This looks very heavily inspired by Dark Souls. One question, though. You mentioned the characters retaining basic equipment and weapons. Which asks the question: from which era? Can a character find himself/herself with a pistol, for example?

Hider [+]

Given Name

With no idea as to do otherwise, he has decided upon the name 'John Cleaver' to both keep it simple and because of the bloody weapon he carries.

Appearance

A sketch of John's appearance, tucked inside his journal. [+]

While his face might be appealing, Cleaver isn't the strapping young lad most would hope for. He's rather short, only topping around 5'10" on a good day, and only weighs about a hundred and fifty pounds soaking wet. There's nary a bit of muscle to be seen on him either. 'Lanky' would be a good term to describe him as. The only good thing about his physique is his ability to run. And he's done a lot of it since arriving in the hell that he inhabits.

Still, his face is pretty good looking. The dirty blonde hair covering his face could use a trim, as could the specks of facial hair starting to sprout up on him. His eyes are a pleasant chestnut brown, and whatever gods had decided to toss him into purgatory gave him an appealing set of clothing, a black overcoat with a white undershirt, both made of simple cloth along with pants. The time spent has frayed it, but its quality is still good.

Equipment

The first thing John realized as he woke was that he was holding a ridiculous meat cleaver. The weapon was huge compared to its counterpart, roughly the size of a short sword if you held the two up together. The other thing he realized was that the weapon was soaked in blood. It still proudly displays a good portion of rust, even after the rough scrubbing he tried to give it.

Other than the mockery of a sword, he doesn't own much in this world. One of his most important and useful items is the small lantern he found laying around him. The only beacon of light in the dark world he has. To go with it, a small iron and flint striker to light anything he requires. A completely useless compass that doesn't seem to go along with the laws of physics in this world. A few weeks worth of rations he has mostly gone through. What's left is smoked meats and dried fruits that he usually saves and goes for whatever scraps he can find in the world.

His last item is a large leather bound journal that has been his only sense of comfort in this strange land. The quill that goes with it seemingly does not run out of ink, no matter how many times he has used it. Within' the old parchment are recollections of his previous days. Each log usually is spread out by a few days, and usually is accompanied by drawings and descriptions of important places. Not like it matters too much, the world is similar to that of a maze, any attempts to map the world have failed.

Memories

John Cleaver doesn't remember much. But he holds the memories tight and tries to keep hold of them. The first and most easily remembered one is of a crisp autumn day. A young John watches in curiosity as an older man goes through the process of butchering a pig. Guts and visceral cover the wooden workstation set up under the birch tree. The stench of blood is fresh and overbearing as the old man yells at John and then goes after John, his belt coming off.

The second memory is during a cold winter. Hunger is the most recognizable feeling as an older version of John sits, a huge cavalcade of bruises cover him as he cowers in the small cramped attic that is his room.

The last memory is of John holding a cleaver in his hands, blood splattered over him and shock in his eyes.

Awakening

---

A rendition of the area according to John's journal.

---

That day was probably the worst day of many to come in this horrible place. Only now after a few days can I finally sit down and write about it. The ground was sopping and as I sat there for a few moments, perplexed as to where in Gods Earth I was, my coat was getting soaked in mud. Nothing came to mind as the gears in my brain racked themselves to try and think of something. Anything. Of course, I couldn't think of anything at all.

It was horrible as I sat there, staring at the roof inside the remnants of... a mine? Even after exploring that place I still have no idea of its purpose. As I peered around the great pillars, something red caught my eye and I looked towards my left hand. In its place was a brutal weapon. A huge cleaver that could have cleaved a cow's head right off of its neck. And the blood covering my hand and the weapon seemed to confirm something like that happened. I threw the weapon away and it clattered against a pillar as I pushed myself up, my hands sloshing through the mud as I sat up.

The sick feeling seemed to triple in size as I stood up, the backside of my clothing now splattered with brown goop. Its hard to remember what happened next. I think I may have panicked, or something similar to that. Only through some bit of wisdom did I remember to grab the large leather bag... and the cleaver. Something about the place just screamed dangerous to me.

I ran, and ran, and ran and ran until my lungs screamed and my legs finally gave up. I collapsed to my knees in what seemed to be the remains of a dead castle overlooking the 'mine'. As I gasped for air, I noticed the bones. Down inside the mine, covered in mud, were the remains of hundreds of people. Bones ranging from those of men to women, to even small children.

It was then I realized, I was in hell.

---

He bit his bottom lip as he finished reading back through the first page of his journal. Even now after so long, he still barely knew anything. John Cleaver sighed as he sat back in the decaying remains of a wooden chair, alongside similarly fashioned furniture inside of a small cabin in the middle of a decrepit forest.

It was home, or at least, the closest thing to home he could hope for. Outside the window, the trees loomed over him. Great giants in their own right, though they seemed to be either long dead or in a deep slumber. No leaves grew from their blackened branches and the ground was simply dried soil. The house was in a similar state as well, its timber slightly rotting, the shingles over the roof falling off. Hell, the damn door fell off when John first entered.

It was home for the few nights he would stay there. He had already raided the cabinets and the pantry and the cellar. Now he sat at an old table, his cleaver resting against it and his bag set nearby. It had been weeks since he had first woken up, and still nothing came to him other than the sparse memories he had. Any knowledge he had of this place was limited. There were no people, other than the dead at least. No animals, other than the dead at least. There were no remnants of society, other than the dead at least.

The only living thing here was himself, and the monsters, of course.

For some reason I had an obsession with this choppy, non-sentence writing style when I made this sheet. It's a little unusual for me, but I guess it clicked in my mind somewhere. Maybe I did it because it works towards the loose narrative of someone whose memory and perception is just as disjointed. Yes. Well, here you go ^^

Edit: Oh yeah, I left one field unedited because I had a question still. What do people eat in this world? Is there any game to hunt, are any fruits edible? Wasn't sure what to jot down for her food supplies.

Character Sheet [+]

Basics
Given Name: Has given herself no name; why choose a nomenclature when there is nobody to call you? I’ll let the other characters pick a name for her as would be appropriate to the impression she makes.
Gender: Female
Class: Vagrant Warrior

Appearance, Equipment and Abilities
Physical Description: A frightened animal. A cornered wolf. The dirt caked face of someone who has outlived their luck. Where her left eye should be is only a hardened, faded bandage with dark brown smears that continue besmirching her unwashed cheek down to the chin. The other eye, amber in color and encircled by a dark coloration, stares nervously from one blackened corner to another, always watchful. Her weather-beaten face bears numerous incisions old and new; wounds from battles both won and lost.

A coarsely-knit hood covers her head and the greasy, unkempt black mane on it most of the time. Her haggard body, average of height and athletic in build, is covered in dark, primitive animal furs and hard boiled leathers. Where her attire has failed, openings have been patched up with wrappings of simple cloth; rough, beige linen bands. A compact knapsack with most of her supplies is strapped to her back, hidden underneath the cape of black wolf fur that she knows is supposed to be very dear to her – but cannot remember why. Additional pouches and bags can be found along her belt, containing base necessities like food, bandages, rope, a whetstone and more. A necklace made from animal sinew and teeth hangs around her neck and can be seen lying over her vest, a reminder of a world that was lost.

Armaments:

• Iron Sword
A weathered, simple sword made from solid iron. Has a double-edged blade roughly 60 centimeters in length (about 23.5 inches) with a plain cross guard and a hilt made from horn, wrapped in leather to provide superior grip. Used as a backup weapon in close combat scenarios, preferably in conjunction with a shield due to its poor reach.

• Broken Round Shield
A common round shield, often seen employed by warriors hailing from the wooded mountains. It is made from linden wood, has been reinforced with leather around the rim, and measures 95 centimeters in diameter (37.5 inches). An unfortunate encounter has chipped off around a quarter of the shield, making is less useful. On the front side, faded paintings of a deer crest can be barely seen.

• Glaive
Uncomplicated and effective, this weapon features a 45 centimeter (17.7 inches) long, double-edged blade, affixed on a 2 meter (6.5 feet) long, wooden pole. Typically used similarly to a spear, but can also cut and chop in certain situations, granting the glaive a great amount of flexibility.

Other Equipment:

• Flint and Steel
A chunk of flint stone and a small, irregular block of steel to start fires.

• Knife
A small, iron knife not intended for combat.

• Whetstone
A worn whetstone to keep all of her weapons sharp.

• Oil
Roughly half a liter of oil contained in an iron flask. Used to prevent rust on the blades and create torches.

• Rope
About 9 meters (30 feet) of hemp rope.

• Blankets
Two rolls of wool cloth that can be used as sleeping mats and blankets.

• Bandages
A few old rolls of coarse linen cloth that can be used to cover wounds.

• Food?
?

Skills:

• A Stranger No More
This weathered vagrant has spent a significant amount of time in this dark realm; long enough to have died multiple times, to have lost an eye to it, and to have lost the initial fear of the unknown. It is still there, but it has become a friend on lonely journeys, not an enemy to be dreaded.

• Heartless Warrior
While the memories have faded, the lessons learned amongst the woodland tribes have remained in her blood – more than that, they have been tempered by the harsh world of the land betwixt. When backed into a corner, she fights like there is no tomorrow, because she knows that death is not the end; only another painful memory. But sometimes, gratuitous violence is enough to save her from adding another memory to the list.

Inner Workings
Memories:

• Rustling leaves, the baying of hounds. Coordinating shouts across the thick woodland. A feeling of unity and hunger.

• Exhilaration. Anger. Hatred. A ring of fire, naked, bleeding bodies. No shame, only a feeling of triumph.

• The road north always leads home. You’d do well to remember this on your journey; and never trust the sun, for it does not shine our way. Follow the great star instead.
-The voice of an elderly man to a naïve, young soldier

• The screams of seagulls, the smell of the ocean, the sound of cresting waves. Dozens of men, a handful of women, singing songs of voyage and victory. Anticipation. Worry.

Awakening: Sand. Sand filled her mouth and nostrils, a material as alien to her as the world she awoke to. It happened with a startle as her body sprung to life, gripped by spasms of violent coughs to try and expel that damnable sand. She rolled over on her elbows and puked dust and digested remains onto the shifting ground underneath her, while the unnaturally hot evening sun descended red hot over the distant dunes, where large fragments of bone jutted out from beneath the soil. After long, exhausting moments her body finally stopped being shaken by her now-cleansed lungs, and she collapsed back onto the ground, panting, eyes skyward.

There was a looming sense of regret and nostalgia in the air that she felt long before even the first questions began to form themselves. The first of these was ‘Where?’ – without even realizing that she had been transported to another world, she could not explain her whereabout, for indeed her eyes had never seen a desert before. Where in the world was she? Where was home? Confused and frightened, she sat up and peered about the lifeless dunes surrounding her. It was hopeless, her sense of orientation utterly defeated – the most she could garner by the sun’s position were the cardinal directions, but little did she know that even that would prove to be of little help. Lying next to her, half-buried in the sand, she found her old weapons: her trusty glaive, a simple short sword, and a large, round shield with a crest that looked vaguely familiar. It was then, her fingers stroking across the shield’s surface, that her state of amnesia began to dawn upon her. The moment she had laid eyes upon these objects, she had assumed they were hers, but could not remember ever having fought with them, could not even tell to which clan the crest belonged. And what clan did she call home? How did she even get here? Where – who was her family? What even was her name?!

Questions upon questions, and no answers in sight; only endless dust, washing over the dunes. As desperation set in, the color began to fade from her already pale visage that became torn in a grimace of dread. What catastrophe had brought her to this moment? Had the world ended in the great, purgatory flame as foreseen by the elders? If so, how could her own flesh have been spared by the apocalyptic fire? Or was this the underworld, the ethereal beyond so often called upon by brave warriors who stared in the eyes of death? Then she must have died. Somewhere, somehow. Perhaps on a distant battlefield. Perhaps in the purging inferno. It made no difference now. She accepted the assumption that she was dead with no regrets, but the theft of her memories, that stung deep. Her mind failed to even conjure the name of the deity presiding over death, so that she might curse them for their wickedness. Unspent hatred against oblivion.

She reluctantly rose to her feet, legs shaky on the uncertain, sandy ground. In her eyes, the very soil beneath her boots was made of betrayal. She gathered up her weapons and her shield, and set her eyes northwards. A wizened elder once said that every northward road leads home – she remembered, and for the first time a defiant smile crept upon her thin lips. Her journey had just begun, and in the distance, hooded figures camouflaged in the sand watched a lone warrior brave the perilous dunes against the backdrop of a setting sun.

For some reason I had an obsession with this choppy, non-sentence writing style when I made this sheet. It's a little unusual for me, but I guess it clicked in my mind somewhere. Maybe I did it because it works towards the loose narrative of someone whose memory and perception is just as disjointed. Yes. Well, here you go ^^

Edit: Oh yeah, I left one field unedited because I had a question still. What do people eat in this world? Is there any game to hunt, are any fruits edible? Wasn't sure what to jot down for her food supplies.

Character Sheet [+]

Basics
Given Name: Has given herself no name; why choose a nomenclature when there is nobody to call you? I’ll let the other characters pick a name for her as would be appropriate to the impression she makes.
Gender: Female
Class: Vagrant Warrior

Appearance, Equipment and Abilities
Physical Description: A frightened animal. A cornered wolf. The dirt caked face of someone who has outlived their luck. Where her left eye should be is only a hardened, faded bandage with dark brown smears that continue besmirching her unwashed cheek down to the chin. The other eye, amber in color and encircled by a dark coloration, stares nervously from one blackened corner to another, always watchful. Her weather-beaten face bears numerous incisions old and new; wounds from battles both won and lost.

A coarsely-knit hood covers her head and the greasy, unkempt black mane on it most of the time. Her haggard body, average of height and athletic in build, is covered in dark, primitive animal furs and hard boiled leathers. Where her attire has failed, openings have been patched up with wrappings of simple cloth; rough, beige linen bands. A compact knapsack with most of her supplies is strapped to her back, hidden underneath the cape of black wolf fur that she knows is supposed to be very dear to her – but cannot remember why. Additional pouches and bags can be found along her belt, containing base necessities like food, bandages, rope, a whetstone and more. A necklace made from animal sinew and teeth hangs around her neck and can be seen lying over her vest, a reminder of a world that was lost.

Armaments:

• Iron Sword
A weathered, simple sword made from solid iron. Has a double-edged blade roughly 60 centimeters in length (about 23.5 inches) with a plain cross guard and a hilt made from horn, wrapped in leather to provide superior grip. Used as a backup weapon in close combat scenarios, preferably in conjunction with a shield due to its poor reach.

• Broken Round Shield
A common round shield, often seen employed by warriors hailing from the wooded mountains. It is made from linden wood, has been reinforced with leather around the rim, and measures 95 centimeters in diameter (37.5 inches). An unfortunate encounter has chipped off around a quarter of the shield, making is less useful. On the front side, faded paintings of a deer crest can be barely seen.

• Glaive
Uncomplicated and effective, this weapon features a 45 centimeter (17.7 inches) long, double-edged blade, affixed on a 2 meter (6.5 feet) long, wooden pole. Typically used similarly to a spear, but can also cut and chop in certain situations, granting the glaive a great amount of flexibility.

Other Equipment:

• Flint and Steel
A chunk of flint stone and a small, irregular block of steel to start fires.

• Knife
A small, iron knife not intended for combat.

• Whetstone
A worn whetstone to keep all of her weapons sharp.

• Oil
Roughly half a liter of oil contained in an iron flask. Used to prevent rust on the blades and create torches.

• Rope
About 9 meters (30 feet) of hemp rope.

• Blankets
Two rolls of wool cloth that can be used as sleeping mats and blankets.

• Bandages
A few old rolls of coarse linen cloth that can be used to cover wounds.

• Food?
?

Skills:

• A Stranger No More
This weathered vagrant has spent a significant amount of time in this dark realm; long enough to have died multiple times, to have lost an eye to it, and to have lost the initial fear of the unknown. It is still there, but it has become a friend on lonely journeys, not an enemy to be dreaded.

• Heartless Warrior
While the memories have faded, the lessons learned amongst the woodland tribes have remained in her blood – more than that, they have been tempered by the harsh world of the land betwixt. When backed into a corner, she fights like there is no tomorrow, because she knows that death is not the end; only another painful memory. But sometimes, gratuitous violence is enough to save her from adding another memory to the list.

Inner Workings
Memories:

• Rustling leaves, the baying of hounds. Coordinating shouts across the thick woodland. A feeling of unity and hunger.

• Exhilaration. Anger. Hatred. A ring of fire, naked, bleeding bodies. No shame, only a feeling of triumph.

• The road north always leads home. You’d do well to remember this on your journey; and never trust the sun, for it does not shine our way. Follow the great star instead.
-The voice of an elderly man to a naïve, young soldier

• The screams of seagulls, the smell of the ocean, the sound of cresting waves. Dozens of men, a handful of women, singing songs of voyage and victory. Anticipation. Worry.

Awakening: Sand. Sand filled her mouth and nostrils, a material as alien to her as the world she awoke to. It happened with a startle as her body sprung to life, gripped by spasms of violent coughs to try and expel that damnable sand. She rolled over on her elbows and puked dust and digested remains onto the shifting ground underneath her, while the unnaturally hot evening sun descended red hot over the distant dunes, where large fragments of bone jutted out from beneath the soil. After long, exhausting moments her body finally stopped being shaken by her now-cleansed lungs, and she collapsed back onto the ground, panting, eyes skyward.

There was a looming sense of regret and nostalgia in the air that she felt long before even the first questions began to form themselves. The first of these was ‘Where?’ – without even realizing that she had been transported to another world, she could not explain her whereabout, for indeed her eyes had never seen a desert before. Where in the world was she? Where was home? Confused and frightened, she sat up and peered about the lifeless dunes surrounding her. It was hopeless, her sense of orientation utterly defeated – the most she could garner by the sun’s position were the cardinal directions, but little did she know that even that would prove to be of little help. Lying next to her, half-buried in the sand, she found her old weapons: her trusty glaive, a simple short sword, and a large, round shield with a crest that looked vaguely familiar. It was then, her fingers stroking across the shield’s surface, that her state of amnesia began to dawn upon her. The moment she had laid eyes upon these objects, she had assumed they were hers, but could not remember ever having fought with them, could not even tell to which clan the crest belonged. And what clan did she call home? How did she even get here? Where – who was her family? What even was her name?!

Questions upon questions, and no answers in sight; only endless dust, washing over the dunes. As desperation set in, the color began to fade from her already pale visage that became torn in a grimace of dread. What catastrophe had brought her to this moment? Had the world ended in the great, purgatory flame as foreseen by the elders? If so, how could her own flesh have been spared by the apocalyptic fire? Or was this the underworld, the ethereal beyond so often called upon by brave warriors who stared in the eyes of death? Then she must have died. Somewhere, somehow. Perhaps on a distant battlefield. Perhaps in the purging inferno. It made no difference now. She accepted the assumption that she was dead with no regrets, but the theft of her memories, that stung deep. Her mind failed to even conjure the name of the deity presiding over death, so that she might curse them for their wickedness. Unspent hatred against oblivion.

She reluctantly rose to her feet, legs shaky on the uncertain, sandy ground. In her eyes, the very soil beneath her boots was made of betrayal. She gathered up her weapons and her shield, and set her eyes northwards. A wizened elder once said that every northward road leads home – she remembered, and for the first time a defiant smile crept upon her thin lips. Her journey had just begun, and in the distance, hooded figures camouflaged in the sand watched a lone warrior brave the perilous dunes against the backdrop of a setting sun.

Done!

Prince [+]

Given Name

-the Prince does not know his former name, nor if "Prince" was even his former title. Rather, "Prince of Lies" was what he was called by a mysterious being he encountered in this world that he's taken to since calling Tomb; a being that seemed to know more about Prince than he did, himself. While the Prince of Lies uses the long moniker as something of a name, he will oft simply introduce himself as Prince.

Appearance

the Prince of Lies [+]

The Prince is a handsome and young looking man- another facet of his that has led him to believe that he was royalty in his previous life, or something close. His ragged robes still have an air of grandiose to their faded purple color, and his thin breastplate seems to have a more aesthetics or ceremonial intended purpose rather than anything practical.

His hair is long and blonde, and seems to have been styled many times in whatever previous era he came from. While it has since been muddled and messed many times, it still retains its princely look. Deep set brown eyes and an arrow-like face complete his prim and charismatic complexion, complementing the lean a toned muscle the Prince has garnered both in past life and new.

Equipment

- a blade, much longer than it seems it was supposed to be, for it is weighted rather oddly and the Prince sometimes has trouble handling it. Its hilt is as imposing as its wielder, charred and golden and turning at various angles. Other than this, it is a fairly mundane weapon.

- the Prince's pack contains his various other items that he has needed to survive- a small journal and pen, some basic foodstuffs (That often don't sit well in his stomach), and oil for his lantern. There are various other bits and bobbles that he has gathered during his travels more as keepsakes than anything that could be useful.

- an oil lantern, heavy and seemingly made of iron. The Prince has to keep it filled with oil to keep its light bright, but even burning on the residual oils when relatively empty it emits a very faint glow.

Memories

I am kneeling in front of a throne, on which there is no one seated. A man is in front of me; he looks like me, though his hair and beard are grey. He wears a crown, and looks displeased.

I stand on a stage, feelings of accomplishment and glory being eaten at by fear and dread. An astonished looking crowd stands before me. My hands are shaking

Again, I am kneeling, though this time over a chopping block. Someone is speaking, but I cannot understand them.

Awakening

A cool breeze brushed the shoulders of the young man, sending his tousled blonde hair in all directions and opening crusted brown eyes. The young man rose to a knee and wiped his face with a glove hand- Where was he? Who was he? He glanced down at himself, and at his robes. They were purple- or at least used to be purple. It was only when he stood did he realize the oddly heavy sword strapped to his hip. Its weight seemed strange, for it certainly did not appear to be as heavy as it was. It had a golden hilt, now charred, but still oddly pretty.

The young man tucked his hair behind his ears and pulled his robes tighter around him. It was cold, and very barren. The ground was black as ash, and left a crusty residue on his boots when he took a step. It certainly seemed like he was outside, but glancing up he could almost make out something above him akin to a ceiling, as if he was at the bottom of some magnificently big chasm. Perhaps he was at the bottom of a great canyon, or in the maws of a massive cave? Whatever the case, he continued moving- unsure of exactly where he was going.

Eventually, he saw it. On the horizon, a massive blackened castle, as dark as the ground beneath him. It seemed to be made of stone, but reflected what light there was like metal. The man continued on a journey towards this complex- only to make an odd discovery. No matter how far he walked, how hard he tried to reach it, the castle was always on the horizon. Regardless, the young man continued to move towards it. It gave him purpose. It gave him cause.

I love the choppy style, Vagrant Warrior lady is also in. Pop her in the character tab when you're happy.

Also, to answer the food question: depends on the environment of the place you're in. Generally, though, you're looking at eating a lot of sketchy-looking-fungii, a lot of sketchy berries, probably some dirt, some grotesque looking insects, and maybe even the flesh of another lost soul, if you've been so lucky :)

'much poetic sads'

I can say as a writer, I've never quite heard this term before. I also wouldn't call the rp 'angsty' in any way. The rp is going to have dark and bleak elements, but it isn't going to be SAD ALL THE TIME either.

<Snipped quote by SirBeowulf>

Oh. K, thanks for clearing that up. Gets this feeling we not gunna get along then... :3 ~Later~~!!^^

<Snipped quote by NewSun>
Cool, thanks. Will edit and add momentarily.

Also, @OneEyedChurro, your character sheet makes repeated mention of Prince's sword's unusual weight and length. Out of curiosity, how heavy and long is it exactly? (Feel free to take this question completely out of context and quote me saying it.)

<Snipped quote by Ashgan>

Aw. I'm really bad with numbers-

It'd pretty much be between a one-handed longsword and a two-handed blade, as if the smith couldn't decide if he wanted the wielder to use one or two hands and just stopped somewhere halfway between the two. It's also fairly thin looking but solid and heavy. Someone stronger than the Prince could probably easily use it with one hand, or switch to two to get harder swings- Prince usually uses one since he's got the lantern in the other. All in all it was my way of sort of alluding that the Prince is fairly weak and not a great fighter.

Maldron [+]

Given Name: Maldron the Assassin


A typical ginger, Maldron is simply average. A guy you would pass on the street and pay him no attention. On a closer look, people always remember his amber eyes and freckles.

Equipment:

• Black Leather Armor: A full set of studded black leather. Comfortable, sturdy and absolutely maddening during hot weather or after lot's of physical activity.
• Linen cloak: A simple, ragged cloak Maldron uses to cover himself. Adds a little bit of warmth, and can act as a blanket.
• Small cloth pouch: A small pouch where Maldron keeps small amounts of food. The bag reeks of metal, indicating it was once used to carry something else.
• Dagger: A simple, yet reliable dagger hidden in his right sleeve.
• Throwing Knives: Various buckles and straps on the front of his leather armor hold around 12 daggers meant for throwing, as well as several glass vials with unknown substances. His small arsenal is usually hidden from view by the cloak.

Memories:

• A group of people in black leather have him cornered. Maldron is still a kid, one of their money pouches in his hand. The men are grinning, and one of them is reaching his hand out to Maldron.
• Maldron is sparring with kids similar to him, as men in black watch from the distance. Bruised, beaten and tired, they know they are not allowed to stop until they can no longer stand. He feels deep fear and respect for those people.
• Maldron is a black room, kneeling, his hand held forward. Corpses and fresh blood surround him, blood dripping from his blade. The men in black approach him grinning, carrying a brand. Searing pain courses through his hand, as he hears their words: "From now on, you are Maldron, a weapon of unparalleled lethality".
• Maldron is in front of a throne. A man with long grey hair sits on it, with a grand, golden grown, expensive and colorful clothes. His throat is cut wide open, and he gurgles as blood gushes out. Around him are bodies of the King's guard. The throne room's floor is full of warm, red blood. Maldron feels absolutely nothing.
• Maldron is running through a crowd. Behind him could be heard the clanging of metal and various shouts, like "Stop the assassin!. He still feels nothing. No fear, no excitement. He knows the path to safety, it is not the first time he took the guards for a chase.

Awakening:
Maldron finds himself in a grey wasteland, with massive, grey, stone-like trees towering above him. He could not remember how he got here, or who he actually was. Yet he felt nothing. As he stood up, he probed his mind for memories, but they were hard to find. What was left indicated him being an assassin named Maldron. Was he drugged? Was this another of their tests? Does it even matter? From the very few memories that were left, Maldron knew that he flirted with death way too many times to worry about it now. Just another mission, he reassured himself. That's all there was to it. Maldron is a weapon, and a weapon should not concern itself with the concept of self, nor ask the question "why". Whatever happened, whatever was ahead, it is not for him to wonder. His only reason to live is to end other lives, and this lifeless landscape must contain his next target.

I really hope I didn't get too carried away.