Shog
The Infinite Being
Rules:
WE ARE CLOSED TO FURTHER APPLICANTS
Name:
Age:
Gender:
Race:
Appearance:
Curse:
Payment for Completing the Quest:
Home Region:
Personality:
Bio:
Other:
Accepted Characters:
- You are, first and foremost, cursed. It might come with some incredible power, but it has to come with some major drawback.
- This isn’t so much a rule as it is a general tip, but be creative with your curse. Perhaps you were cursed because of a power you already possessed. Perhaps you made a deal with the devil. Maybe you’re a spirit bound to the mortal realm. There are so many directions you can take this, so get creative.
- As part of the story, you have been hired by the king and queen of the kingdom to carry out this job. That means they already know you’re cursed. It doesn’t have to be general knowledge, but somehow the higher ups caught wind of you.
- You are promised some reward that your character wants if they complete the mission. It could be any number of things, but whatever it is it means your character’s on board. If you don’t want this to be public knowledge, send it to me in a PM and just put “Secret” under the Payment section.
- Be sure to look at the Lore page first.
- You are recruited by the King and Queen of Bandar, so make sure they wouldn't view you as a direct threat to their country.
- I’ll keep a complete list of races on the Settings/Lore page. If you want to add a race not already listed there, shoot me a PM with your idea and how they’ll fit into the world.
- Make a character that can at least partially mesh with the group. I don’t expect everyone to get along, but an antagonistic “friendly” character is no fun to work with.
- Feel free to add sections to your CS, but don’t remove any.
- I can be a bit of a nitpick when it comes to reviewing a CS. If you see me doing so (to any CS, not just your own) feel free to call me out on it.
WE ARE CLOSED TO FURTHER APPLICANTS
Name:
Age:
Gender:
Race:
Appearance:
Curse:
Payment for Completing the Quest:
Home Region:
Personality:
Bio:
Other:
Accepted Characters:
- Meryth Alesani
-
Malice Queen
Name: Meryth Alesani [Mare-ith Ah-less-ah-knee]
Age: 28
Gender: Female
Race: Altered Human
Home Region: Danon Lake
Appearance: The woman stands at five feet and seven inches and weighing around one-hundred and thirty-eight pounds. Her most notable feature is the infection that has engulfed the entirety of her right arm. The Rot, as most call it, has spiraled its way up her neck and has spread across the left half of her face. Her figure is slim yet despite the disgusting disease that had disfigured her, she has the appearance of a soldier. The former-soldier keeps her right arm wrapped up with several layers of bandages. Aside from that, she has peculiar slitted silver eyes that look like moonlight. Observant people will notice that places with skin seem to have pale patches of scales that seem to blend in with her skin. She wears a thick dark hooded cloak most times to keep others from seeing the atrocity that is her figure. Her blade is tarnished and poorly kept but it still serves her well - somehow.
Curse: The Rot is a painful disease, the flesh slowly necrotizing over time to cause maximum suffering to those who have it. There is no known cure for the disease and the modes of transmission are unknown, though it does not appear that the disease is infectious – not that does not stop people from shunning or chasing those suffering from the disease.
Payment for Completing the Quest: There were promises made to cure the painful and life-threatening curse that afflicts her. Whether or not this is possible is another story...
Personality: The ex-soldier appears to be quiet and observant, content with staying on the sidelines until a fight is guaranteed or if her moral compass deems it necessary to intervene. Against monsters, she acts more like a hunter than a soldier given her weakness of not being able to use her dominant arm.
Bio: The tale of this woman is something that she doesn't share with others - it's not something she enjoys talking about despite it explaining a good many things. Meryth was a soldier of sorts in her village of near Danon Lake - really it was a militia for the town and she was better at a blade than sitting around doing housework. High up in the mountains to the east of the lake was a group of mages who would occasionally come down to buy supplies for themselves before retreating back to their work - whatever that was. Meryth had the unfortunate fate of meeting and befriending one of the mages; his name was Cenger. When she was twenty years old, Meryth was invited up to the mountain by Cenger; little did the young woman know, it would change her life forever. The mages had been experimenting for decades in their cloistered home in an attempt to bring great power to the likes of man and Meryth was going to be their guinea pig. A ritual was performed to imbue the young soldier with the essence of a young dragon.
Scales grew in patches all over her body odd keratin spikes grew down the length her spine, on her shoulders, and hips; she was changed forever. Angered by the transformation, the altered human turned against her 'creators', killing them without a second thought; this could be because of the sudden rush of power within her blood or perhaps the anger of the essence she had taken. Regardless, Meryth left her home in Danon Lake and traveled elsewhere in Bandar. Obscuring her figure, the woman spent more time in the wild as opposed to in towns. Unfortunately, a group of mage-hunters tracked her down. The mage hunters gave little thought about her predicament and rather than help her, they cursed her to ensure she would not kill anyone else with the ill-gotten essence the mages stole.
Other: Though greatly limited, Meryth still has the strength granted to her by the dragon essence as well as the ability to breath fire. Though she is able to use her right arm for menial tasks, exerting herself causes the Rot to strain her body. As such, she uses her powers when necessary. She has learned to fight with her left arm though compared to her right, she is significantly weaker and slower. So far she has lived for two years with the curse.
- Lazarus Ceridwyn
-
idalie
“Throw them into the furnace of fire; in that place there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth.”
View attachment 550496
Name:
Lazarus Ceridwyn
Age:
28
Gender:
Male
Race:
Human
Appearance:
Lazarus is a cloaked figure, shrouded in shadow to deter from his features. The young man is burned, head to toe save for what could be healed. Whilst he retains his eyebrows, oft thickly furrowed in thought, the hair of his head is all but gone and his jaw is shaved to avoid a patchy beard. He’s cocooned in a wrapping of bandages beneath his clothing, sterilized and smothered with ointment to help what it can in keeping him cool. However, his scarred fingers are visible with rags wound around the palms and knuckles so he may better make use of his hands. Two, pale grey eyes peer out from beneath his hood, melancholy in passing expression. Nevertheless, Ceridwyn is a tall fellow, reaching around 6'3" with a broad and athletic form. Wide shoulders from using his bow, strong arms, and sturdy calves to anchor him. The archer wears an encompassing cloak with leather armour and light gauntlets that protect what it can of his hands.
Curse:
The Everflame - Lazarus was cursed with the gift of fire in a cruel tongue-tied deal. He may utilise its power, set alight arrows and send it from his fingertips. Yet to have gained such a curse, he succumbed to the effects. Baptised in flame itself, Lazarus suffers chronic pain. As if the fire is kindling in his insides and lapping again at his skin, this only gets worse as he uses it more. To abuse it in quick succession would cripple him. Still trying to control the curse it appears he may never quite handle the wild nature of fire and equally, has burned people likewise in the past.
Payment for Completing the Quest:
Aided in seeking relief from chronic pain.
Home Region:
The coast of Hasa
Personality:
A quiet man, sombre for the most part but not averse to making conversation where he sees fit. Lazarus finds social interaction tedious more often than not, although enjoys articulate conversation and interesting topics. The son of a missionary now finds his time for scripture drawing close, somewhat developing faith in desperation to be rid of his curse and equally all his sins. Does he believe in something afterlife? Perhaps not, yet servitude to the invisible divines is better than laying awake at night in silence. Instead, he prays. You might say he found the light again, yet has not accepted it unto himself in the way a priest may. To him, his beliefs are personal and well-kept. He suffers terrible dreams and cannot sleep a full night without finding another position which won't hurt him -- and then slumbers until it does. Thus, Lazarus walks about the camp, takes the night watch, or focuses on what his father once taught him. The archer finds comfort in the beauty of things around him, knowing that he works toward a better tomorrow. As much as the pain may be a staple at this point, it has only aided him in growing beyond his selfish ways. Still, he has the patience of a saint and a murky soul, vengeance is as much on his mind as it is marked on his skin. Whether or not he will overcome this last thought and find solace in turning the other cheek is still up for debate. After all, he remarks violence in the name of something greater than a man or woman, is violence justified.
Bio:
Lazarus was born the son of a missionary in a small fishing town on the coast of Hasa. Raised to read and write, to love and be loved, there was nothing seemingly that could draw a young man away from a life of settling down to read the scripture left by divines. The first time he used a bow was as a boy, his father teaching him to hunt before fish, something that he took great joy in. There was always a lesson to learn, a cryptic message to decipher in the morals of death and humanity. Whether or not to feed the children with that of a beasts brood, or let suffering override survival. There was right, wrong, and the ambiguous grey Lazarus was taught to differentiate. It was hard to wade through a widening world, the older he was the more he wanted to see. In the end, he decided to follow in his fathers' footsteps and spread the faith to the desert regions where tribes occupied the sandy plains. Past the villages who clustered around sparse oases and sandstone homes. He traversed and the more he saw, the more he was inspired. But he found himself befriending sinners, questioning himself, it began as a nagging and devolved into a rejection of who he had been.
Caught up in the games of masters, he was swallowed by that desert. Hanging in the border towns, hopping from bounty hunting to banditry. The good cause vanished, the boy called out and a man replied. In some way, he began using the faith to justify himself. To avoid grief? He wasn't sure. He simply couldn't forget his past and the future was there for the taking. Nevertheless, the search for power continued, power to control his own thoughts and feelings, power to be stronger than the teachings which plagued him. In the end, he should've taken heed. Lazarus, the apple of his father's eye, who had danced with village maids and hunted with the best of them, made a deal in the desert to a spiteful djinn. In the cruel twist of fate, he was set aflame and christened with the chaos of fire. He had demanded too much of the spirit, looked him in the eyes and rivalled the demon like it was another simple job to be taken.
The burned man dragged himself to the nearest town, clothes clinging to him in smouldered rags where it'd imprinted in his flesh. His hunting bow, made by his father, nothing more than a smouldering string. Eventually, he found his way home on the charity and grace of other travellers. He was welcomed with open arms. But he ended up burning those he loved and turned his sights to the North. A travelling mercenary who set up in Bandar, known for his curse and efficiency with a bow. It was not where he expected to be, not who he wanted to be, but after everything which has occurred; Lazarus is fighting to be a better man. Rising from the sands again to stretch his wings. A small tome of his faith slung on his belt, hoping that it may all be different this time.
Other:
- Bought another bow made of red oak from a local bowmaker. Doesn't quite have the sentimentality to it, yet has been crafted with fire-resistant varnish.
- Good enough with a dagger, mainly from skinning animals rather than combat.
- Vincent D'Amore
-
Ennuis
Name: Vincente D'Amore
Age: 31
Gender: Male
Race: Human
Appearance:
Curse: Never to hold wealth again.
Payment for Completing the Quest: Assistance in tracking down the witch that cursed him.
Home Region: Selor
Personality: Vincente is a bitter, vengeful man that had everything taken from him. Despite this, he still tries his best to hold onto what little pride he has left. Ultimately he sees his new companions as a tool to get what he wants, so he has no intention of letting them screw things up for him.
Bio: Vincente D'Amore was born to a rich family and grew up looking down on commoners. Since Vincente never had to work, he instead spent his time practicing art and music, but he quickly discovered that fencing was his true calling. When his parents passed away, he was the sole heir to the family's fortune but this did little to change the way he spent each day. He continued to practice his art of the blade, ate extravagant meals, and drank the finest wines.
However, his life changed one night when an old, homeless woman knocked on his door. His trusted butler was the first to answer and immediately told her to leave and never return. Five minutes later she knocked again but a maid answered, who told the old woman that her master would not want such a sorry sight on his property and that she should leave. Once more, five minutes passed and she knocked again, but this time Vincente himself answered after being told what had happened. Furious, he demanded the woman go find a cold alley to quietly die in before he cut her down himself and it was then the woman revealed herself to be a witch and cursed him to one day live the type of life she pretended to live. Thinking she was insane, Vincente could do little more than laugh at her bold claim.
Roughly a week after the incident, his servants started to notice that money was going missing every day. Vincente demanded that his household staff let their belongings be searched by him but he came up with nothing. Paranoia quickly took over and he fired his servants, confident that one of them was helping a thief get in at night. However, this did not stop the vanishing money and now the once beautiful home wasn't being properly maintained, Vincente's entire world was crumbling around him. The final blow would come from an outstanding loan that had apparently went unpaid from when his parents still lived. With his wealth gone, they took his home from him and now Vincente wandered the streets, forced to find work that required his blade, the one thing he managed to keep. After receiving his first payment for a job, the coins vanished overnight and he remembered the words of the old woman.
Over the next few years, he worked for food and clothing instead of coin while he tried his best to track down the woman. His quest took him across kingdoms, always on the trail of wild tales, but he never seemed to get closer. At least, until the Bandarian royal guard found him. He didn't care what he had to do, just as long as they helped him find the witch that ruined his life.
Other: Vincente is a swordsman of impeccable skill.
- Sparky Detello
-
Lenny2000
Name: Sparky Detello
Age: 19
Gender: male
Race: altered human
Appearance: the appeareance of sparky is a blond haired youth with clear blue eyes at a height of 6"6' with generally lightning bolts being visible as it coarses on his arms , legs , and body parts like a Tesla coil
Curse:electric jolts/lightning that can shoot out of his body or by touching others bare skin. Ironically being given electric shocks back to him would short circuit him and will kill him.
Payment for Completing the Quest: secret
Home Region: mountain tops/peaks closest to the sky. Thanks anyways the mountain is above Orissa that you can noticeably see is larger than the others is his home but the mountain range itself on the right side of main island is home to the rare population of electrified humans.
Personality: a very energetic individual and passionate but has difficulty expressing it. Mood fluctuates from time and again but is very twitchy in the outside due to the electricity he feels jolting through his veins .
Bio: previously a woodcutter, sparky was captured by a band of cultists where he was used as a sacrificial lamb to the 'gods' to kill sparky during a magical storm. Unfortunately the storm electricity got sparky and changed him perminantly to hold a billion bolts into his body as he uses the newfound energy to kill the cultists and make his escape. His family died whenever they touched him and he was cast away from the village. Now he lives in the mountain tops alone and in solitude
Other: sparky always carries a woodcutters axe with him to kill or chop wood if his powers were not enough as normally the electricity is transferred to the weapon as every hit also brings out a massive shock of electricity upon impact.
- Evangiline "Eve"
-
The Suspicious Eye
t=left][/imagefloat]Name: Evangiline "Eve"
Age: ???
Gender: Female
Race: Human
Appearance: Eve stands at a 5'5 and wears a long white series of unfamiliar priestess robes. Her hair is dark black and eyes are silver. On her head is a non removable crown of six white stones that float around her head.
Curse: Physical Stagnation, causing her to be unable to age, change or die from her current physical appearance. She does in fact feel every second of her pain from the injury and pain from healing. Her regeneration is faster than the usual regeneration. The average torn limb taking two days to heal if limb is found and a weeks if limb needs to be regenerated. Although there is a cause for this curse, Eve doesn't recall, she's spent centuries wandering and with this curse, wary of strangers, constantly moving. Her magic and memories fading with the passage of time, leaving only the curse and her confusion at her purpose here.
Payment for Completing the Quest: A powerful magic ceremony to help recover her memories.
Home Region: Unknown
Personality: Eve is a solemn and quiet woman for the most part, any life or liveliness she once held has dimmed so much it's near nonexistent. Calm she takes every danger head on, she isn't as strong as others, but is unafraid of death. She drifts along and tries her best to help others if they need anything, but most often sits and stares off into the distance. However, there are days when there is some light in her eyes, some form of existence, in those times she can smile, and be playfully coy.
Bio: Eve has spent her known life wandering through Waipara, on occasion she would stay in one place usually to help a child or a abbey. Then after a while when her strange personality or her ageless body or her memory shifted, she left her home and wandered to the next town. There have been good places, there have been bad places, her ageless and timeless life, was full of it all. The most recent memory she has she recalls taking care of a small girl, she was such a lonely girl in such a big house. So smart, Eve cared for the sweet girl and even told her of what little she knew of her own past and her dream of remembering. She waited in that house till the little girl grew up and when she came home she was sent to the royal castle to get a mission.
Other:
- Gilles
-
Aloha Loha
Name: Gilles
Age: 23
Gender: Male
Race: Human
Appearance:
Curse: Towers of Tumors - While at first it may be hard to see why he is cursed, if one looks closely enough (read: at all) this man is infested with pulsating tumors that limit mobility, clothing options, horrible pain. At least he can spit really infectious pus at people. Always look on the bright side.
Payment for Completing the Quest: To finally be left alone so he can work on painting and cheese making in peace; and be assured that peace.
Home Region: Camorin
Personality: Gilles is essentially a grumpy old man who wants to be left alone. He dislikes damn near everything, dislikes society and all who inhabit it and just wants to be left alone. The only times he seems to be happy is when death, a peaceful one mind you, seems to be coming for him, when he is alone with cheese making equipment and in nature to have muses.
Bio: Gilles, no surname as no one wished to take credit for birthing such a creature, was born into a cold and uncaring world. The reason why is obvious, he had nasty physical abnormalities of tumors. From the word go he was treated as a monster, a horrible changeling that should have not been born nor should it live, but managed to be in an orphanage for some time. They knew he would never be adopted but one of the caretakers felt bad for the creature and took it upon themselves to educate the boy slightly, by teaching him some skills to survive out in the wilds and entertain himself away from people. He was then promptly removed from the orphanage and set out into the wilds where many adventuring heroes felt it their duty to slay him. Fleeing from these, as well as village mobs, animals and other endeavors Gilles just wanted to paint and make cheese in peace before he finally dies. But no, he was asked to go on a grand adventure! Hating the idea, Gilles inevitably accepted it on one condition, that he would never be bothered again after the task is done.
Other: Is actually quite an artisan of cheese-making and painting.
- Moulder
-
Moritz
Name:
Moulder, The Worm
Moulder, The Leech
Age:
Moulder's original age is unknown, the information lost in the thick mire of death and an unwanted rebirth. Chronologically, Moulder's new form is three years of age.
Gender:
N/A, Male Oriented
Race:
Necromantic creation, An abomination brought into the world through the perverse experiment of fusing a lost soul with that of a lesser, mutated creature. A captured soul funneled into the grotesque carcass that once belonged to a twisted, malformed species of leech bred by a long-dead necromancer.
Appearance:
Standing hunched at around 5'10", Moulder dons a ramshackle disguise formed from old, rusted plate-mail and thick, makeshift clothing, with the obvious intent to keep himself hidden from the prying and rightfully fearful, gazes of Peasants, Nobles, and other Honor-bound folk that might fancy sticking a few knives into his poor, haggard figure. The disguise works from a distance, but anyone with eyes and a sense of the uncanny would immediately notice that his arms are much too long for someone of his stature; extending a good 45 centimeters past where his hands should rest.
Beneath the uniform is a dark mass of calloused skin, colored a dark grey-black, all bundled into a vaguely humanoid form. The 'head' of Moulder's ensemble rests much higher than it should, covering his face covered in a makeshift shroud intent on obscuring what lay beneath, and keeping his helmet firmly clamped to his head.
His weapons consist of a Flanged mace, and an all-metal Warpick, both of which are pitted and covered in a thick layer of rust.
Curse:
Unholy, Abominable. Moulder's horrid state provides few positives, and many negatives.
He chugs water like a house fire and eats his meals raw, gaining very little in return, and is almost constantly craving fresh blood- an animal's, preferably. His ability to heal naturally is very slow, and a good stab or cut can leave him nursing a wound for multiple weeks. His intelligence occasionally flees from him, forcing him to resort to short and archaic utterances to communicate. Like most undead, he is unable to perceive color, instead viewing the world in varying shades of grey. Additionally, he can sense things through the maddening sensation of near-constant vibration and movement, People, animals, nearly anything that moves and vibrates can be sensed - constant and persistent enough to drive him mad.
The only things to be considered positives stem from his hidden, mandible-clawed 'hands' and fang-filled 'head', and the lack of recognizable (ie, human) organs. In order to reliably wound or slay Moulder, one would need to cut him to literal pieces. Additionally, the additional reach provided by his long, worm-like arms frequently proving to be both detrimental and irritatingly useful in melee combat, allowing him to bring his weapons down on unsuspecting foes and ambushed fauna alike, providing him with additional reach and momentum for whatever swings and thrusts he can manage before attempting to flee.
Payment for Completing the Quest:
Assistance in separating his two halves - The human soul from Its leech host. Perhaps someone could try to return him to his human state. Failing that, assistance in relocating to the furthest corners of the known world, where he may wither and age far from the understandably-fearful Humans and their maddening realm.
Perhaps help in regaining his lost memories?, Though such a thing may prove disastrous, should he find himself suddenly unable to come to terms with what he had lost upon his internment in the cursed leech sarcophagus.
Home Region:
Moulder's knowledge of where he had been born was torn from his mind just as easily as the rest of his former life. He considers himself a native of Bandar, however, as the poor wretch's new form was brought together deep within the Bantayan Forest.
Personality:
Moulder is a somewhat crazed and incredibly bitter individual. His mind under constant sensory assault, and the two halves of his being are always at odds, fighting one-another in a vile tug-of-war. At times, the Leech's instincts will suddenly assert themselves, and Moulder will be overcome with a disgusting desire to drink and gorge himself , his senses heightening in a rabid display of animalistic behavior, his world becoming nothing but faint light and overwhelming noise and vibration. Occasionally, Moulder's Human half will come to the forefront, accosted by the thick mire of revulsion and madness inherently caused by simply existing in a state such as his; He becomes somber and withdrawn, preferring to close himself off, to run and hide.
His state of mind, and physical situation, have driven him to take a liking to dark, macabre humor. It lessens the ache.
Bio:
(Seriously rusty with Bios, bare with me here. Will obviously rewrite / expand if needed.)
A mess of flailing limbs and rotten plate stumbled through the forest, wheezing, sobbing. He didn't know where he was going, He just knew that he had to get away from those damned humans, their fucking morals, their stupid codes and their ridiculous need to cut and stab and hurt. They'd done him in good, that much he could tell, that thrice-damned Hedgeknight had managed to spike a rondel through his stomach before Moulder had managed to cave in the bastard's smug helmet. The fool's friends - Moulder's would-be executioners - had fled the moment the shiny one's corpse had hit the ground, though a few had stuck around just long enough to lodge a few extra crossbow bolts in the poor wretch's back. He estimated that about five had managed to punch through his back-plate, and he sure as shit could feel at least three of them scratching at his innards. Yea, those humans had certainly gotten him good.
The world suddenly lurched as the creature's focus went lax and he found himself keeled over, face buried in the dirt and debris littering the forest floor, an agonizing hiss escaping his prone form. "Should've just kept to myself!" He wheezed, voice breaking with a gurgled sob, followed by a harsh, cruel laugh, "All of this PAIN for a pig! One, stupid, little pig." He kept his face to the ground, 'knees' bundled up beneath where his stomach aught to have been, should have been. "All that dirty Magi's fault. Couldn't just leave me in the ground!" He hissed, giving the Rondel's grip an experimental tug, only for a spasm to roll through his figure. He flopped onto his side, letting out another weak little wheeze, body undulating for a moment. He was so damned tired, so hungry-
Wasn't his fault, Wasn't his fault, Wasn't his fault; He had only taken one pig!- Surely he didn't deserve this for one pig!
He pressed an arm to the torn uniform covering his split stomach, an unhappy laugh escaping the confines of his misshapen helmet as it came away soaked in the familiar, thick substance that had become his blood. A dark grey ooze to him, but a grassy green to others. His entire body began to buzz the moment the realization hit him; He'd left a trail of the stuff, a trail that lead right back to him- and that's when he felt it- The distinct rythm of a Soldier stalking a kill, the faint sound of rustling chainmail, and the tell-tale sound of a blade being withdrawn from Its scabbard. Moulder slowly pushed himself upright, letting out another soft wheeze as he whipped his head around towards the approaching killer, his body twitching in disgust as the Man's stench assailed him.
"Come to finish me off, then, rat?" He spat, the mandibles hooked to his 'hands' digging into the earth in a vain effort to drag his tired, bleeding carcass away from the approaching figure. "Smart, smart, smart, human!" He taunted, the bolts in his back shifting, the rondel digging away at his innards with each agonizing pull, "Ain't gonna get me that easy though!" He cackled, panic flooding his thoughts, "So you best stay away! You don't know who you're dealing with, you stupid- stupid brute.''
The 'Ratsoldier' shrugs, tapping a curved sword against a plated shoulder. "I'm not staying away," He states bluntly, without emotion, stepping closer.
Another cackle tore its way from Moulder's mouth, "Of course not!" He screamed, small, terror-laced sobs wracking his body, "You stupid humans never do! Never-do, Never-do, NEVER-DO. Always with the killing, always with hunting!" He barked, wrapping a pair of mandibles around the Rondel's grip before tearing it out and tossing it at the approaching Hunter. "Filth!" He spat, the dagger missing by a wide margin, "All of you, Filth! Murderers!" He heaved, body spasming as he collapsed onto his side, blood idly draining from the wound in his 'stomach'. "Just a pig." He laughed, bitter, "All of this for a stupid PIG."
The 'Ratsoldier' idly glanced towards the dagger, his body shaking as if quietly chuckling. The helmet looks back, the visor keeping the face in shadow - "A pig? What do you mean a pig?"
---
The creature leapt rabidly at a chance to explain Itself to someone who was finally, after so many months, willing to listen. Someone who was willing to let him EXPLAIN- But only if the Rat-Stranger would help the creature tend to its wounds first. It was honestly surprised the Rat-Stranger had said yes, and further surprised when he offered to help the creature hunt!
Kindness was rare! Especially from someone radiating such an awful stench.
He liked this person, yes-yes. His new friend! He would follow this friend, always, forever, to the end! Yes-yes.
The poor thing had been through enough.
Other:
Character is being paired with the Bayan character.
- Tyryth Viat
-
Shog
Name: Tyryth Viat (usually goes by Tyr)
Age: 32
Gender: Male
Race: Half-Elf
Appearance:
Curse:Payment for Completing the Quest: A secure home where he can feel comfortable being locked up during the night, but still interact with society during the day. He has also volunteered to try experimental cures.
Even in his natural form, Tyryth is stronger, faster, has stronger senses, and has a minor healing factor. That's nice and all, but it's really nothing too substantial. The real power comes when he transforms. He gains the strength to throw fully armored knights, claws to shred through armor, and unmatched speed and agility. This, of course, comes with a cost. Whenever he transforms he gains a blood-rage. His thoughts become clouded and he becomes led more by instinct, and his instinct tells him to kill. He actually has decent control over his transformations, though turning back takes quite a bit of mental effort. The exception to this is during the full moon when he has no choice but to transform. The closer it is to the full moon, the stronger the blood-rage becomes. He frequently cannot fight off the urge to transform and rampage the nights before and after a full moon as well. Like all werewolves, he is weak to silver and wolf's bane is a particularly effective poison.
Home Region: The Bantayan Forest in Bandar
Personality: Tyr is very guarded. This isn't because he dislikes or distrusts people, but rather because he worries about how his condition may affect others and their perception of himself. Before the incident Tyr was a friendly and fairly laid back individual and if he builds a stable bond with someone else then he is likely to fall back into those traits. Partly due to the lycanthropy, he has developed a bit of a temper problem.
Bio: Tyr was born in a town in the Bantayan Forest called Ithguard. He was the second born of two Half-Elves, two years younger than his sister. Ithguard was sizable enough, but fairly removed from the rest of Bandar. He grew up learning to hunt and to provide for not only his family, but the community. It is through his training that he learned archery, tracking, trapping, and patience. Overall, he had a pretty good life. That is, until 11 years ago. The people of the forest passed on a story of a great beast cursed by the god of the hunt to become a savage animal and mindlessly kill those he loved. Most believed the monster to have long passed, but they were wrong. One night when the full moon shone brightly overhead, a monster wondered into Ithguard and began rampaging. The beast was eventually slain, but the damage was done. Many were killed instantly while others soon succumbed to their wounds. Try was the only person to survive being bitten, all other bite victims dying of what appeared to be disease. His sister decided to leave town and work as a crafter in Bantay.
Try healed remarkably fast and was out with a hunting party the following month. He began to feel ill and woke the morning after the full moon to find the rest of the hunters dead. His cloths were soaked with their blood and remained mostly uninjured. Realizing what he had become, he returned to Ithguard, claimed that a monster attacked their camp at night, and declared that he could no longer stay. He packed whatever he could carry on his person and departed that same day. He settled near Rivergate and with the help of some locals built a small shack to live in a few miles away. He learned to hide deep in the woods during a full moon and gained a reputation for being a recluse. One day a member of the royal guard showed up at his doorstep asking for his help. They brokered a deal: if Tyr completed this quest then he could live a comfortable life in Bantay and not worry about the consequences of someone of his condition living in such a densely populated area.
Other: Try used to be faithful to the God of the Hunt, but now refuses to worship him.
- Bayan the Wanderer
-
The Gunrunner
Name: Bayan, the Wanderer
Age: 43, 8 years as an undead
Gender: Male
Race: Human - Undead
Appearance:
Wearing a dark-green brigandine over full-body chainmail, he has the look of a well-armoured scavenger; belts and various pouches serve as methods of holding his armaments, supplies, and tools. The helmet he wears is clearly old, scraped and minor dents on the faceplate and cranium, but clean. Plates are worn over the shoulders, the right having leather straps inscribed with the tenets of the order. A satchel hangs at the side, opposite to it a sheathed falcata sword - The blade is personally etched with combat chants of the order, the work quite messy but clear enough to be legible. Over it his shield is hooked to a belt around his waist: a wooden, iron-rimmed targe shield. A strap across the body holds a book bound with a locked chain, metal plates protecting its surface. He wears a black cloak over the armour, the interior lined with a massive variety of strong-scented herbs - The result is an incredibly overpowering smell, though it is better than the alternative.
Curse: Undead, faults of resurrection. In the wake of the undead from Hagsfrot, they came in a variety of forms. The 'highest,' as they were considered, form of the necromancer's creations were near-indistinguishable from humanity; autonomy, emotions, full memory of their past lives, the ability to reason, they ceased to rot. However, Bayan was not of the latest forms; he does not remember who he was before, his emotions are stinted, and though his autonomy is there it is still heavily warped; he follows the order, not because he chose to but because his being demands that he follow something. Finally, as a corpse, his body continues to rot, causing an endless pain that is felt throughout his entire body. His healing factor keeps him alive, stopping the deterioration from eating him into nothingness.
Despite this, it comes with strengths. Death for the undead is never easy, and Bayan is no exception - He feels no fatigue, no need to eat or sleep. He could feasibly fight for years on end if he needed to, his body mending itself through magic. Pain is numbed, simply from experience, having been stabbed so many times that it means little to him now. Cutting his head off is the only way to kill him, severing his consciousness from the rest of his body - Crushing the head will not do it, the magic continuing to flow through him; burning him will not work, as his survival does not require the flesh; quartering him will not work, as he does not bleed. If he loses a limb, it can be put back in place to heal again over time.
Payment for Completing the Quest: Official recognition of his order, and a monument to its lost members.
Home Region: Bandar
Personality: Bayan is a lost warrior, alone as seemingly the last of his kind and certainly the last of his order. He is blunt, not out of contempt but purely because he does not understand the purpose of 'sugar coating' or 'white lies.' Still, he feels something. It is stinted, yes, but present. He wishes for betterment of others, and though his instincts tell him to serve he is at least aware of this state. In essence, his being tells him to follow his teachings, and he knows this to be the case. He could try to fight it, but does not want to. Not being emotionally dead, he does have a sense of humour about him, though it is very dark. As one who comes to terms with death on a daily basis, the common superstitions and taboos are now foreign to him. Regardless, he finds comedy to be a good way to break up the macabre of his state of things.
Bio: Born to the population of Hagsfrot, a small barony deep in the Bantayan forest. The territory was made in an effort to create a garrison against the area's local monsters, terrifying and intelligent beasts seemingly melding with the trees themselves. 'Forest demons' they called them, for how could they not be? They were strong enough and numerous enough to be dangerous as thoughtless beasts, but Hagsfrot was not so lucky - The beasts could plan, even strategize. Ambushes were a lingering threat to anyone who dared venture deep into the forest. The garrison was meant to act as a way for travelers to more safely navigate through the woods, though the presence only aggravated the beasts further. Over time, the casualties sustained by the patrols and caravan guards far outweighed the benefits provided by such a task, and over time the Barony grew more and more isolated. It was not enough for the beasts however, who mounted assault after assault against the territory. It shrunk more and more, until it was no more than a keep watching over a single village - The attacks slowed as the territory shrank, though the area could still not be called 'safe.'
Things seemed to change for the better when a mage, claiming to be an agent sent from the Bandaran court, arrived claiming to have a way to solve their problem. He set up in a small shack isolated from the others, just far enough to avoid their prying eyes. At first he brought hope, though over time suspicions began to form; outsiders would be brought in, seemingly to visit the man, but they were never seen leaving. Granted, there was minimal communication, but even so - They never bought provisions from the market, never came to the local tavern to drink, not even their horses were heard traveling back down the road. The grave-workers were the first to confirm suspicions, at least that something was wrong; holes where gravestones were placed, empty pits littering the graveyard. In a fury the man's hut is raided, and the horrors they saw shocked them all into silence; mutilated bodies, sigils written in pungent liquids or blood, the outsiders dead and arranged in grotesque displays. The mage, just before death, unleashes a wave of magical energy. It is the last act before a knife pierces his throat.
Time after the mage's death was... quiet. Witnesses did not to speak of what they saw, preferring to silently bury the murdered. Those from the graves were, strangely, not found. That is, at first; in mere days the small keep was brought to more distress as the graveyard's pits grew in number. Bodies seemingly disappeared one by one, with no culprit to be found. Eventually, though, they found the truth: There was no culprit, not but the dead themselves. Some remembered their pasts, and rejoiced with their families; others were nothing more than husks. As far as could be surmised, the mage's spell worked: Bring back the dead. This is how Bayan was reborn.
Though some of the undead had their memories, there were many more that were simply lost souls. Of those with the ability to think and reason, some saw an opportunity; they'd seen the worst of life through death, and were given a perspective only they could claim. While many simply wanted to live their new lives, many more saw their second chance as a responsibility - A responsibility to protect. The Order of Spring was formed, an order of the undead to protect the living of their homeland from the horrors they'd experienced. The necromancer, the beasts of the forest, and any other threat to well-being would die by their sword. Some joined out of a sense of honour, some to find purpose, but most because they had nothing else. Bayan joined as among the Order's first.
Over time, the Order swelled more and more. The undead, after all, were capable of far more than a typical human - Farming was far from the limits of their potential. The beasts had something to fear, an order of the avenging dead come to reap what they had sown for so many years. Hagsfrot came to accept the Order as... simply the new way things are, the only place where their dead families and friends could find acceptance. For years the Barony lived in safety, though calamity was doomed to fall eventually.
Bandar's plague was devastating to the country, leaving it hollow and thinly stretched in defense. Hagsfrot hoped to avoid the wave of death, hoped its isolation would protect its population, but that was not to be. When the plague struck Hagsfrot, the only ones left unaffected were those of the Order. The dead, tasked and taught nothing but to defend their brothers and sisters, could now do nothing but watch them die. Healers could do nothing but take the plague to themselves, farmers could merely die and fail to provide food, and their old Baron grew weaker in his bed. All through the death, the higher echelons of the order, the leaders and spiritual guides of its members, simply locked themselves away. When all were dead, from the highest noble to the lowest peasant, the Order's leaders finally showed themselves again. There was nothing left for them now, nothing but their personal war. They sought to die like the rest, but die as knights. The Order begins a crusade into the forest, to kill as many as they can before their end. Should they survive, perhaps they are meant to. If not, then that is their fate.
Almost a year of near-endless combat, and the Order's suicide goes as best as can be hoped; its members die one by one, but the slaughter left in their wake is glorious. Bayan fights side-by-side, losing comrades by the handful every single day. Their last battle is a disaster, or perhaps exactly what they wanted; ambushed by the monsters, they fought to the last man. The battle was grueling and visceral, a pure hatred on both sides until both were undone. Though, for the Order, they were not entirely undone: Bayan, clutching his sword and wrenching it from a demon's corpse, was the last to survive.
As the last man, he saw the crusade as... over. The Order was dead, or as close as he wished to bring it; he was the Order now, its tenets and ways living only in him. Thus, he would continue to follow it elsewhere. He left the forest, and has done nothing but hunt the dangers that plague the countryside. Though he hides himself, his deeds never known to those he's helped, the will of the order being done is reward enough. In his hunts, he comes upon... an unexpected companion; a... 'man' whom refers to itself as Moulder. While originally a hunt, the being showed itself to be sentient and thoughtful. They were both undead, one resurrected from the necromancer's spell and the other the result of one of his experiements. They've become a strange duo, but close friends, and have traveled together since.
Other: Character is being paired with the Moulder character
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