My name is Albert Van Gornsteed, and I am the chosen chronicle for the year that is now 2003. If you are reading this, you should belong to the Order, but if you do not, I will have to tell you a little about the Order. Firstly, I must say the Order is not our name, but I am not allowed by the rules to tell you what our true name is, so you will just have to accept that name for our little group. We are dedicated, and have been almost since the beginning of time, to tracking and recording events involving a powerful entity named Sigurd. That is our only cause, and because we have grown wealthy over the many years of our existence, we need no other outlets to support us. We have many members, scattered world wide, and all are so mentally strong that it is said nothing scares them. That is the most essential requirement to be of the Order, and probably the only one that matters. Never has the following been done before, but I will now attempt to describe Sigurd in both physical and mental aspects, whereas only the latter has ever been done before.
Let me begin with this being’s face, for it is rendered in such magnificence that no matter what I write, it shall not do justice for what his visage truly is worth. It must first be said that he is rendered much like a statue is, and thus he is unnoticeable by the normal human eye. People do not usually notice the strange perfection in which statues are made, and how unreal that is compared to the average human. Not a single feature is out of place upon Sigurd’s face, be it his eyes, nose, ears, mouth, they are all placed perfectly upon his countenance. But hardly anybody notices this, and those who do, know not exactly what is wrong with it. But let us move on from this strange fact. Like the rest of his body, his face is coloured chalk white, but gleams like marble. Despite this, when around human beings, Sigurd seems to camouflage himself by exerting a different image of himself into the eyes of his beholders. These images depict him as full of blood and looking merry, but only affect those he knows to be watching him closely. But if a mind is trained properly, it can deflect this image and behold the man for his true self. Other than this deviant tone of skin, Sigurd has a fairly normal set of hair. His eyebrows are medium in their thickness, and no facial hair messes up his face. The hair placed on his scalp is messily arranged and reaches down slightly below his ears, and is much more fitting in the surroundings of these modern days than those days of old. It is shaded dark brown, but has strands of black that seem apparent if Sigurd stands in the right lighting. Now it must be noted, that although I have afore stated Sigurd’s face is perfectly normal, I forgot his eyes, or more appropriately, his irises. When we have spied upon him away from everything, and just absorbing his surroundings, his eyes are a dull grey, and this is the base colour of his irises. But when around people, and he is calm, they turn a tranquil blue, lapsing like the sea, placing a composed effect on those around him. When annoyed, or aggravated, and over time we have seen this constantly, his eyes burn blood red, and this is, as we have learned, the best time to run. Even in battle his eyes can remain blue, but in worst case scenarios when his enemy fails him completely, he becomes frustrated and as his eyes turn red, we have found a need for a strong stomach to even slightly bear what he does, but we will come in more detail to that later. Modern fashion has allowed Sigurd to walk publicly without worry for his eye colour, for he hides them behind a pair of black sunglasses, disallowing the view of what lies beyond.
With all that described, let me proceed onto his general body, arms, and legs. In terms of height, Sigurd comes in at around six foot five, and although this is by no means gigantic for the times we dwell in now, but at the time of his conceiving, he was immensely tall. Although everything in his feature was frozen slightly after his twenty second birthday, his body has continued to progress in its strength, hardening with muscles. In general terms, although he definitely doesn’t look like a body builder, the power contained within this normal body is ten fold the most powerful mortal on Earth. But then again, it doesn’t really matter because Sigurd has always worn coats throughout his existence. In the early days, around the times of the Roman Empire, his coats were always made of bear skins, with a very Russian influence to them. Not much has changed in his fashion since then, although the insides of his clothing obviously have. Where once he wore tanned leather as his inner clothing, covered by the woolly coat, he now wears processed cotton shirts, which are incomparably comfortable, hand tailored and all. Back to the coat, it is made of a Russian bear which decided to attack Sigurd one day while he slept. Although it scratched him, and I emphasize the scratch considering the size of an average bear and its claws, its internal organs were popped all at once, and our reporter, if you would mind the term, heard the sounds all too well. Of course this meant that the outside was unharmed, and of course the skin would have been fine if it had been, but it is all the more magnificent the way it is. This acquiring couldn’t have been more than twenty years ago actually. Let me proceed with more fitting descriptions of it though. It runs from his shoulders all the way down to his ankles, and its sleeves slightly pass Sigurd’s elbows. It is in no way an extraordinary piece of armour, but a stupendous garment. On both his arms, protecting a small fragment from his wrist cutting short of reaching the elbow are steel bracers, both of which are make shift shields if you will. All the times he has been attacked, by swords or guns, these small pieces of metal prove almost invaluable. Understand a normal man could not wield such a small piece of armour so magnificently, for it is no small feat to block a speeding bullet with an area slightly over the size of a modern hand phone. Apart from this, Sigurd leaves his body completely uncluttered by armour, leaving him free to move quickly against his slightly more “reinforced” opponents.
And now we come to Sigurd’s lower body. It is written that for a few centuries after the Order was formed, every run in with Sigurd would always be with him in nothing more than a loincloth, for he was like a madman. Imagine! A man in tanned leather, with a bear skin coat over, but running around in but a loincloth. But as the years passed by, and it is obvious the scribes before me noticed it, Sigurd started to dress so elegantly he could slip into society and be mistaken for nobility. Well, he has changed with the times, and dons black denim jeans, comfortable compared to the tights worn by him during the Middle Ages. His choice of footwear is as is everything else, fashionable for our time. He wears skater shoes, and the only reason we can guess for this is their general bulk around the bottom which probably gives space for his feet to breath. These shoes are primarily black in tone, with bits of red scattered around the body of it.
I am going to be honest here. I do not fancy weapons one bit. I do not appreciate the new fashioned assault rifles, or even the rustic broadsword, but I was put into a deep awe by Sigurd’s weapon, which I saw with my very own eyes. I cannot fathom what matter it is made out of, but from the looks of it, I presume it to be made of some non-material force. If it has a colour, or just a predominant colour, it would be a dismal hue of amethyst. But this is not enough to describe it, for it seems to be like a vortex of dark colours, all merging together and separating with every passing second. In form this damnable weapon is even harder to describe, for it is nothing like what we as humans imagine too be a proper weapon, because it is made of what looks like smoke, but as I witnessed its use for the death of another human, I know it is all too solid. As I have mentioned, it is not a normal piece of weaponry, and it is not carried around by Sigurd for display, for he likes to play the chameleon and blend in rather than stick out. Instead it seems this weapon is brought out of Sigurd himself, and even when the weapon is out, it stays connected with the libido, the life force, of Sigurd, and thus is awfully hard to separate from this being of calm terror.
There is one final thing I wish to discuss before I move onto some of the most famous events chronicled by the scribes of the Order regarding Sigurd. This last issue is his aptitude to perform feats of magic inhuman in every way. We have, over time, seen him perform tricks with the sky, to manipulate the minds of those around him, and even cause death, with the simple swish of his hand. But we do not believe that it is as simple as that, and though we watch Sigurd for many reasons, a primary one is to discover the ways of magic. From the time we’ve spent watching, it can be deducted that the spell used causes different amounts of stress on Sigurd depending on what scale they are used. We have seen this deity of sorts cause pure darkness over small areas without any strain, but when he has done it on city scale, he will sometimes collapse and/or pass out. Even though this task does not seem magical, his ability to speak every language is very much so. He pilfers words from the people around him, and even the way they are spoken, and after this process is completed; his memory seems to store it all for later use. Not only this, but he has often quoted many stories in his mind games with Order members, down to the very word. This intrigues me for he is probably the most intelligent being on the planet, and with the many languages he knows, he has been known to have read some of the most famous texts ever written in the human plane we live in. But this is not the most wonderful of all his tricks, his most amazing technique is his ability to come back to life. We have seen him die a great many deal of times, and each instance he has come back from the dead. Those he has seduced with his mind tricks have often been told of a gateway between worlds, between Heaven and Hell, between life and death. This, we presume, is how he continues to come back. Although he seems to never die of aging, which was stopped a long time ago, and the inability to get ill, he is otherwise able to die the way any human would. He never makes it easy for his hunters though, and it is likely he never will. This game of life that you would think he’d have grown sick of just seems to amuse him more and more with every death he sees, and with this has evolved a mentality for survival going past anything any human has ever felt.
This last note thus brings us into his history. I will only write down the most important of his escapades in his long life, but keep in mind this set of notes is written by a different person, and in a completely different language, and so I shall translate them for sake of purpose. This account is by Winston Hubble, and was written moments before his death on the Mary Celeste. Surely, if you keep up with strange occurrences, you will know of this ship that disappeared in the Bermuda Triangle? If so, it will come as no surprise that Sigurd was linked to this, for he was boarded on this ship under some alias or another, along with an agent of ours keeping track of his movements. I will translate and then modernize the English used for the sake of reading, and I will bring you straight to the action of this narration.
“- and lo and behold, a strange serpent creature rose out from the sea, and leapt over our fair ship. Its scales fit the ocean, and were blue in shade, and each couldn’t have been less than a meter long. This serpent thing reminds me of Leviathan, and although I should be worried, something tells me Sigurd will somehow stop this, for as I can see from his face, this is not his doing. And now, Sigurd is bringing out his sword, from the very being of his hand, and he raises it against the beast which seems to watch him with crazed eyes. He is speaking out against it in some ancient tongue, amidst the crashing waves that surround our ship. This Leviathan seems to understand what he is saying, but it is not speaking a single word in return, and yet Sigurd seems to be listening intently. Perhaps it uses telepathy? I am damned that I cannot hear the conversation. But now, look at the expression on Sigurd’s face! From calm pallor to total rage, and look how his eyes turn red. This cannot bode well for the ship, or my person. So I will put this letter in the Order’s treasure chest, sealed against water for such events. I hope the best that this letter reaches our hands, for I have risked my life to detail the deity we follow, and this strange event I have just narrated.”
And with those words, the letter finishes. It is a very rushed passage, but as you can see, we did recover it. It was recovered only recently of course, for we had to use new technology to raise it up from the site. The document was found untouched by water, luckily, but the chest itself seemed to have slight burn marks on it. From this we guess that Sigurd released his burning mind attack. We have seen it used on land before, often to raze villages to the ground, and it involves what appears to be a burst of energy from within Sigurd’s mind which causes everything around him to combust and thus burn. Winston must have already dropped the chest into the ocean when the energy burst hit, and thus when it was released although it hit the chest and charred its exterior, the water quenched the flames. As for the boat and its passengers, they must have been burnt to ashes, along with this mythical serpent creature. We can only humbly guess God sent it to attack Sigurd, as he has with other mythical beings of lore, but has always failed just as he did in this instance. Why would our beloved God want to do this? The benevolent God we’ve seen thousands of times over depicted in the almighty bible which we question without doubts? What if our God was a cruel one, unmerciful, much like a dictator, not liking questioning of his authority? What if Lucifer was thrown out on unjust grounds? What then? And what if Lucifer procreated with a mortal woman? What would be the outcome? As you may have guessed it, the outcome is the life form we call Sigurd. We have seen him talk with devils before, as well as angels, and we have even glimpsed him talking to a supreme looking entity with black feathered wings who we have heard him address as “father”. Regardless, we cannot ascertain if these things are truth, for Sigurd can implant things in minds simply by talking. Sigurd despite all magnificence, and intellect, is not one to be trusted with anything, for he plays people the same way a God would.
Now, the hour comes weary, and I grow tired, so I shall conclude it there.
Name: Valentine Age: Twenty two Sex: Male Race: Human Kingdom: Libaterra Class: A former assassin, now a mere hobo.
Weapon: Valentine, having trained in all forms of weaponry, be it magical or physical, is exceptional with any weapon he lays his hands on. However, with this being said, he is most familiar with two weapons. Firstly, he can wield, with great finesse, the magnum opus of all blades, a sword of unmatched balance, crafted for his hands, and only his hands. It is no ways magical, for Valentine lacks the qualifications when it comes to magical talents, but is just a perfect example of human perfectionism at work. Its blade is made of iron, and is so sharpened to perfection it can drive itself through wood with little impulse on part of the wielder, Valentine. It is slightly smaller in length than a broadsword, but is as nimble as a katana, and is homed in a leather scabbard slung over Valentine’s shoulder which reaches across his back. Fitted in different compartments of Valentine’s belt are throwing knives of different sizes and weights, and this form of projectile is what earned him the top spot in his assassin class. Valentine is capable of picking the right weapon for the job, and can fairly judge the needed size depending on target and weather. He has five such knives, ranging from the size of a small knife that is only slightly larger than a stiletto, to a large one the size of a machete. All in all, they can be hid easily. Now, without a job to do, these weapons are hardly used, except to convince people to not hassle him about paying for drinks.
Armour: When seen lying around in the street, you could mistake Valentine for a monk, for he dons a cowl, which is a dirty brown in colour, along with a hood keeping his head disguised in darkness unless he wishes it to be otherwise. Underneath it, however, is a suit of leather armour protecting his top, and his legs are dressed in black, denim-like material. Connecting these two pieces is what appears to be a simple belt of leather, given to him as a graduation present from the secretive assassin school, but to any trained eye it can be told it is not so, for it has an astonishing number of sheathes in which to keep items. For footwear, Valentine chooses to simply go without any, for the footing underneath can, if he is familiar with it, tell him exactly where he is, just from the feel.
Special Abilities: As mentioned earlier, Valentine really has no magical talents, being fully human. It doesn’t matter much, however, for he has extremely keen senses, and is gifted with wonderful eyesight, a smell for danger, sharp hearing, and can practically taste poisons in the air without consuming them. This more than makes up for his magical talents and he has never cared much for magic to ever learn, despite his over the top intelligence.
Physical Attributes: Valentine is at least five foot ten, and weighs around seventy five kilograms. He is lean and fit, a requirement for any assassin, and although he is no longer one, he keeps his body in shape. His hair is brown, and is scruffy in his keeping of it. Valentine has skin coloured like a spectre, and is pale white for his hating of the sun in general.
Character Attributes: Valentine has many filthy habits, including drinking, gambling, and killing. The last, being his former trade, is what he does best at, and this does not make him a very sociable person, for he can never be too close to people in case he is called to kill them for one reason or another. He is often found with an angry scowl on his face, and is bitter to the bone, and would rather send a fist into a man’s face than even listen to him speak a single word. He is shunned by everybody, and it suits him fine, for as long as they don’t stop him from taking a drink, he would rather prefer to ignore their existence. He is racist against anybody who isn’t human, and hates half breeds with a delicate passion. And as if racism isn’t enough, Valentine is sexist with ardour, believing one hundred percent women belong on a lower standard than men.
History: Valentine was born the son of two very rich human Loyalists, both snobs of the highest dignity. They considered their son as a mere extension of themselves, rather than an individual of his own, and never listened to what he wanted. They dressed him up in the finest clothing, taught him etiquette to the point where Valentine would vomit in disgust at the many different spoons that he had to learn about. Two things came out of this, and that was a) the creation of a genius, for in books Valentine found a place where he could be himself, and nobody could injure him, and b) racism and sexism, both common in the higher struts of human nobility. But his parents were one day eliminated by a man in black, who came at night and disposed of them. When Valentine caught him in the act of this murder, he didn’t even bother trying to stop him. The assassin found this unusual, that a child of nine would not scream at the sight of a murder. This forged a link between the hired gun, later found to be named Skar, and Valentine, and the latter was taken to be learned in an underground society in the city of Rivalin. Every day Valentine was tested, constantly put under pressure by his teachers and Skar, who had become like a father to him. Both Skar and the instructors found Valentine to possess a natural skill for everything, and even seemed to have senses unrivalled by anybody else. Through all this training, only one lesson would be forgotten later on, this class being etiquette. An assassin was believed to be trained to although be merciless, still be refined so he could blend in. And although he had prior training, Valentine despised etiquette and only gave it up in an event later in his life. Years later, Valentine graduated with honours, and was respected, despite his age of fourteen, by even the oldest of assassins. Skar presented him two gifts, firstly a sword of unrivalled craftsmanship, and the other a set of knifes, these being the two sets of weaponry Valentine had excelled in. He was then, after finishing his learning, sent to Finity to join the sect of assassins there. The dirty sea town fitted him fine, and Valentine lived there until he was twenty, carrying out the odd task of killing only averaging two per year. But finally, after six years, and now aging twenty, Valentine lost all respect of his fellows in the trade. It had been during an assassination, and everything had been going fine with Valentine until suddenly, as he approached his victim, a Loyalist count secretly visiting relatives in the rebel town, a dozen men seemed to jump out at Valentine as if warned. Somebody had betrayed Valentine, and it had almost cost him his life. But the men merely beat him up and threw him out, as if wanting the council of assassins to deal with his failure instead of actually do anything themselves. And the council’s wrath was terrible, and Valentine was excommunicated from being allowed to ever work as an assassin in any of the council bound cities, which numbered the majority of cities around. And it was this that led Valentine to running to Trinity Gask, a city devoid of the underground, and it was this that posed Valentine into pretending himself to be a hobo, allowing him to pass through the streets without notice. Sickened by life itself, he grew hateful, forgot all manners, and started turning to alcohol as a means of escape. This was the creation of the Valentine that now lived in Trinity Gask, and the very same Valentine who although seemingly uncaring for politics, was watching the situation with interest.
Name: Falrog Age: 33 Gender: Male Race: ½ Orc, ½ Elf Class: Orc Warlord Skin Colour: Jade Green
Head Description
Face: Falrog’s face is either of an extremely solemn attitude or one of an unstable sociopath eager to kill anything that moves. This in combination with his unusual elf like facial shape, more of an oval than a round orc head, creates a strangely terrifying aura around his person. On his forehead the symbol of the Kajaran Clan is blazed in, a pictogram not unlike the human symbol for the star sign of Libra.
Hair: Falrog’s hair is a mixture of the common orc’s messy, black hair, and the length of the common Elf’s hair. This mongrel bred hair works in amazing contrast with the dark, yet shiny, green skin that Falrog owns, and is fairly split at the ends which lap down only slightly above Falrog’s shoulders.
Eye: Here, the orc in Falrog comes out clearly. This orc hybrid only has one eye, for the other was punctured in battle. As a result, Falrog covers it with a pirate-looking black eye patch, creating a very disturbing image. The colour of his remaining eye, his right, is a variety of dark red tones, creating an image much like hellfire. The pupil in the middle is average sized, and it keeps an icy gaze wherever it peers, lacking the essence of friendliness altogether.
Helmet: Although it is not needed, as a Warlord, Falrog is required to don the proper uniform for battle events, the only time orc’s have any rules is when it comes to battle. His head armour consists of but a studded, half-egged shaped iron helmet with bull-like horns protruding from the sides where his ears would if only they were positioned five cm higher. These horns of ivory are stained with the blood from long since past battles, mostly from the powerful goring technique these makeshift weapons can be used to do, but some of that lifeblood comes from the general blood flowage that comes when Falrog gets into the head of any skirmish.
Body Description
Build: Falrog is a mammoth when compared in proportion to the average human. He towers at seven foot five, and weighs in at around one hundred and twenty kilograms. All bones in his body are amazingly strong, and never once has a bone been broken in his body because of this. It is believed that the Elven blood, with its invigorative qualities, within his body works in conjunction with the natural density of the orc bone to create an even more powerful material. The blood not only works it magic there, but also in the usually elephant like orc skin. Usually it has a rough, saggy quality to it, but Falrog has incredibly smooth skin with the same tough qualities to it. Every area of his skin, although not droopy, is ripped with the crevasses that the dozens of well-toned muscles create around them.
Body Armour: Falrog despises protection, but only when it comes in the form of chunky metal armour. So instead he wears thick leather armour around the main of his body. On the back of this brown casing are two battle axe holsters. Otherwise, this brown hide is overly plain, and lacks any décor. The shoulder pads, made of the same material, are a different story. These are studded with large, silver, metal bolts, and are in three different pieces, all tied together with iron, metal rings. These pieces differ in sizes, the largest one curved atop the second which does the same thus only leaving little of the third to be seen, but just enough to show the three bolts ridged into the bottom leather pad. The second pad is engraved in twice as many bolts, whilst the first is four times as many. Although the general colour is a shiny, dark brown, the edges are coloured dull black. These two leather pads are held together by a somewhat large metallic ring placed in the middle of Falrog’s chest, which the smaller rings impressed into the pads ends hold around. A final touch to this set of unique armour is a single, miniature skull deeply engraved into each pad of leather. This set of armour was found accompanying his two weapons. One, large, ash-coloured metalled gauntlets govern Falrog’s already powerful left arm. It is dressed with spikes and these are of a cold, icy metal quality. It is a good guard against most weapons, and is a good second weapon if used in conjunction with one of his axes.
Leg Description
Leg Armour: Once again, Falrog’s dislike for metal armour leaves him only with a small kilt like garment which goes slightly beyond knee height. Unlike a kilt however, this leg armour is made of a numerous amount of belts, closely bolted together, all hanging down from a single belt tied around Falrog’s waist. Although strange, this chain of belts hanging loosely down all from a single belt, they allow free leg movement whilst still providing a modest amount of protection. Down the middle of the main belt, hanging over what would be the groin area and going down below his knees, is a blood red cloth, the colour of Falrog’s eyes, gilded around the corners with a spectacular gold. In the middle of it all, once again, is the emblem of the star sign of Libra in black. Once more, excluding the cloth, this piece was found accompanying the weapons, and fitted him perfectly without need for resizing. There is no foot armour to cover his large green feet, and Falrog would have it no other way. He truly enjoys the feeling of dead bodies squishing under his feet.
Weapons
Gilroth & Karoth: These are two hefty weighing battle axes, forged for only one purpose, to kill. In height, these battle beauties come in at five feet tall, but in weight, they come in together at seventy-five kg, surprising light for these two behemoth weapons. Their handles are of a mysteriously metallic component, and their blades are so extremely sharp that the slightest rubbing of their edges across a granite wall would cause deep scars in the stone. Inscribed in the handles are their names, Gilroth in gold and Karoth in platinum. The only orc capable of wielding these battle axes is Falrog, and strangely enough they had not been created for him. They were first made a thousand years before Falrog’s conception, and they had been lying in a small crypt since their own birth. Who they were originally made for and why is a mystery, but one thing is certain, to Falrog, none of this matters as long as they serve his bloodthirsty needs.
Magic
Falrog in a matrix for magic, and feels no trouble in learning new types in magic. It is in the actual casting of powers that wears him down, due to the heavy requirements of the magics he usually uses. For example, a small push of telekinetic energy wouldn’t cause him to collapse, but merely feel slightly tired, whilst a display of pyrotechnics would cause him to feel as if he has run a hundred mile lap twice without breath.
Timeline (Calculated in Praetorian Years- B.K= Before Kajaran Union, A.K= After Kajaran Union)
1970 A.K- Birth of Falrog, born the son of an orc Warlord, and an Elven druidess being held prisoner by Lord Karon. Falrog is the first such being since the rise of the Orc and Elf kingdoms, dating back to 3000 B.K. His mother is slain by Lord Karon, who wishes his son to grow up without Elven influences.
1977 A.K- Despite being brought up in a magic free environment, Falrog learns how to focus his mind on certain objects causing them to move and explode at his will. His father is disappointed and sends him off to military training in the outer Orc regions.
1987 A.K- Falrog finishes term in the rough outback of the kingdom, having served a decade of his life to the Kajaran army. Returns to capital to resume proper studies, but is tainted with the want of blood pour, a common side effect of joining the barbaric army corps.
1990 A.K- Lord Karon dies, and the Kajaran Union splits apart after civil wars break out over the matter of next leader. No orc wants to leave the throne to the hybrid that is Falrog. He runs in fear of being assassinated.
1992 A.K- Falrog stumbles across a mysterious tomb, and finds two hefty battle axes which no other orc could carry. He wields these beasts with ease, and soon craves more power. Falrog targets the throne as this next accomplishment. Soon suits himself with a pair of armour found deeper in the tomb, and finds it a perfect match for his own body, which for even an orc, is extremely large. Falrog finds this partially odd, but dismisses it as sheer luck.
1994 A.K- Attacks a small orc village alone, and slaughters over one hundred of its villagers. The village submits to his will, and the chief is killed, and his skull is fashioned into a mug, for alcohol, for Falrog’s use alone. The rest of the villagers are then trained into ruthless killing machines by Falrog, utilizing his former military training. Falrog then names his troops the ‘Kajaran Death Squad’, determined to strike fear into prospective enemies’ hearts.
1995 A.K- Falrog enters his first true skirmish with an army twice the size of his own. Although his troops lose morale, after Falrog’s mighty charge into his rival’s centre which resulted in the deaths of a quarter of his enemy’s soldiers, his troops had a boost in confidence and helped with the charge. The end results of the battle had Falrog placed for the killing of around two hundred and fifty-five units, and the rest of the total divided between his soldiers who had only suffered mere casualties. He himself, however, loses his left eye to a stray arrow. The perpetrator of this crime has his eyes pulled out and these orbs are eaten by Falrog as a show of revenge.
1998 A.K- After a few short years of such battles, Falrog held control over the entirety of the former Kajaran Union, and had thus been successful in his original quest. However this victory did not please him as much as it should have, and instead he became insanely bored. He took up his studies once more which had been interrupted after his father’s death. These studies were made so that he could further bring out his magical talents which during the battles he had not had enough control over to use efficiently, and so he could better his war tactics.
2003 A.K- Falrog is totally dominant over all aspects, both in terms of physical warfare and magical domination. He, one day, stumbles upon scrolls that tell of a way to travel between different worlds, and from that day on, learned to dominate the ways of teleportation between planets, to find new challengers.
Last edited by Maldar the Incompetent : 01.04.04 at 03:15:12.
Hair: Disco Steve is famous for his cool, black afro which conflicts against his tan white skin. Unlike most people from the disco era, Steven didn’t think a wig would be fitting for his groove. So, instead, he spent years growing his hair until the amount was sufficient, and then sent thousands of volts into his hair alone, sending it flying upwards. All that was left after was to shape it and thus the afro of Steve was created. An interesting effect of using his own hair is that he can control it using his magic, and that it is more durable than most man-made products, such as steel girders.
Eyes: Mr. Locksmith inherited his eyes from his German mother. They are an azure blue and women often fall head over heels when they looking into his hypnotic blue orbs.
Clothing: Steven wears a shiny white tux over a purple satin shirt. His tux sleeves are rolled up just enough to show a small part of the English German’s tanned, hairy skin. He wears shiny white pants that cover his lower body, and ends the outfit with his faggoty-white looking platform dance shoes. The platforms are made of a transparent material, and within these are little disco globes which light up and twirl whenever Steve’s shoe touches the ground during and after a move, much like how children shoes sometimes light up at each step.
Accessories: Steven Locksmith does not wear any other accessories except his cool black-tinted, Lennon glasses. It is rumored these glasses allow him to see past woman’s clothing, and into their minds. It is not known what happens when Mr. Locksmith glances upon other men, but it is suspected it filters men out completely.
History: Steven rocked the world of the female doctor that brought him into the realm of humans. He was declared a sex god only two hours after his birth. This started the legacy of Disco Steve.
Steve was born the son of two witches. He was also born the seventh son of the seventh son. This meant he was born with natural magical talents. He could have used it for the good of mankind, but instead he used it to become the ultimate womanizer and dancer. This disappointed his nature loving parents, and they kicked him out of the house when he was but five years old.
This young dancing prodigy’s life was turned around when he was taken in by an Elvis impersonator. This fake king made Steven spend hours in strict training under the guidance of the kind former Disco king. Sixteen hours every day, seven days a week, Steve trained and trained in the way of the Dance. The kind man died ten years later. Steve was now fifteen, but his name was already being whispered on the streets.
At the age of sixteen, Steven Locksmith discovered a strange underground syndicate dedicated to dancing. Bets were placed on the competing dancers, and the winners often earned much respect while the losers could have died out of humiliation. Disco Steve became a favorite in the underground dancing world, and by seventeen he had won fifty underground dance competitions. By twenty, he had acquired millions of dollars from these events. But he started to grow tired of having no challenges; his magical powers were too good to go against. He searched for a new challenge. He heard a rumor about a syndicate which sponsored a hybrid of dancing/fighting. The idea interested Steven and he hired the finest of fighters to teach him the ropes. He did so until his funds ran out, but by then he was a master.
Now, at twenty four, Steven Locksmith searches for combatants.
Extra Information: Steve Locksmith lives off something called “Groove”. It is his spiritual essence, and is what powers him to do his most spectacular stunts, such as floating in mid air to moonwalk and other magical skills. He retrieves Groove by pulling off simple moves that need no magic and a strange beat out of nowhere signals when he has reached enough Groove to pull of a magic ability.
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