bulky man spoke loudly as he paced back, and forth eyeballing each and every child that stood before him, they were lined up in rows the youngest at 14, and the eldest at no more than 17, 'Welcome to Fort Sonsworth, you've all come here for many reasons, but you'll all leave for the same, to protect, expand, and serve the proud kingdom of Fonté.' The chubby man, walked over in the direction of the young Heraldo, but stopped at the child right next to him. 'You there boy! What's your name?' A quivering boy, no older than 16 stood before the man, he was thin, the fat man could fit his hands around the child's waist 'uh-um Tobias...sir!' The non-peckish man scratched his white bearded chin, and laughed to himself. 'A lit'l Toby, eh? Why are you here boy, how old are you?' The boy cleared his throat, as the man leaned in to hear him speak, he laughed nervously as he gave his response 'eh, hehe, well the uh... The Military is Cumpolsary for males here in Fonté...From the ages of 16 to 20' The man stood back up straight, and scanned the crowd. "Aww, you're one of those, who else is standing here today, because they had too?" Almost all of the young boys in the rows raised there hands, Heraldo, and another young lad further in the back were the only two not raising there hands. 'Haha, so your the only two good ones here, eh?' The fat man approached Heraldo in the line. 'And what is your name boy?' The fat man said leaning over the child. Heraldo looked straight forward, with an erect spine he spoke in a commanding voice "Heralod Respulchi, sir." 'Oh, harry harry, huh?' The fat man stood up straight, he was the only one laughing. The young Heraldo spoke up "I actually prefer to go by Harold, sir."He was struck across the face by the fat man. 'Did I tell you to speak runt!' Heraldo Stood, and rubbed his now pinkened chin. As another lad came out of his spot in the line, and approached the young Heraldo, it was this child that had also not raised his hand, he grabbed Heraldo's shoulder, he was wearing peasant clothing, and was scuffed from head to toe, yet had curved cheeks that were soft to the touch, and unusually reddened lips, his hair was folded up into a hat on top of his head, and he spoke in a high-pitched tone. 'Are you alright, boy?' "I'm fine." Harold responded bluntly, he recomposed himself, and stood up straight. The pudgy man had a dissatisfied look on his face, he grabbed the disorderly child by the arm, squeezing viciously, he pulled the boy back to his spot in line. The fat man put his hands on his face, and then yelled, 'Alright listen up you wankers! 15 laps around the fort, make it quick, we don't have all day.' The crowd of children moaned, as one leaded off the group, and others began to follow as he ran, Heraldo lagged slightly behind in the middle of the crowd, as they circled the large inner-circle of the fort. The boy who has stood up for Heraldo was far behind him, but began picking up the pace until the two were face to face. 'Hi' The peasent boy said, in an oddly high pitched voice, he covered his mouth as he did. "What?" Heraldo kept his head down, he talked to the floor, not to the boy. 'What? I think I deserve a little more than that? I was trying to help you back there!' "I didn't need your help...besides it's probably your fault he's making us do these laps."'Woah, woah, i'm not mister I prefer to go by Herald!' The boy spoke mocking the young Heraldo. No one said a word for nearly a minute, before the boy spoke up again. 'Names Ainsley' he held out his hand at an attempt to make an awkward handshake while running. Heraldo sighed, "Sorry, this whole thing is kind of new for me, I'm-"He was cut off by the other boy 'Yeah, Herald, I know, the whole fort does.' his laugh bordered on a giggle, and Herald gave him a queer look for his laugh, the boy covered up his mouth when he did. The two laughed for a few moments, and continued there conversation as they ran the laps. The cold was beginning to rush in, it was night now, and the two boys were having dinner out in the open. The two were laughing, and telling stories about where they had come from, and what they were doing before they came to the fort. 'So why are you here Harold?' Ainsley spoke up. "Well..." Heraldo spoke as he began thinking. I owe allot to Fonté, a town guard saved my life once, what about you?"The boy giggled to himself a bit. 'I guess my reason isn't quite as noble, I really wanna fight, prove my toughness, and bravery, not to mention everybody looks up to the warriors around here, they combine brute strength, and spirituality.' "I know what you are, by the way." Heraldo said looking at the ground. Ainsley's eyes grew wide as Heraldo spoke. 'Uh, what do you mean?' Heraldo laughed to himself as the other boy said this. "Oh, you know what I mean, The high pitched voice, the smooth lips, and cheeks. Come on, you're a girl right? Don't worry I won't tell anybody."Ainsley's gaze darted away from the Heraldo, Blush struck upon the child's face. "You say you wanted to prove your toughness, what better way for a girl to do that than in the military? You're horrible at doing Falsetto by the way." Heraldo laughed to himself as he said this. The two sat in silence for a while, before a figure came upon both of them, his face was lit up by the fire between Heraldo, and Ainsley. The figure was twig-like, with a small head, and frame, he walked up to the to, with tears in his eyes. The two looked at him with concern, and brought him by the fire to warm him, it was Tobias, the young boy confronted by the pudgy man. He told them that a group of children were making fun of him for not being as strong as them, and they embraced him as one of their own friends. The divide, A splitting of bonds. The Detachment, a rejection of paths. |
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ShockHelix
Administrator
Deity of Death
No mercy for the weak. No pity for the dying. No tears for the slain.
Posts: 666,666,949
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Post by ShockHelix on Apr 4, 2014 20:14:13 GMT -5
Character Sheet: Name: Theomund Laurent Nicknames: Theo, Lord Laurent Race: Númenórean Homeland: Dol Amroth, Crownlands, Elysium. Gender: Male Age: 7,436 Appearance: Hair Colour and Style: Theomund keeps his hair short and trimmed, so that it fits comfortably beneath his hood. Eye Colour: Theomund's iris's are gold, but he also appears to have golden flakes of color throughout the sclera of his eyes. General Appearance and Build: At first glance, Theomund appears to be no more then a giant of a human. Standing at seven feet four inches, he is appropriately portioned for his size, unlike normal humans of such stature. Weighing 29 stone even without his equipment, his build is a mass of well-defined muscle, with his armor gives him a more bulky appearance. Beneath his hood, Theomund is not the most attractive individual, with hard features, jutting jaw bones, and a sharp nose. His skin however is light, fair, and unmarred by scars or other blemishes. Distinguishing Features: Apart from his size and eyes, Theomund has no true distinguishing features. Equipment: Apparel: Theomund carries two pairs of the same set of clothing, a green tunic with the symbol of the Watch over the left breast, green pants, and a green cloak which he wears over his armor. His attire fits comfortably under his armor, while the cloak rests above and composes his obscuring hood. His armor consists of a flexible padded leather for most of his torso, a weaker version of scale mail, while he also wears a lightweight set of yellow plating across his chest, shoulders, arms, legs, and feet. These plates do well to protect him from more stronger weaponry and spells while the leather itself insulates against the heat and cold. All of the armor is enchanted by magical means, giving him some minor protection against spellcasters as well as from other magical weaponry. Weaponry: Mostly living in the wild, and a highly trained soldier, Theomund carries a veritable arsenal with him. His primary weapon is an heirloom hand and a half sword, with a blade that never dulls or rusts. It's blade is covered with runes bearing the names of each of his ancestors that have wielded the blade before him, and ha s a jewel encrusted hilt bearing the symbol of his house. Theomund also carries a wooden kite shield painted with the symbols and colors of both his house and that of the Watch, which is otherwise unremarkable. The next weapon in his repertoire is a six foot composite longbow. The bow itself is made of a very strong wood native to Elysium known as heartwood. This makes the bow more difficult to draw then a normal bow, but increases its usable range and the force at which the arrow flies. Theomunds quiver is magical as well, having the special property of never running out of arrows. The majority of Theomunds weapons are knives, of which he carries twenty four. The first twenty of them are throwing knives located in sheathes on the front of his armor. Another two knives are located on his left hip, one for skinning game and the other for combat. The final two knives are hidden in his boots, one in each. Though he does not usually directly carry them himself, on his warhorse Theomund keeps a hatchet, three javelins, a spear, a mace, and a spellbook. Theomund is not highly skilled with magic, but through the use of his spellbook, he can cast a number of spells, from healing magic, to scrying spells, to skills to improve ones prowess in combat and other fields. As the Captain of his group, he most often uses these spells before a planned battle to strengthen his comrades, and afterward to heal any ailments they may have been inflicted with. Other Equipment: In his saddlebags, Theomund carries the standard supplies needed for traveling, such as rations and drink for himself and his mount, maps of the land, a compass, money, a tent, and a specialized rune stone that when the right words are spoken to it, creates a portal that leads to the outside of the Wall in Elysium. Followers: Theomund travels with four other individuals under his command, as well as the groups five mounts. They each wear armor and clothing similar to his, though they all have their own specializations and skills in the field. Personals: Religious Belief: Reincarnation Allegiance: The Watch, House Laurent, and Gondor. Personality: Theomund is quiet and withdrawn, focused more on whatever his task is then making friends or being polite. Though he adheres to all the laws of Elysium, he views most of the mainland as savages and uncivilized monsters. He does not let this get in the way of his missions however. In fact, he is known for not letting much of anything get in his way, and as such is not very good at maintaining friendships. If he believes something needs to be done, he will take whatever measures are necessary to see it through. He is well learned, highly skilled, and exceptionally trained, though this knowledge has made him narrow minded and stubborn. Save for those closest to him, it is nigh impossible for an outsider to change his mind about his views, no matter how skewed. For those he does not respect, he is blunt, hateful, and abrasive, completely uncaring for others feelings or view of him. Because of this, he makes a very stringent Captain, expecting everything to be run in perfect order, and punishing those who make mistakes. As a battle commander, he is clever, but can be outmaneuvered by those more devious then him if he grows set on a singular course of action. History: Born into one of the royal houses of Dol Amroth, Theomund Laurent was born to a caring mother and father. For those of a royal house however, this was not enough to guarantee him a good life. Though he never lacked for nice things, he was destined to be pulled into the politics of Dol Amroth from the day he was born. With each house making a constant vie for control of the city, and hoping for one of their own to be raised as the next lord, childbirth was extremely common – and also problematic. Born of the Númenórean race, the houses of Dol Amroth were very large already, and with few deaths in the protected realm, Theomund was largely ignored by those other then his parents when he exibited no exceptional traits. Like each member of the Laurent family, he was provided with training in everything he could ever desire, and was pushed towards a hope for greatness he could never accomplish. For four thousand years he strived to find a skill in which he excelled, but to no avail. Older members of the house were far wiser, and with more children arriving every century to the large house, he was pushed further and further into the background. Though he was still provided every benefit the other members of House Laurent were, he eventually took the same route as his father and joined the Watch. The Watch itself was not much better for him, and he found himself bested even by mortals. After thousands of years of failure, he finally found his place in being cold as iron. Unyielding, unfriendly, and unkind, Theomund was mostly out of place in the world of Elysium, and though he had slowly grown in rank in the Watch, a chance to leave the world that he had never fit into came as a welcome escape. Taking a small command group with him, Theomund responded to the call of scouts for the mainland. Strangely, more and more groups of the Watches scouts and spies in Gabriola were disappearing, and the leaders of the Watch wanted more eyes and ears across the land. Geared up and ready to go, Theomund traveled to Kessig, with orders to find anything he can about the Watch's missing forces and if the nations of Gabriola have anything to do with their dissapearance. |
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Post by Sabess on Apr 5, 2014 18:25:01 GMT -5
I've had a busy week/weekend, but I should be able to get a character up tomorrow.
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ThreeDawg
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Post by ThreeDawg on Apr 5, 2014 18:27:14 GMT -5
Alrighty then  I'll get the thread up tomorrow too. |
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ThreeDawg
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Post by ThreeDawg on Apr 6, 2014 16:12:47 GMT -5
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Post by The Lost Traveler on Apr 6, 2014 17:32:04 GMT -5
So even though the thread is up, I can't join it because it's full, even though I added provinces to it, right? In that case, when is the next Fantasy Mashup thread going to start?
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ThreeDawg
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Post by ThreeDawg on Apr 6, 2014 18:03:48 GMT -5
No TLT - this is just my ickle Iddy biddy thread set in the mashup world. This isn't the main one people built for. That will come when Immortal is done with the evils. This is just me being tired of waiting and not using all this stuff and jumping the gun and doing something with the world before the evils hit it.
Feel free to do the same, this is full because I didn't want too many people in it.
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ThreeDawg
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Post by ThreeDawg on Apr 6, 2014 18:07:12 GMT -5
Sab and Butter are only offering up temporary characters too. For the locations we will pass through that belong to them. If you really feel that way you may have one too for that small desert human nation between Galar and Fonté lands that I've forgotten the name for.
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Just remember that this isn't the Fantasy Mashup thread, this is just taking place in that world before the whole Evil event. Everyone's free to do this. 
I'll get the thread up tomorrow too. 