Tassarion Genroris
Established
Roleplay posts: 39
Age: 25
Appearance: The broad-chested warrior stands at a tall height of 6'1", windblown, chestnut hair hanging in his face and caught in his beard. His dark eyes peer from beneath somewhat unruly brows, he has strong scandinavianesque features that fit his warrior persona.
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Equipment: He wears furs and leathers: everything from the boots to his mantle, marking him as a fine hunter. His weapons include a large axe which he uses both as a melee weapon as well as a ranged weapon, as well as simple but finely made daggers. His armour includes an iron helm, gauntlets, and chest plates affixed with leather straps.
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Skills and Abilities: He is adept at hunting, sailing, fishing, axe-throwing/wielding, close combat.
He does have a good singing voice, though he only sings when he is on his own.
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Biography: He does not know where he comes from, as he was an orphan. It no longer mattered though, for when the next he knew, the world was torn assaunder and he was surrounded in the mist.
Registered: Mar 24, 2021 11:49:07 GMT -5
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Post by Tassarion Genroris on Mar 25, 2021 10:11:08 GMT -5
The mist was roiling about, thick and almost putrid in the air. The boat rocked to and fro as it moved through the waves of the sea. Where were they? How long had they been in the mist? Tass didn't know, but he was glad he wasn't alone to endure the trip. He found himself morose and having plenty of nightmares... Such was the gloom that the mist brought on.
"It's yours if you want it," he said with a rumble to Dart, sounding less than enthused when he realized the coin purse was not in his pocket anymore. Normally, he would like the game, but it was hard to play it still when all that surrounded them was dismal gray. Maybe it was starting to get to him.
But then the sound of gulls cawing in the distance brought his eyes up. Gulls? That meant land! And the mist parted. He grabbed Dart up in an embrace and gave her a big ol' kiss of joy. Oh, to find land at last! "We made it..." he said, his voice cracking.
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Ji-Min
Established
Roleplay posts: 32
Age: Unknown
Appearance: As a celestial vulx, Ji-Min carries a phantasmic, eerie appearance even among her kind: hair like moonlight, a bushel of three tails, and a menagerie of tattoos that dance about her skin as though they were alive as she. She's also a head taller than other vulx, rising to be as tall as most human women. She wears a mask atop her head that will, under certain circumstances, change shape: one into a fox, the other into a human, both blank. She wears silken robes that are too large, and beneath that, a complex layering of undergarments unsuited for the isles.
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Equipment: Ji Min uses the two wakizashi painted into her skin for combat. Otherwise, she has little in the way of adventurer's tools: only a waterskin and another leather pouch for food. Around her neck, hidden beneath her collar, is a necklace wound tightly around a pearl.
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Skills and Abilities: Being the celestial yokai of winter, Ji Min has varying, if subdued, powers over the themes of frost.
Registered: Mar 22, 2021 21:27:50 GMT -5
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Post by Ji-Min on Mar 25, 2021 19:22:20 GMT -5
As the shock of finally seeing sunlight wore off, a thump against the boat alerted the vulx woman. One of her ears swiveled before she turned her head, eyeing something slopped on top of a piece of driftwood. She narrowed her eyes and skittered over, leaning over the side to get a better look. Making out the shape of what she could only determine to be a person. She ushered over the captain, waving him over frantically. His heavy boots thumped loudly onto the maple planks, making a racket where the fox woman had been deathly quiet. When he looked down into the water with her, he let out a grunt. Grabbing onto the edge, he dropped down, suspended himself by one arm, and reached down with his foot. In an impressive display of core strength, he slipped his foot beneath the figure's shirt and hoisted him upwards, enough to grab him in his free hand. He held the waterlogged survivor up to Ji-Min, who used both hands to roll them onto the deck.
Once there, Ji-Min bent down and put an ear to his mouth, listening for a breath.
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Jackingson Pillberry
Established
Roleplay posts: 21
Appearance: Jackingson Pillberry is just short six feet, hanging at about 5'10. His fur is a bright white color with dashes of smooth brown laced about, particularly in the ears. His eyes are a dark red hazel. He appears to be part Lepus americanus, or as the layman would know the snowshoe hare.
His clothing is very professional. He wears a slim grey bowler hat, with a small feather of unidentified origin tucked inside. Moving downwards he possesses a black bowtie laced inside a white colored shirt. Over the shirt he wears a black vest which carries a fob watch. The watch is not ornate, and looks like it was built to be hit with a hammer and keep on ticking. It's most certainly a mix of iron and with the inner workings, copper. Black dress pants are the last article of visible clothing. The clothing appears to have minor magical properties as they clean up incredibly well for the amount of blood and dirt that end up building up from time to time. They also are incredibly sturdy and tear resistant, which is evidenced by the fact that the pockets end up with heavy metal shoved into them.
Equipment: He has a mildly magical fob watch that can be switched from compass to watch that self adjusts no matter where you end up.
He carries two brass knuckles which slip into the back of his dress clothes quite neatly.
Under his right sleeve he has a knife that will slide out of a simple mechanism on his wrist.
He also carries some sort of flask that can turn water into cider when left alone for a day.
Skills and Abilities: Jackingson is suspected to have some amount of vampire blood in his system. The following powers and abilities have been observed:
Heavily increased strength; Jackingson has been observed tossing things weighing easily weighing three times his body weight with ease. However it is noted that his emotional state is always high when such instances occur, when he's not in a high emotional state he appears to act like the above average male in this category.
High sense of smell; The overwhelming theory behind Jackingson's uncanny sense of smell is his relation to the snowshoe hare.
Advanced speed; Thankfully, he does not possess super human levels of speed, but he can move deftly fast becoming close to a blur if he gets the right velocity, which isn't hard with how fast and high he can jump.
Jackingson appears incredibly dependent on a steady diet of raw meat and blood. The exact details of such a diet has not been directly observed, but it can be assumed that without it he would not be able to match his superhuman feats.
Biography: Jackingson Pillberry was originally detected in a no name town running the local bar. It is unknown where he was before that point, and why he's suddenly relocated to the isles. It is known however that he had an accomplice of sorts, a female dullahan's head with bright red hair.
Registered: Mar 23, 2021 9:47:11 GMT -5
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Post by Jackingson Pillberry on Mar 25, 2021 20:20:01 GMT -5
As the shock of finally seeing sunlight wore off, a thump against the boat alerted the vulx woman. One of her ears swiveled before she turned her head, eyeing something slopped on top of a piece of driftwood. She narrowed her eyes and skittered over, leaning over the side to get a better look. Making out the shape of what she could only determine to be a person. She ushered over the captain, waving him over frantically. His heavy boots thumped loudly onto the maple planks, making a racket where the fox woman had been deathly quiet. When he looked down into the water with her, he let out a grunt. Grabbing onto the edge, he dropped down, suspended himself by one arm, and reached down with his foot. In an impressive display of core strength, he slipped his foot beneath the figure's shirt and hoisted him upwards, enough to grab him in his free hand. He held the waterlogged survivor up to Ji-Min, who used both hands to roll them onto the deck. Once there, Ji-Min bent down and put an ear to his mouth, listening for a breath. The figure slumped down against the floor. Water dripping off and spilling onto the wooden planks. He was breathing very faintly and didn't seem to be making any motion to move just yet. His ears twitched a little as she came closer however, his instincts seeming to realize something wasn't quite right with the fox lass leaning over him. The box that landed with a thunk beside him didn't make any further noise, but was quite ornate, and might contain something of great value. It was carved with roses and pumpkins and was connected to the hare fellow with a silver chain to his belt. Attached to the box was an iron padlock of sorts, the key of which wasn't in sight. |
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Ji-Min
Established
Roleplay posts: 32
Age: Unknown
Appearance: As a celestial vulx, Ji-Min carries a phantasmic, eerie appearance even among her kind: hair like moonlight, a bushel of three tails, and a menagerie of tattoos that dance about her skin as though they were alive as she. She's also a head taller than other vulx, rising to be as tall as most human women. She wears a mask atop her head that will, under certain circumstances, change shape: one into a fox, the other into a human, both blank. She wears silken robes that are too large, and beneath that, a complex layering of undergarments unsuited for the isles.
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Equipment: Ji Min uses the two wakizashi painted into her skin for combat. Otherwise, she has little in the way of adventurer's tools: only a waterskin and another leather pouch for food. Around her neck, hidden beneath her collar, is a necklace wound tightly around a pearl.
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Skills and Abilities: Being the celestial yokai of winter, Ji Min has varying, if subdued, powers over the themes of frost.
Registered: Mar 22, 2021 21:27:50 GMT -5
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Post by Ji-Min on Mar 25, 2021 21:18:20 GMT -5
Kroe eyed the box for a moment but otherwise took little interest in its contents. The creature they pulled up appeared to be a demihuman, somewhat like them. Ji-Min rose her head and nodded to them. "He is breathing," she said. She put a hand on the side of his face and shook him a few times in an attempt to rouse him. "Hello?" she said softly, voice a motherly singsong.
The bird-woman perched on the cabin above them, watching from a distance.
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Jackingson Pillberry
Established
Roleplay posts: 21
Appearance: Jackingson Pillberry is just short six feet, hanging at about 5'10. His fur is a bright white color with dashes of smooth brown laced about, particularly in the ears. His eyes are a dark red hazel. He appears to be part Lepus americanus, or as the layman would know the snowshoe hare.
His clothing is very professional. He wears a slim grey bowler hat, with a small feather of unidentified origin tucked inside. Moving downwards he possesses a black bowtie laced inside a white colored shirt. Over the shirt he wears a black vest which carries a fob watch. The watch is not ornate, and looks like it was built to be hit with a hammer and keep on ticking. It's most certainly a mix of iron and with the inner workings, copper. Black dress pants are the last article of visible clothing. The clothing appears to have minor magical properties as they clean up incredibly well for the amount of blood and dirt that end up building up from time to time. They also are incredibly sturdy and tear resistant, which is evidenced by the fact that the pockets end up with heavy metal shoved into them.
Equipment: He has a mildly magical fob watch that can be switched from compass to watch that self adjusts no matter where you end up.
He carries two brass knuckles which slip into the back of his dress clothes quite neatly.
Under his right sleeve he has a knife that will slide out of a simple mechanism on his wrist.
He also carries some sort of flask that can turn water into cider when left alone for a day.
Skills and Abilities: Jackingson is suspected to have some amount of vampire blood in his system. The following powers and abilities have been observed:
Heavily increased strength; Jackingson has been observed tossing things weighing easily weighing three times his body weight with ease. However it is noted that his emotional state is always high when such instances occur, when he's not in a high emotional state he appears to act like the above average male in this category.
High sense of smell; The overwhelming theory behind Jackingson's uncanny sense of smell is his relation to the snowshoe hare.
Advanced speed; Thankfully, he does not possess super human levels of speed, but he can move deftly fast becoming close to a blur if he gets the right velocity, which isn't hard with how fast and high he can jump.
Jackingson appears incredibly dependent on a steady diet of raw meat and blood. The exact details of such a diet has not been directly observed, but it can be assumed that without it he would not be able to match his superhuman feats.
Biography: Jackingson Pillberry was originally detected in a no name town running the local bar. It is unknown where he was before that point, and why he's suddenly relocated to the isles. It is known however that he had an accomplice of sorts, a female dullahan's head with bright red hair.
Registered: Mar 23, 2021 9:47:11 GMT -5
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Post by Jackingson Pillberry on Mar 25, 2021 23:02:04 GMT -5
Kroe eyed the box for a moment but otherwise took little interest in its contents. The creature they pulled up appeared to be a demihuman, somewhat like them. Ji-Min rose her head and nodded to them. "He is breathing," she said. She put a hand on the side of his face and shook him a few times in an attempt to rouse him. "Hello?" she said softly, voice a motherly singsong. The bird-woman perched on the cabin above them, watching from a distance. He groggily opened his eyes and coughed once, "Ehhhhh?" he gurgled as sea water was ejected from his lungs. The hare fellow's body was cold, very cold. Come to think of it, the fangs in mouth would be quite out of place for a demi-human such as him. Once, the man's eyes focused he blinked yet again, "Now...huh...well that's quite unexpected. I'll be darned, a fox lass eh?" He chuckled, "Well that's ironic..." he groaned slowly getting up a little, "If I could ask...what happened...how, did you manage to appear here eh?" He said looking oddly unconcerned as he checked the seal on the box, "Ah good, that's all in place...still mostly sealed," he slipped a key out on a chain that was wrapped around his neck and moved to open the case. |
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Maribel Correa
Established
Roleplay posts: 22
Appearance: Maribel is a towering, broad-shouldered woman with skin as pale as polished ivory. Though she has a square jaw and sharp, piercing features, there is a way about her movements that retains a soft, delicate manner.
She has yellow eyes like a cat's with impressively large pupils, becoming pitch black in the absence of light or when she spots something particularly fascinating. Her hair is predominantly white with a few strands of black beneath the layers, similar to how hair changes as humans age.
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Equipment: A bladed whip is the last surviving weapon in Maribel's repertoire after the great flood. Other than that, she has the crystal ball, which is little more than a toy now in the mists.
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Skills and Abilities: Transformation:
Maribel's vampiric curse can allow her to change her form into several distinct shapes: a shaggy black dog, a humanoid bat creature, and an oily snake, none of which are smaller than Maribel's human form.
Her senses and natural strength are heightened considerably at night and gutter just as significantly during the day. She has excellent night vision that causes her to be blinded completely in the presence of the sun. If in direct contact with sunlight, she burns.
The Correa family's shared ability is that which to create loyal thralls without having to sire them into vampires. Thralls are created with a bite, and sired vampires are created with a bite that doesn't kill the victim, and then feeding the victim the vampire's blood. Thralls share a portion of the vampire's strength and can still walk freely in the sun, though with a newly found disdain for it.
Registered: Mar 21, 2021 14:42:37 GMT -5
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Post by Maribel Correa on Mar 25, 2021 23:30:24 GMT -5
Desmodus
Black sails cut through the white of the mist, adorned with a golden flower that bled ambrosia over its petals. The boat it was attached to creaked unceremoniously, as though it would give out at any moment. None of the crew onboard knew what would happen then; would they drown or be eaten by the shadows they observed darting below, or was something worse waiting for them in time? All they could do was wait and be at the mercy of the mists. The beady eyes of children glowed from the cabin door, peering outside so curiously in wonder at the deck. It never really was daytime, but it never changed to nighttime, either. It was a wonder if the ever-grey was safe for those who couldn't tolerate the scorching grasp of sunlight. One figure safely wandered out, but he was never too bothered by the light, that one. The True Son, they called him, tall and lithe and pretty as his mother. Perhaps even prettier if they put him in a dress. The thought sent snickers through the group, quieted soon after by the grunts and growls deep down in the hold right below the cabin. The Mother ordered them to do it, but no one was comfortable caging and chaining her so heavily, till the iron dug into her skin and pulled her joints taut. Even if it were for the best, Mother never deserved it. Every one of her children would have given themselves as a sacrifice, but Mother loved her children too much for that. Instead, she offered up herself instead, leaving her wrists free outside the cage for them to sink their guilty, hungry little teeth into. All but the True Son, who stayed far, far away from the hold and those horrible noises. He had been planning an escape for a while now but to no avail. There was water to the left, water to the right, creatures directly below, and no sky above. Sometimes he wondered if he should just throw himself over the edge and get it over with. Better than being haunted by his feral mother and her pack of thralls. He looked behind him briefly to eye them, grimacing, then down into the murky, still water. Yes, he might just have to risk getting torn apart. He wasn't sure how much more of this he could tolerate. Oh! But what a terrible fate it was for such a beautiful face. The world would be worse without it, indeed. The True Son lamented the thought thoroughly, placing a hand over his eyes in a show of dramatics. He stayed that way until something decided to peer between the cracks in his fingers, prickling the skin of his eyelids unpleasantly. He sneered, holding a hand up reflexively toward the sun- wait. The sun!? His jaw stretched open as he retreated behind the shade of the cabin, children nowhere to be seen. If his heart weren't half-dead, it would have fluttered. Not only was that the sun, but also a patch of land far ahead of them. He looked to the sky, at the hands presenting this glory to him before disappearing. Was this a blessing, or a curse in disguise? Vasco could only hope for the former. |
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The Reverend
Established
Roleplay posts: 11 
Age: 77
Appearance: Standing at 5’10 and weighing about 160 pounds, the Reverend is far from physically imposing. His skin is tanned and leathery and he has a neatly trimmed beard and mustache. His eyes are gray in color and his hair is white. Most of the time he wears a rather plain brown hooded robe, but for ceremonies the outfit he wears in the profile picture is accurate.
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Equipment: The holy book of Ardorism, which is a very hefty tome that is gold wrapped and crafted out of the finest materials and enchanted with holy magic. Several ceremonial daggers made out of a variety of precious metals and materials. A pair of glasses that assist the user in detecting the presence of magic. An exceptionally tall ceremonial hat with matching pauldrons that are guided in gold, they are also enchanted.
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Biography: Known in the Balaton Kingdom as Archbishop Womodious, he presided over The Faithful while also offering his council to Prince Lylok, the young, presumptive ruler of Lower Pannonia. He had instructed Lylok since the tender age of 5, doing all he could to instill the values of a good leader into the lad.
However, Lylok wasn’t the only child he was raising. Several years prior to his appointment at the cathedral, The Reverend found an orphan left on his doorstep. While he could have simply sent them to the orphanage, he took this as a sign from God and chose to raise the child as his own. Naming her Zasha, after a famous Saint known for her patience, grace, and gentleness, she was brought up with the tenets of the church all around her, but Womodious did his best to never push her too hard to accept them all. Forcing the tenet’s of Adorism on someone who wasn’t willing went against all of Womodious’s beliefs.
Zasha and Lylok were similar in age, yet came from starkly different worlds. Through their mutual father figure, they had many interactions. Both learning different lessons from the other as a rivalry of sorts formed between them. Lylok succeeded in areas of the mind and wit, while Zasha routinely trounced her brother in the play yard, and always finished her chores first.
And then, the Holy Rain came. On the day of Lylok’s 30th birthday, at this point a beloved and just ruler. Womdious and Zasha were traveling back on a boat from missionary work and had just docked at the port as disaster struck. Immense amounts of rain, the likes they had never seen before fell, and the ocean came alive as if possessed by some demonic force.
Womodious didn’t know how he managed to clamber aboard the HMS Agamemnon, but took this miracle as a sign from God that he still had work to do in this life. With the nation of Balaton destroyed, he cast aside his previous title and his name, stating he was now solely “The Reverend”. He had lost Lylok, but he still had Zasha, and together, he wished for them to start fresh elsewhere. He planned to do all he could to keep Ardorism alive in what was left of this watery grave of a world.
Registered: Mar 20, 2021 18:26:03 GMT -5
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Post by The Reverend on Mar 26, 2021 16:42:55 GMT -5
The Agamemnon sailed silently through the mist, most of those onboard currently asleep, with those on deck working away in solemn quiet. Standing on the prow of the boat, stood The Reverend. Wind buffeted at him as the spray of the sea below drenched his robes, yet still, there he stood, hands clasped together and head bowed in prayer. This was the sixty-third day he had approached God asking that his people would be delivered from this diluvian hellscape.
The Holy Rain had happened for a reason. What reason? That he didn’t know, but he accepted it was a necessary one whatever it was. But that meant there was also a reason he and the others on this ship had been saved from such a fate. Ardorism must not be forgotten, he was perhaps now the last person left alive who knew all of its ways. If that was the case, then surely that’s why he’d been spared.
Finally, he finished his prayer, lifting his head to look out at the endless expanse of sea. Except, he saw something other than the endless expanse of sea. Squinting, the Reverend rubbed at his eyes before continuing to gaze off into the fog. Was that the outline of land that he saw? He wasn’t imagining things, was he? No. It was land!
Tears of joy began to roll down the old man’s cheeks and he began to feel his legs buckle underneath him. His prayers had been answered, they were no longer condemned to die in this ocean of mist!
The Reverend felt exhausted and the urge to simply slump down against the railing and fall asleep was there, but he had an obligation to fulfill. Clutching at the ship’s railing to keep himself standing upright, he called out with as loud of a voice as he could muster.
“Our prayers have finally been heard, for I see land in the distance! Wake yourselves, my children, for we have much to do on this blessed day!”
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Mint Flames
Established
Roleplay posts: 12
Age: Mais enfin!
Appearance: ///
My grandmother said when I ran around I was a blur of autumn colors. My hair is quite a bit shorter now but the tone has remained. My eyes as well.
I suppose you could say I look sporty? I keep in shape not through rigorous exercise but through keeping in motion. I can’t help taking long walks to interesting places. So I’m quite thin. Beh, plucky in places. Not that I’d show you.
Curious about what I look like under this mantle? This tunic? Cherie, you better buy me a sweet drink and treat me like I’m a glass rose before you get the slightest peek.
Equipment: ///
My clothes? I like to keep it simple, but I had these tailor-made. Down to earth, yet eye-catching. Like the land of Gauldin itself.
Oh, these earrings? They were my grandmothers. I know they’re old-fashioned but they go well with my eyes, n’est pas?
Other than that? I keep a well-made diary and a pencil to write with. It’s bound in rough weathered leather, insides filled with random thoughts and drafts of poetry. When I have it right, I dogear the page.
Skills and Abilities: ///
I hold a pen like a commander leading a charge holds their sword. I write histories, loves, and poems to make a God shiver. I write the names of my friends and enemies alike into the very foundation of this earth so that they will not be forgotten. A flick of my wrist today shakes a nation tomorrow. And tomorrow and tomorrow.
Biography: ///
I lived as a poet within the capital of Gauldin. As you may imagine, the competition was fierce so I had to be able to peer deeper and deeper into mankind’s soul to make a decent coin. And with the world with such variety of lives as varied as Overworld… Well, you can imagine the task broke many. With this new world, just thinking of the poet’s task to capture every essence living in this land fills me with terror… And sublime excitement.
Registered: Mar 26, 2021 18:56:28 GMT -5
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Post by Mint Flames on Mar 27, 2021 19:17:37 GMT -5
In the vast mists consuming the dead land, there was a cloud, like a silver dragon in the grey darkness. It swam against the beating storms, pushing, stopping, pushing again and snaking through the currents like a letter caught in a thunderstorm. That cloud of insignificant molecules had a mission. It carried within itself a consciousness. A person. A person who must live at any cost. The child of the Mist. The child had wandered a long time, frightened, tired, before collapsing into the Mist. Then the mist had them, it claimed them into its vast mass as its child, but they must not die. So from the child became the cloud. The cloud gave itself its name. The Mist gave the cloud its purpose. Save the child. There. In the distance was a shape. They were refugees, those who were still alive, on a ship that had been ostentatious then. The cloud struggled against the wind. Its mission was soon over. The sails and the symbols of the dead kingdom were now visible. Not much more. The cloud dove forwards. In the language of elements, it roared. WE ARE ON A MISSION FROM THE MIST. YOU WILL MAKE WAY. WINDS, CEASE. CLOUDS, PART. WATER, QUIET. THIS IS THE CHILD CHOSEN. YOU WILL MAKE WAY. And the winds did cease and the clouds did part and the waters were quiet for just a moment, as the silver cloud, like a river, flew past everything, and onto the deck of the ship that the child would call The Depravity. Nobody on the ship saw what happened. Whether this was the will of the Mist or simple chance would not be known. It had no meaning for the cloud. And the child of the Mist would never be able to explain it. As if filling an empty vessel, the silver drops formed into the flesh of a human finger and the bone of a human nail. While they did, they lost their nascent consciousness and became part of something else. They were glad to do so, for the Mist was then pleased. Into the invisible, human-shaped vessel the dew flowed. It put the child back the way it was. The child would not remember anything except falling down in the Mist. There would not be any false memories of being rescued or getting stuck in the net. There would be no more misdirection. In this world questions were to be left open, pages unfilled. The cloud made flesh and bone, weaved silk and leather, worked tirelessly until just the last droplet remained. It glittered in the light of this new world, but did so only for a moment. It did not hesitate to join its kin and then, the cloud was gone and no one would mourn for it and no one would remember it because the Mist did not make graves. The child was complete. The child was beautiful. The child felt the wind on their skin and remembered their name. Mint Flames opened their eyes and looked at the sky. |
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Jarkoopi, Kepesk Altiui
New
Roleplay posts: 3
Appearance: Age: 1024
Size (At standing pose): Height: 12 feet at the shoulder, Length: 85 feet
Eye color: Yellowish-White
Scale color: Light Blue, reflects a dull White in direct light
Dragon Species: European Dragon
Dragon Type: Chromatic
Dragon Color: Blue
http://i.imgur.com/Ba7kzgX.jpg
As a human he takes the appearance of a man in the age range of forties to fifties, averagely built besides being a few inches taller than the average Joe and dressed in clean leather armor and worn blue cloths.
Equipment: Expensive jewelry, he also really likes gold.
While as a human, he wields a exquisite long-sword, not much is known about his weapon, as he rarely uses it.
Skills and Abilities: While arcane arts are definitely not foreign to him, his strongest and main form of magic is his innate lightning breath attack, a long line of cackling electricity that can be controlled to tickle or kill.
He has picked up a basic understanding of a Lore of magic regarding the Heavens (wind, lightning, illusion), but it is very tame at the moment.
He likes sculpting but it's a bit hard for him to do as a dragon.
Biography: Following the massive floods (not that a mountaintop lair was at major risk of flooding) the suitable lands nearby were no longer of desire to the possessive dragon. He set forth towards the ocean, island and boat hopping to rest on the way, until getting to the Mists. He left behind his gold, for gold without people to trade it with have no value. But ultimately it was the years of loneliness that could drive dragons mad, and he feared it. Now he has a new land to explore and new relationships to forge, for better or worse.
The dragon likes talking of a bygone age filled with myth and mystery, but to most it's just mad ramblings...
Registered: Mar 21, 2021 17:37:27 GMT -5
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Post by Jarkoopi, Kepesk Altiui on Mar 28, 2021 20:18:37 GMT -5
Flying island to island, and occasionally ship to ship (usually without the owners consent) could only keep the dragon in air so long. While he could swim, it was not indefinite. Almost losing hope of finding a suitable continent, the dragon mustered as much of his strength as possible for a final flight into the veil of mist. Almost everything he had hoarded was left behind, gone effectively. Perhaps maybe he'd be able to find a quiet island to lay down and die peacefully through the wall of mist... Or maybe a new world, unlikely, and also painful to live in since he has nothing now but memories...
In a last ditch flight, the mist broke apart and revealed a rich, large continent. This dragon would live on. More importantly in the distance was a nice chilly mountain range. It'd have to be home.
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Zasha Tolstov
Established
Roleplay posts: 26
Appearance: Zasha is a lithe and lanky woman, standing a good 6' 5" tall. She is almost purely muscle, with an aggressive stance to match. Her bleached hair remains in a ponytail with long bangs and an severe undercut. Tattoos of various rules and symbols seem etched into her arms and shoulders. Each one radiates a green energy that grows in intensity to match her temper.
She wears a jumpsuit with the top pulled down and tied around her waist, with the legs tucked into calf high stockings. A pair of reinforced gloves and goggles never leave her side.
Equipment: · Reinforced gloves with built in brass knuckles
· Goggles with sea glass green lenses
· Blessed bandana usually tied around her right arm
. Earnings made from the teeth of a wild beast
· Steel skinning knife
· Heavy crossbow
Skills and Abilities: Zasha is a master of boxing and martial arts. Her particular school focused on overwhelming offensive manoeuvres and an almost dance-like agility. Her dexterity and poise are honed to a fine art.
A lifetime of service to The Reverend gives Zasha token book knowledge of a few academic subjects. Her particular passion concerns history and labour rights movements.
In addition, Zasha believes herself to be possessed by a spirit that enhances her aggressive actions and attitudes.
Biography: "My name is Zasha Tolstov", at least that is what a handwritten card left in the basket with her claimed. As a baby, Tolstov arrived in a wicker basket on the front step of The Reverend's home. He took the baby in and raised her as his protege and helper, watching in awe as she grew tall quickly. Her physical prowess was evident from a young age after she protected The Reverend from a band of would be thevies.
Since her youth, she has been a constant companion to The Reverend, helping him serve the sizeable flock which attended his cathedral. No spare moment would see waste as Zasha worked and trained wherever she could.
Now, following the total destruction of her old homeland, Zasha finds herself possessed by some spirit, invisible to all but her and The Reverend.
Registered: Mar 21, 2021 15:52:20 GMT -5
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Post by Zasha Tolstov on Mar 29, 2021 10:09:06 GMT -5
The Agamemnon sailed silently through the mist, most of those onboard currently asleep, with those on deck working away in solemn quiet. Standing on the prow of the boat, stood The Reverend. Wind buffeted at him as the spray of the sea below drenched his robes, yet still, there he stood, hands clasped together and head bowed in prayer. This was the sixty-third day he had approached God asking that his people would be delivered from this diluvian hellscape. The Holy Rain had happened for a reason. What reason? That he didn’t know, but he accepted it was a necessary one whatever it was. But that meant there was also a reason he and the others on this ship had been saved from such a fate. Ardorism must not be forgotten, he was perhaps now the last person left alive who knew all of its ways. If that was the case, then surely that’s why he’d been spared. Finally, he finished his prayer, lifting his head to look out at the endless expanse of sea. Except, he saw something other than the endless expanse of sea. Squinting, the Reverend rubbed at his eyes before continuing to gaze off into the fog. Was that the outline of land that he saw? He wasn’t imagining things, was he? No. It was land! Tears of joy began to roll down the old man’s cheeks and he began to feel his legs buckle underneath him. His prayers had been answered, they were no longer condemned to die in this ocean of mist! The Reverend felt exhausted and the urge to simply slump down against the railing and fall asleep was there, but he had an obligation to fulfill. Clutching at the ship’s railing to keep himself standing upright, he called out with as loud of a voice as he could muster. “Our prayers have finally been heard, for I see land in the distance! Wake yourselves, my children, for we have much to do on this blessed day!” Of the original 1,278 individuals counted onboard The Agamemnon at its launch, only 1,229 of them survived the harrowing journey from the old world. The majority of deaths were the elderly not built for a stressful journey. By far, the most tragic of the deaths was the loss of two children swept overboard during the typhoon which drove The Agamemnon out of her harbour. Zasha skimmed through The Reverend’s log book until she found the current roster of living souls. From here, she picked out a handful of able bodied crew members to join The Reverend for the first landfall. Up to the main deck she walks, deftly weaving between the throngs of people praying and singing in jubilation for land in front of them. The Reverend stands, naturally, at the prow of the ship addressing everyone around him as they celebrate. “The three Hetényi brothers, Mrs and Mrs Gárdonyi, Margit Dajka, and that big boy, Herr Fronauer, they’ll go with you, Reverend. The brothers are proven boatmen and will get you to the shore safely, the Gárdonyis know agricultural stuff, Margit has a keen eye for building, and Herr Fronauer knows rocks and stones, and I’ll, well,” The tall woman strikes a pose, flexing her arms and letting coursing green flames lick around her knuckles. Her tattoos flare up bright red in contrast. Around Zasha, a few refugees step back from the heat of her display. They were accustomed to her displays by now, a few of them had even challenged her to boxing matches on the high seas. None triumphed over her. “ I’ll make sure no one tries to start shit,” she laughs with a snaggle toothed grin. Zasha waits for The Reverend to give his thoughts. Her original respect of the man, the only person she had ever considered a parental figure, had grown exponentially during the terrifying few months at sea. Seemingly everywhere at once, The Reverend spoke kind words to one daily, arbitrated disputes between frightened refugees sparing over scraps, and never failed to have dinner with Zasha and ask about her own day. He was the right man for this job, even though he never asked for it. |
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Lykon Tanthul
New
Roleplay posts: 6
Appearance: Lykon is a battered and scarred shadow elf, once prince of the City of Shade. He is roughly 6'2", rippling with muscle from an elven lifetime of training. He has silver eyes and pale, white skin with black hair. A haunted look in his eyes completes the appearance, and his demeanor is that of one who, having lost his purpose, now seeks a new one.
Equipment: Lykon wields an unnamed well-crafted greatsword
He wears a set of midnight blue plate armor, with the following inscription on the left pauldron:
"For Those Who Were Deceived
For Those Who Perished
For Those Who Survived"
On his right pauldron rests his personal symbol, that of a wolf eating the moon.
Draped across the right pauldron is the head of a winter wolf, with the rest of the creature's pelt spilling out as a cape behind him.
Skills and Abilities: Lykon is a gifted swordsman and decent shot, having trained from early "teenagehood" (relative to elves) to be a Nightbringer, the elite of the Shadow Goddess's Paladins, sworn to defend the City. His greatest gift is his natural insight and perception into his surroundings.
Registered: Mar 22, 2021 10:53:29 GMT -5
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Post by Lykon Tanthul on Mar 30, 2021 16:26:13 GMT -5
The young Paladin felt nothing as he came to consciousness. For a week he had drifted on a shitty log, beholden to the current and blinded by that damnable mist. He wasn't even certain how he had come to be on the log...the city had fallen, quite literally, but as it hit the ground he hit the water. His armor nearly dragging him down before he grabbed hold of that log. By all rights, he should have been dead, drowned or starved, or dehydrated but no such death had come for him, instead, he was...on land?
The noise of the gulls and the fact that he no longer bobbed with the waves was enough. The sun...no more mist...shone brightly down upon his darkly armored form. Water rushed up towards him as another wave crashed down, but he barely moved. His log was nowhere to be seen, but his weapons were still there. Hopefully there was some life in this place, or at least some water. Looking behind him into the trees, he staggered up and walked shakily into the forest...
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Oliver
New
Roleplay posts: 4
Age: 28
Appearance: A tall man with a scraggly grown hair and a youthful grin.
Equipment: A long bow
A 28 foot dory
3 Treasured items
Skills and Abilities: Excellent tracking, hunting, and other forestry skills.
Minor abilities in natural magic.
Competent sailor.
Biography: Oliver had many adventures in the old world. Coming to the Mistborn Isles he has found that the Overworld he came from does not seem to be the same as others.
Registered: Mar 31, 2021 23:08:38 GMT -5
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Post by Oliver on Mar 31, 2021 23:09:19 GMT -5
Only 28 feet long with a small top cabin housing a v-birth, small galley with a small stove that had gone too long without a fire, and a fold down charting table the Al Ñalma was a cozy little boat. It was a gaff rigged dory cutter with a deep keel and an impressive spread of sails when they could all be flown. Unfortunately, in the supermundane weather that blanketed this eerie ocean, rowing had been the main source of power.
Al Ñalma was an old name. Older than its owner knew. It was no Antonio Stark, but the little vessel had been crafted meticulously after an age-old design. Oliver had worked in yards in Gauldin and Isra before returning to his homeland by the Usque Ar Ñalma where he built this craft. With minor abilities in natural magic he had coaxed an old oak to lend him its boughs, shaped to yield the pieces he would need for the ribs and keel. The decking and inner panels were more mundane, made from fir and pine.
For a couple of years Oliver had sailed the coast and up the river to Isra. He fished and traded, occasionally taking on a passenger, but mostly he sailed, working odd jobs, with his hands or his magic, at the coastal villages he most often visited. During its times of war Oliver’s inclination towards adventure drove him to trade in Gauldin. It was easy to make a profit, though Oliver was far from a capitalist. Metal he sold at a high, but fair price while grain he practically gave away for free, especially towards the end.
Now the faithful dory had carried him through another cataclysm into a new land. Oliver would miss the sunken lands he had departed, but mainly looked forward to the adventure ahead, as was his way. His supplies were severely dwindled and Oliver was tired of salted fish and cold porridge. Beside food and water Oliver had brought a few treasures of the old world. Locked in a chest he had three items now of immense value, sentimental or otherwise, however most prized of them all was a large hunting bow.
The bow was a family heirloom of sorts, made and used by Oliver’s father many years ago. Oliver had carried it ever since he was able to draw it, as was the village tradition. Someday he would give it to his own son before making another one. It had been shaped from black yew and was six feet tall. A small glyph had been carved above the grip to remind Oliver of his time with the wiccans where he had fought his first and only battle.
Reminiscences of the past faded like the mist as land came into view. Its arrival was heralded by shouts of joy that could be heard from the Depravity. The great ship of Isra had led a flotilla of vessels though the Misty Ocean and it seemed they had reached a new home at long last.
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Nina
Dedicated
Roleplay posts: 331 
Registered: Apr 4, 2021 10:46:08 GMT -5
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Post by Nina on Apr 4, 2021 10:47:04 GMT -5
The Tower bobbed up and down on the waves.
It wasn’t much of a tower left, not any longer. Only the top level, with the garden of poisonous plants and the flattened conical roof of intricate glass panes, had withstood the Great Wave. Lost had been Gray’s great library, on the level just below, lost had been much of the Duke’s mountaintop castle around it and, presumably much of the mountain and many of the lives on the capital island of the Azure Archipelago. Even months after the fact (the number of which she lost to the waves and Gray’s drugs), Nina still found it as unsettling as the fact that the heavy stone structure was actually floating.
She had nightmares of the event, still. Of the moments she watched the grey shadow from behind one of the tower’s stained-glass windows, uncomprehending that something so large could actually be water, or moving. Would she have been pummeled to death by its force, had it not been for the paranoia which led Gray to carve defensive spells into every inch of his domain? Most likely. Just as she would have drowned, had it not been for the speed with which the assassin dealt with the hole in the floor where the staircase had been. Just the luck that they both happened to be there in the garden, crafting tiny paper bags to collect seeds.
Nina didn’t know how much magic was required to keep their structure floating. Once, she would have. She’d had a sense for magic that had caused the Duke’s assassin to claim her as his unwilling apprentice in the first place. But the more time they spent in the endless mist, the more that sense seemed to dampen, as if she was growing blind. Many a time, the apprentice had found herself curled up, crying as she reached for something that was no longer there. At first it had hurt, when they’d first drunk water gathered from the mist, because there was the finest metal wire along her nerves that Gray had crafted from a gear, and magic was the only thing keeping her alive. She suspected that the solution they came to, of feeding mist-water to the plants and drinking their perspiration, only slowed it down. Gray didn’t comment on how mist-water affected him. He’d never told her whether he had magic apart from the artifacts of the Clocktower. Maybe he never would.
Yet, even in her current state, Nina could feel the magic of the place fading. The clockwork in the middle of the room was moving ever slower. What had been the dark heartbeat of the assassin’s tower, looming over the castle through generations, was skipping beats.
The tower had floated above the water like a cork when they’d first entered the mists. Now, the water level reached a palm below the glass roof. She’d tied driftwood to it, branches and planks from broken ships that had drifted their way, nailed them together until she ran out of nails, but she knew it was only prolonging the inevitable. Occasionally she found herself at the edge of the roof, staring
‘Drowning…’ She could almost hear mentor’s atonal sarcasm. ‘Not my preferred method of killing. Too imprecise.’
Yet the voice in her mind didn’t have the strength of the real thing. Gray, her mentor, hadn’t woken up for weeks.
At first they’d been together, master and apprentice, struggling to survive and make sense of this new world in the mist. They’d looked for the shore, the sky, anything. They’d had a schedule for taking care of the plants, fishing, keeping watch, exercise. Gray continued teaching her with the determination of one who hadn’t just had the world under their feet swept away by white waves. Did it really matter that she couldn’t name all of the Blightlands’ main cities? Perhaps it did, for their minds.
Time passed. Supplies dwindled. Fresh water was the main problem, given that condensed mist unfiltered through the plants made her ache from head to toe. Nina realized that her mentor was drugging her when, day after day, she would wake up with her mouth dry, feeling weak, the floor around her covered in a layer of dust that hadn’t been there before. Dust! Gray had never allowed a speck of dust in his home before.
Day after day, she thought at first, but then realized it was more like week after week. A person asleep consumed fewer resources and, in the meantime, her mentor was starving himself while working himself to the bone. He looked paler every time she saw him. She argued, fought with him that she could take shifts too, that being smaller meant she didn’t need to eat that much.
That worked for a while.
Until, one day, he didn’t wake up.
Gray was still alive. He was breathing, albeit slowly, and occasionally opened his eyes. The girl remembered that his life was inextricably bound to the magic that was the Clocktower, the same magic whose heartbeat was winding down. One day, Nina had found her mentor’s dark grey cloak wrapped over her shoulders upon waking and, when she’d tried to return it, she found it around her the next time she woke up. That trust was just about the only thread that kept her from leaping into the water sometimes.
“Getting me to do your work, hmm…” She laughed at him.
It was harder than ever to do things. She had to force herself to go outside, on the roof, watching the endless whiteout, in-between fits of restless sleep. She had to keep doing that as the water line grew ever taller behind the beautiful stained-glass windows on the side, until it engulfed them completely. She had to be alone, in the roof, in the mist, with the trapdoor under her feet latched closed in order to avoid too much of the mist eating at the magic of the clockwork. She had to do all this with the hope in her chest burnt out.
Many times she’d dreamed of finding the mist edge. Dreams often entwined with reality, and she crashed whenever they were extinguished. Today’s thinning of the mist and the brighter spot in the distance was nothing new. Yet…It didn’t disappear, no matter how hard she blinked or dug her nails in her palms. And there was something more. If she looked in the distance…Nina opened her mouth, as if she didn’t have enough air.
“Gray! There’s sun! There’s…land! Gray, there’s land!” She screamed.
There was no response.
Wincing, she lifted herself up on glass roof, and slipped down to the edge. A rope tied around her waist anchored her to the top of the tower. She picked up an oar that she’d tied to the rest of the wreckage, cut off the knot binding it, and pushed its end down in the water.
By the time she could see the outline of the island, the water reached up to her ankles.
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Artan Snowmaple
New
Roleplay posts: 4
Appearance: Artan is a head taller than his twin. He had messy white hair, parted in the middle of his head and separated down the sides. His hair is of medium length, not really that long for male hair styles. He had sharp eyebrows that accentuate his narrow, discerning eyes. His pointed ears droop down, almost following the flow of his messy hair.
Both twins have heterochromia and the same eyes colors. They’re left eyes are a silver grey color, while their right eyes are a blue cyan color. His face is rather sharp and narrow.
His body is well toned and decently muscular, it is also marked with scars resembling knife or dagger wounds.
Equipment: Artan is usually seen wearing a white button-up shirt and a black hooded-jacket. He wears a red scarf that was given to him by his twin sister, Aria. He wears two large round frame glasses. He wears dark brown trousers and black boots, designed for easy mobility.
Skills and Abilities: Artan is adept with the use of a bow as well as knife combat. He keeps a dagger on his person at all times.
He is somewhat familiar with illusion magic and is able to create illusions so as long as he has prepared the stage for his illusion. This generally consists of him scouting out where he wants his illusion and preparing runes and drawn spells in the required locations, once he is ready he then activates them to create the illusion. These illusions are optical and audible, however they are not tactile. Of the twins he is the only magic user.
Biography: Both he and his twin were experimented by their parents in their past. Supposedly this was in attempt to get both him and his sister to be able to use magic. Artan was the only to ever gain any magical prowess, his sister was less lucky and lost the use of her left arm.
They escaped after Artan killed both of their parents and in their journey they were spirited away to this new place. Artan is extremely pessimistic of anyone and extremely protective of his sister.
Allegiances: As of the current; only his sister.
Registered: Mar 21, 2021 13:49:24 GMT -5
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Post by Artan Snowmaple on Apr 4, 2021 13:54:53 GMT -5
The waves were large, tossing the driftwood he clung to with great ease. The sway of the waves twisted and turned the driftwood swing its passenger back and forth. He could not see anything over the waves. Down... Up... Down... Up... He sunk down after the waves pushed him to the top and for a glimpse he saw something. Land! His thoughts were raised high, his goal set. He needed to get to land. The howl of the wind deafened him, his balance was sent awry.
He was thrown away from the driftwood and into the waves. His body sunk and was enveloped by the waves. His arms frantically waved and his legs kicked haphazardly. He re-surfaces and reaches for the driftwood to no avail. He shouts and yells to no avail as his voice is drowned out by the crashing waves.
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Aria Snowmaple
New
Roleplay posts: 2
Appearance: Aria is a head smaller than her brother. She has brushed white long hair, flowing down to her mid-back. Her hair is often parted down the middle like her brother’s although she does wear it in different styles from time to time. She has bolder eyebrows compared to her brother, albeit they rest relaxed.
Both twins have heterochromia and the same eyes colors. They’re left eyes are a silver grey color, while their right eyes are a blue cyan color. She has a rounder face than her brother’s often giving her a more childish appearance.
Equipment: Aria is often seen in a red knee high skirt and large tan sweater made from wooly material. The sweater has a bit of a turtle neck that helps comfort her. She wears sandals most of the time during the hot season and she wears ankle high boots for the cold season. If the heat becomes unbearable she turns to a loose fitting shirt, her brother got for her. It’s made of a thin white material with short sleeves that flow around her arms. Her left arm is always covered with a thin pink sleeve when she wears the short sleeve shirt Her left arm is a doll-like prosthetic grafted onto her shoulder as a result of the experiments her parents performed on her.
Biography: Aria was experimented by her parents in her past. Her memories from that time are short and few, but at some point her and her brother ran away. She remembers that they slept underneath a strange maple tree during winter, for some reason despite the season it bore its leaves. It was after that tree that she gave her and her brother the name 'Snowmaple'
Registered: Mar 21, 2021 18:24:54 GMT -5
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Post by Aria Snowmaple on Apr 4, 2021 14:05:41 GMT -5
Aria was latched to a separate piece of driftwood. Their ship fell to a storm within the mists and now they were here. She could see Artan in front of her. She called out to no success. She was jolted with each crash of the waves, barely holding onto the driftwood with her one good arm. Forget their destination, she just wanted to reach land. The waves were freezing to the tough and the dark skies didn't bring her any ease. Her face contorted to fear as she watched her brother get swallowed by the waves. Seconds later only the driftwood appearing again. The waves through her and the driftwood, and she was constantly shifting herself to get a stronger grip. She stared into the water, hoping for her brother to appear seconds later. He didn't.
Aria gathered her courage and through herself from her driftwood, diving into the waves. She pushed deeper into the waters as her body was thrown by the waves, but she could see. Deep in the dark her brother was drifting. She pushed more against the water and finally broke though them until she reached her brother. She grabbed him by his arms and pulled him upwards until they finally broke the water surface. She coughed up water as she braced her brother against herself, hoping to float in the time being.
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