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The Bestest Characters in FFR!
06.10.04, 14:14:06
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Post #1 (permalink) |
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Name: Daytrax Holiday
Age: Claims to be six hundred and sixty-six years old, but he’s a ****, so he’s probably more around fifteen.
Height: Five feet tall, like Godzilla, only shorter
Weight: Off the scales
Gender: Male, or is it? Daytrax himself hasn’t seen his little Daytrax for years.
Race: So complicated to say, it can’t be written in English, so we’ll just call it **** Excuse For a Human.
Class: Super Duper Awesome Thing *cough* online that is *cough* Offline he’s your average mmorpg nerd boy.
Facial Description: Daytrax has the face of an angel, a very ugly angel. His face is chubby, and scarred with a battle with acne long past. Or is it? Anybody who has cut his face before knows that a river of acne is just waiting to flow out and pus somebody off. Get it? Piss? Pus? Oh **** off. Anyways, his nerdy glasses which makes his eyes look small and puny, well, small and punier, are rimmed pink. His hair is dandruff free, not dandruff-free, there’s a difference dick wad. He didn’t pay for his dandruff; he did however pay for not buying the right shampoo, poor sod. His teeth are yellow, a sign of bad hygiene and massive consumption of sweets and goodies. His nose is also really big, like Pinocchio, only filled with blackheads instead of wood.
Body Armour Description: Like any other online game player, Daytrax lacks a life. He also lacks fashion taste. So you know what he wears? A shiny green shirt which proudly states in pink font that he is “Officially the Smartest Man in the World”. Too bad Daytrax has never looked on the back of his shirt, which says that he’s a lame ass brain **** tart. Over this, he wears a leather coat which has a single sleeve ripped off because Daytrax thinks it’s cool. Yeah right, go get a life Daytrax. His panting consists of his tighty whities, something he has yet to grow out of, and a pair of khaki trousers which are too short to be legal. For men anyway.
Weapons: Rancid breath, festering armpits, dirty finger and toe nails. And worst of all, Daytrax’s knowledge on the online universe, and how he can tell a level sixty-five Elven mage in Everquest from a level sixty-five Elven mage in Neverwinter Nights.
History: People like Daytrax appear out of nowhere, and live lives where they are nobodies. You’re probably just like Daytrax. In fact, I think you are Daytrax. YOU LOSER. |
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100% Creamy Goodness
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Name: Dais
Age: Twenty-Seven
Height: 5’10
Weight: Sixty-Six Kilograms
Gender: Male
Race: Humanoid
Title: The Huntsman
Facial Description: One look at Dais’s face will give the spectator a story to speculate upon. Short dishevelled black hair and eyes of identical tinge instigate a sense of terror, for the dissimilarity between this and the stone cold countenance of Dais is disconcerting at the least. The faded wounds of battle with Wilt, and fresh cuts from encounters during a hunt, adorn his visage with unsung pride, for Dais is a firm believer of the common hunter saying “If the going isn’t hard, it isn’t worth the capture”.
Body Armour Description: Dais is all about flexibility and comfort, and thus metallic forms of armour do not appeal to his tastes one bit. Rather, tanned buffalo hide in the form of a vest makes up for upper body armour while khaki-shaded leather makes up the trousers, with a simple leather belt fastening the trousers to Dais’s body. Of course, this leaves Dais for the most part susceptible to attacks; he feels that if he does his duty right, he shouldn’t have to fret about being attacked.
Weapons: Suspended from the left side of the waist belt Dais possesses are a hunting knife and its tanned skin residence. The knife is no extraordinary piece of equipment, not hallowed by any god or goddesses as other magician’s would have reserved in their inventory.
The handle of the knife’s insides are made of metal, but plated over that is sandalwood, and over that, small strings of bluish-black cord wrap. The wood provides weight to the knife, while the cord wrap obviously provides a firm place to grasp the knife by, and the grip of the knife is made to fit the whole of Dais’s hand, giving even more competence to the weapon.
The blade is not quite as lengthy as the blade of a machete, but longer still than a switchblade. This segment of the knife is ideally used for gutting cadavers and the killing of still animate animals, and if necessary, humans. The front side of the knife is teethed, which provides more than enough punch against anything mad enough to harass Dais.
The belt not only holds this knife however, for within its many other pouches are a variety of items, ranging from poisons to tranquillisers and even explosive powders in emergency cases. Not all that is held within these small bags are of violent design however, for one holds leaves that, when chewed, eliminate pain, if at cost of slower reactions. Adding to this list, one pouch holds numerous lock picks, matches, a looking glass, and basically else everyone one would need to survive in for extended periods in the wilderness.
Slung over Dais’s back is a thunder shooter. They look like crossbows, but with two small differences. Rather than work on the power of push alone, thunder shooters are designed to use a minute amount of gunpowder, and thus create a higher velocity for the bolts the weapon shoots. Higher speeds usually mean less danger, and this is a good thing. Also, the ammunition of thunder shooters is stored within a hollow compartment of the weapon’s hilt, and this can be reloaded by simply taking the current clip out, and replacing it with a new one. Each thunder shooter clip has five bolts, and these can be shot off in almost rapid succession of the last.
Skills: All hunters must be able to skin an animal for its hide, or a lizard for its skin, but they aren’t made to do much else, save other common talents anybody can do. In the long hours of waiting a huntsman must endure, Dais has taught himself multiple talents to waste the time away, including instrument playing, woodworks and other such useless time-spending hobbies.
Dais’s not so useless skills are generally those of magical heritage, and though he learns to control them more and more each day, its rare he finds new talents he’s never seen before.
Personality: Dais is a witty son of a gun, gifted with a silver tongue, and a brain to use it. He can talk his way out of almost any situation, and can haggle for a good until the price is almost two times less then originally. This blessing comes with a curse, and that is that Dais has a crude tongue. Just as easy as he can cause somebody to become enamoured with him, he can cause somebody to dislike him, usually through massive amounts of swearing. Dais is very partial with alcohol.
Family History: Dais was born to Peter Fox and Hannah Triumph, the former being a descendent of the Vanstone regal throne. Although Dais dropped the last name, it remains a fact that he is the sole living survivor or the Vanstone lineage, and though this means jack squat to Dais, to those who formerly served the king, it would mean everything. Yet they know not of his existence, and Dais prefers to keep it that way, for it would probably, within his mind, be a pain in the behind.
Prologue: Dais was born in 1657, the year of the hawk, and found himself in the imperialistic and aged capital of Vanstone, the son of the King and Queen. As a baby, he had prophets visiting daily, and when a toddler, private tutors instead.
In the fields of education, Dais had no taste for anything besides the Tertian (the universal language of the world) tongue and the function of the swordsman within Vanstonian culture. His parents did not quite understand why their son, the heir to the throne of Vanstone, would care for such a despicable role, nor did they understand his hate for mathematics and sciences. But then, Dais was not one many understood.
At the age of six, Dais had seen his share of tutors, all seemingly lacking in some department or other and always possessing of a short temper. Then, there came a keeper, a man named Ha’Tep who hailed from a foreign country infamous for its magical arts. Despite the thick nasal accent of his homeland, Ha’Tep spoke Tertian with amazing fluidity, and knew dark secrets of the world not many knew other than his own people, and thus Dais had every reason to be interested in the man’s teachings.
It seemed for every question Dais asked, Ha’Tep had a logical answer, be it the reason for the sky’s colouring, or why humans existed, but there were two questions that Ha’Tep refused to answer. One was why he had left his motherland, the empire of Midasea. No matter how hard Dais tried, Ha’Tep merely blew the question away and went into one his stories of the giants beneath the oceans, that, or simply go silent for days. The second question was that of Midasean magic, a topic that seemed to sting Ha’Tep whenever mentioned. Despite this strange trait, Ha’Tep taught Dais everything the child needed to know on how to live both inside and out of the castle walls which Dais was trapped in, always preferring to edify the practical rather the unfeasible things nobody used later in their life.
At the age of twelve, Dais was already being implemented in the royal court as a representative to all the foreign delegations that came wishing something from the Vanstonian realm, due to his firm grasp on the language and his ability to dodge unwanted questions, undoubtedly a result of his master’s own ways. Ha’Tep remained in Vanstone, serving as wise council to Dais when the legatee of the dominion needed it, and the bond between teacher and student morphed into one of two equals.
Five years later, Dais and Ha’Tep were still on good terms, but Dais wanted to know badly of the obscure Midasean magics that he was sure Ha’Tep possessed knowledge of. Just when Dais was about to stop trying, Ha’Tep caved in, and decided to pass on his knowledge to the teenager he had overseen for more than a decade of his life.
While Ha’Tep had not initially believed that magic could be passed on through mere words, Dais proved him wrong, and within weeks the royal heir was tossing chairs left and right with mere swishes of his hand. Weeks after that, the chairs were being set alight by thought alone, causing much unrest in Dais’s father, who had, along with Dais, experienced the loss of the Queen only a year earlier.
Before Dais’s training was completed, the King ordered Ha’Tep to move along, sensing the now-near senile man was brainwashing his child so that the Midasean would hold secret rule over the land. Dais protested heatedly, feeling his father was being a fool, but Ha’Tep merely agreed, and left the nation without another word.
A year moved on, and Vanstone was suddenly being assaulted by countries on all sides, even facing the verge of an uprising within its boundaries, and doom seemed inevitable for the Vanstonian way of life. The King, feeling he had made a grave mistake in sending Ha’Tep away, ordered his son to find his former mentor, hopefully before the monarchy was lost. And so began Dais’s adventures outside of Vanstonian.
Chapter One- The Hunt for Ha’Tep: For days Dais ventured across the slowly deteriorating county of Vanstone, and for weeks it seemed Dais would never find trace of his friend and advisor’s trail. At some point in what seemed an endless journey, Dais entered a pub near the border of Vanstone, adjacent to the province of Libersaw. It was here, as he downed a beer, he heard of a strange old man who had passed through only a week earlier, fitting the description of Ha’Tep, and now refreshed, Dais went on the route said to have been taken by the sagely man.
Libersaw happened to be one of the countries that were trying to seize Vanstone, and although this would have under normal circumstances made it harder for the royal son of that very country to pass beyond its borders, Dais saw no such difficulty, for not many people, other than the court of Vanstone, had seen his countenance. And so beyond its unyielding countryside he moved, making his way to where he presumed Ha’Tep to be heading, the very free-thinking centre of Matrosel.
After what seemed two weeks of travelling the rural side to the city, Dais finally made it to Matrosel. True enough to the accounts of Ha’Tep; the place was a juxtaposition of towers and flats, an industrial jungle so to speak. Exploring the labyrinth of Matrosel proved a much more difficult task than the open fields through which Dais had walked for months, and for bread and water, Dais performed medial errands. It took a week of such living before Dais heard mention of Ha’Tep again, and this time, the lead was much more precise, designating an actual building in which Ha’Tep could be found.
Dais was unprepared for what he saw when he entered the bungalow in which Ha’Tep had been said to reside in. On the floor lied dead Ha’Tep, his skin wrinkled beyond normal measure, as if his blood had been sucked out of him, and next to his body stood a man dressed from head to toe in a black flowing robe, with a red garb wrapped around the chest. In a rage, Dais made his move for who he suspected to be the killer, but like magic, the man stepped back and was gone, and in his place, a letter. The letter was addressed to Dais himself, and part of it was in Ha’Tep’s own scripting, while another was of alien origin, but still readable. The section from Ha’Tep transcribed two things, the story of Ha’Tep before meeting Dais, and a warning.
Apparently, before meeting Dais, Ha’Tep had been a hedonist, living it up in Midasea. The teacher had apparently dropped out of school in pursuit of less trivial goals, and had learned all he needed too on the road, and through the women he bedded. The man had actually studied under some of the people he had made mention of during Dais’s lessons on magic. But all this, Ha’Tep had been ashamed of, and had thus refrained from telling Dais of this part of his life. Why exactly, Dais could not figure out, but perhaps it was out of Ha’Tep’s want for looking the perfect idol.
Ha’Tep’s caveat was on a much sinister note, speaking of a tribe of dark artists who performed assassinations for the highest bidder and how their current payers were slowly killing off anybody who stood in their way. Each member of this unholy union, which Dais would later learn to be called The Judgment of Ar’dul, wore a different coloured garb, and there were six in all. In the note, Ha’Tep talked of how he suspected he would be one of the murdered, and Dais could only remain speechless and read on. Ha’Tep gave one final piece of advice before ending the letter, and that was that Dais, if he received this piece of paper, should find somewhere to finish his schooling.
The murderer’s section of the message simply had the word “Beware” in bold, and an insignia unlike Dais had ever seen, and this begun a new fragment of Dais’s life.
Chapter Two- The Return of the Prince: When Dais finally mustered the energy to return back to Vanstone, he was nineteen, and had been living in isolation within the rural community west of Matrosel, filled with thoughts on this strange tribe and their masters. To know such things existed beyond the curtains of common viewing had instilled a deep fear of living in Dais, and the year of his rest had been one lived in anxiety.
Upon arrival of the capital, he found the head of his father impaled upon a stake outside of the city, and a small word of warning regarding the missing son the King had been crying out for before his death. It seemed that where foreign invaders had failed, turncoats within Vanstone had succeeded. Dais’s life seemed empty, and now demise seemed the only thing left. With a slit of his left wrist, Dais fell to the ground outside Vanstone, dying.
When Dais awoke, and his eyes opened, he could only see darkness. For a second, he thought he had died and gone to hell, but then a candle made light, and a face hung over him. The man’s face was like that of Ha’Tep’s, having the same bronzed complexion and chocolate eyes, but Dais knew it wasn’t the same man. After questioning the man, Dais found his name to be Wilt, and this was the man who had saved Dais from a premature death.
Days later, Dais discerned Wilt to be a high calibre magician, whether their meeting was by accident or destiny, Dais knew not. One thing was certain, Wilt knew more of magic than Ha’Tep, and was much more willing to share it. Yet another year passed, and this time, Dais’s education ended with his course completed. Though Wilt was not by nature friendly, he was a good teacher, and by the time the training was completed, Wilt held the same amount of respect in Dais as Ha’Tep. But upon Dais’s leaving of Wilt’s abode, it disappeared, as if it had never existed. But Dais had a goal now, for Wilt had told him of a mighty artefact capable of giving great amounts of power to those who found it, and this was what Dais felt he would need if he ever wanted to take revenge.
Chapter Three- The Demonika Obskura: The artefact for which Dais sought took him six long years to find, and even then, it was by chance, for not a single soul other than Wilt had ever heard of the magical relic. The place was Magila, the time was night, and the sky dull and lacking of stars, and Dais had been tired, so he had stopped at what seemed to be an abandoned tower which stood at the edge of a cliff overlooking what seemed to be a never-ending ravine.
Upon entrance, Dais knew he had struck gold, for right in front of him, on a royal red coloured banner laid a sign that he had seen years ago at the scene of his former mentor’s death. The Judgement of Ar’dul’s black eye stared back at Dais from its position above an aged cabinet. Moments later, Dais was climbing the stories of the tower via the spiralling staircase, heading for the top and nothing less.
Who else stood there but Wilt, the man who had finished the training that Ha’Tep never properly had? For a minute, Dais stood stunned, but it came to him soon enough how well he had been played into this game. Wilt had known Dais would surely seek the article which Wilt himself had told the prince of, for it had promised strength beyond earthly dreams, and that was a promise men would hunt for dearly. But Wilt told Dais, as the two stood on the top floor, that there was indeed such an object waiting here, but that Dais would have to fight to earn it. And so he did.
The clash between the two seemed to go on for eternity, with both parties swinging blows at the other, using both magic and their own physical bodies to cause harm to the other. Dais would carry the scars he received from this battle for as long as he lived, but Wilt died of his due to his failing of avoiding a simple punch that ended up bashing his face in. This deceit meant, at the time being, naught to Dais, and the only thing on his mind was the Demonika Obskura, and when it appeared there was no object of any kind other than multiple wardrobes filled with nothingness, Dais let out a yell of anger, for Wilt had not been true to his word.
Looking upon the carcass of Wilt, Dais made motion to take of the dreary robes the traitor had worn on a hunch, and it was confirmed. He had killed the man with the red garbs, the murderer of Ha’Tep. The trickery, no matter how foul, had given Dais the revenge he wanted.
Chapter Four- The Huntsman: A year passed from the time Dais had stood in the tower with Wilt, and he was now at the age of twenty-seven. Despite his goal of ending the bizarre cult of The Judgement of Ar’dul, Dais had to find a fount of income, and so he took up for a profession what he had formerly only done as odd jobs to make money.
Dais became known across the lands as The Huntsman, for he would hunt down practically anything for the right payment and if the morals behind the chase seemed rational and principled. Through many abandoned mines he waded, searching for lost treasures, and through many jungles he treaded, slaughtering whatever animal was the fancy of his provider for its skin. With people, Dais tended to enjoy the pursuit much more, for once found, they would either take flight or come to blows, and each provided its own gratification. |
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Name: Sir Adrian Decanus Tafford
Age (Still): Twenty-Seven
Gender: Male
Race: Demi-Human
Class: Guardian Knight
Facial Description: Time has been kind with Adrian Tafford, not aging his looks a day from the day he was made eternal by Him. His hair remains cinnamon brown, and of a respectable length, with the odd strand of black here and there, while his eyes are of what appears to be a light-silver shade. His head is not unblemished however, for it bears two wounds of a battle long past. Starting from the bottom of his left chin, running over the right side of his lip, and ending above the top of his right ear, is a gash received in a pub fight. His other cut is shorter, and runs across his nose in a diagonal run, this received from fighting in the Crusades of Baltic and Central Europe.
Body Armour Description: Sir Decanus was made perpetual in his suit of armour, and therefore that too was made to be everlasting. First of all, like all knights, Adrian wears an aketon, a quilted arming coat sewn and stuffed with linen. As 15th century aketons were, the sleeves get wider the further away from the armpit they get, and are possessive of large arm-holes, to provide mobility of the arm. The arming coat is bleached, and together with the suit of armour, it is patriotic homage to Mother England.
A. Tafford is not, however, the knight in shining armour, but became known as the Crimson Knight for his lustreless dark red body armour. The full plate armour suit never did appeal to him, for though they gave you extra protection against swords, they did not shield well enough to prevent the shell of a gun, a weapon becoming more and more liked by the general public. This meant that if you wore plate armour, you were a perfect target for any gunner.
So, Sir Adrian preferred the donning of chainmail armour (only around the main body), along with a breastplate, and backplate, creating a very articulate armour set. The breastplate and backplate, which were commonly attached to each other and rarely found without the other, were the main body of the cuirass, though faulds helped protect the hip, abdomen and lower back while tassets defended the hips alone. Faulds were hoops made of iron sometimes covered in cloth, but in Adrian’s case, leather. Tassets were plates of steel that were attached to the faulds of the hips, and which were comprised of more than one fluted rib and a bulky rolled edge for strength. Unlike his brothers in knighthood, Sir Decanus refused to use armour across his arms or hands, deeming it excruciatingly idiotic to have weights attached to the very arms.
Sir Adrian Decanus Tafford’s leg harness was standard and featured beneath it a form of what would later be known as denim, and included the cuisse, poleyns, greaves, and the sabatons (also known as sollerets). The cuisse protected the thighs, the poleyn protected the knees, the greaves the lower legs, and the sabatons the feet. Tafford’s cuisse is made of splinted leather, and is made of one broad piece rather than individual pieces. Arming points lined at the top of the cuisse allow it to be attached to the aketon, and what is known as a wrap plate helps defend the back of the thigh. The poleyns, known as knee cops, were made of mail, and were possessive of heart-shaped wings which extended from the poleyn to protect the back of the knee. The greaves are a form of plate armour, and therefore are made of iron. The sabatons are like to the greaves in this fashion, but feature articulated plates which end in a toecap. The cuisse, poleyns, and greaves were all put together via usage of lames, small and thin iron plates that helped leg articulation due to their slightly dished shape. Between each piece of leg armour there are three lames.
Rather than carry a shield to denote who Adrian was, his herald is emblazoned upon his breastplate. The symbol is a clenched fist, coloured gold, above a bishop’s mitre. This caused much commotion, for the fist symbolised Sir Decanus’ leadership qualities and elevation of mind, while the mitre symbolised authority, thus inciting the suggestion that Tafford was above authority. It was shortly after the adaptation of this as his herald that he was solidified as more than human, but if he hadn’t, he would have likely been excommunicated despite his status.
Weapons: Sir Decanus was renowned for his skill in battle during the last crusade, due to the fact that during his nine years of fighting there he had mastered over five different types of weapons and dabbled with many more. These weapons he professed in were the gudendag (a Flemish war hammer that often had spikes on it), the longbow (a weapon the English were famous for using and capable of propelling arrows three hundred yards away), the halberd (coming from a Dutch word meaning hell beard, and the primary weapon of Swiss armies in the fourteenth century), the quarterstaff (a long shaft made of any hardwood, and which worked as a very effective club), and finally the claymore (a Scottish sword also known as the greatsword and was a fearsome two-handed weapon which could be as long as seventy-two inches).
Upon his return to Mother England, Sir Adrian decided to train himself with the broadsword, a weapon alike to the claymore, yet smaller and lighter. This weapon was designed to be carried around with ease, for it weighed only around four pounds. The length of the broadsword Adrian carries was forty-two inches long, its hilt accounting for seven inches, thus leaving the remaining thirty-five for the cold iron blade. The sword’s name, Leviathan, is significant for the pommel is the head of a dragon. The pommel not only serves an ornamental value, but fulfils its duty as a counterweight to the blade and thus allows for the blade to move at greater speeds with less energy. The grip is made of leather, and glued on by means of melted pig fat. The scabbard for this potent weapon is attached to a shoulder strap which causes the weapon to lie diagonally across Tafford’s back.
Despite its usefulness, Leviathan is not a one man show. Sir Decanus uses with it a gladius, a weapon made famous by the Roman legionaries of old. A gladius is a short sword, often twenty-three inches in length, is possessive of a V-shaped tip, and has a rhomboid for a cross-section. Unlike the broadsword, which’s edge is usually dulled, a gladius’ main reason for existence is to stab and puncture, and therefore these two weapons complement each other. Because of its origins, Tafford pays reverence to Caesar by naming the blade after him. Caesar lays residence in a sheath attached to a belt around Adrian’s waist.
Magical Aptitude: Sir Adrian Tafford was, as a human, devoid of magic. This is not because magic does not work on Earth, but because such energy cannot possibly reside in any human, no matter how stalwart, without shortly destroying their souls and causing them to die. When made timeless, Decanus was quick to notice new powers festering within his body. He was told by the angel Michael that he was now immortal by magic, but still able to die by anything other than time and sickness. Michael reassured him, however, that if Adrian was to die, he would be brought to life in the Heavens once more. Michael explained that he was given the ability to utilise ‘time and space’ rifts mortals could not see, and though he himself could not create them, it was enough to be able to pass through them. He discovered soon that could implement force onto objects he did not touch, meaning he could carry them, drop them, or break them without physical contact. And though it took a century, Adrian found he could, if he exerted enough concentration, control an animal without bringing it to death by fright as he had some times before. Though some of the other men who had been made like the angels by Him could actually bring into existence elements of nature, Tafford found he could not. These are the limits of his powers, but these serve enough to enforce God’s will.
Personality: Adrian Decanus Tafford is by no means religious, for he is no less apt to kill you than spare you. His service to God is to make sure good prevails over evil, and he has many time killed a priest to ensure this. The definition of good comes more from the belief in God rather than the belief in religion, and this is why Decanus may swear, curse, and even kill and not fall to sin. As a human, he put his faith in God, and this was why he was turned. But apart from this excessive faith, Tafford is your average person, a lover of alcohol and a dark humoured individual.
History: Forlorn Bates was born into the world in the year 1486 A.D, in the small unknown village of Verns, England. Two years after his birth, the village was raided by marauders, and burned to the ground, causing his family and many others to flee and leave their possessions behind. Unfortunately, Albert Bates, the father of this child, was one of the casualties.
Despite being an only son, Georgina Bates refused to raise young Forlorn by herself, and left him at the door of a church. The church took him in, baptised him, and gave him the name “Adrian Decanus Tafford”. They provided for him for four years, and when this period was over, he was sent to the Temple Church in London, one of many places owned by the Knights Templar. Here he served as squire to an actual knight, not just a nobleman with the title of sir. This man was Sir Harold Orpheus, one of the more esteemed knights in England, known for settling quarrels by merely stepping into the rooms of the quarrellers.
Sir Harold was kind, but never forgiving, and soon Adrian was making less and less mistakes in what he did, becoming a purist in a way. But it was the words that Orpheus spoke one day that remained in Adrian’s libido for the rest of eternity. These words were “Remember, the Church is just run by an old man in a fancy hat. It’s God that you live for, never anybody else.” It had come about when Decanus had made a mistake, and apologised for it by swearing to ‘the Church’ that it would never happen again. When time came for Sir Harold to join the Crusades, Adrian followed.
Orpheus died when Tafford was fifteen, and by this time, Adrian had learned much from the old knight. He took up Sir Harold’s armour and weapon as his own, burying Harold where he died, as he had commanded before breathing his last breath. For the next ten years, Adrian would fight tirelessly with those the Church considered pagans, and after this decade of service, to England he returned.
After telling this story to one of the chaplains of the Knights Templar, he was called upon by the royal court and summoned. He came as squire Tafford, and left Sir Adrian Decanus Tafford. A year later, he adapted his herald, and owned his own weapons. Fighting in full armour is much different than fighting in a pub and his lack of experience in the latter field almost caused his death. A drunken man had put a cut across Adrian’s face that had caused immediate mass bleeding. The irony of it caused Sir Decanus to collapse in laughter.
It was one night when he was lying in bed, recovering from the injury, that a figure clad in a white robe from collar to foot approached him. The white robed one claimed to be an angel, and that in a three months time, he would come to immortalise Tafford, if the man so wished. Whether it was by coincidence, or carefully selected, the date symbolised Sir Adrian’s twenty-seventh birthday.
Who wouldn’t choose to live forever? Only those who feel they have lived a tortured existence wouldn’t. Decanus, despite his upbringings, never felt he had led a bad life. And he sure wouldn’t mind living longer.
To this day, Adrian walks the world, and others, executing the will of God, the Seraphim, the Cherubim, and whoever the hell else is higher on the food chain in Heaven. |
Last edited by Maldar the Incompetent : 06.18.04 at 08:52:11.
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Name: Charon, sometimes Mr. Jovial
Age: Eighteen
Gender: Male
Race: Habarian
Class: Psychopath/Mass Murderer
Facial Description: What made Charon such a successful pickpocket was his face, for he possessed a visage which was truly run of the mill. There is nothing extravagant on it, no moles, no freckles, just the coarse remains of a man built by hardship. Charon’s hair is a dull green which could pass for dark brown under the right lighting, and his eyes are of Habarian traits, meaning they possess a gold tint to them, and his teeth are just average. Never once has Charon shaved, and so a thickened beard runs around his face.
Clothing Description: Charon’s choice in garments is simple and effectively helps him blend in with the crowd. His pants are made of rough browned cotton, and his jacket is of tanned leather, sewn so badly it’s unfeasible to think anybody would pay for it. Charon, however, did not pay for it, so it’s alright. For shoes, he uses leather as well, but though these are well-made, the soles are coming off and the flaps are unhinging. The socks under this formerly elegant piece of footwear are tattered in so many places it seems impossible for the socks to hold together.
Weapons: Charon has always made due with the world around him, and has been reputed to kill people with a numerous range of weapons, from a dead fish to a wooden spoon. He is no professional killer, and he is no assassin, and due to the anarchic rule of Habar, he never needs to clean up his messes. Everything he has used, he has learned to use on the spot, and while some require more improvisation than others (Charon had once killed somebody with a single small cube of ice), Charon feels that a weapon is a weapon and therefore its purpose is to kill and the method on how to do it is always there, waiting to be discovered.
History: Charon was born into the world a murderer, responsible for killing his own mother within the first minute of his life. His father, a negligent alcoholic, dropped Charon as he carried him in his arms a day after his birth. Not only had Charon been born to a drunkard and a dead woman, he had been born a bastard child, for neither of the two had ever been married.
Charon was in the care of his father for nearly two years before the man traded him for a pint of beer, not realising what he was doing. The bartender, knowing he could get a hefty price off of Charon by selling him as a slave, went to the black market and did just that. Once again, Charon traded hands, this time to a homosexual paedophile named Bill.
Bill was a politician of high standings in Habar, the city which was the exact anti-thesis to utopia. He preferred his boys to be at least four before he molested them, and he would regret that with Charon. For day by day for two years, he messed with Charon’s genitals, pretending he was playing a game with Charon. What he didn’t know was that Charon, though a child, knew what the fifty year old professional liar was up to, even though he didn’t know the word for it.
When the day finally came, and Bill entered his room at night, Charon brought down a knife he had stole from the kitchen upon Bill’s ****. While Bill cried in pain, Charon swung again and again, mutilating everything from Bill’s face to his legs. Nobody paid any attention, for they heard screaming, confronted murder and thievery every day. Who cared? Charon ran from the house, clothed in an oversized jacket he had stolen from the old man’s closet, and ran until he could run no longer. He passed out after three days of aimless wandering, from dehydration.
When he awoke, Charon found himself tied to a bed, with a syringe sticking out of his arm. Connected to it was tubing, which itself led to a plastic bottle containing what seemed to be blood. Charon screamed. To his side came a man and a girl, the man looking around thirty, and the girl in her late fifteens. Both had dilated eyes, seeping eye-bags, and translucent skin. The girl was first to speak, introducing herself as Rachel, and even introducing the guy as Ox. They told Charon of how they had found him on the street, covered in blood, and how they would take care of him now.
Charon lived with these people for scarcely three years, before losing his mind when he heard them talking about selling him, Charon, to buy some more of the devil powder which they snorted after and before every love session. Ox had been surprising easy, for despite his big bulk, his veins protruded, and the wire Charon had removed from the bed had cut through the neck veins easily. Rachel was in some other mental plane when Charon took her out, and she had been easier still, pleasuring herself with her dirty fingers, hiding her privates under a holy book as if God could not see what she was doing. Neither had very much money on them, and at seven Charon couldn’t exactly earn a living in the city.
Thievery became his game, and Charon was a magnificent player. But his life maintained its inconsistency, and he mistakenly picked the pocket of a cult leader called Simon. This man was becoming increasingly powerful in the city, and his control over his followers using various narcotics and alcohols combined together disallowed any competition from rising within his sect, named the Asylum of God’s Children. In an instant after Charon’s hand reached behind the man’s serape, two bulky, brainless goons were on him, and Charon received many a blow to the guts before passing out.
When Charon awoke, he was in the Asylum itself, a former cathedral with windows that had been shattered by one of the many thousands of riots that had stormed by here before. He was tied by his feet, hanging upside down, and he could feel the blood rushing to his head. Simon the Minister stood before him, his black fancy wig crawling down his back like a snake. Simon offered Charon a proposal, one which involved Charon become a cultist. The deal was this. Charon was to become a pamphlet boy, in charge of handing out leaflets regarding the Asylum, and picking the pockets of all those who refused. This way, the sect could gain money from its non-believers as well as the currency it took from its own members. In return, Charon would get free lodgings and not be killed.
Charon had, by now, gotten far more than a taste for what life was like, and he accepted the deal, no questions asked. Years passed, and by the time he was twelve, he was much higher in position than a pamphlet distributor, and served as a right-hand man to Simon himself. To be highest on the food chain was Charon’s goal, and one night he slipped powder into the wine of the Minister, a powder which disabled the vocal chords from working as well as functioning as a tranquiliser. Simon was fully conscious when Charon began carving open his ribcage, and yet he could not scream out loud.
Charon escaped the Asylum before the cult found their leader dead, and though they vowed vengeance, they fell into disarray with nobody to lead them. It was by chance that a month later, as Charon went from inn to inn, hiring himself off as a gigolo, he met his father. Despite being at such a young age when he had last seen him, Charon knew who it was well enough, but questioned him on his life nevertheless. The man was still a ****ing drunk. Charon brought him outside the pub, and killed him with his own hands, savouring each tooth that fell out of his old man’s mouth. The next day, Charon sold his father’s corpse for beer money, it was only fair.
Now, years later, Charon is eighteen, and has killed at least twenty men, seven women, and three children. He suffers from a number of mental disorders, schizophrenia and psychosis being two of many. He is unemployed, and makes all his money off of his victims. On an end note, Charon rarely makes any sense when he talks. |
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Name: Edgar “Wolf” Crowe
Age Thirty
Height: 6’5 Feet
Weight: 75 Kilograms
Gender: Male
Race: Edarian
Facial Appearance: A bald head, cold, claret eyes, and a dark brown goatee. This is the face of Wolf; a face feared and respected everywhere. Small scars run down the sides of his face, with a prominent gash laced across his left eye, in diagonal motion starting from the right of his forehead all the way down to the left cheek.
In battle, Wolf makes it known to his enemies that no cheap hits to his head will be taken, namely by placing a zishagge upon his head. This helmet is a favourite with him simply because it not only protects the crown of his head, but the entire district along the rear of his neck as well. Although he is greatly ranked, the zishagge he uses does not enjoy the nose guard the officer’s zishagge usually does. The zishagge, while providing more than ample fortification, also provides his enemy with one final shufti of the entirety of his face before they die.
Body Armour: Though he should, Edgar never wears the patrician ceremonial garments of the Edar court, which consist of a womanly shawl lined with cotton. Instead, on both private and communal occasions, he simply wears a grubby, yet comfortable, cotton shirt with its short sleeves. When he wears this shirt, he sports, along with it, an undemanding, golden-brown, buffalo hide set of trousers.
His battle gear on the other hand, is anything but nominal. A lustrous steel, pointed gorget is the initial item detectable as a man viewing Wolf scrolls from head downward, followed by silver tinted, seven-piece spaulders, protecting their designated area, the shoulders, which continues from where the gorget leaves off.
To deviate to the arms means the mentioning of a pair of polished steel bracers which protect a reasonable portion of the area between Wolf’s elbow and wrist, but it just falls short of the hand itself because from there hourglass finger gauntlets protect the hands.
Turning back to the chief frame of Edgar’s body however, reveals that it is no less armoured than the mere arms of the fellow. A coat of plates intricately winded together to form a vest protects the main frame of Edgar, surrounding both the back and front, and coloured like to the other pieces of protective covering mentioned already. Though it doesn’t seem much when put side by side to plate armour, it can take a fair share of blows from the meanest of weapons, even war hammers, without catastrophe. Note that the armour above is only layered atop the cotton shirt usually worn by Wolf.
Strapped on via use of ebony dyed leather, a blackened wood sheath is laid across Wolf’s back, allowing him direct access to his sword should he need it. The sword holster is made of sandalwood, and is bordered with gold plating, and in the very middle of the sheath lies a picture chiselled into the wood. It is an image of a wolf, looking directly outward, and its eyes seemingly burning.
The main of Edgar’s leg armour, which proceed down from his waist, is layered atop a grimy pair of trousers. Following this is a pair of articulated leg harnesses, straddling a good area of Wolf’s thighs down to an area only a centimetre below the knee. From there, a second piece of leg armour continues, namely a pair of plain steel greaves, not made for finery, but fortification. As these end at his ankles, one last piece of paraphernalia is needed. Round-toe sabatons, to be exact, and these metal shoes are his choice of footwear whether in battle, or not. All this together creates both a dull silver vision of magnificence, or one of ominous dread, depending on whose side you’re on.
Weapon: Wolf’s sword is a forty inch broadsword, made up of a thirty two inch blade, leaving the hilt the remaining eight inches.
The metal grip is bonded in cord wrap, which provides more hold for Wolf, ensuring he never looses his hold of it, and features antique hilt styling. Although most men would use such a sword with both hands, Edgar can wield it at full efficiency with one.
The well-tempered, shiny, carbon blade is more than capable of slicing through bone, with a design that is beyond aerodynamic, allowing for speed along with strength.
Prologue- A Brief History: Edgar Crowe was born in the region of Edar, and was the son of a influential aristocrat father, and a prominently attractive, yet horrid tempered, mother. With his father never around to care for him, and his mother blatantly abusing him in the most ghastly of ways, he grew up alone, not knowing the meaning of love at all. Although his father was never around, the man sent the best of tutors to teach Edgar what he needed to be acquainted with, but all quit their job when they were met with more than just dislike on Edgar’s part. He seemed a rabid animal, unable to be disciplined, and with his mother constantly lashing him when nobody was looking, he only grew fiercer and fiercer. When his father heard news of his son’s madness, he locked him away in a secluded chateau, far away so that news of the boy would not spread very far. Despite this somewhat insensible act, Edgar’s dad loved his son, and did deliver food every so often, disguising his visits to the estate as inspections of his property. But this did nothing for Edgar, now called Wolf by his ***** mother, due to his feral, recluse manner.
By the age of ten, Wolf had not learnt to verbalize a single syllable, and didn’t have anybody visiting his secluded abode at all, for his father had been killed in a peasant insurrection, simply for being wealthy. Yet Edgar didn’t know this, and only thought more that nobody cared for him. The lack of food available started Edgar going out in the night, and practically stealing chickens and eating them raw. This carried on for a fair period of time, but eventually farmers became worried about a man beast roaming around the place, and started guarding their livestock even harsher than before, setting out bear traps and the like. But the son of Crowe didn’t know this, and fell deep into a pitfall trap, in which he was discovered the very next day by the commune.
It had now been years since they had last seen Edgar, and not one soul recognised him, and so the villagers took him in, and because Wolf had been crippled, he could not fight back when they cared for him. It was in this time period that Edgar grew to love the people around him, who seemed devoted to caring for him, and slowly, but surely, he began to sew small threads of trust. In four years, these threads had become garments, and over that time he had learnt to articulate the simplest of terms and read the most straightforward of books. But he was becoming a man, and though puberty had kicked in two years earlier, he was only now realising what stimulated him. There was a particular village girl, slightly younger than him, who had the finest of bosoms, and the prettiest of faces. It was she who had personally cared for Edgar in his wounds, and it was she who’s camaraderie he enjoyed the most. It was almost excruciating how she came to visit, and talk to him, but yet never reach across and grace him with her lips.
But it was one night; now Edgar aged sixteen that she came to visit him, after they had both completed their duties around the village, that Edgar made his move. Trounced by his impulses, he raped her face with his kisses, and tried making a move on her clothes. She violently struck back, sending Wolf’s face into a state of cutting pain. This altogether too familiar sensation of his childhood sent him spiralling into an incensed rage, and he violently bit into her neck, ripping into it with his canine teeth. Her screams filled the entire hamlet, and it was only too soon that the village dwellers rushed into Edgar’s room, to find the beauty of the town lying lifeless in a puddle of blood, with Wolf standing over her, blood staining his mouth and clothes, howling tears.
Edgar Crowe was thrown out soon after, banished from ever returning. In build he seemed a giant compared to most other people he met, and he was constantly being awed by those he passed by. He wandered many weeks, often famished for days, until he finally collapsed in a state of under nourishment. When he awoke, he was in the main headquarters of the Royal Edarian Army. He was quickly brought water and food, and both he took down hastily, without thought. As soon as he had gotten this task done, he was dragged unwillingly by the guards towards the royal throne room. He was brought to kneel down to the king, and to pledge an oath of allegiance, something Edgar refused to do multiple times until finally he hadn’t the vigour to say no any longer. It was his stature that had interested everybody, and the gear that was passed to him was specially adjusted to fit his physique.
In the beginning of his career, it seemed he would not make the warrior all hoped him to be. He failed to respond to instructions, he often threatened those who dared brandish their weapons against him, and was, in his thoughts, on a horizon far beyond everybody else. But as training progressed, Edgar seemed to start enjoying what he did, to the point where he actually started studying on the arts of war to the point of strategy. Soon, his higher officers could do nothing but applaud the diligence, to which Wolf practiced and studied, but were at heart, worried that he would take over their jobs. It was, opportunely enough, a time of war, and Edgar’s officers hurriedly sent him away to the theatre of combat, hoping him to be killed in battle.
At age eighteen, Wolf stormed the battlefield for the first time, against a group of barbarian tribes that were trying to raid the Edarian territories. The fastidious assemblage to which Wolf was assigned to guard the Edarian border with was outnumbered at least two to one. The outlook of this skirmish looked bleak, for the commander of Wolf’s squad was an absolute coward, as was the superior commandant. When the advantage of the battle could have been gained, they stayed in their little wooden outpost, refusing to move, despite Wolf’s frantic pleas. And so, when the barbarians attacked, the while battalion of troops was slaughtered, save Wolf. Edgar managed to fend off the invaders, repelling each one, taking on the next, until they retreated. With his first battle won, and no friends to help him should the raiders return, he marched on back to Edar.
Awarded for valour in battle, Edgar was given a position in the Royal Knight regiment, knighted by the king who he had so denied only years ago. Life continued this way for a while, Wolf now a respected member of Edar, known for being shrewd beyond his years, and yet astonishingly well-built. It seemed life, at twenty, was finally coming together for the wild child. He gained a wife of unrivalled beauty and benevolence, named Laura, and became prosperous beyond anything his father had accomplished.
But his former superior officers had not forgotten him, and were now green with envy of him. After months of preparation, they sent an assassin to kill off his wife, planning to make it look like an attack from the savages to the north that had been the enemy in Wolf’s first mêlée. When Wolf found her dead, there seemed no longer a reason for living, but to defend his ruler. And so he began to fall into an unfathomable reverie over his work, spending days in the imperial library, and when not there, practicing his sword work over at the training grounds. But the resentful bureaucrats had not finished their work with Wolf, but waited four years, not to make it too palpable, before breaking down the last barrier of Wolf’s mentality. During this time he had fought in more wars than anybody else, and had become a figure of excellence in everybody’s eyes, an idol of their time. A sculpture of him was erected in the royal courtyard, he had poems written about him by the bards of the court, but Edgar didn’t pay heed, but continued his oath of adherence to only the king, and nothing else in life.
Then the day came when the officers pulled their trick. They placed forged documents in Wolf’s manor, claiming a plan to abolish the king. The one man Edgar had vowed to protect was now against him, leaving him with nothing. Quicker than the bereavement of the village girl at Wolf’s hands, everything in his life shattered. His residence was taken from him, his wealth was given back to the king, and he was stripped off all honours. But because Wolf had served the fatherland royally, he wasn’t executed, but instead banished. Edgar knew who was behind it, but there was nothing he could do, and so he left the fatherland, a former champion, now a desperado, not even laudable of being spat on.
It was too his former rival’s lands to which he fled, for it was the only place left for him. When he got there, he was attacked. When he didn’t hold his sword against them, they brought him to his knees, and chained him, then brought him to their tribal warlord, the man who ruled all the barbarian tribes. He wasn’t accepted easily however, for this was a man who had slaughtered many of their men. But when Edgar explained what had happened, the chieftain overlooked it, knowing Wolf to be a true fighter, one who gloried in combat, and who served loyally.
The way of life was simple here, lacking the city life that Edgar had come to know, but there was something there that hadn’t been in Edar. These people had shamans, men who knew magic, something Edar didn’t have. It was under these very people that Wolf studied, for he could learn nothing more of weapons. He was an adroit practitioner, and in no time he learnt how to concentrate his libido into a deviant might as strong as Wolf’s brute force. But although he tried living a life of harmony and concord with the people, known as the Limahari, he was blown out from a life of peace. Only after a few years, and Wolf being twenty eight, the Edarian Royal Corps stormed into the Limahari land, in full force, massacring every man, woman, and child they came into contact with. And Edgar was helpless, not able to be of assistance the people that had accepted him with open arms; he fled, for the very first time.
For a year he remained in segregation, in a small cave located at the border of Edar and the former Limahari province, practicing his new skills, along with the old, contemplating on a way he could get back on his former allies, and not die in the process. Something was maturing him other than magic; it was something that he had lacked before, a sense of morals, but not holiness.
By thirty, he had devised a means of bringing his material form, not just his spiritual, into a different area of space, after much means of meditation. He could now open mystical doorway which, when he passed through, brought him to where he envisioned himself to wanting to be. He could envision people, and immediately the doorway would locate them, and bring him to an enclosure near towards the individual he wished to be with.
It was with this skill that he travelled to the very royal throne, which was unguarded, save the outside which was the only known way into the throne room. With nobody to save him, the king was helpless, and Wolf spared him of a long winded trip of pain by simply bringing his sword hard into the man’s heart. He then pictured his former commanding officers, and brought himself towards them, cutting their heads off with little care for their pleas. And now, he had done what he had set out to do, he wasn’t quite sure what to do next. But it came to him in an offensive of thoughts, not quite his own, that he should care for this dominion and expand it, and it was this that brought him to become sovereign.
It is under his iron fist now, that Edar is ruled. After all had been explained, the former allegations were dropped, and he was once more sacrosanct in the eyes of the Edarian people. With his hands on approach to battle, and his general acumen, Edgar “Wolf” Crowe is the glory of the empire. What still lays in store for Edgar Crowe? Continued Brilliance? Downfall? It will all be seen as his story unfolds.
Side Characters
Laura: Edgar’s former wife, who was most brutally killed. Sometimes in the heat of battle, he’ll fall apart on the inside as he slashes at his enemies, and thinks of her. She was, in ways, the reason for the civilized side of Edgar, for she had taught him how to use forks and spoons, something he had not known about in his time serving as a foot soldier. She had taught him how to play chess, a game Wolf enjoyed a lot while playing with her. She was, in general, a major inspiration for Edgar, and even in death she still is what gives him a conscience. |
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