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Jules Restlin

The Dark Light of Eras

0 · 2,245 views · located in The Ruins

a character in “The Multiverse”, as played by Tearen Wover

Groups

Under the guise of the old Master, Nealaphh leads these enterprising souls on the path to true power in the hopes of preventing the collapse the Multiverse...

Description

APPEARANCE

Despite being a lich, Jules appears to be a (mostly) fair looking young man of soft, refined features. He has flowing raven hair that is dressed in brass and gold tassels that drops down to his chest. He wears an incredibly long, hoodless cape of red and black silk, which wraps around his jagged white-and-gold plate armor like a shadowy cloud. One of his most notable features is the third eye on his face, located just below his right eye, which never closes. All of his eyes shine with the dull, red light of Eras.

HISTORY

Despite being relatively young, Jules has a long history in the Multiverse. A native of Terra, he learned several basic principals of necromancy at the relatively young age of 25, and rapidly became fascinated by becoming a lich. When he attempted it on himself, the process was faulty and resulted in him becoming a nearly mindless undead lunatic. After being killed for the first time, he spent some time climbing the demonic ranks of Hell before being resurrected by his own power. Now the Demon Lord of Heresy, he went about wreaking havoc in the mortal world before being slain once again by a cleric. With no way to escape the power of Hell, Jules gave up his demonic powers and pledged service to the eldritch god Nyarlathotep. That didn't turn out well either, so Jules went into hiding to the far reaches of the Multiverse and discovered the deeply magical planet of Gaia. Now, wiser and stronger, he has once again attempted lichdom, and succeeded. Jules Restlin now spends his quiet days in the dark depths of Gaia, researching her dead gods and forgotten past, looking for a way for him to surpass all mortal limits...


BIO
Age: 33
Race: Human Lich
Height: 5'10"
Weight: 93 lbs.
Meta:
- Undead
- Radiates Negative Energy at Will
- Incorporeal Flight at Will
Conditions:
- Undead
Strengths:
- Endless Endurance
- Undying
- No Metabolism
Weaknesses:
- Frail
- Slow

ASSETS
Wealth: Affluent
Land:
-Great Swaths of the Gaian Underdark
-Renovated Ilithid Fortress "Urz'gechal"
Notable Equipment:
- Demonbone Armor
- Brooch of Tenebreth
- Sphere of Despair
Primary Skills:
- Vancian Wizardry: Necromancer
- Diplomacy
- Leadership

So begins...

Jules Restlin's Story

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#, as written by Tearen Wover
It was...a pitiable figure that shuffled into the bar when the door was open. The straitjacketed figure lurched through the opening with the sound of an echoey grunt. He fell to the floor with a flood once the support from the door gave way, and lay there for a few minutes before twitching. With a low sigh, it began to worm its way towards the bar, the strait jacket ruffling softly.

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#, as written by Tearen Wover
Jules Restlin 's legs remained limp as the pile of snow lifted him to his feet. His long, black hair lay about his face in a scraggly manner, but not so much that it disguised the oddities of the young man's face. Wrinkled yet young looking, with a third eye below his right, but most of all, the absence of the mouth. The three eyes stared into Cryoface's two, unblinking.

"He is steeped...ehegh...he is steeped in THAT. Yes that which was and could be, prevalent...of sorts..." the young man said, his voice coming from nowhere in particular

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#, as written by Tearen Wover
As he sat there, the more than strange young man stared idly into space. That is, until he promptly began to slam his head into the table, screaming somehow. "Stop it! Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!" His three eyes would flash with a bright, sickly light before dimming back down, in synchronization with his own convulsions. He sat there once more, his wiry black hair hanging over his face now.

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#, as written by Tearen Wover
As he was released from the cold grip, the oddity of a man would lurch impotently towards the snowy figure again, trying desperately to come into contact with his frigid touch again. His voice came meek and softly now, the sound of soft panting gracing the gaps between hurried words. "The howling...always with the hoooowwling...mother, please..." He continued to wriggle towards Cryoface, his three eyes locking with the other's when the opportunity arose.

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#, as written by Tearen Wover
Jules Restlin wriggled off of the bench where he had been sat down with a painful sounding crack. He then curled up into a tight ball (As best as possible, considering his attire), and close his three eyes, his messy black hair. Singing began to come from him, quietly and with a shudder in his voice. "This is...the song that n-never ends...it just goes on and on my...fr-...friends..."

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#, as written by Tearen Wover
Jules Restlin doesn't yell as a tranq dart thuds into his left shoulder. The tiny device merely pops out of Jule's flesh, the tiny hole remaining open, but not bleeding. Rolling over, he stands up unsteadily and begins to lurch towards Henry Anona with heavy, drawn out steps. His three eyes flash with a bright light as his haggard figure begins to pick up speed, strange lumps beginning to move beneath his straitjacket

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#, as written by Tearen Wover
"Small...thing...h-heelp!" Jules screamed, his mouthless face twitching. Completely ignoring the presence of Norrington, Jules continued to barrel towards Henry, surrendering to any attempts to attacking him. He must get to the boy. He had to...but he didn't know why.

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Jules Restlin tumbled across the floor, his trajectory headed into the bar itself. He smashed into the bar hard, his brightly lit eyes flickering before howling with madness. Locking eyes with Norrington, Jules was overcome with a sudden stillness, chants echoing from his direction. As he sat there, Norrington would begin to feel his air passages beginning to close up, as if from an allergic reaction, that is, if the man did not have a defense against necromantic powers, in one form or another. The spell would continue for six turns, or until the man was incapacitated.

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#, as written by Tearen Wover
The flail would indeed smash into Jules face with bone shattering force, as the young man's shattered mind did not have nearly enough comprehension to avoid such a sudden attack. But it would not deter him. With one side of his face missing, and bits of sepulchral skin hanging by fleshy threads, he would turn back towards Henry, beginning his charge again. Only the dark gods that had claimed his mind knew why.

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#, as written by Tearen Wover
This attack was not quite as fast as the former, and perhaps a moment of lucidity flickered through the undead man's mind. Or perhaps he simply tripped. Either way, Jules went tumbling to the floor as the volatile spray shot over his form. Stray droplets fell onto his skin, sizzling with caustic danger, but Jules stayed silent, the bright light in his eyes slowly fading. When next he looked, the boy was gone, along with his defender. Sitting upright, Jules simply stared, then began to look around for his missing jaw.

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#, as written by Tearen Wover
Jules Restlin pops up off the ground with a disappointed shout of "Pasty...!" and waddles slowly over to where the other half of his face was sent flying. Bending over, his face smashing into the gore, his eyes flashed brightly for a split second. With sickening pops and squirts, the detached flesh would reconnect with his face...of course, with small bits and pieces missing. Sitting there, against the wall, Jules hummed an unknown tune, his tattooed eyeballs darting throughout the room. The eyes came to rest on the form of The Assassin. Jules did not move, but simply stared. There was another undead in here, like him...slowly, his mind came home to roost, the skeletal assassin's presence heightening his contact with the dark world that otherwise kept custody of his consciousness. He blinked for the first time coming into the bar. "Awesome."

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#, as written by Tearen Wover
Jules Restlin got off the ground with a huff, full in control of his undead body for the first time in awhile. He went and sat down at the bar, the ravings of the dark gods still howling in his mind, but they could stand to be ignored for awhile. He turned his head towards The Assassin, and he would have smiled. "Don't know if you noticed buddy, but most times, my knees are a moot point." the Lich said in a tone that probably deserved a smacking. It felt good to be back in his body after his mind flitted around the dark world for the past month. At all other times, only his tormented subconscious, which the dark gods had a tight grip over, kept his body moving. The only thing he wanted now, was a stiff drink. Fucking strait jacket. Fucking lichdom. His three eyed face contorted into a mild sneer, the muscles around where his mouth would be twitching impotently.

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"Well, I have to say, that would be a more successful attempt at killing this body than most others have tried..." Jules said in a tone that hardly masked any form of condescension. "However, I wouldn't recommend it, no matter how much skill you've got piled up in those creaky bones." Jules continued. It was an insult, a carefully aimed insult that would hopefully draw the skeletal man into an attack. Then, once his mental guard was down, Jules would seize control of him and have a great time. Sometimes being a jackass could pay off, as this skeleton was no doubt aware of.

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#, as written by Tearen Wover
Well, now Jules was intrigued at what The Assassin had in store, but he was in no way about to let an enemy prepare any kind of upper hand. He was about to retort with a 'How many other people has that worked on?' and follow the skeleton, but then that happened. Jules turned to the giant figure and raised an eyebrow. Another undead, and this one was apparently a lich, like him. A very, very self important lich who felt the need to block the freaking door. Jules let out an ethereal sigh and cast a sidelong glance at The Assassin. Jules had dealt with this lich's type before...hell, he'd been mentored by one of them, but that didn't mean he gave a damn about him. As the humongous figure took a seat at a booth like just another patron, Jules sniggered, his arrogance as a lich manifesting in its own special way.

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Jules Restlin tilted his head to the side and examined the Lich King carefully. This guy kept stealing his lines, though, admittedly, with a bit more pomp and circumstance mixed into them. That was fine. This guy was probably not only far older as a Lich than Jules, but from a much different camp. Jules had been told that there were different sects of Liches, each with their own version of a 'king', and Jules was pretty sure that this guy would fit the bill for such an entity. Still, the king's comment on Jules' lack of vanity was kind of weird. All liches were the most narcissistic type of being in the multiverse, and they knew it. There might, however, be a bit of a contest if the two fleshlings killed themselves, though as far as Jules was concerned, the other Lich could keep their souls. Jules wanted the bodies.

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Jules Restlin 's neck creaked ever so slightly as his head turned to look at the book in Molly's hands. It was drenched in magical potential, which meant it held the only real kind of power in this multiverse: information. Jules, like any good necromancer, wanted more power. Perhaps he could pry this artifact from the insipid woman's possession. Then, for an encore, he might as well claim her body as well. Oh, such good fun. For now, he'd have to play nice, which wasn't really a problem since she was agreeably pretty. His three eyes blinked once, his straitjacket ruffling as he turned the rest of his body to face her.

"Ah, very nice book. Are you a magic user?"

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Jules Restlin nodded, his bedraggled black hair falling in all directions. "Yes, I know of another Lich by the name of Sabrath, he claims he's a lich king, and he summons demons all the time." Jules said, his ethereal voice echoing faintly. "Though, maybe I could have a look. I have experience reading magic, so maybe I could help you find it in here." Jules said, peering into the dusty pages. He wish he had a pair of free hands to help him out, but he'd lost his last skeletal pair in a fight a few weeks ago. Good bones were so hard to come by these days...

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Jules Restlin nodded and began to speak again when he felt it happening again. His consciousness began to slip away back into the darkness, the howling madness, the price he had to pay for his power. The absence of any other undead in the bar weakened his link with the dark world where his mind was otherwise held, and was therefore pulled back into the shadow. His form began to convulse, his ability to think waining. His eyes began to shine brightly at Molly. "M-maybe some other....ti...ti...time!" Jules said, with a final spasm. His strait jacketed form fell to the ground, writhing slowly as he again returned to simmering madness. But his subconscious remembered the book. He wanted the book. With a sepulchral shriek, darkness began to flood the room, and an inky blackness began to fall. Everything was submerged in a magical shadow that could not be produced by electric light nor torch. Higher gifts would need to be used to see through it.

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It was hard to say what Jules' twisted subconscious decided to interpret the girl's words as, but the response was clear enough...well, not really. "A...somber...DAY!" he shrieked, his ghostly illuminated face twisted into a fantastic grimace. It was nigh impossible to see, but eleven, very hungry shades rose form the boards of Gambit's floor, the tormented spirits of the uncounted dead killed in the bar. With deadly silence, they would fly at Molly, attempting to drain the very energy from her bones.

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Jules Restlin looked into Molly's face with wide, frenzied, confused eyes. Stop this? Stop what? The shadow spell began to fade, revealing the swirling mass of dark spirits gunning for Molly They rammed against her divine shield again and again, determined on claiming the succulent morsel therein. Jules began to writhe on the floor, away from the woman, whimpering not from fear, but from pain, the mental pain that could not be quelled.

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