Current
When you've spent the best part of three days dedicated to creating a new character and then suddenly having nothing to do..
4
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4 mos ago
IN WAAAAAAVES.. You made me miss Trivium..
2
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4 mos ago
Another day refreshing RPG waiting for responses so I can get my RP fix..
13
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5 mos ago
Anyone fancy doing a 1x1? I'm down for pretty much anything but I need an RP fix before the twitching comes back
5 mos ago
Sat here waiting for replies on several things and just.. AGH, I want more RP!
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Bio
A R C H A Z E N 32 | M | UK
My name is Archazen but, considering you are on my page, I'm sure you already knew that. Feel free to call me Archie, if you like. I am a long time role-player of many years, roughly 15 years as of writing this, and I am open to RPing just about anything. I have experience primarily with fantasy but I have also done Sci-fi, Horror, romance, slice of life, supernatural, etc, etc.
I will be uploading my RP requests as well as Bios of my OCs below please feel free to check them out and to PM if you have any interest in any of them.
I will primarily be roleplaying on my working days, my job has a lot of down time and my home life is hectic enough without trying to find time for roleplay. If I'm silent for a while, I'll let you know in advance if I can so I'd expect the same courtesy.
Name: Jet Korrin True Name / Alias: Tech, Ratchet, Junker, tinker.. the list goes on. Faction: Ex-republic Mechanic Rank: Master Technician Species: Human (Coruscanti) Age: 54 Sex: Male Height: 6'4ft Eyes: brown Physique: Sturdy and robust physique // combines strength with practicality // His frame reflects the weariness of a seasoned mechanic who has spent countless hours hunched over starship consoles, yet his movements remain agile. Hair: brown, graying hair // low bun Skin: Originally Fair skin tone // bears the wear and tear of life spent tinkering // Bronzed from years under harsh suns Force Sensitive: Unlikely.
NPC: Alright, listen up. Rexa Voss—codename “Whisper.” She was more than just a partner; we danced through the stars together. Brave as a comet dodging asteroids, she earned a Republic Commendation for her gutsy moves during Operation Nebula Serpent. But the galaxy’s a cruel place, and it took her away. Deceased. Damn shame.
Now, Lena Talon—she preferred “Nova.” My apprentice, my right hand. We tinkered with hyperdrives, patched hull breaches, and shared stories over greasy caf. But fate’s a twisted navigator. Lena’s gone too, marked as deceased. She was family, and the void feels colder without her.
STRENGTHS AND WEAKNESSES:
Mechanical genius. Got this knack for machinery—can disassemble and diagnose complex systems like it’s a walk in the asteroid field. Ain’t just about fixin’ isolated problems, though. I take a whole-damn-ship approach. When scarcity hits, my creativity kicks in—I rig solutions with whatever’s lyin’ around. Starship schematics? Manuals? They etch themselves into my brain, like a tattoo on a spacefaring outlaw. I can visualize intricate designs, recall wiring diagrams, and dance with system interplay. It’s like I’m plugged into the cosmic mainframe. So whether it’s a Corellian freighter or an Imperial TIE fighter, I’m the mechanic who ain’t just fixin’ engines—I’m rewiring fate itself.
Resilience, kid. It’s the only currency that matters out in the outer rim. Lost my share of folks. But you don’t survive this underworld by wearin’ your heart on your sleeve. Danger? Hell, it’s my workshop soundtrack—the hum of fusion cutters, the sizzle of repulsorlifts. See that flickering neon sign? It’s where I’m fixin’ up a stolen landspeeder, no questions asked. No roots, no sentimental attachments. Just me and the junkyard vibes. People? They’re like malfunctioning droids—wired wrong, glitchin’ at the seams. Nah, I ain’t a loner; I’m a grease monkey with a knack for jury-riggin’. The stars? They’re the neon signs reflected in oily puddles. Stoicism ain’t cold; it’s survival. Each scar’s a story—blaster burns, electroshock mishaps. Lost love, lost credits. But I keep wrenchin’, keep tweakin’. So, kid, remember: Resilience ain’t about fixin’ shiny starships. It’s about cobblin’ together rusty speeders and stayin’ one step ahead of the Hutts.
Stubborn? Well, kid, let me tell ya. Yeah, I ain’t one to back down, even when the stars themselves seem to be conspirin’ against me. You see, life’s dealt me a hand full of busted hyperdrive coils and malfunctionin’ blasters. But I keep flyin’, keep fixin’. It’s like this: when the galaxy throws a curveball, I swing harder. Maybe it’s pride, maybe it’s just the way I’m wired. But that refusal to yield? It’s both my strength and my curse. So, kid, remember this—sometimes, the toughest battles ain’t in the stars; they’re right here, in your gut. And that stubbornness? It’ll either save your hide or send you spiralin’ into a black hole. Choose wisely.
APPEARANCE:
Jet’s face bears the marks of countless orbits around suns and moons. His skin, bronzed by space’s unforgiving rays, holds the memory of star maps traced with fingertips. Crow’s feet fan from the corners of his eyes—constellations of laughter, worry, and the weight of unspoken burdens. His eyes—deep and unyielding. They’ve witnessed hyperspace jumps and smuggler’s deals, betrayal and fleeting alliances. When Jet gazes at you, it’s like staring into the heart of a black hole—an event horizon where secrets collide. His jawline—square and resolute—speaks of resolve. It’s the anchor that keeps him grounded amidst the chaos of starports and cantinas. Scars, like asteroid impacts, trace the contours of his chin—a testament to battles fought and debts unpaid. Jet’s mouth—often a thin line—holds the echoes of lost comrades and unanswered questions. It’s the gateway to stories told over glasses of Corellian whiskey. When he smiles, it’s like a distant nebula flickering—a rare burst of warmth against the cosmic chill.
Jet’s frame is solid, built for the gritty underbelly of the galaxy. His shoulders—broad as a smuggler’s cargo hold—carry the weight of starship repairs and underworld secrets. Each muscle, honed by countless hours wrenching hyperdrive cores and recalibrating blasters, tells a story of survival. His arms—sinewy and scarred—are tools in themselves. The left, cybernetic and matte black, is a relic from his days in the replublic. It’s not just for show; it’s a fusion of strength and utility. When he grips a blaster, it’s like a wookiee’s embrace—firm but not crushing. His spine, slightly curved from years hunched over starship consoles, echoes the curvature of hyperspace routes. It’s a weariness etched into bone—the weight of lost comrades, unpaid debts, and unanswered questions. Despite weariness, Jet’s movements remain agile. He sidesteps danger like a nimble astromech evading blaster fire. When he pivots, it’s like a starfighter banking into a tight turn—graceful yet ready to unleash firepower. His boots—scuffed from countless cantina brawls—keep rhythm with the seedy undercurrents of the galaxy.
BIOGRAPHY:
Jet Korrin, a man of his years, a culmination of firefights, fist fights, spark lights, and long nights. A well-respected mechanic during his time with the republic turned back-alley tech for the many criminals, syndicates, and cartels. He's not to be messed with, and the common suspects in Nar Shaddaar know it. He wouldn't say he was "under their protection" more that everyone relies on him being there, in some way or another.
He generally keeps to himself, he shares a laugh in the cantina after a long day, sure, but making long-lasting relationships isn't for him, not anymore. He keeps his head down, day in, day out, working on whatever work seems to come his way. His resilience has managed to keep him going in a galaxy that seems to only ever to have the worst planned. His name known throughout both the shady underbelly of civilisation as well as spoken in high-regard through republic channels, whether it's getting a job done perfectly or done cheap and quiet-like, he's the man for the job.
His history before his republic days was nothing special, raised to a middle class family on Coruscant, he went to good schools and got himself a good education, he shined with mechanics much to the distain of his family, it being a working class job and all, but he liked it. He signed to the military at 16, getting himself off world and his parents off his back for good. He liked the military, a steady work style, known expectations and access to all the starships he could get his grubby hands on. He started out as any recruit does, with a blaster strapped and armour-clad but soon showed his worth to the engineers, getting a quick shift into the mechanic core by the time he was 17.
Still, Jet misses the adventure that his life used to possess, stalling out in his workshop getting tiresome, he was soon looking for his next stage, him being unaware of just how hectic that would be wasn't a problem, it wouldn't have stopped him regardless.
”“In the shadow of my curse, I found strength. What’s a hero without a burden to bear?””
Kael Thorn grew up in the small town of Willow Springs, nestled among the rolling hills of upstate New York. The town was picturesque, with its quaint houses, winding streets, and a sense of quiet isolation. Kael’s childhood was marked by lazy summers spent exploring the nearby woods, riding his bike down dusty trails, and occasionally getting into minor mischief with his best friend, Jake.
His parents, both hardworking but unremarkable, ran a small antique shop on Main Street. The shop was filled with desiccated relics of the past—old typewriters, tarnished silverware, and faded photographs. Kael often helped out after school, dusting off forgotten treasures and listening to the stories behind them: his fascination with history and mystery began there, amidst the creaky floorboards and the scent of old leather-bound books.
School was a different story: Kael’s grades were lackluster, and he rarely felt motivated to excel. He daydreamed during math class, doodling dragons and knights in the margins of his notebook. Detention became a familiar place for him, whether due to tardiness, missed assignments, or simply zoning out during lectures. His teachers saw potential in him if they spent the effort to look, but Kael preferred the escape of fantasy novels and late-night video game sessions.
His attire matched his rebellious spirit. Black combat boots, baggy jeans, and a faded band t-shirt were his daily uniform. A red flannel shirt, worn open, completed the grunge look. His shaggy brown hair fell into his eyes, and he rarely bothered to comb it. Kael wasn’t interested in conforming; he wanted life to surprise him, to unfold like an epic quest with unexpected twists.
Kael’s hobbies reflected his inner world. Video games transported him to realms of magic and adventure, where he could be a hero battling dark forces. Anime introduced him to complex characters and intricate plots, and he’d binge-watch entire series during weekends. Dungeons & Dragons sessions with Jake and a few other misfit friends allowed Kael to step into different personas—a rogue thief, a brooding sorcerer, or a noble knight.
But perhaps Kael’s most intriguing pastime was exploring abandoned buildings. Willow Springs had its share of forgotten places—an old mill, a crumbling mansion, and an eerie asylum. Armed with a flashlight and a sense of curiosity, Kael would slip through broken windows, feeling the chill of decay and the weight of history. These places whispered secrets—the laughter of forgotten parties, the cries of patients, the echoes of lives left behind.
As for friends, Kael didn’t have many. Jake was his steadfast companion, sharing Kael’s love for the mysterious and the inexplicable. They’d swap ghost stories by the campfire, daring each other to venture deeper into the woods. But beyond Jake, Kael kept his distance: social interactions felt like a chore, and he preferred the solitude of his room, surrounded by stacks of fantasy novels and half-finished sketches.
One fateful day, Kael ventured into the abandoned soda factory. Its metal skeletons loomed against the sky, rusted and forgotten. As he stepped onto an overhead walkway, his footing gave way. He plummeted, wind rushing past, and then—darkness.
When he awoke, he was no longer in Willow Springs. The air pollution that permeated his lungs, replaced with fresh air and the smell of pine filled his senses. Where once was cement beneath his boots now lay soft, delicate earth. Those who greeted him, spoke of prophecies and ‘Reincarnates.’ Kael’s mundane life was wholly shattered, replaced by a destiny he couldn’t comprehend, or so he thought.
Kael’s search for purpose in this new, more interesting world led him through the hallowed halls of paladins and the arcane chambers of magi. He tried to fit into their ranks, to prove himself worthy, but the universe remained indifferent: he wasn’t special enough for their grand designs. Disheartened and taken from his familiar world, he clung to old habits—the thrill of exploring abandoned places, where echoes of forgotten lives whispered in the shadows.
One crisp autumn day, Kael stumbled upon ruins that seemed to resonate with his very soul. The stones hummed with ancient energy, and he felt an innate pull—a destiny carved into the moss-covered stones. He ventured inside, brushing aside cobwebs, and there, half-buried beneath rubble, lay a weapon unlike any other.
The dagger, its features scratched and vague lingered beneath his gaze, its blade stained with dirt and ash and yet still mustered the will to shimmer… replete with forgotten potential. As Kael reached for the implement, he heard a voice—a droning, otherworldly thrum that echoed deep within his mind. It spoke with authority, offset with a measured softness, as if the weapon itself held ancient wisdom upon an open palm.
“I am Nihilus,” the voice intoned. “Born before this world began. Bond with me, Mortal, and become more than you could ever be. More than you could ever wish to be. Both the paladins and the Magi will regret not helping to manifest your potential.”
The plethora of thoughts ricocheting around in his mind were intoxicating. Kael scarcely hesitated, fingers trembling as they touched the dagger’s hilt. Memories surged—a recollection of battles fought, of destruction under a blood-stained moon, and the taste of both victory and despair. Nihilus had a soul—a Demon's soul, imprisoned within the blade.
And thus, he was bound to it, as any paladin would be with their weapon. But this bond was different: Nihilus hungered—for chaos, for spilled blood, for dominion over realms. It whispered dark secrets—how to command the arcane, how to rend flesh, how to reshape the world. Kael’s mind blurred—the line between self and weapon fading. He became a vessel for Nihilus, it’s pawn.
Personality:
Kael’s curious mind, once a beacon of exploration, has been stripped of its innocence. No longer does he seek the thrill of adventure; instead, he hungers for control. The latent power within him pulses, demanding recognition. It’s a double-edged sword—a gift and a curse.
From a carefree boy, content with the simplicity of life, Kael has metamorphosed into a man burdened by the weight of his choices. Fear gnaws at him, and regret tugs at his heart. He knows he must act, for his actions ripple outward. He cannot be the reason for another’s evil.
And so, with determination, he walks the tightrope. He will wield his newfound “power,” but not recklessly. It must serve a greater purpose—a force for good. For Kael, redemption lies in the delicate balance between purpose and fear, between creation and destruction.
Appearance:
Kael stands at an average height, lean but sinewy. His frame suggests agility rather than brute strength. His eyes are a striking shade of deep blue, often reflecting determination and curiosity. His once shaggy brown hair now falls in a tousled cascade. Kael wears practical attire—a tunic of earth-toned fabric, reinforced with leather patches. His trousers are sturdy, allowing freedom of movement. Around his waist, a leather belt adorned with pouches for whatever he may need. Leather boots, worn but well-crafted, protect his feet from thorns and rocky terrain. Draped over his shoulders is a cloak of midnight blue, its fabric whisper-soft. The hood conceals his features when needed, casting shadows across his face.
Powers/Abilities:
Kael has a very basic access to Magic due to his bond with his cursed weapon, this has allowed him to access his own affinity as well as that of Ty’Kyran’s.
Airblast (Air Sorcery)
Medium: Somatic
placing both wrists together with his hands outstretched, Kael can summon varying degrees of airblasts.
Fireball (Fire Sorcey)
Medium: Somatic
By focusing on the fire affinity cursed upon him, Kael can summon a ball of fire within his hand.
Lightning Bolt (Lightning Compound Sorcery)
Medium: Somatic
Reaching his hand out in a straight line and focusing allows Kael to mix Air and Fire to create a forceful lightning bolt from his fingertips.
Weapon:
Kael’s cursed connection to his weapon has bonded his and Ty’Kyran’s souls. At will, Kael can activate their symbiosis which merges their physical beings.
0% Symbiosis (Kael Dominant): Kael retains full control. His actions are independent, guided solely by his desires. 25% Symbiosis: Kael begins to feel Ty’Kyran’s presence—a subtle influence on his thoughts and emotions. 50% Symbiosis: The balance shifts. Kael’s autonomy wavers, and Ty’Kyran’s desires seep into his consciousness. 75% Symbiosis: Ty’Kyran’s rage and cunning surge. Kael struggles to resist, but their minds blur together. 100% Symbiosis (Ty’Kyran Dominant): Ty’Kyran takes over, wielding Kael’s body as his vessel. Kael’s willpower is the last defense against complete possession.
Symbiosis changes several things as the level increases, allowing Kael additional availability to Ty’Kyran’s mana pool as well as his demonic strength, agility, and abilities and the exchange of his own autonomy. His own will is the deciding factor for how much he resists Ty’Kyran’s possession.
When merged with Ty’Kyran, Kael’s personality may shift. His normally cautious demeanor might become more daring, fueled by Ty’Kyran’s desire for destruction.
Physically, Kael's body goes through changes as the symbiosis increases. At low symbiosis levels, the changes are almost superficial, his muscles may bulge, his teeth grow sharp etc. Whereas at high levels, Kael would grow Ty’Kyran’s horns, his eyes would turn from calm blue to the Fiery hue of Ty’Kyran’s.
0% Symbiosis (Kael Dominant): Appearance: Kael appears entirely human. His eyes are a calm shade of blue. No visible alterations—just an ordinary young man. Internal Sensations: Kael feels no different from his usual self. Ty’Kyran’s presence is a distant echo. 25% Symbiosis: Appearance: Subtle shifts begin: His eyes occasionally flicker with a fiery glint. Veins beneath his skin pulse faintly. A hint of Ty’Kyran’s aura surrounds him. Internal Sensations: Kael experiences fleeting bursts of aggression or recklessness. His thoughts sometimes echo Ty’Kyran’s desires. 50% Symbiosis: Appearance: The changes become more pronounced: Horns emerge from Kael’s forehead, curving back like a ram’s. His eyes now hold a dual hue—blue and fiery orange. Tattoos resembling ancient runes appear on his arms. His muscles ripple with newfound strength. Internal Sensations: Kael battles conflicting impulses—his will against Ty’Kyran’s. Dreams blur memories of battles long past. 75% Symbiosis: Appearance: The horns grow longer, twisting like serpents. Kael’s skin toughens, resisting minor cuts. His teeth sharpen subtly. His eyes blaze with Ty’Kyran’s rage. Internal Sensations: Kael’s autonomy wavers. Ty’Kyran’s voice whispers in his mind. The urge to destroy battles his desire to protect. 100% Symbiosis (Ty’Kyran Dominant): Appearance: His skin takes on a faint, otherworldly glow. Claws extend from his fingertips. His entire presence radiates menace. Internal Sensations: Kael fights to retain fragments of self-awareness. Ty’Kyran’s memories flood his consciousness.
Due to the Infernal origins of the weapon, it allowed Kael access to deeper levels of magic that he would be attuned to by himself, his spells becoming infernally empowered, well beyond what his abilities should allow.
For example, fireballs that should have been the size of a dodgeball blaze hotter, larger, and able to melt through stone. Airblasts become sharp cutting winds, and lightning bolts become uncontrollable like a storm.
To access this power, Kael must choose it, wielding the dagger. It comes with the risk of Ty’Kyran becoming more influential, furthering his symbiosis beyond his will.
“I am oblivion—the void that swallows empires, the echo of annihilation.”
Age: Unknown
Type: Cambion Demon
Rank: Mythril
Appearance:
Ty’Kyran’s eyes, twin orbs of seething intensity, mirrored the dying embers of distant stars. Within those crimson irises, the fury of collapsing galaxies churned—a testament to battles waged in the realms far beyond mortal time.
His skin, taut and unyielding, bore the hue of a sun nearing its final breath. The crimson expanse clung to the contours of muscle and bone, a testament to both resilience and vulnerability. Each scar etched upon his flesh told a story—a saga of skirmishes, of forces clashing in demonic arenas.
Ty’Kyran’s physique defied easy categorization. Slender, yet muscular, he moved with a grace that belied the raw power simmering beneath the surface. His muscles held strength in check—an energy harnessed, waiting for release.
Backstory:
In the time prior to humanity's kingdoms, when Demons ruled the land of what is now Harvess, Ty’Kyran was already feared even among his own kin. Here, blood flowed like molten glass. Ages passed, malevolence simmered, steeped in the primordial chaos.
In this realm Ty’Kyran’s shadow fell. Mortals glimpsed him—a silhouette against the rising sun—and felt the tremors of destiny. They knew not his name but sensed his purpose: annihilation.
Ty’Kyran’s crimson eyes held no remorse. His wings, infernal tempests, swept across villages, toppling spires and extinguishing hearth fires. His greatsword, an extension of his wrath, cleaved through ancient oaks and castle walls alike. Each swing unraveled the delicate threads that bound their reality. As Ty’Kyran roamed, they quivered. Mortals felt the weight of impending doom—their dreams haunted by visions of fractured worlds. A canvas for Ty’Kyran’s malevolence, each stroke tearing at the seams. His greatsword relished their souls, its blade etched with blood. The land bore scars—crops withered, rivers choked, and stones cracked. Ty’Kyran reveled in the symphony of destruction, each note resonating with his malevolent laughter.
The first paladins clashed with Ty’Kyran. Seraphina, their stalwart leader, driven by hope, struck at Ty’Kyran’s heart, only to meet his blade in her fall. As Ty’Kyran fell, Seraphina sacrificed her remaining lifeforce to seal Ty’Kyran within the very weapon he wielded, binding him to its malevolent power.
The paladins buried the greatsword deep within a sacred grove, where ancient oaks stood sentinel. Over centuries, the blade’s malevolence waned. Its once imposing form dwindled, until it resembled a mere dagger—a relic forgotten by all but the oldest trees.
And so, Ty’Kyran slumbered within the blade, his consciousness flickering in the dark. The dagger lay undisturbed, waiting for a time when destiny would stir it awake once more. Perhaps a curious adventurer would stumble upon it, unaware of the Demon’s legacy.
In the fiery depths of Ty’Kyran’s malevolent realm, where the screams of tormented souls echo through sulfurous caverns, Nihilus took shape–an embodiment of destruction forged within the infernal warforges.
The blade of Nihilus is wrought from infernal iron, a malefic substance that defies the laws of mortal craftsmanship. Its form remains unyielding–a straight line devoid of taper, culminating in a wickedly sharp point. This blade is no mere weapon; it is a manifestation of Ty’Kyran’s wrath, honed to cleave through armor, bone, and spirit alike.
Lifting Nihilus seems like an act of defiance against the very laws of reality. Mortal hands would strain under its weight, for the infernal iron has rendered it too heavy for ordinary men and women. As if the earth itself conspires against those who dare to wield it, the ground trembles beneath their feet, urging them to relinquish their grasp.
Wrapped in obsidian-black leather, the hilt provides a stark contrast to the blade’s malevolence. The crossguard serves as a macabre ornament–a testament to the blade’s otherworldly origins.
Nihilus transcends mere utility.. It is Ty’Kyran’s proclamation etched in fire and iron–a symbol of devastation and reckoning. The insatiable hunger for domination that drives him.
As the power of Ty’Kyran waned, the greatsword form couldn’t be maintained. The once-glorious blade faltered, its form shifting and shrinking until it resembled a mere dagger. No longer capable of maintaining its grandeur, the greatsword surrendered to the inexorable pull of time.
The dagger, beneath the dust and ash, is a brilliant iron. the dagger feels deceptively heavy in hand. Its weight belies its seemingly unassuming appearance.The blade, straight and unadorned, lacks ostentation. No intricate patterns or embellishments distract from its purpose. The hilt, wrapped in a small leather cord, bears no gemstones or engravings. Simplicity masks its true significance. When gripped, the leather feels worn, as if it was eons old. The blade’s surface, when exposed to certain light, emits an eerie black glow—an otherworldly luminescence that defies explanation.
As the symbiosis increases and Ty’Kyrans power is allowed to take over, the weapon too grows. Kael is seen to wield a dagger but as the symbiosis grows, it would become a shortsword, an arming sword, a bastard sword, a longsword and finally into the greatsword Ty’Kyran once wielded.
Dagger (0% Symbiosis): Kael wields a simple dagger, its blade unremarkable and compact. The weapon serves as a tool rather than a formidable weapon. Shortsword (25% Symbiosis): As Kael activates symbiosis, the dagger begins to change: The blade elongates, edges sharpening. Intricate runes appear along the hilt, pulsing with energy. The weapon gains weight, becoming more substantial. Kael feels the surge of Ty’Kyran’s power, and the weapon responds. Arming Sword (50% Symbiosis): The transformation continues: The blade grows further, balanced and deadly. The runes glow brighter, resonating with ancient magic. Kael’s grip adjusts to accommodate the weapon’s new form. Ty’Kyran’s essence seeps into the steel. Bastard Sword (75% Symbiosis): The weapon becomes formidable: Its length rivals that of a longsword. Etchings on the blade depict scenes of battle and sacrifice. Kael’s movements flow seamlessly with the weapon’s weight. Ty’Kyran’s rage and cunning pulse through Kael’s veins. Longsword (90% Symbiosis): The blade reaches its zenith: Polished to a mirror sheen, it reflects both Kael and Ty’Kyran. The hilt bears symbols of dual mastery. Kael’s identity blurs with Ty’Kyran’s memories. The weapon hungers for conflict. Greatsword (100% Symbiosis): Finally, the dagger completes its transformation: It reshapes into the magnificent greatsword Ty’Kyran once wielded. The blade gleams with an otherworldly light, etched with ancient symbols. Kael wields it effortlessly, channeling both their essences. The greatsword embodies their combined strength and purpose.
A L A R I C D R A K E
“Magic is in the little things – - A smile, a warm cup of tea, and unexpected kindness”
Full Name: Alaric Harvard Drake
Age: 38
Appearance: Standing at an impressive 6 feet, his lean frame suggests athleticism despite years spent behind a desk. His chestnut-brown hair, perpetually tousled, catches glimmers of gold in the sunlight. The meticulously groomed brown beard adds character to his rugged handsomeness.
But it’s Alaric’s eyes that captivate—a mesmerizing blend of blue and green, shifting like the tides. When he focuses, they deepen to a stormy gray; when he laughs, they sparkle like sunlight on water. And there, on his left wrist, lies an enchanted compass tattoo—a fine reminder of adventure and direction. He got it during holiday turned disaster, where he lost his family forever.
In the corporate world, Alaric navigates with quiet confidence. Crisp white shirts, sleeves rolled up to reveal the compass, paired with tailored trousers—the uniform of a man who balances professionalism with subtle rebellion. Casual Fridays see him swapping ties for a well-worn watch, a relic from his travels with his father. His favorite black loafers carry stories of cobblestone streets and hidden cafés.
Worldview: Alaric Drake is a man of quiet introspection and subtle rebellion. He possesses a deep sense of curiosity and a yearning for adventure, often finding beauty in the mundane. Alaric is introspective, frequently lost in thought during routine meetings, and has a habit of scribbling enchantment ideas on the margins of his reports. His colleagues see him as dependable and patient, always willing to lend an ear or stay late to fix a problem.
Beneath his professional exterior lies a dreamer with a wanderer’s soul. Alaric is passionate about exploring new places and experiences, which is reflected in his collection of travel brochures and vintage maps. He believes in signs and destiny, often drawing inspiration from his favorite book, “The Alchemist.” Alaric’s personality is a blend of responsibility and wanderlust, making him a unique and intriguing individual who navigates life with a quiet confidence and an ever-present sense of adventure.
Position: Customer Service - Customer relationships and office maintenance and improvement.
Magic: Alaric was being trained in the art of evocation by his parents but always had a knack for enchantment. After the death of his mother and father, Alaric left evocation behind him, only using it in minor ways for his own convenience but dived head first into enchantment. His personal enchantments seem mundane to most people but it's things he couldn't live without. Whether it's a pen enchanted to write whatever he is thinking, a self-tying tie, or his most important one, the compass on his wrist. He applies this by ensuring office enchantments are maintained, improved or undone as need be. His enchantments in the field are primarily for maintenance and clean-up of unsuspecting witnesses.
Resume: Born to well respected evoker father and elementalist mother, Alaric always knew of magic but wasn't aware of the importance of it until he was 11 years old. He had often in his pre-magic years, done things that were left unexplained, like made his toys move by themselves. His father took him under his wing at this age and began to teach him. Over the years that followed, Alaric joined his parents on many expeditions and missions involving use of his new-found magic prowess. He wasn't gifted in evoking like his father and after a short stint at learning elemental control in which he managed to set fire to the living room carpet, meant he never truly experienced the danger that his parents did.
Shortly after Alaric had turned eighteen, he would go on his last expedition with his parents. It all started when he dreamt a week prior of a red robed figure warning him of disaster, he ignored this almost in it's entirety but during one late night where he couldn't sleep, he drew a compass on his wrist, closed his eyes, and focussed on it bringing direction to him and his family. When he opened his eyes again, he found the drawing had become an intricately detailed tattoo, one where when he touched it, pointed true-north.
On the first day of the final trip, the family was departing for an island off of the United Kingdom mainland. During their short boat trip, the weather seemed to be getting worse before violently growing into a hurricane, one seemingly solely located onto their boat. The boat eventually bowed to the storm, being destroyed in the process. Alaric managed to find his way to shore, using his compass, but never did find his parents.
The years following Alaric travelled for many years using his ill-gotten inheritance, until it was time to seek work. He flew back to his family home and wandered through halls in which he hadn't seen with adult eyes. Everything seemed wrong and destitute. When he was looking through his parents things, he found many letters from a company called 'MagiCorp,' it seemed they wanted his parents to join them for a very long time. A company solely for wizards seemed like a good lead for a career start. After several attempts of getting through and getting hired, he put his family home under a unique enchantment. One that would keep it safe from any trying to find it.
Other Junk: -Alaric suffers from debilitating panic attacks when near deep water since the tragic end of his parents. -Soulful music often brings back memories of meaningful moments and places he’s visited. Whether it’s a quiet evening in a cozy café or a walk through scenic landscapes, the music evokes a sense of nostalgia and warmth. -Alaric's mother was a lover of books and research and, as Alaric grew older, found solace and inspiration in books. They became his escape from the mundane and a gateway to new worlds and ideas. His favourite book, “The Alchemist,” was one his mother owned, it's pages littered with little notes of hers.
N O T I N U S E
K A I T O "A M P F I R E" T A N A K A
Name: Kaito Tanaka
Hero Name: Ampfire
Quirk: Energy Reservoir
Background: Kaito Tanaka, known by his hero name “Ampfire,” was born with a unique quirk called “Energy Reservoir.” His body acts as a living battery, absorbing energy from the food and drinks he consumes. However, unlike most quirks, Ampfire's power isn’t instantaneous. Instead, he accumulates energy over time, storing it within himself.
Appearance: Ampfire is a lanky young man with unruly black hair and perpetually tired eyes. He wears a modified hero costume that resembles a cross between a tracksuit and a futuristic jumpsuit. The suit is adorned with glowing energy patterns that pulse across the fabric.
Personality: Kaito is a laid-back and easy-going individual. He often jokes about being “charged up” after a cup of coffee or an energy drink. However, beneath his casual demeanour lies a deep exhaustion. His quirk demands constant energy intake, leaving him perpetually drained. Despite this, he remains committed to hero work, fuelled by a sense of duty and a desire to protect others.
Abilities:
Energy Absorption: Ampfire can absorb energy from various sources, including food, beverages, and even sunlight. The more he consumes, the greater his energy reservoir becomes. Energy Release: When needed, Ampfire can tap into his stored energy. He can channel it into bursts of superhuman speed, strength, or agility. However, prolonged use leaves him fatigued. Limitations: Ampfire must carefully balance his energy intake. Too much, and he risks becoming hyperactive and jittery; too little, and he’s ineffective in battle. Hero Work: His signature move, the “Energetic Dash,” propels him forward at incredible speeds, leaving a trail of energy sparks behind. He’s also known for his “Power Surge Punch,” a devastating blow fuelled by his stored energy.
Weaknesses:
Energy Drain: Ampfire's quirk constantly drains his stamina. He relies on caffeine and energy drinks to maintain functionality. Crashes: After intense battles, Ampfire experiences energy crashes, leaving him bedridden for hours or even days.
Trivia: Ampfire's favorite coffee shop is “Caffeine Haven,” where he’s a regular customer. He once accidentally powered an entire city block during an energy surge, causing flickering lights and confused pedestrians.
Fun Fact: Ampfire's hero costume has built-in energy patches which adhere to his skin. These patches release a slow, steady stream of energy to keep him going for long patrols without overwhelming him with energy.
A K A R I "A N E M O S" F U J I K A Z E
Name: Akari Fujikaze
Hero Name: Anemos
Quirk: Zephyr
Background: Akari Fujikaze grew up in a small town outside of Kyoto. Her parents, both meteorologists, encouraged her education into science. When her quirk manifested—control over wind—she mainly used it to blow leaves and play, then in school to help her in sports, and then as she got stronger, to lift herself and move around.
Appearance: Anemos stands petite and graceful, her eyes the color of a clear sky. Her windswept hair, a cascade of sun-kissed waves, dances around her face. When she smiles, it’s as if the breeze itself has whispered a secret.
Personality: Anemos is a whirlwind of enthusiasm. She giggles when the breeze ruffles her hair and dances during storms. Her optimism is infectious, and she believes that everyone deserves a second chance.
Abilities:
Aerokinesis: Anemos manipulates air currents to varying degrees and results. Flight Control: She glides effortlessly, riding the wind like a kite. Whether hovering or darting through the sky. Zephyr Float: Anemos can stand on a small zephyr, levitating above the ground, this has slowly become her main means of travelling. Gale Push: She sends gale force winds to knock foes off balance. Lift and manipulate: Anemos can use the control over wind to lift objects and people as well as control how they move through the air.
Hero Costume: Anemos wears a Blue bodysuit. Her hood flares like a sail and ends with a cape, and her boots have hidden air vents for precise manoeuvres.
Teaching Style: Anemos’s classes are outdoor adventures. She teaches students to feel their wind’s rhythm, whether in combat or daily life. Her catchphrase: “Embrace the change, my little heroes!”
Signature Moves:
Hurricane winds: Anemos crosses her arms, her hands outstretched, before swiping them across her chest, creating a hurricane level blast of wind to force her enemies to submit. Currents whispers: Anemos can feel the slightest movement of air, she uses this to locate people who may be trapped in disaster zones. Air Pocket: Anemos's control over wind isn't limited to the air. She has also trained long and hard in the ability to create air pockets underwater that allows people to breathe underwater. These can be small, if needed for many people, and attached to the face, or large to fit an entire person inside.
Catchphrase: “Breathe easy—I’ve got this!”
Trivia: Besides heroics, Anemos is an amateur flutist. She plays haunting melodies that seem to echo the wind’s whispers. Anemos can predict minor weather changes based on the wind’s behaviour.
Fun fact: On lazy afternoons, Anemos shapes clouds into whimsical forms—dragons, sailing ships, and even smiley faces. Her cloud art brings joy to passers-by.
C H A T T E R
Name: Chatter
Age: 14 (Young adult for race)
Race: Kenku
Fighting Class: Ranger
Gear: Carrys a notebook full detailed drawings of things he has seen
Weapons: Bow and Arrows that are crafted using his own feathers, as well as a dagger and shortword.
Appearance: Chatter has the appearance of a Crow, he is adorned in black feathers, has a long, curved black beak and eyes like abyssal pearls. He wears a blue shawl which is tattered and torn in places. Underneath he wears a soft cloth tunic with many leather straps holding together his many bags and weapons.
Backstory: Chatter was born in the heart of the Whispering Woods—a dense, ancient forest where shadows danced among gnarled trees. Kenkus, known for their mimicry and affinity for secrets, thrived here. Chatter’s earliest memories were of echoing bird calls and the rustling of leaves.
As a young Kenku, Chatter discovered their unique gift: the ability to mimic any sound they heard. They imitated the songs of warblers, the creaking of branches, and even the hushed conversations of passing travelers. But it was the whispers—the secrets shared under moonlight—that fascinated them most.
Chatter’s mentor, an old ranger named Talon, recognized their potential. Under Talon’s guidance, Chatter learned to blend into the forest seamlessly. They wore a tattered blue shawl—the color of twilight—and moved silently, leaving no trace. Their bow, carved from a sacred yew tree, hummed with magic as they nocked arrows feathered with azure plumes.
After leaving the safety of the forest, Chatter entered the nearby town and was soon granted with cacophony of voices, all singular and different and all melodious to his ear. He learned all he could by visiting the local tavern but accidently overhead a plot of thievery. He approached the town guard and braced himself. Using a hundred voices he explained how he heard the story of thievery and perfectly recreated the men talking about it.
He left the town shortly after, fearing retaliation from the men and slowly has travelled the land, far and wide hoping to find something that is missing from himself.
Racial skills Cursed by a forgotten god, they lost their wings and voices. Now, they mimic sounds and speech they hear, unable to produce their own. This also isn't limited to sounds. Kenku can duplicate any document, any handwriting they’ve seen. In a world of contracts and decrees, this ability opens doors—sometimes literally.
W I P
A R C H A Z E N D A R K S T O N E O F T H E S I L V E R F L A M E
Name: Archazen Darkstone True Name / Alias: Sir Archazen Darkstone of the Silver Flame | Knight of the Silver Flame | Silver Warden | Silverbrand | The Burned Man Faction/Association: Order of the Silver Flame Rank/Position: Warden of the Second Legion Species: Human Age: His true age is forgotten, even by himself. The Silver Flame has kept him alive for much longer than the human lifespan. Sex: Male Height: 6'2ft | 188cm Eyes: They used to be the colour of sapphire but now have a silver hue. Physique: Lean and toned. Hair: Ashen Brown Skin: Tanned from soot, fire, and fights.
A P P E A R A N C E:
Armor: His armor, once gleaming and proud, now bears the scars of countless battles. Dents and scratches mar its surface, but it still clings to him like a second skin. The metal is that of iron. Helm: His helm conceals his face, leaving only shadows visible. Cloak: A tattered cloak drapes over his shoulders, its edges frayed and singed. It billows dramatically as he moves, catching the light of the silver fire. Gloves and Gauntlets: His gauntlets are etched with the marks of battle, of war. The gloves, however, are surprisingly delicate—fine leather adorned with silver-threaded embroidery. Boots: His boots are worn and patched, yet they carry him silently across the blighted landscape. Their soles leave faint silver footprints wherever he treads. Additional: Archazen’s most remarkable feature is the silver fire that burns within him. It seeps through the gaps in his armor, illuminating the darkness around him. When he draws his sword, the blade ignites with the same ethereal flames, turning it into a weapon of both silver and steel.
A B I L I T I E S:
Silver Fire: Archazen is a knight of the Silver Flame, an order of knights that have undergone The Pledge of Silver Fire. The silver fire is both a weapon and a curse. It doesn’t grant brute strength; instead, it enhances agility and reflexes. Archazen can dodge arrows mid-flight and scale walls effortlessly. It enhances his natural senses, his sight sees wisps of where Shadowbane has touched. When he draws his sword, it blazes with silver flames, allowing him to cut through the shadowbane's minions. But it comes with a price, Archazen’s touch is lethal. His skin is scarred with the silver flame, able to burn those he touches. He wears gloves at all times, their inner lining woven with protective charms to shield others from the silver fire’s wrath. Human touch is a distant memory for him. He can’t hold a lover’s hand or comfort a fallen comrade. The warmth of friendship eludes him, replaced by the fire that courses through his veins.
From the moment they stepped onto the Basilisk, Jet felt a profound sense of unease. Perhaps it had started the moment they disembarked from the ship. Wearing stormtrooper armor was something he had never envisioned for himself, yet here he was, aboard an Imperial Star Destroyer, dressed as if he belonged. If it weren’t for the fact that their mission was to rob the place, Jet would have been thoroughly disgusted with himself—if he had the luxury of time to dwell on it.
Jet decided to leave the talking to Fel. Fel was far more adept in this environment, whereas Jet knew he would likely trip over some simple Imperial protocol or code, drawing unwanted attention.
As he trailed behind Fel and Zane through the labyrinthine corridors, Jet’s mind began to wander. Would he have been an Imperial if he had been born in a different time? The thought gnawed at him. He had joined the Republic almost on a whim, driven by a desire to delve deeper into mechanics and escape his disapproving middle-class family. The Republic had offered him a chance to work with advanced technology and find a sense of purpose away from the stifling expectations at home.
But what if he had been born a few years later, into a galaxy where the Empire’s iron grip was already firmly established? Would he have been indoctrinated into their ranks, believing in their propaganda? The idea was unsettling. He imagined himself in the stark white armor of a stormtrooper, blindly following orders, enforcing the Emperor’s will without question. It was a chilling vision.
Jet shook his head, trying to dispel the troubling thoughts. No, he certainly hoped not. He liked to believe that his core values would have steered him away from the Empire, that he would have found a way to resist, to fight back. But the truth was, he couldn’t be sure. The galaxy was a complex place, and people were often shaped by their circumstances as much as by their choices.
They soon arrived at the room they were after. As the door slid open, Jet readied for whatever would come. When nothing did, he relaxed. Zane began searching for what Fel had instructed him to find. Jet stood in the doorway, doing his best to appear inconspicuous, mimicking the mannerisms he had observed so far.
“So… any chance I can get the ‘skinny’ on what the kark is actually going on here? Also… a little help? What’s an ‘ID tag’?” Zane asked, his voice tinged with frustration and curiosity.
Zane had been mostly silent, aside from a few muttered words. Jet couldn’t help but feel a pang of sympathy for the young man, who reminded him of his old apprentice, Nova—lost and just trying to survive. He wasn’t sure what he had been thinking when he decided to bring Zane along.
Jet marched into the room with a sense of urgency rather than irritation. He quickly rifled through a few lockers, examining several IDs before finding one that seemed suitable.
…Fel had experienced this before. It had been a minute, but this was standard operating procedure aboard an Imperial Naval Vessel. Everyone had their assigned tasks. Oddly (for the few of them here with nefarious intent) there were comparatively few individuals aboard a Star Destroyer assigned to internal security. They walked unmolested, uninterrupted, because they looked like they belonged, and because everyone else was fearful of the consequences if the boat was rocked. Even so – Fel was uneasy.
“Slap this on your chest, like this,” he instructed, pressing the ID against Zane’s chest. “It’ll help you blend in and, with any luck, keep us from getting blasted.” He tossed the ID back into the locker nearest to Zane so he could grab it once he was suited up. “Sorry you got pulled into this mess.” Jet began, giving Zane space to dress. “We’re here for a job, grab some stuff, and get out. In and out, no fuss. Should’ve been as easy as a Tatooine sunset, but… let’s just say things got a bit more tangled than we planned.” Jet leaned against the lockers, folding his arms over his chest. “I know this isn’t exactly a stroll through the Naboo gardens, but we’ve got this. Stick close, follow our lead, and we’ll be outta here before you know it.”
He spoke with a calm, reassuring voice, and gave Zane clear and concise instructions on what to do with it once he was ready for it. That was good. That was something that the boy could work with. Zane took a few deep, measured breaths as he tried to filter through all the information he had soaked in on his way through the halls of the Basilisk; taking care to do so while he began removing his jacket and getting undressed. His mind was flooded with images that he was able to recall in his near-frantic state, the few uniformed individuals he was able to recall were all dressed in neatly-pressed, very clean uniforms. Even the technicians - which one would suspect to be the most-filthy amongst a crew aboard a vessel - were unfathomably cleaner than Zane had been in years.
“Right, right…so…you guys are, what…? Thieves? Bandits, or something? You gotta know that the Imps won’t like that sort of thing…they showed us that right quick when they first showed up a while back. Cripes, I can’t even r’member when that really was…days don’t really pass here like they oughtta.”
Fel bristled at the thought of being called a simple thief, or bandit. He knew the kid meant nothing by it, but it was a whole lot more complicated than that, depending on your political views, and where you stood morally on the whole ‘do the right thing’ notion that your mama taught you as a child. He knew that what he was doing was something, regardless of his cut, or which side of the fence he was on, that the people on Rozao IV would talk about for years to come. Maybe that was enough. But in this moment, he still didn’t know exactly what to call them after that little mental sidebar.
Jet took a deep breath, sucking in air before expelling it with greater force. “I wouldn’t even know what to call us.” He looked over to Fel for a second before looking back to Zane. “We’re a crew.” He thought back to Aellyn and how she wasn’t technically with them. “If you need to call us something, anyway.”
As Zane waited and listened to the big man, he was slowly peeling his well-worn, heavily-soiled clothes from his body. His lack of hygiene began to show in a rather malodorous fashion, and even Zane was able to tell that he wasn’t winning any awards for cleanliness. It was a bit embarrassing, to be honest. Zane hadn’t felt vulnerable up until now, but it was quickly starting to become that way. He kept casting furtive glances over toward “Gigantor”, deciding then and there that he needed to try and relate to them a bit more if he wanted to help move things along. It might also help him to not focus on his vulnerabilities, and that was something he earnestly desired at this point.
“Also - what d’you guys want me to call you while you’re on this ‘job’? I heard them spoutin’ off letters ‘n numbers ‘n such from before when they were talking to ya. Are we using those while you guys are here?”
“Name’s Jet,” he patted his chest with his hand before jamming a thumb over towards the man standing near the door. “That’s Fel.” His hand returned to being firmly tucked away over his arm. “No point trying to remember them numbers, it won’t do you any good. And I sure won’t remember to respond to them.”
Zane nodded with the conclusion of Jet’s introductions, “Ah, okay then…I’m Zane, by the way. I’d say ‘nice to meet ya’, but I'm not so sure it is just yet.” He said with a sheepish grin.
Removing his shirt was going to be the toughest part. Zane already knew that. It had been several days since he had even changed clothes. There was never a need here on Lothos; water was beyond scarce, and any filth you were bound to collect on yourself was just as likely to be there the next day once you got rid of it. So, you ended up wearing the same clothes for days, sometimes weeks on end. Led to many uncomfortable moments in the transition, sort of like what was happening now.
Zane grabbed the hem of his shirt. He began slowly raising it up over his body, his features contorting into a wince once he began to feel the fabric peeling away from his skin. As the shirt is removed, it reveals much of what Lotho Minor was capable of doing to people with humanoid constitution - his skin was weathered, covered in dingy, oily residue and multiple sores. Zane’s breathing was a bit ragged as he felt his body starting to shake from a mixture of pain and embarrassment due to his squalid state.
Jet couldn’t help but feel for the kid. This was a rough state to be in, and not just with the crew. The kid needed nourishment, that much was clear, but how his living conditions had let his body get this raw was just plain disgusting. He took off his helmet in a show of sympathy, but he realized his mistake as soon as the stench hit him. The filth embedded in the kid was sure to get them caught. A stinky prisoner was one thing, but a filthy imperial was a whole other issue. Jet glanced around and noticed a washroom just off from the lockers.
“Hey, kid… maybe you should clean yourself up,” he said, nodding towards the sign behind him, trying to mask his sad disgust.
The pang in his chest as “Jet” referenced the washroom was like getting hit with a gut punch, regardless of how much Zane tried to mentally prepare himself for the blow.
“Y-Yeah…I get that.” He slowly stood from the bench, removing what was left of the dingy shirt he was wearing and pulling it off his body. What was left of the boy, one could barely consider to be human; little more than skin and bone. “I’ll just…get this stuff. I’ll try to be quick.”
Fel set the rifle down, and leaned against a locker. Kark. He was ready for a gaggle of Bucket-Heads to cause havoc for them. He wasn’t prepared for the personal toll to be brought into such sharp relief. The kid – Zane. Zane’s condition brought him to a halt. Caused him to engage parts of his brain that dulled his focus on the gig. He couldn’t shake it – the sadness fed his guilt, the guilt fed his empathy, his empathy fed his rage, and then in a few moments, he found himself wanting to take down the entire Empire from within. To live a life like this… only life Zane had ever known, he was sure of it… wasn’t the Empire supposed to protect and nurture its citizens? Fat chance. Not when every sonovabitch who could make a difference, like Vinoor Kara, is lining their pockets with the lives of the poor and the working class on the Rim. He rallied, ready once more to kick Kara in the cred-disc, right where it would hurt the worst.
Zane pulled together the items he’d gathered - jumpsuit, underclothes, socks and boots - and made his way into the refresher area of the locker room, trying like hell to hide the shame he felt in his appearance. Stepping inside, he walked toward the stalls that - he assumed - were showers. From what little he could remember as a kid on board freighters, they looked like fancier wash stations. Setting down his new “disguise” on the bench outside of the stall, he slid the door shut behind him and went to work on removing what remained of his clothes before walking into the shower area.
Fel tugged off the helmet once more, dropping it to the deck, letting the sweat drip down his nose and cheeks. “You feel at all bad we didn’t give Aellyn a better picture of what Abilene’s got us searching for?” It was a question he’d been keeping tucked close to his chest for several days, even before the notion of Aellyn joining them had come up. Abilene was a means to an end. A job when there hadn’t been a job on the books. She certainly had the coin to afford more than she had let on, and if luck was on their side, that Kolto would add more to their coffers than the initial job, and Rozao IV would have more than they needed, for the first time ever. That in and of itself was wrong. Too many in need. Not enough folks like them. Whatever they were.
Jet scratched his chin, his expression a mix of frustration and regret as he considered Fel’s question. He took a long, deep breath. “Seeing the mess we’re in now… maybe we should’ve brought her in on the whole plan from the start. All the details, upfront, you know?” He turned to face Fel, his eyes locking onto Fel's “I guess we’ve all got things we need to set right, after all.”
The spacer chuckled mirthlessly, checking his chron. “Well, we live beyond the next forty-five minutes, we can turn an eye toward making all our varied sins right again… but for the time being, let’s stay frosty, hmm? There’s still fifty different ways this can go sideways, and I’m going to need my partner to anticipate at least half of that… ‘cause we both know I’m not smart enough to see the whole picture, hey?”
Jet couldn’t help but mimic Fel’s sentiment with his own laugh. “A promise of fifty percent each, kid? Yeah.. I could live with that.” Jet gave Fel a beaming smile and thumbs up, letting out a dry chuckle at his own ironic jest.
There were enough dials and levers inside to utterly confuse the boy. He cursed his ineptitude under his breath, and started reaching up and - with no level of certainty - pressing buttons to see what did what. When foam started shooting out of the wall onto him, he was startled. The stark scent of the antibacterial foam wafted into his nostrils, making him break out into a fit of coughing. There were ropes of the foam all along his chest and arms now, and the bits that landed on his open sores stung almost like acid burns from the rain. At least, at first it did. The sensation quickly gave way to a much cooler feeling. That was when Zane remembered what it was like to have something as simple as soap again.
He spent the next little while scrubbing himself down, and fiddling with the controls for the shower until it finally did what he wanted. When the rush of warm water finally came down onto him, it initially scared him senseless. His past traumas of being affected by the caustic rains of the planet taught him to be wary of water that fell upon him like this. After a few moments of flailing and shocked shouting, he realized that the liquid was harmless, and proceeded to let it cascade over him, almost surrendering himself to its warm and cleansing nature.
Within a few minutes, all the grime and dirt that had once covered him had been washed away. The sores remained, of course, but those would be covered by the fresh clothing. It took a few seconds for him to figure out how to turn the shower back off, but he managed well enough. The room was silent again, and now Zane could focus on getting ready. He quickly donned the replacement clothes and boots, sliding into the technician’s jumpsuit with relative ease. Despite it being the right height, it still settled onto his emaciated frame like baggy clothing. Nothing to be done about that, Zane supposed. Once he was fully-dressed, he walked back out to where Jet and Fel were, making sure to don a technician’s cap and the ID badge that the big man had found for him.
“So, uh…does this work?” Zane smoothed out the jumpsuit with his hands as he reached down to grab one of the tool belts he’d seen the other techs with, wrapping it around his waist awkwardly as he attempted to figure out how the fastener worked. “I figure…these guys won’t miss a few tools, right?”
Fel breathed in the cool, canned, recycled air of the ImpStar, his own scars and sweat mingling with the dreads and matted hair to paint a picture far more akin to Zane than he wanted to admit. When he spoke, his voice was calm, even, sympathetic, even a bit sad. “Yeah, Zane… that’ll work.” He had thought about this, not exactly long and hard… but he’d thought enough, and it made sense. At least till the kid did something stupid. “Here.” Fel said, handing Zane the EC-17. He needed something to protect himself. They were in the belly of the beast, and it would do no good the kid getting into a shootout with nothing but his dick in his hands. “You ready? One lift ride, five minutes of walking, and hopefully… around ten minutes of searching through five years of plunder, and then we can get the hell off this fireblasted wreck.”
He really hoped the kid didn’t make him regret giving him a firearm.
The lanky youth accepted the blaster from Fel, turning it over and over in his hand and remembering to keep his finger away from the trigger guard. He’d seen enough of them being used that he knew what not to do. “Uh, yeah, okay. We’re gonna, what? ‘Hit the bank’? Yeah…” he said, trying to convince himself more than anyone else, “I can do that. Yup, sure can.”
Jet could tell this was likely one of the first times the kid had ever held a proper blaster. Sure, he might have seen them before, but holding and using one was a different story. Hopefully, he wouldn’t need to use it, but it was smart of Fel to arm the boy, regardless of his experience.
“Just stick with us. I know we dragged you into this, and it ain’t fair,” Jet began, patting Zane gently on the shoulder, careful not to hurt him. “We’ll get you out of here, don’t you worry!” Jet smiled, trying to reassure him amidst the chaos.
Zane breathed in through his nose, and then slowly exhaled through his mouth. It surprised him how effortlessly he did so here. The air was so…clean. He tucked the blaster into one of the tool-belt’s pouches, making sure it was concealed before going over everything in his head one more time. Zane tried to remain focused on the situation at hand, but his thoughts kept drifting back to Parlo and his little brother. If things continued the way they were going, and this “crew” of theirs had to make a quick break for it, what would he do about the two most important people in his life? He figured he’d need to address this with the two men in the room with him at some point, but, was now really the time?
The old man observed each traveler as they gathered around his modest campfire, the flickering flames casting dancing shadows on their faces. Though it wasn’t much, he made a concerted effort to ensure that everyone, save those who declined, received some nourishment. The aroma of a simple stew wafted through the air, mingling with the scent of burning wood. He couldn’t help but notice the peculiar assembly that had formed. The trader appeared to be of little concern to him, at least in the eyes of the others. The presence of a Dark Elf and a woman clearly hailing from the North was something that might have raised his eyebrow, had it not been precisely what he anticipated on this particular night.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you all. Please, feel free to stay here for as long as you require,” the old man rasped, his voice strained as if the mere act of speaking demanded more effort than he could muster. “It’s been a long while since I’ve had such an unusual company in my midst, but you are all welcome.” His smile was subtle, discernible only by the slight lift at the corners of his beard.
He tilted his head back, allowing the campfire’s glow to illuminate more of his weathered face as he gazed up at the night sky. The stars twinkled like distant memories, and the moon cast a silvery light over the clearing. The surrounding forest was a dark silhouette, the trees standing like silent sentinels. “This night is only just beginning, it seems. Pray tell, who are you all and what brings you to my fire this eve?” He looked around, nodding gently at each of them.
“Now,” the old man spoke as he leaned forward, adding another log to the fire, which crackled and sent sparks dancing into the night sky. “Let us share our stories. For it is through our tales that we find common ground and perhaps, a way forward.” The warmth of the fire contrasted with the cool night air, creating a cocoon of comfort around the group.
He settled back into his seat, his eyes reflecting the firelight. The night deepened, and as the fire burned brighter, the old man’s heart warmed not just by the fire, but by the forming among these unlikely companions. The sounds of the forest—rustling leaves, distant owl calls, and the occasional snap of a twig—provided a natural symphony that underscored their gathering.
The forest was a tapestry of shadows and whispers, the trees standing like silent sentinels under the cloak of night. The only light came from a flickering campfire, its flames dancing and casting eerie shapes on the surrounding foliage. The air was thick with the scent of pine and the distant call of nocturnal creatures, creating a symphony of the wild.
Seated by the fire was an old man, his long grey beard flowing down to his chest, and his features obscured by the hood of a weathered cloak. His eyes, sharp and glinting with the wisdom of many winters, peered out from beneath the hood. In these lands, strangers were often met with suspicion, and the woods were no place for trust. Yet, tonight was different. The chill in the air was biting, and the warmth of the fire was a rare comfort.
The old man stirred a pot of soup heating over the fire, the aroma of herbs and vegetables mingling with the smoke, creating a tantalizing promise of warmth and sustenance. His hands, gnarled and weathered by time, moved with a practiced ease, revealing a life spent in the wilderness. The pot itself was a relic, blackened by countless meals prepared over open flames, each one a testament to survival and resilience.
As you approach, he looks up, his eyes reflecting the firelight. His voice, raspy and wheezy from age, carries the weight of countless journeys and untold stories.
“Welcome,” he says, his tone both inviting and cautious. “Come, sit by the fire. It’s colder than usual tonight, and better to share the warmth and some hot soup than face the darkness alone.”
The fire crackles and pops, sending sparks into the night sky, as the old man ladles some soup into a wooden bowl and offers it to you. The steam rises, carrying the rich scent of the broth, a small gesture of hospitality in a world where such kindness is rare. The forest around you seems to hold its breath, as if waiting for the stories that are about to unfold. The old man’s eyes, now softened by the fire’s glow, hint at a past filled with adventures and secrets, waiting to be shared with a willing listener.
The cart stood as a poignant relic of a bygone era, its wooden frame bearing the scars of countless journeys. Weathered and splintered, it creaked ominously with every jolt, a symphony of age and neglect. The wheels, once the epitome of craftsmanship, now wobbled precariously, each rotation a gamble with fate, threatening to detach at any moment. The so-called seats were nothing more than rough-hewn planks, their surfaces unforgiving and devoid of comfort, mocking the weary traveller who dared to rest upon them. Frayed ropes and rusted nails held the entire contraption together, a testament to its resilience and the many years it had braved these unforgiving roads. This cart, in its dilapidated state, told a story of endurance and the relentless passage of time.
The journey into town on this decrepit wooden cart was a far cry from the refined comforts of Surrey. Each ride was an ordeal, marked by incessant jolts and jostles that tested one’s endurance. The man, known for his impeccable standards, found himself reluctantly enduring this indignity—not out of necessity, but merely because he happened to be passing through. To him, Amistad was just another stop on his travels, a place where he found himself by chance rather than choice. The cart’s every creak and groan underscored the stark contrast between his usual surroundings and this rustic reality, making the experience all the more jarring.
Ah, Amistad. Another dreary waypoint in the man’s grim survey of the new world. This town, like so many others, was a cesspool of destitution and criminality. Yet, it had the dubious distinction of being called a town, albeit in the loosest sense of the word. Here, his disdain for the filth around him grew ever more intense, a stark contrast to the genteel life he once knew. The squalor and lawlessness of Amistad only deepened his sense of alienation, making him long for the refined and orderly world he had left behind.
Upon arriving in Amistad, the man sought lodging with a sense of resignation. He found himself at the Haven Inn, a modest establishment run by Patty and Jason Miller, a couple whose kindness and evident love for each other stood in stark contrast to the town’s harshness. Patty, seated at the inn’s desk and engrossed in a book, greeted him warmly as he entered. Her smile was a rare beacon of warmth in this desolate place.
Reginald, ever the gentleman, approached the desk with a refined air. “Good evening, madam,” he began, his voice smooth and cultured. “Might I trouble you for a room?”
Patty looked up from her book, her eyes twinkling with curiosity. “Well, howdy there, stranger! Sure thing, we got a room for ya. How long ya thinkin’ of stayin’?”
“That is yet to be determined,” he replied. “I must say, your establishment is quite… charming.”
“Aw, ain’t that sweet of ya to say! This here’s the Haven Inn. My husband Mr. Miller and I run the place. Lemme get ya a key.” She paused, pulling out a logbook from beneath the desk. “I’ll just need your name for the record, if ya don’t mind.”
“Of course, Mrs. Miller. Sir Reginald Percival Hawthorne,” he said, enunciating each syllable with precision.
“Please! Just call me Patty, everyone does.” Patty jotted down his name with a smile. “Thank ya kindly, Mr. Hawthorne. And if ya need anything, don’t hesitate to holler. We ain’t got much, but we do our best to make folks feel at home.”
“Your kindness is most… appreciated, Patty.” Reginald said, masking his inner disdain for the inn’s rustic charm and Patty’s lack of understanding of proper titles. Though the Haven Inn was quite nice by most standards, to Reginald, it was a far cry from the opulence he was accustomed to. He made his way to his room, concealing his discomfort as he took in the simple, yet clean accommodations.
With nowhere else to go and the hour growing late, Reginald found himself reluctantly drawn to the saloon, the only establishment still open in this forsaken town. The saloon was a dimly lit, smoke-filled room, its air thick with the scent of stale beer and unwashed bodies. The raucous laughter of patrons, oblivious to the decay around them, filled the space, creating a cacophony that grated on Reginald’s refined sensibilities.
He took a seat at the bar, his posture impeccably straight despite the rough surroundings. The bartender, a burly man with a grizzled beard and a no-nonsense demeanor, approached him with a nod. Reginald, ever the epitome of sophistication, cleared his throat delicately before speaking.
“Good evening,” he began, his voice smooth and cultured. “Might I trouble you for a glass of your finest Château Margaux?”
The bartender’s brow furrowed in confusion. “Château what now?” he grunted.
Reginald sighed inwardly, his patience wearing thin. “A fine Bordeaux wine,” he clarified, though he knew it was a futile request.
The bartender shook his head, a hint of amusement in his eyes. “Ain’t got none of that fancy stuff here. We got whiskey, beer, and gin. Take your pick.”
Suppressing a shudder of disgust, Reginald forced a tight smile. “Very well, then. I shall have a whiskey, neat.”
The bartender nodded and poured a generous measure of whiskey into a glass, sliding it across the bar to Reginald. He accepted it with a curt nod, then, with a look of mild distaste, pulled out a pristine handkerchief from his pocket. Carefully, he wiped the rim of the glass, ensuring it was clean to his standards. Lifting the glass to his nose, he inhaled the sharp scent of the whiskey, his expression betraying his reluctance. After a moment’s hesitation, he decided he was better off without it and set the glass back down on the bar, untouched.
As he surveyed the scene with a mixture of disdain and weary acceptance, Reginald couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of alienation. Here, in this dimly lit, smoke-filled room, he would bide his time, driven by an inexplicable force that had haunted him for as long as he could remember. This pull, this need to find something—perhaps here, perhaps elsewhere—gnawed at him relentlessly, a constant reminder of the darkness that now shadowed his every step.
Thalorian stood sentinel at the back of the group, his imposing figure a reassuring presence amidst the encroaching darkness. His eyes, sharp and vigilant, constantly scanned the oppressive gloom for any signs of movement. The flickering torchlight, held by the group’s leader, cast eerie, dancing shadows on the damp, moss-covered walls, making every corner and crevice seem like a potential hiding spot for unseen dangers. The air was thick with the scent of mildew, and the faint, distant sound of dripping water echoed through the narrow passageways.
Trailing the scout through the labyrinthine sewer tunnels was far from Thalorian’s idea of a good time. The stench of stagnant water and decay was almost overwhelming, assaulting his senses with every breath. The echo of their footsteps seemed unnaturally loud in the confined space, bouncing off the slimy, brick walls and creating an eerie, disorienting cacophony. Despite the discomfort and ever-present danger, the mission was clear: find the missing people or at least uncover the reason for their mysterious disappearance. This objective was more than enough reason for Thalorian to endure the oppressive environment. His resolve was unwavering, driven by a sense of duty and the hope of bringing some closure to the families of the vanished.
Navigating the treacherous terrain required careful attention. The ground was uneven and slippery, and the risk of encountering something—or someone—hostile was ever-present. Thalorian’s hand never strayed far from the hilt of his sword, ready to defend against any sudden attack. The scout ahead moved with a practiced ease, but Thalorian’s confidence never wavered. He was a seasoned warrior, well-versed in handling such situations.
As they ventured deeper into the labyrinthine tunnels, the air grew noticeably cooler, and the surroundings became increasingly desolate. The occasional debris and signs of life from the upper levels gradually disappeared, replaced by an eerie emptiness that seemed to swallow all sound. Thalorian’s grip tightened on his weapon, his senses sharpened and ready for any potential threat. The silence was almost palpable, broken only by the distant drip of water and the soft rustle of their clothing.
The further they progressed, the more the oppressive atmosphere pressed in on them. The walls, slick with moisture, seemed to close in, creating a claustrophobic feeling that would have unnerved a lesser warrior. But Thalorian remained unfazed, his mind focused solely on the mission. His eyes scanned the darkness with unwavering vigilance, every shadow and flicker of light scrutinized for hidden dangers.
The cool air carried a faint, musty odour, a reminder of the long-forgotten history buried within these tunnels. The occasional scurrying of unseen creatures added to the sense of isolation, but Thalorian’s confidence never wavered. He was a seasoned warrior, accustomed to facing the unknown with calm determination. His presence was a beacon of strength for his companions, who could draw courage from his unyielding resolve.
"So, what made ya bunch take on this request? Pay's pretty low aint it?" the scout inquired.
Thalorian glanced at him, his expression unreadable, yet his eyes conveyed a deep sense of purpose. “It’s the right thing to do,” he replied, his voice steady and resolute. “Ensuring justice is carried out and protecting those who cannot protect themselves is my duty. These people need help, and that’s reason enough. It’s not about the reward; it’s about doing what’s right. If we don’t help, who will?”
His words hung in the air, a testament to his unwavering commitment. Thalorian’s sense of duty was ingrained in him, a guiding principle that had shaped his every action. He knew that the path of righteousness was often fraught with challenges, but it was a path he was willing to walk without hesitation.
As they prepared to move forward, Thalorian’s mind remained focused on the task at hand. The faces of the missing haunted his thoughts, fueling his determination to uncover the truth and bring justice to those who had been wronged. He knew that their efforts could make a difference, and that belief was enough to drive him onward.
" T E L L M E ' B O U T Y E R S E L F " " T E L L M E ' B O U T Y E R S E L F "
"Ah, where to begin? I suppose one could say I am a connoisseur.."
Reginald is a man of refined manners and impeccable etiquette, a relic of a bygone era. Outwardly, he presents himself with the poise and dignity befitting his former station as a butler. His speech is measured, his attire always immaculate, and his demeanor unflinchingly polite. Yet, beneath this veneer of civility lies a mind fractured by tragedy and vengeance.
Reginald is a man who has nothing left to lose. His actions are guided by a personal code of justice, often placing him at odds with the law. While he retains the grace and precision of his former life, his actions are now driven by a sense of liberation from societal constraints.
Despite his descent into psychosis, Reginald harbors a deep disdain for those he deems beneath him. He views the downtrodden and the less fortunate with contempt, seeing them as a reflection of the world’s decay. His interactions are marked by a curious blend of gentility and menace, a testament to the duality of his nature.
In the harsh landscape of the Wild West, Reginald stands out as an enigma. He is a man who adheres to his own set of rules, unbound by societal norms. His journey is one of navigating a world that has taken everything from him, seeking moments of peace amidst the chaos. Though his hands are stained with blood, he sees his actions as a necessary evil, a means to an end in his fractured reality.
" D E S C R I B E Y E R S E L F F O R M E , Y E A H ? " " D E S C R I B E Y E R S E L F F O R M E , Y E A H ? "
“Must I truly indulge in such trivial inquiries? Very well, if you insist on knowing the superficial details of my appearance…”
Reginalde’s appearance remains a testament to his unwavering commitment to refinement, despite the chaos that surrounds him. His face is adorned with a meticulously groomed, small curled moustache, adding a touch of old-world charm to his stern countenance. Perched atop his head is a pristine bowler hat, always perfectly positioned, a symbol of his enduring elegance.
His right eye is framed by a polished monocle, which he adjusts with a practiced hand, lending an air of sophistication to his piercing gaze. His eyes, though shadowed by the weight of his past, remain sharp and observant, ever vigilant.
Reginald’s attire is the epitome of immaculate. He dons a pristine black suit, tailored to perfection, with not a single thread out of place. The suit is complemented by a crisp white shirt and a perfectly knotted black tie. His polished black shoes gleam with a mirror-like finish, reflecting his dedication to maintaining his appearance.
In his hand, he carries a long black cane, an elegant accessory that complements his refined demeanour. The cane is a symbol of his dual nature: refined on the surface, yet capable of swift and decisive action.
" S O W H E R E Y E B E E N , W H A T S Y E R P A S T ? " " S O W H E R E Y E B E E N , W H A T S Y E R P A S T ? "
"a tapestry of refinement and ruin. Once a butler in England, now a wanderer.."
The lights, casting a yellow hue across the devastated room, swayed gently, revealing the scattered bodies, blood stains, and shattered china plates. Amidst the chaos stood the man responsible, his presence both commanding and eerie. He meticulously wiped his cane, the instrument of his grim symphony with which he orchestrated his melody of destruction with chilling precision.
Reginald, once the dignified butler, now fugitive, maintained an air of unsettling calm. His sharp, black suit remained immaculate, a stark contrast to the carnage around him. His posture was impeccable, exuding an eerie sense of control and refinement despite the surrounding chaos. His cane, a simple yet elegant accessory, was now the symbol of his dark revelation. His eyes, cold and calculating, scanned the room with a detached sense of satisfaction, as if each fallen body was a note in his macabre composition. The room, once a place of opulence and order, now lay in ruins, a testament to his wrath and the meticulous nature of his vengeance.
And the reason for his vengeance was clear: they were responsible for the death of his niece. This act of retribution was not just a crime but a deeply personal symphony of justice, driven by the loss of the only family he had left. The memory of his niece’s innocent smile haunted him, fueling his resolve as he exacted his revenge. Each strike of his cane was a note in the requiem for his lost family, a testament to the depths of his sorrow and the intensity of his wrath.
" L A S T , W H A T B R O U G H T Y E H E R E ? " " L A S T , W H A T B R O U G H T Y E H E R E ? "
“Must we persist with these incessant questions? Very well, if you must know.."
The act of vengeance marked the beginning of Reginald’s descent into madness, a journey where societal norms no longer held sway over him. The murder of his employers shattered his moral compass, leaving him adrift in a sea of chaos and anarchy. Drawn by an inexplicable pull, he felt compelled to head west—a land of lawlessness and opportunity. The untamed frontier seemed to call to the turmoil within him, mirroring his fractured mind and new life.
The journey was arduous, but this magnetic pull drove him forward, seeking solace in the vast, untamed landscapes that reflected his own turbulent soul. Each step he took was a note in a new, discordant symphony, the rhythm of his cane against the ground echoing the beat of his fractured mind. The Wild West, with its boundless horizons and rugged terrain, offered a sanctuary where he could confront the darkness within him and live by his own rules.
[color=Blue][h1][b]A R C H A Z E N 32 | M | UK[/b][/h1][/color]
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My name is Archazen but, considering you are on my page, I'm sure you already knew that. Feel free to call me Archie, if you like.
I am a long time role-player of many years, roughly 15 years as of writing this, and I am open to RPing just about anything.
I have experience primarily with fantasy but I have also done Sci-fi, Horror, romance, slice of life, supernatural, etc, etc.
I will be uploading my RP requests as well as Bios of my OCs below please feel free to check them out and to PM if you have any interest in any of them.
I will primarily be roleplaying on my working days, my job has a lot of down time and my home life is hectic enough without trying to find time for roleplay. If I'm silent for a while, I'll let you know in advance if I can so I'd expect the same courtesy.
[hr][color=Blue][h1][B]C U R R E N T R P P R O J E C T S[/b][/h1][/color]
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[url=https://www.roleplayerguild.com/topics/192923-floating-star-wars-2-bby/ic]F L O A T I N G[/url] [color=DimGray]a s[/color] [color=ff0000][b]J E T K O R R I N[/b][/color]
[url=https://www.roleplayerguild.com/topics/193022-destiny-reborn/ooc]D E S T I N Y R E B O R N ![/url] [color=DimGray]a s[/color] [color=ff4000][b]K A E L T H O R N[/b][/color]
[URL=https://www.roleplayerguild.com/topics/193032-shadows-of-the-forgotten-realm/ooc]S H A D O W S O F T H E F O R G O T T E N R E A L M S[/URL] [color=DimGray]a s[/color] [color=0072bc][b]D M[/b][/color]
[URL=https://www.roleplayerguild.com/topics/192905-magicorp-wizards-gone-corporate/ic]M A G I C O R P: W I Z A R D S G O N E C O R P O R A T E[/URL] [color=DimGray]a s[/color] [color=ForestGreen][b]A L A R I C D R A K E[/b][/color]
[hr][color=Blue][h1][B]C U R R E N T R P R E Q U E S T S[/b][/h1][/color]
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[url=https://www.roleplayerguild.com/topics/192907-shadows-of-the-forgotten-realm/ooc#post-5540858]S H A D O W S O F T H E F O R G O T T E N R E A L M S - I N T E R E S T C H E C K[/url]
[hr][color=Blue][h1][b]C H A R A C T E R B I O S[/b][/h1][/color]
[hr][h2][color=RoyalBlue]I N U S E[/color][/h2]
[hider=Jet Korrin - SW]
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[h3]“The galaxy’s a mess, kid. Best get used to it.”[/h3][/centre]
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[centre][img]https://img.roleplayerguild.com/prod/users/a7da7c23-ba83-46fa-ae59-07f0a56b4216.jpg[/img][/centre]
[color=7ea7d8]Name:[/color] Jet Korrin
[color=7ea7d8]True Name / Alias:[/color] Tech, Ratchet, Junker, tinker.. the list goes on.
[color=7ea7d8]Faction:[/color] Ex-republic Mechanic
[color=7ea7d8]Rank:[/color] Master Technician
[color=7ea7d8]Species:[/color] Human (Coruscanti)
[color=7ea7d8]Age:[/color] 54
[color=7ea7d8]Sex:[/color] Male
[color=7ea7d8]Height:[/color] 6'4ft
[color=7ea7d8]Eyes:[/color] brown
[color=7ea7d8]Physique:[/color]
Sturdy and robust physique // combines strength with practicality // His frame reflects the weariness of a
seasoned mechanic who has spent countless hours hunched over starship consoles, yet his movements remain agile.
[color=7ea7d8]Hair:[/color] brown, graying hair // low bun
[color=7ea7d8]Skin:[/color] Originally Fair skin tone // bears the wear and tear of life spent tinkering // Bronzed from years under harsh suns
[color=7ea7d8]Force Sensitive:[/color] Unlikely.
[color=7ea7d8]NPC:[/color]
Alright, listen up. Rexa Voss—codename “Whisper.” She was more than just a partner; we danced through the stars together. Brave as a comet dodging asteroids, she earned a Republic Commendation for her gutsy moves during Operation Nebula Serpent. But the galaxy’s a cruel place, and it took her away. Deceased. Damn shame.
Now, Lena Talon—she preferred “Nova.” My apprentice, my right hand. We tinkered with hyperdrives, patched hull breaches, and shared stories over greasy caf. But fate’s a twisted navigator. Lena’s gone too, marked as deceased. She was family, and the void feels colder without her.
[color=7ea7d8]STRENGTHS AND WEAKNESSES:[/color]
[color=39b54a]Mechanical genius.[/color] Got this knack for machinery—can disassemble and diagnose complex systems like it’s a walk in the asteroid field. Ain’t just about fixin’ isolated problems, though. I take a whole-damn-ship approach. When scarcity hits, my creativity kicks in—I rig solutions with whatever’s lyin’ around. Starship schematics? Manuals? They etch themselves into my brain, like a tattoo on a spacefaring outlaw. I can visualize intricate designs, recall wiring diagrams, and dance with system interplay. It’s like I’m plugged into the cosmic mainframe. So whether it’s a Corellian freighter or an Imperial TIE fighter, I’m the mechanic who ain’t just fixin’ engines—I’m rewiring fate itself.
[color=fff200]Resilience,[/color] kid. It’s the only currency that matters out in the outer rim. Lost my share of folks. But you don’t survive this underworld by wearin’ your heart on your sleeve. Danger? Hell, it’s my workshop soundtrack—the hum of fusion cutters, the sizzle of repulsorlifts. See that flickering neon sign? It’s where I’m fixin’ up a stolen landspeeder, no questions asked. No roots, no sentimental attachments. Just me and the junkyard vibes. People? They’re like malfunctioning droids—wired wrong, glitchin’ at the seams. Nah, I ain’t a loner; I’m a grease monkey with a knack for jury-riggin’. The stars? They’re the neon signs reflected in oily puddles. Stoicism ain’t cold; it’s survival. Each scar’s a story—blaster burns, electroshock mishaps. Lost love, lost credits. But I keep wrenchin’, keep tweakin’. So, kid, remember: Resilience ain’t about fixin’ shiny starships. It’s about cobblin’ together rusty speeders and stayin’ one step ahead of the Hutts.
[color=ed1c24]Stubborn?[/color] Well, kid, let me tell ya. Yeah, I ain’t one to back down, even when the stars themselves seem to be conspirin’ against me. You see, life’s dealt me a hand full of busted hyperdrive coils and malfunctionin’ blasters. But I keep flyin’, keep fixin’. It’s like this: when the galaxy throws a curveball, I swing harder. Maybe it’s pride, maybe it’s just the way I’m wired. But that refusal to yield? It’s both my strength and my curse. So, kid, remember this—sometimes, the toughest battles ain’t in the stars; they’re right here, in your gut. And that stubbornness? It’ll either save your hide or send you spiralin’ into a black hole. Choose wisely.
[color=7ea7d8]APPEARANCE:[/color]
Jet’s face bears the marks of countless orbits around suns and moons. His skin, bronzed by space’s unforgiving rays, holds the memory of star maps traced with fingertips. Crow’s feet fan from the corners of his eyes—constellations of laughter, worry, and the weight of unspoken burdens. His eyes—deep and unyielding. They’ve witnessed hyperspace jumps and smuggler’s deals, betrayal and fleeting alliances. When Jet gazes at you, it’s like staring into the heart of a black hole—an event horizon where secrets collide. His jawline—square and resolute—speaks of resolve. It’s the anchor that keeps him grounded amidst the chaos of starports and cantinas. Scars, like asteroid impacts, trace the contours of his chin—a testament to battles fought and debts unpaid. Jet’s mouth—often a thin line—holds the echoes of lost comrades and unanswered questions. It’s the gateway to stories told over glasses of Corellian whiskey. When he smiles, it’s like a distant nebula flickering—a rare burst of warmth against the cosmic chill.
Jet’s frame is solid, built for the gritty underbelly of the galaxy. His shoulders—broad as a smuggler’s cargo hold—carry the weight of starship repairs and underworld secrets. Each muscle, honed by countless hours wrenching hyperdrive cores and recalibrating blasters, tells a story of survival. His arms—sinewy and scarred—are tools in themselves. The left, cybernetic and matte black, is a relic from his days in the replublic. It’s not just for show; it’s a fusion of strength and utility. When he grips a blaster, it’s like a wookiee’s embrace—firm but not crushing. His spine, slightly curved from years hunched over starship consoles, echoes the curvature of hyperspace routes. It’s a weariness etched into bone—the weight of lost comrades, unpaid debts, and unanswered questions. Despite weariness, Jet’s movements remain agile. He sidesteps danger like a nimble astromech evading blaster fire. When he pivots, it’s like a starfighter banking into a tight turn—graceful yet ready to unleash firepower. His boots—scuffed from countless cantina brawls—keep rhythm with the seedy undercurrents of the galaxy.
[color=7ea7d8]BIOGRAPHY:[/color]
Jet Korrin, a man of his years, a culmination of firefights, fist fights, spark lights, and long nights. A well-respected mechanic during his time with the republic turned back-alley tech for the many criminals, syndicates, and cartels. He's not to be messed with, and the common suspects in Nar Shaddaar know it. He wouldn't say he was "under their protection" more that everyone relies on him being there, in some way or another.
He generally keeps to himself, he shares a laugh in the cantina after a long day, sure, but making long-lasting relationships isn't for him, not anymore. He keeps his head down, day in, day out, working on whatever work seems to come his way. His resilience has managed to keep him going in a galaxy that seems to only ever to have the worst planned. His name known throughout both the shady underbelly of civilisation as well as spoken in high-regard through republic channels, whether it's getting a job done perfectly or done cheap and quiet-like, he's the man for the job.
His history before his republic days was nothing special, raised to a middle class family on Coruscant, he went to good schools and got himself a good education, he shined with mechanics much to the distain of his family, it being a working class job and all, but he liked it. He signed to the military at 16, getting himself off world and his parents off his back for good. He liked the military, a steady work style, known expectations and access to all the starships he could get his grubby hands on. He started out as any recruit does, with a blaster strapped and armour-clad but soon showed his worth to the engineers, getting a quick shift into the mechanic core by the time he was 17.
Still, Jet misses the adventure that his life used to possess, stalling out in his workshop getting tiresome, he was soon looking for his next stage, him being unaware of just how hectic that would be wasn't a problem, it wouldn't have stopped him regardless.
[/hider][hider=Kael Thorn - Destiny Reborn!][centre][img]https://txt.1001fonts.net/img/txt/dHRmLjk2LmZmMDAwMC5TMkZsYkNCMGFHOXliZy4w/grunger.regular.webp[/img][/centre]
[centre][i]”“In the shadow of my curse, I found strength. What’s a hero without a burden to bear?””[/i][/centre]
[color=ff4000]Age:[/color] 18
[color=ff4000]Type:[/color] Mage
[color=ff4000]Element:[/color] Air
[color=ff4000]Secondary (weapon):[/color] Fire
[color=ff4000]Rank:[/color] Varies on Symbiosis.
- Base = Apprentice Mage
- 25% = Iron + Sage
- 50% = Gold + Mage
- 75% = Silver + Wizard
- 100% = Platinum + Wizard + possible permanent possession.
[h2][color=ff4000]Backstory:[/color][/h2]
[hider=Click to unveil]
Kael Thorn grew up in the small town of Willow Springs, nestled among the rolling hills of upstate New York. The town was picturesque, with its quaint houses, winding streets, and a sense of quiet isolation. Kael’s childhood was marked by lazy summers spent exploring the nearby woods, riding his bike down dusty trails, and occasionally getting into minor mischief with his best friend, Jake.
His parents, both hardworking but unremarkable, ran a small antique shop on Main Street. The shop was filled with desiccated relics of the past—old typewriters, tarnished silverware, and faded photographs. Kael often helped out after school, dusting off forgotten treasures and listening to the stories behind them: his fascination with history and mystery began there, amidst the creaky floorboards and the scent of old leather-bound books.
School was a different story: Kael’s grades were lackluster, and he rarely felt motivated to excel. He daydreamed during math class, doodling dragons and knights in the margins of his notebook. Detention became a familiar place for him, whether due to tardiness, missed assignments, or simply zoning out during lectures. His teachers saw potential in him if they spent the effort to look, but Kael preferred the escape of fantasy novels and late-night video game sessions.
His attire matched his rebellious spirit. Black combat boots, baggy jeans, and a faded band t-shirt were his daily uniform. A red flannel shirt, worn open, completed the grunge look. His shaggy brown hair fell into his eyes, and he rarely bothered to comb it. Kael wasn’t interested in conforming; he wanted life to surprise him, to unfold like an epic quest with unexpected twists.
Kael’s hobbies reflected his inner world. Video games transported him to realms of magic and adventure, where he could be a hero battling dark forces. Anime introduced him to complex characters and intricate plots, and he’d binge-watch entire series during weekends. Dungeons & Dragons sessions with Jake and a few other misfit friends allowed Kael to step into different personas—a rogue thief, a brooding sorcerer, or a noble knight.
But perhaps Kael’s most intriguing pastime was exploring abandoned buildings. Willow Springs had its share of forgotten places—an old mill, a crumbling mansion, and an eerie asylum. Armed with a flashlight and a sense of curiosity, Kael would slip through broken windows, feeling the chill of decay and the weight of history. These places whispered secrets—the laughter of forgotten parties, the cries of patients, the echoes of lives left behind.
As for friends, Kael didn’t have many. Jake was his steadfast companion, sharing Kael’s love for the mysterious and the inexplicable. They’d swap ghost stories by the campfire, daring each other to venture deeper into the woods. But beyond Jake, Kael kept his distance: social interactions felt like a chore, and he preferred the solitude of his room, surrounded by stacks of fantasy novels and half-finished sketches.
One fateful day, Kael ventured into the abandoned soda factory. Its metal skeletons loomed against the sky, rusted and forgotten. As he stepped onto an overhead walkway, his footing gave way. He plummeted, wind rushing past, and then—darkness.
When he awoke, he was no longer in Willow Springs. The air pollution that permeated his lungs, replaced with fresh air and the smell of pine filled his senses. Where once was cement beneath his boots now lay soft, delicate earth. Those who greeted him, spoke of prophecies and ‘Reincarnates.’ Kael’s mundane life was wholly shattered, replaced by a destiny he couldn’t comprehend, or so he thought.
Kael’s search for purpose in this new, more interesting world led him through the hallowed halls of paladins and the arcane chambers of magi. He tried to fit into their ranks, to prove himself worthy, but the universe remained indifferent: he wasn’t special enough for their grand designs. Disheartened and taken from his familiar world, he clung to old habits—the thrill of exploring abandoned places, where echoes of forgotten lives whispered in the shadows.
One crisp autumn day, Kael stumbled upon ruins that seemed to resonate with his very soul. The stones hummed with ancient energy, and he felt an innate pull—a destiny carved into the moss-covered stones. He ventured inside, brushing aside cobwebs, and there, half-buried beneath rubble, lay a weapon unlike any other.
The dagger, its features scratched and vague lingered beneath his gaze, its blade stained with dirt and ash and yet still mustered the will to shimmer… replete with forgotten potential. As Kael reached for the implement, he heard a voice—a droning, otherworldly thrum that echoed deep within his mind. It spoke with authority, offset with a measured softness, as if the weapon itself held ancient wisdom upon an open palm.
“I am Nihilus,” the voice intoned. “Born before this world began. Bond with me, Mortal, and become more than you could ever be. More than you could ever wish to be. Both the paladins and the Magi will regret not helping to manifest your potential.”
The plethora of thoughts ricocheting around in his mind were intoxicating. Kael scarcely hesitated, fingers trembling as they touched the dagger’s hilt. Memories surged—a recollection of battles fought, of destruction under a blood-stained moon, and the taste of both victory and despair. Nihilus had a soul—a Demon's soul, imprisoned within the blade.
And thus, he was bound to it, as any paladin would be with their weapon. But this bond was different: Nihilus hungered—for chaos, for spilled blood, for dominion over realms. It whispered dark secrets—how to command the arcane, how to rend flesh, how to reshape the world. Kael’s mind blurred—the line between self and weapon fading. He became a vessel for Nihilus, [i]it’s pawn.[/i][/hider]
[h2][color=ff4000]Personality:[/color][/h2]
[hider=Click to unveil]
Kael’s curious mind, once a beacon of exploration, has been stripped of its innocence. No longer does he seek the thrill of adventure; instead, he hungers for control. The latent power within him pulses, demanding recognition. It’s a double-edged sword—a gift and a curse.
From a carefree boy, content with the simplicity of life, Kael has metamorphosed into a man burdened by the weight of his choices. Fear gnaws at him, and regret tugs at his heart. He knows he must act, for his actions ripple outward. He cannot be the reason for another’s evil.
And so, with determination, he walks the tightrope. He will wield his newfound “power,” but not recklessly. It must serve a greater purpose—a force for good. For Kael, redemption lies in the delicate balance between purpose and fear, between creation and destruction.[/hider]
[h2][color=ff4000]Appearance:[/color][/h2]
[hider=Image][img]https://img.roleplayerguild.com/prod/users/9de0f13f-4a76-4f3f-993a-5f6c4786c4ce.jpg[/img][/hider][hider=Description]
Kael stands at an average height, lean but sinewy. His frame suggests agility rather than brute strength. His eyes are a striking shade of deep blue, often reflecting determination and curiosity. His once shaggy brown hair now falls in a tousled cascade. Kael wears practical attire—a tunic of earth-toned fabric, reinforced with leather patches. His trousers are sturdy, allowing freedom of movement. Around his waist, a leather belt adorned with pouches for whatever he may need. Leather boots, worn but well-crafted, protect his feet from thorns and rocky terrain. Draped over his shoulders is a cloak of midnight blue, its fabric whisper-soft. The hood conceals his features when needed, casting shadows across his face.[/hider]
[h2][color=ff4000]Powers/Abilities:[/color][/h2]
[hider=Magic]
Kael has a very basic access to Magic due to his bond with his cursed weapon, this has allowed him to access his own affinity as well as that of Ty’Kyran’s.
[h3]Airblast (Air Sorcery)[/h3]
Medium: Somatic
[i]placing both wrists together with his hands outstretched, Kael can summon varying degrees of airblasts.[/i]
[h3]Fireball (Fire Sorcey)[/h3]
Medium: Somatic
[i]By focusing on the fire affinity cursed upon him, Kael can summon a ball of fire within his hand.[/i]
[h3]Lightning Bolt (Lightning Compound Sorcery)[/h3]
Medium: Somatic
[i]Reaching his hand out in a straight line and focusing allows Kael to mix Air and Fire to create a forceful lightning bolt from his fingertips.[/i]
[/hider]
[h2][color=ff4000]Weapon:[/color][/h2]
[Hider=Special ability: Symbiosis]
Kael’s cursed connection to his weapon has bonded his and Ty’Kyran’s souls. At will, Kael can activate their symbiosis which merges their physical beings.
0% Symbiosis (Kael Dominant):
Kael retains full control.
His actions are independent, guided solely by his desires.
25% Symbiosis:
Kael begins to feel Ty’Kyran’s presence—a subtle influence on his thoughts and emotions.
50% Symbiosis:
The balance shifts. Kael’s autonomy wavers, and Ty’Kyran’s desires seep into his consciousness.
75% Symbiosis:
Ty’Kyran’s rage and cunning surge.
Kael struggles to resist, but their minds blur together.
100% Symbiosis (Ty’Kyran Dominant):
Ty’Kyran takes over, wielding Kael’s body as his vessel.
Kael’s willpower is the last defense against complete possession.
Symbiosis changes several things as the level increases, allowing Kael additional availability to Ty’Kyran’s mana pool as well as his demonic strength, agility, and abilities and the exchange of his own autonomy. His own will is the deciding factor for how much he resists Ty’Kyran’s possession.
When merged with Ty’Kyran, Kael’s personality may shift. His normally cautious demeanor might become more daring, fueled by Ty’Kyran’s desire for destruction.
Physically, Kael's body goes through changes as the symbiosis increases. At low symbiosis levels, the changes are almost superficial, his muscles may bulge, his teeth grow sharp etc. Whereas at high levels, Kael would grow Ty’Kyran’s horns, his eyes would turn from calm blue to the Fiery hue of Ty’Kyran’s.
0% Symbiosis (Kael Dominant):
Appearance:
Kael appears entirely human.
His eyes are a calm shade of blue.
No visible alterations—just an ordinary young man.
Internal Sensations:
Kael feels no different from his usual self.
Ty’Kyran’s presence is a distant echo.
25% Symbiosis:
Appearance:
Subtle shifts begin:
His eyes occasionally flicker with a fiery glint.
Veins beneath his skin pulse faintly.
A hint of Ty’Kyran’s aura surrounds him.
Internal Sensations:
Kael experiences fleeting bursts of aggression or recklessness.
His thoughts sometimes echo Ty’Kyran’s desires.
50% Symbiosis:
Appearance:
The changes become more pronounced:
Horns emerge from Kael’s forehead, curving back like a ram’s.
His eyes now hold a dual hue—blue and fiery orange.
Tattoos resembling ancient runes appear on his arms.
His muscles ripple with newfound strength.
Internal Sensations:
Kael battles conflicting impulses—his will against Ty’Kyran’s.
Dreams blur memories of battles long past.
75% Symbiosis:
Appearance:
The horns grow longer, twisting like serpents.
Kael’s skin toughens, resisting minor cuts.
His teeth sharpen subtly.
His eyes blaze with Ty’Kyran’s rage.
Internal Sensations:
Kael’s autonomy wavers. Ty’Kyran’s voice whispers in his mind.
The urge to destroy battles his desire to protect.
100% Symbiosis (Ty’Kyran Dominant):
Appearance:
His skin takes on a faint, otherworldly glow.
Claws extend from his fingertips.
His entire presence radiates menace.
Internal Sensations:
Kael fights to retain fragments of self-awareness.
Ty’Kyran’s memories flood his consciousness.
[/hider][hider=Neutral Ability: Infernal Resonance]
Due to the Infernal origins of the weapon, it allowed Kael access to deeper levels of magic that he would be attuned to by himself, his spells becoming infernally empowered, well beyond what his abilities should allow.
For example, fireballs that should have been the size of a dodgeball blaze hotter, larger, and able to melt through stone. Airblasts become sharp cutting winds, and lightning bolts become uncontrollable like a storm.
To access this power, Kael must choose it, wielding the dagger. It comes with the risk of Ty’Kyran becoming more influential, furthering his symbiosis beyond his will.
[/hider]
[hr]
[centre][img]https://txt.1001fonts.net/img/txt/dHRmLjk2LmZmZmZmZi5WSGtuUzNseVlXNC4w/demons-and-darlings.regular.webp[/img][/centre]
[centre][i]“I am oblivion—the void that swallows empires, the echo of annihilation.”[/i][/centre]
Age: Unknown
Type: Cambion Demon
Rank: Mythril
Appearance:
[hider=Image][img]https://img.roleplayerguild.com/prod/users/a2b0b297-2e85-4a15-a5c5-770c8f833521.png[/img][/hider][hider=Description]
Ty’Kyran’s eyes, twin orbs of seething intensity, mirrored the dying embers of distant stars. Within those crimson irises, the fury of collapsing galaxies churned—a testament to battles waged in the realms far beyond mortal time.
His skin, taut and unyielding, bore the hue of a sun nearing its final breath. The crimson expanse clung to the contours of muscle and bone, a testament to both resilience and vulnerability. Each scar etched upon his flesh told a story—a saga of skirmishes, of forces clashing in demonic arenas.
Ty’Kyran’s physique defied easy categorization. Slender, yet muscular, he moved with a grace that belied the raw power simmering beneath the surface. His muscles held strength in check—an energy harnessed, waiting for release.[/hider]
Backstory:
[hider=Unveil]
In the time prior to humanity's kingdoms, when Demons ruled the land of what is now Harvess, Ty’Kyran was already feared even among his own kin. Here, blood flowed like molten glass. Ages passed, malevolence simmered, steeped in the primordial chaos.
In this realm Ty’Kyran’s shadow fell. Mortals glimpsed him—a silhouette against the rising sun—and felt the tremors of destiny. They knew not his name but sensed his purpose: annihilation.
Ty’Kyran’s crimson eyes held no remorse. His wings, infernal tempests, swept across villages, toppling spires and extinguishing hearth fires. His greatsword, an extension of his wrath, cleaved through ancient oaks and castle walls alike. Each swing unraveled the delicate threads that bound their reality.
As Ty’Kyran roamed, they quivered. Mortals felt the weight of impending doom—their dreams haunted by visions of fractured worlds. A canvas for Ty’Kyran’s malevolence, each stroke tearing at the seams. His greatsword relished their souls, its blade etched with blood. The land bore scars—crops withered, rivers choked, and stones cracked. Ty’Kyran reveled in the symphony of destruction, each note resonating with his malevolent laughter.
The first paladins clashed with Ty’Kyran. Seraphina, their stalwart leader, driven by hope, struck at Ty’Kyran’s heart, only to meet his blade in her fall. As Ty’Kyran fell, Seraphina sacrificed her remaining lifeforce to seal Ty’Kyran within the very weapon he wielded, binding him to its malevolent power.
The paladins buried the greatsword deep within a sacred grove, where ancient oaks stood sentinel. Over centuries, the blade’s malevolence waned. Its once imposing form dwindled, until it resembled a mere dagger—a relic forgotten by all but the oldest trees.
And so, Ty’Kyran slumbered within the blade, his consciousness flickering in the dark. The dagger lay undisturbed, waiting for a time when destiny would stir it awake once more. Perhaps a curious adventurer would stumble upon it, unaware of the Demon’s legacy.[/hider]
[hr]
[centre][img]https://txt.1001fonts.net/img/txt/b3RmLjk2LmZmZmZmZi5Ua2xJU1V4VlV3LCwuMA,,/the-beast.regular.webp[/img][/centre]
[hider=Original Form:]
[centre][img]https://tse1.mm.bing.net/th?id=OIG2.nEIvVoPayktcLdA0Qnh2&pid=ImgGn[/img][/centre]
In the fiery depths of Ty’Kyran’s malevolent realm, where the screams of tormented souls echo through sulfurous caverns, Nihilus took shape–an embodiment of destruction forged within the infernal warforges.
The blade of Nihilus is wrought from infernal iron, a malefic substance that defies the laws of mortal craftsmanship. Its form remains unyielding–a straight line devoid of taper, culminating in a wickedly sharp point. This blade is no mere weapon; it is a manifestation of Ty’Kyran’s wrath, honed to cleave through armor, bone, and spirit alike.
Lifting Nihilus seems like an act of defiance against the very laws of reality. Mortal hands would strain under its weight, for the infernal iron has rendered it too heavy for ordinary men and women. As if the earth itself conspires against those who dare to wield it, the ground trembles beneath their feet, urging them to relinquish their grasp.
Wrapped in obsidian-black leather, the hilt provides a stark contrast to the blade’s malevolence. The crossguard serves as a macabre ornament–a testament to the blade’s otherworldly origins.
Nihilus transcends mere utility.. It is Ty’Kyran’s proclamation etched in fire and iron–a symbol of devastation and reckoning. The insatiable hunger for domination that drives him.
[/hider][hider=Dagger form]
[centre][img]https://tse4.mm.bing.net/th?id=OIG4.ZecmvueEOSHZQTICW6Zl&pid=ImgGn[/img][/centre]
As the power of Ty’Kyran waned, the greatsword form couldn’t be maintained. The once-glorious blade faltered, its form shifting and shrinking until it resembled a mere dagger. No longer capable of maintaining its grandeur, the greatsword surrendered to the inexorable pull of time.
The dagger, beneath the dust and ash, is a brilliant iron. the dagger feels deceptively heavy in hand. Its weight belies its seemingly unassuming appearance.The blade, straight and unadorned, lacks ostentation. No intricate patterns or embellishments distract from its purpose. The hilt, wrapped in a small leather cord, bears no gemstones or engravings. Simplicity masks its true significance. When gripped, the leather feels worn, as if it was eons old. The blade’s surface, when exposed to certain light, emits an eerie black glow—an otherworldly luminescence that defies explanation.
[/hider][hider=Symbiosis effect]
As the symbiosis increases and Ty’Kyrans power is allowed to take over, the weapon too grows. Kael is seen to wield a dagger but as the symbiosis grows, it would become a shortsword, an arming sword, a bastard sword, a longsword and finally into the greatsword Ty’Kyran once wielded.
Dagger (0% Symbiosis):
Kael wields a simple dagger, its blade unremarkable and compact.
The weapon serves as a tool rather than a formidable weapon.
Shortsword (25% Symbiosis):
As Kael activates symbiosis, the dagger begins to change:
The blade elongates, edges sharpening.
Intricate runes appear along the hilt, pulsing with energy.
The weapon gains weight, becoming more substantial.
Kael feels the surge of Ty’Kyran’s power, and the weapon responds.
Arming Sword (50% Symbiosis):
The transformation continues:
The blade grows further, balanced and deadly.
The runes glow brighter, resonating with ancient magic.
Kael’s grip adjusts to accommodate the weapon’s new form.
Ty’Kyran’s essence seeps into the steel.
Bastard Sword (75% Symbiosis):
The weapon becomes formidable:
Its length rivals that of a longsword.
Etchings on the blade depict scenes of battle and sacrifice.
Kael’s movements flow seamlessly with the weapon’s weight.
Ty’Kyran’s rage and cunning pulse through Kael’s veins.
Longsword (90% Symbiosis):
The blade reaches its zenith:
Polished to a mirror sheen, it reflects both Kael and Ty’Kyran.
The hilt bears symbols of dual mastery.
Kael’s identity blurs with Ty’Kyran’s memories.
The weapon hungers for conflict.
Greatsword (100% Symbiosis):
Finally, the dagger completes its transformation:
It reshapes into the magnificent greatsword Ty’Kyran once wielded.
The blade gleams with an otherworldly light, etched with ancient symbols.
Kael wields it effortlessly, channeling both their essences.
The greatsword embodies their combined strength and purpose.
[/hider][/hider][hider=Alaric Drake - MagiCorp]
[centre][h1][color=ForestGreen]A L A R I C D R A K E[/color][/h1]
[img]https://img.roleplayerguild.com/prod/users/3ad15822-88aa-4412-8f99-f2d2cb226126.png[/img]
“Magic is in the little things –
- A smile, a warm cup of tea, and unexpected kindness”[/centre]
[color=ForestGreen]Full Name:[/color]
Alaric Harvard Drake
[color=ForestGreen]Age:[/color]
38
[color=ForestGreen]Appearance:[/color]
Standing at an impressive 6 feet, his lean frame suggests athleticism despite years spent behind a desk. His chestnut-brown hair, perpetually tousled, catches glimmers of gold in the sunlight. The meticulously groomed brown beard adds character to his rugged handsomeness.
But it’s Alaric’s eyes that captivate—a mesmerizing blend of blue and green, shifting like the tides. When he focuses, they deepen to a stormy gray; when he laughs, they sparkle like sunlight on water. And there, on his left wrist, lies an enchanted compass tattoo—a fine reminder of adventure and direction. He got it during holiday turned disaster, where he lost his family forever.
In the corporate world, Alaric navigates with quiet confidence. Crisp white shirts, sleeves rolled up to reveal the compass, paired with tailored trousers—the uniform of a man who balances professionalism with subtle rebellion. Casual Fridays see him swapping ties for a well-worn watch, a relic from his travels with his father. His favorite black loafers carry stories of cobblestone streets and hidden cafés.
[color=ForestGreen]Worldview:[/color]
Alaric Drake is a man of quiet introspection and subtle rebellion. He possesses a deep sense of curiosity and a yearning for adventure, often finding beauty in the mundane. Alaric is introspective, frequently lost in thought during routine meetings, and has a habit of scribbling enchantment ideas on the margins of his reports. His colleagues see him as dependable and patient, always willing to lend an ear or stay late to fix a problem.
Beneath his professional exterior lies a dreamer with a wanderer’s soul. Alaric is passionate about exploring new places and experiences, which is reflected in his collection of travel brochures and vintage maps. He believes in signs and destiny, often drawing inspiration from his favorite book, “The Alchemist.” Alaric’s personality is a blend of responsibility and wanderlust, making him a unique and intriguing individual who navigates life with a quiet confidence and an ever-present sense of adventure.
[color=ForestGreen]Position:[/color]
Customer Service - Customer relationships and office maintenance and improvement.
[color=ForestGreen]Magic:[/color]
Alaric was being trained in the art of evocation by his parents but always had a knack for enchantment. After the death of his mother and father, Alaric left evocation behind him, only using it in minor ways for his own convenience but dived head first into enchantment. His personal enchantments seem mundane to most people but it's things he couldn't live without. Whether it's a pen enchanted to write whatever he is thinking, a self-tying tie, or his most important one, the compass on his wrist. He applies this by ensuring office enchantments are maintained, improved or undone as need be. His enchantments in the field are primarily for maintenance and clean-up of unsuspecting witnesses.
[color=ForestGreen]Resume:[/color]
Born to well respected evoker father and elementalist mother, Alaric always knew of magic but wasn't aware of the importance of it until he was 11 years old. He had often in his pre-magic years, done things that were left unexplained, like made his toys move by themselves. His father took him under his wing at this age and began to teach him. Over the years that followed, Alaric joined his parents on many expeditions and missions involving use of his new-found magic prowess. He wasn't gifted in evoking like his father and after a short stint at learning elemental control in which he managed to set fire to the living room carpet, meant he never truly experienced the danger that his parents did.
Shortly after Alaric had turned eighteen, he would go on his last expedition with his parents. It all started when he dreamt a week prior of a red robed figure warning him of disaster, he ignored this almost in it's entirety but during one late night where he couldn't sleep, he drew a compass on his wrist, closed his eyes, and focussed on it bringing direction to him and his family. When he opened his eyes again, he found the drawing had become an intricately detailed tattoo, one where when he touched it, pointed true-north.
On the first day of the final trip, the family was departing for an island off of the United Kingdom mainland. During their short boat trip, the weather seemed to be getting worse before violently growing into a hurricane, one seemingly solely located onto their boat. The boat eventually bowed to the storm, being destroyed in the process. Alaric managed to find his way to shore, using his compass, but never did find his parents.
The years following Alaric travelled for many years using his ill-gotten inheritance, until it was time to seek work. He flew back to his family home and wandered through halls in which he hadn't seen with adult eyes. Everything seemed wrong and destitute. When he was looking through his parents things, he found many letters from a company called 'MagiCorp,' it seemed they wanted his parents to join them for a very long time. A company solely for wizards seemed like a good lead for a career start. After several attempts of getting through and getting hired, he put his family home under a unique enchantment. One that would keep it safe from any trying to find it.
[color=ForestGreen]Interests:[/color]
-Travel
-Soulful music
-Reading
[color=ForestGreen]Non-Interests:[/color]
-Deep waters
-Fast food
-Crowded places
[color=ForestGreen]Other Junk:[/color]
-Alaric suffers from debilitating panic attacks when near deep water since the tragic end of his parents.
-Soulful music often brings back memories of meaningful moments and places he’s visited. Whether it’s a quiet evening in a cozy café or a walk through scenic landscapes, the music evokes a sense of nostalgia and warmth.
-Alaric's mother was a lover of books and research and, as Alaric grew older, found solace and inspiration in books. They became his escape from the mundane and a gateway to new worlds and ideas. His favourite book, “The Alchemist,” was one his mother owned, it's pages littered with little notes of hers.
[/hider]
[h2][color=RoyalBlue]N O T I N U S E[/color][/h2]
[hider=Kaito "Ampfire" Tanaka - MHA]
[centre][h1][color=0072bc]K A I T O "A M P F I R E" T A N A K A[/color][/h1][/centre]
[centre][img]https://img.roleplayerguild.com/prod/users/66254cd3-1dd2-492d-8d13-3e6221e1f838.png[/img][/centre]
[color=0072bc]Name:[/color]
Kaito Tanaka
[color=0072bc]Hero Name:[/color]
Ampfire
[color=0072bc]Quirk:[/color]
Energy Reservoir
[color=0072bc]Background:[/color]
Kaito Tanaka, known by his hero name “Ampfire,” was born with a unique quirk called “Energy Reservoir.” His body acts as a living battery, absorbing energy from the food and drinks he consumes. However, unlike most quirks, Ampfire's power isn’t instantaneous. Instead, he accumulates energy over time, storing it within himself.
[color=0072bc]Appearance:[/color]
Ampfire is a lanky young man with unruly black hair and perpetually tired eyes. He wears a modified hero costume that resembles a cross between a tracksuit and a futuristic jumpsuit. The suit is adorned with glowing energy patterns that pulse across the fabric.
[color=0072bc]Personality:[/color]
Kaito is a laid-back and easy-going individual. He often jokes about being “charged up” after a cup of coffee or an energy drink. However, beneath his casual demeanour lies a deep exhaustion. His quirk demands constant energy intake, leaving him perpetually drained. Despite this, he remains committed to hero work, fuelled by a sense of duty and a desire to protect others.
[color=0054a6]Abilities:[/color]
[color=0072bc]Energy Absorption:[/color]
Ampfire can absorb energy from various sources, including food, beverages, and even sunlight. The more he consumes, the greater his energy reservoir becomes.
[color=0072bc]Energy Release:[/color]
When needed, Ampfire can tap into his stored energy. He can channel it into bursts of superhuman speed, strength, or agility. However, prolonged use leaves him fatigued.
[color=0072bc]Limitations:[/color]
Ampfire must carefully balance his energy intake. Too much, and he risks becoming hyperactive and jittery; too little, and he’s ineffective in battle.
[color=0072bc]Hero Work:[/color]
His signature move, the “Energetic Dash,” propels him forward at incredible speeds, leaving a trail of energy sparks behind. He’s also known for his “Power Surge Punch,” a devastating blow fuelled by his stored energy.
[color=0072bc]Weaknesses:[/color]
[color=0072bc]Energy Drain:[/color]
Ampfire's quirk constantly drains his stamina. He relies on caffeine and energy drinks to maintain functionality.
Crashes: After intense battles, Ampfire experiences energy crashes, leaving him bedridden for hours or even days.
[color=0072bc]Trivia:[/color]
Ampfire's favorite coffee shop is “Caffeine Haven,” where he’s a regular customer.
He once accidentally powered an entire city block during an energy surge, causing flickering lights and confused pedestrians.
[color=0072bc]Fun Fact:[/color]
Ampfire's hero costume has built-in energy patches which adhere to his skin. These patches release a slow, steady stream of energy to keep him going for long patrols without overwhelming him with energy.
[/hider][hider=Akari "Anemos" Fujikaze - MHA]
[centre][h1][color=6ecff6]A K A R I "A N E M O S" F U J I K A Z E[/color][/h1][/centre]
[centre][img]https://img.roleplayerguild.com/prod/users/3812f875-8ae3-4035-96fe-0c29d8e9144a.jpg[/img][/centre]
[color=6ecff6]Name:[/color]
Akari Fujikaze
[color=6ecff6]Hero Name:[/color]
Anemos
[color=6ecff6]Quirk:[/color]
Zephyr
[color=6ecff6]Background:[/color]
Akari Fujikaze grew up in a small town outside of Kyoto. Her parents, both meteorologists, encouraged her education into science. When her quirk manifested—control over wind—she mainly used it to blow leaves and play, then in school to help her in sports, and then as she got stronger, to lift herself and move around.
[color=6ecff6]Appearance:[/color]
Anemos stands petite and graceful, her eyes the color of a clear sky. Her windswept hair, a cascade of sun-kissed waves, dances around her face. When she smiles, it’s as if the breeze itself has whispered a secret.
[color=6ecff6]Personality:[/color]
Anemos is a whirlwind of enthusiasm. She giggles when the breeze ruffles her hair and dances during storms. Her optimism is infectious, and she believes that everyone deserves a second chance.
[color=6ecff6]Abilities:[/color]
[color=6ecff6]Aerokinesis:[/color]
Anemos manipulates air currents to varying degrees and results.
[color=6ecff6]Flight Control:[/color]
She glides effortlessly, riding the wind like a kite. Whether hovering or darting through the sky.
[color=6ecff6]Zephyr Float:[/color]
Anemos can stand on a small zephyr, levitating above the ground, this has slowly become her main means of travelling.
[color=6ecff6]Gale Push:[/color]
She sends gale force winds to knock foes off balance.
[color=6ecff6]Lift and manipulate:[/color]
Anemos can use the control over wind to lift objects and people as well as control how they move through the air.
[color=6ecff6]Hero Costume:[/color]
Anemos wears a Blue bodysuit. Her hood flares like a sail and ends with a cape, and her boots have hidden air vents for precise manoeuvres.
[color=6ecff6]Teaching Style:[/color]
Anemos’s classes are outdoor adventures. She teaches students to feel their wind’s rhythm, whether in combat or daily life. Her catchphrase: “Embrace the change, my little heroes!”
[color=6ecff6]Signature Moves:[/color]
[color=6ecff6]Hurricane winds:[/color]
Anemos crosses her arms, her hands outstretched, before swiping them across her chest, creating a hurricane level blast of wind to force her enemies to submit.
[color=6ecff6]Currents whispers:[/color]
Anemos can feel the slightest movement of air, she uses this to locate people who may be trapped in disaster zones.
[color=6ecff6]Air Pocket:[/color]
Anemos's control over wind isn't limited to the air. She has also trained long and hard in the ability to create air pockets underwater that allows people to breathe underwater. These can be small, if needed for many people, and attached to the face, or large to fit an entire person inside.
[color=6ecff6]Catchphrase:[/color]
“Breathe easy—I’ve got this!”
[color=6ecff6]Trivia:[/color]
Besides heroics, Anemos is an amateur flutist. She plays haunting melodies that seem to echo the wind’s whispers.
Anemos can predict minor weather changes based on the wind’s behaviour.
[color=6ecff6]Fun fact:[/color]
On lazy afternoons, Anemos shapes clouds into whimsical forms—dragons, sailing ships, and even smiley faces. Her cloud art brings joy to passers-by.
[/hider][hider=Chatter - DnD]
[centre][h1][color=blue]C H A T T E R[/color][/h1][/centre]
[centre][img]https://img.roleplayerguild.com/prod/users/6aeab8e7-fc48-4797-8eb3-a8fc2d3c48b8.jpg[/img][/centre]
[color=Blue]Name:[/color]
Chatter
[color=Blue]Age:[/color]
14 (Young adult for race)
[color=Blue]Race:[/color]
Kenku
[color=Blue]Fighting Class:[/color]
Ranger
[color=Blue]Gear:[/color]
Carrys a notebook full detailed drawings of things he has seen
[color=Blue]Weapons:[/color]
Bow and Arrows that are crafted using his own feathers, as well as a dagger and shortword.
[color=Blue]Appearance:[/color]
Chatter has the appearance of a Crow, he is adorned in black feathers, has a long, curved black beak and eyes like abyssal pearls. He wears a blue shawl which is tattered and torn in places. Underneath he wears a soft cloth tunic with many leather straps holding together his many bags and weapons.
[color=Blue]Backstory:[/color]
Chatter was born in the heart of the Whispering Woods—a dense, ancient forest where shadows danced among gnarled trees. Kenkus, known for their mimicry and affinity for secrets, thrived here. Chatter’s earliest memories were of echoing bird calls and the rustling of leaves.
As a young Kenku, Chatter discovered their unique gift: the ability to mimic any sound they heard. They imitated the songs of warblers, the creaking of branches, and even the hushed conversations of passing travelers. But it was the whispers—the secrets shared under moonlight—that fascinated them most.
Chatter’s mentor, an old ranger named Talon, recognized their potential. Under Talon’s guidance, Chatter learned to blend into the forest seamlessly. They wore a tattered blue shawl—the color of twilight—and moved silently, leaving no trace. Their bow, carved from a sacred yew tree, hummed with magic as they nocked arrows feathered with azure plumes.
After leaving the safety of the forest, Chatter entered the nearby town and was soon granted with cacophony of voices, all singular and different and all melodious to his ear. He learned all he could by visiting the local tavern but accidently overhead a plot of thievery. He approached the town guard and braced himself. Using a hundred voices he explained how he heard the story of thievery and perfectly recreated the men talking about it.
He left the town shortly after, fearing retaliation from the men and slowly has travelled the land, far and wide hoping to find something that is missing from himself.
[color=Blue]Racial skills[/color]
Cursed by a forgotten god, they lost their wings and voices. Now, they mimic sounds and speech they hear, unable to produce their own.
This also isn't limited to sounds. Kenku can duplicate any document, any handwriting they’ve seen. In a world of contracts and decrees, this ability opens doors—sometimes literally.
[/hider]
[color=RoyalBlue][h2]W I P[/h2][/color]
[hider=Sir Archazen Darkstone of the Silver Fire]
[centre][h1][color=8882be]A R C H A Z E N D A R K S T O N E
O F T H E S I L V E R F L A M E[/color][/h1][/centre]
[hr]
[color=8882be]Name:[/color] Archazen Darkstone
[color=8882be]True Name / Alias:[/color] Sir Archazen Darkstone of the Silver Flame | Knight of the Silver Flame | Silver Warden | Silverbrand | The Burned Man
[color=8882be]Faction/Association:[/color] Order of the Silver Flame
[color=8882be]Rank/Position:[/color] Warden of the Second Legion
[color=8882be]Species:[/color] Human
[color=8882be]Age:[/color] His true age is forgotten, even by himself. The Silver Flame has kept him alive for much longer than the human lifespan.
[color=8882be]Sex:[/color] Male
[color=8882be]Height:[/color] 6'2ft | 188cm
[color=8882be]Eyes:[/color] They used to be the colour of sapphire but now have a silver hue.
[color=8882be]Physique:[/color] Lean and toned.
[color=8882be]Hair:[/color] Ashen Brown
[color=8882be]Skin:[/color] Tanned from soot, fire, and fights.
A P P E A R A N C E:
[color=8882be]Armor:[/color]
His armor, once gleaming and proud, now bears the scars of countless battles. Dents and scratches mar its surface, but it still clings to him like a second skin. The metal is that of iron.
[color=8882be]Helm:[/color]
His helm conceals his face, leaving only shadows visible.
[color=8882be]Cloak:[/color]
A tattered cloak drapes over his shoulders, its edges frayed and singed. It billows dramatically as he moves, catching the light of the silver fire.
[color=8882be]Gloves and Gauntlets:[/color]
His gauntlets are etched with the marks of battle, of war. The gloves, however, are surprisingly delicate—fine leather adorned with silver-threaded embroidery.
[color=8882be]Boots:[/color]
His boots are worn and patched, yet they carry him silently across the blighted landscape. Their soles leave faint silver footprints wherever he treads.
[color=8882be]Additional:[/color]
Archazen’s most remarkable feature is the silver fire that burns within him. It seeps through the gaps in his armor, illuminating the darkness around him. When he draws his sword, the blade ignites with the same ethereal flames, turning it into a weapon of both silver and steel.
A B I L I T I E S:
[color=8882be]Silver Fire:[/color]
Archazen is a knight of the Silver Flame, an order of knights that have undergone The Pledge of Silver Fire. The silver fire is both a weapon and a curse. It doesn’t grant brute strength; instead, it enhances agility and reflexes. Archazen can dodge arrows mid-flight and scale walls effortlessly. It enhances his natural senses, his sight sees wisps of where Shadowbane has touched. When he draws his sword, it blazes with silver flames, allowing him to cut through the shadowbane's minions. But it comes with a price, Archazen’s touch is lethal. His skin is scarred with the silver flame, able to burn those he touches. He wears gloves at all times, their inner lining woven with protective charms to shield others from the silver fire’s wrath. Human touch is a distant memory for him. He can’t hold a lover’s hand or comfort a fallen comrade. The warmth of friendship eludes him, replaced by the fire that courses through his veins.
B I O G R A P H Y:
WIP
[/hider]
[hr][CENTRE][color=blue][h1][b]T H A N K S F O R S T O P P I N G B Y ![/b][/h1][/color]
[/centre]
<div style="white-space:pre-wrap;"><font color="blue"><div class="bb-h1"><span class="bb-b">A R C H A Z E N 32 | M | UK</span></div></font><br><hr class="bb-hr"><br>My name is Archazen but, considering you are on my page, I'm sure you already knew that. Feel free to call me Archie, if you like.<br>I am a long time role-player of many years, roughly 15 years as of writing this, and I am open to RPing just about anything.<br>I have experience primarily with fantasy but I have also done Sci-fi, Horror, romance, slice of life, supernatural, etc, etc. <br><br>I will be uploading my RP requests as well as Bios of my OCs below please feel free to check them out and to PM if you have any interest in any of them.<br><br>I will primarily be roleplaying on my working days, my job has a lot of down time and my home life is hectic enough without trying to find time for roleplay. If I'm silent for a while, I'll let you know in advance if I can so I'd expect the same courtesy. <br><br><hr class="bb-hr"><font color="blue"><div class="bb-h1"><span class="bb-b">C U R R E N T R P P R O J E C T S</span></div></font><br><hr class="bb-hr"><br><a href="https://www.roleplayerguild.com/topics/192923-floating-star-wars-2-bby/ic">F L O A T I N G</a> <font color="dimgray">a s</font> <font color="#ff0000"><span class="bb-b">J E T K O R R I N</span></font><br><br><a href="https://www.roleplayerguild.com/topics/193022-destiny-reborn/ooc">D E S T I N Y R E B O R N !</a> <font color="dimgray">a s</font> <font color="#ff4000"><span class="bb-b">K A E L T H O R N</span></font><br><br><a href="https://www.roleplayerguild.com/topics/193032-shadows-of-the-forgotten-realm/ooc">S H A D O W S O F T H E F O R G O T T E N R E A L M S</a> <font color="dimgray">a s</font> <font color="#0072bc"><span class="bb-b">D M</span></font><br><br><a href="https://www.roleplayerguild.com/topics/192905-magicorp-wizards-gone-corporate/ic">M A G I C O R P: W I Z A R D S G O N E C O R P O R A T E</a> <font color="dimgray">a s</font> <font color="forestgreen"><span class="bb-b">A L A R I C D R A K E</span></font><br><br><hr class="bb-hr"><font color="blue"><div class="bb-h1"><span class="bb-b">C U R R E N T R P R E Q U E S T S</span></div></font><br><hr class="bb-hr"><br><a href="https://www.roleplayerguild.com/topics/192907-shadows-of-the-forgotten-realm/ooc#post-5540858">S H A D O W S O F T H E F O R G O T T E N R E A L M S - I N T E R E S T C H E C K</a><br><br><hr class="bb-hr"><font color="blue"><div class="bb-h1"><span class="bb-b">C H A R A C T E R B I O S</span></div></font><br><hr class="bb-hr"><div class="bb-h2"><font color="royalblue">I N U S E</font></div><br><br><div class="hider-panel"><div class="hider-heading"><button type="button" class="btn btn-default btn-xs hider-button" data-name="Jet Korrin - SW">Jet Korrin - SW [+]</button></div><div class="hider-body" style="display: none"><div class="bb-center"><img src="https://txt.1001fonts.net/img/txt/dHRmLjEwNi43ZWE3ZDguU21WMElFdHZjbkpwYmcsLC4x/jabba-the-font.regular.webp" /><br><div class="bb-h3">“The galaxy’s a mess, kid. Best get used to it.”</div></div><br><br><hr class="bb-hr"><br><br><div class="bb-center"><img src="https://img.roleplayerguild.com/prod/users/a7da7c23-ba83-46fa-ae59-07f0a56b4216.jpg" /></div><br><br><font color="#7ea7d8">Name:</font> 			Jet Korrin<br><font color="#7ea7d8">True Name / Alias:</font> 	Tech, Ratchet, Junker, tinker.. the list goes on. <br><font color="#7ea7d8">Faction:</font> 			Ex-republic Mechanic<br><font color="#7ea7d8">Rank:</font> 			Master Technician<br><font color="#7ea7d8">Species:</font> 			Human (Coruscanti)<br><font color="#7ea7d8">Age:</font> 			54<br><font color="#7ea7d8">Sex:</font> 			Male<br><font color="#7ea7d8">Height:</font> 			6'4ft<br><font color="#7ea7d8">Eyes:</font> 			brown<br><font color="#7ea7d8">Physique:</font> <br>				Sturdy and robust physique // combines strength with practicality // His frame reflects the weariness of a<br>				seasoned mechanic who has spent countless hours hunched over starship consoles, yet his movements remain agile.<br><font color="#7ea7d8">Hair:</font> 			brown, graying hair // low bun<br><font color="#7ea7d8">Skin:</font> 			Originally Fair skin tone // bears the wear and tear of life spent tinkering // Bronzed from years under harsh suns<br><font color="#7ea7d8">Force Sensitive:</font>	Unlikely. <br><br><font color="#7ea7d8">NPC:</font> <br>Alright, listen up. Rexa Voss—codename “Whisper.” She was more than just a partner; we danced through the stars together. Brave as a comet dodging asteroids, she earned a Republic Commendation for her gutsy moves during Operation Nebula Serpent. But the galaxy’s a cruel place, and it took her away. Deceased. Damn shame.<br><br>Now, Lena Talon—she preferred “Nova.” My apprentice, my right hand. We tinkered with hyperdrives, patched hull breaches, and shared stories over greasy caf. But fate’s a twisted navigator. Lena’s gone too, marked as deceased. She was family, and the void feels colder without her.<br><br><font color="#7ea7d8">STRENGTHS AND WEAKNESSES:</font><br><br><font color="#39b54a">Mechanical genius.</font> Got this knack for machinery—can disassemble and diagnose complex systems like it’s a walk in the asteroid field. Ain’t just about fixin’ isolated problems, though. I take a whole-damn-ship approach. When scarcity hits, my creativity kicks in—I rig solutions with whatever’s lyin’ around. Starship schematics? Manuals? They etch themselves into my brain, like a tattoo on a spacefaring outlaw. I can visualize intricate designs, recall wiring diagrams, and dance with system interplay. It’s like I’m plugged into the cosmic mainframe. So whether it’s a Corellian freighter or an Imperial TIE fighter, I’m the mechanic who ain’t just fixin’ engines—I’m rewiring fate itself.<br><br><font color="#fff200">Resilience,</font> kid. It’s the only currency that matters out in the outer rim. Lost my share of folks. But you don’t survive this underworld by wearin’ your heart on your sleeve. Danger? Hell, it’s my workshop soundtrack—the hum of fusion cutters, the sizzle of repulsorlifts. See that flickering neon sign? It’s where I’m fixin’ up a stolen landspeeder, no questions asked. No roots, no sentimental attachments. Just me and the junkyard vibes. People? They’re like malfunctioning droids—wired wrong, glitchin’ at the seams. Nah, I ain’t a loner; I’m a grease monkey with a knack for jury-riggin’. The stars? They’re the neon signs reflected in oily puddles. Stoicism ain’t cold; it’s survival. Each scar’s a story—blaster burns, electroshock mishaps. Lost love, lost credits. But I keep wrenchin’, keep tweakin’. So, kid, remember: Resilience ain’t about fixin’ shiny starships. It’s about cobblin’ together rusty speeders and stayin’ one step ahead of the Hutts.<br><br><font color="#ed1c24">Stubborn?</font> Well, kid, let me tell ya. Yeah, I ain’t one to back down, even when the stars themselves seem to be conspirin’ against me. You see, life’s dealt me a hand full of busted hyperdrive coils and malfunctionin’ blasters. But I keep flyin’, keep fixin’. It’s like this: when the galaxy throws a curveball, I swing harder. Maybe it’s pride, maybe it’s just the way I’m wired. But that refusal to yield? It’s both my strength and my curse. So, kid, remember this—sometimes, the toughest battles ain’t in the stars; they’re right here, in your gut. And that stubbornness? It’ll either save your hide or send you spiralin’ into a black hole. Choose wisely.<br><br><font color="#7ea7d8">APPEARANCE:</font><br><br>Jet’s face bears the marks of countless orbits around suns and moons. His skin, bronzed by space’s unforgiving rays, holds the memory of star maps traced with fingertips. Crow’s feet fan from the corners of his eyes—constellations of laughter, worry, and the weight of unspoken burdens. His eyes—deep and unyielding. They’ve witnessed hyperspace jumps and smuggler’s deals, betrayal and fleeting alliances. When Jet gazes at you, it’s like staring into the heart of a black hole—an event horizon where secrets collide. His jawline—square and resolute—speaks of resolve. It’s the anchor that keeps him grounded amidst the chaos of starports and cantinas. Scars, like asteroid impacts, trace the contours of his chin—a testament to battles fought and debts unpaid. Jet’s mouth—often a thin line—holds the echoes of lost comrades and unanswered questions. It’s the gateway to stories told over glasses of Corellian whiskey. When he smiles, it’s like a distant nebula flickering—a rare burst of warmth against the cosmic chill.<br><br>Jet’s frame is solid, built for the gritty underbelly of the galaxy. His shoulders—broad as a smuggler’s cargo hold—carry the weight of starship repairs and underworld secrets. Each muscle, honed by countless hours wrenching hyperdrive cores and recalibrating blasters, tells a story of survival. His arms—sinewy and scarred—are tools in themselves. The left, cybernetic and matte black, is a relic from his days in the replublic. It’s not just for show; it’s a fusion of strength and utility. When he grips a blaster, it’s like a wookiee’s embrace—firm but not crushing. His spine, slightly curved from years hunched over starship consoles, echoes the curvature of hyperspace routes. It’s a weariness etched into bone—the weight of lost comrades, unpaid debts, and unanswered questions. Despite weariness, Jet’s movements remain agile. He sidesteps danger like a nimble astromech evading blaster fire. When he pivots, it’s like a starfighter banking into a tight turn—graceful yet ready to unleash firepower. His boots—scuffed from countless cantina brawls—keep rhythm with the seedy undercurrents of the galaxy.<br><br><font color="#7ea7d8">BIOGRAPHY:</font><br><br>Jet Korrin, a man of his years, a culmination of firefights, fist fights, spark lights, and long nights. A well-respected mechanic during his time with the republic turned back-alley tech for the many criminals, syndicates, and cartels. He's not to be messed with, and the common suspects in Nar Shaddaar know it. He wouldn't say he was "under their protection" more that everyone relies on him being there, in some way or another. <br><br>He generally keeps to himself, he shares a laugh in the cantina after a long day, sure, but making long-lasting relationships isn't for him, not anymore. He keeps his head down, day in, day out, working on whatever work seems to come his way. His resilience has managed to keep him going in a galaxy that seems to only ever to have the worst planned. His name known throughout both the shady underbelly of civilisation as well as spoken in high-regard through republic channels, whether it's getting a job done perfectly or done cheap and quiet-like, he's the man for the job. <br><br>His history before his republic days was nothing special, raised to a middle class family on Coruscant, he went to good schools and got himself a good education, he shined with mechanics much to the distain of his family, it being a working class job and all, but he liked it. He signed to the military at 16, getting himself off world and his parents off his back for good. He liked the military, a steady work style, known expectations and access to all the starships he could get his grubby hands on. He started out as any recruit does, with a blaster strapped and armour-clad but soon showed his worth to the engineers, getting a quick shift into the mechanic core by the time he was 17. <br><br>Still, Jet misses the adventure that his life used to possess, stalling out in his workshop getting tiresome, he was soon looking for his next stage, him being unaware of just how hectic that would be wasn't a problem, it wouldn't have stopped him regardless.</div></div><div class="hider-panel"><div class="hider-heading"><button type="button" class="btn btn-default btn-xs hider-button" data-name="Kael Thorn - Destiny Reborn!">Kael Thorn - Destiny Reborn! [+]</button></div><div class="hider-body" style="display: none"><div class="bb-center"><img src="https://txt.1001fonts.net/img/txt/dHRmLjk2LmZmMDAwMC5TMkZsYkNCMGFHOXliZy4w/grunger.regular.webp" /></div><br><div class="bb-center"><span class="bb-i">”“In the shadow of my curse, I found strength. What’s a hero without a burden to bear?””</span></div><br><br><font color="#ff4000">Age:</font> 18<br><br><font color="#ff4000">Type:</font> Mage<br><br><font color="#ff4000">Element:</font> Air<br><br><font color="#ff4000">Secondary (weapon):</font> Fire <br><br><font color="#ff4000">Rank:</font> Varies on Symbiosis.<br><br>	- Base = Apprentice Mage<br>	- 25% = Iron + Sage<br>	- 50% = Gold + Mage<br>	- 75% = Silver + Wizard<br>	- 100% = Platinum + Wizard + possible permanent possession. <br><br><div class="bb-h2"><font color="#ff4000">Backstory:</font></div><br><div class="hider-panel"><div class="hider-heading"><button type="button" class="btn btn-default btn-xs hider-button" data-name="Click to unveil">Click to unveil [+]</button></div><div class="hider-body" style="display: none">Kael Thorn grew up in the small town of Willow Springs, nestled among the rolling hills of upstate New York. The town was picturesque, with its quaint houses, winding streets, and a sense of quiet isolation. Kael’s childhood was marked by lazy summers spent exploring the nearby woods, riding his bike down dusty trails, and occasionally getting into minor mischief with his best friend, Jake.<br><br>His parents, both hardworking but unremarkable, ran a small antique shop on Main Street. The shop was filled with desiccated relics of the past—old typewriters, tarnished silverware, and faded photographs. Kael often helped out after school, dusting off forgotten treasures and listening to the stories behind them: his fascination with history and mystery began there, amidst the creaky floorboards and the scent of old leather-bound books.<br><br>School was a different story: Kael’s grades were lackluster, and he rarely felt motivated to excel. He daydreamed during math class, doodling dragons and knights in the margins of his notebook. Detention became a familiar place for him, whether due to tardiness, missed assignments, or simply zoning out during lectures. His teachers saw potential in him if they spent the effort to look, but Kael preferred the escape of fantasy novels and late-night video game sessions.<br><br>His attire matched his rebellious spirit. Black combat boots, baggy jeans, and a faded band t-shirt were his daily uniform. A red flannel shirt, worn open, completed the grunge look. His shaggy brown hair fell into his eyes, and he rarely bothered to comb it. Kael wasn’t interested in conforming; he wanted life to surprise him, to unfold like an epic quest with unexpected twists.<br><br>Kael’s hobbies reflected his inner world. Video games transported him to realms of magic and adventure, where he could be a hero battling dark forces. Anime introduced him to complex characters and intricate plots, and he’d binge-watch entire series during weekends. Dungeons & Dragons sessions with Jake and a few other misfit friends allowed Kael to step into different personas—a rogue thief, a brooding sorcerer, or a noble knight.<br><br>But perhaps Kael’s most intriguing pastime was exploring abandoned buildings. Willow Springs had its share of forgotten places—an old mill, a crumbling mansion, and an eerie asylum. Armed with a flashlight and a sense of curiosity, Kael would slip through broken windows, feeling the chill of decay and the weight of history. These places whispered secrets—the laughter of forgotten parties, the cries of patients, the echoes of lives left behind.<br><br>As for friends, Kael didn’t have many. Jake was his steadfast companion, sharing Kael’s love for the mysterious and the inexplicable. They’d swap ghost stories by the campfire, daring each other to venture deeper into the woods. But beyond Jake, Kael kept his distance: social interactions felt like a chore, and he preferred the solitude of his room, surrounded by stacks of fantasy novels and half-finished sketches. <br><br>One fateful day, Kael ventured into the abandoned soda factory. Its metal skeletons loomed against the sky, rusted and forgotten. As he stepped onto an overhead walkway, his footing gave way. He plummeted, wind rushing past, and then—darkness.<br><br>When he awoke, he was no longer in Willow Springs. The air pollution that permeated his lungs, replaced with fresh air and the smell of pine filled his senses. Where once was cement beneath his boots now lay soft, delicate earth. Those who greeted him, spoke of prophecies and ‘Reincarnates.’ Kael’s mundane life was wholly shattered, replaced by a destiny he couldn’t comprehend, or so he thought. <br><br>Kael’s search for purpose in this new, more interesting world led him through the hallowed halls of paladins and the arcane chambers of magi. He tried to fit into their ranks, to prove himself worthy, but the universe remained indifferent: he wasn’t special enough for their grand designs. Disheartened and taken from his familiar world, he clung to old habits—the thrill of exploring abandoned places, where echoes of forgotten lives whispered in the shadows.<br><br>One crisp autumn day, Kael stumbled upon ruins that seemed to resonate with his very soul. The stones hummed with ancient energy, and he felt an innate pull—a destiny carved into the moss-covered stones. He ventured inside, brushing aside cobwebs, and there, half-buried beneath rubble, lay a weapon unlike any other.<br><br>The dagger, its features scratched and vague lingered beneath his gaze, its blade stained with dirt and ash and yet still mustered the will to shimmer… replete with forgotten potential. As Kael reached for the implement, he heard a voice—a droning, otherworldly thrum that echoed deep within his mind. It spoke with authority, offset with a measured softness, as if the weapon itself held ancient wisdom upon an open palm.<br><br>“I am Nihilus,” the voice intoned. “Born before this world began. Bond with me, Mortal, and become more than you could ever be. More than you could ever wish to be. Both the paladins and the Magi will regret not helping to manifest your potential.”<br><br>The plethora of thoughts ricocheting around in his mind were intoxicating. Kael scarcely hesitated, fingers trembling as they touched the dagger’s hilt. Memories surged—a recollection of battles fought, of destruction under a blood-stained moon, and the taste of both victory and despair. Nihilus had a soul—a Demon's soul, imprisoned within the blade.<br><br>And thus, he was bound to it, as any paladin would be with their weapon. But this bond was different: Nihilus hungered—for chaos, for spilled blood, for dominion over realms. It whispered dark secrets—how to command the arcane, how to rend flesh, how to reshape the world. Kael’s mind blurred—the line between self and weapon fading. He became a vessel for Nihilus, <span class="bb-i">it’s pawn.</span></div></div><br><div class="bb-h2"><font color="#ff4000">Personality:</font></div><br><div class="hider-panel"><div class="hider-heading"><button type="button" class="btn btn-default btn-xs hider-button" data-name="Click to unveil">Click to unveil [+]</button></div><div class="hider-body" style="display: none">Kael’s curious mind, once a beacon of exploration, has been stripped of its innocence. No longer does he seek the thrill of adventure; instead, he hungers for control. The latent power within him pulses, demanding recognition. It’s a double-edged sword—a gift and a curse.<br><br>From a carefree boy, content with the simplicity of life, Kael has metamorphosed into a man burdened by the weight of his choices. Fear gnaws at him, and regret tugs at his heart. He knows he must act, for his actions ripple outward. He cannot be the reason for another’s evil.<br><br>And so, with determination, he walks the tightrope. He will wield his newfound “power,” but not recklessly. It must serve a greater purpose—a force for good. For Kael, redemption lies in the delicate balance between purpose and fear, between creation and destruction.</div></div><br><div class="bb-h2"><font color="#ff4000">Appearance:</font></div><br><div class="hider-panel"><div class="hider-heading"><button type="button" class="btn btn-default btn-xs hider-button" data-name="Image">Image [+]</button></div><div class="hider-body" style="display: none"><img src="https://img.roleplayerguild.com/prod/users/9de0f13f-4a76-4f3f-993a-5f6c4786c4ce.jpg" /></div></div><div class="hider-panel"><div class="hider-heading"><button type="button" class="btn btn-default btn-xs hider-button" data-name="Description">Description [+]</button></div><div class="hider-body" style="display: none">Kael stands at an average height, lean but sinewy. His frame suggests agility rather than brute strength. His eyes are a striking shade of deep blue, often reflecting determination and curiosity. His once shaggy brown hair now falls in a tousled cascade. Kael wears practical attire—a tunic of earth-toned fabric, reinforced with leather patches. His trousers are sturdy, allowing freedom of movement. Around his waist, a leather belt adorned with pouches for whatever he may need. Leather boots, worn but well-crafted, protect his feet from thorns and rocky terrain. Draped over his shoulders is a cloak of midnight blue, its fabric whisper-soft. The hood conceals his features when needed, casting shadows across his face.</div></div><br><div class="bb-h2"><font color="#ff4000">Powers/Abilities:</font></div><br><div class="hider-panel"><div class="hider-heading"><button type="button" class="btn btn-default btn-xs hider-button" data-name="Magic">Magic [+]</button></div><div class="hider-body" style="display: none">Kael has a very basic access to Magic due to his bond with his cursed weapon, this has allowed him to access his own affinity as well as that of Ty’Kyran’s.<br><br><div class="bb-h3">Airblast (Air Sorcery)</div><br>Medium: Somatic<br><br><span class="bb-i">placing both wrists together with his hands outstretched, Kael can summon varying degrees of airblasts.</span><br><br><div class="bb-h3">Fireball (Fire Sorcey)</div><br>Medium: Somatic<br><br><span class="bb-i">By focusing on the fire affinity cursed upon him, Kael can summon a ball of fire within his hand.</span><br><br><div class="bb-h3">Lightning Bolt (Lightning Compound Sorcery)</div><br>Medium: Somatic<br><br><span class="bb-i">Reaching his hand out in a straight line and focusing allows Kael to mix Air and Fire to create a forceful lightning bolt from his fingertips.</span></div></div><br><div class="bb-h2"><font color="#ff4000">Weapon:</font></div><br><div class="hider-panel"><div class="hider-heading"><button type="button" class="btn btn-default btn-xs hider-button" data-name="Special ability: Symbiosis">Special ability: Symbiosis [+]</button></div><div class="hider-body" style="display: none">Kael’s cursed connection to his weapon has bonded his and Ty’Kyran’s souls. At will, Kael can activate their symbiosis which merges their physical beings. <br><br>0% Symbiosis (Kael Dominant): <br>	Kael retains full control. <br>	His actions are independent, guided solely by his desires.<br>25% Symbiosis: <br>	Kael begins to feel Ty’Kyran’s presence—a subtle influence on his thoughts and emotions.<br>50% Symbiosis: <br>	The balance shifts. Kael’s autonomy wavers, and Ty’Kyran’s desires seep into his consciousness.<br>75% Symbiosis: <br>	Ty’Kyran’s rage and cunning surge. <br>	Kael struggles to resist, but their minds blur together.<br>100% Symbiosis (Ty’Kyran Dominant): <br>	Ty’Kyran takes over, wielding Kael’s body as his vessel. <br>	Kael’s willpower is the last defense against complete possession.<br><br>Symbiosis changes several things as the level increases, allowing Kael additional availability to Ty’Kyran’s mana pool as well as his demonic strength, agility, and abilities and the exchange of his own autonomy. His own will is the deciding factor for how much he resists Ty’Kyran’s possession. <br><br>When merged with Ty’Kyran, Kael’s personality may shift. His normally cautious demeanor might become more daring, fueled by Ty’Kyran’s desire for destruction.<br><br>Physically, Kael's body goes through changes as the symbiosis increases. At low symbiosis levels, the changes are almost superficial, his muscles may bulge, his teeth grow sharp etc. Whereas at high levels, Kael would grow Ty’Kyran’s horns, his eyes would turn from calm blue to the Fiery hue of Ty’Kyran’s. <br><br>0% Symbiosis (Kael Dominant):<br>	Appearance:<br>		Kael appears entirely human.<br>		His eyes are a calm shade of blue.<br>		No visible alterations—just an ordinary young man.<br>	Internal Sensations:<br>		Kael feels no different from his usual self.<br>		Ty’Kyran’s presence is a distant echo.<br>25% Symbiosis:<br>	Appearance:<br>		Subtle shifts begin:<br>		His eyes occasionally flicker with a fiery glint.<br>		Veins beneath his skin pulse faintly.<br>		A hint of Ty’Kyran’s aura surrounds him.<br>	Internal Sensations:<br>		Kael experiences fleeting bursts of aggression or recklessness.<br>		His thoughts sometimes echo Ty’Kyran’s desires.<br>50% Symbiosis:<br>	Appearance:<br>		The changes become more pronounced:<br>		Horns emerge from Kael’s forehead, curving back like a ram’s.<br>		His eyes now hold a dual hue—blue and fiery orange.<br>		Tattoos resembling ancient runes appear on his arms.<br>		His muscles ripple with newfound strength.<br>	Internal Sensations:<br>		Kael battles conflicting impulses—his will against Ty’Kyran’s.<br>		Dreams blur memories of battles long past.<br>75% Symbiosis:<br>	Appearance:<br>		The horns grow longer, twisting like serpents.<br>		Kael’s skin toughens, resisting minor cuts.<br>		His teeth sharpen subtly.<br>		His eyes blaze with Ty’Kyran’s rage.<br>	Internal Sensations:<br>		Kael’s autonomy wavers. Ty’Kyran’s voice whispers in his mind.<br>		The urge to destroy battles his desire to protect.<br>100% Symbiosis (Ty’Kyran Dominant):<br>	Appearance:<br>		His skin takes on a faint, otherworldly glow.<br>		Claws extend from his fingertips.<br>		His entire presence radiates menace.<br>	Internal Sensations:<br>		Kael fights to retain fragments of self-awareness.<br>		Ty’Kyran’s memories flood his consciousness.</div></div><div class="hider-panel"><div class="hider-heading"><button type="button" class="btn btn-default btn-xs hider-button" data-name="Neutral Ability: Infernal Resonance">Neutral Ability: Infernal Resonance [+]</button></div><div class="hider-body" style="display: none">Due to the Infernal origins of the weapon, it allowed Kael access to deeper levels of magic that he would be attuned to by himself, his spells becoming infernally empowered, well beyond what his abilities should allow.<br><br>For example, fireballs that should have been the size of a dodgeball blaze hotter, larger, and able to melt through stone. Airblasts become sharp cutting winds, and lightning bolts become uncontrollable like a storm. <br><br>To access this power, Kael must choose it, wielding the dagger. It comes with the risk of Ty’Kyran becoming more influential, furthering his symbiosis beyond his will.</div></div><br><hr class="bb-hr"><br><div class="bb-center"><img src="https://txt.1001fonts.net/img/txt/dHRmLjk2LmZmZmZmZi5WSGtuUzNseVlXNC4w/demons-and-darlings.regular.webp" /></div><br><div class="bb-center"><span class="bb-i">“I am oblivion—the void that swallows empires, the echo of annihilation.”</span></div><br><br>Age: Unknown<br><br>Type: Cambion Demon<br><br>Rank: Mythril<br><br>Appearance:<br><div class="hider-panel"><div class="hider-heading"><button type="button" class="btn btn-default btn-xs hider-button" data-name="Image">Image [+]</button></div><div class="hider-body" style="display: none"><img src="https://img.roleplayerguild.com/prod/users/a2b0b297-2e85-4a15-a5c5-770c8f833521.png" /></div></div><div class="hider-panel"><div class="hider-heading"><button type="button" class="btn btn-default btn-xs hider-button" data-name="Description">Description [+]</button></div><div class="hider-body" style="display: none">Ty’Kyran’s eyes, twin orbs of seething intensity, mirrored the dying embers of distant stars. Within those crimson irises, the fury of collapsing galaxies churned—a testament to battles waged in the realms far beyond mortal time.<br><br>His skin, taut and unyielding, bore the hue of a sun nearing its final breath. The crimson expanse clung to the contours of muscle and bone, a testament to both resilience and vulnerability. Each scar etched upon his flesh told a story—a saga of skirmishes, of forces clashing in demonic arenas.<br><br>Ty’Kyran’s physique defied easy categorization. Slender, yet muscular, he moved with a grace that belied the raw power simmering beneath the surface. His muscles held strength in check—an energy harnessed, waiting for release.</div></div><br><br>Backstory:<br><div class="hider-panel"><div class="hider-heading"><button type="button" class="btn btn-default btn-xs hider-button" data-name="Unveil">Unveil [+]</button></div><div class="hider-body" style="display: none">In the time prior to humanity's kingdoms, when Demons ruled the land of what is now Harvess, Ty’Kyran was already feared even among his own kin. Here, blood flowed like molten glass. Ages passed, malevolence simmered, steeped in the primordial chaos.<br><br>In this realm Ty’Kyran’s shadow fell. Mortals glimpsed him—a silhouette against the rising sun—and felt the tremors of destiny. They knew not his name but sensed his purpose: annihilation.<br><br>Ty’Kyran’s crimson eyes held no remorse. His wings, infernal tempests, swept across villages, toppling spires and extinguishing hearth fires. His greatsword, an extension of his wrath, cleaved through ancient oaks and castle walls alike. Each swing unraveled the delicate threads that bound their reality.<br>As Ty’Kyran roamed, they quivered. Mortals felt the weight of impending doom—their dreams haunted by visions of fractured worlds. A canvas for Ty’Kyran’s malevolence, each stroke tearing at the seams. His greatsword relished their souls, its blade etched with blood. The land bore scars—crops withered, rivers choked, and stones cracked. Ty’Kyran reveled in the symphony of destruction, each note resonating with his malevolent laughter.<br><br>The first paladins clashed with Ty’Kyran. Seraphina, their stalwart leader, driven by hope, struck at Ty’Kyran’s heart, only to meet his blade in her fall. As Ty’Kyran fell, Seraphina sacrificed her remaining lifeforce to seal Ty’Kyran within the very weapon he wielded, binding him to its malevolent power. <br><br>The paladins buried the greatsword deep within a sacred grove, where ancient oaks stood sentinel. Over centuries, the blade’s malevolence waned. Its once imposing form dwindled, until it resembled a mere dagger—a relic forgotten by all but the oldest trees.<br><br>And so, Ty’Kyran slumbered within the blade, his consciousness flickering in the dark. The dagger lay undisturbed, waiting for a time when destiny would stir it awake once more. Perhaps a curious adventurer would stumble upon it, unaware of the Demon’s legacy.</div></div><br><br><hr class="bb-hr"><br><div class="bb-center"><img src="https://txt.1001fonts.net/img/txt/b3RmLjk2LmZmZmZmZi5Ua2xJU1V4VlV3LCwuMA,,/the-beast.regular.webp" /></div><br><br><div class="hider-panel"><div class="hider-heading"><button type="button" class="btn btn-default btn-xs hider-button" data-name="Original Form:">Original Form: [+]</button></div><div class="hider-body" style="display: none"><div class="bb-center"><img src="https://tse1.mm.bing.net/th?id=OIG2.nEIvVoPayktcLdA0Qnh2&pid=ImgGn" /></div><br><br>In the fiery depths of Ty’Kyran’s malevolent realm, where the screams of tormented souls echo through sulfurous caverns, Nihilus took shape–an embodiment of destruction forged within the infernal warforges.<br><br>The blade of Nihilus is wrought from infernal iron, a malefic substance that defies the laws of mortal craftsmanship. Its form remains unyielding–a straight line devoid of taper, culminating in a wickedly sharp point. This blade is no mere weapon; it is a manifestation of Ty’Kyran’s wrath, honed to cleave through armor, bone, and spirit alike. <br><br>Lifting Nihilus seems like an act of defiance against the very laws of reality. Mortal hands would strain under its weight, for the infernal iron has rendered it too heavy for ordinary men and women. As if the earth itself conspires against those who dare to wield it, the ground trembles beneath their feet, urging them to relinquish their grasp.<br><br>Wrapped in obsidian-black leather, the hilt provides a stark contrast to the blade’s malevolence. The crossguard serves as a macabre ornament–a testament to the blade’s otherworldly origins.<br><br>Nihilus transcends mere utility.. It is Ty’Kyran’s proclamation etched in fire and iron–a symbol of devastation and reckoning. The insatiable hunger for domination that drives him.</div></div><div class="hider-panel"><div class="hider-heading"><button type="button" class="btn btn-default btn-xs hider-button" data-name="Dagger form">Dagger form [+]</button></div><div class="hider-body" style="display: none"><div class="bb-center"><img src="https://tse4.mm.bing.net/th?id=OIG4.ZecmvueEOSHZQTICW6Zl&pid=ImgGn" /></div><br><br>As the power of Ty’Kyran waned, the greatsword form couldn’t be maintained. The once-glorious blade faltered, its form shifting and shrinking until it resembled a mere dagger. No longer capable of maintaining its grandeur, the greatsword surrendered to the inexorable pull of time.<br><br>The dagger, beneath the dust and ash, is a brilliant iron. the dagger feels deceptively heavy in hand. Its weight belies its seemingly unassuming appearance.The blade, straight and unadorned, lacks ostentation. No intricate patterns or embellishments distract from its purpose. The hilt, wrapped in a small leather cord, bears no gemstones or engravings. Simplicity masks its true significance. When gripped, the leather feels worn, as if it was eons old. The blade’s surface, when exposed to certain light, emits an eerie black glow—an otherworldly luminescence that defies explanation.</div></div><div class="hider-panel"><div class="hider-heading"><button type="button" class="btn btn-default btn-xs hider-button" data-name="Symbiosis effect">Symbiosis effect [+]</button></div><div class="hider-body" style="display: none">As the symbiosis increases and Ty’Kyrans power is allowed to take over, the weapon too grows. Kael is seen to wield a dagger but as the symbiosis grows, it would become a shortsword, an arming sword, a bastard sword, a longsword and finally into the greatsword Ty’Kyran once wielded. <br><br>Dagger (0% Symbiosis):<br>Kael wields a simple dagger, its blade unremarkable and compact.<br>The weapon serves as a tool rather than a formidable weapon.<br>Shortsword (25% Symbiosis):<br>As Kael activates symbiosis, the dagger begins to change:<br>The blade elongates, edges sharpening.<br>Intricate runes appear along the hilt, pulsing with energy.<br>The weapon gains weight, becoming more substantial.<br>Kael feels the surge of Ty’Kyran’s power, and the weapon responds.<br>Arming Sword (50% Symbiosis):<br>The transformation continues:<br>The blade grows further, balanced and deadly.<br>The runes glow brighter, resonating with ancient magic.<br>Kael’s grip adjusts to accommodate the weapon’s new form.<br>Ty’Kyran’s essence seeps into the steel.<br>Bastard Sword (75% Symbiosis):<br>The weapon becomes formidable:<br>Its length rivals that of a longsword.<br>Etchings on the blade depict scenes of battle and sacrifice.<br>Kael’s movements flow seamlessly with the weapon’s weight.<br>Ty’Kyran’s rage and cunning pulse through Kael’s veins.<br>Longsword (90% Symbiosis):<br>The blade reaches its zenith:<br>Polished to a mirror sheen, it reflects both Kael and Ty’Kyran.<br>The hilt bears symbols of dual mastery.<br>Kael’s identity blurs with Ty’Kyran’s memories.<br>The weapon hungers for conflict.<br>Greatsword (100% Symbiosis):<br>Finally, the dagger completes its transformation:<br>It reshapes into the magnificent greatsword Ty’Kyran once wielded.<br>The blade gleams with an otherworldly light, etched with ancient symbols.<br>Kael wields it effortlessly, channeling both their essences.<br>The greatsword embodies their combined strength and purpose.</div></div></div></div><div class="hider-panel"><div class="hider-heading"><button type="button" class="btn btn-default btn-xs hider-button" data-name="Alaric Drake - MagiCorp">Alaric Drake - MagiCorp [+]</button></div><div class="hider-body" style="display: none"><div class="bb-center"><div class="bb-h1"><font color="forestgreen">A L A R I C D R A K E</font></div><br><img src="https://img.roleplayerguild.com/prod/users/3ad15822-88aa-4412-8f99-f2d2cb226126.png" /><br>“Magic is in the little things – <br> - A smile, a warm cup of tea, and unexpected kindness”</div><br><br><font color="forestgreen">Full Name:</font> <br>Alaric Harvard Drake<br><br><font color="forestgreen">Age:</font> <br>38<br><br><font color="forestgreen">Appearance:</font> <br>Standing at an impressive 6 feet, his lean frame suggests athleticism despite years spent behind a desk. His chestnut-brown hair, perpetually tousled, catches glimmers of gold in the sunlight. The meticulously groomed brown beard adds character to his rugged handsomeness.<br><br>But it’s Alaric’s eyes that captivate—a mesmerizing blend of blue and green, shifting like the tides. When he focuses, they deepen to a stormy gray; when he laughs, they sparkle like sunlight on water. And there, on his left wrist, lies an enchanted compass tattoo—a fine reminder of adventure and direction. He got it during holiday turned disaster, where he lost his family forever.<br><br>In the corporate world, Alaric navigates with quiet confidence. Crisp white shirts, sleeves rolled up to reveal the compass, paired with tailored trousers—the uniform of a man who balances professionalism with subtle rebellion. Casual Fridays see him swapping ties for a well-worn watch, a relic from his travels with his father. His favorite black loafers carry stories of cobblestone streets and hidden cafés.<br><br><font color="forestgreen">Worldview:</font> <br>Alaric Drake is a man of quiet introspection and subtle rebellion. He possesses a deep sense of curiosity and a yearning for adventure, often finding beauty in the mundane. Alaric is introspective, frequently lost in thought during routine meetings, and has a habit of scribbling enchantment ideas on the margins of his reports. His colleagues see him as dependable and patient, always willing to lend an ear or stay late to fix a problem.<br><br>Beneath his professional exterior lies a dreamer with a wanderer’s soul. Alaric is passionate about exploring new places and experiences, which is reflected in his collection of travel brochures and vintage maps. He believes in signs and destiny, often drawing inspiration from his favorite book, “The Alchemist.” Alaric’s personality is a blend of responsibility and wanderlust, making him a unique and intriguing individual who navigates life with a quiet confidence and an ever-present sense of adventure. <br><br><font color="forestgreen">Position:</font> <br>Customer Service - Customer relationships and office maintenance and improvement.<br><br><font color="forestgreen">Magic:</font> <br>Alaric was being trained in the art of evocation by his parents but always had a knack for enchantment. After the death of his mother and father, Alaric left evocation behind him, only using it in minor ways for his own convenience but dived head first into enchantment. His personal enchantments seem mundane to most people but it's things he couldn't live without. Whether it's a pen enchanted to write whatever he is thinking, a self-tying tie, or his most important one, the compass on his wrist. He applies this by ensuring office enchantments are maintained, improved or undone as need be. His enchantments in the field are primarily for maintenance and clean-up of unsuspecting witnesses.<br><br><font color="forestgreen">Resume:</font> <br>Born to well respected evoker father and elementalist mother, Alaric always knew of magic but wasn't aware of the importance of it until he was 11 years old. He had often in his pre-magic years, done things that were left unexplained, like made his toys move by themselves. His father took him under his wing at this age and began to teach him. Over the years that followed, Alaric joined his parents on many expeditions and missions involving use of his new-found magic prowess. He wasn't gifted in evoking like his father and after a short stint at learning elemental control in which he managed to set fire to the living room carpet, meant he never truly experienced the danger that his parents did. <br><br>Shortly after Alaric had turned eighteen, he would go on his last expedition with his parents. It all started when he dreamt a week prior of a red robed figure warning him of disaster, he ignored this almost in it's entirety but during one late night where he couldn't sleep, he drew a compass on his wrist, closed his eyes, and focussed on it bringing direction to him and his family. When he opened his eyes again, he found the drawing had become an intricately detailed tattoo, one where when he touched it, pointed true-north. <br><br>On the first day of the final trip, the family was departing for an island off of the United Kingdom mainland. During their short boat trip, the weather seemed to be getting worse before violently growing into a hurricane, one seemingly solely located onto their boat. The boat eventually bowed to the storm, being destroyed in the process. Alaric managed to find his way to shore, using his compass, but never did find his parents.<br><br>The years following Alaric travelled for many years using his ill-gotten inheritance, until it was time to seek work. He flew back to his family home and wandered through halls in which he hadn't seen with adult eyes. Everything seemed wrong and destitute. When he was looking through his parents things, he found many letters from a company called 'MagiCorp,' it seemed they wanted his parents to join them for a very long time. A company solely for wizards seemed like a good lead for a career start. After several attempts of getting through and getting hired, he put his family home under a unique enchantment. One that would keep it safe from any trying to find it.<br><br><font color="forestgreen">Interests:</font> <br>-Travel<br>-Soulful music<br>-Reading<br><br><font color="forestgreen">Non-Interests:</font><br>-Deep waters<br>-Fast food<br>-Crowded places<br><br><font color="forestgreen">Other Junk:</font><br>-Alaric suffers from debilitating panic attacks when near deep water since the tragic end of his parents.<br>-Soulful music often brings back memories of meaningful moments and places he’s visited. Whether it’s a quiet evening in a cozy café or a walk through scenic landscapes, the music evokes a sense of nostalgia and warmth.<br>-Alaric's mother was a lover of books and research and, as Alaric grew older, found solace and inspiration in books. They became his escape from the mundane and a gateway to new worlds and ideas. His favourite book, “The Alchemist,” was one his mother owned, it's pages littered with little notes of hers.</div></div><br><div class="bb-h2"><font color="royalblue">N O T I N U S E</font></div><br><br><div class="hider-panel"><div class="hider-heading"><button type="button" class="btn btn-default btn-xs hider-button" data-name="Kaito "Ampfire" Tanaka - MHA">Kaito "Ampfire" Tanaka - MHA [+]</button></div><div class="hider-body" style="display: none"><div class="bb-center"><div class="bb-h1"><font color="#0072bc">K A I T O "A M P F I R E" T A N A K A</font></div></div><br><div class="bb-center"><img src="https://img.roleplayerguild.com/prod/users/66254cd3-1dd2-492d-8d13-3e6221e1f838.png" /></div><br><br><font color="#0072bc">Name:</font> <br>Kaito Tanaka<br><br><font color="#0072bc">Hero Name:</font> <br>Ampfire<br><br><font color="#0072bc">Quirk:</font> <br>Energy Reservoir<br><br><font color="#0072bc">Background:</font> <br>Kaito Tanaka, known by his hero name “Ampfire,” was born with a unique quirk called “Energy Reservoir.” His body acts as a living battery, absorbing energy from the food and drinks he consumes. However, unlike most quirks, Ampfire's power isn’t instantaneous. Instead, he accumulates energy over time, storing it within himself.<br><br><font color="#0072bc">Appearance:</font> <br>Ampfire is a lanky young man with unruly black hair and perpetually tired eyes. He wears a modified hero costume that resembles a cross between a tracksuit and a futuristic jumpsuit. The suit is adorned with glowing energy patterns that pulse across the fabric.<br><br><font color="#0072bc">Personality:</font> <br>Kaito is a laid-back and easy-going individual. He often jokes about being “charged up” after a cup of coffee or an energy drink. However, beneath his casual demeanour lies a deep exhaustion. His quirk demands constant energy intake, leaving him perpetually drained. Despite this, he remains committed to hero work, fuelled by a sense of duty and a desire to protect others.<br><br><font color="#0054a6">Abilities:</font><br><br><font color="#0072bc">Energy Absorption:</font> <br>Ampfire can absorb energy from various sources, including food, beverages, and even sunlight. The more he consumes, the greater his energy reservoir becomes.<br><font color="#0072bc">Energy Release:</font> <br>When needed, Ampfire can tap into his stored energy. He can channel it into bursts of superhuman speed, strength, or agility. However, prolonged use leaves him fatigued.<br><font color="#0072bc">Limitations:</font> <br>Ampfire must carefully balance his energy intake. Too much, and he risks becoming hyperactive and jittery; too little, and he’s ineffective in battle.<br><font color="#0072bc">Hero Work:</font> <br>His signature move, the “Energetic Dash,” propels him forward at incredible speeds, leaving a trail of energy sparks behind. He’s also known for his “Power Surge Punch,” a devastating blow fuelled by his stored energy.<br><br><font color="#0072bc">Weaknesses:</font><br><br><font color="#0072bc">Energy Drain:</font> <br>Ampfire's quirk constantly drains his stamina. He relies on caffeine and energy drinks to maintain functionality.<br>Crashes: After intense battles, Ampfire experiences energy crashes, leaving him bedridden for hours or even days.<br><br><font color="#0072bc">Trivia:</font><br>Ampfire's favorite coffee shop is “Caffeine Haven,” where he’s a regular customer.<br>He once accidentally powered an entire city block during an energy surge, causing flickering lights and confused pedestrians.<br><br><font color="#0072bc">Fun Fact:</font> <br>Ampfire's hero costume has built-in energy patches which adhere to his skin. These patches release a slow, steady stream of energy to keep him going for long patrols without overwhelming him with energy.</div></div><div class="hider-panel"><div class="hider-heading"><button type="button" class="btn btn-default btn-xs hider-button" data-name="Akari "Anemos" Fujikaze - MHA">Akari "Anemos" Fujikaze - MHA [+]</button></div><div class="hider-body" style="display: none"><div class="bb-center"><div class="bb-h1"><font color="#6ecff6">A K A R I "A N E M O S" F U J I K A Z E</font></div></div><br><div class="bb-center"><img src="https://img.roleplayerguild.com/prod/users/3812f875-8ae3-4035-96fe-0c29d8e9144a.jpg" /></div><br><br><font color="#6ecff6">Name:</font> <br>Akari Fujikaze<br><br><font color="#6ecff6">Hero Name:</font> <br>Anemos<br><br><font color="#6ecff6">Quirk:</font> <br>Zephyr<br><br><font color="#6ecff6">Background:</font> <br>Akari Fujikaze grew up in a small town outside of Kyoto. Her parents, both meteorologists, encouraged her education into science. When her quirk manifested—control over wind—she mainly used it to blow leaves and play, then in school to help her in sports, and then as she got stronger, to lift herself and move around.<br><br><font color="#6ecff6">Appearance:</font> <br>Anemos stands petite and graceful, her eyes the color of a clear sky. Her windswept hair, a cascade of sun-kissed waves, dances around her face. When she smiles, it’s as if the breeze itself has whispered a secret.<br><br><font color="#6ecff6">Personality:</font> <br>Anemos is a whirlwind of enthusiasm. She giggles when the breeze ruffles her hair and dances during storms. Her optimism is infectious, and she believes that everyone deserves a second chance.<br><br><font color="#6ecff6">Abilities:</font><br><br><font color="#6ecff6">Aerokinesis:</font> <br>Anemos manipulates air currents to varying degrees and results.<br><font color="#6ecff6">Flight Control:</font> <br>She glides effortlessly, riding the wind like a kite. Whether hovering or darting through the sky.<br><font color="#6ecff6">Zephyr Float:</font> <br>Anemos can stand on a small zephyr, levitating above the ground, this has slowly become her main means of travelling.<br><font color="#6ecff6">Gale Push:</font> <br>She sends gale force winds to knock foes off balance.<br><font color="#6ecff6">Lift and manipulate:</font> <br>Anemos can use the control over wind to lift objects and people as well as control how they move through the air.<br><br><font color="#6ecff6">Hero Costume:</font> <br>Anemos wears a Blue bodysuit. Her hood flares like a sail and ends with a cape, and her boots have hidden air vents for precise manoeuvres.<br><br><font color="#6ecff6">Teaching Style:</font> <br>Anemos’s classes are outdoor adventures. She teaches students to feel their wind’s rhythm, whether in combat or daily life. Her catchphrase: “Embrace the change, my little heroes!”<br><br><font color="#6ecff6">Signature Moves:</font> <br><br><font color="#6ecff6">Hurricane winds:</font> <br>Anemos crosses her arms, her hands outstretched, before swiping them across her chest, creating a hurricane level blast of wind to force her enemies to submit.<br><font color="#6ecff6">Currents whispers:</font> <br>Anemos can feel the slightest movement of air, she uses this to locate people who may be trapped in disaster zones.<br><font color="#6ecff6">Air Pocket:</font> <br>Anemos's control over wind isn't limited to the air. She has also trained long and hard in the ability to create air pockets underwater that allows people to breathe underwater. These can be small, if needed for many people, and attached to the face, or large to fit an entire person inside.<br><br><font color="#6ecff6">Catchphrase:</font> <br>“Breathe easy—I’ve got this!”<br><br><font color="#6ecff6">Trivia:</font><br>Besides heroics, Anemos is an amateur flutist. She plays haunting melodies that seem to echo the wind’s whispers.<br>Anemos can predict minor weather changes based on the wind’s behaviour.<br><br><font color="#6ecff6">Fun fact:</font> <br>On lazy afternoons, Anemos shapes clouds into whimsical forms—dragons, sailing ships, and even smiley faces. Her cloud art brings joy to passers-by.</div></div><div class="hider-panel"><div class="hider-heading"><button type="button" class="btn btn-default btn-xs hider-button" data-name="Chatter - DnD">Chatter - DnD [+]</button></div><div class="hider-body" style="display: none"><div class="bb-center"><div class="bb-h1"><font color="blue">C H A T T E R</font></div></div><br><div class="bb-center"><img src="https://img.roleplayerguild.com/prod/users/6aeab8e7-fc48-4797-8eb3-a8fc2d3c48b8.jpg" /></div><br><br><font color="blue">Name:</font> <br>Chatter<br><br><font color="blue">Age:</font> <br>14 (Young adult for race)<br><br><font color="blue">Race:</font> <br>Kenku<br><br><font color="blue">Fighting Class:</font> <br>Ranger<br><br><font color="blue">Gear:</font> <br>Carrys a notebook full detailed drawings of things he has seen<br><br><font color="blue">Weapons:</font> <br>Bow and Arrows that are crafted using his own feathers, as well as a dagger and shortword.<br><br><font color="blue">Appearance:</font> <br>Chatter has the appearance of a Crow, he is adorned in black feathers, has a long, curved black beak and eyes like abyssal pearls. He wears a blue shawl which is tattered and torn in places. Underneath he wears a soft cloth tunic with many leather straps holding together his many bags and weapons.<br><br><font color="blue">Backstory:</font> <br>Chatter was born in the heart of the Whispering Woods—a dense, ancient forest where shadows danced among gnarled trees. Kenkus, known for their mimicry and affinity for secrets, thrived here. Chatter’s earliest memories were of echoing bird calls and the rustling of leaves.<br><br>As a young Kenku, Chatter discovered their unique gift: the ability to mimic any sound they heard. They imitated the songs of warblers, the creaking of branches, and even the hushed conversations of passing travelers. But it was the whispers—the secrets shared under moonlight—that fascinated them most.<br><br>Chatter’s mentor, an old ranger named Talon, recognized their potential. Under Talon’s guidance, Chatter learned to blend into the forest seamlessly. They wore a tattered blue shawl—the color of twilight—and moved silently, leaving no trace. Their bow, carved from a sacred yew tree, hummed with magic as they nocked arrows feathered with azure plumes.<br><br>After leaving the safety of the forest, Chatter entered the nearby town and was soon granted with cacophony of voices, all singular and different and all melodious to his ear. He learned all he could by visiting the local tavern but accidently overhead a plot of thievery. He approached the town guard and braced himself. Using a hundred voices he explained how he heard the story of thievery and perfectly recreated the men talking about it. <br><br>He left the town shortly after, fearing retaliation from the men and slowly has travelled the land, far and wide hoping to find something that is missing from himself.<br><br><font color="blue">Racial skills</font><br>Cursed by a forgotten god, they lost their wings and voices. Now, they mimic sounds and speech they hear, unable to produce their own.<br>This also isn't limited to sounds. Kenku can duplicate any document, any handwriting they’ve seen. In a world of contracts and decrees, this ability opens doors—sometimes literally.</div></div><br><font color="royalblue"><div class="bb-h2">W I P</div></font><br><div class="hider-panel"><div class="hider-heading"><button type="button" class="btn btn-default btn-xs hider-button" data-name="Sir Archazen Darkstone of the Silver Fire">Sir Archazen Darkstone of the Silver Fire [+]</button></div><div class="hider-body" style="display: none"><div class="bb-center"><div class="bb-h1"><font color="#8882be">A R C H A Z E N D A R K S T O N E<br>O F T H E S I L V E R F L A M E</font></div></div><br><hr class="bb-hr"><br><font color="#8882be">Name:</font>				Archazen Darkstone<br><font color="#8882be">True Name / Alias:</font> 		Sir Archazen Darkstone of the Silver Flame | Knight of the Silver Flame | Silver Warden | Silverbrand | The Burned Man<br><font color="#8882be">Faction/Association:</font>	Order of the Silver Flame<br><font color="#8882be">Rank/Position:</font> 		Warden of the Second Legion<br><font color="#8882be">Species:</font>				Human<br><font color="#8882be">Age:</font>					His true age is forgotten, even by himself. The Silver Flame has kept him alive for much longer than the human lifespan.<br><font color="#8882be">Sex:</font>					Male<br><font color="#8882be">Height:</font>				6'2ft | 188cm<br><font color="#8882be">Eyes:</font>				They used to be the colour of sapphire but now have a silver hue. <br><font color="#8882be">Physique:</font>			Lean and toned. <br><font color="#8882be">Hair:</font>				Ashen Brown<br><font color="#8882be">Skin:</font>				Tanned from soot, fire, and fights.<br><br>A P P E A R A N C E:<br><br><font color="#8882be">Armor:</font> <br>His armor, once gleaming and proud, now bears the scars of countless battles. Dents and scratches mar its surface, but it still clings to him like a second skin. The metal is that of iron.<br><font color="#8882be">Helm:</font> <br>His helm conceals his face, leaving only shadows visible. <br><font color="#8882be">Cloak:</font> <br>A tattered cloak drapes over his shoulders, its edges frayed and singed. It billows dramatically as he moves, catching the light of the silver fire.<br><font color="#8882be">Gloves and Gauntlets:</font> <br>His gauntlets are etched with the marks of battle, of war. The gloves, however, are surprisingly delicate—fine leather adorned with silver-threaded embroidery.<br><font color="#8882be">Boots:</font> <br>His boots are worn and patched, yet they carry him silently across the blighted landscape. Their soles leave faint silver footprints wherever he treads.<br><font color="#8882be">Additional:</font> <br>Archazen’s most remarkable feature is the silver fire that burns within him. It seeps through the gaps in his armor, illuminating the darkness around him. When he draws his sword, the blade ignites with the same ethereal flames, turning it into a weapon of both silver and steel. <br><br>A B I L I T I E S:<br><br><font color="#8882be">Silver Fire:</font><br>Archazen is a knight of the Silver Flame, an order of knights that have undergone The Pledge of Silver Fire. The silver fire is both a weapon and a curse. It doesn’t grant brute strength; instead, it enhances agility and reflexes. Archazen can dodge arrows mid-flight and scale walls effortlessly. It enhances his natural senses, his sight sees wisps of where Shadowbane has touched. When he draws his sword, it blazes with silver flames, allowing him to cut through the shadowbane's minions. But it comes with a price, Archazen’s touch is lethal. His skin is scarred with the silver flame, able to burn those he touches. He wears gloves at all times, their inner lining woven with protective charms to shield others from the silver fire’s wrath. Human touch is a distant memory for him. He can’t hold a lover’s hand or comfort a fallen comrade. The warmth of friendship eludes him, replaced by the fire that courses through his veins.<br><br>B I O G R A P H Y:<br><br>WIP</div></div><br><br><hr class="bb-hr"><div class="bb-center"><font color="blue"><div class="bb-h1"><span class="bb-b">T H A N K S F O R S T O P P I N G B Y !</span></div></font></div><br></div>
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