Equipment
A decorative gold ring.
This strange crystal shard glimmers in the sunlight, and feels cold to the touch.
This mysterious tablet is covered in arcane runes.
These fancy gadgets can defend against all forms of matter and materia.
This majestic artifact hums with magic, its gargantuan size indicative of being designed for a powerful wielder. Inscribed with arcane runes down the fuller of the blade, this mythical sword is as mysterious as it is legendary.
This cloak is a heavy, threaded-metal mesh that seems to withstand most punishment. It also causes extra burden on the wearer.
This sturdy staff made of oak wood seems to be an incredibly versatile tool.
This basic axe seems sufficient for most woodcutting needs.
Shows that you are registered to the Adventurer's Guild, and is capable of showing one's acquired skills, stats, titles, powers, race, and general identification. Can be used as a Universal Passport.
Description
Master's journey has spanned eons greater than this universe has ever borne; from the times before creation and through the lands forgotten beyond, he holds within him the essence of
הנּפלים — the great prime evil, imprisoned within his mind by a hidden strength granted to him as one of the Issachar, a divine sect of warrior monks from the lands before time.
Cursed with the immortality of his captive soul, he tends to stay as far away from civilization as possible — solitude giving him the space to meditate, study, and create. For thousands of years he has roamed this realm, carrying his burden as the great keeper of balance. His weary eye no longer wanders, but his prowess knows no match — wrestling with the greatest of demons for the past few millennia has tempered his power into nothing short of the divine.
Sahasrara is known to some as the "crown chakra". From it all other energies emanate, radiating as the thousand petals of the grand lotus as the rays of the sun cast upon first spring dawn. It is this energy from which he shall draw upon.
— Aurel, Magister of the Grand Citadel
Master stands tall among men, with an overbearing body to exemplify his internal strength. His toned muscles ripple visibly under his skin with every movement he makes, whether it be taking his smooth and bounceless strides or turning his head to provide his attention to an associate. A smooth face with not a single stray facial hair is accentuated inversely to the lack of age shown by his flesh; a feature for which the vain would kill. With high cheekbones and eyes that rest softly atop, his jawline sweeps firmly into a blocked chin, ending so abruptly that the shadow cast across his face in any light is cut into a distinguished two-tone. His black eyebrows do nothing but quietly lay upon his unwrinkled brow as his eyes smoothly shift from focus to focus, as if guided by some silken maiden. His clothing is humble at best: a black tank-top resting tightly across his muscular shoulders, loosely fitting yet not baggy cloth pants (allowing his already flowing movement to become even more so), and a well used pair of black boots adorning his feet.
Equally dark and shadowed, an extraordinarily densely woven weighted cloak is never far behind, whether it be worn on his body, or simply tossed aside as some relic from a lost past, having long lost its purpose as a training item. His movements, though smooth, are strong and deliberate, causing simple movements such as adjusting his standing posture to appear as if they have some underlying purpose beyond comfort. Where he stands, his feet seem to take root into the ground, as his body remains as fluid steel, appearing completely immovable, whether by mortal or divine power. His gaze pierces beyond bone, straight through the heart and into the stomach, quite often paralyzing those weak of will. Rarely meeting a handshake or full bow, Master nearly always meets strangers with a shallow nod of the head, in a sort of mock bow. Never meaning disrespect, he replicates the procedure among friends, adding in the effect of his trustworthy gaze. Naturally at rest in a standing posture, he is in the habit of folding his arms before him by simply cupping his elbows with his worn hands, never disgraced to be found leaning with his back against some tree and his chin slightly down. Eyelids up to match his gaze towards the horizon at all times, he places a natural disadvantage upon the women by seemingly never sleeping.
Personality
No longer willing to accept human emotions as reason for action, Master seeks his own outcome in each situation, and will equally clear a brand new path through the forest to achieve his goals. Power and money are of no value to him, as he has lived through thousands of years of corruption and scandal doled out by their existence. Understanding that neither are needed for survival, yet overtly maintaining the facade of having both, he uses them with the knowledge that those who he provides for may very well fall victim to the clutches of their corruption and invalidity. Valuing those who stand above the menially arduous drudgery of clawing their way to power, Master stands alone and in peace in the physical world, while inwardly seeking resolution to the conflict that drives his existence, that which pushes him to explore and to encounter.
He has lived for so many thousands of years seeing his friends fall before him just as supply as his enemies, that he has accompanied a certain invalue with each life brought before him. Alighieri pushing at all moments to break free from his prison, while Remaeus remains silent and otherwise lacking, Master has become a drifting being quite nearly unaware of his own struggle, detached and apathetic, as he wanders the world, seeking that which he does not know. He questions death's existence every moment of his nights, seeking to excoriate whatever it may be that pushes him to doubt, a cyclical redundancy that he remains caught up in after countless passings of nations and regimes. Pushing to purge that which sustains him, he must find a way to do so without purging it into freedom, whether it gracing him with his own passing or cursing him with the continuance of eternal life.
Equipment
The Rune Sword (Level 3): Master's only non-standard equipment is embodied in the form of a sword, known as the Rune Sword. Forged by arcane magic, the Rune Sword is one of the most delicately crafted weapons ever produced by mortal hands, and would make most immortals jealous when speaking in terms of flawless construction. A four-handed hilt provides little practicality for any wielder of less than average strength, as a five foot blade extrudes in a two-tiered fashion, marked upon the first and wider of the tiers by a fuller, impressioned by arcane runes along the groove. Nearly as thick as some swords are wide at it's thickest point, the one inch thick blade made its mark as one of the heaviest weapons, though deceivingly wielded by a skilled owner as if it were a fifty pound feather being guided to it's target while falling under it's own weight, with loops and slashes intertwining themselves in a pendular motion, creating a superfluous assault upon any target that may be unfortunate to meet this blade at the hand of a skilled wielder. The runes in the fuller groove of the blade seem to be of Norse origin, yet somehow transcend the age and power of such a language, almost appearing to be of a more heavenly descent, occasionally exhibiting the characteristics of the Angelic alphabet, creating an altogether distinguished script that waves it's glorious serifs in an undecipherable manner.
These runes, while not at all enchanting or magical by themselves, merely provide a bond between the blessing of some arcane creature and the weapon, to the effect of causing wounds made by the blade to be unhealable by magic for a full year's time, with adverse affects if attempted, as well as what appears to be some time-bound blessing, allowing one with the appropriate permissions to shift time as if it were a slider between his fingers. Rounding off into an angular tip, the blade cuts a powerful silhouette as it's two sectioned blade widens halfway between the tip and the guard, allowing the fuller groove to slide along the wider section directly to the hilt, falling away on both sides to a swept guard that would be marked by an elbow as it sweeps out yet again to form a two winged shield from any blows careening off the greater blade looming above. Finally giving way to a finely tanned woven leather grip, either embossed with some exquisite pattern or skinned from some exotic animal, providing comfort upon an otherwise brutal weapon. All comes together as the grip breaks into a lengthened teardrop at the pommel, tapered upon the sides as it comes to a point yet again at the utmost extremity, inset firmly with a dark gem of varying color and unknown origin.
History
Having been born into a time of trial, Remaeus was an orphan from an early age, having his parents brutally slaughtered by the Daoi-Sith during their conquest of Arda. Whisked away to an arcane monastery, he was raised and trained in the ways of Midian for many years. To become a master of his art, he was required to go through a rigorous series of trials and exams, before finally taking wing and shoved out into the open world, to live in solitude for five suns in the wilderness. Should he have returned, he would have been awarded his mastery and honored as one of the few survivors. Two years through this final solo trip, he was unwillingly shoved into contact with some dark form, and ultimately was forced to fuse with this creature that had so abruptly changed his outlook upon completing his task. A melding of mind, spirit, and body - a fusion - was a creation of a whole new being. Requiring massive amounts of energy, concentration, and willpower, and at the very least a verse of judgment from some higher form or power, the fusion would be the determining factor on allowing him to survive his trial, though in a great manner different than expected. Unbeknownst to Remaeus, his partner was the evil construct Alighieri, an הנּפלים of utmost power, creating some very serious and assumedly permanent changes.
The new creature formed woke, and through a turn of events, was rescued and brought to full health. Due to severe amnesia and possibly brain damage caused by the complete imbalance of power, he could only recall the word "master" for several months of time, and was named "Master" by his savior for this reason. He proceeded to relearn his language and was taught the ways of society, but was perturbed by a certain difference from the general populace. He became painfully aware of both sides of his internal personality, suffering the pain of looking back at a town, crying - after suffering a blackout and waking only to see the entire community reduced to nothing but a pile of ash, bone, and pockmarks upon the solid ground below. He wandered on alone, hearing of the destruction the Daoi-Sith were causing, and noting the attribution of his own tragedies to them.
A chain of instances brought this world to an end, as the Daoi-Sith would not have their thirst for power quenched among each territory gained by them in their conquest, and ultimately became the ultimate and most corrupt empire that the global community of Arda had ever seen in their short history. Turning inward upon themselves for pleasure and sadism, further civil corruption ensued until finally the ultimate power, be that as it may, cleared the entire universe from existence and started anew. Civilizations thousands of years old ceased to exist, in favor of a new world.
Master failed to be present at this timespace, through whatever turn of events. He found himself meandering through time at a natural rate, making friends and acquaintances, growing closer and closer to them as time passed. Inevitably, each life would terminate, whether by war or conflict, accident or old age. Master's face, smooth as it was a thousand years past, had internally grown weary and became brazen and jaded. His manner became apathetic, while he watched every mortal pass before him with all outcome the same. No one could escape it, as he held their future in his memory. He didn't know why - yet - but he drove onward in life to find his answers. Becoming more experienced with maintaining a firm grip upon the nape of his own temperament, he saw less and less damage caused by him, but never to the point of an ultimate close. Always fearful of death by sword or gun, he fights for his life to seek reason for it to exist.
So begins...
Master glanced over the note, wondering if Param found what he was looking for. With the distinct feeling that they would meet again, he set out to complete his own objective.
Master landed softly on the worn-out streets of Lutetia City, the shattered asphalt crunching underfoot. After looking around, he turned his attention towards one of the blown-out buildings about a block up the road. Approximately 15 stories of hollowed-out concrete shell towered over the broken buildings surrounding it, darkness looming from within as the windows had long been shattered.
Ah, here we are.
he stated aloud, completely disregarding the danger that this city bore.
Master turns back to look over his shoulder, wondering what happened to the others.
"Awww, well.." Spyri flopped back on her bunk. They had taken to each other quick, Prince Niku and Princess Spyri. They had made it this far already. She marveled at their journey when again Cha'tlag hummed at her side. Niku had mentioned Chi, simultaneously a strange figure passed by their door, eating something purple.
"Energy," Spyri auto-replied, hand on her hilt and eyes looking to the door. The figure was gone. Cha'tlag had stopped humming. "Chi is energy, but finding someone who studies it is difficult. Niku here was invited," She smiled and nudged him.
Niku nodded and rose to his feet. With an effortless hop, the feliyan was back up on his own bunk. He adjusted his position to lay on his stomach as he peered down at everyone, flopping his tail around lazily. “Energy of the spirit,” Niku confirmed. “I learn how to control it.”
“Energy of the spirit…” May repeated, squinting her eyes in such a way as if to imply that she was trying to figure out what that phrase meant. “Right. So, um, is it hard?”
Niku’s eyes widened at the inquisition and he nodded again in an exaggerated manner. “Requires great concentration!” he replied emphatically. “I need master to teach me mental discipline. I will put my limits to test and see how far I can go, for the sake of my people.”
May and April gave each other a look. They could hardly understand the concept of discipline, as they both had always lived lives of leisure, never having to train or fight hard for anything. But they had seen such things in movies! April raised a brow. “Your people? Who are they?”
“The feliyans,” Niku clarified. “It is what we call ourselves in our dominant tongue. We are from distant corner of the galaxy, having very little contact with these parts. I cannot speak local languages, but Spyri is helping me. She is acting as guide I desperately need. She show me such things as where to find sleep and she is one to find out about chi master.”
April looked impressed by Spyri. “Aren’t you the resourceful one,” she remarked, glancing down at the weapon that Spyri bore. She pointed to it. “So what’s that all about?”
May flashed a glare at her friend and then turned back to Spyri and Niku. “Sorry about her. She always bombards people with questions,” May said, apologizing on April’s behalf.
“Only people who are interesting!” April countered. “It’s not everyday you meet a girl who obviously knows how to fight. I wish I did. That would be so badass.”
Spyri shrugged, supposing she was quite resourceful, and blushed when the compliments kept coming.
"I'm sure you can find a trainer where we're going," Spyri said to April, "You might even learn a specialty. Chi and energy work aren't the only styles you can learn."
Spyri unhooked Cha'tlag from her belt for a brief moment to show the others.
"This is a rapier. I didn't even know how to ue one of these before she-er, this blade came along. I ah, was kind of a natural I guess given my background with swords. But a Knight, that's who really helped me get good," she finished, hooking Cha'tlag back where she belonged. Spyri pushed down the sad feelings that usually came with talking about Enda and the past.
"Hey,, did anyone see what that guy was eating? Dinner should be here soon, shouldn't it?"
It seemed like there was everyone who had ever existed hunched up against the bank of the river. Some peered off down the river in any direction - the water seemed to stretch on forever, disappearing into a fog. If it wasn't for the apparent current whisking hands and limbs away as they reached through, Frank would have thought it to be an ocean.
Wait, hands? And, was the river crying? Frank's mind swam as he looked wildly around. He went to catch his breath and realized he hadn't taken one in at least an hour. That's when panic tried to set in, but couldn't. After all, Frank was dead.
"Yes, hello?" Frank tried to address those around him, to no avail. They all seemed content staring into the waters. Watching helpless limbs float by. Listening to the cries of the lost. Not for Frank.
He pushed his way to the edge and wasn't at all surprised when his shoes soaked through with icy water. He had a feeling he wasn't in the Good place. Frank, however, was not stupid. Frank had read books before. Frank knew what to when he came across a river in an underground hellscape such as this.
Frank flung out an arm to hail whoever it was who had charge of this. Crowds made Frank anxious.
Charon the Ferryman held out his hand, waiting for the token of passage, prompting Frank for the Obolus coin.
“
What? What is it you...?
”
Charon said nothing, but stood stiller than the grave. A few along the bank began to stir behind Frank. They recognized the prompt and had no Obolus. They tired of this bank and wished to proceed. They wished to defy fate.
Charon, and the gondola, began to float out away from Frank. Around him the people further stirred.
Frank, with the sum of the energy of the entire crowd, burst into the water after the Ferryman. He desperately slapped at his shirt pocket, which was empty, and his pants as well. Empty. There was a great squelch as he submerged entirely a leather shoe into the still icy water.
Frank barely noticed- but what he did notice was how uncomfortable his heel was on the third step into the river. In a flurry Frank ripped off his shoe and dumped it upside down. A glimmer of gold fell from his shoe, down into the water.
The gondola ceased to float further from the Bank of the Futile. It seemed one had passage, after all. The gondola began to float back towards Frank.
“
No! Where did it-c'mon c'mon shit!
”
When frank turned to look at the ferryman, he saw the coin between two white fingers. Frank didn't have the energy left to react. He carefully climbed into the gondola as it teetered, held one hand with the other, and prepared for whatever would come next. At least he had made it on the boat.
Master peered out from the darkness, his physical raiment unfurling throughout. The door had been opened, as the echoes of footsteps rumbled throughout his halls. Alighieri had already made his way to this realm, it seemed, and the void wouldn't be far behind.
He inhaled with a cool breeze, taking in the fresh Terran air flowing in from the mountains beyond. Never the least, he had work to do — onwards, into the deep.
Something new.
The Orbus had come down, which was a sight to behold. To Iata it was almost as if the Moon itself was descending. Forms came out from it, human looking forms for the most part and some kind of monster as well. She kept a close distance to the forms and followed them. They were looking for shelter it would seem, and there were many cave systems in The Badlands. She herself was heavily clothed to protect the skin, wraps of fabric criss crossing her figure.
On the horizon to the north was a structure larger than possible. It had to be a structure, due to the odd shape of it compared to the rest of the place, but how could that be? Every now and then a sharp shape ascended or descent from it. Iata had kept an eye on it as she had crossed the chosen spanse.
The prophecies had come true.
Master hurried down the passageway, disregarding the dormant husk of the recently-turned vampire.
The Vankoryth might have something to contribute to the cogs that must be turned, but the freshly-minted sophomores of their ranks would be no match for the darkness looming in the void.
No, instead Master would again strike at the throat of the threat, and this time he hoped it would be for good. The stone underfoot
clapped with his hurried patter, echoing into the shallow darkness to serve as his only companion for now... a welcome friend in the face of what was to come.
Master heads onwards, deeper into the cavern. He could feel the life draining from him, hurrying his steps along the riverbank as he rushed towards his goal. The lingering presence of his sustainer gave him a shudder, which he shrugged off with a certain inevitable disregard; the raiment flowing around him rippling with the current of the water leading out into the sea to the east.
He knew he would find momentary respite in the fortress within, but this only accelerated his progress towards the next stone along his step.
