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Eikeros Adamas

after the fall of the gods, half of the heavens is darkness. | scorpio

0 · 291 views · located in The Cosmos

a character in “Yuanfen”, as played by Εpιmetheus

Description

You can also simply not include anything at all, and encourage other players to explore this character's personality through roleplaying with them.You can also simply not include anything athem.
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        Now burst above the city’s cold twilight the piercing whistles and the tower-clocks: for day is done. Along the frozen docks the workmen set their ragged shirts aright. Thro’ factory doors a stream of dingy light follows the scrimmage as it quickly flocks to hut and home among the snow’s gray blocks.—I love you, human labourers. Good-night! Good-night to all the blackened arms that ache! Good-night to every sick and sweated brow, to the poor girl that strength and love forsake, to the poor boy who can no more! I vow the victim soon shall shudder at the stake and fall in blood: we bring him even now.

        EIKEROS ADAMAS
        scorpio / 29 / aniketos / ferrokinesis / bitch idk


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                F E R R O . K I N E S I S


                M E T A L S
                I. . . . . ..
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                A manipulation of the metallic elements. Iron bends to his will, and gold rises in flowers from the ground where he deigns to raise it. Used effectively for weaponry—a blade is ever changing in his hands, made into what it need be to suit the situation. (He's rather fond of whips.) But for his purposes, this power serves him much more in the depths of his facilities, modifying and redesigning his latest engineering feat, creating marvel from a hunk of dull lustre.


                G E M S T O N E S
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                This ability, on the other hand, has little in the way of combative use, aside from perhaps needlessly expensive projectiles. But it has proven to be a great boon to his business interests. Keros can sense the presence and location of precious jewels and use his power to draw them forward from the depths of the earth. He can also freely change their shape, effortlessly whittle away the ugly masses into presentable stones of glimmering beauty.


                S I D E x E F F E C T S
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                First and foremost, Keros cannot create something from nothing. Nor can he manipulate elements that are not already in a standard metallic or jeweled form (he cannot, for example, forge graphite into diamond). He is limited to the manipulation of substances that are already present and that he is aware of. While he does not need to be touching it, the finesse and of his manipulation grows if he is in contact with it. Much like a puppeteer, however, control is much like pulling on strings. The more he is attempting to do at the same time, the less control he has, and the weaker his ability is. Like any activity, it is exhausting, and a strenuous overuse of the power can leave him bedridden with fatigue.




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        L I K E S
        ☐ │technology, working, chocolate
        ☐ │ fresh fruit, honey, hot drinks
        ☐ │ reading: philosophers, nonfiction
        ☐ │ gambling, melodic music, boardgames
        x x x x x x
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        D I S L I K E S
        ☐ │ alcohol, clever people, flowers
        ☐ │ blue skies, social events, fire
        ☐ │ hard candy, smiling, losing
        ☐ │ paperwork, porcelain, travelling






        a sinner is just a saint with too much money in his pocket





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E S S E N T I A
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"isn’t this how a hand
guides a rope?
towards salvation or
strangulation."





moral alignment: lawful evil
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        αἴκα


        Keros still dreams in coal dust, relief paintings of the negative space. Some things don't change. Can't change. Others change a lot.

        These days, Keros spends half his time lounging on down feather spreads, dipping fruits into honey, welcoming bodies into his bed; the other half he spends much like he spent his early life—working away in the darkness. He considers it a form of paying his dues, an homage perhaps, a remembrance of the person he was. A reminder of how far he's come. How much he stands to lose. But he won't lose. He never loses anything. And he's proud of it too, a vainness teetering on hubris, but he's spent too long at the crest of the mountain to reign himself in—too much power drives a man mad, they say, but Keros has always been furious.

        Since the first swing of the pickaxe, in fact, since the reverberations of the metal striking rock rung his hands ragged, bloody and blistered, and the clamor of it began to sound like music. Canaries in the mines: a kinship that rose in the dark, damp caverns in all their rising voices singing old lullabies. It was the melodies that filled his stomach when it growled with hunger at night, as it must have been for all the rest. He didn't need comfort. He just needed a place to lay his head at night, and the warmth of the family he'd come back to. It dwindled with each ember snuffed out.

        When the famine grew more severe, so did the riots. While the king and his ilk drank whiskey and port, workers dropped dead from exhaustion, hunger, still clutching their hammers tight. Keros watched with impassive eyes. He'd stopped singing after his mother came down with fever and her body had burned her away from the inside out. Too much warmth. And here he was freezing.

        But he couldn't afford to make any waves, not when his stomach still ached and he could hear his brother singing Mother's song a little ways down the tunnel. So he kept his head down and chipped away at the rock, and swung and swung and swung until the chime of the metal drowned out the music. Only when he stopped swinging there wasn't any music to hear anymore. The next day he went back to work, found kinship in the hollow eyes of the workers beside him, in the silence of the ringing tinnitus. Outside, another small scale riot was crushed under the boot of the aristocracy.

        The pickaxe slipped from Keros' hands. He was all hollow except for fire. He wasn't sure what he'd do, except that it wasn't going to be this any longer. He smuggled home a large chunk of stone. It took five days for the poison to distill, a rigorous process his father had taught him once, a physician, back from when there'd been a need for those. He whispered into the crevices of the mines, whistled a tune, stoked dying embers in the guts of men with his words. When the day came, the mine was empty. The largest riot there'd ever been, coaxed into being by the vibrant words of a starving young man who knew how to coat his tongue in honey, even if he'd never known the taste of it.

        These days, of course, he can't get enough of it. Why not indulge if you have it, right? He thinks his speeches come out more fluid when he takes a teaspoon of honey before taking the stage. It's something of a jinx of his, a little ritual to quell the fear, appease the paranoia, he'll admit. But it hasn't failed him yet. The cheers of the crowd are deafening, so many voices raised in exaltation. And the ones that aren't, well, they still know what to sing along to.

        Sneaking into the palace was easy when there were only bare bones of the guard detail remaining. Poisoning the king's wine and concealing himself until the final moments even simpler. He'd dangled the cure in front of the desperate man's eyes in exchange for power—all the power. And somehow, it worked. (Keros did not pass along the antidote).

        He finds this practice useful even still. The desperation of death; the desperation of hunger, of fear, of exhaustion. He makes use of it all. He is both the carrion and the savior, knows what to offer and at what price to offer it, and knows at precisely what moment to pull it away again. His smile is sharp, but his teeth are sharper.

        When they found him, it was too late. But they didn't know that. And he wasn't about to tell them. They shoved him forward before the crowd, ran down the list of his crimes, and carted him off to appease Epiphanôn, oblivious to the snaking grin he couldn't conceal. (He'd considered killing them there, of course, but that wouldn't make much a statement. And if there's one thing he knows how to do, it's craft the perfect statement.)

        He'd expected a gamble for life, a test of the new abilities—he reached out and felt for the mass of the rolling fire, grabbed ahold of the iron within as the heat pressed on him. And he collapsed. He clutched at his body where the crystal made its mark, tearing at his skin where pain seared through the flesh. He watched hopelessly as the magma rolled towards him indifferently. But then there was a warmth—gentle. Soothing. The fire parted at his body, and the pain faded to a dull throbbing, then finally, subsided into nothing. He stood, pulled the iron from the ground, and returned, triumphant. There was no denying the divine rights of power, even if there was nothing divine about it.

        The blood tasted tender in his mouth when the pushed the fattened pigs before the crowds and raised the heads up high.

        Life is much less bloody, now. At least, in the wide open it is. Keros does what he has to do behind closed doors. And he needn't let the people worry—or doubt. No, all they need to know is that Keros is in control. And he is, he is, he will be.




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      S T R E N G T H S
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      charisma / exceedingly skilled in working a room and a crowd, keros was born to be manipulative bastard. he gets what he wants, and usually all he has to do for it is ask—nicely. xxinsight / but part of asking nicely is knowing how to ask, and when to ask it. luckily, keros is also familiarized with reading people, knowing their desires, the things they fear, the kinds of touches that make them tick. xxruthless / he will do what needs to be done to achieve his ends, no hesitation marks about it & no matter who stands before him.



      W E A K N E S S E S
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      paranoia / all that power, all that control in the hands of a boy who'd never had either. he's so scared he'll wake up with nothing but rust in hands. xxego / it's all about the control, always the control, and keros doesn't feel in control unless the whole room is under his control. xxmeaning / but really, what's it all for? all this weight on his shoulders, this fear in his heart, and who is he sharing the honey with now? he doesn't remember the song his mother used to sing.



      Q U I R K S & H A B I T S
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      he is lactose intolerant, but still addicted to goat cheese and crackers | the only alcohol he will drink is very sweet cordials | he is not bad at singing, per se, but given the nature of his voice, it can lean towards sounding like running over gravel | he often snacks on small fruits while working on projects in his research facility | in a room of unfamiliar people, he will always tug on the earring in his left earlobe before initiating a conversation with anyone



      FILLERTEXTFIL

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      what have you eaten? lies and smiles.

So begins...

Eikeros Adamas's Story