Factions, Families, Clans, and Empires
The Orsa of Terminus wish to claim twelve artifacts to release their imprisoned lord, known only as The Sealed One. The Patronus Guardians seek to keep these artifacts from the Sealed One and his generals.
Burlap sack over head with a blood red smiley face painted on it. Six and a half feet tall and extremely fit, but not muscular, most likely a result of a malnourished nature while being on steroids. Their right wrist ends in a stump with a metal plate over it and a large screw-end. Shirtless and wearing baggy black pants that drag on the floor, half-covering their feet. Left handed.
Despite being a creature of few words, Orsa possesses a high intelligence, with intentionally feigned brutish stupidity to throw enemies off guard.
From the many horrid experiments Tassarn was submitted to, his blood was vastly changed. While kept alive via magic he was subjected to horrid experiment of poisons, chemicals and toxins. Now he lives in a perpetual state of pain. His blood is toxic to others. If it is ingested or gets in the eyes, a person would expect to suffer immense pain. In some cases this has lead to shock and even death. If it gets on the skin, it is expected to hurt for up to two hours, but it is non-fatal. This blood congeals at a much faster rate than normal blood.
Likewise, the disturbing mix in his blood contains many steroids, adrenaline, stimulants and magic have made his muscles hard as stone and brutally strong. Alone he is able to roll a car over on its side (thought lifting one is too much for him).
Retractable Syringe Fingers
On his left hand are five titanium needles each hidden in his fingertips that extend (or retract) beneath the fingernails on command. Each is roughly five inches long, and have sections of which to bend along with his fingers (so they do not break inside his hand). The chemical these syringes can inject is nothing other than his own blood.
There are two hand attachments for his right hand, the first is a large axe blade roughly the size of a man's head, and the second is a flail, equally large and covered in spikes. The axe is a one-sided crescent blade. The flail's chain is four feet in length.
Whether this is voluntary or not, Orsa can painfully grow his bones into the shape of weapons, which often requires tearing skin and flesh from pre-existing bone. In such an act he can lose entire limbs violently. By extension, he can cause these bones to explode or shatter with enough force that shards can embed themselves in flesh. This rapid growth and shattering can be used distantly, allowing for him to break off his own bone and throw it away as an offensive tool. This growth does not include anything past bone.
I was once known as Tassarn, a lancer and strategist at the final battle against the Sealed One.
No longer do I accept that name.
No longer do I know my past.
I am the beginning.
The first Orsa.
It was the distinctly peculiar sound of a car hitting the titanium bar walls and leaving a nasty dent.
Orsa was standing outside, blood red smiley face smeared onto a burlap sack over his head, starved body reaching for and picking up a car to hurl at the wall with another loud THUMD as it connected and reverberated through the building.
Orsa threw a third car with a great big grunt, the dent now tearing. He walks forward and reaches for one part of torn metal, squeezing fingers between the tight gap of jagged wall and receiving deep cuts for his efforts, blood trickling out and to the floor. His hand jerks back, tearing the titanium sideways and opening a bigger hole for him to see through, assuming he can even see through the sack.
Orsa continues to progressively tear open the titanium wall with his hands until a big enough gap for him is available to pass through. A mighty saw blade presses against the wall attached to the end of the blood right stump as he steps into the room. The sound of sniffing can almost be heard from beneath the burlap sack and its bloody smear of a smiley face.
Orsa seemed to breathe for several moments as he stood to full height. A muffled voice came from the sack, a voice that sounded like they were speaking through bruised, fat lips, a deep voice that sounded like it knew the deepest pit of darkness. "Artifacts," he called to no one in particular, "Artifacts or death."
Orsa lumbered into the bar center, grabbing a table and hurling it with great force towards Solange, Melody and Bowpurity. "Artifacts!" he screams before moving on to harass another person in the bar.
Orsa slaps a chair aside, breaking the top of it as he became angry on his path towards Dr Temperance Brennan. "Artifacts or death!" he shouted at the good doctor, reaching his hand out to squash Nether.
Orsa softly utters from beneath his sack head; "Your fight or flight instincts fail you." From each fingernail a four inch titanium syringe shoots out. From each syringe Orsa's own blood would flow out, a deadly toxin that could easily induce death just from the pain. The sack head turns to face Brennan. "Artifacts?" he asks, then nods towards Faye, as if he had offered the hulking mutilated man a hint.
Orsa slams his fist on the table, syringes sharply retracting beneath his fingernails. "Artifacts!" he just repeated, before bringing the great saw blade at the end of the right arm down on the table.
Orsa turns around, the interrogatee apparently having vanished. Looking for a new victim he stalks slowly across the room, saw blade dragging behind him and leaving a gouge in the floor. His chest rose and fell with each great breath.
Orsa hulked into the bar, lumbering towards the center of the room, bloody smile on the burlap sack that was his head scanning around the room. He was looking for shady people, the sort who sought power and who weren't afraid of being evil. This gruesome figure was recruiting today. What an unnatural thing to see.
Orsa noticed a lack of those who might be evil or do evil. Turning his hulking form about, he seeks now someone who can answer questions or offer blood to sate his appetite of carnage.
Orsa looks for those who might have a lot of blood to pay his blood toll.
Orsa decides to attack the next poster.
Orsa picks up a chair and hurls it towards Bella-Olivia with the horrid shout, "Blood!" which is a deep muffled scream bellowed from the chest. The chair goes horribly off target and crashes into the wall.
Orsa let's out a follow up bellow, something inhuman and tortured. With laboured breaths he charges for Bella-Olivia, casting a table aside like its nothing and letting it crash into the wall. When close, he swings his left hand balled into a fist for her head. "Blood toll!" he screams horrendously at her.
Orsa 's fist continues on, striking the titanium wall and leaving a dent. He swings around, aiming the large hacksaw that was his right hand for her neck. While that wouldn't cut cleanly, it would surely leave more then a small gash if it connected.
Orsa lets Bella latch onto his arm, but the small muscles that barely clung to his flesh were tough and resist her teeth. He swings hi arm backwards to try and throw her, his left hand swinging for her back as four inch syringes shoot out from beneath his finger nails, trying to pierce her meager flesh with the deadly titanium needles.
Orsa raises his head and sniffs. With a roar, he barges through the nearest titanium wall.
Orsa lumbers into the bar, burlap sack head with a bloody smiley face scanning around the bar. A sickening stench wafts from his body as his left hand grips the door frame and tears it, entering the bar. His saw blade was the next thing to follow, vicious rigid edges poking in past the door, jutting awkwardly from the severed hand it replaced. "Evil," he announces, a possibly misunderstood word meaning recruitment for those who serve a darker purpose, those who sought power and would do anything for it.
Orsa pushes further into the bar, burlap sack shifting left, then right, as if looking through the obscuring bag. "Hire. Evil." he repeat, but louder in his deep booming voice with a breath that smells like rotting flesh.
Orsa walks towards the Jackel Twins, body lumbering dangerously, saw hand dragging a nasty rut in the wooden floor behind him. If he ever managed to pin a person down, the damage her could do would not be pretty. He sniffs the air. "Hire evil," he repeats with a nod, "For Sealed One." His left hand clenches into a fist, as if resisting pain.
Orsa tilts his head, voice changing and dropping to a much lower tone, as to not be heard by others within the bar. "We fight a war," comes the voice of a man, possibly in the middle of his life. "I seek those with the stomach to fight on the darker side." He swings his mighty saw-arm up and slams it on the table, serrated edge biting into the wood. "Would you be one to fight on such a side?"
Orsa nods slowly. "Yes. You can profit. With money or power. If you're a mercenary you'd best not think of switching sides. We're the 'evil' side, and we hold grudges." They didn't really, but sometimes a hollow threat was enough to keep people in line.
Orsa shakes his head. "No signing. Your word is enough. Keep an eye out for those who serve the Sealed One who are your allies and those who fight for the Patronus, who are your enemies. I will talk to you at times to instruct you on some threats."