Beep boop downloading Codes Mastery Programme

Jays

Olives and Fear
Original poster
FOLKLORE MEMBER
Invitation Status
Posting Speed
  1. 1-3 posts per week
Writing Levels
  1. Prestige
Preferred Character Gender
  1. Male
  2. Primarily Prefer Male
I have no clue what a div is
moving on
 
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{slide=Title|center}It was a pleasant morning of light misty rain when the crimson envelope came. The September chill had barely crept in the day before, chasing away the melancholic calm of autumn, sweeping the heralding call of winter along the hurried streets of Judas. The envelope stood out, of course, like a dazzling ruby amongst shards of glass, proudly demanding your absolute attention the moment it was revealed. You have never seen anything like it, its texture as soft as velvet, golden text on jarring crimson, proclaiming your name and address. "Dear Sir/Madame," it read, the flowing silver calligraphy glinted softly as the old-fashionedly designed scroll unfolded in your hand, "Mr. Havenswood extends to you his warmest welcome, and an invitation to join him for a family dinner on the 15th of September, in the Havenswood Estate, 1st Havenswood Lane, City of Judas, Oregon." An invitation from old Havenswood himself, and to a family dinner, no less! You were surprised and intrigued, all the while wondering what had given you such an opportunity. After all, a man like Henry Havenswood is anything but indeliberate
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{slide=Title|center}Content 2{/slide}
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I'm giving up already
 
aaahhhhhh this is killing me
 
VICE​


  • Vktr Krmski
    (Vik-tor Key-ram-ski)

    Nickname: Vice
    Age: 27
    Sex: Male
    Date of Birth: February 29
    Class: Upper

    appearance
    Height: 6'2" ; 187 cm
    Weight: 185 lbs. ; 84 kg
    Hair: Dark Brown
    Eyes: Gray

    Tall and wide-shouldered but without the bulk to match, Vice's nearly slender form exudes quiet contemplation and a subtle physical presence that always reminds others he is there. He carries himself not with confidence, but a slight hint of lingering self-doubt, as if silently questioning each and every action he himself takes.

    Most of Vice's features are his mother's, with high cheekbones,slender nose and a fair complexion. Only the strong jawline and his eyes are his father's. The result is an almost feminine face set in rough outline, and a pair of dull gray eyes alien and out of place among the more delicate features. He wears his hair long in front to cover a ragged scar stretching across his forehead.

    His attire only has 2 states, full standard uniform on duty, and a loose fitting dark suit everywhere else, sometimes with a long coat of similar shade depends on the weather. He also owns an expensive dark blue suit for more formal events, which he absolutely despises.

  • the freak show

    Curious Biology || Vice's skin tissues, especially the epidermis have an abnormal structure in which it has several layers of cells, the outer most completely transparent, with the ones below each consists of specific pigment cells containing pockets of chemical. Through an extensive network of abnormal nerve cells just under the epidermis, specific chemicals can be released, with their combinations resulting in different colors, thus granting him the ability to control the color of his skin down to the cellular level.

    Pros:
    • Having extra layers of cells causes Vice's skin to be slightly tougher.
    • His skin cells regenerate quickly.

    Cons:
    • A deep cut can easily damage the network of nerve just under his pigment cell layer, causing excruciating pain.
    • Vice's skin heals faster than the rest of his body, sometimes resulting in the skin healing over an open wound, trapping clot and dirt in and leading to severe infection underneath. He has to cut his skin open to clean the wound each time.
    • A blow with enough force from a blunt instrument can rupture the chemical vesicles, disrupting his control at the area of contact and cause varying degree of color disfiguration when the ruptured chemicals mix.

    Glow || Auburn

    augmentation

    Pain Supression Implant || a small chip installed in the brain. Triggered as an reaction to pain signals higher than a certain threshold, can be disabled through personal Holocomm. Disrupts nerve signal using negating electrical pulses to stop the brain from registering pain.
    • Produces massive mental strain on the brain. Prolonged activation can lead to disruption in hormones/antibody production of the body, as well as nerve damage, irregular blood pressure in the brain, and stroking. Recommended average activation: 2 minutes (with 18 hours intervals).

    Standard IssueScrylens || a single contact lens applied to the left eye with several filters to be used during fieldwork. Connected to the Central Law Enforcement Database. Glows pale blue when in use. Acts as a sweeping lens and screen with commands voice or touch activated through personal Holocomm.
    • Record and Retrieve Mode: The device’s main usage, includes face/gait recognition and profile retrieval/examination.
    • Zoom up to 6 times.
    • Heat Signature Filter, Biotech Filter, Energy Signature Filter.
    • Aim Assistant.


  • hope

    "The world is an ugly place. I would know, I see it first hand, every single day. Five years in the Force, practically a rookie, and yet you are so deep in the mud and shit and filth that no matter how you scrub you can't get the stink off yourself. The entire system is a rotting corpse in nice clothes, but I knew that before I joined, being raised by its Deputy Comissioner for 20 years. Some days I stand on the shoulder of Justice and see an imposter looking back at me. Some days it's her desecrated face, her eyes blinded and her mouth opened in a silent scream. Some days there's nothing at all. The world is an ugly, ugly place.

    But that doesn't have to be all it is. It shouldn't be. It's not. I don't know how I know. It's just a feeling, a warmth tugging my heart forward, keeping what little hope there's left in me burning. Maybe it's a lie, another one among my countless, an extra link in my chains. Maybe I have no choice but to believe, because the alternative is unacceptable. The truth is, I am a drowning man clutching at a blade of grass, at that fragile belief of a better day, knowing the grass would snap and my hope would shatter but I cling to it all the same. Stupid, isn't it? But it is my choice, the only choice that matters really, to believe that there is still goodness left in the world, that there’s a light out there somewhere beyound the darkness. Deep down I'm still that scared boy entangle in lies, too afraid to grow up, or face the truth.

    contemplation

    I spend a lot of my free time thinking. It's either that or waste away in VR, and I'm not sure there's enough of myself left to lose. In fact, I spend most of my time on duty thinking too, or more accurately second guessing everything I do. Old habit dies hard, I guess. Funny how I spend most of my life pretending to be my father, to make him proud, to make him look at me without disgust and loathing, only for him to die when I was so close to achieving it. The old bastard must be having a hell of a time laughing in the afterlife, his death a final revenge, against me, against the world. Going out with both of his middle fingers raised, that sounds like him.

    But what about me? Who am I now? I've been living the lie for so long, I don't know how to stop. Could I stop? Am I finally free of him now? I don't feel free. I don’t feel anything at all knowing he’s dead. I think I'm just a scared child who doesn't know how to grow up."

  • regret – mine, or his?
    “My father hated mistake. It’s what got him to Deputy Commissioner, I think. He could not tolerate mistakes in his friends, in his officers, in his family, and most of all in himself. And I was his biggest mistake, his walking vice.

    I’d like to think that it was whatever was left of his kindness took me in, but it was more likely shame. That’s what I see in his eyes when he looked at me those first few years I can remember, anyway. I didn’t know my mother, my father never talked about her and I never asked, but I suspect she was a lower class citizen, beautiful – my father wouldn’t go for anything less – and kind. Kind enough to make my father, the heartless man, love, kind enough to shame him. She saved me and I never even know her name. Those first few years he treated me like a job, like a favor he had to repay, tough but fair. Almost a real father.

    Then the shame faded, and all that was left was resentment. The past stopped hurting him, but I resembled my mother enough that it still stung. The beatings came, then, he pretended he was drunk those nights, but my father never drinks. It became almost like a twisted hobby for him, hitting me hard enough to burst my skin, and watched multicolored bruises spread. But not the face, not yet, he was still haunted by the past enough for that. Besides, there was the pretense of a good man to maintain.”

    the lies

    “The lies saved me. They started small, the usual lies that children tell to avoid getting in trouble, and in my case to give him less excuse to beat me with. But he didn’t need any excuse. I learned that quickly.

    Then my ability settled, and I learned to make fake bruises, less unmarked skin for him to hit, and away from where it really hurt. He never found out that a single deep cut is more agonizing than his hardest punch. But so what if I can direct his beatings? So what if he never figured out how to more efficiently hurt me? He didn’t slow, he didn’t stop, he didn’t even bothered with the pretense of drinking anymore. One of these days he was going to kill me, I realized. I could run, but he’d bring the entire police force on me, and seal my fate.

    So I crafted another lie, my biggest one, my worst one. I learned to be him. I learned how he walked, I learned how he talked, I learned his posture, his glare, his scowl. I had no clue what I was doing, but I pushed forward all the same, desperation and dread dogging my heels.

    I imagine it was quite a surprise for him, maybe even a shock, to be raising a fist against a small boy one moment and the next looking down at himself. The face was wrong, the features not rough enough, but it was his scowl, albeit marred by youthful defiance, his posture. His eyes. I saw in his face then something I never thought I would ever see; fear, and tenderness. I had been a reminder of his mistake and his shame, but from that moment onward I was something more. To him, at least, and that was all that mattered. The lies saved me.”

    how far will this road take me

    “I got really good at being him. I acted like him, walked like him, talked like him. I got it all down, except the confidence, the absolute self-assurance of a man who cannot be hurt. That was too far from who I am, too much of whom I have no intention of actually becoming. It’s just a lie, you see, a set of clothes, or more accurately an armor, against him, against the world. I am not my father. I am not my father.

    It was inevitable that I would enroll in the Academy, just as he did. Climbing from the lowest rank in the Force to his position of power, that was his biggest achievement, the foundation of his pride. I was retracing his footstep. But I’m not him. Never. Just a lie.

    The day I joined the Force was the day my Hell began. “The Deputy Commisioner’s son!” they said. Great things are expected of you. Great things. Horrible things. He’s just like his father. But I am not. I refuse to be. Just a lie. My father was surely smiling hearing these compliments. Was it a proud smile, or a sneer? I didn’t dare guess.

    The Police Force was rotten to the core, its oaths and codes of morality nothing more than mockery. I did horrible things, by doing nothing, only watched. Who am I kidding? I’d never thought I would uphold the code of duty, anyway. I knew long ago, such ideals have no place in this world. I told myself, I was a victim of circumstances, that deep down I was a good man, that the person who’s responsible, this person is not me. It’s a necessary lie for me to survive. This is not me, I am a good man. Just a lie.

    Five years in the Force, five years I fought those doubt and whisper of self-damnation at the back of my mind, until they were nearly gone. The day before I was to be offically promoted to Sergent, my father died of a stroke in his sleep.”

    who am I

    I have no idea. Is there anything left of me under these layers of lies I’ve woven so tightly around myself? My previous armor, now a suffocating mass, drowning my hope. The scared child inside, he never grew up.
 
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  • Bucket of Rainbows
Reactions: 2RAD4u
nothing to see here
 
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WORLD-BUILDING

Terms:
Individuals with unnatural abilities: EOs (Extra Ordinary), Freaks, Enhanced, Davids, Demis.


Types of Davids



  • Brute
    Alternative: Grunt, Muscle, Bully

    • Strength and Resilience
    • Dense muscle mass
    • Heavy body weight

    Spring
    Alternative: Dash

    • Speed and Endurance
    • Abnormal eye to hand coordination
    • Enhanced movement and reaction speed

    Scan
    Alternative: Eye, Peep

    • Include enhanced visions of various types

    Hound
    Alternative: Sniff, Track

    • Enhanced sense of smell
    • Able to detect energy trace left behind by Spawns and Walkers

  • Primal
    Alternative: Were, Furry

    • Shift to obtain animal-like characteristics
    • Transformation limited to no more than 70% body mass

    Shell
    Alternative: Armour, Tank, Meat Shield, Heavy

    • Increase self density to become more resilient to damage
    • Massive change in body weight leading to heavy drop in movement capability
    • Resistant to Spawn-generated energy

    Freak
    Alternative:

    • Extreme Distortion of the body
    • Possible rearrangement of body organs
    • Tough elastic skin


  • Ignite
    Alternative: Torch, Lighter

    • Heat Wave and Fire
    • Resistant to extreme heat and fire
    • Heavy, potentially dangerous drop of body temperature after extended ability usage

    Spark
    Alternative: Socket, Shock

    • Electricity Generation
    • Require conductive material for long-range channel

    Newton
    Alternative: Pusher, Cottonball

    • Force Channel, Absorption, and Disruption
    • Imperfect conduction of kinetic energy, excess unchanneled energy behaves as if uninterrupted
    • Limited storage of kinetic absorption, with excess evenly distributed as pressure across the body

    Grav
    Alternative: Pull, Slam, Float

    • Gravity Manipulation
    • Limited range depending on power level
    • Fields of distorted grav require constant supply of energy or otherwise disabled
    • Mass and momentum are not affected

  • Whisper
    Alternative: Mouth, Lie, Silvertongue

    • Extremely persuasive speech
    • Duration and effectiveness vary depending on power level
    • Suggestion must be understood to have effect
    • Wording, length of speech, attitude and nature of suggestion also contribute to effectiveness

    Cupid
    Alternative:

    • Emotion Manipulation through Touch
    • Effect is purely physical through forcing production of emotion-related hormones
    • Duration and effectiveness vary depending on power level
    • Prolong exposure of a subject leads to hormone and body chemical imbalance
    • Extreme emotions can lead to body damage and failure

    Fixer
    Alternative: Eraser, Blackout

    • Memory manipulation
    • Require prolonged physical contact
    • Precision entirely dependent on user's skill
    • False memory cannot be created, only suggested to the mind
    • Traces of memory work can be detected by Psychs and other Fixers

    Psych
    Alternative: Telepath, Comm

    • Sense, project and link thoughts
    • Physical contact strengthen ability
    • Capable of detecting the influence of Whispers, Fixers, and Latches

    Latch
    Alternative: Worm, Spy

    • Invade senses
    • Duration and range vary depending on power level
    • Capable of roughly distorting or shut down a subject's senses, but not detailed manipulation
    • Vulnerable to Psychs


  • Gray
    Alternative: Cheat, Shadow

    • Unseen travel through alternate layer of the world
    • Gray-walking is physically difficult and saps energy
    • Able to walk through walls with great difficulty
    • Cannot affect the real world from the other side
    • Vulnerable to Whites

    Fade
    Alternative: Phase

    • Phase through objects
    • Physically taxing
    • Phasing items require skin contact and extra energy
    • Stuck mid-phase causes fatal injury

    Blink
    Alternative: Traveler, Door

    • Delayed teleport
    • Able to glimpse the destination a moment before Blink completes
    • Physically taxing
    • Blinking heavy items and people requires physical contact and extra energy
    • Can be disrupted by Whites at both ends


  • White
    Alternative: Watcher

    • Able to sense Grays and Blinks
    • Can attempt to disrupt these effects, the result however depends on power level of both parties
    • Capable of tracking Gray-walking

    Truth
    Alternative: Noir, Tail, Inquisitor

    • Observe images of past events on location
    • Clarity, availability and consistency of images vary depending on power level
    • Able to determine if subject is Activated David, and type of David after extended examination

    Dead
    Alternative: Ouija, Grave

    • Reanimate recently deceased corpses for a limited period in which subject regain some body function
    • Sense violent deaths in an area, and determine the nature of death which clarity depends on power level
    • Sense life-threatening diseases and wounds

  • Patcher
    Alternative: Doc, CLeric

    • Grant accelerate regeneration through touch
    • Physically taxing
    • Medical treatment reduces difficulty and energy required to treat wounds
    • Capable of removing Plagues' effect
    • Healed wounds leave distinct pattern of scars and healed diseases grant a small degree of resistance.

    Plague
    Alternative: Horseman, Flu

    • Infect others with disabling effects and diseases
    • Ability usage without physical contact requires more energy with limited effect

    Eden
    Alternative: Meth - short for Methuselah, Immortal

    • Decelerated aging
    • Increased life-span, typically 180-200 years

 
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  • Nice Execution!
Reactions: rissa
TAKYM'S LAW ENFORCEMENT AGENCIES

Takym's Law Enforcement consist of 2 governing entities

NATIONAL SECURITY POLICE DEPARTMENT

The Lower Class District falls under the jurisdiction of the National Security Police Department, or NSPD. NSPD ranks are as follow:
  • Police Commissioner: Head of NSPD.
  • Deputy Commissioner: Second in command
Tthe District is divided into Subdistricts (differentiated by letters A, B, C and further)
  • Commander: Head of each Subdistrict Division.
  • Major: Second in Command
Subdistrict Divisions are then divided into Precincts (differentiated by numbers):
  • Captain: Head of each precinct.
  • Lieutenant: Supervise specific divisions of units (detectives, patrols, etc.) as well as multiple Sergeants.
  • Inspector (optional depending on size of Precinct): Supervise large teams/multiple small teams.
  • Sergeant: Supervise small teams/fieldwork coordinator.
  • Police Officers: The basic enforcement unit
  • Recruit: Fresh graduates in training
*Detective is not a rank but a designation which the officer works in plain clothes. Detectives do not technically outrank a Police Officer but they are in charge of cases and are usually senior in service and so hold a measure of authority.

*High ranking positions (Captain and above) had rarely been occupied by Lower Class Citizen, and historically never higher than Major.

CITIZEN REGULATION AGENCY

The Upper Class and Elite Districts fall under the jurisdiction of Citizen Regulation Agency, or CRA. Their ranking structure is divided into 2 departments:

  1. CRA Management
  • Director: Head of the CRA.
  • Deputy Director: Second in Command
  • Special Counsel to the Director
  • Chief of Staff
  • Executive Assistant Director
  • Associate Assistant Director
2. Field Agent
  • Special Agent in Charge (SAC)
  • Assistant Special Agent in Charge (ASAC)
  • Supervisory Special Agent
  • Senior Special Agent
  • Special Agent
  • Agent
  • Trainee
*Despite the Elite District technically falling under CRA's jurisdiction, CRA Agents are often neither wanted nor needed due to the heavy presence and independence of private contractors under the employ of wealthy businessmen.

*Historically no Lower Class or Quasi-Upper Class have ever been recruited by the Agency.

*Benefits and paid in the CRA are substantially better than that of NSPD Officers, with workload significantly lower. Thus, positions within the CRA are heavily sought after.

*The CRA had been known to employ private contractors on a regular basis.
 
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KBCxONs.jpg


THE FAITHLESS KNIGHT

an experience

A large and exclusive bar/nightclub situated in the best section of the Lower District, The Faithless Knight offers its services to very specific groups of clientele. The Knight consists of a large central bar, smaller bars off to the side, several back rooms and booths for conducting private business (requires booking), a Nightclub, a VR hub, a restaurant (with private rooms), and a large roof landing bay, all of which offer the very best services and products one could find. Some even say, the Knight can get you something straight off an Elite's table if you could afford it.

The business is very well known as a place to conduct business for major players on the either side of the fence. The Knight is a neutral ground of sort, where an informal but otherwise effective truce holds, under the blessing of high-ranking officials and important businessmen with ties that needed looking the other way.

customer

The main crowd that can be found every night are NSPD officers, who made the place their usual haunt ever since the NSPD Commissioner became a Board member.

Although any Law Enforcement Officer can enter freely, The Knight permits only a selected few to enjoy its services, to be granted entrance you would need a reputation, or connection to the right people in the right places. To many, admittance to The Knight is seen as a badge of honour or an accomplishment.

rules

The Faithless Knight has a set of very strict rules that does not permit exception.
  • No physical conflict is to be started within the bar proper.
  • No third-party service is to be openly advertised or conducted within the bar proper.
  • All employees are to be treated respectfully.
  • Patrons' privacy are to be respected above all, any infringing equipment or action will result in severe penalty.

something off the menu

Any service conducted within the Knight's premise is strictly legal, however if a patron is looking for something more, the bar could use their many, many contacts and kindly direct customers with special needs to off-premise businesses.

more or less
The Knight's management are strictly Upper Class, with many Board members representatives of Elites.
 
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VICE​


It was a beautiful day. For the first time in months, the sky was clear, as clear as the persistent smog above the city would allow. The afternoon sun shone bright and silent, bathing the field of artificial grass in a golden haze with its exhausted intensity. The Upper Class air tasted of lilacs, the metallic scent of disinfectant, and sweaty bodies masked under expensive cologne.

And Vice's father was being lowered into the ground.

The grave plot had cost a small fortune. Any land these days were, especially for the dead. He should have let the old bastard burn like the rest of the world. Instead he had spent several years' savings just so his father could be better than everyone else in death, as he was in life. Full circle.

The crowd was dispersing now, the ceremony already ended. Vultures had had their fill, and they were leaving for their nest to digest their prize. There were more of them than he had expected, multiple high ranking officers under his father's direct command, businessmen who were his associates, and even the Commissioner dropped by to say a few words over the body, before hurrying away to more pressing businesses. No family. He was lucky enough for that.

Most of them stopped and spoke to him on their way back, offering fake condolences, fake sadness, fake empathy. No fake tears, though. That was too much even for them. And most of them he answered with nods and thanks and sent them on their way. Eventually their faces blurred into a featureless indistinguishable progression of ghosts.

He felt a firm hand on his shoulder and his Captain's voice in his ear: "Take as much time as you need. We will talk when you get back." The Captain's tone was even, respectful but distanced. Take as much time as you need. Your ticket on the luxury train had expired, and you're down here on the dirty common class car with the rest of us now. Get used to it. He understood that well enough.

The cemetery was empty. He found himself staring at the gravestone, an ugly metallic thing with his father's name lazered across it without much care. A wind picked up, parting his hair to reveal the ragged scar across his forehead and tugging at his suit, pressing it into his skin. He had always hated the thing, just as much as he hated the occasions that forced him to wear it. It was no different now. At least it would be the last time. The air still smelled faintly of lilacs, but he couldn't for the life of him figure out where it was coming from. His cheeks felt wet, and he looked up in surprise, expecting dark clouds and rain. There were none. Vice tasted salt on his lips.

It took most of his strength to peel his eyes off his father's grave and walk away.


_ _ _ _

The AA02 smelled of absolutely nothing. The harsh white light overhead left no room for shadow, just as the muted color palette of the floor, wall and ceiling was unnaturally spotless, a place seemingly outside of time, untouched by all the taint of the world. Miles zipped by in a blur, and the perfect stability of the Skytrain gave the illusion of it being stationary while the world flew by outside. He could see how the Elites could grow to view themselves as gods, this and so much more.

Vice lit a cigarette, drawing glares from the two other passengers on the Train, a man and a woman, both high class lawyers from the looks of them. He ignored their disapproving scowls, took a long drag and started coughing uncontrollably. The smoke was cheap stuff, completely new to him just like the clothes he was wearing, a rumpled shirt with no tie, khaki and a dark coat. Nothing remotely appropriate or fancy, but that was what he was going for. Clothes he had never allowed himself to wear, habits he had never allowed himself to develop, invitations he never would have accepted. In many ways, he was trying to be himself, by being the furthest from who he had been. As soon as the coughing had subsided, he took another pull and held it, testing how it felt on his tongue. Freedom. A new life. Or at least, an attempt at one.

The two passengers' glare followed him as he exited the Train into the marbled courtyard. Its extravagance was distasteful, but expected. He had been here before, once. Another purpose, another life. It was another life, he told himself.

The glass doors slid silently aside into the entrance hall. There were more awards and decoration than the last time he had visited. But of course, the place was made to impress and couldn't fall behind the time. Would they build another hall, he absentmindedly wondered, when this one is filled?

The receptionist wore a mask of perfect courtesy and professionalism, and offered him a polite smile as he approached. Vice felt strangely vulnerable without his own mask. It would take some getting used to. The woman scanned his implant, confirmed his identity and said in an all too cheerful manner: "Welcome back to Big Bux Co., Officer Krmski. Please proceed down the hall to my right to room 509. And please, no smoking in the building.” No smoking of this foul cheap stuff, she meant. He returned her unwavering smile with one of his own, just as empty, and put the light out on a nearby ashtray.

There were already others in 509, a couple he didn't recognize, someone he thought he had seen pictures of around the precinct, and one of Madame's girl. That alone burned half of his theories on why Matrikt had invited him. That was bad news, because the other half were far-fetched at best, and ridiculous at worst.

Feeling parched, Vice headed for the drinks and nodded in greetings to anyone who looked his way.
 
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{slide=Profile|center}
Sin Eater​

Name: Edmund "Ender" Finn
Age: 31
Birth: January 6th
Gender: Male
Species: Homo Sapien (Mentally Altered)
Occupation: Public Prosecutor
Location: Queens

Ender appreciates the small things. That's how everyone should be, really. Everyday life is made up of small things, so why endlessly long for adventures that never come when one can find comfort in the daily rituals of fortified peace? The scum of the earth came to him and he did his best to put them away, but to him it was never more than a job. Ender is not an idealist, had never been. He didn't bother to figure out the world, or to reason it. One needed not reassurance in putting order to the world when one can find peace in one's self. And Ender's peace is the solitude of his home, with his cat Oliver on his lap.

Sometimes his life would be shaken up by certain events, unwanted adventures, disturbances of his small world. And he would do what needed to be done, all the while longing to be home.
{/slide}
{slide=Story|center}
Inbetween​

Edmund Finn was never special.

His parents made sure of it. They were the perfect guardians, just strict enough to raise him strong, just kind enough to make him feel loved, just attentive enough to always be there for him. No rough edges, the flawless lessons. It bored him to death, but molded him into their image. As any teenager, his rebellious phase came, but he was strong enough to control who he was. He lived and worked among criminals, but he was loved enough to never be cynical or unkind. Ender, they called him. Ender of fun, ender of recklessness, ender of risks of any kind. Perfect self-control made for little fun at parties, he was told. But he couldn't help it. He was made that way.

But nothing lasts, he learned. Ender's father died of cancer, and his mother soon followed. It was a tragedy of the worst kind, but it never came close to breaking him. He was made better than that. Death and suffering were old friends in his line of work, and he had long since learned to live with them.

Ender still missed them endlessly. Sometimes he wished he could reverse time, undo death itself, like a snake biting its own tail trying to swallow back what had already passed. He searched for rumours of the unknown, followed traces of the impossible, and day-dreamed, as everyone does one time or another in their life, of what he would do if will along can change the world. His composure cracked, just the slightest bit, but temptation and selfishness got through all the same.

That road led him to 99 Verus Somnium, City of Judas. A nonexistent house on a nonexistent street in a city that can only be found in dreams. A crack in the fabric of reality, where the barrier between the physical and the mind was ripped open. Where mere thoughts dictated what is, and desires warred against pure will in a kaleidoscopic myriad of infinite possibilities, where wishes came true to batter the senses into slumbering numbness and abandonment.

Ender lost himself to the timelessness of its abstract eternity. He could have stayed forever, sink into its lifeless immortality and be free. But he was made better than that.

Ender Finn emerged from a from a one-year coma surrounded by friends and family. They were the same, the world was the same, just waiting for him to come back with open arms. And they were heaven compared to the chaotic shapeless perpetuity he had escaped from. Heaven in the comfort of the small things, a kind gesture, a welcoming smile, friends that never once gave up hope. Paradise was within reach and he had nearly abandoned it for a farfetched dream.

Ender carried with him the scar of that place, a reminder of recklessness and lost of self-control. His mind was stuck inbetween, a personal pathway through the barrier separating pure will and the physical. He could see things, feel things, touch things from the other side and channel them through himself to manifest them in the real. It was his broken dream's very last temptation, constantly whispering to him to let loose, and find out what he could become. He could fix the world so easily, end the crime he was faced with everyday with mere thoughts, just plucking out the bad in people and extinguishing them. But Ender Finn was made much, much better than that.
{/slide}
{slide=Ability|center}
Humanity Given Form​

  • Impeccable hair at all times
Ender can draw on the emotions and states of minds of individuals and manifest them in the physical world as tangible or intangible constructs. Specific mental states power the manifestation with specific characteristics. Light and careful manifestations create nearly imperceptible strength sap, while forceful manifestations extinguish that emotion altogether, causing severity ranging from sudden weakness to mental damage and permanent personality change. He can draw from multiple individuals at once, magnifying the potency of the manifestations.
  • Fear: Sudden, crippling.
  • Anger: Explosive, destructive, brute force.
  • Sadness: Heavily invasive to the mind, subtle, difficult to detect, prolonged susceptibility to manipulation.
  • Joy/Happiness/Love: Soothing, regenerative, healing, protective.
  • Resolve/Determination: Fortifying, hardened, unyielding.
  • Jealousy: Corruptive, infectious, debilitating.
  • Hatred: Suffocating, heavy, overwhelming
  • etc.

Ender can also dream-walk and astral project to an extent, although without much control or precision.
{/slide}
{slide=Notes|center}
Many people knew of Ender's ability, but not the extent of it. Most colleagues or friends thought he was a not particularly strong Empath, which explained why he was good at his job. The few criminals who crossed path with him when he was in a bad mood experienced some bad moments of sin siphon, but were otherwise physically and mentally unharmed.


Aesthetic: The seemingly delayed ticking of a clock in a silent room, slowly sinking in an ocean of star-filled nothingness, calm and even breathing echoing in a sea of muted crowd, the fleeting texture of dirt washing away in a stream under your fingers.

{/slide}
[/stabs]



 
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  • Andrew Powell

    Age: 23
    Sex: Male
    Occupation: Student, BA, University of Chicago
    Major: Biological Science, Specialization in Evolution Endocrinology.

    Andrew Powell was the kind of person everyone wanted to be. He was sociable, charming, smart and driven. He didn't thrive in crowds, but was comfortable enough to be welcomed and liked.
    He wasn't top of the class, but always in the leading few through a combination of hardwork and affinity.

    But Andrew could never take all the credit. Deep down, he always felt a degree of guilt on how good and easy he had it, like he was handed all the tools and so undeserving of his life. He felt more guilt still feeling unsatisfied. He told himself it was ungrateful, and how dare he not be happy with what others would gladly trade for in an instant if they could. Still that lingering emptiness lurked in his mind, urging him toward...something, he never knew what, whispering to him that there should be more to the world than this. There had to be. He just had to find it.

  • Andrew Powell is the son of Dr. Henry J. Powell, a well-known chemical biologist, and Sandra Powell, Chief Editor of the popular scientific magazine Encyclopedic Advancements. Unlike many of their peers, Dr. Powell and his wife never neglected their child no matter how busy they got. They were caring and kind, and instilled in him a love for science from an early age. Andrew didn't have much talent for it, but he made up for it by determination and a willingness to do whatever it takes to be like his parents. For years he watched them being adored and praised, so why not strife to become the same? And they more than happily obliged. A plan was laid out for him, from first grade all the way to Doctorate, a clear path of success, and all that was required of him was to try his best. And Andrew never disappointed.

    He never lost that love for science, but deep down guilt built in the corners of his mind, and he felt like it was not enough. This was the path he had chosen, but he hadn't earned it, not really. He needed to do something more, something truly great, to prove to himself that he deserved to be where he was.
 
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Ardryan Lynkt
The Soldier


Biography: Ardryan never knew his father. Not that he ever wanted to. The man raped his mother and was hung for it, as per Drakos' law. Any other woman would have been broken, or at least try their best to rid themselves of the seed of such a foul crime, but Maara Lynkt was no ordinary woman. Against all's insistence, she kept the baby and did not let him or the tragedy define her. Ardryan, then, was born of misdeed and a woman's strength, who raised him to be more than the sum of his creation.

Maara Lynkt was a commoner, but Ardryan's grandfather was a famed artist and during his life befriended a minor Noble who later became Maara's Godfather. He took them in out of kindness, Ardryan and his mother, and had her tending to his children. As a result, Ardryan was close with the Nobleman's 2 sons and daughter, all of whom treated him like their own siblings. His childhood was peaceful, surrounded by kindness and love, part of a family that treasured him as much as he treasured it. Growing up, Ardryan was closest to the first son, Lorraine. He was always Lorraine's right hand, content to walk in his friend's shadow and aid him in his endeavours. Ardryan was the man of action, and Lorraine was the strategist. Together, they could accomplish almost anything. He thought it would last forever, that peace. But of course, nothing good ever did.

Lorraine became an idealist. It was inevitable with young men his age, even more so in the circle of the wealthy. The war with Argenna was at its peak, and a call to action from the King himself rippled through the hot-blooded men of Drakos like flame in the wind, burning bright in their heart. The whole kingdom rumbled and growled, a machine of war roaring its defiance. Ardryan could smell the ash in the air.

Against all's protests, Lorraine enlisted, and what else could Ardryan do but follow his friend? So went two young men into war and blood, one blazing with passion, the other with dread. And only one emerged, scarred.

Ardryan stood amongst the crowd of the Festival five years and three campaigns later, watching his unrecognizable city, and dreading facing his family. He had failed his brother. Maybe if the world would end right that moment, then he would not have to look into the eyes of the people he loved and watch joy turn to horror. For that one single moment, Ardryan Lynkt wished very, very hard.

Age: 30

Weapons: A standard military short sword and spear (the latter left at the barrack). A hunting knife used for everyday tasks, from shaving to eating.

Equipments:
  • A rain cloak.
  • A satchel containing rations, waterskin, ink and paper.
Skills:
  • Ardryan's formally trained with a longsword, although that would not be his weapon of choice. He much prefers the combination of spear and short sword which had kept him alive in battle. Ardryan fights the way he had always fought, all-in and brutal, because each melee he had been in, only one person had been allowed to walk away alive.
  • Basic first-aid, soldier's discipline, high endurance due to constant marching, high pain threshold.
Deficiencies:
  • Ardryan couldn't figure out a bow if his life depended on it.
  • He was never a people person, that was Lorraine's job. He could keep a basic conversation going fine, but anything more and Ardryan's sometimes lost for words. It didn't help that his humour was severely poisoned by the environment he was in.
  • He couldn't keep alcohol down. The foul putrid liquid that his company passed around as "alcohol" had completely destroyed his inclination to ever go near it again.
Magic Affinity: Fire
 
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The barrack was unusually quiet when Ardryan awoke. It was light outside despite him not sleeping in, the sun somehow rising earlier in Nocrest than Baile. As if the sun delayed itself, unwilling to witness the fields of the deads and dyings. Here the light was brighter, more vibrant and alive, an invisible heart pumping vigour through the city. Or perhaps that was just him. Anywhere was better than that place.

Still, the barrack's silence unnerved him while it should have been calming. He expected the rumble and snoring of men turning in their sleep, the clinging and smashing of early risers preparing morning routines, or at least the bellowing of sergeants kicking their companies awake. That morning however, a quiet emptiness greeted him, a hollow of sound and activity that screamed wrongness. He had been at war for far too long.

He found someone from the 5th Company in the kitchen ransacking through piles of dirty pots and leftover scraps of bread. The man didn't look up at Ardryan's approach, merely scratched his beard absentmindedly and twitched his nose as if smelling something unpleasant. Torbi, Ardryan thought he was called.

"Where is everyone?" He asked, his voice echoed strangely in the deserted space.

"Out whorin' all night, probably." Torbi gave up with the pots and turned to a row of cabinets along one wall, opening them one by one them throwing them shut immediately after. "The houses offered discount during the Festival, and the Roads brought cheap wine." The Roads was soldier slang for travelling merchants. The man spared Ardryan a glance before resuming his curious search. "I'm surprised you aren't out as well."

Ardryan grunted in respond. "And you? Wasn't feeling company last night? Or did you brought someone in?" Bringing women into the barrack was strictly forbidden, but their battalion mostly ignored it out of habit. There wasn't much rules that could be enforced during campaigns without demoralizing the army, so the officers pretended not to notice.

"Hah, I wish. Was on guard duty last night. Old bastard Delani insisted his precious cargo needed keeping an eye on. I drew the short straw. Ah-hah!" Torbi exclaimed in triumph, pulling a stopped bottle containing a dark liquid out of from behind a stack of firewood. He returned Ardryan's puzzled look with a crooked grin. "I knew the cooks hid the good stuff somewhere around here somewhere. They sometimes sneak a few off Delani's personal deliveries. Want a sip?"

Ardryan shook his head. That apparently was the right answer, because Torbi slapped him on the shoulder appreciatively on his way out. Unlike the poor guard, he had chosen to stay in last night. He feared the sight of his city would break his heart.

And it did. Even if everything had changed.

Ardryan stood in a narrow street leading to the city square, trying to remember the name of the road. Once he knew by heart every corner and alley of this place, all seven different titles people called it and sixteen out of thirty families that resided there. Now he could barely find his way from one end to the other without getting lost. The stone beneath his feet felt despairingly unfamiliar, his boots making a jarring clicking noise as if protesting their perfect singularity. It felt strange stepping on even ground that was free of mud and blood and a thousand soliders' marching footprint.

He smelled happiness in the air, radiating off the people of Nocrest like a palpable light, saturating the sky like a brewing storm. And Ardryan breathed it all in greedily, letting it infuse and wrap around him like an enveloping blanket of warmth, soaking into his dread-filled heart. He could have stayed that way for hours, marveling the scene. But duty propelled him forward like it always did, and he found himself amongst the packed crowd eagerly waiting for the King's speech in front of the Royal Palace. His eyes, however, was not on the raised dais like thousands' were, but locked ahead across the square. Just beyond the sea of bodies, two streets down on the left, was his home. Ardryan's feet dragged, and he abruptly stopped mid-stride.

What would he say to them? What could he say? What could he do?

His throat locked up at a memory, and fear of what to come. It was inevitable. He had no choice but to face it, and break their hearts. In all the years at war, there was nothing he had done that was as detestable as what he was about to do.

Maybe if the world would end, then he would delay it a moment longer.
 
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TEST SHIT AND GIGGLEZ

somethingsoemthing else

lol
 
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Jihi - 慈悲


  • appearance: A mountain stream that once borne the snow of the highest peaks to the rich soil of lowland deltas, Jihi sometimes appeared in the form of a dark-haired man in dishevel farmer's clothing, tall and slender, his skin tanned and scarred like the mountainside. His eyes are a piercing grey, the colour of freshly melted snow soaking through the soil of the river bank, his hair a flowing inky black of the wood's whispering shadows. Jihi's appearance resembled the rough and weathered mountain that it flows through.

    name: Jihi - 慈悲
    nickname: Jin

    race: River deity [kami]
    age: Several centuries old but human form appears to be early thirties
    Occupation: Guardian spirit

  • Mercy

    There once was a little boy. He lived in a small village near the mountain. His mother and father and the village elders all warned him not to go too far from the village, and never, ever stray from the path.

    One day, the boy climbed the mountain out of curiosity. He walked for an entire morning and an entire afternoon until the path ran out, and he forged forward still, fascinated by the wood. But before long, he realized he was lost.

    The little boy tried to turn back, but the earth had swallowed his tracks. He tried to find the sun to find his way, but the trees blocked out the sky, their trunks too high and their branches to sharp to climb. He tried to call out for help, but the wood devoured his voice and sent nothing back.

    The little boy trudged on, determine to find his way home, but he walked for a day and a night and no trace of home could be seen. He prayed to Amaterasu and Fūjin and all the gods in heaven to show him a sign, but four days and four nights passed and no sign appeared.

    Finally, exhausted, hungry and unable to carry on, the little boy came to the bank of a river. Its water restored some of his strength, but not his hope. Falling into the gentle current, the boy made a deal with the river: if the river brought him home, he and all his children after him would worship and honour it for a thousand years to come. And as his consciousness faded, where all his prayers had been met with silence, the lapping water whispered to him, mercy.

    The villagemen found the little boy on the shore of a nearby lake and brought him home, feverish and weak but alive. And his mother and father and all the village elders praised the gods in heaven for their miracle, but the little boy knew better.

    Decades passed in a blink, mere seconds for the unchanging mountain, but an eternity for mortal men. A famed general returned home to the village of his birth, gloried and victorious. Leaving his men behind, he climbed the mountain alone and lost himself in its abstract infinity, until he came to the bank of a river deep inside the wood, where he fell to his knees and bowed his head, three times.

    From that day onward, a new shrine stood on the shore of the lake where the little boy was found so many years before, a shrine dedicated to a river none had seen. Jihi, it was called. Benevolence. Mercy. If a traveller was lost in the mountains, they would pray to Jihi, and the river would guide them home. Every generation, one girl from the general's descendants would be chosen to become Jihi's Shrine Maiden, to dedicate her life to praising its name and remind others of the story of the little boy, and the river.

    But as the centuries passed, war, famine and diseases ravaged the land, and the forgetful minds of mortal men were so very, very fragile. Soon, villagemen could no longer remember how the shrine came to be, and as death claimed the last of the general's descendants, its story was forever lost to time.

    And even the constants of the mountain was not insusceptible to the whims of the land. Droughts and the relentless sun slowly, inexorably stripped away the lifeblood of the river until it dried to a small stream, then bare rocks under the scorching sky. Until a river was no longer a river, only an idea of one.

    The broken, unattended remain of a shrine stood by the shore of a dried lake, forgotten.


  • Personality: Jihi rarely appeared in its human form other than to its Shrine Maiden or lost travellers of the mountain. Like the current of its water, Jihi was both gentle and severe, caring yet detached, harsh but fair, and ultimately paradoxical in its nature. Driven by kindness and fascination of mortals, Jihi almost always answered prayers of those in need.

    But time had stripped many layers off its bones, leaving behind bare river bed of heated rock and a lingering idea of water, like the dampness in the air after the rain. The kindness remained, albeit jagged and sharp, hot as a summer day.

    Jihi had always been alien, inhuman, more of a concept than a being. But concepts are fair and unbiased.


    Domain: Jihi is a kami of the river and the mountain, water and rock. It can commune with bodies of water, be it lake, stream, river or pond as long as the kami of those places are awake. It can also commune with kami of the earth and wood to a limited extent.

    Jihi holds dominion over water, and so is most potent in the early hours of rising sun, when the morning dew saturated the land, and after or before storms and rains when the air is abundant of water. Jihi cannot make rain, but revel and come alive in it.

    Jihi is not repelled or weakened by dry land, now that it itself had dried up, but its mood and personality sour quickly in such environment, heading rapidly towards resentment of everything around it.

 
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A piece of paper or a number on a screen, they hold no value of their own, yet they control our lives, or rather, we give them the control. Not silver or gold or a tangible object, only the idea of the currency that we attributed value to, and the unyielding faith that the giant that is the social monetary system will lumber along and not stumble.

We kill in its name, bleed in its name, serve it, dedicate our whole life to it unquestioningly. More of us worships it than Jesus or Buddha or Allah or all of them combined. It's considered as essential as food or water or air, and it isn't even real.

In that way, how is Money any less than God himself? Everyday we go to its churches and labour away in our prayer booths. Everyday we watch its High Priests in their Wall Street Temples praising its name and its miracles. And everyday we put our lives into its hand, without doubt, without hesitation, without regret.

All that unfiltered, unfaltering faith funneled into a single idea was unprecedented in human history.

Behold, the greatest God of them all, the currency system of the United States.


But even Gods fall when their sacred Temples are burned to the ground

God was crippled during the great Sundering.

The country went into crisis, and their faith faltered, fear and doubt worming their way into their heart, poisoning God from the inside out. Its Temple was in rubble, its worshippers wavering, and despite all the government of the United States tried to do, God was murdered and broken into a hundred thousand pieces. Given time, and restored faith, it would have risen out of the ashes and be reborn. But there were wolves at the door.

Corporations tore its pieces apart and devoured the remaining. Each fragment was a seed, a potential released into the world to be taken and cultivated. And the more fragment each scavenger devoured, the more powerful it got. A war was forged over the remnants of a dead God, its battle fought over stock markets and takeover deals and competitive targeting.

The war spiraled into the Dark Ages of the 2007-2008 financial crisis that destroyed the livelihood of millions just as sure as guns and bombs could. When the smoke finally cleared, a new Era was born in the United States, the Era of Godlings.

The seeds had taken roots and grown into entities of power. Every church of the old God, no matter how big or small. was now its own sect with its own deity. Their domain are Consumerism and Capitalism, their weapons Marketing and Behavioural Targeting, and with them they enslaved the human minds in masses. The more capital they gather, the more powerful they get. A hundred thousand Godlings for a hundred thousand pieces of the old God's corpse, dividing America between themselves like pigs in a farm.

Bw63PIp.jpg

But the old God left behind more than its body. Artifacts remained, small gateways to tap into the ocean of faith, its pool of power. Scattered across the country, the artifacts are insignificant on their own, but together, they are a direct threat to the Powers that Be that cannot be ignored or tolerated.




Pretia Libertatis, or the Price of Freedom is a hyper-realistic social/corporate thriller with a tinge of underlying mystical/supernatural theme. Your characters will be in a possession of artifacts that have great potential, and so will be a threat to certain powerful organizations that will stop at nothing to eliminate you and possess your artifact.

 
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Verus Embr
Profile

Full Name:
Captain Verus Caelum Embr, Viscount of Yglm​

Nickname(s):
Veil, Veritas, Caleb, Captain​

Gender:
Male​

Age:
317​

Race:
Elf​

Sexuality:
Pansexual​

Allegiance:
Lavea, and currently Donnwick​

Appearance:

With piercing blue eyes, high cheekbones and delicate elven features, Verus Embr is the incarnation of otherworldly beauty. His skin, while still fair, bears a healthy tan of perpetual exposure to the sun. Standing at a more-than-average 7'2", Verus' form is made up of compact muscle like coiled ropes, full of agile endurance. His fingers and toes are slightly longer than that of the other elves, giving him a somewhat better balance and better ability for delicate tasks.

Verus' wardrobe is made up of mostly dark shirt, pants, and not much else. He detests plate and mail armour, opting for light leather alternatives in battle, relying on his speed and tricks rather than hard defence, which makes him excel in combat against slow or smaller sized opponents.​

Humanity

Personality:

Verus is an optimist in every sense of the word. Charming, pleasant and lively almost every hour of every day, he very much contradicted how Elves were perceived in Donnwick, amiable and jovial to their usual gloomy distrust. Smiles rarely leave his face, nor do witty and good-humoured remarks his lips.

Many would describe Verus as childish, an exceedingly odd observation for one of his age, even more so an Elf. Easily distracted, inconsistently motivated and fascinated with the inconsequentials, it is by these qualities that Verus' based his optimism, and what made him completely different to those of his kind. His unfocused, absent-minded personality makes for fun companionship, but troublesome soldiering elsewhen. It was one of the many reasons he only made Captain after decades of service.​

Backstory:

Verus Caelum Embr found paradise as a child, and never grew up.

Born to the Viscountess of Yglm, for a long time Verus was the mirror image of a noble child, taught to be solemn, serene and ultimately reserved. His home was a mansion atop the highest hill overlooking Yglm, and his early childhood was quiet and tranquil. His father was distant, and his mother, the Viscountess hadn't much use for an adolescent boy. It was cold, perhaps even cruel, but it was their way. Verus was never taught to be a leader, never taught to be anything at all, because all knew his time to inherit the land would not come for a long, long time. No teacher, no parent, no purpose. Was it any wonder that their Kingdom seemed to waste away?

One bright morning, someone shattered Verus' aimless existence. A small boy, the seventeenth Rynalian Prince sent as lifelong ambassador, to live amongst the Elves and learn their way. It was not his disparate culture or his odd appearance that enamoured the young Elf, it was his heart. Their friendship was strange, the two of them so completely different, but it was a friendship nonetheless, and above all else it taught Verus Caelum Embr, the boy who was nothing, to smile. He learned to be kind, he learned to be happy. For years the Yglm hills' silence was replaced with laughter and joy, infusing the trees with vitality, the earth with life, and the air with delight. For a long, long while, the sun seemed so very bright, and the world spoke to him in light and music. It was his very own paradise, perfect moments in time.

But of course, it could not last, for he was Elven, and his friend was not. Happiness drained out of him with age, smiles replaced by wrinkles, laughters replaced with worry, while Verus did not change. Any lesser man would have resented it, but not his friend, the Rynalian Prince. They had a promise, Verus and the Prince, a promise to always be the very best they could be. They sealed it with their last kiss.

The Prince was gone one day. Returned to home to die, so Verus would not have to see it. It broke his heart, it and the darkened landscape of his home and all the horror he witnessed in the years to come, but Verus Embr never lost his smile. He had a promise to keep.​

Strengths:

Agile, quick and dexterous, Verus' greatest strength is his speed and graceful movement, even more so than other Elves. He could run, climb, jump and move with fluid deliberation, expending the perfect amount of effort for each motion. His high endurance further allow him to utilize his agility to the fullest.
Weaknesses:

Verus is not particularly strong in either physical prowess or magical talent. While his magical reserve is not limited, he struggles with large scale or compacted powerful workings, making his magic much less potent on its own. His stature and form also makes wearing heavy plate almost impossible.​

Assets

Magic:

Verus is an adept Air sorcerer, with some weaker and much less disciplined ability in Light. He struggles with large or powerful workings, and instead focusing most on utility functions. He regularly utilize magic to alter, strengthen or redirect projectiles, as well as assisting him in empowering his movements.
Verus' Light magic is just as weak as his Air, and much less disciplined.​

Weapons of Choice:
  • Bow and arrow.
  • Handaxes.
  • Javelins.
  • Throwing daggers.
  • Throwing needles.
  • Rapier.
Gear:
Leather Armour.
Longbow and 25 arrows.
Daggers, needles, 2 handaxes.
A javelin.
A Rapier.
12 golds, 7 silvers and 4 coppers.
 
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  • Name: Sagus Faust
    Race: Tiefling
    Sex/Gender: Male
    Age: 37
    Role: Surgeon
    Origin: Islamyria

    Appearance: Standing at 6'8" with wide shoulder and bulky build complimented by a dark crimson scheme, Sagus Faust commands an imposing presence of cultured ferocity.

    His immaculate all-red attire and impeccable manner greatly contrast with the belligerent savagery of his ancestry, long black horns and flowing curls falling over hooked ears. His skin, dark and weathered, although well-cared for betrayed a violent past of extensive scars bearing the marks of ragged wound that had been flawlessly stitched.

    His eyes, a startling scarlet of dusk over snowy peaks, carries a keen intelligence and nearly indecipherable appraisal that projects contemplative intensity.

    Faust radiates an aura of pride, not arrogance but the absolute confidence of a man possessing an unshakable faith in everything he is and challenging the world to break him down.

    Strength:
    • Perfect close-ranged vision: Within a 10 feet radius, Faust's scarlet sight can pick out the individual lines on a fly's wing, or track individual droplets of water in the rain.
    • The Surgeon's Hands: Steady as the earth itself, Faust's grip never shakes, never falters, never hesitates. His fingers can tease out a tiny knot on a needle thread, or pick up a single grain of powder. His grip, while firm and precise, is powerful enough to set broken bones with one hand.
    • The Third Hand: Years of training granted Faust the perfect control of his tail as if it was another limb, which he regularly uses in both daily tasks and professional practice.
    Weakness:
    • Speed: Faust's strength is that of a focused machine, patient and meticulous. He could work on patients for hours on end, but the fanatic focus on his craft left his lower body reflex in a less than ideal state.
    • Martially Untrained: Almost entirely useless with complex weapons, Faust often tries to avoid violence using his head more than his blade.
    • Crooked Left Foot: An old injury that never fully healed, Faust walks with a slight limp favouring his left, further damaging his agility and balance. He often utilizes a cane, though he can do without one albeit making daily tasks more difficult.

    Hex Colour: #E00

  • There once was a little Tiefling boy.

    The boy lived a life that was less than a life, in a home that was less than a home, for his father had buried his love with his mother and left none for him.

    One day the boy asked his father why he was not loved, and his father said, because I hate, as you will one day. That was the first and only lesson the bitter old man ever taught him.

    The little boy understood hate of course, but didn't know it, not truly. His hate, then, must not have been strong enough. So he fed it everything he had, passion, fear, longing. Love. Until all he knew was a seething hatred so violent and suffocating he though he would drown in it.

    The little boy's father died taking his vengence, one he never passed down. The cycle ended before it could even begin.

    ----​

    There once was a boy with poison pumping through his veins, devouring everything he was.

    A priest of Zainth took him in, an act of kindness so puzzling that for a moment the hatred subsided and curiosity leeched through the cracks. So the boy asked the priest why he had done what he did, and the priest answered, because I have faith.

    The boy understood faith too, but once again did not truly know it. He searched for it in himself and found none, as faith was the domain of the Gods, and they demanded a sacrifice. So the boy offered Zainth his all-consuming hatred, and was granted faithful peace and guidance. After all, Gods had use for someone with no purpose like himself.

    The priest was murdered in a burglary and his temple burned to the ground.

    ----
    There once was a boy who had given everything and achieved nothing.

    The boy at last learned vengeace, yet he loathed how easily the long thought abandoned hatred came back to him, how righteous it felt to unleash violence for a justified cause. But Fate once again swayed him from darkness, for the first man he encounered down that road was a kind man.

    The old surgeon told him, before you can cut open a man, you must know how to a stitch him up first, for a killer who doesn't know restraint and circumspection is a killer doomed to die.

    So for short while, the boy thought, he could exchange a knife for a needle, and aggression for absolute focus. The short while turned into months, and months into years. The little boy grew into a young man.

    He was good at it, the young surgeon, good at fixing mistakes and mending the brokens. Each pass of the needle stitched close a small piece of his past, each set broken bone righted a disastrous choice of his life. Slowly, fragment by fragment, the young surgeon sewed himself back to one piece.

    His mentor passed away peacefully of old age.

    ----
    There once was a man who spent his life with one foot over the abyss.

    This time, there was no one to save him, no kindness to suture buried lost. He was all alone.

    The little boy would have falter and fled. The young man would have embraced the seed of cruelty and be a monster with a clever mask.

    Faust was neither. Each time his life turned, he had fed everything he was into the forge of reincarnation to emerge a distorted image of his new dream, over and over again until no semblance of the things he had been before remained, leaving only the absolute pride of a creature who was melted down to the diamond of its core and can no longer be hurt.

    The little boy had burn. The young man was burned. Hatred, faith, anger, love. Only Faust and the pride existed.

    Faust's refusal to treat a notorious noble had his home destroyed and his name dragged through the mud.

    ----
    There once was a creature standing on the shore of a foreign land, starting its journey, one more time.


Character art by IndahAlditha
 
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