[OOC] Starless - Unique Fantasy RP

[ravenDivinity]

Note: Applications are now closed. If you still would like to join, please PM me.

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
A R E T E GODDESS OF VIRTUE
O R T H U S PRINCE OF THE VOID
O R A U M GOD OF PURITY AND FIRE
I V O R I N E GOD OF PEACE AND TRANQUILITY
V I N S H A THE FOX GODDESS
S A E V U S GOD OF TRUTH
A L N O X GOD OF ORDER AND CHAOS, THE OLD GOD

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

F a u n a

Democratically accepted monsters and animals belong here. Feel free to make anything you want as long as others approve!

F l o r a

Democratically accepted plantlife belongs here. Make anything, with the same stipulation that other people must approve.

L o r e

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.

[rivaan]

And at last we can roll again! I will post my CS tomorrow though, I plan to have some edits on it :3

[ravenDivinity]

@rivaan: Awesome! I'll check your changes when you post your sheet.

[Corvidae]

It's the return of everyone's favorite coastal Casanova, complete with a surfeit of Sapphic tendencies and the remarkable inability to keep her hands to herself.

Crow, the Windwitch

T H E W I N D W I T C H

"Self-sacrifice makes me wanna puke."

_THEME

N A M E / A L I A S

Crow

Stormcaller | The Windwitch | Knightslayer

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.

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.

A G E O F L E G E N D

Approximately 2,000 years ago, give or take a century.

[jasonwolf]

I should have mine up today. It's just about done. I just have to hack parts off because I went overboard and well... I have mark's entire history from birth to Myth, and very little in the actual Myths.

That and equipment since I'm stuck on what he should keep.

[ravenDivinity]

@Corvidae:

Edit: Also, approved. :)

@jasonwolf: Okie dokie!

[Corvidae]

@Corvidae:

Edit: Also, approved. :)

@ravenDivinity

Beautiful, truly. I'll pin it up on the fridge straightaway.

^{no but seriously thank you i'm glad to be back}

[Celaira]

@ravenDivinity I'll send you a pm to talk about my character either today or tomorrow, I've been super busy with school, but the semester is almost over! :D

[ravenDivinity]

@Celaira: Alright!

[Tuujaimaa]

BEHOLD DORMERIA etc. etc.

_{"Beauty fades. That is why it is beautiful."}

Spoiler

N A M E / A L I A S

Dormeria – Herald of Quietus.

A G E O F L E G E N D

48,000.

M Y T H O L O G Y

Of the Triumvirate to which Dormeria's legend belongs, the aspect she was said to embody was that of the physical realm and the corporeal, of the flesh and blood. She has long been touted as the embodiment of mortal desire, of wealth and power, but also of its temporary nature and the price which must be paid to achieve temporary greatness. Just as history is written by the victor, legends are told by those who choose to espouse the subjects of legends as the heroes that history remembers them to be, and those wont to tell terrific tales of these individuals are also those prone to exaggerating the traits they saw or admired the most. Such is the fate that befalls all who fall into the annals of the legend, and Dormeria is no exception.

Born to a long gone family of minor nobility, Natalya de la Lune started her life as many in her situation did - affluent and irreverent to the world outside of her gilded cage in the bustling town of Tyral. Even at birth, Natalya was set apart from her kith and kin by the gift of magic that bled sorcery through her veins - weak and uncontrolled though it was, it set her apart and others aside. The clergy of Tyral thought her an abomination, her parents a resource, and the townsmen an object of awe - but Natalya felt something deeper. Life felt transitory to the young sorceress, and she felt her power lay in the uncharted realms beyond, in the throes of death.

Growing up, all attempted to indoctrinate Natalya with their faith, be that the Goddess of Virtue, Arete, be that the money that the de la Lune family worshipped, or be that any display of divine providence that the smallfolk longed for to give them direction and purpose in life. Natalya rejected each of their narrow-minded ways of thinking and focused only on the unfathomable sense of purpose she innately possessed - working it into its own faith, and that faith into the arcanery that simmered within her lifeblood. Years came and went, and Natalya de la Lune became withdrawn, focused so much on her own destiny and desires that everything else fell to the wayside.

When Natalya's perception became so inwardly focused that the outside world effectively ceased to be, her magic blossomed. She came into degrees of power she had only ever imagined, and whispers of that power echoed within the pious streets of Tyral. Very soon, the clergy's mistrust developed into incarceration of her by all accounts abominable magic. Seeing the perfect opportunity to test the limits of her power, Natalya unravelled the living flesh of the entire town in a burst of necromantic power and reformed it in the visage of the dead, a horde of corpses for her to command.

Though she had only intended to murder her would-be assailants, she had taken the lives of an entire town in a burst of magic that had been building for years, but left her drained of the potential she had once felt. Unable to stay where she was, Natalya de la Lune shed her very identity and moved on as Dormeria, to the lands extant of the heartlands she had called home.

~

"The inchoate stages of Dormeria's legend, her Restless March, began during her southbound travels, towards the set of islands south of the Heartlands where the Isle of Orthus was said to lie. Though Dormeria knew little of her patron god, her dreams led her to the temple dedicated to his worship and with nowhere else to go, she headed there. Much hearsay was generated by the hooded woman who was followed by rotting corpses, and the stories of her purpose and designs vary wherever one goes - we believe that she travelled south to meet the emissaries of Orthus to hone her gift and stop her Restless March.

What transpired on the isle is a mystery, even to those of us that dedicate our lives to understanding what Dormeria's motives and methods were - by far the school of thought with the most credence is that she travelled to the priests to learn of the demon that she later vanquished, Lazarus, but others think many things from her learning the intricacies of her magic and her artefacts, to simple boredom. It is well known that the Isle of Evaeryn was small but inhabited before the Restless March, and eerily vacant after she returned. None disagree that Dormeria took the lives of the entire isle, but few have any idea why. Many think she judged the isle and found it wanting, but I believe that she merely wished to test the limits of her power after her visit to the Isle of Orthus." - Historian Lachery Sissarin, Second Fate of the Order of the Skyward Eye

~

"Of the Triumvirate, it was the Herald of Quietus that took the most overt action. The Soul's Bastion is lesser known among the smallfolk, a popular tale to soothe frightened children, and the Beacon of the Lost had practically no real involvement amongst the gentry or the smallfolk, followed only by tragedy. Dormeria influenced the courts in many ways, setting a new standard for the law based on the judgement of worth by her example of deposing or killing those that she felt squandered their potential and their life and giving that very same essence to those who had potential quashed by circumstance. King Trinius Maximillian Atronan XI, Last of his Line, was the first to fall to the sorceress. While generally beloved in his small kingdom by the smallfolk, Dormeria judged him unworthy and installed a new ruler, who catapulted our society into an era of prosperity.

The gentry learned to fear her retribution and seek her patronage, and the smallfolk looked up to her as one who might deliver them from poverty and ill circumstance if she felt their cause worthy. Many villages were outright slaughtered by her, but those found worthy were often found gracing the Imperial Court. Some are reluctant to call the Herald a hero, despite her accomplishments in vanquishing Lazarus, but we inducted of the Order of the Skyward Eye firmly believe that Dormeria brought much good to the world and is worthy of the title "hero", even if she committed her fair share of acts that one would believe evil." - Sage Atroa Posarye, Third Fate of the Order of the Skyward Eye.

~

"When the Restless March was completed, the three Trials of Mind, Body, and Soul overcome, the time came for the Triumvirate of eld to set their sights upon the Elysian Plains and meet the destiny that the Prince of the Void laid out for them. Few records manage to recount precisely what it was that was fought, referring to it only as a great evil, but the true name of the scourge of the realm that they faced was Lazarus, the Undying.

As little literature survived Lazarus' various onslaughts, and history is written in the glory-emboldened eyes of those who did manage to drive the abomination into slumber, the truth of what Lazarus was or could do is lost, even to we Fates. Lazarus possessed unnatural durability, to the point that it simply could not be killed by normal means or normal men, and only with great sacrifices was it pushed to the brink of dormancy that it hovered upon before it set to consume all things. We believe that Lazarus corrupted and twisted the natural cycle of life to its own benefit, drawing strength from the untimely demise of those around it to extend its own time in this world. Perhaps, initially, it was no more than a nuisance but the continued reaping of helpless souls eventually rendered it beyond death until the Triumvirate arrived. Even now we do not know if this explanation is true, as none of the Triumvirate survived the encounter (with the exception of Lyr, whose mind was broken and thus was of no use)."

As only the three witnessed the battle, the stories that are told are all the world has to go by, with different cultures each celebrating a particular member of the Triumvirate and lording them above all others - some venerate Sarynia as an all-benevolent martyr betrayed by Dormeria, some laud Lyr as the hero who outsmarted an undying demon, and some idolise Dormeria as the very essence of power and sacrifice. The only thing these various legends have in common is that they speak of the total eradication of Lazarus - and naught has been heard of the demon since then. - Exemplar Clorissa Thossarian, First Fate of the Order of the Skyward Eye

A P P E A R A N C E

Though many legends tell of Dormeria's extravagant and ravishing looks, her appearance was far less beautiful than what was described in song and hymn. Blessed with high cheekbones and an angular face, Dormeria's features were exquisitely carved in her youth, though age was not particularly kind to her and she lost much of the beauty she possessed as her vitality was drained by Ukenagasu. Raven black hair adorned Dormeria's face until it was left white and ashen from her exertion in the final battle with Lazarus, and her iridescent violet eyes once shone with myriad colours but dulled in the wake of the horrors she saw. Never blessed with a particularly ample bosom nor any large sums of fat anywhere, Dormeria had the build typical of many mages - tall and elegant, but fragile and thin. While many would consider Dormeria to be beautiful, she was not the ravishing beauty that legends attributed to her. Striking, and noticeable, but certainly not the epitome of beauty.

E Q U I P M E N T

Legend states that Dormeria and Orthus met at a crossroads as she left Tyral to explore the world, and that he would ask her three questions. For each question answered correctly, Dormeria would receive a boon to aid her in her travels, but each question answered incorrectly would result in a boon being stripped from her. Orthus' first question pertained to the nature of life and death - "If all life leads to death, what is the purpose of life?". Orthus' second question pertained to the hearts of men - "What desire unites all mortals?". Orthus' final question pertained to power – “If life and death are yours to command, what more power could you require?”

Dormeria replied immediately:

“The purpose of life is to end. If it were not temporary, it would not have value.”

Orthus nodded.

“The desire to continue to live past their time, to accomplish all they think destined of them.”

Orthus smiled.

“To breathe life into that which has never lived, to imbue it with purpose and form.”

Orthus laughed.

The answers were not what Orthus had expected, but they were true to Dormeria’s heart and true to his teachings, and so he granted her three boons: Ukenagasu, Caller of the Dead; Silaxes, Plucked from the Void; Volayre, the Flesh Unbound. As Dormeria took the staff, the book, and the gem, she found herself alone in the crossroads and begun her march towards her destiny once more.

---

U K E N A G A S U , C A L L E R O F T H E D E A D
The staff Ukenagasu is the first and most important of Dormeria's legendary effects, the crux upon which tales regaling her exploits are built, and the first gift she received from Orthus in order to defeat Lazarus.

Ukenagasu is, at its core, a simple wooden staff that has been modified through careful placement of ebon-black metal plating and careful carving of the still-living wood. Approximately six feet in height, the staff was plucked from the core of an ash tree and carved into a perfect cylinder, with sigils and symbols etched just into the surface in a spiral ascending from the base to the very top. The areas not covered by the eldritch scrawling are covered with a plate of thin metal, completely matte and ebon-black, which is in turn carved with similar etchings in a reverse pattern downwards. Though plain in design, the duality of the staff represents the fluid nature of life and death, one leading to the other and back again, and showcases that all power has a price to be paid, in this life or in the next.

Once a veritable wellspring of arcane power, the staff's power has leached into its surroundings for the many thousands of years that it has been kept dormant. Blessed with a spark of Orthus, Prince of the Void's power, the staff both magnifies and restricts its bearer's innate power, affording them the capacity for great feats in areas of exceptional talent but introducing an expiry of this power far more quickly than traditional long-lasting magic would allow. The staff burns power far more brightly than it could ever reach on its own, but consumes its essence in a fraction of its potential. Imprinted originally onto Dormeria, the staff allows her innate necromancy to raise armies of corpses, to unravel and to knit the flesh, and to hasten or delay the inevitable expiry of all living things it encounters - though all of this commands a heavy toll on its owner's own inner flame, using their own potential lifespan as a fuel source. All things are temporary, and Ukenagasu is a constant mortal reminder of this singular truth.

S I L A X E S , P L U C K E D F R O M T H E V E I L
The gemstone Silaxes is the second of Dormeria's gifts, less integral to her legend than Ukenagasu, but still an example of Dormeria's lasting (if waning) influence in the hearts of men.

If not for its latent magical power, Silaxes would have found worth as a prized gemstone in a crown fit for the God-King himself. Lovingly carved from a deep violet crystal, Silaxes' facets reflect and refract light in such a fashion that each individual claims to see a different image within its crystalline folds, from images of vast wealth and riches to humble family lives. The size of a small child's fist, the gemstone is clearly exceptionally valuable, but this decadence belies a solemn aura of deep sorrow projected by the stone, as it interacts with desire but never meets or fulfills it.

Individuals that gaze upon the stone are showed a vision of whatever it is that their heart desires the most, and magical individuals who wear the gem close to their head are able to see these visions when looking at others. While the stone shows a single vision with utmost clarity, it may only read the desire of an individual once before they are unable to see anything in its myriad reflections but the constant, hungry void. Like all of Orthus' gifts to Dormeria, usage of Silaxes comes at a cost - for each desire they uncover, Dormeria loses a desire of her own corresponding to what it was that she revealed. Multiple desires of the same type can be revealed at no additional cost to the wielder, but Dormeria is incapable of finding love, having a family, or having wealth. After extended use, Silaxes can no longer pluck desires from Dormeria, however - she has paid her price, and the gem now offers its power to her freely.

V O L A Y R E , T H E F L E S H U N B O U N D
The rune-covered tome Volayre is the last of Dormeria's gifts, used only once, but was integral to defeating Lazarus, and represented the gift of life, temporary though it may have been. Volayre was the most sought-after of Dormeria's relics after her death, but was never found on her person or in the Elysian Plains after Lazarus had been defeated.

Simple and elegant in design, Volayre is an unadorned black leather grimoire that one could easily mistake for being an average book rather than a font of arcane power. The spine of the book is still uncracked, and the surfaces are matte and featureless. Even the aura of power the book innately has is smooth and nondescript, easy to pass by unless one knows what it is that they are looking for. The pages within the book crawl with runic markings that seem to shift and shy away from light, desperate not to be read, and even Dormeria does not understand the contents of the book.

Volayre acts as a veritable repository for unused flesh, bone, and blood - sustaining and nurturing it within the indecipherable scrawls of its pages. This flesh bears myriad purposes, allowing Dormeria to create corpses where none existed, to replace lost limbs, or even in the case of Lazarus to create an avatar whose life is bound to the book and to the wielder. Most often Volayre will create monstrosities of its own peculiar design, misshapen and mismatched amalgams of various body parts and functions and forms all with whatever particular intent that its bearer has at the time. Like all of Orthus' gifts, Volayre demands a price, a binding of one's own body to the book in order to lend life to its creation - and should its creation be killed, so too will the linked body part or individual. This cost was instrumental to defeating Lazarus, and following that event Dormeria is no longer subject to its thrall as she paid its price once before.

A B I L I T I E S

Dormeria's magical abilities were largely related to the manipulation of the body in various and myriad ways - most often as a necromancer raising soulless and mindless corpses to do her bidding, and in this regard she was exceptionally potent due to the power of her equipment. Dormeria's inherent magical abilities are strong, but without Ukenagasu her ability to raise the dead is severely limited. Less limited is Dormeria's power to weave and unravel the flesh of the living, to restore health or sap the last breath from those she comes across, but even this power was raised to the status of legendary by the artifacts given to her by Orthus. Dormeria is capable of transforming her appearance or the appearance of others, and is largely able to manipulate anything about the human form given time due to her broad purview of body - but the subtle intricacies of these arts are again linked to her artifacts and without their presence she does not have the power or fine control necessary to utilise these abilities.

Aesthetics

[ravenDivinity]

@Tuujaimaa: Get in there, fool!

[Tuujaimaa]

@ravenDivinity I'd like to, uh... Cash in on the aforementioned free shrimp?

[ravenDivinity]

@Tuujaimaa: I don't know, man, this shrimp is pretty intense. Can you handle this shrimp?

[Guilty Spark]

Technically, my sheet is complete, but since I copy-pasted his entire mythology from a character I never got to use... I'ma sift through it and see what editing I should probably do to better match everyone else's.

[Torack]

Luther's Image

Luther - The Pathfinder

M Y T H O L O G Y
Luther's conception was when a highly esteemed knight from the Nirlos Kingdom, nearly fifty thousand years ago, raped a young woman in one of its countless civil wars. The rape left the woman deeply shamed and damaged, and upon Luther's birth in a roadside tavern, she died. He was taken in by the tavern's owner, a rough and callous man who instead of parenting Luther, decided to beat him endlessly. For seventeen long years, Luther knew nothing but the pain of his father's fists and the constant reminder how nobody ever wanted him, and that he was nothing more than a waste of energy and space.

Yet, despite his ill fortune, Luther had a uniquely positive attitude towards life that he held tightly onto in his early years. He grew up as an underfed child, learning to sneak and steal food while his father was unaware, and it was in his early years that he learned the subtle tricks of slight of hand and distraction. It was in his father's beatings that he learned the art to block hits in ways that would only leave superficial damage. However, all that damage had left a mark on the young Luther. As he grew into a young adult, he saw himself inflicting the same damage that would befall him onto other youths his age, and in turn his father would beat him for beating them. The cycle continued circulating itself until at the age of seventeen, Luther killed his first individual.

The fact that he had killed another individual didn't sit well with him at all, and he found his nights were always haunted with images of the young man he slew, so much so, that he could barely sleep. Several months later, he decided he would take whatever little belongings he had and leave his father to his miserable, and when he stepped outside the tavern, he promised himself he wouldn't become like the man who raised him, that he would become a better man, and a better human. He decided he would start with a smile, as his father constantly wore a scowl, and traveled away from his home where he met people across all walks of life. He found that his smile would open people up to him almost instantly, and it wasn't uncommon for him to spend many hours with a stranger listening to their life tales, or helping them with their difficulties. Within a year, he left the kingdom of his birth and found himself in the city state of Boelor. The place, he found, was a city with a great divide among the rich and the poor, and since he had next to nothing himself, he found himself living in the poorest, dirtiest part of the city.

It wasn't for naught however. He found that the officers and guards of the city were similar to the man who raised him, and since the people were weaponless and had no way of defending themselves, he developed the seed of what would later become the Path of Heavenly Fists. He taught the crude fighting style to the people in an effort to help them defend themselves; little did he know of the severity of their suffering and their strong desire for vengeance. With their new strength the poor of Boelor rose in riots against the Grand Master and the Ruling Council, despite Luther's council against such a thing, and the streets of the city state flooded with the blood.

Ashamed of what he had caused, Luther left the city and in his grief for causing the murder of thousands, he became blind. He promised himself then that he would never teach others to fight in order to kill or harm others, but rather to defend themselves against their oppressors.

One morning, several years after the incident, Luther was found by a monk of Ivorine, the god of peace and tranquility, and was taken to the grand temple in the Hirrlow plains. Luther quickly adopted the methods of Ivorine's teachings, and soon became the Head of the Temple, where he would often help the dispossessed and the needy from nearby cities. It was also during this time that Luther fully developed his Path of Heavenly Fists and taught the fighting style to the younger monks. However, he was careful to teach them the Path was a method to get closer to Ivorine and should never be used to harm or for personal gain, except in defense. The students took to the lessons, and took the Seven Vows of Peace when they mastered the martial art.

For several more years, Luther knew true peace and tranquility. Teaching the younger monks, and honing his fighting skill, and living in the temple gave him a happiness that he had not felt before in his life. But that happiness would not last. A young boy from a nearby city came and warned him that the Nirlos Kingdom was coming towards their lands and as news spread that the monks were fighters, the city was requesting their aid. Luther refused to take part in the war and told the boy that their fight was their own problem. Over the next few days, Luther's mind was plagued with the boy's message of Nirlos's forces planning to besiege the nearby city, and although he wanted to take no part in it, he knew that his martial arts was for the protection and defense against those who couldn't defend themselves, and that he was required to do something about it.

When he decided that he would help the city, after a month of meditation, the city was in the middle of a siege and Luther decided that he would go out alone to spare the lives of the younger monks, knowing full well that he could handle the army Nirlos sent. He first went into the besieged city to talk the Governor to pull back his men so that none of them would be harmed, then left from the city's eastern gate where he came face-to-face with the army and asked for parley. He talked with the commander of the army, and asked for his surrender, but when he was met with hostility, Luther unleashed the full potential of the Path of Heavenly Fists and singlehandedly fought the entire army and defeated them. Luther became a hero to the city overnight and his victory over Nirlos spread to the kingdom itself, and although they didn't believe a single man defeated an entire army, the king sent a massive force of fifty thousand men to destroy the temple.

When the news reached Luther, he was overcome with grief. His actions would once again lead to the death of those he cared for and taught. Deciding to act against Nirlos, he took a dozen of the greatest fighters from the temple and he met the Nirlos's forces in battle. Although they were an incredibly small number, their skill in the martial arts and discipline in Heavenly Magic allowed them to decimate most of the fifty thousand that met them, but the number was still too great, and the challenge too grand. Luther was slain in the battle, but his death caused such a ripple effect.

Tales of his prowess spread like wildfire, how he defeated a single legion alone with only a dozen men behind him. The people of the Hirrlow plains were the most affected, and they gathered together to defeat Nirlos with the monks from the temple offering their help, and within several decades they became an autonomous Kingdom of itself with the Seven Vows of Peace as it's tenets and the monks acting as advisors to the kings. The Temple of Ivorine grew at an alarming rate afterwards and they began to indoctrinate the Path of Heavenly Fists and the strict discipline that followed the martial arts onto their monks; and as the centuries passed by, the legend of Luther grew with it. It has become common among the monks of Ivorine and the people who know of Luther to say that he was taught the Path by Ivorine himself. It was also a common legend that he was a man who sought to bring peace to the world after being commanded to do so by Ivorine and never truly died until he had completed the mission, going under different disguises after every "death". Some even claimed that he was Ivorine come into mortal form to bring peace to the world. Despite the different views of Luther's legend, all agree that it was his Seven Vows of Peace that laid the foundation to the peace that Ansus had experienced of late.

A P P E A R A N C E
Although records show Luther as a very tall, clean shaven man with shoulder-length brown hair, and green eyes, with a very well muscled body and little blemishes, the truth is that Luther was only average in height, and mostly bald with an incredibly large and thick ponytail that he wrapped around himself like a necklace in the common fashion of monks of that era and had a small beard rimming his face. He also had tattoos on the right side of his upper body that reached and covered his arms entirely along with faded scars on both his face and upper body. As clothing, he is depicted wearing common Ivorine monk robes, of black and orange tiered robes. However, he was mostly bare chested, seeing that the old-styled robes of his era were too constricting for the Path of Heavenly Fists, and only wore black pants with an orange sash going down the middle. One thing stands true about him above all the other assumptions: he is incredibly muscular. Years of life surviving on the road by himself and developing the Path of Heavenly Fists have left him lean with strong and very compact and thick muscles so much so that nearly every fiber could be seen on the skin.

A B I L I T I E S / E Q U I P M E N T
Many rightfully consider Luther to be a fighting genius. Although believed that it was taught to him by Ivorine, he has developed the very complex martial arts of the Path of Heavenly Fists by himself by observing nature and the way things moved throughout his many travels, and it was in these travels and development of the Path that he learned to unlock the inner magic within the body that he called Heavenly Magic, which allowed his strikes to be far stronger than they normally would be. Luther also found that the Heavenly Magic was a very aggressive sort of magic that sought to take control over his mind, and he would thus spend hours in meditation to control the power within him, and upon mastering it when he became the Grand Monk, he found that his strikes became only more powerful, strong enough to kill a fully armored knight with a well-placed blow. Because he's blind, he wears the Sash of Sight around his eyes, a red sash with a golden pendant in the center; and although they don't allow him to see, they give him incredibly heightened senses added to the compensation his body made for his blindness, allowing him to "see" with echolocation.

A G E O F L E G E N D
Fifty thousand years ago.

[Guilty Spark]

Hider

N A M E / A L I A S



"In all the Archives of Xaxus there exists but one sketch of the mythical hero and villain known as Balor, it is said to have been made by the knight and historian Halforth Wells, who witnessed Balor's passing in the Fields of Imrathir. The sketch remains unfinished because remembering that day drove Sir Wells to his death."
-Excerpt from Chronicles of a Lost Era, by Royal Scholar Fordis Aerius

A G E O F L E G E N D
35,000

M Y T H O L O G Y

"Balor's legend is a cautionary tale of the fallibility of man, and the consequences of hubris. If the legend is true, it was a lamentable end to a great and noble hero. If it was true." - Lord Archivist Castigan Madaris

"Some called it hubris, I call it... destiny." - Balor, the Usurper

“Millenia ago, in the ancient kingdom of Utheria, a realm that has long since fallen to ruin, a hero of great virtue was born in a time of unrelenting strife for the southernmost kingdoms of Ansus. That era had suffered a dearth of the great heroes who arose in the ages before and since, and in that absence a festering evil was given room to flourish. Not a conscious thing, at first, merely an environment in which dark creatures were birthed or awoken, and practitioners of black magic escaped reproach. For decades, the disease grew worse and worse, until Oraum, God of Purity, gave answer.

“Balor was a son of the Priesthood, an orphan as it were, and in the kingdom of Utheria such children were trained to serve the light if no family could be found for them, as Oraum decreed. Though his father was unknown to the priests, he was clearly a man of great stature as the boy grew fast and tall with broad shoulders and a commanding posture. He seemed to fall into leadership ignorant of what he was doing, with the children of the temple hanging on his every word. The priests watched him, bringing tutors to teach him the skills he would need. Though he did not know why he was being trained, he took to sword and shield naturally, and wore armor as if he was born for war. It was clear to the priests that his destiny was being shaped.

“As the boy became a man, he was assigned to escort men of the church and perform other holy tasks. His heart was good and just and his will was strong, so the forces of darkness were a natural enemy to him and he struck at them with fervor as his true calling came into view. These first quests captured his spirit, and began to earn him renown. Over time, and through battle, he honed his skills and Oraum looked favorably on him. The priests taught him more of their ways, confident that he was indeed worthy of their secrets, and the powers of Oraum became his to bring forth. Soon the people of Utheria knew his name, and children looked up to cheer at his passing. The wave of chaos receded from his presence, and Utheria became a holy bastion against the dark era, but the flight of evil simply brought more chaos to other lands.

“With that realization before him, Balor brought a plan to the church. He would lead paladins and missionaries across the borders to the less fortunate and mighty kingdoms of man, and spread Oraum’s light to those living in fear of darkness. Why grow content with the peace they had achieved when they could cleanse the evil in an ever broadening circle? The silent crusade quickly began as priests and warriors of light were dispatched across the kingdoms of men. Although Kings and Lords were affronted at the invasion of their territory, the common folk praised Balor for defending them against the forces of darkness and peasants flocked to the worship of Oraum. All was going according to his, and by extension Oraum’s, designs.

“Success after success carried Balor through the ranks of paladins, gaining him great favor in the eyes of Oraum. The priests rewarded Balor’s deed with a relic of the church reserved for Oraum’s Mortal Sword, his most valued paladin. Salvation, a blade that was said to consume sin from those it slew and grant them a respite in the afterlife from the wickedness born in their hearts. It was a great honor, and the forces of evil were in disarray as their greatest champions fell before Balor's might, destroyed beyond resurrection with the power of his holy blade. The beginnings of true peace from evil began to settle over the lands of men, but further south over the waters rumors of a festering darkness came to the ears of the mighty Balor, who now held the ears of all of Oraum's servants. To destroy this darkness, once and for all, he rallied the Paladins as the spearhead for the forces of light, and on his march other banners rose behind him.

"What started off as simply the forces of the church became a mighty host before they reached the coasts, a force too large for their ships. From here the Paladins continued along to the isles that were taken with darkness, to purge the evil from this land. The hosts of light rallied behind them to march in should they fail, or defend from the onslaught of darkness. However, the fell sorcerers and servant of the shadow convened to bring forth a terrible being. In the dark they poured their magics into this sinister creation, gambling everything on what they hoped would cripple the forces of light. Soon, even as Balor sailed, a new entity was born. The Beast, they called it, and named it their Lord. It bore a sinister mask that hid whatever hideous visage lay beneath, and was clad in armors forged of black metal. This thing they called M'Harat the Devourer for he was to consume the light.

"What magics the sorcerers had left were insufficient to sink the fleet of paladins, and all of their attacks from afar were rebuffed by the power of Oraum. When Balor landed on the island's coast they were assaulted by more primitive creatures of darkness, the undead, ogres, trolls, and fell things unknown in the tongues of man. These the paladins cut through in a storm of holy fire, though they suffered great losses as well. It was when Balor broke through to the keep that he first encountered M'Harat, a being of greater evil than he had ever faced. Most creatures of darkness that came up against him quaked in terror, but as he faced down this masked monstrosity Salvation quivered in his hands.

"The battle between Balor and M'Harat was titanic, and in the wake of the powers they unleashed dark creatures and paladins were corrupted and destroyed without discrimination. With their might they cut a path of destruction, their battle led the up the mountainside, smiting towers and great swathes of earth. After what seemed like days Balor smote M'Harat with a tremendous blow, and sank Salvation into his heart, pinning him against the rock. As M'Harat screeched, the blade shook and let out a wail of human pain and terror as its shimmering steel blade became acrid and black, and the hilt began to burn Balor's hands forcing him to let go. M'Harat's shuddering corpse turned to ash along with his armor, but his mask remained intact and fell amongst the refuse.

"There came a voice in Balor's head as he looked down at the lone mask. Wear me...wear me and my power will be yours...wear me and we shall reign over an empire together...wear me... Slowly, Balor lifted the mask from the ashes and, staring into its sightless eyes, he began to laugh a heartfelt laugh. Their designs were so clear and shallow, it was amusing to witness. They thought that if M'Harat could not kill him then he would become their new M'Harat? His will was far too great to sink to such depravity, his virtue was of a magnitude most considered unattainable, he was without a doubt a living saint among men. This petty temptation was supposed to break him?

"Then there came a thought into Balor's mind, a curious question he asked himself. He held all the power of the light in his hand, so what if in the other hand he held the power of darkness? With both sides of the coin could he not crush opposition to Oraum? Shredding the darkness with their own hands? There was a firm misgiving within him, a warning, but he was confident in his will. This mask would not break him as long as Oraum stood by his side, the hand of the light on his shoulder. So, he put it on. The moment the mask touched his skin he felt the presence of Oraum abandon him, all the light within him was extinguished. In this betrayal, he was nearly destroyed by the mask as it sought to snuff out his will like a roaring flame that had suddenly become a candle. Balor, even without the guidance of his master, was not so easily beat.

"For the three days the battle went on, Balor standing alone against the torrent of mindless darkness that sought to bury him. On the third day, the molten iron that was his will finally bubbled to the surface, with the power of his mind he surrounding the sentience of the mask and crushed it within himself. Destroying its mind completely and making it servile to his will. When he awoke Balor sought out the presence of Oraum, but the light would not fall on him. Now he stood in the shadows, betrayed by the one he had trusted in his time of need. He pulled Salvation from the rocks, finding it no longer burned his hand. It, like him, had been abandoned so it was only fitting that he wield it longer. When he descended from the mountain, he found that the forces of shadow were already gathering again to serve him. He understood them now. They were not evil, the light of a cruel god would no longer shine on them for he feared their power.

"He had served Oraum for decades, only to be cast away like a soiled tool. Angered by that betrayal, he decided that the Gods had no business in the affairs of mortals, and set out to bring an end to their interference through war. He gathered the forces of darkness to him, and turned his eyes back to the lands of man. There he knew the Hosts of Oraum still stood a solemn vigil, awaiting the building of the ships they needed to assail him, leaving Utheria undefended following the destruction of his loyal paladins. More tools abused by Oraum. Manning the ships his army had sailed to the isle with his new servants, the changed Balor sailed for the rivers leading into the heart of Utheria, to the capital city of Inodris itself. In a reign of fire and death, Balor's forces sacked the city. They desecrated the temples of Oraum, and brought the people to their knees to serve their hero. By the time the Hosts of light discovered what had happened, Balor was burning a swath through the nations.

"Balor's might dominated every battlefield he entered, the priests could not stand against him and his new found mastery of the shadows. For a year of chaos and blood he ravaged the lands, however, as his territory grew in scope he could no longer manage every front. The forces of good began winning when he was occupied by other battles, cutting his lines and routing whole armies that had no skilled generals. Finally, they began to gather their diminished hosts of light once more, on the Fields of Imrathir for a final battle. The masses of men and fell creatures were titanic as they swarmed against each other, even in their diminished might there were forces among the men which had not made themselves known when the Hosts of Light first marched with Balor. Foreign armies which feared his advance towards the Bastion of Light, and holy creatures which served Oraum.

"While Balor fought here, a second host cut through to Inodris and freed the slaves there, recruiting them into their forces. They had tricked Balor, and at terrible cost, by gathering their men in one area they convinced him their entire host had come against him and he committed the full forces of darkness to the battle, but by the time the trickery was discovered it was too late. Balor was surrounded, and with their combined might priests and mages overwhelmed Balor, sealing him within a prison of his own creation, M'Harat's mask."

A P P E A R A N C E
"No images from his life as a hero are known to remain, but according to ancient descriptions Balor was tall and broad of shoulder, his dark hair fell to his shoulders and he favored a thick beard. His pale blue eyes were said to draw the gaze of others, and hold them fast as he spoke. Of course, after his fall he was never seen without his mask again." - -Excerpt from Chronicles of a Lost Era, by Royal Scholar Fordis Aerius

A B I L I T I E S / E Q U I P M E N T
The most renowned of Balor's ancient relics is the Mask of M'Harat, which grants its wielder tremendous dark power. It is bound to him, and it's destruction equals his own. Simple in his designs, Balor turned most of its power towards pyromancy, washing away his enemies with a sea of flame. The mask also rebuffs magic, shielding him from anything less than a concerted effort at his destruction.

The second of Balor's greatest tools is Salvation's Bane, a once holy sword whose powers were reversed during the slaying of M'Harat. It is now a blackened bastard sword that denies virtue to those slain by its dark magic. Falling to its blade will cast one's soul into Oblivion, extinguishing it forevermore.

The third, and least known, of Balor's tools is the Mantle of Demons. This was a piece of armor worn over Balor's shoulders which penetrated the veil between realms and allowed him to summon forth powerful beings of evil. There are few references to how he acquired such an artifact, but the most valid comes from the last works of Sir Halforth Wells, which reference a cult that supposedly delivered the relic to him. It was separated from his remains after his defeat, just as his sword was, and is thought to have been destroyed.

S O N G

[ravenDivinity]

@Torack: Accepted!

@Guilty Spark: Also accepted!

[jasonwolf]

@ravenDivinitysorry I'm gonna be late. mythology is in the works. Trying to think up some fitting core events. I already know he's gonna die creating a mountain to destroy a nation :D

[ravenDivinity]

@jasonwolf: I might peel back on the scale of such an action, haha. Would the magical process of it be slow or quick? And would it be direct or indirect? Did he take time building a mountain up slowly in order to cut a nation off from resources or whatever, or did he just immediately conjure a mountain that quite literally crushed the entire nation?

[Guilty Spark]

@Tuujaimaa Would you mind telling me more about the Order of the Skyward Eye?