Abstract Proxy

Mechwarrior: Disposable Heroes

Ziska

Distracted by the sight of the salvaged Catapult, Ziska had found herself thoughtlessly lining up next to Marit. Her eyes were still full of warmth as she tore her gaze away from the welcome sight of the recovered Heavy mech.

"Why, Giggles, I will have you know I am very likable, too likable. In fact, I believe you may be experiencing the early symptoms of infatuation."

Ziska laughed, making no effort to hide her humor. Fresh welts that would soon turn into bruises didn't matter. Another cut above her eye didn't matter. Her battered knuckles didn't matter. They were alive. Still Alive. And they would another Heavy mech to use.

Soon. Soon enough the Crimson Fists would be paying with more blood and more, much more steel.

"Besides, cheer up!" Ziska began pointing at the Catapult laid out on the bed of the truck as if momentarily resting.

"We've got a Catapult! A couple of lashes isn't gonna change that."

Rerun: Blackguards!

Wraith was very much intending to kill him, yeah. But I mean, just 'cause he's dead doesn't mean we can't still talk to/interrogate/bully him; we do have a necromancer, after all. B)

@Vertigo

Sariel will happily oblige. :3

Planescape: Search for Tir na Og

I've read through everyone's characters by now, if my thumbs-up spam wasn't an indicator, and I'm super stoked for all the possible interactions this crew will have. I'm also curious to see how Fellsing handles all the alignments and factions and sheer chaos that is undoubtedly going to unfold.

@Fading Memory

Obviously extremely gracefully. :3

Interest Check for Westerland Tales!

How are you faring, friends? Does anyone need help with their character?

@Red Wizard

Just need to sit down and write Marra's background up, mid week is always a bit full speed for me though, lol.

Planescape: Search for Tir na Og

Cool sheets so far, for excited to dive into this IC!

Rerun: Blackguards!

Sariel

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The spell was a simple thing. Nothing more than a casual wave of her skeletal hand. The eye that appeared in the sky, some two hundred feet above the now cowering raiders. The Kassan plains revealed themselves beneath the unwavering gaze of the arcane construct.

"Sulfreyans!" Sariel shouted, venom heavy in her voice. "Two dozen and one wyvern riders!"

Battle was as disgusting as she remembered. Blood flying in the air. Blood covering the ground. The screams of the dying. The silence of the dead. It was all so tiresome. So bothersome. So unnecessary. The flesh rendering spell cast by the one called Viktor had not escaped her. Such cruel magic struck her as a tad theatrical, but there was pragmatism in stripping the flesh easily from the bone. The screaming girl likewise touched her. She coursed with undeath.

Moving closer to the frostbound giantess, Sariel remained well back. She would let the others do the cutting, the hacking, and the smashing. She was in no rush to act. Magic was never to be wasted. She had no interest in drawing unwelcome attention. She felt no compulsion to test her arcane grimoire against a steel weapon.

The Easterling attack had already faltered, stillborn as it was. Among them, the dead now outnumbered the living. The greater threat approached. Sulfreyen riders. Fresh. Eager. And spoiling for a fight.

Sariel let a small smile play over the edge of her lips, approaching the azure shaded woman, who stood at the vanguard, bristling with a cleverness that cheered the Necromancer.

Gesturing beyond her, Sariel spoke calmly,"I will be unable to immediately stop all of them, if you have a plan, now is the time to ready it. I will delay them for a moment."

The growing closeness between her unchosen party and the riders suited the necromancer. Taking a deep breath, she began to whisper old words. Untroubled by the mass of knights, teeth, and sword sized claws that fluttered closer with each heartbeat, Sariel placed her hand on her grimoire. A hushed spark coursed through her skeletal arm, smoking beneath darkened leather, as it traveled to across her finger tips. The power that she felt touching her palm pleased the Necromancer and she gathered it together into a closed fist.

Certain that she was ready, Sariel raised her hand from her grimoire, roughly aiming at the riders barreling towards them. She opened her clenched fist, with a final whisper, as if releasing a small ball from her grasp. Thunder cracked in the air, as a lightning bolt hurtled from Sariel’s hand, the smell of a thunderstorm replacing the thick smell of blood, and filling the nostrils of her delicate nose with a renewed scent, mercifully cleansed of all the fresh foulness.

Lurching through the air, the lightning bolt crashed into the right center of the formation of charging Sulfreyan knights. A jagged white flash enveloped the unlucky knight struck by the Necromancer’s spell. Before his screams had escaped his burning throat, four more bolts of lightning jolted outwards from the already dying knight and his smoldering mount. Four more Sulfreyans and the beasts they rode perished in little more than a moment, plummeting from the sky trailing black smoke, and smashing into the unyielding earth.

Sariel watched impassively, offering only a subtle nod of satisfaction as she took a step back and began to ready another spell. She trusted the others knew what to do. They seemed the capable sort. And she had worse spells to prepare.

Rerun: Blackguards!

Gonna drop a quick post, so reserving the spot. :p

Mostly it shall be Sariel using some divination magic to see afar.

Posted.

If it wasn't clear Sariel kills five riders with a nasty lightening bolt (I didn't want to claim too many baddies for her, so there's plenty more for everyone else (25-5 = 20), hopefully some chaos is sown amongst the ranks of knights though).

Interest Check for Westerland Tales!

No worries, take all the time you need!

Interest Check for Westerland Tales!

I need to wrap up a background, but here's what I have so far, basically your bog standard good-aligned monk (with some added loneliness induced temptation).

Samarra the Monk, "Marra"

Marra

Full Size Image

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Name

Samarra

Race

Human

Gender

Female

Age

23

Appearance

Measuring a head below tall, beneath layers of loose fabric, Samarra has a lithe, athletic build forged from years of formidable training under the older monks of her order. Her eyes are calming shade of pale brown. No longer an acolyte, her chestnut hair has grown long with her travels and reaches well past her shoulders. To avoid issues related to travel or combat, Samarra keeps her hair plaited, wound, and then pinned in tight buns. Her skin, warmed by the sun and painted with bronze, bears the varied marks associated with a life of adventure. Her hands are calloused, her knuckles strengthened over long years of practice, and her form speaks of the tranquil exercise of violence.

Personality

Seemingly unremarkable, certainly for a monk, Samarra exudes an aura of calm. She is a kind, gentle soul who desires chiefly to mitigate the endless suffering she perceives in the world beyond the walls of the monastery.

Warm and endlessly empathetic, Samarra commands no silver tongue or deadly charm, but rather wins others over with her obvious goodness. The suffering that afflicts all those in the world saddens her and she believes wholeheartedly that it is her duty to attempt to lessen it. At risk to her own person, Samarra will always try to help those in need, no matter what the personal cost may be for her.

Samarra holds violence as a last resort. Attempting at all times to use diplomacy, mercy, or understanding to resolve conflict. However, if forced to defend herself or others, she is a capable warrior, and knows well that unjust or cruel folk often refuse to listen to reason. Her training has taught her to rarely allow her emotions to master her, leaving her with an unavoidable sense of distance and otherness to people that do not share her ecclesiastical vocation.

Background

Talents

• Dedicated to seeking personal perfection through contemplation and rigorous training, Samarra has hone her body into a weapon, permitting her to fight with little more than her hands or the chosen weapons of her order
• Taught to master not just her body, but her spirit, Samarra can manipulate the mystical energies that flow through her, allowing her harness these forces to protect, heal, or wound in equal measure.
• Skilled in the healing arts, Samarra can administer aid to those suffering from illness and preserve her allies in the face of daunting foes.
• An island of calm, in a sea of turmoil, Samarra is often an emissary of peace, that douses the flames of conflict with soothing words and her tranquil bearing.

Flaws

• Samara adheres to a strict sense of personal honor. She will not kill an unarmed person. She will not take lethal action against an opponent who is unaware or unprepared for her attack. And she will not knowingly act in such a way that she could cause the death of someone who is defenseless.
• Committed to her own perfection, Samarra judges herself severely, viewing any failure or temporary weakness as a grave sin.
• Heedless to her own safety, Samarra has an old habit of obsessively pursuing a goal, usually resolving a problem, to the detriment of everything else in her own life.
• For all her training, despite her daily meditations, and regardless of her love of traveling, Samarra misses her home. She misses the other monks. She misses the routine of her life. She feels isolated. And she feels alone. Seeing others live their carefree lives, she has begun to experience an unwelcome temptation, a fearful desire to experience the hedonistic passions that seduce so many adventurers. The comfort of another seems welcome in the long, cold nights.

Equipment

• Samarra wears the habit of her order, loose breeches, a long sleeved shirt, soft boots, and a belt. Her clothes are made out of a fine fabric and cast in a bright shade of white, bearing subtle patterns of gold thread.
• Over her forearms Samarra wears a pair of ornate leather bracers engraved with simple designs.
• For comfort on the road, Samarra has a gray traveling cloak, the color of stone, with a hood.
• A seasoned traveler, Samarra has a leather backpack well-stocked with traveling supplies.
• As much a walking stick as a weapon, Samarra carries a stout quarterstaff wrought out of oak.
• To dissuade aggressive animals and people at a safe distance, Samarra has ten small throwing darts hidden on her person.

Miscellaneous

Planescape: Search for Tir na Og

Mariel

Name: Mariel
Race: Kalashtar
Class: Druid (Circle of the Moon)
Background: Faction Agent (Plane-Tenders)

Personality Traits:
• I have a lesson for every situation, drawn from observing nature.
• I feel far more comfortable around animals than people.

Bonds:
• An injury to the unspoiled wilderness of my home is an injury to me.
• I owe my life to the priest who took me in when my parents died.
• I will do anything to protect the temple where I served.

Ideals:
• The natural order must be respected and preserved.
• Nature across the planes must be protected.

Flaws:
• I am slow to trust members of other races, tribes, and societies.
• I judge others harshly, and myself even more severely.
• Once I pick a goal, I become obsessed with it to the detriment of everything else in my life.

Appearance:


Personality:
Stubborn, driven, and carrying a fresh wound, a deep cut, that borders on panic given the disappearance of Tir na Og.

The wild, untamed druid that many expect, Mariel is nonetheless unlikely to bite someone in polite company or forget to wear pants. Strangely for a hardheaded druid, Mariel finds cities fascinating, seeing them as stone forests, full of their own peculiar wilderness. Her disinterest in table manners is mitigated by her innate ability to understand others and a carefully nurtured gift of perception.

A devoted member of the Plane Tenders, Mariel has traveled between worlds and is dedicated to protecting the unique ecosystems that can be found across all of the Planes of Existence.

Backstory:

A child of Tir na Og, Mariel remembers little of her parents. Steadfast nature worshipers, they were lost fighting an incursion of fell beings in a distant plane. An orphan, with no family to speak of, Mariel was raised by Alundal the Old, an elven druid who’s years seemed to number less only than the countless stars shining down on Tir na Og.

Her home was no building. No structure wrought out of wood, stone, or mud. She learned to live in the wilderness. In the fresh air, beneath the open sky. A glen in a sea of trees was her temple. Her home. Alundal brought her often to Summeroak. To see the others of her their order.

She was happy with Alundal. She loved the forest. She loved the plants that sustained her. She loved the animals that taught her the ways of the forest. She loved the wind that gently touched her. She loved the water that quenched her thirst. She loved the sunless days. And she loved the starless nights, full of calm.

As she grew, from sapling to small tree, Alundal saw that she learned to care for the nature that surrounded her. The wise elf initiated her into the ancient practices and rites of her order. From Alundal she learned to speak the druidic tongue. From Alundal she learned to shift forms, becoming a true creature of the wilderness.

At Alundal’s encouragement, Mariel began to travel. She saw planes far different from Tir na Og. Planes of air, fire, water, and earth. Planes full of cities. Planes full of civilization. Even away from the wilderness, she found nature. No matter where she went there were was nature to nurture. There were always animals to shepherd and plants to protect. Her calling was to wander.

She was in Sigil, at Alundal’s request, walking through the dizzying streets in search of some ancient wizard her mentor trusted when word reached her that Tir na Og had vanished. Disbelieving she abandoned the quest her mentor had assigned her and threw herself heedlessly into a frenzied attempt to discover what happened to her home.