Dark Vault

[Dark Jack]

Characters currently in use:

Name: Jaelnec
Age: 20 years
Occupation: Recently named Squire of the Will.
Race: Nightwalker
Gender: Male
Appearance: 5' 11" tall, well-muscled, but compact, and has the appearance of a sixteen- or seventeen-year-old human. He has almost impossibly black, yet warm and kind eyes, and no visible growth of facial hair. His chin is shapely and his jaw is broad, and he has thin red lips. His nose is perhaps a little too long to be handsome, but it is narrow and generally appealing. His hair is a luminous shade of golden-blond, smooth and is shoulder-length.
He usually wears ordinary black trousers and a white shirt, though the latter is hidden behind a cuirass composed of numerous small overlapping ghiril-scales, shifting between hues of purple and golden depending on the light. He also wears brown leather boots and gauntlets, and wears a long black coat that reaches to his ankles, and which he almost always wears open in the front. He has a wide-brimmed grayed hat, a leather belt and an additional shoulder strap, going diagonally from left shoulder to right hip, containing (when it is full) eight throwing knives of alchemical silver.
He wears a dagger of steel in a sheath by his right hip, and an exquisite longsword called Roct in a scabbard on his left, with a silvery blade and a hilt with a guard artfully formed as extended dragon-wings, the dragon's tail wrapped around the handle, and the blade seemingly spawning from flames spewed from the tiny golden dragon's jaws.
Skills: Although having no training - or talent - with magic at all, Jaelnec has undergone long and intensive training on swordplay and fighting in general, rendering him an excellent swordsman, a superior fist-fighter and a quite capable knife-thrower. His general fighting style is to rely on speed and mobility over raw strength, as the occupation he was training for - Knight of the Will - would inevitably lead him into battle against monsters against which even the strongest blow would be useless unless a weak point was targeted.
Aside from his fighting-abilities, Jaelnec has a great deal of knowledge on a lot of subjects in Rodoria, including the basics of how magic work, the nature of various monsters and the geography of the land, as he has not only accompanied and watched his master, Freagon, over the past ten years of training, but also studied in a library of the deo'iel.

Prose Introduction:
The world just seemed to spring into creation from one second to the next, at first blurred and colorless and seemingly filled with overwhelming light, but then slowly coming together until the light faded to more manageable levels, faint contours because tangible objects and the monotonous white darkened, gradually filtering through his thoughts and being divided into the colors of reality. His eyes hurt and his head throbbed from his eyes opening too soon and too quickly, but it had been a natural reaction - like someone gasping for breath as they surface after having been underwater for a prolonged duration, his senses had seemed to grasp for anything within reach when he had woken in an effort to prove to him that he was no longer dreaming, and that this was reality.
Jaelnec sat up in the bed, groaning to himself as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes. His conscious self had already confirmed that he was awake, but his subconsciousness desperately kept scanning and verifying that everything was as it should be. He was still lying on a slightly too hard bed with sheets that had once been white, but had grayed with years of use. He was still in a small square inn-room with wooden walls, a single door on one side and a single window on the opposite, covered by midnight-blue curtains. The furniture was as he remembered it from when he had gone to sleep - a small wobbly nightstand by the bed with an unused candle in a pewter-holder on it, a small desk by the window, accompanied by a single wooden chair, a small, cracked mirror on the wall and a stool where Jaelnec had tossed his clothes when he went to bed. The smell was the same stagnant arid one, although another musky one had been added, though that probably came from himself. From beyond the door, the sounds of the inn just starting up for the morning's business could be heard, and past the window, the murmur of many voices jumbled together in a single, incomprehensive noise as merchants and buyers were going to the town's square to set up stalls and browse merchandise at the annual black market gathering. Everything was as it should be.

Jaelnec practically had to peel off the sheets from his pale skin as he stood out of bed, drenched with sweat. He realized that he was still trembling slightly from the nightmare, though the details of what it had been were already faded from his memory - not that it was even necessary to remember, since Jaelnec knew quite well what he had dreamt. It was always the same nightmare, each and every time: the clouds dyed red and black with flames and smoke, the dead littering the street, his parents and baby sister's corpses, and... the sword. Always that blood-dripping sword, and the twisted, wicked grin.
He did not remember if he had gotten far enough in the nightmare for Freagon to arrive and save him, but he figured that he had most likely not, or else his heart would not have galloped so when he had spontaneously awoken, and the sense of petrifying terror would not have lingered in his mind. Not that it mattered - whether Freagon saved him in the nightmare or not was inconsequential to his current situation. Freagon had been there in reality, he had killed the man that had been standing over the ten-year-old Jaelnec and his murdered family and saved Jaelnec's life. The real Freagon had not been absent or late, but arrived at the exact right time, and had rescued Jaelnec and taken him away from the burning ruins of his birthplace, lead him far from the smoldering corpses of his childhood friends, and had patiently spent the following months nursing Jaelnec away from the edge of madness and back upon the safer shores of sanity.
At the thought, Jaelnec could not help but to let out a short snort of laughter, despite everything still both amused and distressed by the irony of it all. Both from his parents and Freagon, after he became Jaelnec's guardian and master, Jaelnec had spent his entire life listening to myths and legends of great heroes of the past, and he remembered thinking several times how cliché it was for the hero of these tales to be motivated by having their family killed and homes burnt down, only to swear revenge. How truly cruel it was that the very same fate had overcome himself at the hand of the accursed Crusader's Guild. Even if Jaelnec had perchance survived that night ten years ago without Freagon's help, he would probably have ended up charging straight at the Guild soon after, blinded with rage, only to be killed himself - so in a way, Freagon's arrival saved his life twice at the same time by having his one-eyed patch-wearing rescuer prevent him from seeking vengeance against the Guild. Of course Freagon had saved Jaelnec numerous times since then, but Jaelnec felt more grateful for that first time than any other.

Standing up with his full 5' 11", Jaelnec went to the stool and grabbed the black trousers there, quickly pulling them on and moving on to the white shirt. As he buttoned the front, he could not help but to notice how the fabric tightened over his chest and his arms, hard and appealingly muscular as they were from the long, strenuous years Jaelnec had spent as Freagon's apprentice. Following Freagon about Rodoria and southern Wegam Fermos had been challenging enough, but at times Jaelnec had had the feeling that undergoing the old man's merciless training had nearly killed him more often than monsters, bandits and other villains. Freagon could correct him all that he wanted, remind Jaelnec of his true title and its significance, but to Jaelnec, none of that mattered - no matter how his master demanded to be called Sir Freagon, Knight of the Will, he remained Freagon Nightmaregaze in Jaelnec's thoughts, and those of most people he met.
Ten years... for ten long, exhausting and frequently downright dangerous years, Jaelnec had been Freagon's apprentice and undergone the training Freagon felt was necessary to ensure his survival and - one day - improve Jaelnec's skill enough so that he might one day become a Knight of the Will as well. Jaelnec's body had been pushed to the point where he cried out in agony at times, and he had practiced swordplay with the cheapest, heaviest and most poorly balanced iron longsword ever made, and fighting until his hands and feet were blistered and his arms bruised all over from repeatedly being hit by the far superior master. Freagon had even taken Jaelnec to a deo'iel base in southern Wegam Fermos, where he had made Jaelnec study the nature of various creatures to the point where his head felt like a hornet's nest.
Yet somehow Jaelnec could not imagine what his life would have been like if he had not met Freagon, if the Guild's raid had never happened and Jaelnec had remained with his parents, living a happy and peaceful life. Would he have become a common peasant? Followed in his mother, Sabina's footsteps and devoted himself to Laon? Would he have studied with his father, Kurt, and become a sorcerer? None of that seemed like it could ever have been reality to him, and Jaelnec could not imagine being anything but the apprentice of a Knight of the Will, and sometimes he had difficulty comprehending that his life could have been very different, normal... mundane. And inwardly, Jaelnec was ashamed to admit that he would have ended up bored to death, his thirst for adventure and glory inevitably having drawn him from his home regardless.

Shaking his head, not even wanting to follow that trail of thought any further down the road of paradoxes, he fetched the brown leather boots from below the stool and put them on, their heavy material feeling warm and soft to his feet. With a sigh, he picked up what could seem a shapeless pile of metal, but as it straightened, it revealed itself to be a cuirass of numerous overlapping metal-scales, shimmering in hues of purple and gold. It was more difficult to put on the ghiril-cuirass than he had thought, but after a couple of attempts he finally managed, wearing the feather-light and extremely valuable armor over his torso.
He took the leather belt and the leather shoulder strap, securing one around his waist and the other diagonally over his torso, from left shoulder to the right hip. The strap contained eight little throwing knives of alchemical silver, fitted to be drawn and thrown in an instant. The belt had a small sheath by the right hip, containing a dagger of fine steel, but common design.
He nearly forgot to take the leather scabbard from next to the stool, covering the thirty-five inch blade of the longsword sheathed in it, but not the golden hilt. Jaelnec took a moment to admire the design of the hilt - the guard artfully formed as extended dragon-wings, the dragon's tail wrapped around the handle, and the blade seemingly spawning from flames spewed from the tiny golden dragon's jaws. This single sword - Roct, it was called - was most likely worth more than an entire duchy, and now it was Jaelnec's. He fastened it to the belt by his left hip, where he could get to it quickly.
Boots, armor, knives, dagger and sword - all of it had been Freagon's, and all of it was the equipment of a Knight of the Will. It had been three days since Freagon's burial, and Jaelnec still found it strange to think that he was no longer his apprentice. That Freagon, in the end, had not been killed by one of the countless beasts he fought, but by the single enemy that not even one of the best fighters in all of Reniam could defeat: the Withering.
Jaelnec felt a lump in his throat, and although he tried he could not seem to swallow it. The Priest of Reina Jaelnec had found told him that Freagon had kept his condition secret from Jaelnec from at least four days after having contracted the plague, and had most likely been in horrid agony during this time. But Jaelnec could have sworn that Freagon seemed no different at all! He had simply endured the torments inflicted by the Withering while he kept training Jaelnec and hunting evil, right to the point when he could no longer stand and barely even remained conscious. Just before he had lost consciousness, and soon after perished, he had promoted Jaelnec to Squire of the Will and told Jaelnec that he would inherit all of Freagon's equipment... and all of his duties.

Jaelnec, trying to come to terms with being a squire without a master, took the largest bolt of cloth on the stool and folded it out, revealing it to be a long black coat, and as he put it on its lower hem reached him to his ankles. The coat had been Freagon's as well, and oddly, Jaelnec could not remember Freagon ever having taken it off other than for a rare bath or in the last moments, when the priests had removed it and revealed the spreading gray, blotched areas caused by the Withering. It had no pockets and offered no protection, and was designed just to keep him warm and to make him more intimidating to behold.
Grabbing the thick leather gauntlets - also Freagon's - which were all that remained on the stool, Jaelnec ponderously went to the mirror to see how it all suited him. Although Freagon had been dead for three days and these items had technically been Jaelnec's since then, this was his first time wearing them.
Jaelnec was shocked at his own reflection and appalled at how he looked like Freagon, only with a different head. His features were obviously more youthful than Freagon's, with Freagon being Spirits-know how old and Jaelnec only being twenty years old - but it was more than that. As the eyes looking back from the mirror revealed, black as Stupor as they were, Jaelnec was a Nightwalker, the same as Freagon, and as such he matured more slowly than humans. He was a twenty-year-old, but had the appearance of a sixteen- or seventeen-year-old. No facial hair marred his shapely chin or broad jaw, nor his thin red lips. His nose was perhaps a little too long, but it was narrow and generally appealing. His hair, a luminous shade of golden-blond, fell smoothly on his shoulders.
The overall impression was pretty good, Jaelnec thought nervously, though he was nowhere near as fearsome to behold as Freagon had been with all of his scars and the constant cold in his remaining left eye - that eye, from which a single glare could cause grown men to stutter and quiver in fear. Jaelnec's eyes were in stark contrast, being warm and, despite their color, calming and friendly. Jaelnec's only facial scar was the quite deep one that started at the right corner of his mouth and ran towards his right ear, and unlike Freagon's many scars, this one had not been inflicted during a breathtakingly exciting adventure or in battle against wicked beings. Rather, Freagon had not been too understanding about Jaelnec's teenage-tendencies to rebel against authority, and had reacted to Jaelnec's rebelliousness by taking the very dagger Jaelnec now carried by his hip and cutting open Jaelnec's cheek, all the way to the cheekbone. It had taken several stitches to hold the wound together long enough for a Cleric of Reina to heal it, but Jaelnec had never even questioned Freagon's orders since.

Putting on the gauntlets, Jaelnec went to the desk, where he found his hat - wide-brimmed to shield his sensitive Nightwalker eyes from the sun, and colored a dusty gray from long years of use. This hat, Jaelnec thought profoundly, was basically the only visible piece of equipment that was different from what Freagon had worn, aside from Jaelnec's trousers, but even these looked a lot like Freagon's pants. It was as if Jaelnec had more than taken up Freagon's duties - he had filled the void in Reniam left by him when he died, replacing a champion with a man, a knight with a squire. Jaelnec knew that he was far from as good as Freagon had been, but he also knew that he was talented nonetheless, and ten years of practice had made him a capable swordsman. He was far from Freagon's equal... but only time would tell if he would grow to face the challenge, becoming Freagon's successor, or fail miserably trying.
And his first step down this new road would be to attend to the black market gathering outside.

for The Prophecy.

Name: Karl Bergman
Gender: Male
Age: 34

Appearance: Standing 5' 7" (170 cm), Karl is a man of quite average proportions, though his butt is a bit smaller and his hips slimmer than usual, while his gut is actually a little on the chubby side, often bulging out over his belt just enough to be noticed. His overall appearance is all but overweight, however, as his legs, chest, neck and arms seem downright scrawny. He weighs 185 lbs (84 kg), and though he seems weak and fragile he does possess a certain wiry muscularity that can hardly be seen through clothes and is mostly camouflaged by his belly - however, even with his tight, sinewy nature Karl only possess a degree of strength that is possibly a bit below average.
The Swede's skin is pale, his bird's nest of hair blond and his eyes a peculiar kind of blue that seem to shift between midnight blue and dark gray depending on how light catches them, and he tends to leave just a hint of a moustache on his upper lip and a fluffy little goatee. His eyebrows are joined at the middle (meaning he has monobrow), his nose is long and just slightly crooked to the right with a small indentation about halfway down the nose-ridge, and his lips are thin but unusually red in a manner that makes them look particularly feminine. He has a narrow jaw, pointy chin and pronounced cheekbones, average-sized ears and deep-set eyes that seem to have a perpetual dark line beneath them.
Karl takes great pride in wearing a white lab coat whenever it is possible, open in the front and long enough for the hem to reach his ankles, in which he has enough pockets to carry about most of the equipment he would need for basic repairs and adjustments on relatively mundane technology, mainly screwdrivers, a wrench, a couple of pliers, a hammer and naturally a few rolls of duct tape. Beneath the lab coat he likes to don a black sweater, and he wears gray jeans, black socks and white sneakers. He wears a pair of rectangular glasses with thin gray frame and temple arms and a digital wristwatch with black plastic strap.
He tends to walk his torso twisted slightly so that the left side is in front, his back hunched over just enough that it seems unnatural, and he tends to move in a curious fashion in which consists of short, quick movements rather than long steady ones.

Bio: Born in northern Sweden, Karl was born to a normal family with typical, proud parents and three older siblings, and spent his childhood as the youngest of four, somewhat neglected by his parents. It was not until he was first sent to preschool that people began to notice that he was not behaving as a normal child would - rather, he seemed to learn to speak, read and write remarkably quickly and easily, being capable of impressive feats of color-coordination and symmetry, and by the time he started in proper school he was already beginning to pick up words and phrases in other languages. Throughout his education Karl seemed like an annoying youth because he was always asking questions, always wanting his teacher to elaborate - and when he was not at school he would do the same to his parents and older siblings, though he went mostly ignored there as they mistook his curiosity as a mere attempt at gaining their attention.
He had barely made it to second grade before his parents began receiving frequent messages from his teachers that he was skipping class, or sleeping in class, or fighting other students - he seemed like the typical troublemaker, which actually fit Karl's parents' impression of him quite well, and they swiftly agreed to let the boy see a therapist. Imagine their surprise when they realized that the reason Karl had been acting as he had was that he was bored, not out of disinterest but because he felt that there was nothing new for him to learn. In fact, presented with an IQ-test, the boy proved to be quite a genius with an IQ of 158.

After his intellect was discovered, Karl abruptly came to experience much more attention from everyone - his family, his teachers, even his classmates - and the young boy soon arrived at the conclusion that he had to become even smarter, because obviously intelligence would gain him the attention and love of a world that would otherwise neglect and ignore him. Going through his studies with top-grades in many subjects, he went on to study science and became a proper physicist. He wrote papers and held lectures... yet he came to realize that though he was sure that he was one of the most brilliant people on Earth, they still neglected to give him the attention that he craved and deserved.
Thus Karl suddenly vanished from the public and went into contact with a number of underground organizations - mainly terrorists and activists, people fighting for courses they believed in with all of their hearts. Surprisingly, Karl found that he rather enjoyed using his expertise to help them, building bombs and firearms for them, and as he turned on the news and saw the results of his creations, he felt satisfaction at being noticed, but there was something else, too... and that was when Karl realized that he really enjoyed explosions.

But despite his glee at witnessing his creations cause havoc and the ecstasy of knowing that people had died by his hand, by extension of his creations, Karl eventually came to feel that this was also ultimately insufficient. He felt that he needed more, that he was still not fulfilling his potential and finding his destiny. He saw his actions on his news, but they were always talking about the maniacs that used his weapons, and never him - in fact they did not even know who he was, which was naturally intended, but tormented him nevertheless.
It was this sense of living in obscurity that ultimately lead Karl to seek out Voyager Inc., in an effort to prove once and for all that he was superior to all of humankind and the epitome of evolution. Lying a bit about his past and faking the psychological profiling during the interview, he managed to get involved in the colonization, where he hoped that the full extent of his genius would finally be recognized by the entire human race.

Personality/Psychology: Obviously having severe narcissistic tendencies, Karl thinks himself smarter than everyone else and desperately craves them to be made aware of this. He has a hard time accepting that anyone else has authority over him and can consequently easily be perceived as rebellious and often impertinent to anyone that would even as much as attempt issuing orders to him. However, he is also cunning and methodical, with a strong desire to preserve his existence, and often he will purposely regulate how offensive he acts despite his general lack of empathy. He has an unhealthy fixation with explosions and fires and is prone to becoming mesmerized simply by beholding such a thing.

Skillset/Occupation: For a man that is practically a real-life MacGyver and capable of building a weapon of death and destruction from common household materials, it was easy to achieve the status as Tech Specialist and scientist on the mission. Given the right tools and parts, Karl can build, repair and manipulate just about any technological device. He is also a decent programmer and has vast knowledge of physics and the elements. He knows how to use a firearm, though not expertly so, and is well-versed in the arming of bombs and other explosives, though he has a low stamina and quickly tires in a stressful situation.

for Far Colony.

Name: Masashi aka Enenra
Age: 39
Gender: Male
Rank: Failed shinobi
Chakra Element: Raiton

Known Jutsu:
Bushin no Jutso - Clone Technique.
Henge no Jutso - Transformation Technique.
Kawarimi no Jutso - Body Replacement Technique.
Shōsen Jutsu - Mystical Palm Technique.
Raiton: Kangekiha - Lighting Style: Wave of Inspiration. Releases electricity from hands and into conductive materials, or directly into targets, to electrocute and stun them.
Raiton: Inori no dātsu - Lightning Style: Prayer Dart. Both of hands come together tightly (as if in prayer), and opposing currents of electricity is released from each, resulting in an extremely concentrated sphere of lightning being contained half-within and half-between the palms of the hands. Upon removing hands from each other, the opposing currents causes the Prayer Darts to shoot outward with high velocity.
Raiton: Sei no Hen-kō: Lightning Style: Positive Polarization. Upon touching an object made of metal with its hands, the user can use a bolt of specialized electricity to leave the object strongly positively charged, causing it to be inevitably pulled towards anything negatively charged in the area and repulsed from any other things positively charged.
Raiton: Make no Hen: Lighting Style: Negative Polarization. Upon touching an object made of metal with its hands, the user can use a bolt of specialized electricity to leave the object strongly negatively charged, causing it to be inevitably pulled towards anything positively charged in the area and repulsed from any other things negatively charged.
Raiton: Jibashi - Lighting Style: Electromagnetic Murder. Releases electricity from the users hands and into conductive materials or directly into targets. The power of this technique can vary from a slightly stunning shock to a devastating blast of lightning capable of ripping through stone.
Raiton: Raijū no Tsume - Lighting Style: Claws of Raijū. Only usable when wearing the Jikininki no Te. The user wraps its hands in lightning, focusing the electric currents at the tips of the claws of the gauntlets, granting these greatly increased piercing properties, as well as boosting the user's general speed for as long as the technique is active. Has a very high chakra-consumption and can thus only be used briefly.
Raiton: Tama Denkō - Lightning Style: Ball Lightning. Like with Raiton: Kaminari no Dangan, hands clasp together and opposing currents of electricity run between the palms, causing a concentration of energy to occur. As the hands are cautiously removed from one another, ensuring that the palms remain facing one another, the sphere is held in place rather than fired and energy continues to enter it, causing it to grow into an explosive bolt of ball lightning. Once the palms no longer face each other, the opposing currents will fire the Ball Lightning with great velocity and destructive power. Extremely chakra-consuming.
Raiton: Mikotona Hari - Lightning Style: Stunning Needles. Like Raiton: Kaminari no Dangan, except instead of one, five Lightning Bullets are spawned. Upon unclasping hands, the Lightning Bullets dart outward with great velocity and scatter, potentially hitting multiple targets. This technique is significantly less accurate than its similar techniques. Very chakra-consuming.
Ura Kuchiyose no Jutso - Reverse Summoning Technique. Derived from Namikaze Minato's Hirashin no Jutso (Flying Thunder God Technique), it enables the user to instantaneously summon itself or objects it touch to the location of a special seal, much like its parent technique. This is an incomplete imitation, however, and Shōken Ribāsu no Jutso consequently only works with a single seal rather than the compatibility with several of its parent technique, thus restricting the user to be summoned to only one place.
Kishō Tensei - One's Own Life Reincarnation. The user can sacrifice its own chakra to revive a fallen comrade. If the target is dead, the user's life will be forfeit to resurrect the target. (The technique used by Chiyo to resurrect Gaara.)
Shinpi-tekina Seimei no Hozen - Mystical Life Preservation. The user infuses the target with a burst of concentrated chakra, causing the target to remain alive for a short duration despite being dealt lethal damage, though it does not repair any damage. When the technique expires, if the target was mortally wounded, it dies. Does not work on targets that are already dead.
Shinpi-tekina Karada no Bubun Tensō - Mystical Body Part Transfer. Enables the user to detach a limb or organ from a target and embed the detached limb or organ to another body, thus enabling the user to replace lost or damaged body parts.
Byakugan - White Eye. Stolen from Hyūga Mikomi.

Equipment: Decorative Shikami mask, red and with little lightning bolts painted at the corners of the mouth.
Two leather straps worn diagonally on his torso, crossing in the front. These contain seventy-five Senbon (forty in the overlapping diagonal strap, thirty-five in the overlapped diagonal strap).
A pair of steel gauntlets connected to bracers that cover his entire forearms and part of his elbows. Where the bracer ends at the elbow it narrows into a sharp tip, and at each of the joints of his fingers the transitions allowing for the fingers to move extend into a similar, though smaller, sharp tip. The fingertips of the gauntlets are also modeled so that they both look and function as claws. These gauntlets are called Jikininki no Te, and are combined weapons and armor.
A pair of steel greaves that protect the front of his shins and part of his knees. Where the greaves end at the knees, the greaves narrow into a small, thorn-like tip that point outward where it is connected to the greaves, but curves upward and inward over its length.
He carries a small reel by his left hip, containing approximately three hundred yards of Wire String.
A black hooded cloak, a thin, almost filmy black shirt, baggy gray trousers and simple cloth shoes. One of Chiyo's old stud earrings.

Strengths: Enenra's main positive trait is his excellent chakra-control, which allows him to use techniques while only spending a near-minimum of the chakra required for them while at the same time being able to use pinpoint-techniques that focus on piercing a small area, damaging it extensively, rather than dealing overall damage to targets. He is very skilled in the art of stealth, and can move very quietly while blending with shadows. He is capable of moving quite quickly, though not unusually so unless he uses chakra to boost his speed. He is impressively agile and takes pride in being able to move about mainly by leaping and crawling on all fours rather than wasting chakra. When forced into melee combat, he uses an unusual, almost bestial fighting-style utilizing the Jikininki no Te, which has some semblance to the style of the Inuzuka Clan. He is capable of replacing lost or damaged body parts, meaning that he can recover from virtually any injury if he can escape. Is skilled with Senbon, and possesses Byakugan, enabling him to aim accurately for weak points.

Weaknesses: Enenra's main weaknesses are that he is just that - weak. Physically, he is rather sparsely muscled and frail, and not only does he lack strength so that hitting opponents with brute force would be somewhat ineffective, but he also lacks tenancy, meaning that when he is actually hit in combat he is quite easily damaged. Chakra-wise he is also lacking, being limited by a quite small chakra-pool, meaning that he must either finish his fights rapidly or refrain from using ninjustu and rely on taijutsu and his Senbon. Aside from this, his most obvious and most crippling weakness is the disease he was born with, which causes his internal organs to consistently deteriorate and inevitably fail, forcing him to replace his organs regularly. As his organs begin to fail (the duration from acquisition to failure dependant on the strength and health of the one he stole them from) he will weaken significantly, losing strength, speed, mobility and even the general ability to concentrate, as well as he will be crippled by ever-increasing agony.
He is also a very slow learner of new concepts... and a coward. If Enenra feels that his life - and thus his ambition - is in danger, he is likely to abandon his mission and allies and flee, even if he actually has a genuine chance of winning.

Family: Enenra is from no family of note, his father being a blacksmith specialized in ninja weapons and his mother a danko chef. They both died several years ago, shortly after the death of Chiyo... killed by Enenra, out of desperate need to find organs to replace his own failing ones.
The second closest thing he had to family would be his master, Chiyo, and perhaps his sibling disciple Sasori, whom he fought alongside of during the Third Great Ninja War.

Bio: Born during the Second Great Ninja War, Masashi was a member of a generation that was perceived as precious after the great many lives that were lost during the wars, not least for his birthplace of Sunagakure, which always had a low population due to the hardships of living in the desert. Thus though his parents were mere commoners in the village ruled by shinobi - his father a blacksmith specialized in ninja weapons, and his mother a dango chef - Masashi was one of those that became known internally in Sunagakure as the future of the village.
And true to the craving for new shinobi of the village, Masashi spent his childhood idolizing the surviving shinobi of Sunagakure, and naturally he admired the Third Kazekage above all others, as he was told that this man was the greatest shinobi Sunagakure had ever seen. He would spend hours at a time in the Sunagakure council chamber whenever he could, sitting quietly on the floor before the great statues of the three first Kazekage, often sharing the dream of many others to once have his own image carved and added there as an eternal protector of Sunagakure. Needless to say, Masashi's desire to become a shinobi was obvious to anyone, and when he reached the age of six he joined the Ninja Academy and began his training.
However, though Masashi had a brilliant and razor-sharp mind and proved highly skilled at chakra-control, his time at the Academy was mostly marked as a failure. Despite his brilliance he was slow to embrace new concepts, requiring years of training before he was even capable of as much as the most basic E-rank techniques - but once he had reached a thorough understanding of these concepts, he proved skilled at expanding and improving these, and capable of learning similar techniques with relative ease. Furthermore his natural chakra pool was very small, and his physical strength left much to be desired. Overall Masashi's teacher considered his potential very small, and he was basically only allowed to train amongst the other future shinobi because of the great need of new blood amongst the ranks.

At the age of twelve, Masashi finally faced his test to become a genin. At the time Masashi had felt ill for several days, occasionally even being struck with crippling pain occurring specifically in his abdomen and chest - yet his desire to become a shinobi remained fierce, and he hid his anguish from his instructors and classmates as to not miss the chance of ascending to the rank of genin.
He took faced the genin exam, albeit for him, his trials proved at once far shorter than that of his classmates, yet also far, far longer. As he and his classmates were sent into the desert near Sunagakure to each procure a flask of water from an oasis merely a few days' travel away, Masashi began to realize that his agony was not fading, but only intensifying exponentially. Though this task would normally have been a simple one, Masashi made the journey driven solely by the force of his will, traversing the desert under the beating sun, all while enduring the torments inflicted upon him by his own body. His ambition drove him past his limits, his determination to become a shinobi giving him strength to keep walking for more than a day, all while he chanted to himself that the completion of the mission predominated his life, as was the tradition of Sunagakure shinobi.
In the end, the power of his will only took Masashi so far, and finally the pain overwhelmed him. Coughing blood, the youth collapsed in the desert.

He awoke only several days later back in Sunagakure, where he found himself being treated by the medical-nin of the village - his pain worse than ever, his breathing labored and his heartbeat irregular. Here he was informed that not only had he failed the genin exam, but they had also discovered a rare disease in him which was gradually degenerating his organs, inevitably causing them to fail. The illness he had experienced previous to the genin exam, he was told, was likely his liver or kidney, or even his stomach, reaching their limit - and now, as he lied dying, his lungs and heart were ceasing to function as well. He was given two days to live, at most.
Surprising many, however, this was not to be so, as Chiyo of the Gokyōdai sought out Masashi and offered to help him. Many think Chiyo did so because of his likeness to her son, and to her grandson Sasori (back then, Masashi had red hair and brown eyes), though some also like to think that she did for mostly humane reasons. Whatever her reasons, Chiyo took over the care of Masashi from that day, though she explained none of what she intended to anyone else.
Little did the people of Sunagakure know that Chiyo had developed a new secret kinjutso, which she called Shinpi-tekina Karada no Bubun Tensō - the Mystical Body Part Transfer technique. With it, Chiyo took the organs of a recently deceased and replaced Masashi's failing ones, granting him longer time to live.
Masashi was obviously grateful toward Chiyo for saving his life, though the pain did not go away, but Chiyo brushed him aside and cautioned him that though she had replaced his failing organs, she could not cure him of his disease. His new organs would inevitably fail as well and need to be replaced, and there might not always be a dead or dying person in Sunagakure when that time came - and if that was not the case, she could not extend Masashi's life any further.
Though the news of his inevitable death were a hard blow to Masashi, it was nothing compared to the message he received from the Third Kazekage - that Masashi was unfit to be a shinobi, and would never be allowed to enter the Ninja Academy again.
But once more, Chiyo was Masashi's savior, now both of his dream and his life. She told him that she was already training her grandson, Sasori, and that - if Masashi was willing - she would train him was well.

So it came to be that Masashi trained alongside Sasori under Chiyo. But while Sasori proved a genius puppeteer, Masashi had no such talent. Instead, Chiyo took to teaching Masashi medical techniques, as well as honing his already impressive chakra-control.
These two training together, but despite everything, something existed in each of the students that at once bound them together and kept them apart. Both of them kept their distance from the general populace, and both seemed to only grow more introverted and bitter as time passed by, Sasori because of his lack of paternal love, Masashi from his resentment of having been dismissed as a shinobi. Sasori learned quickly and soon stood out in the shinobi-world as the greatest puppeteer Sunagakure had ever seen, whereas Masashi learned slowly and settled with being lost in the masses. Furthermore his disease gradually began to become evident in his appearance as he went bald and turned gaunt.

Then the Third Great Ninja War arrived, and Sasori and Masashi joined the fray together with the rest of Sunagakure. Masashi served merely as support for Sasori, treating the wounded as best the best he could, and could only watch as his partner earned the title of Sasori of the Red Sand, killing many enemies. The war did nothing for Masashi, as he never saw any real combat.
Yet the Third Great Ninja War eventually proved to have great significance to Masashi, as wounded shinobi were brought back to Sunagakure to be treated, yet some were too gravely injured to be saved. One such casualty happened to be present one of the times that Masashi needed to have his organs replaced, and Chiyo, seeing that the shinobi would never survive his injuries, decided that the best she could do was to save the shinobi's organs. However, this had unexpected consequences: as Masashi received the shinobi's organs, he discovered that the chronic pain he had suffered since his failed genin exam had ceased entirely, and for the first time in years he felt strong and healthy. After all, the donator had been alive when the organs had been taken, and though the shinobi had been dying, his organs had been in perfect condition.
Being healthy was intoxicating to the sickly youth, and as he returned to the battlefield to assist Sasori and the other shinobi of Sunagakure, Masashi was tempted by the widespread death and destruction and the desire to remain healthy. After each battle after this, Masashi's cloaked figure could be seen on the battlefield, lurking amongst the dead, searching for anyone still alive that he could bring back to Chiyo in order to steal their organs. To witnesses, Masashi's grim hunt was a doubly gruesome sight, as he crawled upon all fours like a beast and bent close to every corpse to seek out faint signs of life. Naturally, the rest of Sunagakure had still not been told of how Masashi managed to stay alive, and did not know of his dependence on others' organs. Even so, by the end of the Third Great Ninja War, Masashi had earned a nickname as well: they called him Jikininki, after the ghoulish spirits of myth that feasted on the dead and looted their corpses.

Masashi and Chiyo discovered that using healthy organs instead of organs from the dead not only made Masashi feel healthy for a while, but also lasted much longer. During the war, Masashi went from having to replace his organs every one or two weeks to every one or two months. And finally - as a side-effect even more surprising than any other - it seemed that each time Masashi received the organs of a shinobi, his chakra grew a little stronger.
It was only natural for Masashi to want to keep using healthy organs, and preferably from shinobi, but with the end of the war, there were few dying that allowed such a harvest. Masashi, driven to the brink of madness by his desire for health and strength, wanted to find healthy people to harvest for organs - but Chiyo refused. Much to Masashi's displeasure, the end of the war meant the end of good health for him, and he returned to having to use the organs of the terminally ill, the old and the dead.

The years passed painfully from there, with little changing about Masashi himself. Not long after the Third Great Ninja War, Sasori vanished without a trace, leaving Masashi to train with Chiyo alone, and soon after the Third Kazekage disappeared as well, and after a thorough search was replaced with the Fourth Kazekage. Masashi spent the years as a mere shadow hidden behind the veil of history, and though he witnessed the passing of many things, he never felt that any of it had anything to do with him. He stood by and bore witness as Chiyo was called upon to seal Shukaku within the infant Gaara, and he heard rumors of the defeat of the feared Kyūbi was sealed as well in a host from Konohagakure. He heard of many shinobi from all over the world who earned themselves famous or infamous names amongst their fellows, all while he was banished to painful obscurity. All he managed in these years was nature manipulation of his chakra, learning to wield lightning and electricity, though the extent of his power left much to be desired.

Then came the final fateful years, which proved to be a major blow not only to Sunagakure, but to Masashi personally as well. First Sunagakure got involved in Orochimaru's plot to destroy Konohagakure - though as great a blow as the subsequent defeat and the death of the Fourth Kazekage was to the village, Masashi's interest was focused on Orochimaru himself. This shinobi was truly everything Masashi could ever have desired - powerful enough to face and kill a Kage, eternally healthy, capable of using techniques of godlike nature... and, he learned later, Orochimaru even had discovered the secret of immortality. Recognizing this as an advanced version of Chiyo's Shinpi-tekina Karada no Bubun Tensō, Masashi realized that with this, he could escape the disease that had held him back through his entire life. He could finally inhabit a perfectly healthy body! This great man, this Orochimaru, had realized Masashi's greatest dream.
But alas, to Masashi it remained merely a dream as Orochimaru vanished and Gaara of the Sand was instated as the Fifth Kazekage. Once more the years passed uneventfully, and Masashi felt the brief hope he felt at hearing of Orochimaru die, the technique that would grant him his health seeming forever out of his reach.

Then, a scant couple of years later, catastrophe struck as Sunagakure came under assault by the Akatsuki member Deidara, who kidnapped the Fifth Kazekage to obtain Shukaku. This event in itself immediately had no greater significance to Masashi than that Deidara managed to mortally wound a Sunagakure shinobi, ensuring that Masashi for the first time since the Third Great Ninja War could have healthy organs, granting him health and additional chakra.
It was what happened mere days later that threatened to crush Masashi's existence altogether. Chiyo went to rescue Gaara, much to Masashi's dismay... and finally, he was gripped with despair and desperation as news reached him that Chiyo - the only thing that stood between Masashi and certain death - had died to save the Kazekage.
Driven now solely by the need to survive, Masashi rummaged through Chiyo's home, eventually discovering where she had hidden her kinjutso. It was unbelievably fortunate that he had shortly before then received organs that lasted him nearly two months, or he would have died. As it was, he had just enough time to learn the Shinpi-tekina Karada no Bubun Tensō.

Ironically, when he finally mastered the technique that could keep him alive, Chiyo's warning from the distant past became reality: there were no recently dying or dead in all of Sunagakure. Weakening as his organs failed him one by one, Masashi staggered to the home of his parents for the first time since he had been taken in by Chiyo. And as he stumbled home, on the brink of death, his parents welcomed him with open arms, vowing that they would do anything to help him, but that since they were not medical-nin, or even shinobi, they could do little aside from making his last days as comfortable as possible.
But once more Masashi was driven - his desire to survive burned bright within him, with a fierce flame that was reinforced by the knowledge of the Shinpi-tekina Karada no Bubun Tensō and that Orochimaru had developed a technique that could restore his health. He was driven by a desire far stronger than even that he had once had of becoming a shinobi.
And so, when his father came to care for him, the dying Masashi stunned him with lightning and harvested his own father's healthy organs while he was still alive, thus saving himself, shedding tears as he did so. When Masashi's mother discovered this, he murdered her as well, finally proving to himself that nothing prioritized higher than his survival.

From that day on, Masashi retreated from common society and lived alone, studying Chiyo's kinjutso and developing his own lightning-techniques in secret, all while he emerged into the streets of Sunagakure every few weeks to prowl the night clad in a black cloak, to ambush and kidnap shinobi - stunning them with lightning and using Ura Kuchiyose no Jutso to return them and himself to his hideout quickly and untraceably - and steal their organs, ensuring his own health and increasing his strength. After a few years Masashi - though none knew it was him - became known by his crimes in Sunagakure as the Enenra, named after the mythical demon of black smoke that could only be seen by those pure of heart, and which kidnapped humans to wear their skin. Though the practical details were a little off, Masashi decided that he liked the name and the dark symbolism tied to it, and he cast aside his old identity and became, fully and wholly, Enenra.
Eventually Sunagakure became too dangerous for Masashi to stay there, as the village grew wary of the many disappearances, and Masashi was forced to leave to seek other places to hunt for sustenance.
That was when Ryuusei found him, and told him of Seika. Though Masashi thought little of the lofty goals of the organization, the thought that he could probably use it for his own agendas, and accepted the invitation. Coincidentally, the goal of Seika proved to be Konohagakure - much to Masashi's delight. If they somehow managed to get into Konohagakure, he could seek out Orochimaru's old secret lair... and, hopefully, discover the Fushi Tensei, which would finally grant him the health that he had been denied throughout his entire miserable life.

Four years prior to the present, Masashi happened upon a Hyūga-clan member called Mikomi, while she was on a mission... and truly, Masashi thought it a gift from the gods to be blessed with such incredible luck as to be presented with a Byakugan-wielder in a wheelchair. He managed to sneak up on and kidnap Mikomi, and while he was harvesting her organs, he also used the Shinpi-tekina Karada no Bubun Tensō to steal her Byakugan and replace his own eyes with hers.
This was not entirely as fortunate as he had first thought, though, as it turned out that though he had obtained the coveted Byakugan, he had no idea how to "turn it off". Thus Masashi spent nearly an entire year on the brink of death, the Byakugan constantly draining him of his chakra while rendering him unable to see anything normally. By the time he finally managed to deactivate the Byakugan, he hesitated activating again for several months, afraid that he would be unable to deactivate it once more and that the eyes would eventually claim his life.
He is comfortable using the Byakugan now, however, and as Seika begin to stir, Masashi rests in the knowledge that he is now stronger than ever before... and that he is willing to use that strength however necessary.

Personality: I prefer to express this through RP'ing, and have been allowed to do so by AM... though the biography should give a good idea of at least some of his personality-traits.
Appearance: AM's depiction of Enenra.
5' 6" (169 cm) tall and weighs 127 pounds (58 kg). Has a generally gaunt and sickly appearance. Is completely bald and has no eyebrows. Wears all the things from the Equipment-section. Wears Chiyo's old stud earring in his left ear, though he also has an unoccupied hole in his right ear. Almost never removes his Shikami mask or hood.

For the yet unstarted Naruto: A Second Story

Characters created during my time in Roleplayer Guild, but the roleplays which they were created for died early:

Name: Antoinette Michel / Grall

Age: 29 years old.

Gender: Female.

Pre-plague Occupation: A sparsely successful pharmacist, working as a surgeon in rare emergencies when it was required of her.

Pre-plague Affiliation: Aside from being associated with a lone wanderer of the wilderness outside of Ayers, which served to provide Antoinette the herbs needed for much of the medicine she produced and sold, her lack of success forced her to make a deal with a small local gang of thugs calling themselves the Bloody Blade. She served them as surgeon and provided medicine when their gang-members fell ill or needed patching up after having clashed with the City Guard, and they rewarded her by not burning down her business, raping and killing her.

Post-plague Occupation: Antoinette has found herself to be utterly helpless in the horror-stricken streets, and though her expertise certainly could have been valuable, she fears too much for her life to approach anyone and offer her help. Only the appearance of Grall has kept her alive, as this makes a living by stealing, robbing and murdering its fellow citizens.

Post-plague Affiliations: Because of her frail psyche and ever-increasing fear for her own life, Antoinette has all but cut every single connection she had previous to the plague and has practically resolved to face the hardships of Ayers alone. Grall, on the other hand, occasionally seeks out the remnants of the Bloody Blade, though maintaining a very strict non-personal business relationship with the gang. Otherwise, Grall generally only seeks to the company of others to steal from, rob, mug or kill them, or if it senses a potential that a meeting between it and another individual might benefit it.

Appearance: Though Antoinette's frame and general appearance was always remarkably small, being only 4' 11" (150 cm) tall - petite, even - the ravages she suffered after the plague has worsened this even further, causing her body to become dangerously and unattractively thin, her bones showing through her ashen skin many places, as well as muscles in her legs, arms, shoulders and abdomen are all clearly visible to the naked eye. Obviously she is not of what one refer to of a shapely figure, either, being generally narrow from her shoulders to her ankles with barely any indication of her waist or rump, and with only a very faint indication of a bosom, barely even perceptible through even thin clothing. Her hands, once simply slender and feminine, have become almost skeletal in appearance, and nails that were once well-kept and long are now short and rough with poor maintenance.
Her face is very narrow and of somewhat average length, and though her bone-structure is quite unremarkable, her sickly thinness has caused her skin to cling tightly to her cheekbones and jaw, defining both so clearly that the shape of her skull can easily be pictured just by looking at her. Her lips are thin and pale, and, after the ravages of the plague, have become consistently split and bloody from dryness and impacts, but nevertheless cover over straight, if slightly yellow teeth. Her nose is sharply defined, its spine almost completely straight from its tip to the nasal root, and making an almost perfect ninety degrees angle from the tip to just over her lip, with small, narrow nostrils. Her eyes are deep-set and large, with naturally long eyelashes and thin eyebrows, but though her eyes were originally a golden-tinted hazel, after the appearance of Grall they abruptly turned an icy shade of pure blue, with only faint traces of her original eye-color at the very edge of her irises. Her hair, once long and well-groomed, is kept at shoulder length by Grall, who cuts it regularly and insists to wear it in a tight knot at the back of her head. It is a reddish brown, whereas its other qualities might vary depending on how long it has been since Antoinette last had access to relatively harmless water to wash herself with.
Her fanciful dresses and fashionable shoes from before the plague either discarded, lost or worn out, Antoinette is reduced to wearing a long, seemingly perpetually filthy skirt and a short-sleeved tunic, both which were once white laced with blue and red, but which has darkened to a uniform gray with the years of wear, both inflicted with various tears as reminders of worse times and dangerous situations. Her lithe, scar- and cut-ridden feet are either bare or clad in bags or random shoes, if she can find any that are somewhat practical, and beneath her skirt she wears an odd makeshift undergarment created by quite simply wrapping a sheet of quilt around her pelvis like a sort of diaper. Whenever some are available, Grall likes to wear gloves, and though Antoinette has no interest in the relatively useless piece of clothing, Grall hoards any kind of glove it finds in its looting, robbing and stealing.
Finally, she carries an old leather bag about, with a strap that has been mended several times fit over her right shoulder. In this bag she keeps small jars and vials with the sparse herbal and medicinal supplies she has managed to save from her days as a pharmacist, as well as a mortar and pestle, a scalpel and a small, compact bone saw.

Personality: The things inflicted upon Antoinette has rendered her extremely mentally frail, and though she is actually a kind and warm-hearted person at her core, guided by a desire to aid her fellow men, she has become too much of a nervous wreck to do almost anything on her own. To call her a coward would be an insult, though it might describe some of her behavior accurately, but her demeanor is actually a result of her shattering psyche, which is constantly deteriorating further as her mind continuously fails to cope with the immense stress connected to surviving in the gruesome city of Ayers. She suffers from a number of phobias: Spectrophobia - the fear of her own mirror image in any reflecting surface. Somniphobia - the fear of sleeping, as she is terrified by what awaits her in her dreams. Nosophobia - the fear of contracting diseases, which she acquired for obvious reasons. Ablutophobia - the fear of bathing, which is actually born from her fear of her own reflection, as water allows her to see her own image. And, finally, agraphobia - the fear of sexual abuse.
Strangely, as the strength drained from Antoinette's mind and her sanity crumbled between her fingers, her weaknesses began slowly to birth strength - not in herself, but in what was at first a whispering voice in the depths of her mind, talking to her, guiding her and generally terrifying her, but eventually became an entirely different personality. Though likely just suffering from multiple personality disorder, Antoinette is certain that this entity living within her mind - Grall - is a demon or evil spirit set on possessing her and stealing her body.
If Antoinette is the light side of her being, then Grall is definitely the dark. While Antoinette is generally heterosexual, Grall - a being which considers itself androgynous - prefers the company of other women, and is extremely sexually active whereas Antoinette is excessively reserved in the matter and actually prefers not to engage in any such things if it can be avoided, unless genuine feelings are involved. Grall has absolutely no empathy, seeing all other beings on Earth merely as tools to be used and then discarded , obstacles that must be defeated or as opportunities that might be exploited, and has no desire to help anyone aside from itself. Knowing no fear, but only rational caution, Grall is aggressive, greedy and moody, and will often be infuriated by even the slightest insult towards it. The only thing Antoinette and Grall seem to share is their equally fierce determination to stay alive, despite all odds.

Abilities: Though it has been years since she practiced her occupation last, Antoinette still has both some of the supplies and all of the knowledge needed to produce a small selection of herbal medicines and disinfectants, and is generally well-versed in treating injuries, both big and small, and is even capable of performing small-scale surgery and amputations.
Grall, being in possession of the same knowledge as its alter ego, does things quite differently. Drawing on Antoinette's knowledge of human anatomy, Grall takes great pleasure in using the scalpel from their leather satchel to aim at and slice through vulnerable tendons and vital organs of any that stand in its way. In special cases it might even wield the bone saw, though Grall thinks this makeshift weapon crude and unappealing.
Aside from its grim, unusual fighting style, Grall has also adapted Antoinette's body to moving noiselessly and has learned to blend with the shadows, lurking close to its victims before striking like the predator it is. It has trained Antoinette's body to have a tough, durable strength and considerable stamina, as well as great enough finesse for the thief to cut open people's pockets without them noticing, stealing their contents, and the murderer to instantly deal a crippling or lethal blow to an unsuspecting enemy.

Biography: Up until the outbreak of the plague in Ayers, Antoinette's life was, as most other things about her, utterly unremarkable. She grew up in a middle-class family, doing well enough to allow her to get some education, but not wealthy to the extent where it would allow a mere woman to become a true academic, and though she was only taught little other than to read and write, and what was expected of her as a woman, her mind was gifted and she managed to learn much about herbal medicine and human anatomy simply by stealing glances at books.
Even so, Antoinette was expected to be nothing more than a common housewife, and was - as could be expected - promised to an older man of higher social standing than her own parents. Her life was miserable until her husband, by chance, discovered her knowledge of medicine, and opened a pharmacy with himself as proprietor and Antoinette as the only employee. Working at the pharmacy was hard, but it kept Antoinette away from her emotionally distant husband and allowed her to use her mind, and despite low income and threats from criminal low-lives and having to help these survive their run-ins with the law, Antoinette was found this life as adequate as any other.
Soon after the outbreak of the plague, Antoinette was separated from her husband, whom she soon after learned was dead, and was left on her own - weak, scared and surrounded by untold horrors. Her fragile mind soon began to crack and go to pieces, her strength ebbing with the first months passing. She sought more and more to solitude when she realized that everyone else in these dark days were potentially dangerous, and in the first time she was dangerously undernourished, thirsting and hovering at the brink of plunging into insanity. Ironically, she was saved when a gang of three men discovered her in her hideout in one of the streets of Ayers, assaulted her and brutally abused her. The rapists' cruelty threatened to finally shatter Antoinette's mind completely, but instead, the voice that had been but a faint whisper in the deepest recesses of her subconsciousness abruptly surged to the surface, took control, and truly became part of her, possessing her body with equal right to Antoinette.
Possessed with almost feral rage, Grall's first savage action was to turn against the shocked thugs that had violated Antoinette. Grall mauled them like a wild beast, using its teeth and fingernails to brutally murder each of them. Since then, Grall has been Antoinette's strength and survivability, her instincts and her greatest nightmare. Strangely, as months, seasons and years passed in the crumbling Ayers, the two found that as one of the two personalities gained strength and stability, the other's faltered, weakening and falling into the background. At first Antoinette was still in control most of the time, only letting Grall "out" to ensure her own survival when it was absolutely necessary, but lately, Grall has become far more dominant, raising to the surface at its own will, regardless of what Antoinette wants and thinks. Grall has been looting, stealing, robbing, mugging and murdering, which usually lead to even more looting, ever since, letting the two entities in Antoinette's body survive.
Now, each of the two has developed different goals, as they are clearly vastly different people. While both has a fierce desire to stay alive, Grall is driven by greed, fueled by desire to accumulate power and followers, possessed by the idea of itself becoming the supreme ruler of the ruins of Ayers, and take the ravaged people under its command to conquer the weak, despicable world that left them behind. Antoinette, on the other hand, wants nothing of the sort - all she has is a burning desire to get rid of Grall and finally be alone in her mind once more and, if possible, to escape the despondent ruins of Ayers and flee to greener pastures where she might start her life over and forget about her gruesome past.

Name: Gregory "The Heartbreaker" Martin
Sex: Male
Age: 38
Nationality: North American
Appearance: Gregory likes to be well-groomed at all times, and makes it a priority to always be clean-shaven as well as he regularly gets his eyebrows plucked so that they are maintained as thin lines, and his nails are kept in near-perfect condition. His desire to look neat and civilized is also reflected by his choice of clothes: he tends to dress in a black tuxedo with white shirt and black silk necktie, as well as black polished shoes. He tends to only wear his finest when he is either not committed to his work or during the completion of his assignment, as he tends to don various disguises during his work otherwise, adapting to whatever he might wear that will attract the least attention and allow him access the most places. But whatever the situation during assignments, no matter if in disguise or in tuxedo, he always wears black gloves - an old habit of his to avoid leaving fingerprints that could reveal his identity to the authorities (or worse, the vengeful comrades of his targets).
He is 5' 10" tall and his built is masculine without seeming pumped, suiting his dress-code well, and as with everything else about him he makes a real effort at keeping his stomach perfect by his own opinion: flat and hard. He has a quite wide jaw, a short chin and a pointy nose, and his eyes are a toxic hue of green. His teeth are almost blindingly white (once more his perfectionist tendencies come into play), and his skin is a little pale. He has completely black hair to between his shoulders, combed back and tied into a ponytail.
Weapons: His main firearm is a

sniper rifle, accurate at more than two thousand yards and firing supersonic rounds that kills the target long before they hear the gunshot. His secondary firearm is a silenced

, which are well-known handguns with the property of being of the few series of firearms made of polymer (plastic) instead of metal. His weapon for close combat is a custom-made

, made completely without the use of any metal so that both the knife and his pistol could be smuggled through metal-detectors unnoticed. Sacrificing some of the strength of the blade for this, it is made mostly of carbon fiber and designed to best withstand inflicting accurate stabbing wounds.
Additionally he carries around a small bottle of A.C.E. Mixture on him at all times - a blend of alcohol, chloroform and ether. Applied to a piece of cloth used to cover the mouth of an unsuspecting victim, this mixture is a more effective anesthetic than pure chloroform and with a lower lethality than ether.
Personality: Most of the time when he is around other people, Gregory assumes a polite and pleasant demeanor, although no matter his acting skills he can never seem to completely erase his tendencies for perfectionism, and often he finds himself stopping in the middle of a conversation with others or just walking down the street to correct small imperfections about his appearance, even if it is as little as a single rebellious strand of hair that has escaped from the restraints of his ponytail or a slight fold in his clothes.
In reality he has a severe lack of empathy with others around him, which at once can make him seem quite self-absorbed at times, as well as it renders him capable of doing just about anything without feeling the slightest pang of guilt. When he is on an assignment he has taught himself to harden his heart, and although he feel no pleasure in taking life and actually tries to avoid doing so most of the time, neither does he have any hesitation in killing those that need to die. His utter indifference about taking another's life makes him a highly efficient assassin in many ways, as not only can he pull a trigger without his hands trembling, but he can also walk right up to someone, smiling so genuinely that the person might not realize his intention until they are already unconscious or dead.
Biography: Being drafted into the army at the age of 21, Gregory was extremely reluctant to leave his old life behind - not because he would miss it, as he really felt nothing for any of his friends and family and he had been stranded with an education in accounting that he did not want, but rather because the thought that it would have him crawling through mud and would force him to neglect much of his usual grooming. Even so he actually felt right at home once he joined with the military, with all of the neatness required of the soldiers surprising and pleasing him and with the strictly adhered schedules simplifying his life in a way he liked. It was all so carefully planned that misunderstandings were practically nonexistent and no one ever doubted what they should do at what time. It was neat, but in a different way than his old life, and Gregory adapted disturbingly well to life as a soldier.
After a month in the military, however, some of Gregory's superiors began to notice his lack of empathy and interest in interacting with other human beings. He did not fit in with the others' desire for camaraderie for one another, which was generally a bad thing since the lack of devotion to one's comrades was considered vital amongst the soldiers. However, Gregory's commanding officer also soon noticed Gregory's tendencies for perfectionism, and it did not take long before an assignment was found where lack of empathy and perfectionism were both advantageous characteristics.
Gregory did almost frighteningly well as a sniper for the military, and it became his signature to never miss his targets' hearts, thus earning him the name the Heartbreaker. Gregory learned everything the military had to teach him - the correct techniques for aiming with a sniper rifle, factors to be aware of, how to pick his targets and how to avoid being seen until his designated target was dead. Once he had learned everything the military had to offer him, he quit and immediately spent his savings getting into the business as a professional assassin.

Since then, several hearts have been punctured, or as he upgraded his equipment even shredded, and Gregory came to rather enjoy his work and the income it offered him. Like back in the army, he performed his assignments in a carefully scheduled manner so that he was never in doubt of what to do, and his methods often proved flawless. He would infiltrate the target's home for a few days, learn their habits and observe how well-protected they were, and only hurt anyone but the target if there was no other choice. And when the time came for terminating the target, he would find a place far away and assassinate the target from safe distance, and then quickly disappear in the crowds before anyone had the chance to find him.

When word reached him of McGahee's contract that had just come up, his first reaction was to outright refuse to have anything to do with it. It would force him to sway too far from his usual style, putting him in a dangerous position where he would be surrounded by Yakuza-thugs protecting their leader, and with God-knows how many other contractors hunting Sonny Zankokuna. It would be by far too dangerous for his liking. Besides, the bounty was on Zankokuna's heart, which meant that if Gregory sniped him in the heart as usual, the bounty might be lost to him. No, this particular bounty was more trouble than it was worth.

Then he learned what the reward was going to be, and immediately booked the first flight to Bastion City.

Name: Johann von Gosse ("Johann of the gutter")
Age: 18 (And thereby admittedly one of the youngest characters I have ever played)

Appearance: With a skinny, fragile looking frame and a body that merely stands 5' 3" in the rare event that he straightens his apparently perpetually hunched back, Johann is not used to being described with terms such as 'squirrelly' and 'impish' by those that see him from a distance. Such observations are often quickly accompanied with a remark referring to a general lack of proper hygiene, once the watchers notice his worn once-brown trousers, grayed with dust and wear, his pale-red and equally tattered jacket and the thin-soled leather-shoes adorning his feet, all which seems a couple of sizes too big to fit over his scrawny, sinewy corpus. Remarkably enough, despite the scrappiness of his aforementioned clothing, he almost always wears a black glove on his left hand that is quite well-maintained and fits perfectly on his long, bony spider-like fingers. His right hand is only removed from the pocket of his jacket when he has absolutely no other choice, as he is reluctant to reveal the disgusting sight of his broken, disfigured appendage to the rest of the world. Besides, the fingers on that hand - twisted into unnatural angles and stiff - is useless anyways.
Johann's face mirrors his general built quite well, being long and gaunt with malnourishment from his childhood, and the tight skin makes his expression seem eternally forced and his icy-blue eyes seem unusually large and bulging. His nose is sharp and pointy, and although his forehead is badly afflicted with the pestilence of acne, it is rarely revealed from behind the clusters of greasy black hair dangling in front of his face and randomly falling on his shoulders like slimy tentacles. If a rat took human form, Johann is probably a justified example of what it might look like.

Sexuality: Heterosexual.

Personality: Due to his chosen profession as a thief and a pickpocket, Johann has little to no respect for leaving others' things alone, both those material and those that are pure information. He is unfamiliar with the very concepts of shame, guilt and anything related to proper manners, and if he expresses shyness or remorse, it is probably one of the frequent situations when he brazenly attempts to manipulate those around him with, if not convincing then at least somewhat impressive displays of acting, often ending with a blatant and strident attempt at causing some kind of distraction so that he can skitter away back into the lonely solace of darkness, where he feels at home the most. As might be concluded from this statement, Johann is rather distrustful towards others and always expects the worst from everyone around him, and when caught in a corner, he can tends to lose his mind and fly into a wild berserk in a final effort to protect himself, like an enraged wolverine.
Although he does not let himself be restricted by petty concepts such as morals and laws, he has an innate loathing of the Catholics. It is not that he has any kind of spiritual beliefs that he cling to - quite the contrary, if it was just a matter of spirituality, Johann would gladly sell his soul to as many gods and devils as anyone wanted, as often as they wanted him to, if that would make them leave him alone, because to him, prayers of whatever quantity of words in whatever language they were spoken in were just that: words, and nothing else. No, what makes him despise the rulers of the modern world is their irritating restriction of the freedom he cherish so, and their abuse of the people (by 'the people' he naturally means 'Johann') that they dominate.

Skills: Are names like the ones you gave your 'skills' necessary? I'll give it a try.
Skittering pickpocket: (I figure this probably counts as two skills.) Johann has made the majority of his earnings in life through the difficult art of picking pockets, which is admittedly not made any easier by his quite obviously low-class appearance, as people tend to get twitchy and paranoid whenever they notice him. He has survived the only way he could: by adapting. His short and hunched posture enables him to move through crowds without being noticed until he is very close to others, as well as his feet carries him lightly and quickly so that he can arrive and vanish in a heartbeat. In that brief moment, the deft fingers of his healthy left hand can snatch virtually anything from an unaware individual's pocket.
Shadowy burglar: (Likely counts as two as well, possibly even three.) Although most of Johann's thefts are committed in the space of a second, dashing past people, stalls and shop-shelves and taking whatever he needs and often escapes notice, there is also another side to his thieving occupation. Johann is no stranger to breaking into closed businesses or private homes, either by climbing to a conveniently open window or by skillfully picking any lock obstructing his path, and sneak about to claim what is unrightfully his. When he tries to be quiet like that, Johann is practically soundless, and when he stands still he has learned to blend in well with the shadows. Of course, the shadows are always to his advantage - one is always at advantage in one's own element.

Quirks/Things of note: I think I covered everything relatively well in the previous points... Oh, there is one thing that probably should be mentioned: although he has no actual skill in handling it, he does carry around an old rusty pocket knife, mainly for self-defense in desperate situations and in the rare event that he obtains a meal that requires preparation.
Biography: I think I prefer to reveal this during the RP. Or I might add it later. Time will tell.

Name: Roderick Paladin
Age: 33
Role: Knight

Appearance: Not much can actually be seen of Roderick's appearance once he enters the field of battle, or simply sets out on any kind of dangerous task, as then he dons a set of highly ornamental plate armor, designed to be just as decorative and encouraging to his comrades as it is protective to his own person. All that really can be part-seen and part-guessed from the general shape and size of his armor is that he is approximately 5' 12" tall and has a quite formidable physique. In reality he probably is a little shorter than that, although the armor only adds an inch to his height at most - but as his muscular built is concerned, the armor reveals the truth. His body is as burly as can possibly be demanded from a man that spends half of his time at the courts of various lords across the land, and far less time training and questing than he would like to. Under his armor, Roderick wears plain a plain brown tunic and breeches, although once out of battle, this is replaced by fine clothes of silk in white and red, accompanied by a red cloak with silver-trimming on its hem.
He has managed to get through his training and battles so far without any facial scars, although he wears a pale lash-scar diagonally across his chest. His skin is rather pale from its rare exposure to sunlight - since whenever Roderick actually traverses the realm in sunshine, he tends to wear armor - but his skin tends to be rough, despite any grooming he might undertake before whatever balls he is invited to. His face his round and jovial, his chin being particularly wide and his lips thick, and a large bushy moustache and only slightly less bushy eyebrows, both the same hazel as his short hair. His eyes are round and has a remarkable turquoise color, but although he is only 33 years old, they are already framed by wrinkles and seem to hold a deep sadness behind the veil of his smile at all times.

Personality: Although Roderick might come across as pompous and reserved at times, he is actually an amazingly kind and friendly man once you get to know him. His general behavior is mostly a result of his borderline fanatical devotion to the Chivalric Code, as well as his utter faith in the Church and the principles it teaches. This very goodness in his heart, which cynics could even go as far as call naivety, also means that his personal progress through life is hindered greatly. After all, it is very difficult to achieve anything in either politics or battle when one believes that everything one does must be based on the principle of protecting the "weak, defenseless and helpless", and that he must always "fight for the general welfare of all". After all, how can one fight for the welfare of all when one must wound and kill to do so?
This inner conflict often leaves Roderick in deep thought, and occasionally even causes him to descend into a state of crippling melancholy. His thoughts have become even graver and more confused recently, as he has come to ask the same questions to himself about the inquisition as he does about warfare in general, only this seems even worse. After all, in battle, he can justify his actions to himself with the fact that his enemies wield weapons against him and are far from defenseless. But not only are the ones he has been tasked to execute as witches women - some of those knights are the required to defend the most - but they have almost always proven to be quite defenseless.
Doubts like these gnaw at him, yet his honor bids him to obey the commands of his liege... at least until his liege proves unworthy of that honor.

Biography: Born the son of a prominent noble in the respected house of Paladin, it is no surprise that Roderick grew up in a quite shielded environment, spending most of his time at school or hidden away within the walls of his father's manor. His parents spoiled him horribly through most of his childhood, while at the same time trying to protect him from all the dangers of the outside world, inevitably preventing him from learning what the real world was like and trapping him with the delusion that the world was exactly as he heard it was in school, and from what he heard in his father's wild tales of chivalry. In school, he learned of the Church and how God punished the wicked and rewarded the just and generous - all thoughts that fascinated the young Roderick to no bounds, and ideas he took to heart without hesitation, and barely had he learned to speak before his soul had been firmly placed in the hands of God. At home, listening to his father, he learned of valiant heroes and knights fighting off dragons and trolls and other evil things, all in the service of defending the weak.
His parents were undeniably concerned when Roderick one day, at age seven, returned from a trip outside with a black eye and a bloody nose, but the child would tell them nothing of how this had happened and actually kept to himself much more after that than otherwise. Worried that Roderick might have been influenced into aggression by the 'rabble' surrounding their small patch of safe ground, his parents had Roderick followed. Even at this early age, Roderick had a natural brawny built, and his parents feared not so much that Roderick had encountered a bully as that Roderick was becoming a bully. After all, such children tended to be suited only for the army, and there were little possibilities worthy of their noble blood amongst the ranks of soldiers. But as they watched Roderick, they were filled with not shame, but pride, as they saw their son put himself between the older children picking on the weaker, and taking their beating for them. Even this early in his life, Roderick followed the Chivalric Code, although never as fanatically as he would later on.

Soon after having seen their son make such a sacrifice in the defense of the weak, Roderick's parents soon agreed that he deserved a chance at knighthood. Within a month, Roderick entered the service of a knight called Sir Bertrand, where he received training in return for serving as the knight's page, until he became his squire at age fifteen and his training intensified significantly.
Right from the beginning, Roderick showed skill in handling the wooden training weaponry, as well as he displayed a much nobler spirit than many others - yet as the other squires moved on from training with wooden weapons and began specializing in their favorites, Roderick was left behind, found to be clinging to the stage of using wooden weapons. One day, Sir Bertrand approached Roderick with a real sword, but the boy actually squealed with disgust and fear at the sight of it and pulled away when the knight presented it to him.
"Real weapons kill," he told the knight, weeping, "and I do not want to kill. How can it be good to end a life that God created? How can one weigh the value of one life over another? I cannot carry such a burden, so I will keep my wooden sword, and perhaps someone else may chose for me by killing me."
It was Sir Bertrand that truly revealed to Roderick what the world was like - that everything was not perfection, that all were not as nice and generous as the Church instructed and that there were those that would kill others for their own gain, even though these people could not even raise a weapon in their own defense. These people, Sir Bertrand told him, were those that needed knights like Roderick: someone who would not wield a sword against them, but to protect them, and would fight not for personal gain, but for the good of all.
Roderick took the knight's words to heart, and at age 23 he was dubbed a knight, having learned how to ride and handle a sword masterfully. Barely had the title been bestowed upon him before his parents, both proud to announce that they were now related to a knight, arrived to celebrate and brought the present of Xilos the Andalusian. They also gifted Roderick with a considerable sum of their wealth in the hopes that he would rise further yet, but to Roderick, there was nothing better than what he was. The money they gave him he spent on buying extravagant weapons and armor so that he could be a more intimidating and encouraging icon on the battlefield, and whatever little was left he donated to the Church, leaving him a poor, but happy knight.

The decade of knighthood that has passed between then and now has been mostly mundane, as could be expected from a knight. The occasional bandit was brought down and a rare battle fought, but mostly Roderick's duties has been to hunt and execute witches, by the orders of the Church, yet with every witch Roderick sees slain, the feeling of remorse in his heart grows heavier. In truth, he is not certain that he can continue to serve the Church and Kingdom faithfully, when his conscience has him believe that their infallible judgment has him commit evil. Years has come and gone, and Roderick's depression grows only deeper - whether it will finally be his doom has yet to be decided.

Combat Specialties: Roderick has received basic training with most of the most common types of weapons - axes, maces, spears and other various types of polearms, including halberds and bec de corbin, and even has had a little experience with archery. But ignoring all of this, his true skill is that he excel in swordplay. The weapon he has brought for himself is an exquisite flame-bladed bastard sword, which has a handle that allows him to use either in one or two hands as the situation varies. Most of the time he prefer to use his blade in his right hand, leaving his left hand free to handle non-lethal attacks and aid in his defense - for example by wielding his shield, a kite shield made from lime-wood and faced with canvas, bearing the image of a silver-plated gauntlet on a white background, decorated with a red cross. When he fight wielding his sword and shield, Roderick will often fall into a defensive stance, using his shield to block and sword to parry, while desperately waiting for the moment when he has a chance to close in on his opponent and deal a disarming bash with his shield. Failing this, or in the event that he loses his shield, he fights, as he would term it, 'with honor and valor' - which is just another way to say that he mainly relies on brute force, executing powerful swings and thrusts preferably aimed at his opponent's limbs while parrying incoming attacks at the same time. When on horseback, Roderick has found no way of fighting that would allow his enemies to survive the encounter. He simply uses the full 120 cm (47 inches) of his blade to its fullest, cutting down enemies as he gallop past them.

Other: As a gift from his family, Roderick has a supposedly purebred Andalusian steed named Xilos. The horse's fur and mane is almost completely white, as one would think suitable for a knight as devoted to the Chivalric Code as him. Although Xilos is strong, but compact, he wears only a little armor to protect the head and the joints at his shoulders and hips, allowing Roderick to carry accordingly more gear with him into battle and at the same time allowing a faster and more agile charge.

Bits of gravel shifted noisily under Zeth's sandaled feet with every step he took, and additional bits that were piled up a bit too high were occasionally knocked from their perches atop their equals by the swooping hem of his dark-blue robe. He was no nosier or quieter than the average Outsider, and he wore no signs of supremacy in any way, be it in terms of wealth or social status. No jewelry prided his naked fingers, which instead wore a number of scars from old burns, cuts, bruises and bites. The shirt visible past the open front of the robe was ordinary linen, and so were his trousers, with no embroideries or brooches disturbing the monotony of the slightly lighter blue than his robe. Not even in age or appearance could he be found superior to his surroundings - merely twenty-two years old, with only a faint trace of blondish hairs starting to grow on his pointy chin and under his slightly crooked nose. His eyes were the most ordinary shade of brown, his eyebrows were a bit too thick to be decorative, and his wild semi-short hair was a highly normal hazel color.
No, Zeth was as common in appearance as one could be - and yet the people on the main street of Graymarsh turned when they saw him, gossiped in hushed voices, and some of the bolder Outsiders even took to pointing to indicate to their fellows who they were whispering about.

He bit his lip, figuring that some commotion was probably inevitable with the way these last few months had turned out. He had arrived at Graymarsh just last autumn, when he had been scouted by an Agent named Erina as a potential Shaper, and so the Shaper Council had allowed him to attend to the nearest Shaper Academy to his home - which just happened to be Graymarsh.
He smiled, closing his eyes and allowing himself to recall the fond memory of arriving at this town the first time. He had arrived by carriage, he remembered, together with three other new Shaper Initiates and a Full Shaper called Rebecca, who was one of the researchers at the Shaping Hall. Back then there had been some commotion in the town as well, but it had not felt anything like the attention he was getting now. New Shapers always attracted some attention - how could they not, being the rulers of the world? But in Zeth's case in this early spring, things were quite different, and the Outsiders' curiosity was mixed with equal measures of admiration and suspicion.
During the winter, just when Zeth had discovered that he was actually quite naturally talented at Shaping, the old Shaping-instructor had been killed. It had been a standard accident for Shapers - an inexperienced Shaper had lost control of a malformed Creation, which had gone rogue, and before it had been destroyed, four people had died, one of these being the old instructor.
A Shaper Academy was naturally useless if it did not have a Shaping-instructor, and Zeth had been shocked when the other instructors - all Full Shapers - had suggested that he, a mere Shaper Initiate, took over the position in the coming semester. It was unheard of for such an inexperienced Shaper to gain a position as instructor, but the other instructors had argued that Zeth would only hold the title temporarily, until the Shaper Council found a permanent replacement. Besides, they figured that this would be a good test of Zeth's skills, and could perhaps even serve as his trial for ascending to becoming a Full Shaper.

He chuckled to himself at the very notion. He was good at Shaping, that was true, and already after four months he had been able to Shape both fyoras, thahds and artilas, as well as holding a mediocre amount of Essence in his body, but he was nowhere near as good as was required of a Full Shaper. Not in his own opinion, anyways. It usually took several years, or sometimes even decades, for a Shaper to be considered for advancement to Full Shaper. He was not even any good at healing, and could only use a few basic spells - Shaping was his only talent. Yet the other instructors had been adamant, and in the end, Zeth had agreed to assuming the position with the coming of the spring-semester.

Opening his eyes, he returned to the present, where the first day of the spring semester had come, and Outsiders kept shooting sidelong glances at the young, inexperienced man who would replace a deceased Full Shaper. Zeth had tried not to listen - his nervous heart trembled with their scrutiny - but he could not avoid hearing some of the rumors flying around about Zeth being the one who had Shaped the rogue Creation that had killed the old instructor, or that he had somehow intentionally caused his fellow Initiate's Creation to go rogue, or worse, ordered the Creation to commit the murder, all for the sake of his own advancement. None of the Outsiders dared to voice their suspicions out loud - he was a Shaper, after all, and basically held the authority to sentence any of them to death with but a single word.
Not that Zeth would ever even consider that, as those who knew him were well aware of. But those who knew him would never suspect him of murder, either.

Uncomfortable with all of the attention being focused on him, Zeth pulled up his hood to hide his face and headed immediately towards the Shaping Hall, where a dozen or so Shapers - both Full Shapers and Initiates - had already gathered around the colossal single-floored complex carved in stone in anticipation of another day's work. A new batch of Shaper Initiates were also scheduled to arrive here today. Zeth would be teaching them, and some of the older students, his first lessons today. The thought made his stomach churn, and his mouth filled with the taste of bile.

A high-pitched croon emitted from somewhere to his right, and despite his discomfiture, Zeth could not help it but to smile as he looked down on Zenesh, his 'pet' fyora. It had been the first partially successful Creation he had Shaped, and he had decided to keep it. It was little more than a put, though, being barely three feet tall and having bright-orange hide. It was always by his side, and as he met its gaze, the little reptile returned his attention, staring at him with big, round eyes, the vertical pupils slightly dilated and its head cocked a bit in what appeared to be concern.
"I'm fine," he told the fyora, and the Creation shifted its head, now cocking it the other way. "I'll be fine. And besides, in worst case scenario, I know that I can depend on you to help me clean up the mess."
Zenesh let out a short enthusiastic squeal, and Zeth laughed again, reaching down to pat his faithful companion's head affectionary. Zenesh responded by leaning into his hand, crooning with pleasure.
"You'll see," he mumbled, more to himself than the Creation, "it'll be all right."

prose introduction, for my own failed RP, Human Divinity.

Now, characters that predate my arrival to Roleplayer Guild. These are old and not as good as my newer characters, but I think they will serve well to show how I have improved since then:

Buildings all around him were burning, the little, simple huts of his birth-village all on fire, the black smoke rising from the flames as they quickly consumed the buildings with sinister eagerness, blocking out the sparse moonlight of the night. The corpses were strewn across the streets, mangled and tossed aside without thought of honor nor mercy. Arrows came out of walls and the ground, as well as corpses, all over the village, as the rain of wooden death that had come down before the attackers had charged had turned the entire place into a spiked hell. The air was filled with the scent of death mixed with smoke, and the little boy in the middle of the street cried, desperate as he ran through the ruins of his home to find his family, but when he found them, he wept more, not less. He fell to his knees before his parents' and his baby sister's corpses, overwhelmed with sorrow. The flames stung in his eyes and the smoke burned his nostrils, but he did not care. Why had this happened? And why had it happened while he, of all people, was out in the forest chopping firewood?
Slowly, the boy stood up, only to face a figure that had appeared in the doorway to his smoldering house while he was weeping. It was a man, equipped with heavy armor and a long, red cape, and on his chest he wore an icon of a sword crossed with a flail over a strange glyph. The man's face widened in a wicked smile as he looked at the boy, blood dripping from the blade of his claymore as he entered, prepared to continue the manslaughter his brethren had begun. The boy cried, defenseless as the man approached him. It was then that the murderer was stabbed down from behind, and fell face-first on the ground, revealing the boy's savior. It was a tall man with long, black hair and wearing an eyepatch over his left eye. He reached out with his hand for the boy to take it...

Finally Jack woke up, bathed in sweat. He swung his legs off the edge of his bed, his naked legs strangely pale even towards the sheaths that the innkeeper had provided. With a sigh, he started putting on his brown pants, and then his heavy leather boots. He had had that nightmare again... the one of back when he had been just a boy, when everything had been taken away from him. When his village had been destroyed and everyone he ever knew killed. That was before his teacher, Freagon Nightmaregaze had taken him in and taught him everything he knew of swordsmanship.
"Your village and your family was killed by the Crusaders' Guild," the one-eyed knight had told him a few weeks after his miraculous appearance and saving of Jack's life, "They eradicated the entire place just because they weren't human. Because they were like you and me - Nightwalkers."
Freagon had been Jack's teacher during ten out of Jack's twenty years of life, and during that half of his life, Jack had come to consider Freagon his second father, although the knight could never entirely take the place of Jack's own father, Cort. Jack had wept a month back, when the plague had claimed Freagon, and had once again left Jack on his own, now as a full knight with nothing to rely on but his own skill.

As he put on his shirt, feeling it tighten slightly across his strong, broad shoulders, he was reminded of the uncountable days and nights he had spent training his body to be top-tuned with his master, both when it came to being agile and strong. He swung the silvery plates of metal that made his cuirass over his torso, fastening the straps that held it in place, and despite the very hard nature of the piece of armor, the mithril cuirass was light as normal fabric and hardly hindered his movements at all. He tood up, fastening a strap across his chest from shoulder to hip, and on a similar course along the back, and went over to the mirror to check if all of the eight little, handleless throwing knives of alchemical silver were there. As he confirmed their presence, he came to look at his own face in the reflection. His nose was maybe a little too wide and his forehead too big, but otherwise he had some rather handsome looks, if he had to say so himself. A broad, maskuline, clean-shaved chin, thin lips that, when he smiled revealed a set of white, teeth, and although his eyes were, like with all Nightwalkers, entirely black, they were windows to a soft soul and very pretty. His face was framed by a long mane of blond hair, which he had inherited from his mother's side of the family.
The only other setback in his looks was the long cut-scar across his left cheek, which he had acquired during his teenage years when he had possibly made the greatest mistake during his life. During a training lesson with Freagon, Jack had insulted his master because of the rebellious nature of his age, but the master knight had not had much understanding for that, and had in his fury lashed out at Jack with a knife and cut the wound that was now merely a scar. Back then, it had taken eleven stitches and a cleric serving Reina, the goddess of mercy, to heal the wound. Injuries like that leave permanent marks, Jack learned that the hard way. But he never was rude to Freagon again after that.

Turning away from the mirror, Jack went over and fetched the belt and scabbard he had placed on the nightstand beside his bed, and as he fastened both of them around his waist, he grasped the gilded hilt of his sword with the right hand, drawing the weapon from its sheath and revealed its surprisingly pure and shiny silver-blade of the sword Roct, which he had inherited from his master after his death. As he wielded the blade, Jack remembered the many months and years he had spent with Freagon, training his mind and skill with the blade to perfection. Freagon had taught him the same lesson over and over again, until it was permanently imprented upon Jack's mind.
"Always remember the Teachings of Honor, the highest priority of the order of Nightwalker knights," Freagon had told him, "Once you learn to fight by the Teachings, you will no longer need to see your opponent, because you will then feel their presence even with your eyes closed. The Teachings are:
I do not swing my sword with my arm. The one who swings his or her sword with their arm is dishonored.
I swing my sword with my Soul.
I do not aim my strike with my hand. The one who aims his or her strike with their hand is dishonered.
I aim my strike with my Mind.
I do not kill with a weapon. He or she that kills with a weapon is dishonored.
I kill with my Heart."
Soul, Mind and Heart, the three most important things in the Nightwalker knight's fighting style. Jack had never learned entirely to use these, but he had indeed become more skilled, almost to the level where he exceeded his master. Jack tryingly swung the amazingly light sword in front of him a couple of times, testing its weight and how it fit in his hand. It was perfect. Satisfied, Jack sheathed Roct once again.

He picked up his master's signature clothing item besides his eyepatch, his long leather coat, which he dressed himself in now, fully grasping the fact that he had now taken the role of his master. Jack had not always been known as Jack, of course. Back before the destruction of his hometown, he had been known as Jealnec, but after he learned that the Crusaders' Guild were hunting all non-humans down and killing them, he had changed his name to a more commonly accepted one amongst humans. A Nightwalker could easily go for a human, after all, since their body was built like humans, and they almost in every way was similar to them. The only details about Nightwalkers that made them different was their entirely black eyes and the fact that their average lifespan was twice as long as that of humans. Of course, most Nightwalkers were also very pale, sometimes having them mistaken for vampires, since their eyes were extremely sensitive to light, but in return granted them amazing night-vision, and thus they rarely came out at day but were mostly active at night, thereby justifying the name their race had been granted.

Finally, he put on his leather gauntlets, now finally fully equipped and prepared for the day to come. He was a Nightwalker knight now, after all, and as such he had to go out in the world and fight for justice and goodness, and above all his own honor and the honor of his race. That was the duty of one of his kind.

He went over to the window, slowly pulling the curtains aside, only to quickly close them again as he was met by a sunray directly in his face, burning his sensitive eyes like fire. He let out a groan of pain as he staggered backwards, blinded. It was still day... but he could not go back to sleep, not now. He had a duty to fulfill. With a slight sigh, he tightened his belt a little more and made sure the strap was securely fastened across his chest, before he opened the door and headed downstairs in the inn to face what yet another day could possibly throw at him.

the prose introduction for a sort of beta-version of the character Jaelnec, used in the previous versions of The Prophecy on other sites.

Walking up and down the hallway, black tiles making the floor and tapestries in silver and red mostly covering the walls were there were no little, only partially transparent windows that let a strange, gray light into the place, enhancing the already mysterious aura of the man there, Cort thought up a thousand curses fit for the betrayal to which he had been submitted. His hands with the unusually long, thin fingers, almost like spider-legs were folded on his back, the pale skin resting towards the silky fabric of his currently black, long robe. From beneath his mostly ridiculed fairy-tale like pointy hat, once prefered by wizards but now way out of date, his small, sharp eyes with their odd rainbow-colored irises stared out, burning with an inner anger that also could be sensed through his quick steps and angry snarl.

"That little snake," he muttered under his breath, "How dare anyone steal something from me, and especially something as powerful as Merlin's Tear? The Stormraiser certainly has some guts to do something like that. How annoying... with the Tear, I could have been almighty!"

Swearing once again, Cort finally stopped in his tracks and snapped his fingers, and almost instantly, a white, glowing orb came floating from farther down the hallway and stopped in front of him, awaiting his command.
"Show me the Stormraiser!" he commanded it, but as expected, the orb remained empty despite his orders. That blasted little vermin apparently had found some way to hide itself from him, and the Tear as well. He needed to find the Tear, and soon, before those pesky little Defenders of Light located it and removed it permanently from his reach.

"Leave me!" he exclaimed, and the orb instantly darted back to where it came from. He sighed. Usually, he prefered intelligent servants rather than just magic tools such as the crystal ball, but he wanted to involve as few others in the search for the Tear as possible. For his collegue, the Dragon, it would be fine to do so, since he made a habit of killing his servants every now and then. But with the Cort, the infamous Illusionist, he had other ways of keeping his minions in line. He prefered to keep them obedient by creating images in their minds, painful or pleasant, according to the situation, just as he prefered to use illusions to lure his enemies to his side rather than outright kill them. Of course, killing was always an option... but more servants meant a grander domain, and Cort was always on the lookout for more power. Possibly being the strongest mage in the realms was not enough - he had to be sure that he was the strongest. And that was why he needed the Tear.

Returning to his angry muttering, Cort continued to walk up and down the hallway, trying to think of somewhere, anywhere that the Stormraiser could have hidden Merlin's Tear.

prose introduction for the Illusionist, one of the main antagonists in an old RP called The Tear of Merlin.

Name: Agol Fingerbiter
Gender: Male
Race: Troll
Side: Good, I guess
Description: Agol is very tall, even for a troll, and nearly as wide. He has brownish, dirty skin that is mostly covered in warts, especially in his face, and he has claws on hands and feet. He has a long face with an unusually long, pointy nose, large eyes that are almost completely gray and his mouth filled with sharp, pointy predator-teeth that are well-suited for tearing apart flesh. He mostly walks around wearing nothing but a loincloth, but sometimes decide to put on pants if he needs to look good. Like most other trolls, he is unusually strong, and carries around a heavy spiked mace to defend himself. While Agol might seem like a brute, he does not have a violent nature and would never attack a humanoid without reason.
Job: Hunter and occasionally bodyguard.
Short Bio: Agol lived in peace away from the rest of his troll clan, the Fingerbiter Clan, because he always found them too primitive and basically just stupid to his liking. He had made his home in a cave in a mountain, but after a while, dwarves invaded the cave to start digging there, and they chased him away because of his heiritage. Agol then moved to the nearby mining town of Marvalino, in which he once again made his new home amongst the other people there, although he was often frowned at because of the reputation of trolls as dumb creatures that liked nothing better than to raid villages and murder innocents just to eat them. He is now rather curious about the discovery that was made, mostly because it was made in his old cave, but also because he heard rumors of demons approaching.

For the old RP The Seven Demons of Time. I really did not like this character one bit - stupid and cowardly. What was I thinking...

Name: Valderoth (But some nickname him the "lazy demon")
Gender: Male
Race: One of the Seven Demons of Time
Side: Obviously evil
Picture/Description: Valderoth is a very short fiend, only about the height of a dwarf, and about as wide as a dwarf as well. Not much is known about Valderoth's true appearance, since he always wears a black, hooded robe that completely hides his every feature, while his hands - when they come out of his ridiculously long sleeves - are dressed with black gloves. His face is hidden in the shadow of the hood, but his eyes shine from the darkness as two tiny, green flares. He is hunchbacked and many times literally hilarious to look at, especially to the other demons. While he is physically very frail compared to most other creatures, he is a very able magic-user and mostly does not even need to reveal his gloved hands to defeat his enemies.
Job: He has no actual occupatation except for his role amongst the Seven, but sometimes acts as advisor for Time himself. Otherwise, Valderoth mostly minds his own business and plans his own sinister plots.
Short Bio: While Valderoth was one of the original Nine, he ruled his piece of the realm quite well, since he instead of inspiring fear to his underlings, like many of the other demons, Valderoth used clever deception to trick the mortals and demons under his command to think they were happy with doing his bidding. Valderoth mostly finds doing things himself too bothersome, and when Time took over the rule, he was at first relieved to no longer have to bother with ruling his lands. However, since Time continued his bloody war against pretty much everyone else, Valderoth often finds himself sent to battlefields to aid the demonic minions, which is far too bothersome for his liking. He aims to deceive Time and make the greatest demon trust him so that Valderoth might be granted another role, one that involves less... activity. Ultimately, his goals are the same as most demons... to steal the throne of the world himself - only he does it to have his underlings do whatever he does not want to. Laziness does give a certain determination.

Prose introduction:
Valderoth sat in his favorite chair, his little green eyes quickly scanning the tome that levitated in the air before him, and each time he finished a page, it flipped over to the next one automatically. Once he was done reading, the book closed itself and flew back to the bookshelf where it belonged, while another book came out of another shelf and flew over to the little demon. Once again, he started to read.

"Valderoth," a voice said as a red-skinned demon with bat-like wings on its back came over to him. Valderoth quickly recognized it as one of Time's minions. "Valderoth, are you aware that you missed a meeting of the Seven?"
"Yeah," he just replied with his amusingly high-pitched voice, continuing to read his book.
"Aren't you going to seek out Lord Time and apologize?" the demon said, "You can't just stay away from a meeting called by Time himself! That's unacceptable! Can you at least defend yourself?"
"Nah."
"'Nah'? 'Nah'?! You missed a planning meeting of the Seven! Lord Time must be furious with you!" the demon yelled, "I don't get how you ever became one of the Seven when you don't even bother to make an effort for Lord Time's rule to expand!"
"Quiet, this is a library," Valderoth hushed him, "And I didn't miss anything. I can imagine what happened... Xarzak probably quickly got bored with being away from the battlefield and started a fight, the other of the Seven most likely weren't paying much attention either, but were each plotting their personal agendas. I bet that there were more than just be absent, probably Vech, for instance. And Time most likely dismissed the meeting out of nowhere and with no explanation just to vanish to who-knows-where."
"Wha-... that's amazing," the demon muttered, "How can you possibly know that?"
"Because unlike most of the other Seven," Valderoth told him with a giggle, "I am not just all brawn and no brain. The others are too... short-sighted for my liking... so very predictable. They are far too eager in their slaugthering and burning down and destroying everything, and they have far too little consideration of the results thereby. But that's why I'm one of the Seven, and you aren't, minion. They take care of the small-scale plans, then I focus on the bigger picture."
"You mock the other of the Seven? That's once again unacceptable! I will report your behavior to Lord Time."
"Oh, and minion?" Valderoth waved a hand inside his sleeve, and the book floating in front of him flew away. The little demon jumped down from his chair and waggled closer to the other demon, the long sleeves dragging over the floor as he went, "You won't tell Time a thing."
Without even muttering a word, a fireball appeared in front of Valderoth's face, and as the minion realized what was about to happen, his face turned into a mask of fear. But it was too late - the very next moment, the fireball launched itself at the demon, blasting it into pieces. Having finished that business, Valderoth waggled back into his chair, and the book instantly returned to him.

Also for The Seven Demons of Time, but unlike Agol, I really liked this character.

Username: DarkJack
Character name: Paul Gates
Scientist or Hybrid?: Scientist
Gender: Male
Character discription: Paul spent most of his life researching in the possibilities of altering the DNA of living creatures and eliminate genetic weaknesses, and while he did not have much luck with directly manipulating the DNA, he did find it possible to mix two kinds of entirely different genes, resulting in a new species. After having succesfully created several different animals with each other, he was contacted by the team working on "project Hmen" and offered the chance to take part in their work. In the three years that passed since he joined the project, Paul has made several hybrids and tried to make the life for the volunteers as fair as possible, but he has still not gotten any farther with his original research of altering DNA. Paul has brown, greasy hair and a beard because he does not care much for his own hygene, mostly focusing on his work and taking care of his subjects. His eyes are green and with vertical pupils because of his tests on himself, he is 6' 2" tall, mostly wears his white doctor-outfit and black shoes.
Mixed with: [King Cobra]
Age: 36 years
Abilities: Besides of being very intelligent from his many years of schooling, the snake-blood in Paul grants him faster reflexes than most and makes his eyes better, even allowing him to dilate and narrow down his pupils at will. He also has the ability to generate the powerful poison of the king cobra in his mouth, which he can spit out to blind or poison others. Since the king cobra eats other snakes, he is also resistant to most poisons.

for an RP called Project Hybrid. Sort of a phase I went through... I guess?

Name- Iani "More"
Age- 426 years
Gender- Male
Side- Whoever pays him the most
Race- Dark elf
Specialty or Occupation- Iani is a traveling merchant with his own caravan.
Abilities- Iani has a little skill with fire element-controlling magic, but otherwise survives by using a crossbow.
Picture or Description- While Iani is unusually tall for an elf, let alone a dark elf, he seems very thin and fragile to most, not only because of his frail body, but also because of the expesive, black silk clothes and matching cloak he always wear. Like all dark elves, his skin is unusually dark and his eyes glow like embers. His hair is short and completely white, and he always carries his crossbow on his back along with a quiver of bolts.
Personality- Although Iani is not exactly evil or unpleasant to be nearby, he tends to act superior to almost anyone around him, unless there is a chance to earn some good money, seeing that whenever money becomes the subject, Iani can be very humble to get better paid. Iani is obsessed with money and will do almost anything to earn more to his already considerable fortune. It was his greed that earned him the nickname "More" because he always wanted more. Iani's focus on his own income and low loyalty towards Azriel also makes it hard to predict what he would do in case of war, since he could change sides instantly if he was given a better offer.
The starting paragraph-

"Move, you old, sicky mule! This load of merchandise should have been delivered in Samariee an hour ago!" Iani yelled, waving his arms as to indicate that they had to hurry, "Get moving, for goodness sake! My client back in Starlines won't pay as much if we're late!"
"I really don't get paid enough to take this kind of crap," the hired human worker muttered in a low voice as he quickly put the last barrel of goods in place on the dark elf's cart.
"Did you say something?" Iani hissed, jumping down from the seat he was sitting in and walking over to the hired muscles, making sure not to soil his fine clothes.
"N-no, Iani," the other assured him, "I didn't say a thing! I'm as quiet as a mute!"
"Good for you, because bad behavior would mean that I cut your pay in half!"
"In half? B-but the pay already just barely covers my food and a room to stay in!" the other wailed, "You can't do that! I have a family to feed!"
"How sad. And that is my responsability now?" Iani spat at him, "Now either stop whining and get into that cart, or go home and let me get going! I can easily find someone else to do the heavy lifting once I get to Samariee."
"Fine," the man sighed as he climbed the cart and prepared to set the horses that pulled it into motion, "Climb aboard, sir More."
"I told you to stop calling me that," Iani growled, quickly re-seating himself, "That nickname is so insulting. As if I thought of nothing but wealth!"
"What do you think of besides that?" the other asked curiously.
"Many things! Coins, real estate, trading, prices... Oh, and my magic and my archery skills! I've got to keep those honed if my caravan was ambushed."
"I see, sir. I clearly misjudged you." The sarcastic tone in his voice did not pass by Iani unnoticed, but he decided to ignore it. They had to be going now anyways.
"We should be in Samariee shortly, sir. I think we'll get there in time."
Perfect, Iani thought with a grin. There were always plenty of opportunities to earn a good income in Samariee.

for the RP Shadows over Azriel.

He stared the other man across the wooden desk that stood between them in the eyes, his steel-grey gaze came out from under his dark, brown hair, meeting the other's brown one. His mind was calm, and so was his heartbeat, his entire nature cold as ice, even as his glove-dressed hand snuck its way under the brown leather coat of his and searched for the item fastened in his belt. His movements were smooth and silent, and his light boots did not move from the place. His pants were grey of dust, and there was no telling what color they could once have had when the tailor had sewn them. His other hand, the one not searching below his coat, rubbed his bearded chin thoughtfully, more as a reflex than an actual action. Finally, he found what he was looking for.
"I still refuse," he said as he took out his pouch of coins from below the coat, "Three copper coins is too expensive just for a stew. I won't pay more than one!"
"That's 'he price, lad," the shopkeeper shrugged, "Pay or go to 'nother place to get ye food!"
"Fine," he sighed, "I will. And I doubt that I will be back here anytime soon."
"Better that way," the other said mockingly, "Yer filth 'ould just scare 'way me other customers. Now away with ye!"
The customer turned around, growling and muttering numerous curses under his breath as he put his pouch back in the belt. The prices were just too high here in Tilus, and they had been rising ever since those troubles with Baoran had started and it had gotten harder to trade across the borders. The Tilusians had gotten increasingly poor as well, and he would now. He had been able to snatch fewer and fewer coins from people's pockets lately, and he could barely afford food anymore.
As he went down the streets, he did not have to remind himself of where he was, since he automatically turned away from the 9th street to move around it rather than through it to get back to the 12th street where he lived. The guilds in 9th had multiple times expressed disliking of freelance thieves such as himself, and the scars and burnmarks on his face was their doing. He had no love towards the dens of his neighborhood, since even they looked down on loners such as him. But he did not care much about what they thought of him. The dens at least did not discipline those outside their own ranks like the guilds did.
As he went past one of the city gates, he noticed a new announcement pinned on the notice board there amongst the others, and as he went over there, he recognized his own face looking back at him from the carefully printed picture. The text below it read "WANTED. Accused of several crimes, including stealing, fraud of several noblemen and violence towards city guards. Goes by the alias 'Nemesis'. Reward: fifty copper pieces."
Nemesis sighed as he casually ripped down the poster and crumbled it between his hands. That he had been recognized was unusual enough, but that someone had actually reported him of fraud was even unlikely. He usually made sure to scam noblemen so badly that they would be too embarrased to tell anyone. He had to be more careful in the future, or his career would come to a sudden end, probably at the edge of the executioner's axe or in a cell in the dungeons.
He carelessly threw the crumbled note over his shoulder and into the gutter as he walked on, wondering if he should check the other notice boards in the city, but figured it would mostly be in vain and it would even put him at risk of being caught. He had not survived twenty-three years in this city without parents or money by being incautious, after all.

prose introduction of Nemesis, my character in an old RP called Tenderfeet.

After the ship had docked and the passangers had left, the unloading of the ship's cargo began. Since it was not a very big ship, there were only a few hired men to do this, but each of them had to work hard to earn their pay.
"Hurry up, Remdal!" the captain hurried him on, "Those crates aren't going to jump off the ship on their own, you know!"
Tom Remdal simply snorted at his current employer, lifting the heavy crate he was holding a little higher as he moved it down the plank to put it in the dock along with the other cargo. The rain made the wood slippery, but Tom managed to dig in his fingers a little deeper and get a better grip. With even the well-trained man's legs shaking under the weight, he just managed to get the crate in place before he collapsed, soiling his common pants of brown fabric and heavy leather boots with mud, while he folded his arms around his knees and rested his forehead on them, his partially grey hair hanging lifelessly before his eyes because of the humidity, trying to catch his breath.
"Get moving, Remdal! I'm not paying you sit there and do nothing!" the captain yelled, marching down the plank to get Tom back to work.
"You try lifting one of these crates," he panted as his employer approached him, "What's in them? Rock?"
"Iron," the captain told him, "A shipment from Iron City for the Academy."
"That explains it all," Tom groaned as he stood up, trying to brush the water off his leather jacket without much luck, "Well, that should be the last crate anyways. I'd like to get paid now."
"Oh, there aren't any more than that?" The other turned and looked at the nearly twenty large crates of iron, apparently disappointed. "I thought there was more. Damn! The Academy pays better for big shipments."
"Why don't you hire some of the naturally stronger hybrids for these jobs? They would be able to do it faster and probably cheaper, too."
"To tell you the truth, Remdal, I don't like the hybrids much," the captain entrusted him as he handed over a pouch of coins, "I only let a few of them come aboard of my ship because the Academy pays for the transport. Otherwise I try to stay away from those freaks as much as possible."
"Freaks?" Tom grinned, "Well, that answers my question." Turning around, Tom started walking into the city.
"What are you doing?" the captain shouted at him, "There's no time for sightseeing! We need to set out to sail to Vaicos as soon as possible!"
"Oh, by the way, I quit," Tom told him without turning around, "I just needed the free trip to Galahad."

Walking on into the city, Tom looked around to see if he could spot the Academy over the other buildings. He had not hesitated for long when he had received word that the Academy was looking for new men, but had simply packed up all of his belongings and set out to go there right away. Of course, his belongings were not so many that he had to carry around a lot of baggage. Actually, everything he owned was in his backpack: his long knife or short sword, depending on the perspective; his herbs, which he mostly just used to brew tea or occasionally a healing potion if necessary; his provisions and, of course, his modest sum of money.
As Tom went through the marketplace, he noticed how the place seemed to be mostly filled with humans, while a few individuals that were obviously hybrids lurked around in the shadows, seemingly hiding from the hateful gazes of most humans.
I thought the treaty was to prevent this, he thought to himself as he noticed a hybrid with hair all over her body sitting on the street, dressed in rags and begging the people who passed by for just a little money for food. I know for sure that I'd rather want a hybrid as a friend than as an enemy, he thought as he dropped five coins in front of the hairy hybrid, Besides, they've never done anything to me, as far as I know. And honestly, how many humans can really claim to be of pure human blood at present day?
He stopped as he saw the gates to the Academy down a less populated street. Turning that way, Tom started walking in that direction, hoping to fetch a job he could actually live with there.

The RP for this one was called Azure Kingdom. God, going through these today fills me with disgust that I ever allowed myself to be this bad...

Name: Calls himself Lars

Age: Unknown

Race: Supposedly human

Appearance: A tall man with ice-blue eyes that show little trace of emotion, short, silver-white hair he has wide shoulders and over-all a very intimidating nature of body. His entire left arm and shoulder, as well as his left shin and foot, are made out of robotic metal-parts that seem large and crude, not to mention heavy. He only wears a black leather vest on his torso, leaving the many wounds after surgery visible on his chest. He has a long piece of cloth in the same color as the vest attached to the leather by where his left shoulder was supposed to begin, and it is long enough to hide his entire cybergenetic arm when in more primitive worlds. He wears black, tattered pants and a leather boot on the normal foot, while the other, mechanic one is usually left naked and visible.

Personality: Lars cares little for what anyone else think of him, and even less for what he think of himself, and neither does power and money tempt him. The only thing that really matters to him is that he fulfill his assignment, being a hardcore believer in that the goal justifies the means.

Equipment: While his cybergenetic arm and leg seem big and clumsy, they actually allow him to move fast and act with surprising strength, as well as he might use them to shield himself from incoming attacks, thanks to the nearly indestructible alloy they are made from (but besides of that they are, in fact, clumsy). Besides of that, he carries a pistol by his left hip that uses ionized particles as ammunition, thus electrifying its target to different degrees, which is determined by what he sets the gun to, and on his back he carries a heavy double-bladed axe for use in dimensions that are less advanced.

Special Skills: Quite a skilled marksman, Lars is skilled in the use of his little pistol and can hit almost any target. Other than that he uses most of the energy infused into him by the Gates to supply an maintain his cybergenetic parts, but he can in times of great need summon small amounts of power in the shape of plasma to wield as a weapon.

Greatest Field of Knowledge: Marksmanship

Short History: Lars knows next to nothing of his past, since he simply just woke up one day in a hospital in an advanced world, where he found himself scarred and mutilated, and had just undergone surgery. The doctors there explained him that they had been forced to remove and replace his left arm and lower left leg, his lungs and his heart, turning all of those limbs and organs into cybergenetic replicas. Once they learned of Lars' amnesia, they hesitatingly presented him with the only thing he had carried with him when he was found: a large, medieval-looking battleaxe.

Once he got out of the hospital, Lars started working as first a bodyguard, but later on he widened his aspect to simply being a mercenary, taking whatever jobs he could get, and training himself in the use of firearms and in using his new bodyparts properly. However, after some time, Lars received an apologizing letter from the hospital that annoucned that he was no doubt in searing pain by now, but they could not seem to obtain new power cells for his robotic parts. However, Lars realized, he felt nothing. It was only then that he found that the power cells were unnecessary, and that he somehow supplied his cyborg-parts by other means. Thus he learned that he apparently had received (or always had, who knows?) the power of a Gatemaster and the ability to use the Gates to travel across realities. And that is what he has done until now, traveled in an neverending search for his past, and where that battleaxe came from.

for Gate Masters.

It had been years since Melai had cursed and sworn like he did now, spitting innumerable oaths towards the cockpit as his eyes darted between the three monitors and the transparent "wind"-shield in the front of his ship, the "Rey de los Muerte". His hands moved quickly over the controls in front of him, flipping switches and pressing buttons at random, all while he tried to figure out how to move the control column to maneuver the spacecraft correctly, all while that annoying, metallic, female voice kept warning him that he was being chased.
"Could have boarded a trading freighter," Melai muttered to himself while he tried to concentrate, "There are hundreds of those throughout the galaxy every day, one wouldn't be missed at once. And they aren't that well-protected. But nooo, it had to be an imperial transporter, and they had to kill my entire crew." He smashed both of his fists into the control panel as he let out an angry yell. "Always leave the pilot in the ship, damn it! I never learn how to fly this piece of junk!"

Suddenly the entire ship gave a jolt and started shaking violently, and the annoying voice reported that he had been hit. But what the heck was he supposed to do? He had no crew-members to man the cannons and shoot the sons-of-bitches - he was one man, the captain, left alive from his original pirate gang. He could not do a thing when countered with an entire swarm of imperial "Hunter"-gunships.
The Hunters are too small and with too weak engines to use Starjump-drives, he thought to himself, continuing to search through the controls, If I can just find the way to activate it, I can get back to Terra Gamma in a moment, way ahead of those people. But how do I use that thing?
But as if the imperial pilots had read his mind, the Rey de los Muerte shook again and the three monitors started flashing red.
"IMPULSE-BOOSTER DAMAGED," the computer reported with its annoying voice, "STARJUMP-DRIVE DISABLED."
"Bastards!" Melai roared, yanking the T stick violently to the side and caused his ship to make a sideways roll just in time to evade a bright-yellow charge of energy from one of the Hunters' cannons, and as the Rey stabilized again, a single Hunter passed by it and flew in front of it. Like all Hunters, it was smaller than most spacecrafts and only had room for the pilot and a co-pilot in its arrow-shaped cockpit, while the rest of the ship was made up by the engine and the charge-cannon placed beneath the vessel. With a smirk, Melai reached down to the stick and pressed the red button on the end of it, thus firing his own laser, and as it struck the much smaller ship, the Hunter could no longer contain the air-pressure inside of it and seemed to first open up like a flower before it exploded in a cloud of scrapnel.

Two more times was the Rey hit before the computer relayed another report. "ENGINE TWO AND FOUR DAMAGED, FUEL LEAK DETECTED. SYSTEM POWER DOWN TO 39 PERCENT. LANDING IS STRONGLY RECOMMENDED."
"I know, you useless calculator!" Melai told the voice angrily, taking evasive action to avoid being hit by another barrage, "I just need somewhere to land, right? And those there are of course lots of in outer space! Where is that damned navigational system..." Flipping a few more switches, Melai was surprised that one of the monitors actually turned into a map over nearby planets and stars, as well as his own position was marked there. "Perfect!" he exclaimed, "Finally some luck! Okay, the closest planet is Gendon Delta 7... that's where I'm headed, then. It had better not be a gas planet..."

Increasing the power to full throttle, the Rey de los Muerte sped up, the big, flat-nosed spacecraft with room enough for at least thirty men and with four regular fusion-fueled rockets and a single implusle-booster, as well as six different laser cannons (only one of them placed so that it could be used from the cockpit) and set the course for the nearby planet...

A few minutes later, Melai found himself standing mostly unharmed next to his crash-landed spacecraft, having crushed several alien-looking trees upon his return to the ground. He had taken nothing but what he had with him - his long, black boots, gray pants and red trench-coat, as well as his antique ballistic pistol by his belt. He really had no time for taking anything else, because he knew the imperials would soon be there, and by then, he had better be gone. He had seen a nearby spaceport... he could hide there, and once the heat was off, he could probably find a new crew and someone to repair the Rey de los Muerte there.

"What a day," he sighed, starting the walk towards the settlement, "This can't possibly get any worse..."

prose introduction to my character in my own old RP, Stellacide - he has been polished a lot since, and taken a role in a story I have been writing every now and then in my free time. Other projects take priority, though. Maybe once I'm done with The Prophecy...

Marine ID (Char Name): Sgt. Frank Petersen
Age: 25
Gender: Male
Blood Type:* B+
Personality:* I would rather express that through the roleplay.
Short Biography: Having been a hunter for some time, Frank lead a quiet life where he mostly supplied himself by hunting in the wilderness, mostly in his homecountry of Denmark, but sometimes he went to foreign places as well, and even participated in hunting tournaments at times, winning several trophies over the years. One year when he went hunting in Africa, however, he met a British woman named Sarah, whom he fell in love with and soon got engaged to. After the hunting trip, Frank and his new fiance went to Brittain to plan the wedding.

Shortly after the marriage, Frank's wife went to Norway on a hunting trip for moose, while Frank stayed at home in order to lead his new life in the new country. Soon he learned that the Infected had invaded the country, and he distressed at the possible loss of his wife. Determined to save her by all costs, Frank went and joined the SAS as a sniper and jumped the chance to go to Norway when he had the chance.

Company:
- SAS - British Special Air Service
Marine Specialization:
- Designated Marksman
Marital status: Married
Reason you are applying for this mission: To save his wife.

for an RP called Lockdown.

Player Name: Dark Jack

Character Name: Demian Grey

Gender: Male

Age: Unknown, but looks like he is in his mid-twenties.

Appearance: About six feet tall, Demian appears unusually thin and feeble to the naked eye, his limbs and body itself all seeming almost as if he had been starved over a longer period of time. His face is rather feminine as well, with a pointed chin and long nose, although it adds a little to his looks that he had a little goatee. He has unusually long, entirely black hair that, on the back, is tied in a ponytail and reach him almost to the waist, while it hangs loosely from his forehead, thus covering his eyes, which, when visible, are icy-blue and with a complete lack of emotion and independent thought, reflecting his actual mind. He mostly wears a long, black leather-coat with a great number of pockets, and while his chest is otherwise bare, he wears a medallion made of several gems pieced together and with a mark in silver in the middle. His pants are black as well, made of leather the same as his coat, and to complete his look, he wears heavy gloves and boots, equally black and made of leather like the rest of his outfit. Strapped across his back he has a scabbard, in which he had an unusually long- and thin-bladed sword that was designed to be light and razor-sharp in order to quickly parry incoming attacks and strike at opponents' weak points.

Personality: He has none. But the very lack of personality makes him seem cold and ignorant to everyone's pain, but in fact, it's just because he really feels nothing at all, but merely determines the best course of actions from logical things he has observed in the past – feelings and emotions in general confuses him greatly, since he has no way of understanding them, let alone experience them himself. However, he does have a great amount of loyalty ‘programmed’ into his mind, so he would never betray someone once he has allied himself with them.

Faction/Ranking: The Shining Kingdom (If I may?)/ Tool

Equipment: His sword, which was described in the Appearance-part, the Second Sight Amulet, with which he may identify anyone he meets, and, in the beginning, at least, a pocketful of vials containing potions that cause small explosions upon the vial scattering.

Abilities/Skills/Style: Demian’s only real skills and abilities is in that of remaining unseen to the naked eye, being able to blend in with the shadows quite well and, despite his heavy boots, move almost soundlessly and yet very quickly. He has also received incredible training in swordplay, making him so quick and skilled with his weapon that he may, in fact, use it to parry bullets at occasion, and can deal very accurate blows due to a combination of the design of the sword and his considerable skill. Due to his rapid movements, he may also (attempt to) dodge bullets.

Short History: Little is known to Demian about his early past besides that he was orphaned at a very young age. After his parents disappeared due to uncertain circumstances, he was left alone in the world, merely a baby. However, he was handed over to the authorities of the Shining Kingdom, which then raised and trained him in an experimental way. During his entire life, he was trained in the ways of stealth and swordplay and to track down and eliminate targets without leaving any trace or being discovered at any point, and in order to make him the perfect assassin, his trainers punished any sign of own opinions or thoughts and rewarded him whenever he obeyed the direct commands of the Kingdom officials. As such, in his adult life, Demian has become a hollow shell that denies himself any will of his own, and who believe that his only purpose – the very reason he exist – is to serve the Kingdom in anything they tell him to.

This is without a doubt one of my favorite characters of all time. Who would have thought that a character with no feelings could manage to develop a story as deep as this one proved to manage? Ah, Demian, how I miss you... I used this for the RP Edervaln.

Username: DarkJack
Name: Gerald River
Age: 413 years
Race: Lich
Side: Evil

Personality: Gerald has little love for Lord Sacramento and the Werepyre forces under the Lord's command, and would be very likely to ignore any orders he received from them if he deem that they were not of a better judgement, instead following only his own plans unless forced to do otherwise. Cunning and deceptive, he would rather use trickery and treachery to lure his enemies into an ambush than face them himself. Having given up a mortal life, ironically enough, Gerald also now in his sub-immortal state developed an all-consuming fear of death that keeps him from putting himself in overwhelming danger, yet at the same time, his thirst for power keeps driving him onward on his quest of conquest.

Description: Having given up everything human about himself when he performed the Ritual of Eternal Night and became a lich, Gerald sacrificed his blood, flesh and skin, leaving only his bones, making him more or less just a skeleton walking around. However, in effort to avoid looking less like a mindless undead servant, he wears a black plate armor on his torso with artful ornaments in silver, a pair of bracers around his wraist, likewise in black and decorated with several rubies, and his lich-crown always on his head, with long spikes pointing upwards on the golden piece of jewelry, and small pieces of ivory along the lower edge of it, shaped as skulls. He is of average height, although this varies according to how much he has been standing up during the day, since he seems to shorten more significantly during the day than a man of flesh and blood. Otherwise his features are quite simply that of a skeleton, except from the fact that, in his otherwise empty eye sockets, red whisps now make his new, magically engineered eyes.

Other: Seeing that he wears no clothes and thereby has no pockets, Gerald really only have what he is wearing, being his more decorative than functional armor and his long staff, made out of ebony and with a malachite merged into the tip of it. His crown is, of course, quite important as well, since it was the item he used to bind his soul to in his Ritual of Eternal Night, and thus as long as he wears the crown, he is immortal... but the moment the crown is taken off his head, he will collapse instantly as a pile of lifeless bones. The crown is indestructible, though, and if the crown is returned to his skull, he will return to life, and thus he can never truly be destroyed.

History: As a young man, Gerald found himself victim to a cliché as his wife and two daughters were killed by a pack of Werepyres, and only he managed to survive. However, although his body continued to function and he seemed to be alive, Gerald's heart had died with his family, and he no longer cared for his own life, but instead became obsessed with finding a way to bring his family back to life. In order to do so, Gerald devoted himself to studying the finesses of necromancy, searching all scrolls, books and ancient tomes he could find about the darkest of magics, but despite that he spent his entire life studying, he never managed to find a way to bring back his loved ones as anything but mindless corpses or faint specters.
Of course, Gerald's studies continued his entire life, but despite that he had sought for a way to ressurect his family for several decades, Gerald had not gotten any closer to being reunited with them than when he started. As an old man, he felt that his mortal life had almost come to an end, but in order to give himself more time to research necromancy and achieve his goal, Gerald found himself forced to perform the Ritual of Eternal Night, turning himself into a lich by binding his soul to an item in the mortal world, this object being his lich-crown, which he at the same time made sure to use his magnified magic powers, which he also received through his ascendance to lichdom, to make the crown indestructible so that he could continue his studies for all eternity.
The regular people of the lands did not understand his obsession, however, and deemed him an abomination and ran him out of their towns and cities, driving him back to the Werepyre Mountains, where he finally found a place to continue his research. But in order to do so, Gerald had to ally himself with Lord Sacramento and his minions and serve them as he could... submitting to the very creatures that had once been the ones to kill his family. Now his priorities have changed, however... because he does not wish to bring back his family to a world that think them and himself creations of evil, he has sworn venegance against the entire world for their betrayal, and hopes to help the Werepyre forces take over the world... so that he may, once, take the throne himself and give his family the second life they deserved, as the rulers of the world.

FIRST POST:
Moving slowly through the rough, rocky terrain, using his staff as a walking stick to add a little stability to his strides, Gerald progressed through the area. For a while now, he had been feeling some immense amounts of magical energy being released somewhere near here, some of average levels, but other was of kinds that were way higher than he would have expected any common being to possess. He would not usually be as foolish as to seek out danger himself, but this time the very amount of mana released was enough to draw him towards it like a moth to a flame. His undead body fed on mana, after all: it was what kept him able to move around and live in general. And whenever a great concentration of it could be felt, he felt that he had to go there to devour the remaining mana in the air after the spells had been cast. He could easily supply himself with plenty of mana to both mold into spells of his own and maintain his unnatural body, though, but the instincts he had adopted when he became a lich still drove him towards any sources of such energy.

He felt clearly that he was getting closer... but he would not approach the source of this immense density of mana, that would be downright foolish, since even though he could not be killed, he would not be able to do much about his plans if someone removed his crown from his head. Getting into place, he instead crouched behind a rock and let his red eyes scout towards the cave from which he thought the magical activity came from. If nothing else, he could at least wait and see who would emerge victorious from in there. Who it was was of little import to him, since no matter who would be the killed part, it would still mean more corpses for Gerald to reanimate. So he waited patiently, watching...

for The Gelbaron Saga.

Finally, it had arrived. The journey had been long and troublesome, but after traveling all of this way, it had reached yet another of the destinations it had set for itself. Why it wanted to visit all of these strange places, it was not entirely sure… but it was certain that it could not stay in the same place for too long at a time, or people would start to notice it. No matter how much it tried to blend in with the crowd and seem as uninteresting as possible, there was always one person or another that started to notice its… activities, and then it either extended those ‘activities’ to the witness or left that place to avoid the angry mob that would inevitably come after it. The amusing thing in all of this was that even though people tended to figure out what it did whenever it visited a new place, they rarely, if not never, seemed to realize just what it was. And that was the way it wanted it… as long as people thought that it was merely some kind of freakish human, or a disguised monster of sorts, they would only end up being controlled by their emotions instead of asking the only logical and important question: how to kill it.

Lately, it had had an unusually rough time trying to blend in, and it expected that it would be no easier as it visited the city of Salizærba. People would probably start to become suspicious and hostile before it had even started its ‘activities’ in the city and acquired what it desired from the desert people. But then again, their suspicion was only logical and therefore predictable, and since it was, countermeasures could be taken… even though there were certain things that it could not change, that were bound to attract unwanted attention to it. Such as the that it was walking across the sands of the desert, heated to the point that it would be unbearable for people to touch it with their bare skin, and with a sun above it that warmed the air so much that other people would probably start sweating, panting and eventually thirsting, without showing any kind of exhaustion or any sign of being worn down by the heat. Or, which was probably even more likely to catch the natives’ and outsiders’ eyes alike, the fact that it was wearing such unusual clothes for that part of the world. Thick, heavy white fur boots, pants, gloves and coat, along with a long cloak in rough, black leather with a hood he always had up. In truth, the only place his clothes would probably not have been found curious, if not downright wrong, as people tended to consider them here in the hot part of the world, was in Galacteo, where it had gotten them in the first place. It was the first and best outfit available, and it served its purpose well in concealing its true appearance. As for the part about these clothes being meant for an artic climate rather than the crushing heat of the desert, it did not mind. It did not sweat, it did not thirst, and it was not bothered by heat or cold alike. It could be running around naked in the coldest reaches of Galacteo or lie down on top of a campfire – it was all the same to it. But people tended to notice…

And naturally, it had barely even passed the city limits of Salizærba before its self-invented prophecy came true, as a group of random passerby’s noticed it, stopped and whispered between themselves while pointing at it as it went by them. It tried to ignore them, and to avoid causing trouble this early in its stay in Salizærba, but with people like these, it knew that trouble was pretty much inevitable. Judging by their appearances and the fact that they were all armed, some more subtly than others, they were either some of the numerous mercenaries it had heard should inhabit this area, or shady characters that respected the law even less than soldiers of fortune tended to do. If things got out of hand, it hoped that these people were the latter, since it would only be logical that the lower levels of society the victims of its ‘activities’ were, the later their disappearances would be noticed. It could just hope that they were not as illogical as to attempt to initiate use of violence against it, just because it appeared different than others in the area.
“Hey!” one of them shouted after it, shattering its hopes of passing unhindered, “What’s your problem, eh? You’ve been living in some volcano your entire life, to be that cold in the freakin’ desert?”
It ignored the emotional and thus illogical man and kept walking further into the city. Unfortunately, it knew that while its clothing would seem like something chosen by a mentally retarded person for this environment, it had no weapons on it, either, and it had experienced earlier that troublemakers made the logical calculation of their chances out from this fact rather than by judging by the frame of its body, with it being an utterly ridiculous 7’ 6” tall and with a so bulky physique that it should have been sufficient to ensure any logical-minded creature that it was significantly stronger than most others. It had chosen that appearance just to intimidate people into not going near it. But evidently, weapons were a much greater factor to people than pure brawn.
“He’s talkin’ to you, freak!” a woman yelled once the group realized that it had no intention of responding to their provocations, “Are you deaf or something?”
It continued to ignore them. From a purely physiological point of view, that statement was true, after all. It did not have a part of its organism that functioned like the human ear, but it rather absorbed sound in its purest form as a vibration in the air, directly through its surface. Depending what logic one followed, it could be deaf, or it could have a significantly sharper and more reliable sense of hearing than any of the ruffians that were trying to taunt it into responding with an aggressiveness it did simply not possess.
“Don’t turn your back on us!”

Of course, inevitable. It felt the slight vibration of heavy footsteps in the ground beneath it, moving rapidly towards it, but it ignored it and allowed the aggressor to complete his or her planned action, and pretty much as expected, it felt something hard strike it in the back of its head – judging by the weight and consistency of the object, it would estimate it to be made out of hard, but light material, and according to the sound of it striking against its neck, the cracking noise and the little shards flying about its head, it concluded that the weapon used against it had been a wooden club of sorts, which lead it to the logical conclusion that the person who had just attacked it had not been able to afford proper metal weaponry, and therefore had to come from low society. Ideal. So naturally, it made the logical decision and accepted the challenge, turning around to face the group.

Three men and a woman, one of the men standing just a couple of steps away from it, and while the three others all stared at it with something that looked like fear, the man closest to it had made the illogical choice of staring at the handle of his broken club in disbelief instead. It did not give that man time to correct that mistake. Before he could run, it had grabbed him by the throat with its right hand and simply lifted him into the air, looking up at his face… but to its disappointment, this man did not have any magic talent. He was, in other words, useless to it. So it simply squeezed a bit, snapped the man’s neck like a match, and threw him aside to turn its attention towards the remaining two men and the woman. Oddly and highly illogically enough, the people seemed less worried about the recent death of their comrade than the sight that met them from under its hood, where it wore its mask – a white mask that it had found back in Galacteo as well as the clothes. Made of clay and painted, the mask was as ordinary as they came. But it figured that the part that frightened the thugs was the fact that there were no eyes in the two holes meant for those organs in the mask, but rather just green with a pulsating glow. No pupil or iris, just bright, venomous malachite-green.
Then the others seemed to realize what had just happened, not to mention what was about to happen, and went into action. They all drew their weapons – each of the men separately unsheathed a sword and a knife of sorts, while the woman released a hatchet she had attached by her hip – and all three of them charged at it with carefully practiced coordination, although their strategy had clearly become flawed with the death of a member of their group. The green-eyed creature simply stood and waited, and as the knife-wielding man and the woman reached it first, it simply swept each of them away with an arm for each person, and despite the effortlessness of the gesture, both of the attackers were quite simply tossed aside by the pure force behind the sweeps. Unfortunately, it realized, its unusual consistency, and the uniqueness of its entire being, made it both slow and made refined movements next to impossible, so it was not yet ready when the last attacker reached it and attempted to stab at its chest with the sword, putting all of his strength in it… with the only result being that the blade ripped its coat a bit, and then shattered, shooting metallic shrapnel in all directions. It then grabbed the now-unarmed man by the throat, like the first one, lifted him into the air, confirmed that there was not the least bit of mage in him… and killed him with unrealistic ease.

It was about to turn to the next of the violators when it suddenly felt a powerful force struck it in the head from the left side, actually causing enough of an impact to bring it to its knees, but not enough to kill it. It was a magical attack, and judging by the fact that the energy that had just hit it had not contained any element, but rather had been more-or-less pure kinetic energy, it figured that the caster was a mana mage. It found that most excellent. Those were the easiest. When it stood up and turned to the caster – the lone male survivor of the group of attackers – he was already preparing another spell. The woman was standing in front of the mage, having taken a defensive stance with her axe as she had apparently assumed the duty of shielding the mage while he did the only thing that could possibly defeat such a horrid behemoth as the green eyed creature. They could not be any further from the truth…
Without even bother to look, the creature started pulling off its left glove, and even though another kinetic shock-wave hit it, the spell had only a fraction of the effect it had had the first time, as the creature was now ready for it. The mage began casting another spell… but as the creature’s glove came off, both him and his female bodyguard seemed too stunned to concentrate on what they were doing. It did not care. It was used to these simple, fragile human minds not being able to contain, and much less comprehend what it was. The only one that could maybe have partially understood was its maker, and that human was dead.

The creature’s hand was shaped like a hand, but otherwise it had nothing about it that even remotely reminded of a human extremity. To put it simply, the hand was made of moving, living malachite, animated gemstone that constantly emitted the exact same glow in the exact same pulse as the creature’s eyes did. That alone was enough to give these humans pause… but even then they failed to understand just how alien this being before them was. It could see out of its hand, as well, and hear with it. In fact, there was no difference at all between the hand and the head of this creature, beside that they were shaped differently. This creature heard and saw with every inch of its body, granting it a basically perfect ability to determine where a sound came from, and a 360 degree vision, if it had not been obstructed by its clothes. But the truly monstrous had yet to come for these poor people… because before their eyes, the hand started to shift and change, losing its appearance as a hand and becoming some shapeless mass of almost liquid-looking crystal. Then something came out of where the wrist was supposed to be, and formed a new hand in its place, this one not crystalline, but not human either. In fact… it was made of wood. Ebony, to be exact.
There was another pulse, going through the entire creature’s body, this one stronger than the ones before, and then it rapidly returned both of the shock-waves that had been used against it, both spells hitting the woman directly, sending her flying several feet backwards and probably knocking her unconscious. Statistically weak, the creature thought as it analyzed the spells it had just cast, but it also knew that it could only absorb spells cast directly on itself and could not release those spells again any stronger than it received them. And even worse, it was only its wooden part that could release the spells, and it was… reluctant, to put it lightly, to reveal its wooden part. After all, that was its only vulnerable spot. Sure, the rest of it could, in theory, be destroyed as well, and thus someone could reach the wooden part and kill it, but to cut through its crystal body, someone would need something as hard as diamond. And to break it they would need a force as strong as a battering ram. Melting it was a solution as well, sure, but it would require that it to be lowered into something at the temperature of magma. And for any of those three things to occur were statistically and thus logically unlikely to happen, so the creature considered itself virtually invulnerable as long as it did not reveal its wooden part.

It went over to the man, who clearly had realized that this creature was not something that was easily defeated, yet was too frightened to run. It picked him up, like the others, by the throat, but this time, it lifted him with its left, wooden hand. It felt the magic flowing in the man… the magic energy that it required to remain alive, the energy it fed on and leeched from its victims during its ‘activities’. This mage was weak, but he was… sufficient.
“Mage,” the creature said, although claiming that the creature spoke would perhaps be to go a tad too far. Its voice came from its entire body, and rather than sounding like any normal voice, it was more like the sound generated when someone ran a moist finger across the edge of a crystal glass – only the creature’s voice sounded more like a hundred different crystal glasses generating tunes at the same time, all different and varying from moment to moment, forming words of the sound. The voice was also somewhat genderless. One moment it would seem so deep that it made one’s head heard, and the next it had a high pitch that could probably have shattered real crystal if there was any nearby.
“Cast a spell, mage.”
“Wha-…” the choking mage said from his place at the end of the creature’s arm, “What are you?”
“I am everything and nothing,” the creature stated, giving no further explanation to the nature of its being, “My name is Omni.”
The mage probably wanted to say something else, but by then it was too late. Omni felt that he released a bit of magic energy, maybe on purpose to secretly prepare a spell, but most likely by accident, and Omni seized the chance to draw on that energy and suck it straight through the wooden hand and store it within its crystal body. And with that little bit of energy, it was like having sucked once in a tube where one end is in a container full of water: once the flow had started, it was difficult to stop. Against the mage’s will, all the magic in him was drained from his body and soul and stored within Omni, and as the mage was emptied, he became just that – an empty shell. The mage did not die, he merely had his entire magical being removed, and left his body breathing and heart beating, but no mind in his head. He was a living dead, one could say. So it was an act of mercy when Omni snapped the mage’s neck as well.

Putting the glove back on, Omni then found the woman, checked if she had any magic in her, and killed her as well, and then buried all four of its recent victims under the sand that was so tremendously abundant in this area, and so easy to conceal things underneath. By then, it was already getting late, and while it did not need sleep – or were even able to sleep at all – it did require rest once it could not take energy from the sun. The rays from the great fire in the sky was what gave Omni most of its physical power, and without it, it drained Omni a lot more to move around instead of sitting stationary as the lifeless object that it was supposed to be. It figured that it would head further into the city, to where there were most people, in the hopes of finding more mages… and if it did not, it could always just stand around somewhere in such a crowded place without anyone daring to try something or anyone even paying specific attention to it.

the prose introduction of my character for Aura of Time.

Name: Mikhael Grelikof
Age: 34
Height: 6' 4"/ 1.95 m
Weight: 225 lbs / 102 kg
Nationality: Russian
If you are an employee, what do you work as?: Archeologist and leader of the excavation.
In case you are employed at the site, what is your speciality?: Using explosives for unearthing hidden objects and preservation of ancient artifacts.
Why have you sought out the site?: Because Mother Russia needed him to go and ensure that she got some credit for whatever was to be found in Norway at Excavation Valhalla.
Significant details of past records: Served as a marine in the Russian army for two years and spent five years in prison. You had better not ask why. Since he finished his sentence, he has worked on digging up dinosaur remains, but once the Russian government heard of Excavation Valhalla, he was immediately taken off that assignment and sent to Norway to be the first man on the spot, thereby claiming the discovery for the Russians.
Which personal items are you bringing?: 650 pounds of dynamite, eight air-tight containers for conserving findings and ten gallons of vodka.
Any unusual mental traits?: Suffers from a mild case of post traumatic stress and has slight violent tendencies, but that can mostly be explained by the fact that he has quite a temper.
Any unusual physical traits?: He is the stereotype Russian appearance of being quite enormous, and in his favor, those 225 pounds are all muscle. Unusually wide chin and forehead which tend to make him appear savage. Bald.

Ah, yes, my first character for my old RP, Ultimate Confusion.

"Good morning, Hros," Zeth nodded as he passed through the arched entrance to the Graymarsh Shaper Academy, his soft sandals barely making any sound at all on the marble floor that everything was made of here, except the little, glowing lines that trailed across the floor and walls different places. A low, vibrating humming sound filled the air, as it always did in most Shaper-complexes, because the mysterious energy that supplied their automatically opening doors, their furnaces and their Sentry Crystals. No one seemed to know for sure where all of these little lines powering all of their ancient devices actually lead, but then again, no one seemed to care to find out, either. It worked, and to Shaper, mage and commoner alike, that was all that mattered. Zeth most certainly knew that he did not care much to find out - some things were better left unquestioned, especially when they worked for their own good.
"Good morning, Shaper," Hros, the Mind, responded, and Zeth could not help it but to offer the little creature a smile. Like all Minds, Hros was little more than a lump of meat with skin on it and a face that seemed human, but the size of his entire body was perhaps the same as a normal human head. His arms and legs were short and thin, too short, actually, to reach the ground, leaving the Mind hopelessly trapped on the pedestal where it had been placed by Shapers so long ago, where Hros had been a hundred years already and would continue to be for several hundred years to come. Little silver wires, placed by Shapers, lead from the many glowing lines in the floor, up the pedestal and directly into Hros' skin.
Minds were the smartest of all Creations, Zeth knew that, smart enough and with great enough mental powers to control the entire facility - which was what Hros did with this Academy. But they were also helpless, with nothing to offer for their existence except their brain, since Minds could not move. They were obedient like none others, loyal to their makers, and a Mind never went rogue. They simply could not, because if they destroyed their masters, who was supposed to feed them their concentrated nutrients?

"Shaper, your class will begin shortly," Hros told him, and sending a signal through one of the silver wires, Hros opened one of the heavy automatic stone-doors, which quickly slid downwards, into the ground, to allow Zeth to pass, "There have arrived some new apprentices. Shall I find the evaluation by the previous Shapers and mages to train them?"
"No," Zeth shook his head, his black hair swinging slighly from side to side, framing his thin and almost feminine face, with just the hint of a beard, below his hood - the hood that went with the rest of his traditional Shaper-robe, covering him from top to toe, with long sleeves, a rope tied around his waist as a belt and the emblem of the Shapers on his back. That was what most true Shapers wore, while one rarely saw Guardians and Agents in them. The only thing that varied was the color. Zeth's robe was dark blue.
"I would rather witness what they can myself, but thank you anyways, Hros," Zeth nodded, stepping past the Mind to move towards the Shaping Chambers, where his class would be waiting.
"Here to serve, young Shaper," Hros hailed him before closing his eyes and returning to hibernation.
It was quite true. Zeth was young - merely twenty-three years old, one of the youngest to ever have become a full Shaper and most definitely the youngest to become a teacher at an Academy. But whether that was because Zeth was skilled, or because he had shown unquestioning loyalty towards the Shaper Council and their laws through his entire life, he would never know. All he knew was that he was a Shaper - and he was good at it. And he knew that.

"Good morning, class," he announced his arrival as another automated door slid into the ground, allowing Zeth to enter the cave-like area that was carved into the ground, for the sake of security in order not to let any rogue Creations escape. There were rows of seats in the Shaping Chamber, with the table with all kinds of Shaping apperatus in front of them all, as well as the two Shaping Pools, one containing energy tuned for healing, the other raw Essence, and a number of Shaping Vats for containing Creations all the way in the back.
"For those of you new here, I am Zeth, and I will be your Shaping instructor. Any questions before we begin?"

the prose introduction of the first version of the character Zeth Ryles, used once more in my RP called Human Divinity, though on a different site.

It was all well and good to wear his old armor, Regail had acknowledged that many years ago, but this latest time was testing his sanity with the constant sound of heavy drops of water against his helmet, and with his heavy frame sinking into the mud whereever he put down his foot, making each stride he took a struggle. And the cold, that blasted cold that went right through the red steel plates of his armor! It drove him mad! But he would not let it stop him. No, this world certainly made him work hard for his Lord's approval, but after the news had reached Regail, he had been determined to head to his Lord's temple to pay his respects, to praise the mightiest of gods for his victory over the God King. It had been raining then, too, but Regail had thought nothing of it. Now he was not so sure it was natural anymore. Could Raziel be testing him? Could the greatest of Lords be testing Regail on his way to the temple of Raziel, to challenge his dedication to worship? And did the Lord do it to all of his followers, or just to Regail, because Regail was human? No matter the reason, no matter how stained his armor got, Regail would reach the temple.

He spoke a silent prayer to Raziel for the endurance to last the rest of the way, to give his tribute to the victorious god of fire and time. He tried to summon up some heat inside his armor, to at least keep him warm during his struggles, but against this furious storm, there was little even Regail's magic could do to keep him from freezing. And even then, it would not lessen his struggle to move forward.
The funny thing about Regail's armor was that the red steel never rusted - a quite fortunate property, considering the weather - and that, while it was quite heavy and very hard, it allowed him almost unhindered movement because of the way the plates were mounted together, sliding beneath and over each other as need be to allow him to move as if he was wearing nothing at all. The mere hardiness of the armor had saved him before, when he had fought as a lone agent against the armies of the God King in the name of Raziel, and the mobility the armor allowed him was perfect for his fighting-style, no matter whether he used the two longswords on his back, each with a curved blade that almost reached the ground, even though he was standing, and each equally lethal, or his scimitar he wielded by his waist. Because when Regail fought, it was not as much fighting as it was dancing - dancing through enemy ranks, his swords or saber singing as they cut through air, flesh and bone alike, while the flames he summoned to coat his weapons, in the name of the mighty Raziel, scortched their skin and left those that survived his cuts screaming from severe and, almost always, lethal burns. He had not fought for a while now, though, and with the God King dead, Regail could perhaps dedicate him to another quest for his almighty deity... if Raziel let him. He was only human, after all, no matter how much it pained him.

His stomach growled - he was starving after several days of traveling, and thinking that the rain would not slow him down significantly, and that it would stop very soon, Regail had not brought much provision with him, considering it a burden. Now he wished he had brought more... He had run out days ago, and now he was starving. And now he was repeating himself, as the hunger and exhaustion began to take its toll. If this truly was a test, sent upon him by Raziel, Regail feared that he would prove unworthy. But at least he would show Raziel his dedication till his dying breath!
And as if summoned by his thoughts, the familiar shape of the temple of Raziel appeared behind the curtain of rain, slowly becoming visible as Regail approached. Realizing how close he was, Regail instantly dropped to his knees, the mud soiling his so neatly kept armor, and thanked the Draconian god for this sign of his favor. With another prayer, Regail stood up, the rain almost instantly washing the mud off his greaves, and moved on, dragging his feet through the mud, determined to make it just the last, short way to the temple.

the prose introduction of my character in Ten-Pace.

Anyone that did not belong to their rather unique species might have found many things strange about the life of the Virasell, things that not a single one of those native to the planet of Grehjil would even have granted a single thought, but simply accepted as an unchangeable fact that had always been there, had always worked, and thus had no reason to be changed. The large amoebae-like creature, nearly perfectly identical to every single one of its trillions of fellow Virasell, was equal to the rest – had the exact same age, the same origins, and the same rights as everyone else, but also the same duties. That was the main reason that its days, short as they were on Grehjil, went by with committing itself to its work. Today, that meant spending its time underwater, using its many tendrils to attempt to manipulate a piece of machinery, made up by a large egg-shaped metallic shape, with only a few cables sticking out of it that lead to several large spherical devices that worked constantly to gather usable elements from the water and refine the nutrients all Virasell needed to survive. There were other Virasell maintaining those, as well as some even making sure that the cables connecting them all were in perfect condition. It was partly for the sake of making sure that the fabrication of usable organic matter was kept as fluent and as fast as possible in order to meet the massive demands of the vast Virasell population, partly just to give them something to do so that none of them would sit idle while they could be making a difference for their species. One single Virasell was no longer, as they had once been, devoted solely to a single purpose for an entire generation, since certain occupations did not require constant attention anymore. Many of the Virasell around it were scientists in various fields, here to make room for others to use the limited laboratory-facilities, pilots that had nowhere to go, translators with no one to talk to, and so on. It, in its current generation, had wore the title of diplomat, but the alien species it had been trying to negotiate with lately – some savage species from a world in a neighboring system to theirs – had recently made it clear that they had no intention of accepting piece when they had begun tossing primitive weaponry at the Virasell’s vessels. Very sad, for such a primitive species to be so violent in such an unfortunate situation… The diplomat, having been a pilot in a past generation, had only made a token effort to defend itself, using black hole-energy to toss around a few of the aliens, but making sure not to harm them. Originally, the savages had considered the Virasell some kind of deities because of their floating shiny crafts, ability to defy gravity and move things without touching them, and the ability to appear out of nowhere, and the diplomat had hoped to remind them of that feeling, just for long enough to restore order and prevent a rebellion. It had not worked. The diplomat had returned to Grehjil as a failure, and the savage species had likely been exterminated by the pilots by now, and their world was probably being mined aggressively even at that moment. It was regrettable, but if peace was unachievable, removal of the potential threat was a necessity. And they did need materials – badly.

The diplomat reached out with a tendril and lightly touched the surface of the central device in the nutrient-factory, and by sending out and receiving an electrical impulse, it instantly knew everything worth to know about its condition. The console itself was coated with silver, while the wires connecting it to the production-stations were made of mercury. Everything was in perfect condition, it seemed, and the factory was reporting a near-optimal production-rate. Since there were no repairs to be made, the diplomat simply set to work with the customary maintenance of removing bits of various things that could, eventually, cause problems and polish it by running its tendrils along the surface in a way that some species might have found obsessive, and gently peeling off any alien substance, including the remnants of the plant-life that had managed to survive on Grehjil even after the Virasell-expansion: algae. Glowing bright yellow and each being inches in diameter, they were quite different from some alien-algae, though, and easy to spot. Each alga was collected and added to the production-quota of the nutrient-factory – not a single source of nutrients could be ignored if the Virasell were to avoid famine, and the algae were quite nutritious. The fact that they had survived thus far was a great credit to their rapid reproduction and the fact that they were highly poisonous, even to the durable native creatures of Grehjil. Not that the Virasell cared, though, since they were perfectly capable of separating nutrients from harmful substances – one of the advantages of feeding by osmosis and not breathing. No naturally occurring disease could affect the Virasell – of what they knew – and neither could any poisons.

A motion caught the diplomat’s eye in the opposite direction of the console it was cleaning, and its single eye bent in that direction, its membrane bending and flexing to allow the narrow rectangular pupil to look in that direction, the eye automatically arranging itself so that the slit was horizontal, and sure enough, it soon identified the activity. A whole string of Virasell were in motion, a wave shooting through them as a Virasell would be touched by another, then move to its nearest kinsman and touch that, which would touch the next and so forth. They were passing on a message, the diplomat recognized, and judging by the direction of the message, it was on its way to it. A Virasell came crawling towards the diplomat at the slow pace all Virasell move with, and finally touched the diplomat’s own tendril, sending the electric impulse with the message. Images of golden metal-globes entered the diplomat’s mind, floating near a large structure that it recognized as the Wormhole-Generator. A sense of urgency came with the message, as well as the impression of the diplomat’s name. The message was clear: the diplomat was to meet at the Wormhole-Generator immediately.

Not having to pass on the message, since it was intended for the diplomat, it abandoned its work of cleaning the factory-console – a duty that was instantly taken up by another Virasell, so that no piece of work was left unperformed, no matter how insignificant it might seem. The diplomat went about crawling, like a snail, at the top-speed of Virasell, hurrying through the water to report to duty. Its eye, being in passive position – meaning it stared straight upwards – at the moment, with nothing specific demanding its attention, and thus it gained a partial impression of everything around it. With most of the surface of Grehjil being occupied with water, it was only natural for the majority of their population to live there, which was evident by the large amounts of Virasell-dwellings in the area. Every single one of the homes was nearly identical to the rest, the same as the Virasell and everything they built: everything was cold, sterile and with no individual details at all, with everything tuned to maximum productivity. The dwellings were all spherical or semi-spherical, depending on whether they were built on the ground or stacked atop other structures, and they were all made to the exact same design: the shell was made up by lead, with a single hole for a door and two windows, filled not with brittle glass, but the on Grehjil abundant diamond. There were no stairs, since Virasell moved just as easily up vertical surfaces as any other and could easily get to their designated homes regardless.

Practically everything on Grehjil was either spherical in shape or had its ends or corners rounded, and any rough surface was smoothened, since any kind of sharp surface was the bane of the Virasell, since their outer membrane had only to be puncture in one spot, and their internal plasma would leak out and they would die. There was no way of saving a Virasell once their membrane had been penetrated, which was the main reason that there had never been a single Virasell with titles like ‘doctor’ or ‘surgeon’. For a species to which any kind of injury meant death and disease and poison had no hold, there were only two conditions: alive and dead, and nothing in-between.

If Virasell had been able to feel bored, the diplomat might have found the journey to the Transport Tube long and tiresome, but as it was, the only thing that was on the diplomat’s mind was that it had to hurry to the Wormhole-Generator to receive its assignment. The Transport Tube was a simple, primitive, but efficient means of transportation that was the common means of getting over larger distances on Grehjil. The device itself was just a number of globes made of brass, fit into tubes that then continued to expand into a vast network of twists and turns, parting into several additional tubes, having more tubes join them and so forth. In short, by traveling through these tubes, a Virasell could arrive just about anywhere on the planet, which was highly useful, if not to say necessary, for their slow-moving species.

The diplomat crawled aboard the nearest brass-globe and closed the lid, sealing itself in complete darkness inside, and then touched the inside of the shell of the vehicle with the tip of a tendril, sending an electric impulse of where it was going. Instantly an electrical hum filled the air, the sound-waves being absorbed by the diplomat’s membrane, and as the magnetic fields powered up, the globe set into motion, traveling through the networks of tubes and rapidly building up to speeds that would have crushed the bones of non-mollusk species, but did nothing to bother the boneless Virasell. The diplomat, having helped building the Transport Tube in one of the past generations, knew that it was possible to travel all the way around Grehjil within minutes by this network, and probably could make it around the planet multiple times within an hour. Only the reaction time of the magnetic fields limited the speed of which the globes could travel.

And so it only took a couple of minutes before the lid of the globe opened once more, and the water that was held inside along with the diplomat was let loose over the sparse dry ground of the planet. Remarkably enough, the buildings on land were just about the same as those the Virasell had underwater, with the exception of the structures being built much taller and there being several larger spherical buildings around, which the diplomat instantly registered at laboratories, testing- and construction-facilities of various kinds. All industrial activity except nutrient-production was done on land, since air was significantly easier to sterilize than water, and this specific place was the most industrially active area on all of Grehjil – the immediate vicinity of the Wormhole-Generator, the only machine of its kind and the only means for the Virasell to visit alien planets. Consequently, this was where the greatest concentration of Virasell was, and the streets were tightly packed (streets meaning large conveyor belts that ran in different directions across the areas not occupied by buildings, allowing Virasell to get between the different buildings of the ‘city’ much faster than they could crawl, thus improving their efficiency).

Getting onto the street, the diplomat’s only worry was to make sure to take the right turns to get to the Wormhole-Generator, since otherwise the street would just take it somewhere else entirely, and it would have to go through the trouble of changing street to go back again and waste valuable time that could have been productive. Luckily, Virasell had perfect genetic memory, and so the diplomat, having learned the mapping of the streets in the ‘city’ generations ago, knew exactly where to turn to get to where it was going the fastest. It was the same way that all Virasell knew and remembered each others’ identity, despite there being trillions of them – they only had to meet and exchange electric impulses once during generations, and the two Virasell would remember each other forever. Even so, with their numbers doubling every half Grehjil-year, not even the Virasell could boast of everyone knowing everyone. There simply was not even time for all of the trillions of Virasell to be acquainted with each other before they duplicated again, and it got harder with each passing generation. The diplomat remembered billions of Virasell down to the last detail, but even it could not claim to know most of them.

The streets got increasingly filled the closer the streets took the diplomat to the Wormhole-Generator, which was the very center of their civilization. But even so, the moment the diplomat moved to the street that lead only to the Wormhole-Generator, it found itself alone, the rest of its kinsmen all going in different directions, and not a single one going there. Very few had business at the Wormhole-Generator – who would want to leave Grehjil, after all, when being anywhere else was extremely likely to be a death-sentence for the otherwise invulnerable Virasell?

The colossal facility that held the Wormhole-Generator was, like everything else, spherical. It only looked like a semi-sphere because half of the giant construction was underground. It was metallic, as its entire structure was made from highly compressed titanium, but it was extraordinarily shiny because of the fact that the shell was coated with a layer of diamond – the Virasell did everything in their power to keep the only hope of their species safe. On the top of the giant building was a second dome, made entirely out of diamond, from which there was a grand, unobstructed view of the green sky above and the entirety of the overpopulated city around the facility. Only a few Virasell had had the privilege of going up there, and even the diplomat had not been one of the fortunate ones to experience the view, not during any of its generations. Only Virasell that managed to do something fantastic was rewarded with going there, such as the one that discovered black hole-technology, or the one that had come up with the Wormhole-concept, or the one who had invented the Digitalizing Apparatus. None of the diplomat’s former selves had done anything so remarkable, but every Virasell on Grehjil worked hard every day in the hopes of once having the chance to sit atop the structure and see the sight that only the chosen few remembered.

Inside the building, the hallways were round tubes, and while the diplomat preferred to move on the bottom of the hallway, it was passed by a few other Virasell moving on the sides or even traveling on the ceiling, using the secrete they produced through their membrane to stick to the surface. Only a few hundred Virasell were there, though, and even fewer of those were scientists, as most Virasell in modern society were. Of all Virasell, only those with pilot training were allowed there, for none others had any business even going near the Wormhole-Generator.

Entering a large (naturally) spherical room, the diplomat found several golden spherical vehicles parked on the ground, waiting to be supplied with the materials needed to create a black hole to give them the ability to move and direct the gravitational energy, as well as the fusion-cells that would allow them to produce energy to control the black holes. It was something similar to what a hangar was to other species, except this hangar had no way exits large enough for the vessels to leave through. There was only the Wormhole-Generator – a tangled, spherical net of wiring in the middle of the room – as a possible means of leaving the building, and that was, for the moment, inactive, even though the constant humming of the four fusion-power plants that supplied the Wormhole-Generator with power was still present. From here, the Virasell could send out vessels to anywhere in the universe, as long as they knew where they were going.

A Virasell approached the diplomat when it entered the room, its eye staring straight at the diplomat, and in order to ‘hear’ what its kinsman had to say, the diplomat reached out with its tendrils to entwine them with the other’s and receive electric impulses.
The other, the initial touch revealed, was the pilot in charge of the area at the moment, and in an instant, images and feelings came to the diplomat, explaining its new mission: to wait, for the moment, and be ready, as the Virasell expected to be able to make contact with members of alien species soon, and that they wanted the diplomat to be the one to go and try to make peace with them and parlay an alliance and, if they refused, return to have the rest of the Virasell ‘fleet’ prepare to move out in their defense.
An image of the diplomat formed in its mind, with a background continuously changing to various scenarios. Remarkably enough, the message from the pilot was accompanied by messages in several different alien languages at the same time, all which translators had learned in order to communicate better with other species. “What is your name?” was the question.
The diplomat replied with both images and words in the same language, showing situations it remembered from past generations coupled with the word for that occupation in alien languages: “I am Diplomat of Translator of Translator of Black Hole Scientist of Pilot of Cartographer of Pilot of Diplomat of Hunter of Builder of Hunter of Translator of Energy Scientist of Hunter of Farmer of…” And so on. A single Virasell’s full title was the title of every single of its past generations, giving them all complete uniqueness, since none of them had been exactly the same in exactly the same order in all the past generations. The diplomat summarized titles for over a thousand generations, yet it took just a second to transfer the message to the other. The pilot returned a feeling of satisfaction.
“To aliens, introduce yourself as Legion,” the words of a multitude of languages came from the pilot. “They are not perfect, like us. They cannot remember everything. Our names would confuse them, and take too long to say with words.”
The diplomat, accepting the alien-name of Legion, emitted a sense of understanding and submission. Then it sent the pilot a wondering signal, along with the image of one of the golden spherical vehicles.
It received an intricate design of circles and wavy lines in a certain number in a strange pattern, which would signify which of the crafts Legion could take. Legion sent out gratitude, and then detached itself from the pilot to approach its designated vehicle, to wait for the details of its mission, when it would go through the Wormhole-Generator and meet its new alien partners.

the prose introduction of my Virasell... but I don't actually recall what the RP was called. No matter, you don't want to know anyways.

Hmm... those are all the old character sheets I can find. I will update if I find or make more.