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Hidden 9 yrs ago Post by Blackbeard
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Blackbeard But why is the rum gone?

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This is going to be infinitely easier than sifting through my PM archive. If anyone ends up reading this or any of my characters then I hope you like them!

If you want to use any of them then let me know!
Hidden 9 yrs ago Post by Blackbeard
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Blackbeard But why is the rum gone?

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N O R C O K H A N

Theme Song


T I T L E S
Wolf in the Mountain | The White-eyed King

T I M E O F L E G E N D
30,592 Winters since


A P E A R A N C E

Due to the lack of artistry in his time, there are very few sources that can correctly gauge his aesthetic. It is true that he is taller than most men, standing at six-foot-six, but he does not tower over rooftops as is sometimes claimed. His eyes are not quite the pure white that is depicted in the tales either, they are in fact a very light shade of grey and whilst he does indeed have pupils, it makes his stare is no less forgiving. It is difficult to discern whether or not Norco is an ugly man for his ragged black beard, stained white in places, hangs over his mouth and chin like a chain-mail coif. Cheek bones sit high on his face, stretching his rough whitened skin that darkens ever so slightly in the crevices of his wide nose.

His attire in the books and fables has forever been an example of his barbarism. Scantily clad across his broad chest they like to infer that his skin is armour enough. The truth is that during his time Norco wore many furs and pelts of animals that he had personally hunted. A bears head sits on his shoulders, halved down the center of its head and turned forward to match his gaze, they act like pauldrons of a brutish nature. Cloths and leathers cover the rest of his body leaving only his hands and head uncovered and exposed to the elements.


A B I L I T I E S & W A R G E A R

Norco is known as a warrior king, one of the deadliest to ever live. A swing of his axe can cleave several men in twain allowing him to carve his own bloody path through a battlefield. Whilst he is not the most skilled warrior in history his disregard for his own safety makes him insurmountable, wounds and injuries have been said to heal in hours rather than days. A blessing of endurance, no doubt from his father.
Norco is also known to have a particular affinity for the cold. Having been raised in such circumstances this is hardly surprising. Beginning his campaign in the frozen east his battles have become legendary in their own right. Gliding across the ground with an unnatural ease a close mist shields him from those who seek him, his ambushes are renown. His prowess in the bitterness of winter went so far as to claim the snow itself was his ally.

Banemaw - The Axe Norco wields is known by this name. Forged in the blood of a great wolf and sharpened upon it's teeth, its blade is said to cause wounds that may never heal, demanding the death of any who feel it's bite.


M Y T H O L O G Y

In the frozen wastelands to the East, myth tell us of a man so huge that he could not feel the sting of arrow tips, that swords bounced from his skin as if striking a sheet of iron. That his very step would imprint onto rock. Indeed this hulking warrior, this behemoths legend has stretched to the very edges of the world and back. Passed down generations as tales told around a fire, everyone at some point has heard that name, Norco Khan.

Our story begins with a people known as the Kulgan. A clan of barbarians that lived at the foot of a mountain fixed into the eastern steppe horizon. Christened Ironmaw mountain, it served as the highest peak within twenty leagues, overlooking two smaller mountains to its left and right.
The Kulgan annually traversed the only safe passage through these mountains, eager to reach the bountiful forest that flourished on its far side. It was in the thirty-second year of Chieftain Kosk, a most notable leader in his own right, that those gatherers returned with more than roots and berries. In the snow covered mountain pass, a boy was found. Wrapped in a grey cloth, protecting him from the biting cold, his cries bounced from the rock faces and high into the air. It did not take long for the expedition to find the boy, sat upon a boulder free from the snow. The sole woman in the group stepped forward and picked him from the rock like a root from the ground. The very first thing she noticed were his eyes, a pure white with no pupil, no iris. She could describe them as two perfect spheres of marble if only she knew of the precious stone.
“A gift from the gods!” She exclaimed to the people traveling with her. A boy supposedly placed in their path so as to live a normal life, but he would grow to be anything but normal.

The people of the Kulgan took the infant in, raising him as one of their own. He grew, and grew fast. By the time he was seventeen he could match any man around for size. They were no strangers to watching him achieve feats they thought impossible, from picking up felled logs in the building of huts to large for any other to carry. Or the most famous of his fables, the confrontation with a colossal dire wolf which he dispatched single handedly with nought but his hands, earning him the name ‘Wolf of the Mountain’. It wasn't until his early twenties that Norco began to wonder of his origins. He had been told the story of the baby in the mountains many times before, yet if left too many questions unanswered. That winter Norco left the village, he headed for the mountain pass in search of those answers.
A year passed and the Kulgan heard nothing of their adopted son. Some feared his death after traversing the pass in the dead of winter, a pilgrimage none dared to take. Another winter passed, another followed. It took five long years, when his fate had been decided, that Norco stepped down from the mountain to the people he once knew. Norco was different, in the five years he had seemed to grow only larger. His face and body showed exactly what it took to survive as he did for so long, muscle and sinew tying all of his limbs in place. He had become a man. The people gathered at the villages edge to watch a Goliath stride towards them. A man few believed to be real, a man with pure white eyes. The woman who had lifted him from that rock nearly two decades ago fell to her knees as she recognized the nearest thing she had to a son.
His gaze pierced her with an air of pure might, taking a knee himself, his face softened for the slightest of moments as he took her hand. The words he spoke in that moment have been written in the history books of almost every civilization since, "The Wolf returns".

Norco Khan quickly became one of the most legendary warriors alive, single handedly he dragged the small village of barbarians to the heights of a recognized world power. Indeed since that day it has been said that to travel to the east is to walk into the jaws of a wolf. They spread throughout the east in startling fashion, crushing anything and anyone that stood in their way. With Norco as their leader, the Kulgan were a seemingly invincible people. It took several decades, yet the Kulgan at one point in history ruled the entire eastern fringe of the known world. Mercifully for those who dwelled in elsewhere the great clan were reluctant to leave the frozen steppes, they were too acclimatized to the cold and struggled in every season but winter.
It was not until he reached the age of forty-seven that Norco met an enemy that he could never hope to defeat, time. His hair grew white, his face sagged and wrinkled. The white-eyed king, as he would come to be known in the histories, was laid to rest in the very place he began his journey, the mountain pass above his old village. A pile of stone rests, sealed together and immovable as if to match the man underneath. Some say that whilst walking through the mountain pass, you can still hear the cries of a young baby boy. Alas his tomb has never been found by the many adventurers that have strived to traverse the east. Some think the legend was never true.

Many years later the bards of younger nations would sing of his journey into the mountain, the five long years he spent in the numbed pass of Ironmaw mountain. It was rumored that atop that mountain, Norco questioned the gods. Bellowing his frustration towards the heavens in a thunderstorm so violent it cast a shadow across the world. A single bolt of lightning struck the hard stone ground, meters from where he knelt. A dire wolf. Larger than any living beast approached Norco from that scared rock. It did not bear its teeth, it did not advance with aggression. It simply sat in front of Norco Khan. He did not know it, but that wolf was no beast, it was a god. The father of Norco Khan had come to stare his descendant in the eye, to give his final blessing. His survival in the mountain had proved his worth and he was accepted by his progenitor. The wolf tipped it’s head skywards, to which Norco followed. Confronted by a strange alignment of stars, in the shape of Ansus, a cloud drifted across its expanse. A cloud in the shape of a wolf's head. Norco Khan, the wolf in the mountain, the white-eyed king, was to become the mightiest warrior the world had ever seen. It was a title that he undeniably lived up to.

The Kulgan, under new leadership managed to continue their reign for a few years. However without Norco, they could not resist the empires that lay on their doorstep. Year after year the Kulgan lands shrank, retreating back the cold, bitter wastelands of the east. Even today there is still a town at the foot of the Ironmaw mountain. They no longer call themselves Kulgan, but their blood is linked, and they still await the wolf in the mountain to descend once more, to lead once more.
Hidden 9 yrs ago → 9 yrs ago Post by Blackbeard
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Blackbeard But why is the rum gone?

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S H O J I T A M A D A
~ It is the quiet ones that are dangerous ~


₪ - O n t h e s u r f a c e

₪ - Current Division & Rank
Shoji currently serves as the captain of squad three.


₪ - Appearance
Shoji stands taller than most at six foot two, combined with a weight of one hundred and eighty-five pounds he can cut quite an imposing figure. Jet-black hair tied in a top knot and eyes a dull amber compliment his sombre, rounded features. Shoji appears to be in his late thirties meaning he has been a Shinigami for nearly four hundred years.
He wears his black robes as all Shinigami do, unusually though Shoji rarely wears his captains Haori. Strictly using it on official expeditions he does not like the air of authority it gives him, he finds peoples attitudes change when faced with a rank rather than a name. Due to this habit there is little in the way of help when picking Shoji out of a crowd. His Zanpakuto is tucked into his sash whilst his folded arms hide under black sleeves.



₪ - B e h i n d t h e e y e s

₪ - The End
Blah Blah Blah


₪ - The Beginning
Blah Blah Blah


₪ - Personality
Blah Blah Blah



₪ - T h e s o u l u n l e a s h e d

₪ - Shinigami Abilities
Blah Blah Blah


₪ - Spirit & Inner World
Blah Blah Blah


₪ - Shikai
日本版 (Mirrors Edge)


₪ - Bankai
Blah Blah Blah
Hidden 9 yrs ago → 9 yrs ago Post by Blackbeard
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Blackbeard But why is the rum gone?

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D a m i a n 'D o c' M o r a g a


☩ A g e
One hundred and twelve years young

☩ G e n d e r
Male

☩ S p e c i e s
Human

☩ R a n k
Witch doctor

☩ I t e m s
Doc regularly has his staff with him, mostly used as a decorative walking stick it is obviously also used in some of the darker rituals that he can preform.

☩ P e r s o n a l i t y
Damian has the unnerving ability to say seemingly innocent words in the most sinister of tones. Talking to him has been described as a trap in itself, you feel as if you have already fallen into his web the moment he opens his mouth.
For all of his malevolent mannerisms, Damian is actually an easy man to understand. He will tell people stright up what he thinks, what they should do and above all what it will cost. A very knowledgeable man he is not afraid to scold someone for their ignorance, often using sarcasm as his verbal weapon of choice.

☩ H i s t o r y
Damians history is shrouded in mystery, nobody ever asks and he will never tell. He is quite obviously of Spanish decent yet due to the circles he often travels in it is hard to assume that is where he grew up. He has tattoos covering the majority of his body including his face, some of them prison tattoos which give him quite the intimidating visage. Damian does not want his history to be public knowledge, people have speculated as to why, maybe it could catch up to him? maybe it could let slip all his secrets? one thing is for sure, anyone who looks into Damian Moraga must watch their back just a closely

☩ O t h e r
Damian has been in New York for years now, he is an established member of the underground and all of its magical counterparts. He has many fingers in many pies so to speak and it is rare if not impossible for anyone to be ignorant of his presence. He owns a few business' yet the one he can often be found at is an upstreet tailors. If you want something done in New York, you go to see the Doctor.
Hidden 9 yrs ago → 9 yrs ago Post by Blackbeard
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Blackbeard But why is the rum gone?

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V E L L I A N B A R B A S
- T H E D R O W N E D L O R D -

"Sometimes losing an illusion, makes you wiser than finding a truth"


◈ Appearance
At ten foot nine Vellian towers above all but his brother Primarchs. Weighing nearly twelve hundred pounds only adds to his imposing figure, his body is broad and thick with the intertwined muscle and sinew his genetics gifted to him. Jet black hair sits atop his sombre and expressionless face, whilst eyes of a dull green glow from his sunken sockets. The one aspect that sets Vellian apart, is the large scar etched across his eye. A scar from his youth it only adds to his grim aesthetic.
Vellians armour adds another foot to his height, made of a cold steel-coloured ceramite it is emblazoned with silver symbols, insignias and scenes of war. The breastplate of his armour depicts a great struggle, it shows the primarch himself grappling with the Kraken, derived from the Talasarian myth that all will come to an end in the grasp of a beast. Vellian wears a death-mask rather than a helm, a perfect copy of his own features set in a dull silver. A teal cloak is often draped across his shoulders, flowing down his back, whipping around whenever he walks.


◈ Homeworld
Vellian was founded upon the Death-world Talasar III. A world of Nomads and war-bands that scour the watery marshes and swampland that cover almost seventy percent of the surface. Through further study of the native wildlife it was discovered that Talasar III, sitting on the outer reaches of the Ultima Segmentum, could have been previously attacked by a Tyranid fleet. There have been comparisons made between specific Tyranid xenomorphs and the planets most dangerous predators. Devolution seems to have taken place as the most prominent of these predators, the Talasarian Cetus, isn't nearly as deadly as an encounter with a Tyranid. Regardless it is the number one cause of death, outside of a warband, upon Talasar III.


◈ Personality
Vellian has a rather grim outlook on life, he has struggled since his earliest memories and does not expect that to change. He rarely raises his voice and often speaks in a low yet commanding tone. It is said that to speak with Vellian is like having your palm read, he sees through people, he sees their feelings and thoughts. Upon the world of Talasar III, Vellian had learnt the harshness of life. Nothing was free, everything took sacrifice. Throughout his early years he developed his own special kind of nihilism, the thought that he was being tested with a life of strife and compromise, but one he was determined to live. He is the type of man whom is willing to make those small sacrifices for the greater good, regardless of the moral implications. Vellian has at times cut down his own legionaries for acts he considers heinous or unsatisfactory.


◈ Skills
As is true for all Primarchs, Vellian is adept at all forms of combat. However if he ever graces the battlefield personally he prefers to fight with the front line assault marines, striking hard and fast so he can get in among the close combat. In those instances Vellian often wields his personal relic blade known as the 'Ender of Eternities', a long curved blade of ornate design and origin. Perhaps Vellians most recognized trait is his tactical mind. He is a master of battlefield organization, strategy and tactics. He is known to use very attrition based strategies in which he outlasts his enemies, diverting their attention before striking for their vital supply lines or means of reinforcement.
Vellian does not claim to have any psychic abilities although they have been alluded to. He has been known to see visions of the future, generally during his sleep, that tell him of future events. This is something he rarely speaks about and few know this fact about him as he personally sees it as a weakness.


◈ Biography
Raised on Talasar III by a war-band. They often took slaves and traded them with the other warbands. Vellian grew to lead one of these warbands, made them the most prominent and proceeded to conquer all other warbands uniting the people. He came to prominence via sacrifice, his face is scared (which is why he wears the death-mask) after being sold to a slaver in a rival warband, he kills the man and ravages his people returning to the people whom sold him carrying the heads of his foes. That is why they appoint him leader.

Vellian was raised on Talasar III, a distant death-world in the Ultima Segmentum. Covered in bayous and swampland it was a dangerous place to exist. It was difficult to find large patches of dry land to settle on as the water was best left undisturbed. The world was home to nomads and small bands of hunter-gatherers that tried to steer clear of one another as to not incite any hostility, the wildlife was bad enough. Regardless there were those few whom decided taking from the people was easier than taking from the land.


◈ Meeting
The founding of Vellian, an account - The moist moss sank and squished under his trudging footsteps. The hum of insects was pierced by the faint cry of a bird, warning all others of the approaching figure. Carefully placing his feet, Vellian made his way through the swampland. the torch he held gave little help as the enveloping mist gathered ever closer. He was getting closer. For near on a week Vellian had seen visions, images of a hooded man whom stood among the twisted trees of a bayou. It was this specter of his dreams that Vellian sought out on this fateful night. His breath quickened. The humid air acting like a barrier, repelling every noise he made back towards him. His black robes, after climbing through the marsh had grown heavy with water. The Bayou wasn't far away, if it wasn't for the fog he might have been able to see trees. The memorable croak of toads echoed towards him, plunges of water arose as they quickly escaped the approaching light. Vellian stopped. Was he willing to step into the water? he knew all to well what horrors it could hold at this time of night.
He took a sharp breath. He looked left, right. The damned fog. The insects, the frogs, in fact all the sounds of the swampland had waned. In a second, all was silent.
"Show yourself" he exclaimed hurriedly. He knew he was there. The fog thinned almost as quickly as the sound did. Not ten feet from where Vellian stood, protruded two trees. Twisted and malformed their roots had grown from the water like tentacles of a great sea-beast, wrapping around one another until they combined into the great mass that was its trunk. His eyes focused as they noticed the movement. The hooded figure, dressed in all black as was he, stepped out from behind the foliage. He moved through the water with no resistance, almost no noise, almost as if he wasn't really there. It stopped. Another silent moment passed.
"Tell me who you are" commanded Vellian, his low but brisk tone had a brutal edge to its intent.
"I am here for you. Vellian." it replied, in a much calmer, confident voice.
"You know my name. I have seen you, in my dreams. You sent me those visions?" his question was met with silence.
"Why have you come if not to talk?" Vellian stood straighter, relaxing his tensed stance.
"I have come to bring you home, son." His eyes widened in a shocking realization. Son? this man before him, from his visions, was claiming to be his father? For years Vellian had questioned his origin, he was fabled as the boy in the bayou whom grew to be the great leader of his people. This myth had never satisfied Vellians curiosity, and as such he was willing to hear the robed figures story.
"You know of me, of my beginnings, my provenance. Are you really my father?" the hooded man moved, shuffling his arms about he began to take steps towards Vellian.
"Stop!" the boom of his voice echoed louder than any noise of the swamp could, but it did not stop the figure. Grasping for his sword, often shackled to his side, Vellian prepared to strike.
"You are my son. I am your father!" he did not shout, but the voice pierced Vellians mind like a needle through flesh. He was frozen in awe as the robed man threw the black cloth from himself. What was presented before him in that moment was not a man but a god. Emanating with light, the man gazed into Vellians eyes. He felt more vulnerable than he has ever been.
"I am the Emperor of mankind, your creator, your father." In the presence of such might Vellian could only think to do one thing. The awe in his eyes drained, his typical expressionless face returned as he dropped to a knee. He held his head in fealty.
"You are the Emperor of mankind, you are my creator, and I am your son."


D O O M G U A R D



"An eye for an eye!" - Warcry of the third legion


◈ Appearance
The colours of the Doom guard relate heavily to their homeward of Talasar III. The bluish-green represents the swamp-lands, it serves as a reminder that no ground is safe. The pouldrons are painted a grim hue of bone, this represents the idea that underneath the armour is mere flesh. A dull silver serves as the trim of the Doom Guard, only the veterans and leaders of the legion may line their power armour with more illustrious colours.


◈ Legion Ideology
The Doom Guard are a cold and distant legion, very much the sons of their Primarch. Their warcry, 'An eye for an eye', represents their need to prove the legions sacrifices worthy, to take as much if not more than is taken from them. In particularly important engagements for the legion they have also been known to cry 'An eye for a head', a warning to their most hated enemies that they will exact every revenge kill two-fold.
Due to the legions use of its members lives its ranks often need replenishment. This has lead to them allow the seriously grim and dangerous individuals they find to join and serve. The Doom Guard have come under criticism for this practice, as many of the more Codex-aligned legions believe it makes them susceptible to internal struggles. Thus far, none have arisen.


◈ Legion Tactics
The Doom Guard are flexible legion that heeds to no specific specialty. Their arsenal includes mechanized units, assault tactics, long range bombardment and fleet combat. If one were forced to pick a trait specific to the Doom Guard, it would be their willingness to sacrifice. They have been known to send suicide forces into dire situations so they can outmaneuver and subtly strike elsewhere. For this reason the Doom guard can fill almost any battlefield role, including the distraction.


◈ Hated Enemy
N/A


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