[OOC] Starless

[Transience]

A NOTE TO PROSPECTIVE PLAYERS
We have a lot of interest in this RP, and the character load is nearing critical mass. We don't ever want to come to a point in which we are not accepting new players, but we also want to avoid burning out and killing the RP through too much work. Due to this, we are crunching down on our selection process. If you are interested in joining the RP, please contact either myself, @ravenDivinity, or @Dead Cruiser to discuss the terms of joining the RP, and any waiting times there may be.

A great darkness has befallen the land of Ansus. This incredibly religious and now-peaceful realm that was forged by a millennia of chaos and battle grows cold and silent. The grand fires that represent the eternal presence of the Gods have, one by one, dissipated.
The Gods are being systematically hunted by some creature... some entity, and with each loss, the land of Ansus is scarred.

It is a thousand years since the formation of Ansus as a unified land, and a thousand years since the death of the last Legendary Hero of antiquity. The last Great Fire within the Bastion of Light has waned and dwindled first into embers, and then into ashes. The High Priests do not reveal to the populace that the Gods are extinct, rather devoting their energies to whatever arcane rituals they can conceive of to rekindle the fire. But despite their efforts, the land grows cold and empty.

The last living God, is his wisdom, knew that his kind had no hope to defend themselves from this being that so effortlessly brought low he and his kind, and knew that after his defeat that the Humans of Ansus would be next. And so, his final act was to rouse the spirits of those long sleeping legends from the chaotic times before; those mythical heroes who made the land tremble with the very mention of their name. It may not be enough, but he had to try before being consumed by the Starless beast who came for his celestial soul...

Welcome to Starless, a brand new IP for fantasy RP. Our story begins in the aforementioned land of Ansus, a vast, sprawling kingdom that is as vehemently religious as it is complex. It is a land regarded as the most peaceful in the world, only achieved by a bloody, turbulent millennia that came before.
The period of conflict gave rise to many great men and women who are now regarded as heroes of myth and legend, whose power exceeded that of any other Humans in the history of the world.
With the extinction of the Gods, the Last Living God saw fit to bring these legendary individuals back from the grave in a last ditch effort to defend the world itself. They will act as the last line of defence against whatever force is bringing the structure of the world low.

You are one such Hero, and you have been roused from a long and peaceful death to an end you do not understand. The world has changed immeasurably; as you walk into the light of day once more, and you look upon the Rings of the World, and fresh air fills your lungs once more, you must discover your path amidst a world changed.

A n s u s

Ansus is the given name of the Kingdom in which the RP primarily takes places. It is also a complete continent, and the largest of its kind in the world. Because Ansus is such a vast, old land, there is huge diversity and complexity within:
The great North is home to the Plains of Dust, a vast expanse of sand and blazing heat that has formed around a pair of gargantuan mountains (named the Mountains of Dust) that continually grow and shrink through the year; the South is home to the lush deltas that feed the Heartlands and the jungles that stretch through the spine of the Kingdom. The frozen wastelands of the East are expansive and barbaric, and the Western reaches range from vast grasslands to craggy mountain passes.
It is also worth noting that from Ansus one may see three moons during the night, two suns during the day, and the world is always framed by a huge planetary ring that keeps the land alight even during the darkest of nights.

Cities, towns, and other human-created landmarks are currently undecided. The worldbuilding from here on out is at the volition of the players, and towns, cities, and other such vistas can both be created as an act of improvisation or pre-determined as part of the character creation or worldbuilding process.

Large Map

P a n t h e o n O f G o d s

A N D U R I A S THE LAST GOD, THE GOD KING
F A E R T H U S GOD OF WISDOM
N O V I S S A H THE OMNISCIENT
T A E L GOD OF TIME
O R T H U S PRINCE OF THE VOID
I L I A X I S GODDESS OF ORDER
K H A L K A T O R I K GOD OF CHAOS
A R E T E GODDESS OF VIRTUE
S A E V U S GOD OF TRUTH
G O E T H I A QUEEN OF THE WILDS
V I N S H A THE FOX GODDESS
T A V R A GODDESS OF NATURE
F U L T H R I M GOD OF FURY
O N T I R I A GODDESS OF LOVE

Players are free to designate deities as they see fit assuming this does not clash with another player's designation.

B e s t i a r y

The Bestiary section of the OOC will be updated upon democratically accepted wildlife and mythological creatures in Ansus. Get creating!

C h a r a c t e r S h e e t s

N A M E / A L I A S
What is the name of your hero?

M Y T H O L O G Y
Tell us about the history and exploits of your character (and why they are legendary) via their mythology. What tales do people tell of your character? What songs do the children sing of them, perhaps? Be sure to include how they met their end after all of their exploits were done.

A P P E A R A N C E
Describe your character to us. How are they often portrayed in history and how do they look upon their revival? Pictures are encouraged, but a written description is required.
If you use an anime image I will strike you down harder than you would believe. Don't do it.

A B I L I T I E S / E Q U I P M E N T
Our characters are heroes (or villains) of legend. What makes them special? What powers do they wield? What equipment do their stories tell of them using? (Bear in mind that characters will resurrect with at the most one piece of their canonical equipment; the rest will have to be recovered via other means.

A G E O F L E G E N D
How many years prior to the present was your hero actually extant? This must be at the VERY least 1000 years prior to the present, up to a maximum of 50,000 years.

O O C

This section exists primarily to discuss anything that does not fit with the rest of the OOC. The first and foremost subject in need of discussion at this point in the life of the roleplay is the nature of the GM and the entitlements bestowed upon the players: I created this RP not to powerplay myself as some godlike entity that has complete control over a story. I created it because I wanted to play a game in this very world with a quite unusual storyline and basis. For this reason, I do not assume total control over the roleplay, but rather insist that the responsibility be shared out between all players involved in the game. I will set out the world and the guidelines for the game to begin, but after that I am no more in control than anybody else.
For this reason, however, I expect a high standard of maturity in all players who apply. I want everybody to have a strong grasp of the theme before we begin, so that we can all have equal part in the telling of the story.

So, as we are all technically GMs, feel free to create and kill NPCs, create places and events, and improvise with each other without fear that the game will go askew. I will, obviously, create and control some NPCs that will be necessary to drive the story, but I am by no means giving anything I create plot armour. If you feel it is appropriate to kill an NPC that seems important to the story, do it. I want conflict and friction and maturity.

R u l e s

What?

Who needs rules?

You know not to god-mod or powerplay. You don't need me to tell you this. Act mature and reasonable and who cares?

Post requirements? Why do you need any. Yes, this is advanced but i'm not ever going to force you to post more than a paragraph. Sometimes you just don't need to dawdle on about how the sky looks or how your hair waves in the wind. Sometimes you just need to respond to something that happened and I fully understand you don't need to write a whole lot sometimes.

QUALITY, NOT QUANTITY.

[Corvidae]

Oh, wow, I'm actually extremely excited to start writing up my character. So excited that I'll have the sheet up within the next few hours.

[Transience]

@Corvidae That is serious excitement!

[Jack Travidi]

Do you have anything in mind for who the Gods were or what their purpose was? Were they simply God-like beings co-existing or was it more like a Pantheon, with the different Gods having dominion over certain things?

[Transience]

@Jack TravidiIn my mind, the Gods were part of a large and relatively undefined pantheon. This is to give all players enough freedom to designate any Gods necessary in their mythology to suit the style of their character. Once the main character base has been submitted, I will likely finalise the pantheon to solidify the canon. The only God that is somewhat defined in my head is the Last God, the one who actually resurrected the characters; he is a rather zeus like figure who is typically considered the head of the Gods.

[Jack Travidi]

@Transience Excellent, thank you. You should be seeing a character sheet from me in the next few hours. This is a really cool idea and I like the collaborative world-building aspect a lot.

[Transience]

@Jack TravidiNo problem! And yeah, it's pretty different to endless fandom roleplays ;) I hope the collaborative world-building and group-GMing works out like I hope it will. I've tried it to a lesser extent in older RP's but i'm hoping this will reach the next level.

[Ambrosia]

I'll have a CS up in a few hours (...hopefully).

Also, quick question; what are the posting expectations (length, speed, etc.)?

[Corvidae]

EDIT: COMPLETED!

Crow, the Windwitch

T h e W i n d w i t c h

Theme

N A M E / A L I A S

Crow

Stormcaller | The Windwitch

M Y T H O L O G Y

As a child growing up in the lawless outskirts of a derelict village, Crow learned to rob and cheat to get by. Growing up on the streets with little more than a gang of juvenile vagrants for company left Crow with an intimate familiarity with the delicate arts of delinquency. She was a covetous scavenger that rifled through the garbage, dug through its ilk in the vain hopes it'd earn the right to live another day - hence the name.

(Her former 'gang' leader had never been one for empty pleasantries.)

Stealing, extorting, and a tiny bit of conning honed both mental and physical agility, while life on the streets taught her self-reliance. When she was ten, a ragtag group of criminals took a shine to the young delinquent and brought her into their fold. By the time Crow was thirteen, she had become a seasoned accomplice, and she relished the thrill of every heist.

The nights were long, sometimes. Long, cold, with only the intermittent rumbles of an empty stomach to break the monotony. Wet, too, when the clouds chose Crow as the object upon which to vent their frustrations. Many a night was spent nestled between piles of snow, huddling futilely for warmth, listening to the thunder roaring a vicious lullaby.

She’d never been one for religion. She’d never hunched over her own hands, tipped her head skywards, a frantic stream of murmured pleas spilling from her lips. She’d laughed in the faces of gods and heroes alike, citing the former as nonexistent and the latter as corruption incarnate - as bastards that destroyed the lands, their treachery leaving a trail of scorched, ruined villages and destitution in its wake.

(She was seventeen the day the soldiers slaughtered one of her friends in cold blood.)

She wasn't quite sure exactly when the winds began to bend to her commands - a gentle, caressing breeze would explode into a tempestuous maelstrom in time with the flare of her temper, thunder would crack with every loud, boasting laugh.

(She was seventeen the day her 'friends' left her to die outside the barracks, their comrade avenged.)

As any starving, scared young adult might do when confronted with an unnatural phenomenon - one that threatened to crumble the relative stability of her daily routine, at that - Crow severed ties with her former compatriots, fled her backwater, ramshackle village, and turned to a life of solitary crime.

(She was eighteen the day she contemplated razing their shoddy little hovels, stripping away all they held dear, ruining them like they'd almost ruined her.)

(She was eighteen the day she promptly cut that intrusive-thought shit the fuck out.)

It came as very little surprise to anyone when the young thief ran afoul of one of the local smuggling rings. It came as even less of a surprise when the leader - an impish, capricious young lass who was as fickle as she was whimsical - took a special interest in the wayward vagabond. Not only was she a valuable asset (criminal know-how and a pretty face?), but the rumors had a way of spreading. Whispers of the witch of the wilds, knight-slayer and (alleged) rampant vigilante of the poor burned through the cities like hellfire.

(They were only partially true. That man wasn't a knight, and she sure as hell wasn't some kind of cloak-wearing do-gooder. The nerve of some people, jeez!)

Negotiations were discussed. Invitations were extended, and soon the King of the Ports had recruited her 'court mage'. Fealty was sworn, allegiances were forged, and the dynamic duo's reign of terror-but-not-quite kick-started.

It came as absolutely no surprise when they fell into bed together approximately one year later.

The legitimate, permit-wielding naval fleets took a certain, justified amount of offense to their ships being plundered and their trade routes compromised. They didn't pose much of a threat, initially - when you're a vengeful, hero-hating smuggler with the gales themselves wound delicately around your fingertips, few things do. The King of the Ports, complacent in her perceived authority, disregarded most threats, vows, and promises of war-waging with little more than a flippant, dismissive hand-wave.

(She had the skies themselves squirming beneath her nightly. The navy could, quite frankly, go fuck itself.)

Unfortunately, speculation as to the nature of the King and her Hound's relationship had spread from the King's crew to the taverns. Specifically, Crow's sapphic tendencies. She met a girl, that night. Another one, one that wasn't her King.

(She couldn't help it, how was she supposed to know that lying wretch was a spy? She was pretty, and she'd offered information to the crew in exchange for board, and she'd said nice things, and damn it, Crow was such an idiot!)

One particular battle went horridly awry, to put things mildly, and the uppity little Crow found herself impaled through the stomach on the point of her paramour's dirk, bludgeoned over the head with the flat of her own glaive, and, eventually, imprisoned. Held captive like some common war criminal. Like a dog.

(The irony was about as bitter as the rusty tang of her own blood.)

The fleet had been dispatched to dispose of the smuggler problem, and that, apparently, included the destruction of the port-side villages, too. Salvo upon salvo of cannon fire was launched. Alarmingly few hit their marks, and most of the artillery sought purchase in the clusters of homes and markets.

She couldn't abide it. As much as she loathed the weak, as much as the mere notion of self-sacrifice repulsed her to the point of nausea, a crime this heinous was exactly the sort even a lowlife bastard like her couldn't allow.

And though she was bound, life trickling out of her chest in sticky red rivulets, consciousness ebbing away with every ragged, pained breath, she could feel it. Feel the pull of the wind in her veins, the tug she'd come to know as magic yanking at her gut. The storm raging outside called to her, choppy waves and roaring thunder and steady, reverberant drum of the rain hitting the decks above combining in one harmonious symphony.

She leveled the entire fleet.

The King survived, slunk back into the city's underbelly to replete and rebuild, pride stinging as badly as her wounds.

Crow's body was never recovered, but the legends of the wild Windwitch, the Stormcaller and Knightslayer, were bandied about the land as if on the wind's whispers. Though the tales were altered to suit the bard reciting them - in some, she was a pirate; in others, a diligent young soldier; in one, a hermit that had retreated into the mountains, built a hut, and cannibalized some children - her final moments remained, mercifully, intact.

In all the stories, one thing was consistent: she had died before her time, and the concept of self-sacrifice had made her quite ill.

A P P E A R A N C E

Crow’s face is thin, all prominent cheekbones and angular cheeks and narrow, mischievous eyes. A faint, barely-distinguishable smattering of freckles spans a soft, slightly upturned nose. Small lips born to twist into a crooked, devil-may-care grin host pristine white teeth. Significantly detracting from an otherwise imposing aura, Crow clocks in at approximately 5’2”, meaning one could conceivably hoist her over one’s shoulder and carry her off mid-argument.

(The legends rarely get it right, however, preferring to depict their revered hero as a tall, strapping young lass, which...couldn’t be further from the truth.)

Straight, side-swept dark hair falls in choppy layers down her back. She’s adamant in her refusal to shear it short, and so, for pragmatism’s sake, she binds the majority of it back in a long braid. What’s allowed to hang freely has got this windblown, perpetually tousled quality, as if the wind itself is bending to its whims.

She’s lean and narrow, alabaster skin stretching taut over a reasonably toned physique. Power is written into every movement, every challenging stare or cocky smirk, brimming deceptively beneath her skin. Years of acting on the ‘fight’ portion of her instincts has imbued within her a certain sense of confidence – her posture is aggressive on the battlefield and assertive everywhere else, and she typically stands with her feet spread, hands planted firmly – defiantly – on her hips.

P E R S O N A L I T Y

The legends painted her as a kind, generous hero, a desire to give all she had instilled within her by a childhood spent laboring in poverty.

The legends are wrong. She's not generous, and she's sure as hell not a hero.

Prancing through life with an infuriatingly cocky grin and enough cheerful arrogance to power a small regiment, it’s little wonder this kid makes enemies nearly everywhere she goes. She is quick to judge and even quicker to dismiss; it’s this flippant sort of insouciance, especially regarding serious situations, that makes those enemies turn to nemeses. (She’s been keeping a running tally of how many people have publicly declared her their eternal archenemy. It’s about as big as her ego.) She’s brash, she’s brazen, and she’s six kinds of reckless. She’d grind every bone in her body to dust if it meant inflicting even a single bruise on her adversary, and she doesn’t care if achieving her goals means tearing down the structure of society brick by dusty brick. Insurmountable odds are viewed as a fun challenge; even the biggest threat can be broken down into smaller, more manageable chunks if you pummel it hard enough.

Wreathed in a contagious aura of vitality and armed to the teeth with an abundance of smarmy grins and a veritable battalion of bawdy jokes, Crow is generally always worth a good laugh. She’s confidence incarnate – she doesn’t walk, she swaggers. A lonely childhood bestowed upon her an impressive imagination, and she’s always conjuring up some sort of wild scheme. This, coupled with poor impulse control and a predilection toward improvisation, means she can orchestrate some truly nefarious plans.

Governed almost completely by her bellicose nature, Crow absolutely loves to fight - loves the dizzying, intoxicating rush she gets whenever the adrenaline starts coursing through her veins, loves the flutter she gets in her heart when she think she’s about to die, loves the thrill of the danger - of the possibility she might lose. Nothing gets that unsettling battle grin of hers going more than a proper brawl. Crow’s an adrenaline junkie born and bred, and she’s yet to realize that just because no one’s died doesn’t mean it can be considered a victory.

Her brash attitude, abrasive humor, blatant refusal to follow the rules can often infuriate any by-the-books teammates. She treats orders – and occasionally boundaries – like broad suggestions. Continuing along a similar vein, she’s a notably physical person; she’ll sling an arm around a comrade’s shoulders for support, playfully tousle their hair after emerging victorious from combat, or plop down beside them and drape herself across their lap. She’s like an affectionate stray dog that’ll turn up on your doorstep routinely if you offer it food or a scratch behind the ears even once.

As her background might lead one to surmise, Crow is vehemently opposed to materialism, and harbors a certain degree of resentment toward the affluent and influential. She’d destroy the financially elite in a heartbeat, provided someone could equip her with a sufficient alibi. When holiday gift exchanges or birthday celebrations roll around, she doesn’t like asking for physical possessions for presents. A lifetime of poverty has conditioned her not to want or request such things from other people. Besides, she figures if they’re giving something to her, it means they’re going without, and the subsequent guilt is enough to send her teetering over the edge.

Crow is also hopelessly naive, interpreting everything at face value, be it her surroundings or what she perceives as a factual statement, leaving her fairly oblivious to the nuances of human nature. She's a tinkerer, not a thinkerer - weapons provide far better company than people, and they’re easier to fight, regardless. (Where she grew up, disputes were settled with quick-and-dirty scuffles.) Because she's new to this particular line of work (read: unabashed heroics), she's yet to learn the importance of verifying testimonies; she equates emotional intensity with honesty. This has made many love confessions awkward and kind of unbearable; poor kid’s denser than a slab of granite. She’s shockingly good at detecting potential romantic or concupiscent partners, yet consistently comes up short insofar as long-term commitment is concerned.

Extremely self-reliant and obstinate to a fault, Crow is as stubborn as a scorned mule, especially when it comes to injury management. She’ll bristle and bare her fangs and skulk in corners, preferring to suffer in dignified silence than allow someone else to nurse her wounds – that is, if she’ll even admit they’re present. She doesn’t like admitting she’s not capable of handling herself – it makes her feel weak, vulnerable, and useless.

And when kids like her lose their purpose, when they stop holding any value, they die.

Because of her rambunctious, rowdy nature, she’s antsy and prone to restless fidgeting when forced to sit still, making her not at all suited to reconnaissance, infiltration, or gathering intel through ass-kissing or elbow-brushing. Cart her to some sort of formal, extravagant gala, and she’ll have you both ejected from the premises in half an hour’s time. (In her defense, there’s something absolutely hysterical about how god-awful those ludicrous, faux-posh rich-person accents sound. Especially when they know she knows they’re faking.) She’s got issues with impulse control, particularly when asked to follow orders. Her plans derail as quickly as her attention span. Her ability to read the flow of battle (and the wherewithal to almost unconsciously discern weak points, such as a faulty prosthetic, atrophied muscles, or old injuries that never properly healed) is the closest she’ll ever come to devising combat tactics.

Her manner of speech is gruff, brazen, and hopelessly irreverent, and her sentences consist primarily of short, choppy words - her brain moves faster than her mouth, so she prefers terse fragments to get her point across. Though her favorite method of communication is fists on flesh, she's also quite fond of employing a vast array of gesticulations to further illustrate whatever point she’s trying to make.

The only part of her vocabulary one could consider even remotely extensive is her repertoire of creative vulgarities. It’s rare to see her compose any sort of oration, formal or otherwise, that isn’t peppered liberally with profanities.

Crow is aggressively homosexual. Her gaydar is notoriously accurate - it's the stuff of legends. Every girlfriend she’s ever had pinged it immediately, and plenty of people besides who turned out to be from her 'side of the street'.

It’s a great guide for when to flirt, when to crush her developing crushes, and when to pay very, very close attention to the undercurrent of a conversation. She puts a lot of confidence in her ability to pick out the people who swing that way.

A B I L I T I E S / E Q U I P M E N T

Armed with little more than a time-worn, battle-ravaged glaive and a rusty dagger, Crow has never looked the part of the legendary beastslayer, even during the height of her career. (The glaive's sole purpose was a fulcrum and balancer; something to pivot around or vault off of. An enabler for a reckless, octane, highly ineffectual combat style.)

But that’s all right - she rather prefers it that way.

She’s the Windwitch, the Stormcaller, the fury of a thousand bolts of vengeful lightning, after all - not the Steelsinger. Not a knight.

Not a true hero.

Manipulation of the wind has always come easiest, be it conjuration of an updraft to propel her skywards or a razor-sharp gale to cleave off an adversary’s arm. It’s the most comfortable, like an extension of her own body. The rush of adrenaline she gets whenever she invokes this magic is almost intoxicating - it’s like liquid euphoria, dissolving all her worries, all her cares.

The skies themselves heed her commands - while she can’t generate her own personal rainstorms or clap her hands for an emergency lightning strike, existing thunderstorms fall under her dominion. She can direct lightning, conduct it through her glaive, hurl arcs of white-hot hatred at those foolish enough to oppose her. She can’t produce it herself, though. Never could.

Rain has always been the most difficult. The most elusive. She’s reluctant to admit her ineptitude when it comes to the more nuanced art of water-management, but unfortunately, it’s a glaringly obvious shortcoming. She can’t even so much as reduce a deluge to a drizzle.

Her hidden talent is pretending she's more competent than she truly is.

[Blackbeard]

Work in Progress

N O R C O K H A N

Theme Song


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


A P E A R A N C E

Due to the lack of artistry in Norcos 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.
It is difficult to discern whether or not Norco is ugly or not, as his ragged black beard, stained white in places, hangs over his mouth and chin like a chain-mail mask. His eyes are not quite the pure white that is depicted in the tales, they are in fact a very light shade of grey and whilst he does indeed have pupils, his stare is no less forgiving. Cheek bones sit high as his whitened rough skin darkens ever so slightly
in the crevices of his wide, burly 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 hunted personally. A bears head sits on his shoulders, halved down the center of its head and turned forward to match his gaze, they act like brutal pauldrons. Cloths and leathers cover his sturdy legs and arms leaving only his hands and head uncovered.

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

Norco is known as a warrior king and one of the deadliest to ever live, a swing of his axe can cleave multiple men in twain as he carves his way through a battlefield. Whilst he is not the most skilled warrior his disregard for his own safety makes him insurmountable, wounds and injuries have been seen 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 it is hardly surprising. The battles that he personally fought in the frozen east have become legendary in their own right, he glides across the ground with an unnatural ease with a close mist that shields him from onlookers. It is said that in the snow-covered east, Norco commands winter as his ally.

Banemaw - The Axe Norco wields is known by this name. Said to be 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, the legend of Norco Khan still lives. Tales tell us of a man so huge that he could not feel the pain of arrow tips, that he could crush a mans skull with his bare hands. That his very step could imprint onto rock.
The stories begin with an expedition through a cold mountain pass. The Kulgan, a clan of barbarians that lived near the foot of the mountain, traversed this path each year to reach the bountiful forest on its other side. It was in the thirty-second year of Chieftain Kosk that those foragers returned with more than roots and berries. A boy was found, in the mountain pass, a boy wrapped in grey cloth to protect him from the biting cold. His cries echoed throughout the mountain passes, leading the expedition to him. As the only woman of the group picked him from the only snow-less rock, she noticed his eyes. A pure white. No iris, no pupil. It was like staring into perfect pearls. This child was a gift from the gods, so the group had decided. A boy purposefully placed in their path so as to live a normal life, but he would grow to be anything but normal.

The legend goes that this boy was taken in by the barbarians at the foot of the misty mountain. He grew, and grew quickly. By the time he was fifteen he could easily match any man in the clan for size, the others were in awe of him despite their mundane relation. At times he would achieve feats that left them speechless, stories of him fighting a colossal dire wolf single-handedly gained him the name of 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 mountain pass many times before yet if left questions unanswered. That winter Norco left the clan in search of those answers, he headed for the mountain pass that saw his emergence almost a suicidal pilgrimage in the dead of winter. A year passed and the Kulgan heard nothing of their infamous son. Another winter, the one after that. It took five long years for the Wolf to return to the foot of the mountain, to the people that had raised him as their own. He was different. People gathered at the villages edge to watch the Goliath stride towards their homes. A man unlike any every before seen, a man with pure white eyes. The woman whom had lifted him from that rock nearly two decades ago fell to her knees as she recognized the man she knew as a son. His gaze pierced her with air of pure might, he took a knee himself, shaking the ground under his weight. His face softened for the slightest of moments as he took her hand. The words he spoke in that moment have been heard throughout the land since, "The Wolf returns".

Since that day it has been said that to travel to the east, to the frozen mountains is to walk into the jaws of a wolf. Norco Khan became one of the most legendary warriors as he single handedly dragged the small village of barbarians that he once knew to the heights of a world power. They spread throughout the east in startling fashion, crushing anything that stood in their way. With Norco as their leader, the Kulgan were an invincible people. Word spread of a warrior so mighty that to kill him would only affirm your own end spread throughout the world. A warrior so imposing that he could shun death itself.
Sadly everything must come to an end, and try as he might Norco could not defeat the adversary of time. His hair grew white, his face wrinkled. Deaths Bane, as he would come to be known in the stories, was laid to rest in the very place he began his journey, the mountain pass above his village. Some say his tomb is still there, a pile of stone sealed together, immovable as if to match his own legend. Alas it has never been found.

Many years later the bards of more civilized nations would sing of his journey into the mountain, the five long years spent in the numbed pass the Kulgan still travel. It was rumored that atop that mountain, Norco questioned the very gods. Bellowing his frustration towards the heavens a single bolt of lightning struck the ground meters from him. A dire wolf, larger than any living beast approached Norco from that point. It did not bear it's teeth, it did not advance with aggression. It simply sat, in front of the knelt Khan. He did not know it, but that beast was a god. The father or Norco Khan had come to stare his descendant in the eye. His survival in the mountain had proved his worth and he was accepted by his parent. Looking to the skies Norco was confronted by a strange alignment of stars, in the shape of Ansus a cloud drifted across it, a cloud in the shape of a wolfs head. Norco Khan, the King of the Frozen east, 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 the Wolf of the Mountain, they could not resist the many empires that rose in defiance to their rule. Year after year the Kulgan lands shrank, retreating back the cold, bitter wastelands of the east. Today there is still a town at the foot of the misty mountain. They no longer call themselves Kulgan, but their blood is linked. They all await for the White-eyed Wolf to descend the mountain once more, to lead once more.

"The wolf is near,
His howl can be heard,
The wolf is near,
From slumber, he is stirred."

[Corvidae]

@Blackbeard

When I look at your character's face claim, all I can think of is this.

It's great.

[Blackbeard]

@Corvidae I shall work that poster into his Mythology XD

[ravenDivinity]

I'll post my CS when I get home and finish it.

[ravenDivinity]

Alright, I'm done.

Altim

N A M E / A L I A S

Altim

T H E S K Y S P L I T T E R & H E R O O F C Y N D E R I A

M Y T H O L O G Y

Altim was born roughly 2,000 years ago in Cynderia, one of the fragmented states of the West, into the family of a merchant class father and a lower class mother, who worked and married to achieve a higher status and escape the cycle of poverty in the ghettos of Cynderia. In the capital city of Cynderia, Altim received his education, and although he performed excellently in scholarly pursuits, he felt alienated by the traditional society of his homeland and called to the adventure in the world. So compelled was he to escape the life, which his parents had intended for him from the very beginning, that he ran into the forest to find a journey of his own. By the 8th day, Altim was starving and thirsting on the brink of death, and he had no food or water. The adventure he had so painstakingly sought eluded him; all he found in the great woods was isolation and emptiness. As he lay to sleep that night beneath the boughs of the trees, Altim realized his folly and wept tears of shame. He cried for the worry of his elders, and he pitied himself for naivety and ignorance. In one act of kindness, he freed a bird whose legs were caught under a stone, and he drew his final breath.

This selfless act and tragic epiphany did not go unnoticed in the shade. In the morning, he woke in the waters of the holy fountain in the forest temple, under the care of the High Priest. The High Priest of the temple told Altim of Faerthus, the God of Wisdom, whose countenance rewarded the virtues of man with intelligence and knowledge. In the night, Faerthus had blessed Altim with new life and new wisdom, and in the day, the High Priest sent Altim home with food and drink. The prodigal son returned a prudent sage, and his family welcomed him with love, song, and joy. From that day forward, he thanked his family for what they had done for him, and they allotted him more freedom, even against his rejection of traditional Cynderian views. Altim became a devoted follower of Faerthus, whom Altim prayed to regularly for guidance and faith.

The tale, for Altim, did not end after his life-changing revelation; many years later, when Altim reached the tender age of 18, the neighboring empire of Bytheron declared war on Cynderia. The siege on the nation seemed endless, and the people grew restless and discontented by the losses experienced under their king. Altim fled the capital city for the safety of the temple of Faerthis and for the aid of the god in peaceful Cynderia's time of need. There the High Priest of Faerthis prophesied the fate of Altim's homeland and gave Altim an ultimatum: save Cynderia and bring greatness to the land, or suffer the consequences of failure and watch the land burn to the ground. Altim did not find adventure, adventure found him. From that temple, Altim took food, water, a horse, and a magical violin from the Priest, who in turn blessed the youth with power.

He rode from the temple into neighboring kingdoms to warn of the Bytheronian threat to the east and to temper his magical abilities in order to rise up and fight the Bytheronian Empire. The surrounding kingdoms united under Altim's warning, and Altim himself conquered dissenters to raise a powerful army. The army quickly retook Cynderia, and Altim used his powers in the final battle of the arcane between him and the King of Bytheron. Joyous celebration followed, and Altim was declared a hero of the Republic of Cynderia, the new nation that rose from the united sovereignties, a great uniter of the lands who called a storm and struck the King of Bytheron with a mighty bolt of lightning. Altim refused to become the leader of the new nation that rose from the ashes of the old Cynderia. Instead, he retired to become a scholar and died in the arms of the man he loved.

Beyond the grave, numerous tales were spun about Altim's greatness, and songs were sung from generation to generation, each one praising the wisdom of Faerthis and the journey Altim took to attain the artifacts and abilities that allowed Cynderia to win the war. As time passed, many of the older, truer depictions of Altim faded and disappeared, and newer versions of Altim's legend survived. His love for beautiful men, his studious nature, his divinely-gifted precepts, all of these things were erased by the passage of time and the ignorance of mankind, but no man would ever forget the great nation which owed its existence to Altim and Altim's impact on the world.

A P P E A R A N C E

The last-surviving testament to Altim incorrectly depicted the youth with short, light blond hair and a flute. He had neither, and he was never as tall, sinewy, or wealthy as the tale portrayed him. In fact, his physical appearance is very different from what his flawed description may lead people to believe about him. In reality, Altim in his prime appears 18 years old. He has medium-length, dark brown hair that he parts to the left, close-trimmed facial hair that if left unattended grows into a full beard. His stature is a little shorter than average at about 5 feet and 7 inches (or 170 centimeters), and he weighs only 150 pounds. Now, despite his meager weight and height, Altim himself is fairly strong for his age, and his strength, though nothing like the exaggerated brute he was depicted as, shows in his broad shoulders and lean, muscular frame. His fingers are long like a musician's, his arms thick like a blacksmith's, but in general, Altim is of a lithe, statuesque build. The books show Altim in rich outerwear, regal capes and crowns, but he has never worn either of those things and in fact opts for simpler clothing. He is typically caught in loose, canvas pants and tunics, covered by chainmail, belts, and hood. He puts his feet every morning into tight, knee-high black leather boots and his arms into strapped-down, brown leather gauntlets.

A B I L I T I E S / E Q U I P M E N T

The many stories woven about Altim speak often about a mighty warrior who smote everything in his path with sword and shield, but the truth about Altim is a history of a person who won his battles with cunning, wisdom, and high magic. The violin, which he was given by the High Priest of Faerthis those 2,000 years ago, is by far and by large the most important weapon he wielded in his lifetime. With it in his arms, he easily honed the capacity for magic that he was given by Faerthis. Although after some time he had tempered his magical powers enough to use a diverse range of skills without the help of the violin, the songs he learned were still nonetheless incredibly practical in their applications. That violin enabled Altim to play songs of healing and anthems of tempestuous destruction, to sway men and women to emotional hymns, to cry for the aid of the gods and goddesses in their hallowed temples. Aside from the violin, Altim recruited the aid of other ancient artifacts, a staff that dramatically increased the accuracy of his power, a sword that could purge souls, and a bow that could pierce dimensions and deliver an empowered shot. Of course, after the revival of the heroes of old, the other curios disappeared from his possession, but his magical violin and spellcasting voice maintain their powers at his enchanted fingertips.

[Transience]

All the sheets are looking fantastic, guys! I'm keeping my eye on them, and have plans to begin a Pantheon section of the OOC. Before the RP starts I will create a map considering all of the information in CS'.

@Blackbeard One minor thing I noticed in your sheet was the folloiwng line: "Millennia ago the world was united under a single banner, an empire that stretched from the northern mountains to the southern deltas." Could you perhaps change the 'millennia' to a greater period of time? The basic backstory established so far states that the world in previous millennia (probably the past 10 or so) have seen Ansus in a state of extreme unrest.

[ravenDivinity]

@Transience: I finished my character! Hope you like him.

Edit: Also, I fixed a mistake. He should be from the West, not the South.

[Harbringer]

Hope you have room for one more, I'm really interested in this concept.

[Vigfast]

My grey cells begin to move with inspiration, I think following a brief nap, I'll contemplate a suitable character (hopefully there's still some room).

---------------------------------

Following a very clearly WIP framework (with brief notes/ideas):

The Green Knight

N A M E / A L I A S

Sir Not Yet Named / The Green Knight

M Y T H O L O G Y

Some elements of Arthurian Legend (mostly the name), mulling over the source for the rest. To begin with however, an origin in the Southern lands seems logical given the lush deltas and jungles. An association or relation with some form of Earth deity would seem fitting as well.

A P P E A R A N C E

In short, a human male wearing a most wondrous suit of green armour.

A B I L I T I E S / E Q U I P M E N T

Able to create, shape, and manipulate various forms of plants.

[Blackbeard]

@Transience Sure thing, no problem. I'll make that edit later when I finish the CS :)

[Harbringer]

Here's a framework for me to work on when it's not 3AM, but suffice to say for now I will be the party tank.

Ellarian

Ellarian

The Rampart | Unbreakable Wall of the North

Between the two Mountains of Dust lies a pass which acts as the only way into the heartlands of Ansus that does not have a high rate of attrition. Historically, this pass has been used by many invading forces from the north in order to raid the Southern deltas and, despite its strategic importance, remained undefended for centuries. Barely wide enough to admit two men abreast, the pass is a natural chokepoint for armies. During one of the Heartlands' army campaigns into the north for pacification, it was routed by a barbarian ambush which left them at almost half their numbers. Retreating meant that they would have to enter the pass, which would slow down their progress significantly. That meant, of course, that they would have to have a rearguard, which would most likely die by the time the others make it out. That duty fell unanimously to the Shield Bearers, that group of soldiers who forsook the blade in favour of carrying great tower shields, though this does not make them any less deadly in combat. Send forward in the first wave, the task of shield bearers was to engage the enemy, form a wall, and batter them back while protecting their comrades. This made them the first in, and the last out.

Positioned at the center of the line, Ellarian and his fellows formed a protective barrier around the remnants of their army as they slowly backed towards the pass. One by one, they split off to join the retreat, the line growing ever smaller as the pass funneled them in. All they way, they were under attack from barrages of arrows and barbarians who threw themselves onto their shields, where they were then flung off down the mountainside. Soon they reached the narrowest part of the pass and, after beating some sense into the more foolhardy of the remaining Shieldbearers, Ellarian remained the only one in the pass...and yet the barbarians refused to let up, charging into the breach and onto Ellarion's pitted shield.

For three days and three nights, Ellarian stood vigil over the pass, pushing the attackers back and suffering many wounds in the process as blades reached around the shield, their owners receiving a heavy bash to the face a few seconds later. With no time to rest or refresh, Ellarion rapidly began to fatigue. As he received a brief reprieve, he slid down with his back to the shield, content with saving what remained of his countrymen, and prepared to slip into blissful oblivion...at least thats what he had thought. A single rock fell on his head, causing him to look up to see loose boulders hanging precariously over the edge. An idea formulated in his head. Unwedging his shield from the pass, Ellarian began to bodily slam against the unstable cliffside. The barbarians, finally seeing the man behind the shield, immediately rushed to the attack. Axes sank home in his arm, spears bit into his torso and swords cut to the bone. But he didnt stop. With a final, mighty crash, he thre all of Ellarian threw all of his bodyweight onto the cliff, causing a rumbling. In a great avalanche of stones and boulders, the pass was blacked off; yet Ellarian himself was unharmed by it in a moment of serendipity. With his job finally done, he slipped into the sweet embrace of death's bosom.

Such a loud noise, however, was not to go unnoticed. When scouts checked up on the site of the rockslide, they found the corpse of an imperial shield bearer collapsed onto a boulder, his entire right side cut open with multiple snapped spears in him. Recovering it, Ellarian's corpse was brought back to the capital, where he was posthumously heralded as a hero for his actions. Stories were told of the predicted events, and his shield was mounted in the castle armoury as a trophy. He was essentially canonised. He was made out to be the most virtuous, honourable soldier, something for all of the military to aspire to. Children loved hearing his heroic tale spun from the mouth of bards and skalds, and the pass he fought so hard to protect was named after him in his honour. And yet, if he were still alive, he would not want any of these frivolous parties or titles. In fact, he probably would have been somewhat upset at all this...


Portrayed on several murals, Ellarian is typically depicted as a bulky middle aged man with rapidly greying hair and dark brown eyes. With his hair done up in a bun in the traditional Imperial style and a stern, piercing gaze, he is seemingly the epitome of the disciplined soldier. What the murals fail to portray however is the sheer amount of scars and keloid tissue that covers him. One almost cannot trace an inch on his skin without running over an old battle wound. Such is the life of a shield bearer. Classically, Ellarian is also depicted with a thick, unkempt white beard and, to a degree, that is true, but in reality it is quite well maintained, or at least as well as can be while on campaign. While a bit short, standing at 165 cm, one cannot deny that he is a large man considering his muscular girth, enhanced even further by the Imperial armour that he wears and the towering shield that he habitually carries.


Aegis: A thick, standard shield originally wielded by the shieldbearers of the Imperial Army, it has now fallen into disuse. Made from solid black iron trimmed through with silver in the shape of the Imperial insignia, the Aegis is heavy and unwieldy, but if placed in the right hands, it is a terrifying weapon indeed.

Banner of the Forefathers: An old Imperial banner taken off of the snapped regimental standard of the 12th Imperial Army, the Banner of the Forefathers is now being used as a kind of cape for Ellarian as a homage to his former comrades. Provides a +10 bonus to leadership and +5 to charisma