• Name: Kiril Maren
• Age: 18
• Magical Threshold: Fifth
• History: Kiril has was born in a small village near one of the shrines of Aglas. He had no father, and his mother would speak no more of him. Without guidance, he stole his meals from the unsuspecting and kindhearted, preffering to roam the streets late at night. One dark winter night, he was forced to take shelter in a nearby temple of Aglas, the warrior king of the Living Gods. In wide eyed wonder he would go to the temple every day to hear more of Aglas' exploits, and of the many myths of Muire. After a while, he made friends with an old priest, Joten of the North, who had a way with words. When he turned 8, he became the groundskeeper of the temple and would assist the old priest in tending the flowers, and he learned the art of storytelling through rapt observation of Joten's sermons. Each day at sunset, he would pray to Aglas for the courage to leave his humble village and chronicle the greatest stories that the world had ever seen.
Every new year during his apprenticeship, Joten would give him the gift of a single black rose, saying that it represented good luck in his homeland. With each gift of the rose, the priest instructed him to go to Aglas in his time of need, and remind him that they were of a shared soul; the soul of courage. Each year, he thanked the old man for the strange black flowers and tucked them away with a smile, more than once wondering if he hadn't gone senile. Years passed, and Joten finally fell ill and died. Under his kind tutelage, Kiril had reached the age of manhood, and wished to pay his last respects to his mentor. He brought the black flowers into the temple for the last time, remembering that they were appropriate for funerals, and fell to his knees in grief at the altar. He looked up through tear-filled eyes at the image of his hero, and saw a single word as an inscription.
Remembering his friend's admonition, he cried out:
"Give me courage! Your soul to mine!"
The Black Roses flared to arcane life, and the image of Aglas crumbled away. Kiril stared in disbelief as the sable petals swirled around him, as a suit of armor and a sword, the trappings of a knight yet untouched by the years, gleamed from the recesses of the hidden chamber. The boy wiped his eyes before reverently entering the alcove, and ran his fingers over the cool steel that lay before him. The equipment was in miraculous condition, especially the sword. Its hilt seemed to glow with purpose, this was Joten's sword, now his inheritance by the grace of Aglas. As he drew the weapon with trembling hands, the blade rang with a single, pure, clear note. He steeled himself in his resolve as he gazed into the mirror like blade, and the young storyteller silently thanked Joten for the courage to set out into the world.
• Reason for visiting the Living Gods: He wishes to visit Aglas to learn more about Joten, and to learn what it takes to be a hero.
• Vote (Already know each other / Role-play meeting): RP meeting
• Vote (Starting Point):Anywhere's good.
Young fantasy hero is heroic.
Major in college: Philosophy
Calm and analytical, with a knack for knowledge and a thirst for adventure. He enjoys novel experiences and interesting people, but can become bored and reclusive if he doesn't feel he is learning something new. This manifests itself as an absentmindedness and lack of discipline, and people who once knew him to be amiable and friendly become alienated after too many laconic remarks. He gets lost often due to his lack of presence, and regularly forgets the little things. He has dry wit, and isn't afraid of his shortcomings.
He grew up surrounded by the noise and life of a big city, and would spend his days at a huge and majestic library. The turning of pages would echo to the rafters as he devoured whatever knowledge he could comprehend, a solitary island in a sea of dead voices. Eventually, his family moved away from the city into a small, quiet town, and Emil was torn away from the life he loved. He wishes to return to that feeling of rush, to observe it, and to understand its meaning. He heard about the Baylor experiment from a friend of his, and resolved to take one of the pills to learn something new.
Your average everyday kid, used for modern RPs.
Covenant Name: Ouroboros
Method of Member Identification:
The group is small enough for core members to know each other personally.
Alignment: -2, Neutral Evil. They don't particularly care whether another faction is good or evil, only that they continue to fight. A willingness to profit from bloodshed pushes them into the evil zone. Ouroboros prefers to manipulate large established systems, making them closer to lawful than chaotic, but are willing to work with individuals if there is a benefit to doing so.
On the surface, Ouroboros is an arms manufacturer named Red Garden that supplies reliable, high quality military equipment for officers in the Olleran military. Their workshops are hidden high in the mountains, but the rare ores they boast access to make their crafts highly prized among the warfaring elite. Of course, this is just a front for a rather more sinister operation. Through shrewd business practice and questionable maneuvering, they've managed to become an overriding influence on several war profiting industries. Behind the scenes, Red Garden drives pioneering developers in a variety of the more practical fields, but their primary focus is on medicine, transportation, and as stated, arms manufacture.
The Red Garden is a specialty weapons dealer, smithing high priced and overly elaborate ceremonial weapons for the discerning nobleman. Their products are very high quality, but the exorbitant prices they charge have made Red Garden a byword for excess among common soldiers. The company also has influence among various merchants guilds because of its wealth, and good ties with alchemists and the clergy because of generous donations.
Though the Red Garden company boasts a wide array of dedicated craftsmen and scientists, the Ouroboros Covenant is considerably smaller. No more than ten to twenty people serve as go betweens for the company's subsidiaries, and only three understand the plan in its entirety. Between the three leaders, no one leader is aware of exactly what the others are doing, instead merely directing the other two to further his own ends. A leader in turn will honor the request of his associates to the best of his abilities, resulting in a frighteningly well coordinated chain of action that is very difficult to break through assassination or bribery. The Covenant is unique in that it has no proper mastermind- there is simply a chain of individuals working in their self intrest for the common evil.
Through Red Garden, the Ouroboros controls an array of hospitals, mines, weaponsmiths, alchemists, and successful taverns. They have completely sacrified use of magic in the pursuit of technology, reasoning that magic will eventually run out if it is nonrenewable, and that its free and unpredictable nature cannot be profited from if it is infinite. It is said that certain members within Ouroboros can control magic, but their skills are kept secret from all but the leaders of the operation. Along with several successful steel mines, they control the largest veins of the special "Blackstone Ore", an extremely durable and magic resistant material with a distinctive black sheen. Through exaggeration, lies, and bribery, they have lead the rich to believe that the ore is very scarce and valuable. The ore is actually quite plentiful, and they have the resources to create armor and weapons of a truly superior make.
Blackstone has lent itself well to experimental weaponry, and certain papers allude to a completely new approach to warfare. Taking inspiration from stories of metal golems, certain Red Garden craftsmen have been tasked with recreating the technology with a twist. They propose to create a mechnically driven suit of armor, an agglamation of metal and man that could become a juggernaut on the battlefield.
As previously stated, Ouroboros members are treated well wherever they go, and the Covenant can organize some of the best healers and alchemists in Ollerus to tend to their members.
The covenant's namesake is a symbol of eternity, evoking the violent dragon biting its tail in a never ending conflict. This symbol describes the covenant's goals perfectly; they wish to sustain war. As a violent and totaltarian state under an evil dictator, Ouroboros members are keenly aware that Ollerus is usually at war with its neighbors and within itself. Whether it be rebels or foreign armies, both sides of the war have a demand for weapons. They intend to profit from the cycle of violence, making weapons to destroy, healing the defeated with spell and potion, and selling more weapons to continue the cycle. They can continue to profit if Ollerus is constantly on edge, and their members work to keep the bloodthirsty and insane in positions of power. They will actively seek to reveal enemy covenants, creating another armed conflict and thus, another customer. They are a powerful and far reaching ally to their affiliates, and will use their vast resources to further other covenants' goals should their agendas be in line.
Shadowy underground weapons organization. Pretty darn evil.
Name of Possessed (Western Order): Takeru Seishin
Personality: Brash, impulsive, a storm personified. He prefers to project a loud personality, a powerful presence that demands attention from any who pass his way. Despite his obnoxious demeanor, he knows humility better than most gods, a result of being cast down to Nippon. His experiences have given him a fondness for humanity, and a disgust for arrogant supernatural creatures. Like the calm before the storm, his deadly seriousness before a battle could make even his brother give pause, and like a hurricaine, he will unleash all of his strength in a single blow. He is also something of a lech, drinker, and occasional vagrant.
Skills:His like for ostentation led him to possess a young samurai warrior, the eldest son of a noble house whose high hopes for leadership he promptly ruined. As a member of the warrior caste, a young bushi, he has his own sword gifted to him by an indulgent grandfather. He is able to use it with inhuman skill, but prefers not to draw the blade so as not to tarnish the old man's sword. He also enjoys the bragging rights.
Special Abilities: As the god of storms and lightning, ferocious monsoons and quiet mists are both at his beck and call. He is able to control the wind within his general area, creating small tornadoes and gusts. He is able to direct his qi and fire it in a blast of divine lightning. His most powerful ability is the ability to draw the holy Sword of Ten Hands, which he used to slay the Yamata no Orochi. He puts a swig of sake in his mouth, and quickly draws his "grandfather's" blade battojutsu style. He simeltaneously spits on the now transformed sword, which ignites with blue fire. The following slash sends out a wave of flame that bisects anything in his way with a single blow.
Weapons:He wields a sheathed katana like a bokken, breaking defenses with huge blows that take out several enemies at once. Upon drawing the blade, he reveals himself to be in the possesion of the sacred Sword of Ten Hands, a blackened katana that can cut through anything with ease.
Eastern style deity.
Name:Perry "Hazard" Oliver
Eyes: Dark Burgundy/Black
Skin:Brown (Native Inuit)
Tattoo of a simple circle on the left inside wrist, and a tattoo of a sword on the right inside wrist. Weathered appearance, dark circles around eyes from apparent lack of sleep. Several faint scars criscross the upper arms and torso. Dusky greyish hair.
He specializes in killing elusive and tempermental creatures, such as small wyverns or drakes.
Wields a longsword, four and a half feet long with three to the blade, sharp enough to rend flesh from bone, maneuverable enough to deflect the harshest of blows, and heavy enough to kill most targets in a single blow.
Its scabbard is the main component that allows Perry to wield his weapon effectively. Though he is a competent swordsman, he has altered the scabbard on his back in order to facilitate an unorthodox hunting method. His method is to hide (get lost) in the wilderness after increasing the likely-hood of meeting his current target, whether by blending plants together to create an attractive scent, using bait, or waiting in the middle of a nest. He waits until the very last moment in hiding, and when he sees his chance to strike, he lashes out incredibly quickly. The scabbard is tight enough for the sword to fit snugly within, but one of the edges is completely missing, and the release of a clip allows him to engage the weapon with a swift arcing blow. (For those are familiar with Legend of Zelda: Twilight Princess, the maneuver is similar to the Mortal Draw skill.)
He is has a muscular and light frame that allows him to climb, crawl, and dodge over obstacles at speed. He can sprint for relatively short distances very well, and is quite agile.
He enters an almost zen like state of calm when he's hunting, all but erasing evidence of his presence. His footsteps fade into silence, his breath slows to a near stop, and neither beast nor man can detect him through intuition when he's really in the zone. His silence is undetectable because he allowes himself to be subsumed by the various sounds of his current location, hiding in plain hearing and sight rather than becoming a hole where sound goes to die.
He's a keen forester, with an almost encyclopedic knowledge of various flora and fauna. He can make a meal of anything vaguely plantlike, craft poisons from the most innocuous ingredients, and disguise himself in the underbrush like a wraith. His mastery of stealth extends to all places with a chaotic jumble underfoot, such as the aforementioned forests, battlefields, or crowded urban areas.
Perry Oliver is always in the wrong place. He was born in the wrong place, among warlike tribes in the far and unreachable north. The frigid cold and constant raids for resources in those icy deserts hardened his body and outlook, but his discontent with his homeland burned enough to keep him warm. More misfortune befell the winter kid when his family traded him as an apprentice (slave) to a group of hunters looking to find the treasures of the untapped wastes.
And his path was set. The half baked hunters took him to foreign lands, and he got more than one fair share of bites, scars, and regrets. This was worsened considerably by his propensity for getting lost. One time, he got lost for good, and he ended up in the middle of a forest while the rest of his erstwhile crew gave him up for dead. Here he honed his craft, if only because he was already so used to doing it. He learned to wait, be quiet, get lost right where he wasn't supposed to be, which more often than not allowed him to surprise his quarry in the middle of their dens. He changed his name to something someone read to him on a poster, and has been at large ever since.
Mist crawled up the hill, the first glow of the moon tinging it silver. He'd fallen into a foggy doze in one of the craggy recesses near the top, the humidity glistening on his armor. Even in sleep he didn't make a sound, his body keeping watch for him when his mind could not. Shards of what appeared to be stone littered the ground around him, dry as bones and older than most graveyards. The creatures that lived here had all died out long ago hadn't they? The small, crinkled, tattered notice pinned under a stack of fresher jobs was a fool's errand, wasn't it? But in his dreams Oliver saw the slanting, ladylike, illegible (to him) hand, the handwriting of someone who was rich enough to spend time learning to write. Or maybe, someone who had parents rich enough to teach them. He rolled over as he dreamed of some young rich girl's lace, and how long it had been since he'd gotten to sleep in a real bed, or since he'd gotten a hot meal, for that matter... Until-
CRASH. It was loud enough to need all caps, and it was certainly loud enough to wake up this sorry hunter. He didn't move though, didn't make a sound. Drowsiness and cold and caution and more cold held him fast to the granite, and even then he only barely twitched his eyes over to see it in his peripheral vision. It was a magnificent specimen to be sure- all glistening scales and rippling muscles and ancient scars; an evil sonovabitch straight out of the storybooks. It was just a wyrvern, worth a fair bit less than a straight up dragon, but maybe still valuable enough for a weeks meals, and a chance to see what the young lady could do with her hands other than write.
He twitched stiff fingers as the beast twitched closer, counting his his prayers and curses alike as its claws shone brighter than anything he'd ever seen. It came closer, closer, and... too easy. The silver blood came raining down like a waterfall, and it collapsed without so much as a growl. Critical hit, end of job. Perry Oliver was soaked in the blood of an endangered magical creature, but he was happy, after a fashion. Maybe just this once he'd gotten lucky, been where he was supposed to be. And that was when the alpha male came hurtling over the horizon. It moved like a bullet, which is to say it knocked him over before he even knew it was coming. Here he realized that an old bull had been chased out by a younger stronger wyrvern, one that didn't get the kill that it wanted and was now extremely pissed. Wyrverns are like the fourteen year old cousins of dragons- smaller, but tempermental, vindictive, and half insane with bloodlust. So Oliver did what was natural and hoped to whatever powers there be that it didn't kill him. He lay still in the expanding lake as the new bull tried to smell him out. Several times it dragged its claws across his breastplate, drawing blood and cutting into his chest, but unable to smell the near victory from the sheer stench of the mess on the ground. After almost two hours of waiting and scraping it began to strut over its fallen enemy, and Hazard ambushed the hell out of it. He was able to sever the ligaments in the right foreleg, almost lost an arm, but took the head clean with a solid (lucky) strike. Exhaustion, blood loss, and the beginnings of hypothermia aside, Perry "Hazard" Oliver had won.
The day after next, he learned that he would be paid half wages, because he killed more than his intended target.
The writer of the note was actually an environmental preservationist that wanted the old bull dead so that the new flock would flourish, and a greasy old man besides.
Hazard barely broke even.
Monster Hunter. He hunts monsters.