Name: Adell
Age: Around 13
Gender: Male
Height: 5''3
Weight: 85 lbs
Eye Color: Blue (left) Green (Right)
Hair Color: Brown
Skin Color: Caucasian

Your status: Experiment

Personality:
[*] Outgoing
[*] Calm (despite the horrendous experiments done on him)
[*] Quiet
[*] Bored Easily
[*] Sneaky
[*] Trustworthy
[*] Loyal
[*] Sort of depressing
[*] Synical


Equipment:
[*] Aviator Goggles
[*] Brown Vest
[*] White Collared shirt (underneath said vest)
[*] Brown Cargo Pants
[*] Brown Dress Shoes with White socks
[*] Carries a douzuki saw around with him. (its covered with blood half the time)
(shoes, pants, and some of the shirt is covered in blood)

History:

Adell was born and raised in cherry hill, enjoying life as it was. Until the fog rolled in, he was blinded. After having to cope with his blindness he stepped out of the house he owned as his parents died. People were screaming and moaning. every waking moment he was bombarded with new problems and he soon realized he was the same as the people outside, he was one of them. Adell was soon coughing up blood and walking the streets trying to find people who could give him answers. Eventually he hit a wall, litteraly.

He had lived in the village his whole life and there was no wall. He spent days exploring it, as it stretched around the village.Little did Adell know he was being watched. One day on his walk around the inside of the wall he was picked up by military personnel. He had no clue what was happening as he was swept into a lab and was sedated. He awoke several days later in a dais. Adell could see for some reason. As he tried to explain to himself why he could see the world around him once again he looked down and saw people staring at him, he was ona table. They prodded him with needles and tools.

His torture went on for weeks as he eventually got used to being experimented on then thrown outside into the village again. This routine became natural, until. He was swept out of his house and onto the table again. This time they sedated him with something way harsher. Adell woke up to what he thought was a dream. He saw his chest was open and some strange procedure being done to him. Before they sedated him again he saw them place a strange what seemed to be an moving organism into his chest. He awoke again a few days later and saw he had strange ears and a tail, they were of a dog.

As Adell tried to grasp the situation Soldiers burst through the door, and grabbed him. This time he seemed to have been sleeping with a knife, slitting one o th soldier's throats open and grabbing his gun. After he killed the other one he jumped through his window, cutting his skin in the process on the glass and ran. He was caught but instead of euthanizing him they let him go into the village, abandoning him.

He could guess they would be back for him but he just ran and ignored his thoughts of rational explanations. Once he stopped he realized his situation was dire he realized what he was, a freak, an experiment... (Ends there)


(FINALLY WOOT SAKE AND COOKIES FOR EVERYONE)

I would like to see many more of our imaginative community show their characters. This is a fantastic offer and one that everyone should be jumping on.

is that the layout we are supposed to use or is there another one that is being set as a guide

Syr Stoneweaver

A wandering artisan/mason, well versed in the use of earth magic involving stone, rock, gems and metallic ore

Description

Race: Human / Earth Elemental hybrid
Height: 12 ft. tall
Weight: 1800 pds.
Age: 120 yrs.
Gender: N/A
Hair: None
Eyes: Quicksilver

Syr's rough humanoid shape, facial features and the mannerisms of once being male are the only physical facets of his humanity he has left. They are what set him apart from the monstrous rock golem he almost became. He has a vaguely muscular build, almost oversized for his height. The clearly defined muscle tone of an athlete he has yet to and may never achieve, mostly due to his flesh taking on the semblance of deep black volcanic rock: slightly porous on the surface, yet harder than diamond.

His eyes resemble orbs of quicksilver, still and calm when he is at peace, rapidly flowing and swirling with streaks of bright orange when enraged or stressed, less so when under intense concentration. When Syr barely opens his mouth to speak, as is his norm, a sliver of the same orange can be seen as the back of his throat, along with the small shimmering waves of heat that are his breath. His facial features are sharp, angular planes, as though they were chiselled into place.

At the joints of his body while in a relaxed state, flowing rivulets of muted orange and quicksilver, in varying quantities and hues can be seen beneath the surface. The mercurial liquid is dominant during times of focus, particularly when working his gift with earth elements, while the fiery orange magma flares in times of exertion, stress or anger. These rivulets are wider but harder to define at the major joints of hip and shoulder, while they narrow and gain clarity as your gaze follows along the elbows and knees, ankles and wrists and finally the knuckles of his fingers. Syr's toe joints are too thick to show these colours at all.

He is genderless, a terrible consequence of his transformation and disturbing to behold, which compels him to wear clothing. This is more for the sake of those he encounters as he no longer suffers from exposure to the elements.


Personality

Facial expressions, as you would expect from a visage of stone, are muted and hard to read for those who do not know him well. His voice resembles that of crushed gravel when conversing, building to that of an avalanche when raised in anger or alarm. Combined with his overall appearance, this usually makes it hard for Syr to engage in idle conversation. The one advantage Syr has discovered from this is that people have to work harder to forge friendships with him. From this he can judge who his real friends are.

Syr has great physical strength as you would expect from a being of his size and stature. But he also possesses a strength of spirit to match, something that has blossomed alongside the forging of his artistic ability. He is patient and reserved, which leads him to not show his strengths in and of themselves. Often it is his works that reveal his true nature, one that conflicts so with his outward appearance.

Languages spoken: Common, dwarven, elven


Equipment

Syr's everyday garb is a simple thick, woollen sleeveless robe, belted at the waist by a large, wide and sturdy belt of leather. In his line of work, he has an appreciation for finer wares, but has yet to acquire any for himself, and is not sure he really wants to. At his belt he has numerous strong, iron lined, thick square leather pouches which hold various stone, rock, raw gem and metallic ore fragments. Hanging from a heavy, tough leather loop on his belt at his left hip he has a 6 ft long iron hammer, 6 inches thick at the handle, the top foot of it flaring out into a broad square head.
He also wears a long quiver at his back, holding a number of slender iron and stone rods, and a dual compartment backpack. The smaller of these has loops and pockets inside holding various thick handled, small headed tools. The larger can often be found with sacks of stone, rock or gravel in it, with some room to spare.


History

Rael Thrumell was a kind woman with a gentle spirit, deeply in tune with the natural world around her. Her talents as an herb woman came to the fore as a young woman, after her childhood obsession with collecting flowers was discovered by the herb woman of her village at the time. She quickly saw from her collection that Rael had a knack for spotting flora with healing properties. Keeping that in mind, she eventually asked to have Rael as her apprentice on her thirteenth birthday. Rael always thought she had never gotten a better birthday gift than her life's work that day.
Wearn Thrumell was a gruff, imposing looking man. He plied his trade as an expert smith. Although he did not look it, he had a spirit akin to his wife. In his youth he began religious study and was seen as a promising priest in the making, but eventually he favoured the heat of the forge over that of religious fervour. Still, those studies had instilled in him the sanctity of life, a belief that enamoured him to Rael soon after they first met.

Once married, they left their village to start anew. A long but pleasant journey they had to their new home. The night before they arrived, they camped out in a glade a couple of miles from their destination, as they were not going to make it there before nightfall. With a wide stone plateau at its centre and the stars bright above, they were relaxed and at peace there, well refreshed at dawn and eager to start their new lives.
They made their home in a small farming village, situated a good 10 miles from the main town in that county. Their trades were eagerly sought after, and that alone would have put them in good stead with the village folk. However, it was their kind nature and strength of spirit that had them well liked by all in the village.

Life continued on pleasantly, their days busy yet fulfilling, their time away often spent at their special glade - a small indulgence they were not willing to part with easily. They were the only ones in the village who seemed to go there. There was talk of an old legend claiming it to be cursed, a notion they clearly dismissed as ridiculous after a few trips there. No one else in the village seemed to put much stock in it either, but whether they were playing it safe, or too busy, Rael and Wearn had the place to themselves.
Which they took full advantage of.
Soon enough, they were expecting a child, a healthy boy by Rael's reckoning. Her talents made her quite the seer when it came to expectant children. But as so happens, foretelling the fate of one's own child to be is often harder to do. Little did Rael know just how wrong she would be.

They did indeed birth a son, who they named Syr. Yet he was unlike anything they could have ever dreamed he would be. Firstly, he was grey in colour, a mottled hue like flint. That alone concerned them greatly, but it was his eyes that would disturb them the most. They were orbs of deep blue black, no whites in them at all. Now Rael knew from her herb craft that she had done nothing wrong in preparing and carrying Syr to term, and she knew her husband well enough to know he could not have done anything to cause Syr's condition. In fact, to Wearn's credit, it was his steadfast resolve that life should be nourished and treasured, in all its forms, that steered them through their initial time of anxiety and fear of what Syr was, how he would live, and whatever it was he would become. Still, it did not stop Rael during most of Syr's early childhood from trying every possible tincture and concoction she could imagine to try and cure him of his ailments. Syr grew to loathe them, a more vile aroma and even worse taste he swore he had never known and would likely never know again, each and every time he was forced to swallow those thick, mud like brews. He'd often thought it would be better for him to eat the gravel at his feet than endure any more of those hideous preparations.

Syr grew up as a sickly child. He had poor eyesight, which everyone accepted as the norm considering his black eyed gaze. He would too often fall ill to the common ailments of the seasons, which would bring about those abhorrent medicines and the misery that came with them. He would not eat much. His father often stated pointedly to his mother that he was not surprised; the smell alone of those elixirs would deaden the heartiest of appetites. His health may have been poor, and yet, he would not deteriorate either, fully recovering from each illness. His overall health seemed to plateau, be almost dormant. It reminded Rael of nothing more than a bud, waiting for the right conditions to flower.

Syr took to learning the trade of a smith. To his mind he could not possibly take on his mother's craft - even if his strength suited the grinding of mortar and pestle more than the hammering of hot metal. He thought he'd had enough of herbalism from the receiving end, so he wasn't about to explore it any further. Learning his way around the forge was a slow process. He would tire easily, a minute or two all he could endure swinging the hammer. But his father would not give up on him, always patient and supportive. Syr was grateful for such support and did not want to disappoint, so we would persevere, taking what progress came his way.

Syr grew up among the village folk, who were taken aback at first. But when they saw how harmless Syr was, and that if anything could cure him Rael would certainly have known it and used it, they came to accept him as he was. Syr's life there became almost pleasant. Even the other children of the village did not taunt Syr. No, the villagers were not his problem. That came from the main town, which was slowly growing into a place of commerce and luring visitors from far and wide.
When they had first arrived, Rael and Wearn had soon discovered the main difference between the town and the village: superstition. The villagers being so close to the forest had no irrational fear of it. The village folk lived their lives in peace, and nothing came lurking from the forest at night to kill their livestock or steal their children. But those in the town rarely came the way of the village, preferring to travel the now cobbled main roads and highways that lead toward places of great wonder and excitement.
So it was somewhat surprising to find that, even with people of culture and refinement travelling their way, the townsfolk would still hold onto centuries old superstitions. Surprising that is, until the day Magnus Shorefold arrived and with him, the end of their happy and fulfilling lives.

Commerce is often accompanied by power, greed and people who will do anything to keep both. This was becoming ever more apparent of the town officials, especially the mayor. Before long, the busy little town had taken advantage of the new roads and the trade it would bring. Palisades were erected, which became rock walls, then stone battlements. Before long a town guard was assembled - soon after becoming a fully armed militia. This brought the need for taxes, just as the trade routes started to bustle with activity. But there was little if any trouble in the region, be it from neighbouring counties or bandits. There was no real need for the militia, nor the taxes used to pay for them. Yet the mayor came up with one. He had at the start spun such tales of woe on the foundation of the regional superstitions. Eventually this was overshadowed by the "need" to protect those travelling the roads to and from the town (in truth it be more to protect the hoarded wealth of the town and its people). But it was still there, the old cursed legends, the basis from which all this power had come about. And it was during a time of heated debate, a power struggle in the making that Magnus came into town.

Magnus was a scholar of sorts who for reasons unknown became caught up in the politics of the town. He came to visit the village once, soon after settling into town. He had need of a smith to fix his horse's broken tack. Syr thought it odd he would not simply go to a smith in town for such a minor task. Wearn thought the same and said as much to Magnus. Magnus admitted that he had heard of Wearn's reputation for quality work, but also said that on his travels, he would often visit the rural areas surrounding the larger populations. Something about finding more worthy subjects to study out here than in a sterile library or pretentious town banquet. He would give Syr the odd sidelong glance while he watched Wearn work the tack and it made Syr feel a little awkward. Soon enough the job was done and Magnus was on his way. Now, the mayor's spies told of Magnus' trip to Wearn for his services. He and most of the more paranoid townsfolk, those that put too much stock in faded legends flared anew, also knew of Syr. The mayor never liked the boy anyway, and decided to use this chance encounter to his advantage in his struggle against Magnus.

And so it was that the mayor turned to his ranting and raving, spreading the word of an evil sprung up from right under their very noses. He branded Syr as this evil: bastard son of the accursed forest spirits, who have lain in wait countless centuries for the right time to strike. Not only was Syr the embodiment, the catalyst for the wrath to come, but those in contact with him were corrupted too, be it for Syr's whole life or only recently. Their only salvation was to rid the county of them. Such lunacy was preposterous for all to see, except those who mattered to the mayor: the townspeople who cared little for the village down the way, and a lot more for their own vested interests.

The militia were quickly dispersed: first, root out and eliminate the agents of evil within the town, then all those in the village, for surely they had by now all been corrupted by Syr and his forest loving parents' foul taint. The mayor's adversaries in town saw this ill wind approaching and had left town days before. Magnus was who the mayor was really after, yet he too seemed to have escaped as well that very morning. Undeterred, the militia quickly rode out towards the village. The villagers were not as well informed as those in town, and they could not flee in time that which was descending upon them. The village was quickly surrounded and systematically razed, the militia working towards their primary goal: kill Syr.
Alas, it was for naught. Magnus, rather than leaving in time to save himself, had slipped through the town that morning in disguise. He doubled back through the forest, coming out from the trail there straight towards Syr's home.
Quickly he told them of what was coming their way, and after some heated words, finally convinced them to leave right then and there and escape to the safety of the forest. Just in time, they reached the forest edge as ranks of the militia wheeled round behind them to cut off any escape from the village. It would be some time before they would find out they were gone, and Magnus would need every second of it.

Magnus lead them to the forest glade. They were not exhausted, yet they had stopped there just a couple of miles from the village. Syr asked why they stopped, but Magnus instead asked him to water his horse at the stream nearby. Syr reluctantly agreed, giving Magnus time to talk to Rael and Wearn alone.
He wasted no time. "You have been here before." It was not a question.
"Yes" replied Wearn. "We need to go, they are -"
"And you have lain here too?"
"Now see here, that is none of your -"
"No time for modesty here, smith!" Magnus quelled his harsh tone, but it never left his eyes. "You must trust me, as you did this very morning when I saved your life. Have you lain here, upon this stone?"
Wearn and Rael shared a look. Rael, showing comprehension then dread upon her face, turned to Magnus first. "We have, and I know what you would ask next. Yes, we conceived Syr here."
"As I feared." Magnus was no longer irate: thoughtful and concerned expressions he now wore. "There is no time to tell it all -"
"Are you trying to blame us for the way Syr is?" Wearn cut in indignantly. "Believe me, Rael knows far more about this than either of us -"
"No, no, it's not you who is to blame. It's this" Magnus finished, scuffing his boot heel on the stone they were standing on. "Let me explain."

"You are aware of the old legends about this place?"
Both nodded. Wearn began "They're tales to keep the children in line-"
"They're true. At least, the actual events behind them are." Magnus turned and started to pace around, absently looking for something in the stone. "Centuries ago, when the magic of nature was prevalent, a clan known as the Thrakken lived in this forest. They were part of a broader community of all the elemental magicks, but came to form their own race through their common affinity with earth magic. Such had never been done before, mastering one element to the point of excluding the rest. There was a rising discord about this from the other elemental clans: it spoke of imbalance, a central core belief in elemental magic at the time. Despite this, the Thrakken continued to evolve, taking on more of the earth magic as their own. Eventually, doing so changed them so completely, they no longer resembled the people they once were. They looked more like.." Magnus trailed off as he pointed at Syr.
"Before long, the Thrakken waged war upon their once kin. For a time they grew strong, using mighty, towering golems of rock and iron to scatter their foes far and wide. But it could not last. Such rending of the forces of nature lead to a catastrophic imbalance, and the Thrakken race imploded. Their magi died out and the golems, with no masters to serve nor magic to sustain them, crumbled back into the earth from whence they came."
"But that makes no sense! This was centuries ago, and they are extinct! How could this come about to affect Syr?!" Wearn was shouting to vent his fear for his beloved son.
"From the Thrakken, there is no way. As you say, they as a race are long dead. But the earth remembers, and this spot-" Magnus paused, arms spread wide to take in the stone plateau "-was where it all began, the birthplace of the Thrakken. The foundation and power source of their monolithic tower that spawned the horrid golems of war and death."

"It gets worse." Magnus held up a hand to forestall their questions. "The golems were not just of earth magic: they were also made of sacrifice. The Thrakken would use one of their own, together with a bound nature spirit, to be the bond that tied the golems to their magi. They would, from birth, bring the chosen child here every year and perform rites to prepare them. Indoctrinated from the start, they were willing participants until their rite into adulthood as a golem consumed them."
"I must now get to the worst part of all. If these children did not do this, did not for whatever reason pass this rite, they would die. There was one defining trait that separated the regular Thrakken from the sacrificial ones: the eyes. Those sacrificed had black, white less eyes."
"No!! You can't be right! My son is not some sacrifice to a dead race!" Wearn was livid.
"I hope you are right" replied Magnus evenly, calming Wearn down a little. "Know this: he will not live without the ritual taking place. That is not what concerns me, for we will perform the ritual this very night. My worry comes from the nature spirit needed to complete the process, complete him, as it were. They were enslaved, forced into the ritual, never willing. This gave the golems the capacity for anger, to wage war, to be what they were meant to be. This was also why a Thrakken mage would bond with each golem, for without his control over the bound spirit, the spirit would willingly die to destroy the golem from within. I will attempt to use different methods in their place but I will also pray the ritual will work without them."
Wearn was having none of it. "This simply cannot be! My son, a lifeless husk fuelled by hate! Better off for him to die!"
"No father." They all turned at hearing Syr's voice as he stood a few paces away. "You are the one who taught me to revere life, empower life, in all its forms. If I do not do this, I die. That would deny me the right to exist, the right to choose a life of good over evil, if my will be strong enough to do so. We only know for sure what will happen if I don't go ahead with this. That leaves me with one choice."
Turning toward Magnus, Syr straightened. "Tell me what I need to do." The two of them conversed together while wandering the stone plateau. Wearn turned and strode off further into the forest, weeping for the futility of it all. Rael trailed behind, trying to console him and her own misery at the same time.

"It is time." Magnus' voice cut through the mire of Wearn's grief. He rose slowly, plodding behind Magnus through the warm evening with deadened strides, feeling his son's demise as surely as if it were his own. With Rael by his side, they waited at the glade's edge while Magnus walked onto the stone plateau. Around the stone slab, tall, wide pillars of a deep black rock were spaced out evenly between slender pillars of a silvery metallic ore.
There, splayed out in the centre, Syr made for a morbid sight. He was the centrepiece for a complex pattern written around him that was not there before, spiralling outward to encompass all of the stone slab, finally ending before Magnus' feet. No, not written. It was carved, etched into the surface. Wearn could barely bring himself to notice this fact, the pillars, or to wonder how they had done it all in time, before Magnus began to chant. As soon as his low grumbled mantra echoed around the glade, the entire stone slab pulsed in small waves like it was a pool of murky grey water, as if the chant bouncing back from the trees surrounding them passed back through the stone towards Syr, then back outward again in an sinister undulating ripple. To and fro it went. Each time it pulsed away from Syr, tiny rivulets of his blood bled out from his wrists, ankles and ears. It rode those waves, coalescing in the pattern still etched in the stone. It seemed as though there should be a similar flow of blood on the return waves coming back in, the lack of blood focused on where Magnus stood.

In his grieved, numb state, Wearn did not notice, but Rael saw it clearly, clearer in fact than Magnus himself it seemed.
"There's something wrong here!" he shouted over the now loudly reverberating, self sustaining chant. She realised then that Magnus fully intended to sacrifice himself to complete the ritual. He was trying to take the place of bound spirit and mage both! With a flash of insight, Rael knew what was wrong, and how to make it right. With no thought for herself, no hesitation, her eyes firmly fixed on Syr's face and her heart full of the joy of her love for him, she leapt forward. She shoved Magnus to one side and took his place on the plateau. Her feet became locked in place where she stood. Small streaks of her blood drained from her feet, flowing with the incoming waves and into the coiled pattern. Both flows of blood continued to snake towards each other, merging into one as they inked out the pattern at their feet.
As soon as their blood twined, this blood pattern rotated, riding the waves of stone as it spiralled inwards towards the centre. Syr by this time had been writhing in agony, desperately wailing out a scream that caught in a throat constricted with pain. Conversely, Rael was being dragged into the centre on the tail end of the blood pattern. Her face serene, arms out to the sides as they bobbed up and down in time with the waves luring her in, she was the embodiment of grace and calm.

It was here, as she started moving towards the centre, that Wearn finally came out of his grief, only to lunge himself at Rael in a futile bid to pull her out. Magnus got to him first. With a strength that belied his lean frame, he kept Wearn at bay.
"It's too late! Not even I can help her now! She did it for him! She saw the way it had to be!"
Magnus heard sounds coming from outside the glade and looked past Wearn. Wearn saw the surprise on his face and turned to the sound also.
"We're out of time, they've found us! We've got to hold them off!" Magnus finished his yelled command with a hearty shove at Wearn's shoulders to get him moving.
Quickly committing himself to the cause, Wearn rode with the forward momentum of the push as he snatched the sledgehammer he had next to his pack and rushed to stall the advancing mob. He was still a good ten paces away when a resounding WHOOSH and a blast of heat passed by a few scant feet in front of him. Taken aback, he raised an arm to shield his face. When he lowered it, a broad swath of the forest surrounding the glade was blackened, tendrils of flame and embers still flaring up along the line where the front row of militia men were. All that remained of them were ash and twisted, charred scraps of swords and armour.
Wearn renewed his charge, Magnus close behind as the once murderous mob was completely routed by such an incendiary display of power.

Rael and Syr were oblivious to all of this as their lives were forever changed. As Rael approached the centre, the stone pillars began to glow with an inner fire, gradually going from black to a bright orange, the searing heat blurring her vision as it was focused inward towards Syr. The metallic pillars had melted into silvery, reflective pools which flowed around and into the blood pattern as it made its way inward. Rael was fading away, her physical form being consumed by the process of the ritual. Syr on the other hand, was larger than before, much larger, distorting as he grew. His overall build, even his head, rapidly swelled to alarming proportions. He started to rise, not of his own accord, rigid with the agony that had locked up all his muscles as Rael closed the gap between them. In a moment of lucidity, just as Rael's ghostly visage was inches in front of him, Syr heard her say:

"We are one, now and for always. My spirit, my strength, my love, is yours. They will guide you when you are lost, renew you when you are spent and rejoice in your life at every turn."

With her final words, Rael, the blood pattern and the quicksilver all passed into Syr, becoming one with him. The stone pillars, now moulds of liquid magma, toppled and sank into the ground only to boil up again through the stone under Syr, and then into him. The stone plateau groaned alarmingly under the intense pressure until it could take no more. Broad, jagged chasms spread out from the centre, splintering the solid stone into rough wedges. Shafts of pale white light shone straight up through those fissures, their intensity building to a blinding crescendo. It then released itself as a pulse rippling through the forest for miles around, even into the clearing where the village had once stood, all the way to the towns' stone walls and beyond. When it came to them, it passed effortlessly through them, turning those walls into nothing more than dirt to fall in a heap where they stood. Any stonework in the town dissolved away. Many an estate toppled, entombing some of those who dwelt within.


It was early dawn by the time Wearn and Magnus returned to the glade. As they approached, Wearn wondered where Syr had gone. All he saw was a tall, wide spire of black rock in the centre, deep rents in the stone emanating from it. They were just a few feet away when a grinding sound came from within the spire. Sharp popping sounds followed as cracks began to appear, one from the base up the middle, two more working their way inward from about halfway up. They then realised it was because the rock was moving: moving as separate parts! Rough limb like shapes now slowly ground their way free of their bound state. This also brought the upper spire into perspective, and as it too struggled, small slivers and chunks of stone were shaken loose to reveal a head, shoulders and torso. The last remnants of excess rock fell away from legs and arms as Syr finally took on his new form. Standing motionless for a moment, Syr brought one of his massive hands up to scrub at his hair, something he had done often in his youth. Instead he ended up brushing off loose rubble. His head and the rest of him were completely void of any hair whatsoever.
Syr let his hand trail down to his face, faintly scraping at it with his coarse fingers, trying to get used it. His hand falling away, Syr finally opened his eyes. Both Magnus and Wearn, not sure what they should have expected, stepped back at the sight of bright, deep, flowing pools of quicksilver staring back at them.

Syr looked down upon them. His father was tall, Magnus even more so, yet Syr towered over them both with ease.
"Syr?" Wearn took a tentative step forward. "Is that you? It's me, Wearn, your father. Is your-" he faltered, forcing down the choking emotion that had cut him off "- is your mother in there too?"
They noticed bright orange veins shooting through his eyes, dominating them, as Syrs mightily broad chest heaved. He lifted his head to the sky and let out a harsh guttural bellow, sounding like an earthquake right at their feet. Forest creatures for miles around scattered at the sound. Syr turned and ran unsteadily, stumbling as he grew accustomed to his new legs. His gait was slow, but he was so tall and his strides so long that he could keep up with a horse at canter with little problem.
Syr had some speed, but he found it hard to try and avoid small trees and shrub, difficult to negotiate sharp turns. In his blind run he did not need to - anything in his way he trampled over without pause.
Wearn began to run after him, but Magnus halted him by saying "Give him some time Wearn. A shock such as this will be hard for him to take in. None of us knew what to expect from this, but it is he who will have to live with it. We have time on our side now. The townsfolk and militia have crises of their own to deal with, they'll not be bothering us anymore. Besides, we know which way he's going, he made sure of that." Magnus hoisted himself onto his horse, then helped Wearn up behind him. "We'll get supplies and another horse from the village, then catch up to Syr later. Poor souls, they'll not need them now."

They did indeed catch up to Syr later that night. He was sitting down near the edge of a small cliff, resting against a wide, angled rock face. A few small trees toppled sideways were testament to his trial and error before getting himself comfortable. For the next few weeks, Syr and Wearn talked over the tumultuous events leading up to now, while Magnus helped Syr adjust to his new way of life.
Some more discoveries were borne of trial and error, the first being that Syr could barely sustain himself on regular food and drink, regardless of how much he ate. No, he only thrived once he would literally eat of the earth, a regular meal of stone or rock at least once a week, the less frequent the meal, the more of it he had to eat. Surprisingly, most of all to Syr himself, he did not baulk at the task, and soon took it to be part of his regular routine. He could feel power flow through him when consuming earthly materials, but did not know what to do with the power once inside of him. It was then that Magnus suggested he stay amongst and learn from the only race whose mastery of stone was to date without equal - the dwarven kingdoms of the north.

With a clear purpose, the three of them set off north to the endless strongholds and network of caves that burrowed deep within the vast mountain ranges there. For the next half century, Syr lived with and learned from master masons and smiths, and discovered abilities of his own that surpassed all but the most revered and ancient of dwarven lore. His ability to shape stone, rock and ore without tools was something dwarven magi spent lifetimes learning and perfecting, yet because his power was innate, not learned, his ability and progress were nothing short of miraculous. He was revered by the dwarven people, who gave him the title "Stoneweaver".
Magnus did not stay with them, but would return from time to time. He would often marvel at Syr's progress, and on his visits help the dwarven magi instruct Syr on different ways to use his power over rock, stone and metal. At first, Syr had to physically touch the samples he would work on, and he could only manage pieces no larger than his hand. Over years of study, his prowess grew. He could sense, identify and manipulate stone and rock formations at greater distances. He could use different samples of rock or stone and twist them into shapes, or mould them together. He could build with them: furniture and tools at first. Soon, doorways and walls. He even went topside to learn how to erect whole buildings of stone, then eventually fortifications. His most spectacular task amongst the dwarves was to completely remake the massive vaulted stone doors of the dwarven strongholds that shut off the outside world. These had to be ready to withstand the elements, but more importantly, repel any force of arms, be they sword, ram, catapult or even magic. With the aid of dwarven magi he did just that - melding different stones to form solid, one piece doors double the thickness and strength, yet still able to open and close seamlessly and quickly. Before his departure, he had seen to at least some part of almost every dwelling the dwarves had, leaving mark of his masterful talents amongst them for millennia to come.

His life with his father had returned to one of love and respect during his time with the dwarves, but it was never really the same since Syr's transformation. Syr could feel his mother's spirit within him, and would often share this with Wearn. Wearn was glad to share in it and loathe to shun such a bond with his son, but he would always have a sadness around him for days afterward, a face to the sadness that was inside him always. Upon his father's passing, Syr took the on the name of "Stoneweaver", and left his dwarven home soon after. It was not so much the sadness of his father's passing that made him go. It was more of an awareness of his mother's spirit, urging him to move on, to learn more about the world - and himself.
Soon after he resolved to do this, Magnus passed through the dwarven strongholds. Upon hearing of Syr's decision to leave, he offered to accompany him. As well travelled as he was, he would be the ideal companion to show Syr the many wonders awaiting him. Syr travelled with Magnus for a few years more, finding uses for his talents in many of the towns and cities he came to. Magnus was an objective observer of Syr's work, and one day suggested Syr retreat from the cities of man and travel with him to the vast forests and woodlands of the East. Syr had no qualm with this, so they ventured eastward, eventually reaching the far off, deep forests to the East, seldom seen by any but the elven race who made them their home.

During their trek through the low lying woodlands, Syr asked Magnus why he suggested they travel this way and also why now, just when he was starting to find more work coming his way. Syr did not expect to be able to work his craft much at all in an area dominated by woodlands, but all Magnus would say was "not all is at it seems, especially to one so isolated as yourself. Half a century dwelling amongst caves provides little in the way of worldly experience." The sparse woodlands were quick to traverse, and soon they found themselves in amongst the deep forest, the thick canopy of twined branches and leaves bringing on a false dusk hours before it was due. Syr was thankful the trees here were so ancient, their size providing ample space for him to walk amongst them. They continued on in the dark without as much as a torch to light their way. The gloomy atmosphere did not faze Magnus in the slightest.
"Shouldn't we make camp, or light our way at least?" Syr finally asked. "We won't get to those we are to meet tonight."
Magnus looked over at Syr, then nodded his head towards the treetops above. "No need to worry about that, they're already here." Syr looked closer, and could see figures keeping up with them, flitting through the trees. "Oh, and a torch would be a bad idea. Fire in these woods is a death sentence."
Soon enough they came to a city of the forest kin, elves who had made their home in and amongst the trees they protect. Syr and Magnus stayed overnight with them. When Syr asked why they would not stay for a while, Magnus told him some of the forest kin would come with them instead. After a few days, the band of travellers finally reached their destination, a massive clearing leagues in diameter with a sprawling, towering city taking up most of its space. They had reached Alan'tir and the high elves that lived there.

Syr had never seen so much worked stone above ground, the shapes and forms used defying his imagination. He could not believe such slender spires and delicate spans could hold their own weight, let alone those who lived among them. Inside of him, his spirit soared. Syr was sure his mother was there, sharing with, maybe even fuelling, his feeling of euphoria at such a sight.
"Yes Syr, we have come here for this." Magnus said in response to Syr's wondrous countenance. "You have mastered the moulding of stone, shaping it to your will. But you have yet to master the spirit of stone within you, your ability to project this spirit into the works you create. As you can plainly see, those who dwell here can help you with that."
And indeed they did. The high elf magi and artisans were fascinated with Syr, a being so different to anything they had seen before. Over the years they helped Syr explore his inner self, helped him gather a deeper understanding of his unique spirit, twin souls residing in complete harmony. He felt stronger inside than he ever had before, and it began to show in his works. Gradually with greater confidence and skill, his mastery of earthen elements was elevated to a higher art form. Syr could feel his mothers' presence guide him, encourage and nurture his talents. At long last, Syr finally related to his mother and her affinity with nature. Together with the years spent with his father, Syr felt as though a final piece fell into place, completing him despite his abnormal transformation. Syr spent years more at Alan'tir and its forest surrounds, refining his artistry, gathering lore from both elven peoples. Together with his vast knowledge of dwarven craft lore and his own innate power over earth magic, Syr felt there was nothing he could not do with the elements of stone, rock and metal.

There was one more lesson yet to learn. Magnus one day took Syr up one of the city spires, higher than he had ever gone before. Near its peak, a platform jutted out. They stepped out onto the platform to behold a splendid sunset which even the buffeting crosswinds this high up could not diminish. In the centre there sat a large upright ring of stone, a dozen broad stone steps at its base. Syr watched as Magnus approached it, his outstretched right hand in front of him. As he did so, he began drawing symbols that looked like tendrils of gold dust. They floated mid air at the stone ring's centre until his hand came to rest upon them. Pale light pooled outward, filling the ring.
Syr could see a distorted scene within. A figure was moving towards them in this scene, then strode through onto the platform. Amazed, Syr looked on as Magnus and the man greeted each other.
"Syr, I'd like you to meet Brother Varen." Syr extended a hand, only to have a green scaled one take it in greeting. The figure lowered his hood to reveal a head of green scales, eyes of yellow slit vertically and ears that were web shaped and leathery. "Sssyyrr. Grreettingsss." Varen said, his forked tongue darting out as he spoke.
"I expect you have a lot of questions for me. I shall answer them as best I can by telling you about Varen and myself." Magnus led them all to sit at a nearby stone bench.

"Brother Varen and I belong to a league of travellers. Millennia ago, the founders of our order discovered that there were many worlds in existence, doing so through the use of gateways." Magnus nodded his head towards the stone ring at the other end of the platform. "They have been travelling ever since, learning and experiencing all they can about these worlds for the good of all. We mostly do not interfere with these worlds, but certain occasions have called for action. For example, the elven race of this city are in fact refugees, forced to leave their home world. There was much debate concerning whether or not we would intervene and save them. I'll let you look around you and come to your own conclusion about the righteousness of that action."

"Despite the vastly extended life span their magicks gave them, very few of them remain, so they began recruiting those capable of using such powers from the worlds they would visit. Brother Varen here is a Skran, a reptilian race found on a planet with vast swamplands among its other climates." Magnus stood and turned to face them both. "I am native to this world, but I am not what you think I am."
Cowering inward, Magnus' shape changed within his garb, thinning out somewhat and growing a little taller. When he straightened again, he was a mottled grey colour with eyes of a bright copper. To Syr's look of shock, Magnus replied "Yes Syr, I am a Thrakken, the last of my kind."

"I rebelled against my own people during our final days and was hunted mercilessly for it. I saw no point in endless war and suffering and accepted my fate as one of a dying race, but I would not go at the hands of those I now hated. They finally caught up with me in this very clearing, and would have found me had not an elder of our order rescued me. He found me first and offered me safe passage. With little choice I agreed and we travelled to another world. He was dying and chose me to continue on his work, giving me his gift and spending his last years teaching me how to use it. I returned here sometime later and discovered the Thrakken had indeed expired, yet it was too soon for me to appear as I was. The pain of those wars was still too fresh. All travellers are taught ways to disguise ourselves - on some worlds it is vital to be someone you are not. I made my way back to the Thrakken homeland and that accursed tower, only to find the peoples anger had already been wrought upon it, levelling it to its foundation. That was when I found my purpose on this world and have remained ever since. The tower itself was not the problem: its foundation was. There lay the source of its power and could be used again should anyone discover how. With no way to destroy it, I took on the role of its guardian."

"Until you came along."

"In all this time, no one had ever thought to use that glade the way your parents did. If I had of been there, I'm not entirely sure I would have stopped them. And I certainly did not think the power held there could manifest itself into an unborn child. Your parents did not allow you to go there and in the end I think that is what saved you. Had you returned there, even once more, you most likely would have come under a compulsion to return each year that you could not resist. You would have been fused with some of the power in the stone, year after year, until your time of transformation. I cannot say if it would have worked or not, but I know it would have corrupted you, twisted your values and beliefs into a lust for destruction and war, preparing your mind, body and soul for the task of death. As it was, once the foundation had chosen you in the womb, it needed to release its power. I guess the build up of years without that release, followed by it all bursting forth at once, was too much and in the end destroyed it."

"So, in spite of all I have done to guide you towards a life of good, of beauty and grace, something as far from Thrakken life as I could imagine, it falls upon me to thank you and your parents instead. Their actions and yours did what I could not and have freed me of my charge here. I can now travel to worlds I have never seen and become a true traveller of our order."
Magnus stepped forward and embraced Syr. Syr did not have to stand up. "You have given me a life to live. We will meet again someday. Oh, don't fret," Magnus chuckled at seeing concern on Syr's chiselled features, "there'll be plenty of time for us to catch up. Have you not noticed, it's been over 100 years since you were born! I don't know how long you will live, Syr, but in all that time you haven't aged a day that I can tell. Expect to be around for a long time to come."

Magnus and Syr spent all that night and most of the following day talking about their lives together. Later that evening it was time for them to part ways. Magnus left first, saying something about going to a world where he could "just sit back and do nothing for a hundred years". Then Varen led Syr through the portal and onto another world....

Description

Ah, Prince Charmless, how to begin.
His hair is the colour of rotten hay, and smells fifty times worse. He doesn’t bother brushing it much – much as in, not at all – so naturally it’s always in complete disarray. No, hygiene is not one of his strong points, but hey, what can the poor guy say. (“Well, he can get a bloody job,” his mother, the Queen often reminds him.)
Because Charmless is too lazy to buy new clothes, most of his adventurer outfit is about a size too small. Years of drinking beer, going to wild parties, and crashing through the untamed wild do not complement his already shoddy attire.
Facially, he has a bit of a snub nose and a slight under bite. No battle scars though: he’s too cowardly to fight a dragon, or even a warthog for that matter. His sword is about as sharp as a pair of children’s safety scissors and too small for him (he got it from the discount bin.)

If you kiss Prince Charmless he turns into a frog. He calls it a ‘physical disability’ and is very sensitive about it.

Personality

Prince Charmless loves the ladies, but has a bit of a problem. As mentioned, when someone kisses him, he turns in to a frog. You think that would stop him, but it doesn't. He’s known for some of the worst one liners in history. He's a lazy, easy going guy who has a sense of humour, but he can get pretty offended sometimes, so don't tell him he's a bum or comment on his beer belly.

Equipment

Charmless wears a broken, faded gold crown that he pried the jewels out of long ago to sell for booze money. He carries a stumpy sword, a bottle of whiskey, a pack of cigarettes, an empty wallet, and wears big stompin' boots (one of the only items he owns that he is proud of.)

History

Prince Charmless was born utterly Charmless. Even as a baby, he was constantly screaming and crying. It was said that on the day of his birth, when the three good fairies came to bless him, he pooped in the middle of the ceremony and everyone just left. The evil fairy (who came to curse the new Prince) saw the whole ordeal and said “No waaay man. I don’t need to curse yo kid, you got enough on your hands,” and also left. The evil fairy was very smart-alecky, and appears from time to time in Charmless’s life to give him sass.
And his life continued like that, until eventually people realized he was the ‘bum’ of the royal family. At 25, he was still living at home, in the castle, so his parents kicked him out and told him ‘to get a job’. He flipped burgers at White Castle, for awhile, but when he overheard a young adventurer talking about slaying a dragon and rescuing the beautiful princess, he put on his stompin’ boots and decided to really DO something with his life.

Three years later, that something turned out to be drinking beers at scummy dwarven taverns. His mom still writes to him, telling him to get a real job, like a lawyer or an accountant, but he always uses the ‘I’m on a quest to save the princess’ excuse. (“Darling, you’ve been doing that for three years.”)

Okay, so this is one of my favorite characters, and easily the one with the most background work done (I spent a heck of a long time researching Spanish schooling). I've used her at a bunch of different ages in different rps and on this site and others, but this is the "full" version.


HAYLEY LOGAN FORD, TWENTY EIGHT.

APPEARANCE; With her short, and naturally extremely curly white-blonde hair and pale complexion, teamed with her rather scrawny, stick-like figure, it's unsurprising that many people assume that Logan is ill. And, to some extent, she is. Or at least was. In her teenage years, excessive drinking and drugs, a party lifestyle and rebellious nature left her with a somewhat gaunt appearance, as well as an often irritable nature, and paranoia. Her large, doe-like green eyes often have shadows beneath them, which these days is mainly due to tiredness rather than the partying of her younger years. The young, rather skinny woman is most often seen in the white blouse, black skirt and tights of her work uniform, usually with a heavily stained apron at her waist, though on days off tends to dress in a much more distinctive style. Logan loves the bohemian, festival type look, and spends much her weekends trawling through charity shops in search of bargain vintage fashion.

PERSONALITY; Logan is the kind of woman who can sit and talk to almost anyone for hours on end without running out of things to say. She loves to chat, and meet new people, and as a teen made a point of going to every single party that she could. Logan tries to get on with anyone and everyone, and prides herself on being able to find common ground with any person she talks to.

Ever since she was tiny, Logan has loved anything to do with the arts, and growing up she expressed herself through any medium she could find; dance, music, photography.. she was willing to give anything a try, and some of Logan's happiest memories are of just to taking photos inside the cathedral in valencia. Everything she does, she does with the kind of energy that, well..scares most people. She pours her heat and soul into those things that interest her, and puts in 100 percent effort to each task she encounters. Back in Valencia, she was often seen lying in the dirt or standing precariously on a high ledge to get the best shot, and she's always going at things full-steam-ahead.

Logan is a big fan of doing a lot of things "just because". She's been known to use that excuse for buying a new camera, throwing an impromptu party, and once, even jumping on a train to Paris. She might think things through, but that tends to be after she's done them, because Logan loves to act on impulse; do it now, there'll be time to ask questions later.

That being said, over the years, Logan's learnt that it's better to be safe than sorry. She knows that every neighbourhood has people it's best to avoid- and she should, she used to be one of them. In the aftermath of her mother's death, she also decided that it was easier not to get too close to people- she was only going to loose them some day, like when she'd left behind her English friends, as well as loosing her mum a little later. Instead, she's a very careful person when it comes to others- it's not that she is unfriendly, just that she finds it difficult to trust people a lot of the time.

Although she has a very suspicious nature, Logan is also very affectionate. It's hard for her to get close to someone, but once she does she'll be by their side for life. Logan makes a point of being as loyal as possible to her friends, and is very protective of the people she cares about. If you dig down enough beneath the surface, you'll see she has a big heart, and odds are if you do find it, you'll be in there somewhere.

HISTORY; Two days after bonfire night, in a private room at a north-london hospital, Mrs Iris Ford gave birth to a baby girl. That night, her husband, Jack, went to a nearby off-liscence and bought out the remaining fireworks the owner had in stock, setting them off outside his wife's window. That was exactly the kind of romantic gesture that Jack had always loved to do for his wife, ever since they'd first met back in high-school, and thanks to his high-paid career as the owner of his own cinema franchise, it was easy for him to afford this kind of thing as often as he liked, and to give their little girl whatever she wanted as she grew up.

One gift that Logan hadn't asked for, or wanted, came when she was eight years old, and the family emigrated to Valencia, in Spain. After the move, Logan refused to talk to her dad for weeks. She didn't see why he needed to move out here- couldn't he have set up his new office in England, so she didn't have to leave all her friends? Her mother tutored her at home, teaching her to speak spanish alongside all of her other lessons, and eventually she started to settle into her new life.

Then, when Logan was 12, things were just starting to come together and resemble some kind of normality... until Logan's mum was rushed into hospital after collapsing in the garden. She was diagnosed with a heart-condition that meant she had to stay under constant care, meaning there was no choice other than to enroll Logan into a school.

The school that was chosen for her was Caxton College, one of many private "British" schools dotted around Spain. It offers GCSE's and A-Levels, giving it's students qualifications that can get them into universities in the UK, but which are also recognised by the Spanish education authorities- Logan's parents were convinced she'd feel at home there, but they were badly mistaken.

Quickly, Logan began to make it clear just how unhappy she was at Caxton. It took a matter of days for her to lapse into that dreaded "rebellious stage", and before her parents knew what hit them, their artistic, bright little girl was running wild around the city, smoking, drinking, stealing, and just generally making a nuisance of herself. At the same time, Iris' heart condition was getting worse. She was in constant pain, and everything she did took about 4 times as much effort as it should have done. Eventually, her heart gave out completely. There was nothing the doctors could do.

After her mother's death, her father sank into a depression that almost nothing could pull him out of, and Logan began slipping even more through the cracks as he became consumed by his own grief. Then came the news that Jack's Mother was dangerously ill. Jack insisted that they moved back to England, because he wanted to spend every available minute by her side, and Logan found herself back home at last. However, living at her gran's house wasn't exactly the life she'd had in mind, and it didn't take long before Logan was moving out to live with a friend.

The parties and the drugs continued with gusto, and Logan's life seemed more precariously balanced than ever, but she was 22 before her father at last intervened. After pleading with her for almost a year, Jack managed to somehow convince Logan to go to rehab. It was a long, difficult process, but eventually Logan was able to return to "normal" society and find herself a job in a café. It wasn't glamorous or well-paid, but it was enough to cover her share of the rent at her apartment, and put food in her mouth.

Description: Nefriit has deep green eyes, which always appear to be staring into the middle distance. His hair is cut a centimeter from his scalp, and is mahogany in color. He has thin eyebrows the same color as his hair, which he uses to illustrate points in conversation. His skin is the same shade as coffee with cream, and is almost free of blemish. The exception to this rule is the burn scar that covers his left cheek, as well as part of the left side of his mouth. This gives him the constant appearance of a half-smile, which lends a sense of twisted mischief to all of his expressions. It is also a conversation-stopper, as scars are basically unheard of in Xuitea.

He wears the same set of clothing every day, using magic to clean both it and himself. This outfit is composed of a jade-colored shirt, moss green pants, and well-worn boots. The shirt is fitted so as to allow maximum dexterity. The pants are cut in a similar way, but they are tight at the ankles; whereas the shirt sleeves are not. His fingers are long and thin, providing an interesting juxtaposition to his larger than average palms. He wears sturdy shoes, which he repairs using magic whenever necessary. He wears socks, which many Xuiteans consider an eccentricity of his. The socks match the color of the boots he wears, that of sun burnt leather. The shirt, pants, boots, socks, and underwear are all made of supple and sturdy cloth.

He has all of his teeth, which they are all whitish, and he keeps his nails short. He has muscles, but nothing special, only what one would get over years of walking. He carries no weapons, not being trained in their use, as he hasn’t had need of them until recently. He lugs around a dependable backpack that he uses to carry assorted oddities and bric-a-brac. Since he prefers to use magic to create food and water for himself and anyone who asks, he carries no food or drink (be warned, Nefriits’ magical cooking is an acquired taste).

Personality: Nefriit tries to be polite whenever possible, with an exception being when someone acts in a condescending manner towards him. He believes that everyone has a spark of good within them, and that those few who do evil do so because they’ve become convinced their actions are justified. Upon encountering any severe injustice; he does his best to stop it and then proceeds to brood on what he sees as his duty to the world. Nefriit tends to avoids brooding around others, as he doesn’t want to add to any sorrow they might be feeling. He is a very serious soul, and takes most injustices as personal injuries. While this isn’t exactly healthy, it is how he was raised and he stands by it even now.

He values integrity and compassion highly and strives to attain greater heights of both. While he doesn’t force others to follow his morals, he won’t allow anything he considers immoral to occur. Rather than steal, he suggests asking permission. Rather than kill, he suggests binding their ability to do harm.

Another large part of him is his sense of humor, which many find hard to understand. Mere lack of understanding doesn’t stop him from making obscure jokes that he’s picked up in his travels, though. One of his less than savory qualities is his all-encompassing arrogance, and he’s been referred to as a know-it-all more than once. As such, he often makes people feel like he knows what’s best for them, and he only accepts exceedingly good ideas as possibly better than his own.

History: Nefriit was born in the trade city of Kotimaa, to two parents and an older brother. His parents held the timeless belief in the powers of a name; and so assigned to him a twofold name: that of the arrogant, beautiful, breathtakingly powerful Nefriit; and that of the caring, persistent, and ugly Huijari. Knowledge of his name came at a young age, and he was proud of his first name. His second name provided only confusion and questions that clouded his young mind. Did his parents hope that he would be kind and caring, as well as beautiful and powerful? Or did they simply wish to give him food for thought? Regardless, in his mind he loved his parents fiercely and they returned the favor. His brother, older by barely a year, was given a name that was never explained to Nefriit. Vend Tryggur was that name, and Nefriit spent some of his younger years wondering what his brothers’ name meant.

Three years after he himself was born, his sister was born. She and Nefriit got off to a rocky start, partially due to the fact that Nefriit attempted to sell her to a pair of passing Techie Elves; who almost bought her. Her name was Soră Bahagia, and her name was never explained to him either. After this rocky start his arrogance grew, as he believed that he was ultimate in the world. Everything he did took little effort for him, so he didn’t value much, least of all his siblings. One thing he did put effort into was science, and he constantly engaged in reckless experimenting after the tradition of the Techie Elves. His father, Tėvas Terhormat; and his mother, Ibunu Szeretet; cautioned against such behavior, as parents are wont to do. Like most children, however, Nefriit would have to learn his lesson the hard way.

At the tender age of 11 he botched an experiment, injuring himself with a severe burn to the face. His sister, who’d been dabbling in the magical arts of healing, happened to be near at hand; repaying his long years of mistreatment by healing his face. She prevented his dying of shock, but her lack of any real training caused a scar to form on his face. While he could have had it removed at any time by a trained Healer; he left it out of a budding sense of obligation. His parents, though hesitant, stood by his decision. All of the other children in his home town felt comfortable showing their true feelings for him now that he wasn’t protected by his beauty; but he’d never cared what they thought in any case. He was coming to realize that he had been cruel to his siblings, and decided to change that. His siblings, being much better people than he, quickly forgave him his years of abuse, and he was ashamed (though no less arrogant).

At 13 years old, his parents felt that they should show their children a place of peace and learning; and as they all had an interest in magic there was only one place that would really fit. Burtai, the homeland of the centaurs and the Makara; where Soră, Vend, and Nefriit could each learn their respective magical disciplines. The journey there took a full year with favorable currents, so they traded all of their non-portable belongings away for long-lasting food and fresh water.

His father won passage on the Jūra Viajante; a centaur ship; by challenging the ships’ captain; Lyderis Gnista; to a friendly wrestling match. While his father got thoroughly crushed, the centaur admired his pluck in actually fighting a centaur and agreed to let them come along for the ride. The centaurs value children greatly, do they allowed Nefriit and his siblings to run amok on the ship, while taking special care to keep them away from the edges. Nefriit was enthralled with the new surroundings, and passed a dreamlike sea voyage where his only complaint was the boring monotony of the food (the centaurs have no mages, and they consider the casual use of magic to be cowardly).

Topping the wonder of that journey was that derived from arriving at their destination. The expansive plains of Burtai were crawling with the legendary mobile trees of the Makara. He and his family were introduced into a community of the bird-like beings with their many wings and lack of arms and legs. His sister was put in a class for healers and was quickly accepted, as Makara children were usually trained to become healers. His brother was welcomed as well, into the group of care-givers who kept the tree upon which the Makara lived healthy. Nefriit was an odd case, with his desire to learn in fields besides healing or stewardship, since the custom of the Makara was to have only one such magic-user at a time. The Makara decided to put him under the tutelage of Rozloha Geleerd, the resident magic-user of the field at the time, and Nefriit took on a tiny part of the local semi-legendary status of his new master.

Under the guidance of that most powerful of Mages, Nefriit came to understand that magic is the essence of all things. Rozloha also explained that the Makara were conduits to this essence, and as such had nigh-on limitless power. Nefriit worked with frenzied energy in an attempt to gain this power, and frustrated approached his mentor with his lack of success at 19 years of age. His mentor explained that this connection could not be taught; only Makara could attain such a level of power. Nefriit challenged that verdict, claiming that the Makara would be rulers of the world if that were so. His mentor took Nefriit on a journey through the ancestral memories of the Makara, showing him their history as it had been passed down from generation to generation. The Makara had only ever gone to war twice before, and they were one of the most long-lived races in the world. Both times had ended in tragedy for the enemies of the Makara; and their empathy for all things had caused them equal pain. Nefriit was unsure about the validity of Makaran empathy, but continued to train under his mentor despite his doubts.

Upon reaching 22 years of age he and his family decided to head back to Xuitea, if only for a visit. One year later they came into sight of the continent and their first sight was a golden light in the distance. They thought it a good omen until they made it to shore and heard the tales there. Nefriit then departed, searching the land for some way to cut off the tide of Divinity. It has been five years since then, and he is no closer to finding what he seeks.

Oz is the first character I had ever made. Glad he's getting some use, since the RP he was originally made for died before it even got off the ground.

Name: Oz Uuyazi
Age: 34
Sex: Male
Race: Human

Skills: A fairly strong individual, the nomadic life has taught Oz the value being resourceful when it comes to using what is available, often seeing use in what others may see as waste, particularly when it comes to animal parts. Suffering from Erythropoietic Porphyrias makes Oz's skin hypersensitive to sunlight, and as a result, Oz is mostly a nocturnal creature and is very adept at traversing in the dark.

Powers: Oz has mastered the ability of healing flesh wounds but due to his worship of the spider god, his methods require a different approach, the use of spiders in his rituals. Large scars, which vaguely resemble spiders, adorn his body wherever he had used his arcane ability to heal. Due to the need of spiders, and the difficulty of caring for them while travelling, Oz seldom calls upon active divine assistance.

Appearance: Oz is 6'2", with almost pure black skin, and is fairly muscular in the chest and shoulders, while maintaining a rather average belly. His head is pretty normal shaped, with no distinguishing characteristics aside from his dark green eyes (which is characteristic of his people). He is bald by choice and has several piercings made of bone in each ear. He has a crude skeleton painted over his entire body, which has some religious meaning behind it. He has many scars covering his body, a lot of them somewhat shaped like spiders. He has even more spots of dead skin on his body, due to his disorder, and several large spots where the patches had been cut off because they had started to grow too large. Most of his chest and legs are crudely wrapped in gauze with large bandages on his arms. From a distance one might think him to be a mummified corpse. Oz is always barefoot and as a result his feet are as tough as leather. His lower legs are wrapped up to his knees in strips of dark leather over a pair of light, airy, gray & white vertically striped pants which is held up with a large black belt. Numerous bags, pouches, charms, and a large knife made of bone, hang from it. Oz goes shirtless in the hot desert environment fate has chosen to dump him in, and instead wears a dark gray, shawl that is rather torn up and worn out. Around his neck Oz wears various necklaces and charms, including a rather large necklace made from various bones, from various creatures. He protects his head from the desert sun by wearing a turban.

Personality: Oz is what most people would call strange. Naturally a masochist, his own pain amuses him, which suits him just fine for his rather painful lifestyle. Now, he's not exactly a sadist either, but others suffering doesn't bother him any. Suffering himself, from mania, Oz is often filled with child like energy, juvenile mischief, often experiencing bouts of uncontrollable, and sometimes incapacitating laughter, as well as hallucinations. He has a disturbing, childlike interest in death. He has an appreciation for strange characters and odd fellows and gladly accepts their company, should they choose to accept him. Oz has a loud, unsettling laugh from the belly, which always succeeds in making those around him feel uncomfortable. During his little bouts of mania Oz is very close and friendly, which may be a bit much at times for some folk, even more so given his deathlike appearance. During his downtime though, he is very aloof, quiet, he takes on a very serious but somber tone, and might stop what he's doing to sit where he'll remain mostly motionless for the duration of the mood 'crash'. Sometimes he'll 'space out', get a blank stare in his face, and often mutter inaudible words to himself during those times of depressive meditation. When is he woken by someone while he's in this stage he tends to be very agitated, on edge, and in rare cases violent.

Biography: Oz's family had emigrated to Kaypo shortly after his birth. Oz's family lived in poverty in the capital city of Kaypo, his parents often having a hard time holding down a job to feed their five children. The other children often viewed Oz as a sort of albatross, the reason for emigration and their poor living conditions. They would often beat on him or just pretend he didn't exist at all for days on end. All of Oz's family died when their house burned down when Oz set the staircase on fire. The passing years eased the pain of the loss of his family and thinking back on it he can't remember if he had done it on purpose or not, and half the time can't seem to recall whether or not he was the one who started it. After the death of his family, Oz wandered the ghetto of the city for about a year when a traveling Gypsy camp was passing through and took him along with them when they learned of his situation. He lived with the Gypsy's for many years, traveling the desert until one day a bandit raiding party attacked and killed everyone. Oz had been stabbed and left for dead when a large spider came along. Oz recognized the species of spider and knew their venom had a healing effect on humans, so he had the spider bit him. The healing effect had a minimal effect but strangely the spider returned every day and would bite Oz until he was recovered enough to seek out proper medical assistance. It was during this period of time that Oz’s belief in the spider god was born. Over the years and through his travels Oz had also made an enemy with a rather sadistic 'knight' who wants nothing more than to capture and torture Oz before killing him. The sight of the knight fills Oz with sheer and utter terror. He’ll panic and do whatever he has to, to get away. Even the thought of the knight is enough to send chills down his spine. Unbeknown to Oz, the sadistic knight is a figment of his imagination, a product of his mania, a split personality.

Are we only allowed to enter one character?

My entry is a new character, fresh from the proverbial oven!

Name: Celeste Dubois

Age: Ahem, yes, we were talking about your mother weren't we?

Synopsis: A mysterious and arrogant woman, who spends her immortal life working as Heaven's secretary, dealing with all the little slip ups and messes the Gods create in their fickle games. She takes her tea without milk.

Physical Description: Though Celeste has the power to change her appearance at will, she seldom chooses to - the practicalities of such are thing are ridiculous, not only do your clients fail to recognize you its impossible to earn any sort of a reputation. It's positively ridiculous, if you ask her. As such, she generally keeps the same form, which is that of a pretty young woman of her late twenties.

As seems to be a required trait of secretaries, she has shoulder length dark blonde hair that falls in wavy tresses, occasionally kept in control with a simple hairband, but at times allowed to fall freely in a decidedly shampoo commercial way.

Her eyes are a piercing green color, and no matter the positioning, or how tall you are, they always seem to be looking down on you, in the contemptuous, 'I've got better things to do than talk to you' way that all secretaries manage, whether Gods' or Banks'.

Her build is bouncy in all the best places, and she does so enjoy flaunting it to all the gormless saps that make up the male half of the human race, which brings us nicely on to her clothing.

Being a less than modest woman, if she had her choice Celeste would wear low necked gowns every day. Unfortunately for us, being a secretary she has appearances to keep up, and as a result wears a low necked uniform instead, consisting of a white shirt underneath a bright red jacket with white trim and a matching red skirt that only just reaches her knees. On her petit little toesies, she wears a pair of (you guessed it) bright red stilettos that for some inexplicable don't manage to hinder her movement in any way.

Keeping with the theme of red, she wears bright red lipstick (not at all tarty, she swears), and a pair of ruby embedded earrings.

Personality: Being a secretary to the Gods themselves, it is somewhat understandable that Celeste is a bit arrogant about her relative importance in the world (and to be honest, she is rather important than mere mortals). She is rather a tease with the men, and flaunts her not insignificantly sized... pair of... bouncy... earrings... to mortals frequently, only to vanish once the job is done and turn up forty years later on the man's deathbed to pull a silly face and laugh (not that she's at all harsh or childish, no!)

When her job requires her to work alongside mortals to combat a misplaced natural disaster or prevent an accidental meteor strike, she is brisk and dismissive with them, considering herself far too important to waste time talking to inferior beings. She has been known to befriend one or two though, mostly amongst the non-human populace of the multiverse who are like her, immortal.

Equipment/Powers: As far as powers and the like are concerned, to clean up mistakes of Godly proportions one has to be somewhat able in dealing with hinderances. Celeste has all of the powers a secretary could ever want.

First and foremost amongst these powers is an endless source of gadgets and gizmos for every occasion, concealed within her jacket pockets, rumored to be similar in function to the tardis (without the time traveling obviously, time traveling pockets wouldn't be much use to anyone larger than a mouse).

Speaking of time travel, that forms another of Celeste's abilities, more specifically the power to defy time and be everywhere, and everywhen, at once if she so wishes it. This is quite useful if someone tries to start a fight with her, as she simply buggers off and leaves them to vent their rage on an unsuspecting wall.

Of course, there are those times when she cannot bugger off, as her presence is rather important, and in those times she makes use of her third ability, being decidedly immortal. Due to the fact that she exists in the future, no matter what time it is she cannot be killed, lest the very fabric of reality throw a hissy fit and strop on the supermarket floor.

History: Celeste was never born, as to say so would imply that she had a beginning, and that would just be silly. As long as there has been Gods to make fumbles, there has been a secretary to clear things up and file the mistake away into the shredder for no further reference.

On of the times when Celeste became involved in human affairs was in ancient Greek times, when Aphrodite, at one of Dionysus famed parties, got a little bit tipsy and accidentally caused two entirely unsuitable people to fall in love, resulting in the Siege of Troy. In truth King Menelaeus, the atypical neglectful husband - far too busy with getting drunk and beheading people - would never have noticed his wife's disappearance were it not for an oddly dressed Courtier commenting on the vacation she was taking with nice young Paris. At that point belated jealousy kicked in and eventually the situation was resolved to everyone's satisfaction. Everyone left alive at least, and dead people don't get opinions on that sort of thing.

More recently she put a hand in when Allah got rather miffed with the numerous failed attempts at Hitler's assassination. In truth, Hitler never actually committed suicide - but in actuality his drink somehow managed to acquire an ample dosage of cyanide in the time between its passing between his taster and him. A real pity that, must have been something in the air. Something in the air with a fashionable red uniform and matching earrings, mind.

Wow. These people have good ideas. Maybe after I gain more exprience, I'll join one of these contests!

Good luck to all you contestants, you lucky people! ;3




-Litria

Name: Zenatsu "Zen" Zionaga
Age: 25
Mental age: 29
Gender: Male
Race: Human
Ancestry: Zenatsu's Ancestry typically dates back to more earlier Magicians, Assassins, and early Barbarians


Height: 5'10"
Weight: 140
Diet: Zenatsu tends to deprives himself of food and water, but dose not over do it. This unhealthy habit leaves him to never preform to his best efforts.


Date of Character Birth: early 2000 (when he was thought up that is)


--Family--
Father: Unknown
Mother: Unknown
Brother(s): Creon Zionaga. Identical twin brother. Harnesses more knowledge and tends to be wiser than Zenatsu.
Sister(s): None
Children: None
Adoptive: Sometimes, but always runs away to be more free.
Other: Zenatsu and his brother are orphans, yet they never have a true home in their lives.
Marital status: Not Married


--Social--
Occupation: Jack of all trades
Religion: Agnostic
Alignment: Neutral
Social class: Hobo
Economic class: Poor


--Body--
Skin color: Fairly tanned.
Hair color: Jet Black
Hair style: Messy
Eye color: Red
Facial hair: Soul patch shaped in a triangle that points to his chin.
Body build: Toned
Markings: A tribal tattoo along the left side of his chest.


--Clothing--
Head: A Matching black cloak combined with a hood covered Zenatsu's head, allowing light to only reveal his lips and chin of his face.
Neck: Zenatsu wears a single small silver cross around his neck, generally hidden underneath his clothing, it is held by a small linked chain.
Body: Zen is covered by a jet black robe. The robe is elegantly designed with gold colored threading that trimmed the outer edges of his hood, the ends of his sleeves, and the very bottom of the robe.
Torso: Zenatsu wears a light leather chest that hugs tightly to his body over a white swashbuckler shirt
Legs: Zenatsu wears a jet black loosely worn leggings, typically he replaces them with leather leggings, but sometimes you just haft to grow out of things... Quickly...
Shoes: Simple Buccaneer boots, His leggings are usually tucked inside due to the design of the boots.
Other: Long story short. Zenatsu pretty much dresses like a Pirate (yay booty snatchers!). His robe and cloak are very light, and was used for ceremonial purposes, but also Zen uses the robe and cloak to conceal himself for various reasons.


Personality: Zenatsu can vary sharply from cold and ruthless, determined and kind, to silent and holy. His devotion and protection to the idea of friendship is unmatched. For Zenatsu has been known to stop at nothing to protect the ones that are close to him. Although it is rather easy to earn Zenatsu's Respect and trust, for it is automatically given, it is an arduous task to earn it back. Zenatsu's loving side is just as divine as evil as his hated side. Like a flip of the switch, Zenatsu's once care-free hearty self morphs into the anger, rage, and destruction that dwells inside the depths of his soul. Sometimes he is able to control and contain himself, but his nature may be able to take over. Nothing can com between Zenatsu and his devilish goal besides death, or an epiphany.


Interpersonal: Can be a lone wolf, however the company of others wont be shot down if offered.
Logical-mathematical: Where basic math is known, when it comes to complex equations, Zenatsu simply walks off to find something of more interest and entertainment.
Social: Zen typically avoid masses, but usually he meets people by the usual pug meetings.
Emotional: Zenatsu dose not let his emotions filter who he is, or how he acts. Generaly he lets his emotions go privatly or simply bottels it up and moves on
Overall I.Q.: 140
Dominant brain hemisphere: right cerebral
Primary arm: Right arm


--Likes/Dislikes--
Likes in General: Weapons that are light, fast, and efficient, his twin brother Creon, Thieving, Long walks on the beach (LOL j/k)
Dislikes in General: Books, egotistical people, scholars however which is ironic only due to the fact his brother whom he loves is a scholar.
Hobbies: Sword training, martial arts training, and Stealth Training. Working out to get buff for da ladies! (Oh yea!)


--Ailments--
Phobias: Athazagoraphobia, Necrophobia, Scopophobia
Allergies: None
Diseases: None


--Languages--
Primary Language: English
Secondary Languages: Elvish and Dwarvish


--Weapons--
Main Weapon: Duel Katana's
Secondary: Throwing knives, daggers, and Shurikens
Weapon of Choice: An O Katana, which is a regularly forged katana blade, only extended farther than its normal Kin.


--Natural Abilities--
Abilities: Zenatsu has a very keen hearing, and an "eagle" eye. Under normal circumstances, Zenatsu is able to hear absolutely everything, and he can see mar and farther than normal people
Other Abilities: Zenatsu is a profound tracker, 85% of the time he is able to track his target down without a problem, But not everyone is perfect
Usable Energy Types: None
Amount of energy:Very Low
Regeneration ratio:Normal


Quote:

Zenatsu Zionaga wrote:Many people waste their lives doing the same thing repeatedly. However i choose a different route. Day by day i live to a new adventure, my path has never been straight, sometimes, i even go back. Waste not your time and efforts over one simple thing. Broaden your eyes, and live a little. ~Zenatsu Zionaga

Summarized Biography:
By a very early age, Zenatsu and his Twin brother, Creon, Were abandoned by their birth parents. No one knows why, perhaps it was because they could not afford to keep two children. Or perhaps they were the children of a past regret, and hopefully the mother would cast the memory away. Day by day, year by year, age by age the boys lingered to life helplessly. Many orphanages took them in, but Zenatsu would always choose to break away to the feeling of how wrong it felt. Sometimes, even Families would accept Zenatsu into their home. Yet, Zenatsu still felt uncomfortable about settling down, and again moved on away from the families. However, Zenatsu never once left without giving a generous parting gift, which usually ran around what the family was hurting for, or a long lasting gift for either remembrance or just to say the simple words "Thanks". After several years, Zenatsu begun to look for ways to support himself. This is how he became know as a "Jack of all trades" Unconditionally he would run around, doing errands for small tips to aiding in anything for under-the-counter cash. Even though he applied knowledge and skill in different area's, he still did not receive enough to keep himself supportive. Thus Zenatsu begun to pick up thieving. Stealing at first, simple food products to stop himself from starving to death. Then through curiosity and on-skill training, Zenatsu begun to rob only to fence/pawn items to receive cash. As all doing is punished, Zenatsu was often sent to jail. Only on his defense he spoke "The only reason I am standing before your [the judge], is because I made the mistake to be caught." Life seemed to only get harder and harder, and things seemed to doom him to either settling down, or dieing. Once again, avoiding the choice to settle, Zenatsu ricked it all and pushed to stay random throughout his days.

To make things even more out of the loop, The cult in which Zenatsu's parents had been with sought him out. Where ever he may be. Almost like a bounty hunt, the organization attempted to consult Zenatsu openly. However the years to where he was ever exposed to them denied Zenatsu of their existence. Finally, due to unannounced reasons, forceful actions were taken. In short, they kidnapped Zenatsu. Their wishes were to expose Zenatsu of his deep-lined heritage, that his family had followed for centuries. Perhaps this is why they were abandoned at a young age? By Zen's personal nature, he hates the fact of their "inauguration" due to the unexpected knowledge of how long he must stay. Knowing, Zenatsu, he hates this. However, Leaving wasn't as simple as leaving a family.. for this cult seemed to be very personal, and forceful. But soon Natural quirks got the best of Zenatsu, and though unimaginable attempts, Zenatsu was able to slip out of the grasp of his family's cult. Paranoia begun to seep in, as if the cult was following him.. for unknown and unexplained reasons, they were bent on keeping the family inside this cult. But questions popped into his mind, ones they never answered, which justified even greater to his essential escape. Zenatsu easily gotten over the paranoia, even after a few encounter of the cultists. For years to come, Zenatsu is a free traveling soul, never bound to once place, and always looking out to support himself in any way necessary. Even if it means to thief from anyone.
--Thanks to Safisan for the template--

The "Ordinary Joe" well... mostly,

Hey Im just going to reserve Diligence and Greed if thats okay?

I'm editing this post to make characters I'll make a basic profile and when you put up a character sheet I'll add more.

Name: Genévieve Giles
Age: 23
Sex: Female

Apperance: Odd. Well... it is. Genévieve was born from a black father and a whiter than white mother. She stands at an above average height of 5'8, with her short heels usually adding an inch or two onto this. Her skin is a dark tan around her body. And her body is slender and in proportion, due to her rigourous eating and excersise schedule. This isnt very odd I hear you say. Well this is; Genévieve's hair is a platinum white, her eyes sky blue and eyelashes and eyebrows a creamy colour. Odd you say? Yes, I reply. Its more than likely to do with some strange gene assortment coupled with her mothers 4-pack a day habit and her regular drinking rounds, but who knows? She usually colours in her eyebrows for work and pulls her long wavy hair -that stops right in the middle of her spine- back into a tight ponytail, leaving only a sweeping side fringe - to the right- to cover her forehead, with two small pieces of blond hair hanging down in front of her ears.

Due to her job, Genévieve usually dresses smartly but in a mixture of Modern and Victorian sort of way. For example one might find her with a white shirt, with cuffs and ruffles at the end of each arm, a small cravat at the front coupled with smart black long trousers and lace up short heels that you can just see. Or with a shirt/pencil skirt ensameble with added breaches and a laced choker, seamed stockings on her calfs. Gevévieve also has a tattoo on her left wrist of a Venn Diagram -three circles- each aptly named. The top circle; Well, The left circle; Want and the right circle; Paid. In between Well and Want states; Monetize, Inbetween Well and Paid states: Says No, Inbetween Want and Paid states: Do better. Right smack bang in the middle is a tiny "Hooray". This is Genévieves' own self mantra which she does explain at length about to anyone who wants to hear.

Bio: Genévieve has always been the smart, go-to girl. Not due to acedemics nor to a high IQ but because she has always been far too damn organised. She's definatly the girl everyone went to to get things done. Growing up in a the rather large city of Dublin as a child, and having a large and fully dysfunctional famliy to go with it, Genévieve hated the chaos surrounding her and felt a undying need to just sort it all out.

She was the second youngest of seven children, her parents consisted of an out-of-work "from the ghetto" father who spent his time watching t.v, hanging out with his mates and making more babies. Her mother was a lazy begotten smoker who idealised being "white trash" did a little as she could to keep the social welfare workers away from the door as she puffed away on the couch. Her siblings are mostly useless, her two older brothers getting into jail and drug deals, her older and younger sisters trying desperatley to live a live like their mother. The exceptions to this were her two oldest sisters, twins- Ella and Becky. Having had to take care of their younger siblings as their mother did sqwat, they threw two pairs of fingers and some rather rude words at the household at 16 and left to get jobs and try and get out of the mess they'd been born into. Genévieve idealised the bravery of her sisters as she tried desperatley to sort her own life out. In school she was always part of any commitity in the school, organising ways to keep hallways clean or grades up, she immersed herself in rules and regulations making sure everything was done as it was supposed to; on time and in its proper manner. Teachers often came to her in order to sort out things with there unruly students - remember she would have gone to the rough and tumble school of her day- and students came to her to see if things could be done to make school a little more bearible, since none of them planned on staying very long.

When Genévieve graduated from school she had earned the grades to go to college, but seeing as their was no money to put her through (and if there was her parents wouldnt spend it on trivial things like education) she decided she would work her way up. At present time she is a secretary for a well known politician in the city, organising his notes, and writing up ideas for him. In her free time she runs homework clubs in her old school and visits her two sisters Ella and Becky -who have both now become managers in stores thanks to weekend college and working their asses off-.

Other Personality traits: Strict and Bossy, she knows the rules down to a tee and expects everyone to play by them. She has often been told to calm down her "passion" by co-workers and friends. While Genévieve usually has a balanced mood she tends to get overly angry with slobs,people she deems "aren't trying hard enough" or just people who piss her off. When it comes to children though -like those in her homework club- she has learned patience with them and can be very kind.

Weapons: The pen is mighter than the sword, and a hell of alot easier to write with. Do.Not.Anger.This.Woman should be in flashing neon lights. No, she's not a powerful sorcerer or a hybrd Mary sue, but she is a secretary. And a wealthy politicians secretary in fact. She'll have you waiting in line, "losing" your submitted forms, having all sorts of junk "accidently" sent to your house and she will know every little on paper secret you hold, if you've found loopholes in tax systems she'll close it, your name will come off the rubbish collection and patiently waiting will have to become two words you become friends with. That or apoloigise. Of course everything she does will be a *ahem* glitch in the system or an unforntuate accident. It doesnt sound like much but wait until the 3rd week in a row where your pleading for somebody to prevent your house becoming a landfill...

Other information: Her orignal name was actually Genie Starks, while her two older sisters' still call her that, she has offically changed her name Genévieve Giles. From her two favourite conflicting characters in the comic book Buffy the Vampire Slayer; Genévieve Savidge and Rupert Giles as they were the two most organised figures. She also has a strange liking towards old style weapons - such as axes and swords. Adores paperwork and often dreams about being surrounded in it.

The Eastern Fisher- The Twin Hooks of Ancient Past

Name: Liu Mun-Fong
Age: 24
Height: 5'9
Gender: Male
Race/Ethnicity: Human/Chinese Asian

---

Personality: He is a calm, collected, and slightly anti-social. Born with a brilliant mind, he was able to think with the best, even with some western philosophers that travel to the east to learn. However, his mind is almost always misunderstood by his peers. This leads him to be a loner, one who rejects company.

He is always hungry for knowledge, but he always likes to think about a concept. Sometimes, he thinks about it so much he ends up twisting the concept around when a solution was simple. Because of his intelligence, he is always formal, speaking politely and with absolute refinement. When his Shifu, or master taught him even more, that time in combat, he grew another branch in his personality, an instinct for war. Due to constant drilling, battles are seen as a dance. A battle of instincts. His style was refined, rather than shoving and lashing like normal, making him have an efficient air as well. He always has something to say, but prefers not to say it because of the lack of experience. He hungers for wisdom, something he does not have in his mind that is full of logic and practicality.

Physical Appearance: His body is slim, lean, and muscular, but not to the point where it limits his movement. A slight tan color, his skin is scarred around his sides and upper arms from training accidents that occur so often. The scars are usually a mere slash of pink or angry red across his skin.

His face is angular, like a cat, and holds a crown of black medium-length hair that resembles a wing haircut, with the exceptions that it is not curly, and is not as radical over his face. The hair over his face is cut shorter, so it hangs just over his eyebrows. His eyes are pitch black, no clear coloration difference between the pupil and the iris. Just as well, his eyes are narrow in the traditional way of the Chinese. His mouth is a set line, his lips pale and slightly bloodless. His nose is skinny, and overall, makes him seem a bit younger than he is. He has a few lines, and shadows under his eyes from some insomnia.

Clothing: His armor is fairly simple. Two worn, white and light shoulder pads rest on his shoulders, the bands that hold them together connect at his chest in a X formation, which is also pale. The bands connect to a thick white buckled belt at his waist. Under his straps and shoulderpads, he wears a light brown long coat, a single line of thick buttons connecting coat down to the waist where it abruptly ends. The collar stands erect in a two-step pattern at the ends. Under his trench coat is a light tunic, pure white. On his knees are and elbows are also discolors, very light pads that protect his body from scraping too hard against the ground or cushioning blows at his joints. Over his legs is a pair of black traveling pants, durable yet light. On his feet are woolen socks, and over that are dark brown traveling boots, thick laced and soled. The fabric was tempered to a point where it could flex far without tearing or weakening the leathers.

Equipment/Supplies: He has a small rucksack he carries around containing the basic necessities. Two waterskins, a short knife, a varying amount of rations, and a pouch of money. He carries around a small book, entitled "Tale of Swallow" by an anonymous author. Small pans can also be found in his sack for cooking.

Weapons: His weapon of choice is the Twin Hooks, or Tiger Hooks. Made of thick and durable steel, the Hooks Swords are a very exotic eastern weapon due to it's unique design and use. To begin with, take a normal katana. Look at the tip. Unlike a Katana, the top part of the hook sword is a 'U'-like curve that is used for tripping or locking a weapon or person. Also, unlike a katana, there is no crosspiece, but a curved crescent crossguard that is used for blocking and can also be sharpened for slashing as well. The end of the hilt of a Hook sword is sharpened into spear heads or daggers, giving it another angle to stab the enemy. Does it end here? Not so. The Hooks can be loosely linked and swung to extend the range of the swords to about six feet, where the sharpened ends can cut straight through flesh. Both sides of the blade are sharpened, and the hilt is wrapped in a layer of cloth and black leather for a safe place to hold onto the swords.

---

History: Liu was born in a small village to the east, where the ability to work and think was treasured. Growing up was tough, but Liu grew strong because of it. Because of the remoteness of the village, it was easy for bandits to come in, rob everything, then disappear. Therefore, the villagers learned the art of self-defense. Martial arts was secondary to life in the village, and drew upon the wisdom and skill of passing mercenaries or swordsmen. Liu became skillful in a form of martial arts known as Hung Gar, a powerful stance-reliant Kung-Fu. Liu would pick up his first weapon, the Tiger Hooks out of pure curiosity. His master, or Shifu, stuck him to it, and began to teach him.

After his mother succumbed to a unnamed disease when he was at the age of 16, his father decided the best way to cure Liu's melancholy was to send him out into the world to travel. His Shifu accompanied him, which he was very grateful for. He left, and he began to learn a new skill- surviving out on the road and wilderness. They travelled for a long time- cutting through deserts, hiking through forests, and trying to communicate in foreign cities. Eventually, his Shifu got old, and weary of travelling. He settled down in a old city, destined to oversee another generation of children as they learned martial arts. Liu just kept travelling, doing what he has been for years. Bandits and Thieves come and go, usually having a parting gift of cuts and bruises, and Liu would continue. He travels alone, beholden to no man but his beloved Shifu, who will always have a special place in his cold heart.

§

This electronic letter is addressed to the administration staff of the Nevada Desert Correctional Facility. Personnel with a clearance level below 6 should delete this message immediately: the following information is classified, and possession of it without the proper authority is in direct violation of the National Security Act. Thank you.


This letter concerns prisoner #69676406. Her details and psyche profile have been attached for your convenience...

Name: 'Anadyr' (this is most likely an alias, based on the codename for a Soviet mission involving the transportation of weapons and soldiers into Cuba, which resulted in the Cuban Missile Crisis. It is also a river in Siberia -- one of the coldest in the world)
Age: Late twenties (her response to this question was "Didn't your mother ever teach you that it's rude to ask a lady her age?", before insinuating that the interviewer was "chatting her up at a rather inappropriate time")
Ethnicity: Caucasian
Nationality: Unknown Eastern European Country (although we are quite convinced she is a former -- or possibly current -- Soviet spy, the country of her origin remains a mystery. Her accent is difficult to place, and she seems to change it randomly, just to toy with our dialect experts.)
Appearance: Her most notable feature is her emerald green hair, which apparently she views as her own "trademark", like "Batman's cape, or Indiana's hat". She says it also, surprisingly, makes her harder to recognise, since her bizarre hair colour often overshadows her other features, making her difficult for witnesses to pick out of a line-up (we found her with several wigs at the time of her arrest). Aside from this, she looks like a normal woman: 6 feet tall, athletic physique, green eyes, sharp features. She has a strange way of moving: graceful, yet clumsy, "like a drunken ballerina might," as she put it herself. This could possibly stem from damage to her inner ear, which could result in a warped sense of balance.
Status: In custody
Psyche Profile: The interview with her took many hours to conduct and ultimately proved fruitless. Our typical modus operandi is for three or four interviewers to take it in shifts to apply maximum pressure with the intent of wearing out the subject. Once mentally exhausted, the subject is then easy to crack. After seven hours, prisoner #69676406 seemed to exhibit almost no signs of such exhaustion. The whole time she behaved in a flippant, steadfastly uncooperative manner. Most questions were met with sarcasm, or off-hand comments, often of a personally mocking nature. She seems rather fond of wordplay, and has an admittedly impressive command of the English language. I suggest the subject be subjected to more thorough interrogation methods. We can break her.



The aforementioned prisoner details are in need of updating. As of 11pm last night, prisoner #69676406 has escaped custody. We are in the process of tracking her down.

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((Next is another version of the same character, adapted to a completely different setting (a sci-fi one). Most of the details are the same, but her origins are fleshed out more))

Biography:
Anadyr was born a failure. Right around the time genetic engineering got big, there was a big loophole in the law, which led to a big scramble for scientists who wanted to make it big. You see, where genetic experiments were illegal, 'genetic augmentation for health reasons' was perfectly allowed. Which meant all the glory-seeking scientists had to do was pretend they were conducting a new gene therapy trial, and they could twist people's genomes all they wanted. Since they knew there wouldn't be much time before this blunder was corrected, the laboratories were packed with people doing all the research they could stand. Some of the research even made no scientific sense, and was just done to see if it was possible.

Anadyr was four years old when she was picked up from an orphanage. She spent the next five years undergoing painful gene splicing procedures. Why? So scientists could answer the age-old question: 'what happens if you splice plant genes into human DNA'. They tried to make her able to photosynthesise. It was utterly pointless: the amount of energy a plant draws from the sun isn't enough to even keep a human heart beating. And they all knew it. They also knew it would never work, although she did better than they thought: although she almost died when her immune system rejected the foreign genes, they did manage to culture some plant tissue in her skin and hair, which could theoretically photosynthesise. The ultimate effect, however, just made her hair turn green and her skin look like marble. And made her dependent on immunosuppressants to prevent her body from attacking itself, which leaves her vulnerable to disease.

When the project ended, the nine-year-old Anadyr was taken in by the project leader, the man who hand-picked her fate for her in the first place. He was abusive, both physically and emotionally, keeping her isolated in his home, using her to fulfil his desires. She escaped at the age of fifteen. After such a traumatic childhood, she had no sense of self-worth, and combined with a powerful need to eat, she turned to the only option open to her: prostitution. It was through this that she built up her contacts in the criminal underworld. Eventually, she began dealing narcotics to her 'clients', and eventually went to work for a local crime lord.

After years of honing her skills as a criminal, she went solo. It was then her reputation began to grow. Anadyr armed herself with a tranquilliser pistol and a stun baton, and used a particularly brilliant psychological tactic that she became famous for: rather than killing anyone who got in her way, she humiliated them. Dead bodies left a lot of people very angry, which only increased the number of obstacles. A pile of unconscious thugs arranged in homoerotic poses left everyone too embarrassed to even mention it. She found that taking away an opponent's reputation was just as effective as taking away their life. Soon, she was a well-known figure in many cities. Someone who gets things done, with a certain class and sense of humour about it. The self-proclaimed "Mean Green Street Queen."

---

((Finally, here's a bunch of memorable quotes of hers. It's probably the best way to get an insight into her personality.))

Quotes:

• "Your princess promised me a pretty penny to protect her from you. T’was a pact I place under paramount--"
  “Elana!” Eden interrupted. “Where is she?”
  The green-haired woman shook her head. “Didn’t your mother ever teach you not to interrupt a girl while she’s alliterating?”


• “Men are so predictable,” she said. “Show them some skin, whisper in their ears, and you get whatever you want. This is why women make far better soldiers than men. Well, that’s one of the reasons. We’re also more patient, we think clearer, we can better interpret our opponent’s motives, we keep track of the details…”


• "I'm what you would call a… people person. I have certain connections with certain people who are certainly happy to do me certain favours. For a certain price. You understand?"
  "You bribed them," Vicky said.
  "Certainly."


• "Drop your cocks and grab your socks, boys, we are leaving!"


• "Are you crazy?"
  "Relax," Anadyr said. "He had the safety on."
  Vicky held up the gun. "No he didn't!"
  "Oh. That was rather crazy of me, then."


• "The protective padding prevented the projectiles from penetrating," Anadyr said, favouring wordplay over clarity even at a time like this. "We need to put some pressure on, make a power play and punch past their perimeter."
  Vicky's knees were trembling. Eden's gaze was unfocussed.
  "Fix this! Fast!"
  "We're doing p-words, darling."


• Anadyr moved over to Blake. His blood was everywhere.
  "You all set, cowboy?"
  "Busy dying."
  "We don't have no time for dying, sweetie."


• “Although I do find this endlessly entertaining -- and I mean that; I have never come across such a dysfunctional troupe of adversaries -- I’m afraid I have a job to complete. So, if you don’t mind…”


• "I'll handle this," Anadyr said. "Contrary to popular belief, most things can be settled with a bit of diplomacy and mutual understanding, even among criminals. It's the only way to survive in the underworld."
  [... a few minutes later, a firefight breaks out...]
  "W-What about diplomacy and understanding?"
  "Got bored," Anadyr said. "Maybe I'm menstruating."

((That's it. Hope I didn't break any rules. Just trying to present the character creatively))