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Topics - Lion

#1
Ketra / A Stroll Down Fascination Street (Minx)
August 07, 2020, 12:24:55 PM
"Thiago, we have a problem," Natanyl Anaki muttered with a grimace to the scowling barkeep at the opposite side of the counter. "You do this every time I come in."

The middle-aged Adelan wasn't in the mood for nonsense. Thankfully, neither was Natanyl. He leaned his thick sausage hands on the counter and pursed his lips at the dark elf. "What is it this time, Ashboy?"

"The brandy is watered down again," Nataynl explained. "Taste it! I paid for alcohol, not water."

Thiago snatched Nat's glass and downed the whole shot. "Hmph! Tastes fine to me. Must be something wrong with your tongue."

Natanyl glared at him while Thiago poured him another. "You know there's a reason everyone goes to the Randy Peach, you old bastard. I tell you the day Elendra and the girls close their legs, this whole place is going under. Mark my words." It was almost like a curse and Natanyl snatched his glass away from the old man, marching up the stairs.

Although no one in this establishment was as old as he was, he was sure of it. The Gold Candelabra wasn't exactly rife with excitement. But it was a quieter brothel than the Peach and it was just what he needed to get away from the long, hard road.

There were few carriages these days, not exactly an upturn in business prospects for a highway robber such as he. Natanyl would have to get more creative if he didn't want to starve to death. He was hungry for a decent night's rest, a warm meal, and a hot bed. It'd been ages since he allowed himself to stay in one place for long. And he seemed to be coming back to Ketra.

He rapped his knuckles across the door to Elendra's room. She was an old friend that was one of those 'keep 'em coming back for more' types. She did well enough for herself that she could just about buy out the Candelabra from under Thiago, who held many debts to the wrong people. But it was those debts exactly that Elendra wanted nothing to do with. She was going to open up her own shop elsewhere, or so she said.

Natanyl made sure to stay in contact so she'd let him know.

"Come in," a woman's voice called from the other side of the door. "The door's unlocked Nat."

He smiled and pushed his way inside, clicking it softly behind him. The room was softly lit, dim candles flickering in the far corners of the room. Candelabras, like the business' namesake, stood erect beside the four-poster bed on the far end, flared with gold candles and a woman appeared out from behind the partition next to it.

"Hello, darling," she greeted Natanyl.

He took another sip of the brandy, feeling the faint burn, but again, mostly just tasting water. "How are you, dear?"

"Oh much better now that you're here," she murmured. "Well don't just stand there. Come over."

She was draped in a flowy white gown that clung to her every curve. She didn't have to tell him twice. Natanyl closed the distance between them and felt her arms sweep around his shoulders. He grinned, leaning down to kiss her, slipping his arms around her waist. But when his lips made contact with hers he paused, pulling away after a few seconds.

"Wait...you don't kiss like Elendra," he said, pulling his face away, staring at what was supposed to be a familiar friend.
#2

Art by me coming soon!

Prologue
+ NAME + Falx Hao'ya Remari
+ ALIAS + Remi, Blackbird
+ AGE + 28
+ GENDER + Male
+ ORIGIN + Muwatsli Territory, Adela
+ SPECIES + Human (As far as he knows)
+ RESIDENCE + Within his current Regiment
+ OCCUPATION + Soldier and Combat Healer for the Adelan Army
+ FACE + Raven Purple hair, Silver
+ STATURE + 6' / 187 lbs
+ SEXUALITY + Pansexual



__________________IN-DEPTH

PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION
Falx is of average height and rife with corded muscle. Regular exercise keeps him fit and ready for duty when necessary. His medium length hair is carefully trimmed, usually tied back, and appears such a rich deep black it's practically purple, with flashing silvery eyes that penetrate beneath a gentle sloping brow. His nose is prominent with a fine aquiline bend over full lips. Scruffy facial hair dusts his angular chin and upper lip. His face has firm angles, marred only by the jagged scar that runs down from left temple, skipping across his jawbone, and diagonally across his throat.

An eagle mid flight tattoo is spread across his upper back with the tips of the wings going down his shoulders, so that when he lifts his arms, it seems as if the wings are spread. On his chest are other various tattoos of his clan within the Muwatsli tribelands, which mark his status, and others earned in the early days of his military service. Two brandings reside on the inside of each of his wrists.

PERSONA
"If I ever make another vow, it's to live for what's right here and now. A man makes his own honor after all."

Falx is stern but polite. He's courteous to strangers, and matter of factly, feeling being as direct as possible generally leaves little illusions as to the person they are dealing with. While he is honest, he's tactful when needs be. He enjoys the finer things in life, although doesn't let it go to his head; he's plenty happy doing without convenience. Get him drunk though and he's either boisterous or brooding, rarely any inbetween. He's quick to express his irritation with fools and imbeciles, with rage that could rival gods.

Falx stands by choices, and holds others to the same standard. He has dedicated his life to helping others and service in the Adelan military has given him the discipline to hone his abilities.  He's proven himself capable of living his own life, and wants little variation from it. He doesn't enjoy disruptions to his routine.

- Bits and Pieces! -
    - Boxing - Falx makes regular practice of exercising his fists and hand to hand combat training. Whether its sparring with a partner, or shadowboxing on his own, he's disciplined and energetic regarding it. It also helps him blow off steam whenever he's having a particularly bad day.
    - Hairstylist - Need to know how to take better care of your follicles or need a swift trim, Falx will set you up right. It's more of a hobby than a living, but he managed the hair as well as the wounds of his unit.
    - Connoisseur - A good fake at best. Falx enjoys wines and aged brandies and other such tagalongs when it comes to having something of a "noble" heritage. But he does it badly. Give him a bottle of cheap wine and a fine aged bottle, and he genuinely couldn't tell the difference, save the one he liked better.

MAGIC/ABILITIES
Osteokinesis - Falx can manipulate the growth of bone and marrow as if it were an artform. He could feasibly make it more dense and durable, force extra bones where they need not be. He uses his abilities to heal rather than to harm. He can mend appendages and set them better, using this with a mix of field medicine training to keep those of his unit fighting fit.

Weapons Training - He's a healer that can pack a punch if necessary. His combat training stems more from just his military history, but more so from his youth. He was the second son of the Muwatsli clan chieftain, and thus not the heir, but had the proper upbringing that came with it: was educated and taught to fight with an assortment of weapons.

RELATIONSHIPS
Darshan Remari - Father, Chief of Clan Windstrider - Estranged and not on good terms.
Miklo Aowada - Mother -
Masaya Remari - Younger Sister -
Toka Remari - Youngest Brother -



HISTORY

In the Muwatsli tribal lands, it is the thundering sky that decides who is worthy.

Falx was born in one of the five prominent clans of the Muwatsli territory, near the cliffs of the Hivan Ocean, in Clan Windstrider by the windy cliffs by the sea. His parents told him the summer storm saved his life and his mother's as it wailed against the cliffs. A tale his father likes to repeat when he's drunk and to everyone he's already told.

When Falx became of age, he was nominated by Darshan to succeed him in ruling Clan Windstrider. Falx turned it down however, feeling as if he was not worthy of doing so. Instead he enrolled into the military to live his own life and pursue a life away from clan politics.

To Darshan, turning down a nomination simply is not done, despite Falx's best intentions. The nomination then fell to Mayasa, although she is no less a suitable choice.  Falx fully backs his sister in her leadership.

Epilogue
THREADS

#3
Sirantil Valley / Nice Night for a Walk (draco)
April 13, 2019, 03:26:38 PM
The dreams were always the same. He always would wake up in a cold cold sweat, and the memory of his mother imprinted on his mind. Her face deformed from the once sweet grin he'd tried to remember her by. The flashes of lightning that highlighted his father's dying body. The screams of his mother calling out his name as he ran off into the night.

Were they memories? Things he blocked out?

The fire roaring beside him made shadows dance in the corner of his vision. He pushed himself up from his bedroll, the night closing in on him. It must have been close to midnight. Or so he assumed, the moon being high over his small campsite.

The village he was just outside of had no room for lodgers. And he'd rather not have to fuss with odd looks and strange questions. He'd much rather have a quiet peaceful night's rest. If only his brain agreed with him and would let him sleep a full night through.

Decebal took a few more sticks he'd had next to him and tossed them onto the firepit. The small clearing he was in was just a few miles from the main road, and avoided unnecessary attention by way of any brigands or mercenaries traveling along it. It wasn't his job to clear them out, and with Dukes doing their own little squabbles, he didn't really have interest in being the one to clear up their mess.

He was a knight, or ex-knight. Or what have you. Titles didn't matter when your business was finding demons and casting them back to whatever pit they crawled out of. He'd find the head of the beast that destroyed that abbey and turn it in for the reward that was promised him.

The trail had gone cold for a day. That wasn't a good sign, and while he was sure he could find it again, the chase had left him exhausted in the days that preceded it.

Hence the need for rest. Hence the sleeplessness. Hence the pounding headache that raged in his skull. Eugh.

Decebal kept his sword in his lap, only moving it so that he could get closer to his supply bag and take a sip of the whiskey he had in the flask just tucked behind his other gear.  Maybe just one more.

In the middle of that swig, a loud rustle in the brush made him almost spit it out and he paused. Slowly setting the flask down, his heart was pounding clear in his ears, alarm making his hair stand on end. He reached for his blade and carefully removed it from the sheath, his eyes flicking to the bushes where he heard the noise, watching waiting.
#4
Hyoite / Tchenko Sindri, Lonely Fisherman
September 23, 2018, 02:38:49 AM

Done by me

Prologue
+ NAME + Tchenko Njall Sindri
+ ALIAS +Chen, Nahji
+ AGE + 37
+ GENDER + Male
+ ORIGIN + Hyoite
+ SPECIES + Human? (Mostly, probably), Sionadyaki
+ RESIDENCE + Village of Carlig, Frequents Hyoite as well
+ OCCUPATION + Fisherman 8D
+ FACE +Lavender hair / Amber eyes
+ STATURE + 5'11" / 200 lbs.
+ SEXUALITY + Who knows! *throws confetti*



__________________IN-DEPTH

PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION
Growing taller than his father, Tchenko stays strong from his work, with a powerful back, arms, and chest. He's warmly tanned, most likely from his lineage, than wandering around in all that hot sun the tundra and it's waterways are known for. His long lavender hair is usually held back with braids and falls down to just past his shoulders. His beard is generally unkempt, growing thicker around his chin and mustache above thin lips and rarely shaved. With high cheekbones and languid, hooded amber eyes, beneath a medium brow. A tattoo marks his face, a small slope just above his brow and a hook-like etching just around his cheekbone.  His expressions have little variation from "Quit the bullshit, get to the point," to "Yes, you can braid flowers in my hair." You might never know what you're going to get.

Voice Claim: Mads Mikkelsen

PERSONA
"Though now it hurts like hell, it is better to feel just something else than live in that uncertainty."

Tchenko Sindri is a man of few words. He's aloof by nature, although not intentionally in a manner that is hurtful. He keeps to himself, largely, with a strong sense of duty - usually throwing himself into his work, rising early and not finishing until the day is done. Then rinse and repeat. It's a useful distraction, and he'd never been one to enjoy staying idle for long, lest he get antsy.

He visits Hyoite often, staying in touch with his sister and her family, bringing his nieces small whittled gifts. Tchenko prefers to stay close to those he cares for, and gives what time he can spare to ensure their well-being, loyal to his core. He'd never been one to nix his feelings, preferring to be honest and upfront than beat around the bush. If he likes you, he'll show it. While there's no real ill will toward anyone, Tchenko would fiercely protect anyone he cares about. 


He's a nostalgic sort, ofttimes ruminating on the past, and it's not uncommon for him to spend sleepless nights working on scrimshaw, or when the sun is about to rise, passed out by his heart with an empty bottle. Yet he still rises each day, getting back into the rhythm. It's certainly better than sitting around feeling sorry for himself.

- Things! -
    - Scrimshaw - likes to carve all kinds of things, and generally gives the decorated bones he's crafted as gifts, or sells them to traders that come through Hyoite. He has a carved fang he made into a handle for favorite curved fillet knife.
    - Self-induced insomniac, it usually takes a few chugs of rum to make sleep happen. And when it does, it's rarely pleasant.
    - Wears a small tiger's eye charm stone around his neck on a cord, given to him by a wise woman when he was a boy and intended for Hemming when he came of age.

MAGIC/ABILITIES
Fishing! And with some extensive knowledge of boats and some sailing. Father taught him how to hunt, but his true calling is the water. Can cast a net and throw a polespear as second nature.
Fairly decent navigator as well.


RELATIONSHIPS
Anka Sindri - Mother - Deceased
Bolo Sindri - Father - Deceased
Sula Sindri - Sister - Alive

Massari Na'Khota (formerly Sindri) - ex wife - Alive -
Hemming Sindri - Son -Deceased

HISTORY
Tchenko can't trace much of his lineage back beyond his grandparent's grandparents, and much of his life has revolved in Hyoite where he was born.  Life was far from idyllic, raised along with his sister to help their mother with daily chores, curing the meats and skins their father brought back from long fishing excursions. He brought with him things from his travels, taught them about the places and people he'd met along the way. Sula moved on to find her own way and Tchenko took on the family trade, soon moving to Carlig nearby and married, raising a family of his own.

He was proficient in his trade, eventually owning his own boat, but helping on others when an extra hand as needed. He'd stay out for months at a time, long excursions, hauling catches back.  Returning to a warm home, to Massari's loving embrace did him a world of good, and knowing his son would have a good life made it all worth it. Then Hemming got sick, and passed away. He was away on a voyage when it happened, and although the waves and winds had been favorable, Tchenko couldn't get to him in time. He was buried next to Tchenko's father and mother, and Massari eventually parted ways with him, moving back to Hyoite, where she remarried.

Tchenko stays in Carlig, as it still is his home and keeps himself as busy as he can.
Epilogue
THREADS
#5
Wanderers and Independents / Natanyl Anaki, Highwayman
August 30, 2018, 01:25:45 AM


Done by me

Prologue
+ NAME + Natanyl Volu Anaki
+ ALIAS + Nata, Nat, Anki
+ AGE + Roughly in his 250s (appears to be in late 30s)
+ GENDER + Male
+ ORIGIN + Thunderblacks
+ SPECIES + Umbraeon
+ RESIDENCE + The...Highway!
+ OCCUPATION + Former Ankuman / Highwayman
+ FACE + One lava red eye and one emerald eye / Dark Red Hair
+ STATURE + 6'1" / 218 lbs.
+ SEXUALITY + Pansexual



__________________IN-DEPTH

PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION
Natanyl is a ruggedly handsome rogue, with a narrow chiseled face, and deep inset eyes. His grins are wry, full lips often curling into a sarcastic sneer - in particular when confronted with punitive insults. His brows seem to naturally fall into a furrow, with thick brows and eyes that seem to lazy to want to do more than bore into you from a distance because he couldn't give two shits what you thought about him. Of average height for his kind, Natanyl is athletically built, lean and mean, not quite hulking, with varying scars along his light gray skin, three slashes along his right shoulder, as well as the full body tattoos of his tribe.

He's wizened in appearance, the fine lines of age apparent here and there in the corners of his eyes, right one lava red and the left one emerald green (an unusual anomaly even for his people), and a small set of cuts along his lips and chin. Natanyl's red hair is long and braided, with a set of feathers and bones tied to it and usually braided in a knot behind his head, or hanging loose when completely doused. A small cut mars his left eye brow, crossing at the corner of his eye, and narrowly missing being plucked out.

PERSONA
"The bones have spoken. I guess today just isn't your lucky day."

Natanyl Anaki cuts an ambiguous, roguishly charming figure from the get go. While he might not say more than intended, he's got a sharp enough wit, with a keen eye for detail, and an even sharper tongue. He's friendly when he has to be, and guarded because he must, and doesn't trust anyone more than he has to.  He's sly, underhanded if it means toppling an opponent and never reveals his full hand, even down to his final card.

When in good company with a few drinks in him, Natanyl is prone to boisterous roaring laughter, and tipping his chair over because his guffaws were too great for even him. He's generally sarcastic, tending to favor heavily toward gallows humor, and rarely in the mood to take anyone else very seriously. His jokes are terrible and commentary dry, and if you're forced to suffer it, then he'll have a hell of a time tormenting you by telling you everything you don't want to hear.

If there's one thing he is most protective of, it's his daughter Casinia, whom he loves more than his own life. He 'works' to provide for their livelihood, if it can be called that, and has taken her away from the tribe life he knew. Natanyl has no real value for organized faiths, and although he doesn't openly mock them, and stil practices much of his own shaman tenets, he will never force his daughter to follow a faith that would lead only to ruin.

- Things! -
    - Often grumbles to himself loudly when ruminating. None of his words are sensible or coherent, and he falls in and out of the Serenian, Adelan and Sevic
    - Can sometimes go for days without sleep, either because he's working on an incantation, or some other bout of self induced insomnia. Either way, it's generally ill-advised to interact with him when his brains are scrambled eggs.
    - Keeps the spices to himself. Pepper, powders, anything and everything that gives flavor, he has on his person and never goes anywhere without them. If you can get him to share, *tips hat to you*.
    - Uses a small sack of rat bones for all your on-the-go scrying and divination needs. He's a healthy skeptic despite the practice. He doesn't call it predicting the future, but uses it instead to measure the probability of possible outcomes.

MAGIC/ABILITIES

ANKUMAN
The traditional shaman amongst Umbraeon tribes, Natanyl had been raised from birth to fill his mantle and oversee the rites of worship, medicinal care, and divining the fortune of the tribe's future. As a result Natanyl is more in tune with the 'spirits', and seeing the unseen. He can commune with these spirits and otherworldly forces, through both a natural affinity and decades of honing his skills.

BLOOD MAGIC
Natanyl knew the consequences of trading his soul for great power and immortality. Natanyl is unafraid of the force that gave him the ability to fuel his spells with blood, nor the price that it would ultimately cost him, but if it meant protecting his child, he would do it again in a heartbeat.

RELATIONSHIPS
Casinia - young adult - approximately 18 human years - his daughter and the most important person in his life. She's intelligent and a splitting image of her mother.

HISTORY
Typical story of boy is raised in brainwashing religious cult in the depths of the draconi forest. Boy grows up and unearths awful secrets about his home. He runs away and takes his daughter with him and takes peoples stuff to make a living. 8D  Sometimes reads palms.

Epilogue
THREADS
A Stroll Down Fascination Street

#6
Kishahn / Aqathas, Cave dweller
July 13, 2018, 11:50:17 PM

Done by me

Prologue
+ NAME +Aqathuxaryyk Thsvadmedirion Tzet
+ ALIAS + Aqathas
+ AGE + Unknown, about 250 (early middle age or so)
+ GENDER + Male
+ ORIGIN + Not-Earth
+ SPECIES + Jauxi
+ RESIDENCE + A Cave in the Jungle 8D
+ OCCUPATION + Formerly a Hunter
+ FACE + Jade Green eyes / burgundy feathers
+ STATURE + 6'5" / 245 lbs.
+ SEXUALITY + Who knows 8D



__________________IN-DEPTH

PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION
Tall and broad shouldered, Aqathus is built like a linebacker and he shows it. He's heavy and average sized for his species, and is capable of maneuvering very quickly and quietly, his size and weight notwithstanding. Very much an ambush predator, Aqathas instinctively relies on swift and powerful movement to overcome his foes, catching them off guard, and his ruddy brown scales blend easily into muddy river banks, in addition to his cloaking. He's scaley with thick callused portions of those scales collecting in ridges along his forearms, back, thighs and shins. From the ridges down his back, resides a set or ridges on his tail, similar to that of an alligators although more lithe in nature.

A rich crimson red starts from the center of his back, and flows closer to the more readily present ruddy color along his neck and shoulders, and gets lighter along his belly. The rough scales get progressively smooth from the roughened scales of his back and alongside his ridges to those on his chest, stomach, legs, and face.  His eyes are a striking jade green, and he has a soft collection of feathers that grow atop his head and down his back disappearing into his scales of a dark red color. Aqathas maintains the clawed hands and feet of his kind and unhinging jaw.

PERSONA
Probably a secret sweetpea. Super protective. Hisses a lot. I dunno, I'll figure it out as I play him.

- Things! -
    - Suntanning, he loves it. Nothing pleases Aqathas more than finding a nice fall rock to sprawl on and sleep in the sun.
    - And mudbathing, because why not.
    - Enjoys having his belly rubbed and chin scratched but like hell is he going to let anyone else know that. Shh secret.
    - Strong tendency and inclination to be attracted to and collect shiny objects.
    - Has decent knowledge of traps and hand making make shift weapons.

MAGIC/ABILITIES
He hunts things! And sells stuff he makes from his kills.

JAUXI -
Intelligent hunters and predators, Jauxi are usually lean and tall, with ridges and scale collections for protection, clawed hands and feet and most of them have long alligator-like tails. They adapted to survive in both the swampy depths at the planet's surface to the canopies of the trees above. They have webbed hands and feet with ridged patterns along the underside of them in order to cling to surfaces, have the ability to cloak their scales and blend into their environments, saliva that allows them to heal wounds more easily, and unhinging jaws that allow them to sink into larger prey.

Their scale patterns come in a range of colors, anything from red to neon green. While they cannot breath underwater, they are capable of holding their breath for long periods of time, and have two pairs of eyelids, fleshy pairs that go over their secondary lense to allow them to see under water. They are sensitive to minute changes in things like wind direction, even under water and have a strong sense of smell.


RELATIONSHIPS
N/A
He don't know anyone on this world 8D

HISTORY
Aqathas can't really remember how he got here. He was asleep for a long time one minute and the next he woke up in the rubble of some broken rocks and scuttled into the first dark cave he's been in. The world around him was alien and awesome, and he only ventured out when he needed to eat or explore enough to master the local terrain. He adapted easily to the jungle environment, and took to the trees if the ground became uninhabitable. For now though, his cave is a suitable enough home.

Epilogue
THREADS

#7
Connlaoth FBs / An Officer and a Gentleman
May 17, 2017, 10:37:09 PM
[Tags to Boglin<3]

"UP MAGGOTS! IT'S THE CRACK OF DAWN AND YOU'RE STILL YET TO RISE! YOU PIECES OF GARBAGE MAKE ME ABSOLUTELY SICK! UP AND AT 'EM YOU SMELLY SLUGS OR I'LL HAVE YOU MARCHING A HUNDRED MILES AROUND THE FORT!"

The shout of the drillmaster cawing over the new recruits as they slumped from their bunks and cots and mats made the man next to Roland jump in anticipation. Roland laughed as they walked across the fort to the training field.  "Still gets you jumpy, eh Bert?" he chuckled.

"That goddamned shouting. I'll never get used to it, I tell you," Bert sighed. He was a red-headed boy, not more than sixteen summers by his account, and had peach fuzz growing on his cheeks. It wasn't quite enough to hide the freckles that speckled them, but it was a start. Roland was only a year older, and the first few months of induction were always a nightmare.

Roland as ever took it all in stride. And why not? This was much better than being a sailor like he'd originally planned. His father didn't want his son stuck on the farm forever, didn't want him working himself to death in a wheat field when he could make real money elsewhere. Roland had been hard-pressed to leave the only home he'd ever known, but a good kick in the ass did the trick.

Crossing the grounds to the training field was a short walk, but one that Roland was looking forward too. The sun was high that morning, and there were only a few clouds dotting the sky. Up ahead there was some sparing, another section tapered off where a group were being drilled in killing strokes. Blades flashed and clanged against metal. Or clacked was more like it.

They were wooden ones, of course. Only the more experienced recruits were allowed to touch actual swords.

That wasn't where Roland was headed, however. Far off in a separate corner there were a group of them being thrown around onto their backs, flipped over. Sparring not with blades but with gloves and fists. That was where he was going to train today.

"Where are you going, Mercer?" Bert asked, walking left just as Roland kept trudging on ahead.  Bert stopped and rounded out his path to walk in time with his friend. "We're supposed to go that way."

"You can go if you want, Bartlett," Roland replied, staring straight ahead and keeping his gaze steady where he saw the Mordecai overseeing the boxing and hand-to-hand combat that was underway. "Today, I'm training over there. Come on, it'll be fun."

"What, why?"  Bert scurried along to keep up because Roland was walking in long strides.

"Because why should we be doing the same things every day? We're expected to protect this country and being as flexible as possible is probably the best way to go about that. Do you disagree?" he countered. "Come on. Unless you're chicken. Bawk-bawk!"

"I'm not. I'm not chicken!"

They made it to the growing crowd where one had another with a shot to the gut, and dropped them by taking their legs out from under them and shoving a hand into their chests. Roland pressed through the recruits and Bert followed. Getting a better look, he saw the Mordecai stepping in this time, and Roland kept his eyes on her. Right. Women were allowed in the ranks. And damn good that was too.

"Who the hell is that?" Roland asked, nudging an older boy beside him.

"Mordecai Lowe," came the answer, and he whooped just the challenge came for someone to step onto the practice mat. A larger young man stepped forth, beefy, probably not more than 20 and breaching six feet. "What do you live under a rock? She's new but she's mean.  Damn good soldier. An example to the rest of us."

"Oh yeah? Hm..."  Roland eyed that mop of dark hair, and a small grin spread across his face. "I'm gonna marry her, y'know."

"What? Ansgar's Balls you will," said the other recruit and scoffed as he clapped his hands and turned his attention back to the action on the practice mat.
#8
Draconi Forest / The Culling Blade
May 13, 2017, 08:25:58 PM
[Tags to @Draconian ]

The wind came in from the east, the sea, and this was not a road well-traveled enough to bring more trouble than necessary. Ki'adan generally anticipate what he would face. This was a typical cargo run, and he could make a quick cash in when he made it to the closest trading spot. Ketra was still a ways off, so it was better to drop them off at Gale, a town nestled at the base of the Thunderblacks.

"I'm hungry," the cargo grumbled. "Can't we stop to eat something!?"

Ki'adan didn't humor them with any kind of response. Instead he gave a hard tug on the tether that strapped the slave to the saddle of his horse. The boy, not more than fourteen or so, yelped when he was pulled forward and struggled to regain his footing as Ki'adan picked up the pace on his horse.  The boy was in sandals and had rags on to protect him from the chilly air, but he would walk the rest of this journey.

"Hey! You got ears. Don't you hear me?" he hissed, glowering up at Ki'adan in the saddle. Still, the man said nothing and rode upright, passing between a set of tall trees and he didn't dare look behind him. The horse moved underneath him with ease and was in tune with the direction his rider set seemingly even before he moved him.

Ki'adan cracked his neck a little, the long ride from the edge of the desert a little wearing on his body. He hadn't made the cargo walk that far of course without a proper rest. A slave in drab condition wouldn't garner much value. As far as he knew, he was some native brat that tried to cross the Moraki by bribing and smuggling himself in a caravan, then tried to steal a kaadir. When he was found, he tried to escape and that was when Ki'adan happened upon him.

It was too bad the boy didn't know exactly how lucky he was someone else didn't find him. He might have just been thrown into the Colosseum to be bait for some gladiator. Or be executed right there on the spot.

Ki'adan saw the value flesh, and he had better use north. He was too skinny to do well in the Colosseum anyway. So he made his way north into Adela, crossing a steep and treacherous path through the Thunderblacks. It wasn't on any standard slave trade route, but it was a path that Ki'adan knew well enough to get around the attention he was trying to avoid.

"Hey!" the cargo called out again. "You fucking hear me! What are you fucking stupid? You look like some Essyrni slug rat, or Duhjari Horse-ass kisser."

With a growl, Ki pressed his ankles into his horse and the animal started to trot, and that dragged the boy clear off his feet, pulling him through the brush, roots, reeds, and rocks, and he screamed aloud.

When Ki'adan stopped, he pulled hard on the reins and jumped off the saddle before taking out the dagger he had along his thigh and stalking toward him. Yanking the boy by his hair, he pressed the flat of the blade against the side of his mouth. "How about I just cut out your tongue? Hmm?  Say another word and that's exactly what's going to happen," Ki'adan whispered to him. The boy just shook his head, holding his breath.

As Ki'adan gazed into his eyes, he saw something moving above them in trees, and the reflection in them revealed a large winged shape. The slave hunter whipped his head upward and viewed the sky, blinking a few times. Right, they were in the borders of Adela now. And that meant dragons.

A screech a lot closer than he expected made Ki'adan unceremoniously jerk his hand, and the edge of the dagger nicked the boy's cheek, causing him to release a whimper. Well, it was time to get moving again.
#9
Connlaoth / Dyson Volker, Red Legion Sentinel
May 12, 2017, 10:26:44 PM
Prologue
+ NAME + Dyson Volker
+ ALIAS + Dyse (Pronounced Dice)
+ AGE + 30
+ GENDER + Male
+ STAR SIGN + The Sea Serpent
+ BORN + Early Summer
+ ORIGIN + Thayshire, Folkvar
+ SPECIES + Human
+ RESIDENCE + Nomadic, Wherever the Red Legion is
+ OCCUPATION + Sentinel in the Red Legion
+ COUNTENANCE + Dusty black hair / Blue eyes
+ STATURE + 6'1" / 210 lbs
+ SEXUALITY + Heterosexual



__________________IN-DEPTH

PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION

Long years of soldiering has given Dyson a firm build and he's somehow managed to keep decent good look (or so he thinks). He has swarthy skin and bright blue eyes under a long mop of black hair. A few trace scars cross the left side of his lip, giving his upper a bit of a split, and curling just underneath his jawline.

PERSONA
Once a sleazy bastard, Dyson has chosen instead to use his silver tongue for good instead of evil. Or putting it better use now than it getting him in trouble. He's always up for a good time, and is a shameless flirt. Can set aside his playfulness long enough to get the job done. And he takes his command very seriously, one of the few things he does. His devotion is unwavering and his loyalty unquestionable.

- Faith -
Isn't outwardly religious or outspoken about Ansgar. He has a passive belief, but feels that it's more of a superstitious notion than an absolute truth. Life isn't black and white.

MAGIC/ABILITIES
Fairly skilled with hand-to-hand combat, sword and shield techniques, and polearms. He's lousy with a bow, but he has archers for that.  He's also excellent at horsemanship.

RELATIONSHIPS
Roland Harker, Lord Commander of the Red Legion
Maddison Hart, Sentinel of the Red Legion
Rowan Marsh, Spymaster of the Red Legion

May add more *

HISTORY
A former soldier, found himself in hot water with a White Lily, and met and fought with Roland Harker in the early days of the Red Legion when it was still a mercenary company. He earned his rank through blood sweat and tears and while it might seem like he takes nothing seriously, questioning his loyalty to the people he fights makes you liable for an ass whooping.

Epilogue
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Complete Threads
#10
Niafi River Delta / Desert Valley Nights
May 11, 2017, 06:11:53 PM
[Open by Request only]

It was hard to believe sometimes that this entire desert was once under the rule of the Golden City, an empire that spanned miles across and miles wide. It was not a memory that Bhaziell bore from personal experience, but one he suspected was carried on by another bearer of the Black Diamond. And now he could picture the vision of vast wealth, armies marching across sands, and it's gradual crumbling.

He could feel the memories of where he was, lingering in the reeds along the Niafi River, feeling the Diamond as it pulse in his hand. It throbbed a deep dark violet, lush and in the threads of moonlight that came down into the river delta, through the trees, he knew that the soul was near. Only the restless ones found themselves with the will to escape. It was not often, but when it happened, Bhaziell would follow them to the very ends of the earth.

They could not hide.

He could smell it's essence, and while it was not visible to the natural eye, Bhaziell's eyes flickered to take in more of the moonlight, igniting the brightness so that to him it was as clear as day. The river's unnusual calm reflected movement from the corner of his eye, and he whipped his head in that direction, the faint green translucent figure wavered and disappeared behind a palm. Within a blink of an eye, it bounded across the river, floating as a smokey green mass and only gave the slightest brush of movement to the reeds beside it.

Bhaziell blew air forcefully from his nostrils and with a running leap he crossed the width of the river and landed effortlessly onto the opposing embankment with nothing more than a bounce in his step and began after the shifting green shape. At times, it would bear the resemblance of something human-esque. At others, it was simply little more than a bouncing orb, passing though trees, or around stones, moving at an equal speed to him.

Inwardly he cursed, and Bhaziell leapt over gaps made by rocks, reeds, mud, and even between trees. His bare feet found it easier to dig into the ground between each jump. And his body twisted to anticipate the landing. Two palms curved lazily along the embankment, creating a wishbone-like gap. With a grunt, he crouched and flung himself forward and landed with a roll at the edge of the water, and just like that the spirit was nowhere to be found.

Bhaziell pressed his hands into the mud, letting the soil spread in the spaces between them, and missing for a moment the claws he used to have. There were advantages to his lion form, but for now it had no place. A low soft growl rumbled in his throat, one only he could hear, as he ducked into the reeds, carefully crawling through them, mindful of the night crawlers there, and he let his right hand grasp the rings on his saber, to keep them from jingling.

All was quiet, and he could not see the spirit anywhere. It was close, it had to be! The Diamond's pulses did not cease. In fact it was beating much like a heart in the grip of fear. Or was that his own? Bhaziell heard a nearby growl...  And it wasn't his. He was kneeling shin-deep in the water.

And he felt something round in the hand that was deep in the cool water., something round that he felt crack in his palm when he grasped it. Pulling his arm up, he blinked in the darkness, his palm full of cracked egg shell, and the fluid inside it.  Then a rush of water burst up from the surface beside him. The crocodile's jaws opened wide and snapped at him. "SHIIIT!" he hissed, his reflexes surging and he kicked himself backwards out of the way. Almost.

The teeth found their meat in his forearm, and he grit his teeth knowing the crocodile wouldn't be letting him go any time soon, so when the reptile began to pull him into the water, he turned his legs back and threw himself forward, to hug his arms and legs around the croc's large form, thrashing the water in death rolls.

"Well, isn't this just fucking great!"
#11
Sirantil Valley / Through a Glass Darkly [M]
May 10, 2017, 11:24:23 PM
[Tags to @Draconian  ]

Folkvar. It was a long way from home.

It was easy for some to forget that the roads were no longer as safe as they once were. But even with the contingent of Bellkrath soldiers following him, Mercuxio was anxious and kept his eyes  up and alert as they traveled south into Folkvar. Another duchy, another wilderness to wander through. Another sea of madness.

The trip too longer than a few weeks, even by horse, and the weather was cold, gloomy, and wet along the way. Light drizzle pelted down on them from passing gray clouds and Mercuxio had no idea how close they were to the sea. It must have been close however, by the mere sound of ocean spray off in the distance, and the sudden ring of sunglight that poured down on him when the gray clouds passed over.

It was a foolish endeavor. And for all he knew it was going to be a complete waste of time. But it was worthy an attempt. He was in need of a wife, and they seemed eager to be rid of her. Which seemed a bit suspicious in his mind, and he tucked that thought away to be considered later. Perhaps they simply didn't want their daughter to wilt away in a castle by the sea.

Whatever the case, for now, he was here to assess this woman's potential. He was Duke now, and his people would require the certainty of lineage. Mercuxio closed his eyes and swallowed at the salty air that landed on his tongue.  And he swallowed it down with a swig from the water skin hanging from his saddle. In the quiet of the ride, he forced himself not to think of his father.

Dardanus was a sunken husk of a man in his last days, and Mercuxio wince at a pang that reverberated inside his chest. The man he'd known as an impenetrable wall of infallibility, stubbornness, a pillar of strength, had withered and when Merric knelt before him, he embraced him with whatever strength he had left, clutched him as he had done when he was a little boy.

Mercuxio's jaw clenched, and he kept his gaze steady as the manor in the cliff's began to come into view, and the banner bearer of the heraldry of House Rastonglir and the Duchy of Bellkrath ran ahead of them toward the gates. And Merric let out a steady breath, and let the cool sea air soothe him.

He was no longer clothed in priestly garb. That was an idealism that had no place in the here and now, and instead he wore a clean cloth tunic,  layered outer-robe and painted armor, the wolf crest of House Rastognlir. Titus chuffed underneath him, the black horse stalking along as he and the rest of his contingent stayed in formation in their approach.
#12
Prologue
+ NAME + Stellan Rothsfield
+ ALIAS + Lieutenant Rothsfield
+ AGE + 27
+ GENDER + Male
+ STAR SIGN + The Voyager
+ BORN + Beginning of Winter
+ ORIGIN + Some backwater village in Ardal, Connlaoth
+ SPECIES + Human
+ RESIDENCE + Wherever the Red Legion is.
+ OCCUPATION + Legionnaire, Quartermaster, Former infantry
+ COUNTENANCE + Dirty Blonde hair with blue streaks / Gray-Green eyes
+ STATURE + 5'10 /199 lbs.
+ SEXUALITY + Unknown



__________________IN-DEPTH

PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION
Fairly good-looking, of average height and build for a Connlaothian male. His torso is largely stocky, and his right arm is a bit more built than his left since he uses it more for just about everything, seeing his left hand is missing.

He can wield a sword one handed just fine,  and can even strap a shield to his left forearm. Although getting dressed one handed, is always a pain in the ass.

Stellan doesn't let his disability get in the way of his duty to the Red Legion, to which he owes his life, and has devoted the rest of it to the cause.

PERSONA
Kind and God-fearing, or he was before the start of the war. He doesn't let the conflict make him bitter – as there's enough of that to go around as it is. But don't let that fool you. He's shrewd and calculating, using his kind and soft demeanor to pull the rug out from underneath those that underestimate him. Stellan is anything but a lazy man, and despises anyone that won't get up and do something, make themselves useful.

- Faith -
Devout follower of Ansgarism, although he has since shed his view that mages are automatically condemned by birth.  Not everyone can help the way they are born.

MAGIC/ABILITIES
Was a hunter in the wilds of Ardal for some time, so he was rather capable of using a bow and arrow, but no longer. He's talented with sword and shield techniques, although he has to make adjustments on how he can effectively carry it. He is still a Legionnaire and although he no longer serves in the infantry division, he can still wield a blade with the rest of them. And he's found he can make himself useful in other ways.

RELATIONSHIPS
Dylan Rothsfield, Father, Deceased
Reina Vardan, Mother, Deceased
Carrigan Vardan, brother, Deceased

Melissa Rothsfield, Wife, Deceased
Sanma Rothsfield, son, deceased

HISTORY
Stellan grew up in a village in Ardal, a small settlement off the beaten path.  Being so obscured left it largely out of the war's path, but when the Long Winter came and food was scarce, Stellan went out farther than usual to hunt. It took him weeks to track and hunt that deer, and when he came back with the score in hand, his village was burned and his family was dead.

He tracked down the patrol that killed his village and vowed to kill them all himself. He didn't care that it was a suicide mission. It was no matter to him if he died, just as long as he took as many Mordecai and soldiers with him. On the night he was to strike, he was met with another soldier, one that didn't look like the others camped in that forest clearing that night.

They wore a dark red sash over their armor, and had pressed fingers to their lips to keep his silence. The clearing soon became a blood bath, and that patrol was slaughtered by the Red Legion platoon that had been following them for sometime. Stellan was interrogated for some time before they allowed him to continue following them. And has been with them ever since.

[WIP]

Epilogue
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#13
Prologue
+ NAME + Bhaziell
+ ALIAS + Keeper of the Black Diamond
+ AGE + Ageless, Immortal (Appears Mid-30s)
+ GENDER + Male
+ STAR SIGN + Unknown
+ BORN + Summer
+ ORIGIN + Edge of the Moraki Desert
+ SPECIES + Lion shifter (by force)
+ RESIDENCE + Nomadic
+ OCCUPATION + Guardian of the Underworld
+ COUNTENANCE + Dusty Black hair / Gold-yellow eyes
+ STATURE + 6'5" / 233 lbs. (human form)
+ SEXUALITY + Unknown



__________________IN-DEPTH

PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION
In Bhaziell's first form – his true form – he is that of a large tsavo lion, a short thick black mane over tawny fur and with large powerful paws and limbs, with yellow eyes and rounded tufted ears. He still has this form and can change back from time to time, although he finds the process exhausting. In the human form he's come to know, his skin has a deep, olive tan, a taut and roughly hewn musculature, not unlike his previous form. While he's very physically fit, he is graceful and acrobatic. He has a thick head of hair, not unlike the mane he used to have, although it is short, just above his neck in length, and naturally tufts out. It's this black hair that hangs over an angular brow, over deep rich yellow lion eyes (carrying over from his lion form), and long broad nose, sharp cheekbones, and narrow jaw.

Over time he's found he can change between his forms, and even have hybrid transformations as needed. He can grow out his claws or ears where necessary to shred or hear better.  The scars of his old life remain, surviving scuffles with rival lions to secure territory for his pride, and they appear as long white scars in his hide – er, skin – in particular his back, right thigh, upper arms, and a close brush with death along his belly.

PERSONA
At times cold and cynical, brooding and brimming with dark humor, it's true that Bhaziell has had lots of time to become bitter. Thankfully, he's gotten over the initial trauma and confusion of adjusting to his human form. His speech is terse and gruff, and at times snarky. For all the years he's been around he's got to find some way to amuse himself.

He has a harshness to him, retaining much of his animal nature and protective instincts. He fights savagely and although gaining his trust might be difficult, his loyalty is true, and makes it a habit of keeping his promises. Bhaziell has no real expectations from these temporary alliances, and knows he'll likely move on like he always has.


- Faith -
This word has a strange taste on his tongue – at times foul and tasteless, and at others a sweetened ripe fruit in the middle of an oasis.  He doesn't know much about magic or gods or their effect on the world. He is much too practical to give it more thought than necessary. The Black Diamond he bears is his only connection to the spiritual world.

MAGIC/ABILITIES
- Keeper of the Black Diamond -
The Black Diamond is the not simply a colored jewel as it's namesake. It is a merely a conduit from which opens the gateway to the underworld, where souls might seek passage to rest at last, or others might try to break free from and escape. As it's Keeper, Bhaziell is charged with its protection, not only from outside threads but protecting the gateway from anything inside trying to get out. Bhaziell can feel any tension within the Diamond, and can sense spirits with ill-intent that are close-by.  Any that he finds, he casts them and traps them within the Diamond.

By virtue of his physiology, retains heightened senses, strength, and reflexes. He can smell fear, pain, arousal, aggression. Can  also jump approximately 15 feet into the air with ease, leap across great gaps without so much as a sprained ankle. He still fights with the same animal savagery, and attacks without hesitation, although his desire to kill has been tempered with time.

When in human form, he's grown accustomed to using his five-ringed dao saber. Plucked from the body of a dead mercenary, he kept it in hand and it's almost become an extension of himself. At full length of approximately 32 inches, the curved saber has a broadened head – with five rings hooked into the sword's blunt back- a skinny neck, and two-handed hilt. It has a small guard, a small lizard's skull planted above the hilt, and a well-balanced pommel. It's single edge is sharp enough to slice something as soft as silk so much as flutters over it.

RELATIONSHIPS
His lioness, and his cubs which have passed on long ago.

HISTORY
Bhaziell has no distinct memory of when he first became what he is now. One moment he was a lion wandering the edge of the desert, saw someone turn to dust, the next he shifted into a human. With horror, he lost his beautiful coat, his powerful claws, and was forced to leave his pride and cubs behind. A creature now given purpose beyond that of primal survival.

Becoming immortal has given Bhaziell lots of time to get accustomed to his new form, with which he learned to speak, stand, and move. The truth comes in vivid dreams when he managed to sleep. Paws sinking deep into sand, the moon high on a that cloudless night as he stalked the desert's edge. For it was there he found the one that had the Black Diamond before him. As they died, they spoke in words he did not understand, and he drew closer in his curiosity. When he was within arm's reach, they pressed the Diamond to his skin, and he yelped away at it's coldness.

A bright burst of light erupted from the Diamond, and Bhaziell saw the body turn to dust, fading away as if a pile of ash being carried away by the wind, and his lion form no more. Bhaziell was driven from his pride, leaving his mate behind and his cubs, and the only sense of reason came from his dreams. A voice that comforted him, and felt to him more familiar, and knew only that it came from the Black Diamond, and that whether he liked it or not, he was charged with it's guardianship.

[WIP]

Epilogue
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#14
[Tags to @GoblinFae ]

He didn't need to look to know that they were coming.

Here in Vermillion, capital of Falkenrath, was the gray stone and mortared form of the Iron Keep, that held the ruling family of this lowly province. It once did. Now it was empty and desolate save for the form that was draped at the worn leather chair in the rookery near it's peak. When his spies saw that the Grandmaster of the Mordecai had noticed Falkenrath was no longer under their control, the message was sent posthaste by nighthawk.

Having only just arrived days ago, it was only a matter of time before that "Knight of the Realm" would follow along with it. And as Roland sat draped in that chair, clutching the wine bottle – half empty – firmly in hand, he swigged it to his lips and took a hearty sip and draped it back down. He glanced at the note in hand and the chicken scratch scribbled therein.

"The Grandmaster himself huh? Coming to meet with little ol' me? Whatever did I do to deserve such attention?" Roland laughed to no one in particular. He pulled his leg from the armrest and sat up just as the door to the office opened up and there stood Darius, a tall slender old man, graying whiskers and white hair that grew long to his shoulders.

"I suspect that might have had something to do with ousting the Brennick family and keeping them confined to the manor rooms of the Keep, my lord." Darius murmured and shrugged, coldness keeping his own amusement at bay.

"One. There's one Brennick family member left. And he's living quite comfortably I might add," Roland sat up and gave a glaring look to the old man. "Did you come here to mention old news? Or bring me another bottle of Fordon 42 from down in the cellar?"

Darius sighed, crossing the distance and plucking the bottle up from the ground. He kept it for himself when Roland reached across to grab it. And he took his own glug of it. "I did," he replied calmly, keeping his distance from a slowly fuming Roland. "Our scouts have spotted a visitor nearby, with a familiar crest. And just as we speak, I believe the Grandmaster is rolling into the courtyard of Iron keep."

Roland hoisted himself up with surprising speed from the chair and crossed the distance between him and Darius, gripping the man by the neck. "You are....on a thin line, old man," he breathed. But a smirk took his lips instead. "And your balance is impeccable."  He took the wine back and examined the bottle. "You think the new Grandmaster will like a drink? A good host of his castle will want to make a guest feel right at home."

"I suppose it couldn't hurt," Darius shrugged Roland's grip away, calm as ever.

"Get the Fordon 42. And direct my Legionnaires to let him through the Gates."

Roland downed the rest of the bottle before slamming it against the table and grabbing Anguish from where it rested on the old wood surface. He strapped it around his waist and drew his fur-lined cloak over his shoulders once again. He stepped out of the room. They would meet in the Great Hall, where all previous lords before him met their supporters, their aggressors, their match.
#15
Selevea / Where the River Runs Red
April 06, 2017, 12:30:31 AM
[Tags to @Cinnabar ]

It was like the beginning of a bad joke.

A man walks into a bar.

Reneth could only wish it was a joke, so that he could laugh along with it. So that he could just look back at the situation and cackle at how ridiculous it was. In some cosmic dark sort of way, it was monumentally funny to someone who was watching, whatever god or being that bothered to anyway.

It seemed like no matter what he did, he ended up falling back into the same routine. He needed money to eat, to sleep, to live. And the only way he knew how, was to take a life. It would have been painless if he had any control over that decision. But the contract called for a terrible swelling of the throat. Bulging of the eyes until they popped from the skull.

And when they did, only then would he be paid.

Reneth sat at the bar, listening to his target bark with laughter, cackling madly at whatever inane joke his companions were making. He had the concoction already mixed, and saw the barmaid carrying back their tin mugs of beer. Two fresh drinks were poured from the tap and sloshed across the counter. Reneth stood and casually grasped those two beers, pouring the concoction into the beer as he did so, turning and carrying both drinks to the men drinking in the back.

"Here," he murmured. "This is courtesy of that lovely woman at the bar. She gave me a copper to bring it to you." He grinned and set the drinks down on the table.

The man sobered long enough to grin. "Oh, well, if that's the case.  Thank you!  Please! Come and sit with us!  We're celebrating!"  And his companion gripped Reneth by the collar and sat him down.

His target, Bowing Jannison, a soldier of little repute and now a sellsword, and a poor one at that. The bastard seemed to have a good time making up his reputation, and somebody somewhere wanted him dead for it.
#16
Kilanthro Mountains / At Water's Edge
April 05, 2017, 07:28:18 PM
Never had his lungs burned so hot before, and the muscles in his legs sore with all the running.  He'd been running for days, hardly slept, hardly ate, and every sound woke him in the darkness.  Matada wasn't completely stupid, he slept away from his cook fires, and watching it go out was maddening. But if they caught him, they would string him up.  He was no longer their clan-kin. He was their prey.

The cliffs of the Kilanthro Mountains were high and treacherous and the trees in between grew upright on high ground, slopes making steep sweeps and the ground overgrown with moss and root. His claw feet gripped the undergrowth beneath him and he leapt across the gaping ridge between the base of one tree to another and used his tail to balance him, his body curled up, legs forward to reach the other side of it.

Behind him he could hear their movements, his ears down and pressed to the back of his head. They were as large and as powerful as he was, capable of everything he could do. And no matter how far the jump, a simple gap would not keep them away for long.

With a gasp, Matada's claws dug into the hard earth around the base of the tree, it's roots sticking up and out from the ravine wall.   His feet met the base of the wall and he scrambled upward and he only briefly saw from the corner of his eye his friend. "Tiall," he breathed, mind flickering back to the day he saved his life. But Tiall's green scales blended better than Matada's indigo, and from the other side of the ravine his bow was taut and the arrow fired.

Matada yanked himself up onto the other side just as the arrow narrowly missed the meat of his tail. And he pounced off yet again.  It was his fault, he knew. He didn't know what he'd been expecting when he found himself in his old clan territory. It had been a year since banishment.  He'd been stalking an ram when he saw Tiall....and his feathers.  Those used to be Matada's feathers. His friend just met his gaze, and didn't hesitate to give the order to give chase.  From out of the trees and bushes came a half a dozen Kulshedra hunters, bearing the paint of their tribe.

The fear that jolted through him sent Matada into a frenzy and he knew that even he was outnumbered.  So he did the only thing he could do. He ran. 

He pushed down the ache that swelled in his belly and made his chest hurt. That wasn't his home any longer. So he kept running and remembered the place where he'd last camped. It was there that a trap had been set. A makeshift net out of a skinned animal hide. It would hold them off, or so was his hope.  He leapt over the wire was spread between two trees and he made his way downhill.  The sound of rushing water was nearby.  Just past that river and he'd be out of their current territory. Chasing him any further would be too great a risk.

Their scent-marks ended here.

Matada lost his footing briefly and gravity soon took him away, rolling down that steep hill, and tumbled down to the river's embankment.  His face caked in dirt, his hands sore and raw and the feel of his scales peeling away. He panted and groaned, his head aching in his recover.  But there it was...the water's edge.

Slowly he moved and crawled into the water, letting the current take him.  With a heavy breath, he let himself be tossed by the water until he found the courage to swim. It would have been easy to simply let himself drown. But that was no way for him to die. Not yet...  They would win, boast about Matada the Great Hunter, and how he met his pathetic end. Fuckers. He wasn't about to give them that satisfaction.

He pulled his arms up and pushed toward the other side, swimming full force and crawled until he reached the edge, slumping down into the mud, body cold and shivering.  He panted heavily, opening his eyes vaguely and seeing a blurred figure not far from where he laid.  And he just watched them, orange eyes glassing over.
#17
Serendipity / Matada, Kulshedra Hunter Outcast
April 05, 2017, 01:19:00 AM
Prologue
+ TRUE NAME + Matada
+ ALIAS + Indigo
+ AGE + 50 (Slightly more matured young adult)
+ GENDER + Male
+ STAR SIGN + The Shattered Sphere
+ BORN + Mid-Autumn
+ ORIGIN + Kilanthro Mountains
+ SPECIES + Kulshedra
+ RESIDENCE + Formerly his tribe. Now it's the wilds
+ OCCUPATION + Lead Hunter
+ COUNTENANCE + Orange eyes / Black-Dark purple hair
+ STATURE + 6'5” / 233 lbs
+ SEXUALITY + Unknown


CH. I – Painting a Portrait
Like most male Kulshedra, Matada is tall and built like a brick house, strong muscles and lithe long limbs. The scales on his body drape from his lower neck and up along his jaw, and crowning around his eyes, turquoise on his neck and more indigo on his face. From his front they are a light turquoise green but as the scales wrap around his back and spine they change into a deep indigo.  His forearms and back have alligator-like ridges that provide extra defense against attack.  With clawed toes and ridged tail, the same color pattern is found there.

He wears little more than leathers and some padding and has his scales to protect him in a fight. His mouth slit

+ NOTABLE MARKS +
His left ear is shredded at the base, shorn by a fight with an animal while protecting his fellow hunters. A few other scars marr is person, a large clawing across his belly and some on his shoulders.

CH II – Mental Make-up
Matada’s place amongst his tribe was one of much prestige. It was a good life and one he lived because it was all he knew. His coloring made him lead hunter amongst them. They were nomadic and aggressive, taking what they needed. He was dutiful and loyal then, but there was a vague discontentment that settled inside him.

There had to be more than this, wasn’t there? Than the breeding, than fighting and snuffing out the bonfires of other tribes. Matada, even in his prestige, had given everything he had to his clan. Nothing was owned, and while this was entirely acceptable in most cases, like food for and other goods, what is his is fiercely protected and looked after, (ie. His gear, his person).

This behavior stemmed to all that he was loyal to, and he does what he can to keep his natural aggression in check.  He responds to threads accordingly, but he is not without compassion for those that earn it. He makes it clear to never confuse his compassion for weakness, however.

Matada overall, is quietly curious, and he forces himself to be more social than he really is. He dislikes others that are ingenuine. He believes in actions over words, and what he was once responsible for – while shameful to have lost it- he finds his new status as somewhat liberating.  He just doesn’t really know what to do with himself now.

+ FAITH +
Believes in Heaven's Fire.

+ HABITS +
Scrimshaw, keeping fit, running, hunting.  He drinks a little, but doesn't like the taste of it.

CH III – Social

+ RELATIONSHIPS +
TBA

CH IV – Abilities / Skills
+ LEAD HUNTER +
His unique indigo color pattern has given him the position of lead hunter of his tribe, and it is up to him to see to it that the tribe eats. It helps that Matada enjoys his job, and is good at it too. He can taste 'blood' in the air, much like how a shark can smell it in the ocean, and will track wounded prey for miles and days on end if necessary.

CH V – Gear / Equipment
Claws, teeth, A spear, a recurve bow, some waraxes, and general hunter stuff.

CH VI – Reflections of the Past
Matada’s father knew his son was special from the moment he was born and raised him into the hunter’s fold.  He was proud to have such a child with such gorgeous patterns and scales and that pride swelled when the Elder named him lead hunter of their tribe.

It was during one of these hunts that, Indigo- as he was known then – saved the lives of one of his fellow hunters and was given his true name “Matada” as a reward.  Life was good then and Matada could have anything he asked for.  He was strong and fierce, an asset to his tribe, and kept other males in check. But it was during one breeding season he accidentally killed the female that chose him, getting too aggressive during the act.  He hadn’t meant to, and was horrified when it was over.  Nothing could have brought more shame and loathing.

Matada was banished, blood on his hands now. He disgraced himself and his position as a hunter. And anyone that failed to respect their clankin had no place amongst them, and no place beside Heaven’s fire.

He tries not to linger on it, it's not something he will forget, but letting it control him isn't the answer either.  He just has to live with it.
#18
Serendipity / Danya Phoenix-Blood, Prostitute
March 31, 2017, 02:38:40 PM
Prologue
+ NAME + Danya Phoenix-Blood
+ ALIAS + N/A
+ AGE + 23
+ GENDER + Male
+ STAR SIGN + The Emerald Flare
+ BORN + Unkown
+ ORIGIN + Essyrn
+ SPECIES + Half-human / Half-Djinn
+ RESIDENCE + Nomad
+ OCCUPATION + Formerly a concubine / Currently Prostitute
+ COUNTENANCE + Silver hair / Violet-Gray eyes
+ STATURE + 6'2 / 199 lbs.
+ SEXUALITY + Bisexual


CH. I – Painting a Portrait
Beautiful and lithe, muscular and vascular, Danya has been kept a prized possession since youth. No scars mar him save for the ones on his chest and lower abdomen, made to break him in. Now they give him a moderately abrasive sort of attractive quality to people that it that way.  His hair is thick and wavy, chopped short at the nape of his neck.  He has a medium-bridge over a broad nose, at the center of a slender brow, with a small nick at the end of his right eyebrow.

Physically, he's athletically built, if a little on the thin side, having only been fed when it was necessary. His skin is sun-kissed, naturally tanned 

+ NOTABLE MARKS +
A fire flower is tattooed on his back, a rose-like flower with fire emblazoning around it.

CH II – Mental Make-up
Danya is a quiet, receptive individual, adapting himself to situations as needed. He doesn't like to make himself out to be very distinguished – as he generally needs little help with it as it is. Others are naturally drawn to his inhuman aura. He tends to be curious and like to find what makes others tick, twitch, and tingle. He is bold, and generally dominant, but will respect another's boundaries if they have certain reservations, but he has a way of making others more comfortable around him.

In solitude, he enjoys reading and writing poetry, even drawing, although he doesn't consider himself good by any means. He has a vague interest in plants and alchemy, and takes notes on different reactions. 

+ FAITH +
Is not very religious. Once believed in Hakeshna, but it was never a steady part of his upbringing.

+ HABITS +
Can read and write – taught to him in secret. And he enjoys sketching people, although he does not advertise this.  Drinking is also done casually.

CH III – Social

+ RELATIONSHIPS +
TBA

CH IV – Abilities / Skills
+ DJINN +
Being half-djinn has given him an immunity to heat and fire. His naturally warm, and his blood – if spilled – can ignite sparks of flame as well. He was called Pheonix-Blood because of this in his adolescents. His blood can heal if executed correctly.  Danya's heritage gives him an attracting aura of sorts, and makes others more inclined to be influenced by him. A skill that could surely be used for ill if Danya was a malicious person.  As such, while he is not ashamed of his lineage, he doesn't advertise it.   He has also been groomed since youth to bring companionship and pleasure to others. But being 'owned' was never a facet he was fond of.

CH V – Gear / Equipment

CH VI – Reflections of the Past

[WIP]
#19
[Tags to @Moonie ]

Passage through the Moraki Desert desert always conjured up a high price. Honest work was hard enough to come by as it was. For now, at least, Atalier had been able to take his place among the guard for the Hakir family merchant caravans wandering from Essyrn to remote settlements deep within the dunes. 

The day had just dawned and the trail of carts, Kaadir, and others left a visible silhouette against the horizon. Atalier's brow was covered with various beads of sweat, and he took a swig out of the water skin that was slung over his shoulder. His dark robes were light, and he was kept in the shade of the carriage he was riding on.  He was quiet, and watched the wheels turn beneath him.

"You gonna share that, aren't ya?" said Tellemac, an ebony fleshed mercenary that was one of the eclectic group that were hired by Hakir to guard the caravan on it's route. Scars riddled the man's chest, shoulders, and neck. Gladiator marks as he called them.

Atalier sniffed and tossed him the water skin, which he caught with a plop and took a hearty drink. "I'll go check on the others. And take over once I get back, okay?"  Tellemac nodded and tossed the water skin back to the mage. Although he had a blade at his side, Atalier really had no intention of using it. Not unless he really had to. The rout was well trodden before and the Hakir family was well-guarded. And it didn't hurt to hire a few expendable hands as well.

Triarch, their destination would be several long and hot days away. Nestled in dusty basin, and just northwest of Essyrn, it was a prime spot for mining. Nothing more than copper, but a commodity nevertheless. Water was present here from underground wells, and springs that were hidden deep within the canyon and spreading outward in narrow rivulets through red stone.

Atalier had never been there before, but he was looking forward to new surroundings. Anywhere was better than Essyrn. Out here there were few who knew him by name or face or reputation. He was a ghost like any other, a lost soul without a true identity. And perhaps there would be more information here on a trade route than there would be within the city walls.

For now, he wanted only to rest his mind and so he crawled back to the rear of the wagon and, passed across the gap that separated the two, held together by c-grip connector (like train cars). He crawled over the wooden slat that shielded those riding in the back. There were a few that had managed to pay for passage along this route, and they had to do little more than enjoy the ride, as the dual-wagons were pulled by the kaadir up ahead.

Atalier looked at them all, although none of them made eye contact with him.  Good.  Sliding down into the shade again, he looked to the woman across from him. Pear-shaped and crazy-haired, he stared at her for a time. She was pretty grimy, like she hadn't bothered bathing for a few days. Then again, sometimes that was a hard enough feat to keep up with.  Atalier scooted over to her, plopping at her side and pulled the water skin from his neck.

"Thirsty?  You can have some if you want?" he said, handing it over to her.
#20
Connlaoth / Caliban Wyndham
March 29, 2017, 07:41:47 PM
Prologue
+ NAME + Caliban Wyndham
+ ALIAS + N/A
+ AGE + Unknown
+ GENDER + Male
+ STAR SIGN + The Bannered Blade
+ BORN + About 60 years ago
+ ORIGIN + Caelshire, Ahjfield, Connlaoth
+ SPECIES + Formerly Human, Revenant
+ RESIDENCE + Caelshire
+ OCCUPATION + Spellsword
+ COUNTENANCE + Black hair w/ gray streaks / Silver-blue eyes
+ STATURE + 5'11" / 188 lbs
+ SEXUALITY + Unknown


CH. I – Painting a Portrait
Pale and gaunt, of adequate height, Caliban is of a wiry athletic build. He's certainly much taller than most Connloathians are. His features are weathered and worn, and his eyes have an unearthly quality to them.  His once thick mane of black Wyndham hair has been streaked gray here and there, and it's somewhat long, hanging just at his shoulders.

+ NOTABLE MARKS +
The embedded crystal heart protrudes just from the center of his chest, a deep crimson jewel that is warm to the touch.

CH II – Mental Make-up
To be discovered!

+ FAITH +
A rocky thing at best.

+ HABITS +
Used to smoke herb on occasion, hasn't had much of a chance since death

CH III – Social

+ RELATIONSHIPS +
Wylie Wyndham, descendant

________, Hedge Witch, Former Lover – Deceased as far as he knows.

CH IV – Abilities / Skills
+ SPELLSWORD +
A knightmage by another name, Caliban is skill with both a blade and combat magic, namely of a primal nature. He can cast magic from his sword, as well enchant it with a primal element.  He also possesses restorative magics to heal minor wounds and mend torn flesh. The crystal heart he possesses absorbs and stores magical energy cast back at him.

CH V – Gear / Equipment
TBA

CH VI – Reflections of the Past
A former spellsword and knight in the service of his house, Caliban is a not-so-distant relation to the Wyndhams of Caelshire. His love for a rogue sorceress however granted him his crystal heart from which he was reborn, at once stolen and hidden away in the ruins of Fell, found by his descendant Wylie Wyndham.

The heart was buried and cultivated properly, tended to by ritual. And when a large succulent plant-like pod formed, it grew until it seemed it was large enough to burst.  The leaves parted and out came Caliban reborn to flesh and the heart embedded into his chest.