Avatar of Archazen

Status

Recent Statuses

17 days ago
Current I am the embodiment of sitting in a desk chair, leaning back, spinning, waiting for more RP. Anyone else?
11 likes
18 days ago
Depends on the pocket being picked..
2 likes
22 days ago
Itching for more RP.. Anyone recruiting?
3 likes
8 mos ago
When you've spent the best part of three days dedicated to creating a new character and then suddenly having nothing to do..
4 likes
8 mos ago
IN WAAAAAAVES.. You made me miss Trivium..
2 likes

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.


C U R R E N T R P P R O J E C T S



F L O A T I N G a s J E T K O R R I N

D E S T I N Y R E B O R N ! a s K A E L T H O R N

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 s D M

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 s A L A R I C D R A K E


C U R R E N T R P R E Q U E S T S



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


C H A R A C T E R B I O S


I N U S E



N O T I N U S E



W I P




T H A N K S F O R S T O P P I N G B Y !

Most Recent Posts

Hell yeah, Thank you both so much! I'm really looking forward to getting started!
For your consideration and (hopefully) approval, I present to you, The Nameless Machine

Definitely interested!! I'll be rolling up a CS for your consideration this evening!
Jet was too engrossed in filling his belly to fully participate in the animated discussion around him. Instead, he nodded occasionally, his eyes keenly observing as the new recruit grappled with the harsh truths of crew life. With a soft smile, he acknowledged Zane who tucked into his own meal. Lifting the almost-empty bowl to his lips, Jet shoveled the last few granules of protein into his mouth. He sighed softly as he chewed, the meal turning into a paste between his teeth.

After swallowing, Jet finally spoke up. "Don’t let it get to ya, kid. It’s pretty cushy here, and you'll earn your keep in no time. Besides, this ship needs all the upkeep it can get." He chuckled lightly but abruptly stopped himself. "Crap," he muttered, standing up and breaking into a hurried jog. ”The damn power plant…”

Fel watched Jet leave, nodding silently to himself, having a pretty good notion what was going down. He likewise stood, leaving Zane finishing his bowl, laying his hand on the kid’s shoulder as he passed by. ”There’s more in the pot, Zee. Feel free, but also know that the leftovers will be there later if you feel the need to graze.” Fel made for the flight deck. Zane looked up from his bowl of chili as the grizzled soldier took off down the corridor. Looking at the others that were nearby, he pointed in the direction of the “vapor trail” that Jet left and spoke with a mouth half-full of his food. ”Anybody else catch that? Somethin’ about a ‘power plant’? That don’t sound too welcomin’...” the youth said nervously as he slid out from his seat at the table and meandered off after him.

The doc was at the table, and thanked Fel for the meal, to which the spacer merely nodded, smiled thinly. It weren’t nothin.’ Folks had to eat. And aboard the UA, there were times that were lean. Leaner than he’d like. So when the cupboards were stocked, better to eat up. Wrench was there too, at his usual spot at the corner of the table closest to the galley. The little astromech liked to be able to swivel to see everything, and that spot had the best vantage point fore and aft. He extended his third wheel, ready to follow Fel to the flight deck, but Galdaart waved a hand relaxedly as if to say it wasn’t necessary, and the little droid stopped, tooting its indifference.

Jet's relief was palpable as he swung into the engine bay, shoulders sagging as he saw everything was still, mostly, intact. The thought crossed his mind that this sudden dash might have been the last grain that broke the Eopie's back. He stepped in, immediately pulling out his datapad to check over the vital systems.

Jet muttered to himself quietly as he went over each item. “Hyperdrive... coolant leak, should be fine for now. Ion flow regulators... Fluctuations, nothing major. Plasma injectors... Worn out, need replacing Again. Power conduits... good. Gravitic stabilizers... Slightly miscalibrated, easy fix. Backup systems... all good..” He took a deep breath, reassuring himself that everything seemed to be holding together, at least for now.

”Everythin’ all right here, old timer?” the confused youth inquired, the tension in his tone suggesting he was quite worried with how the older man left the galley in such a hurry. His eyes were wide with wonder as he looked around the engine bay, all of the flashing lights and whirring sounds of machinery distracting him from anything else at the moment. The youth stared around in awe as he waited on Jet to finish going through all of his checklists.

Jet looked up from his datapad, a wry smile crossing his face. "Yeah, everything looks good, for now," he reassured, his tone calm and steady. "Just making sure we keep this old bird flying. These engines have a way of keeping me on my toes, but nothing to worry about." He patted a nearby control panel affectionately. "Welcome to the heart of the ship, kid. Stick around and you might learn a thing or two about keeping her in the sky."

Jet then returned his focus to the datapad, continuing to review the list of items they needed. The chaos back on Lotho had completely distracted him from the fact that this old makeshift rig required some serious TLC—Tough Love and Calibration.. He reviewed the diagnostics again, methodically making notes of what they 'desperately-needed,' 'somewhat-needed,' and 'would-be-nice-to-have.' The list was short, thankfully. For now.

As he turned to leave, he placed a reassuring hand on Zane’s shoulder and plastered his face with a wide grin. ”Maybe, when it comes to it, you could give me a hand? Kark.. It constantly needs work and..” Jet's heart sank for a second, his thoughts lingering on Nova. His voice dropped, somewhat melancholic, his grin faltering. ”I like to teach you young’uns.”

Fel had that difficult-to-identify, yet impossible-to-ignore need to check the Navacomp that seemed hard-wired into his consciousness. Too many jumps, too many years, too much riding on their success, and mostly – as a smuggler and erstwhile ne’er-do-well, too many custom routes and corners cut to ever feel too comfortable in a hyperspace lane.

The outlander sat heavily in his seat, and called up their plotted course on the navacomp. Fourteen minutes till sublight, for a final course change, to Abilene. (it was tough to trace a ship’s destination via hyperspace jumps, but you could never be too careful. Fel had heard tell of pirates jumping unsuspecting civilians (or Republic ships) on the standard routes, and there had even been talk of the Empire tracking ships through hyperspace. Fel wasn’t sure how much of that he bought… but when the Empire was concerned, Fel was willing to believe almost anything.

He leaned back from the Navacomp and caught sight of a flashing red light on the console. Nothing to be concerned about, just one of many hull temperature sensors (that one had been on the fritz for a few weeks) but he allowed his mind to wander, focussed on that red light, and before more than a heartbeat had gone past, he was in the seat of his TIE/IN once more, different red lights flashing all around him, and that comm chatter… the screams… that acrid, burnt smell… his thumbs hovering over the triggers… sweat stinging his eyes and the fire… the fire…

He startled away from the memory, hand falling instinctively to the sidearm that wasn’t there. He calmed his racing heart and steadied his breathing. Wiped a hand over his four days’ stubble. Checked the Navacomp. Three minutes to sublight.

Leaning back, staring at nothing but the swirl of the vortex out the view-port, the deep-spacer punched a button on the arm of his chair, activating the internal comms. ”We’re dropping out of hyperspace in a minute, folks. Could be a bit of turbulence for a few tics. Then on our last jump to Abilene. Should be planetside by just after skydark, local time. Just under an hour’s flight time from now.” Pressing the button once more, the comms clicked off, and Fel thought how nice it would be to not have to rack down aboard ship that night. An actual bed, and fresh air, would do just fine. Now – if only he could avoid getting shot by a local, they’d be in great shape.

Jet finished reviewing the list with a practiced ease, already running through the mental steps of what needed handling first. He slid the datapad under his arm and made his way back to the galley.

As Jet entered, he glanced around the room but didn’t spot Fel. The empty chair where the spacer had been moments ago told him everything he needed to know. The walk was short, one he’d made countless times before, and as the cockpit door slid open with a soft hiss, there was Fel, just as he’d figured. The spacer was sunk into the pilot’s seat, staring out at the swirling vortex of hyperspace, his expression distant.

Jet stepped inside, his boots lightly tapping against the decking. He didn’t say anything at first, just crossed the small space and pulled out the datapad, setting it down on the console where Fel couldn’t miss it.

"Got the list," Jet said finally, his tone easy, matter-of-fact. "Injectors are shot. Stabilizers are drifting—not bad yet, but you’ll feel it soon enough. Coolant patch from earlier is holding, but you know how those go. Nothing we haven’t handled before." He leaned back slightly, crossing his arms as he studied Fel. "Figured you’d want to know before we hit Abilene. Market’s probably our best shot to grab what we need. Question is, you want me on that, or are we splitting the joy?” Jet smirked faintly at the thought, his tone light but steady. "She’ll hold for now, but it’s creeping. One weak link’s all it takes," he added with a small shrug.

”Always something, kark…” Fel looked over the list, only then realizing that his tension and the fevered memory he had only just snapped out of had left a sheen of sweat on his brow. “Wonder if Abilene’ll even have half this stuff. Ain’t no starport. We might have to make a stop at a shop. If Abilene has this gear, any of it, it’ll be ours for the taking. If she don’t, we gotta go elsewhere for it. Hell, can’t be without ‘jectors or stab’s.” He cursed again, but as much because of the weight of the situation, the crush of people who relied on his ability to succeed, to pull in paying work… as the added cost of doing business. And maybe the memory was playing havoc on his nerves. Maybe.

He didn’t have to think much to do the mental math. “We don’t get this from the boss lady… and I don’t imagine our luck is that good… this takes five large off the cuts before we even get to fuel. I’ll shoulder ten of it out of my take, split the rest amongst the rest of the crew, ‘cept the Doc. He has no stake in our ship. But even if Abilene has the goods, I can’t have you on repairs while we’re her ‘guests.’ I don’t trust her, and I need your eyes on our backs… no, we’ll have to set down elsewhere, or stop at a dock to do the repairs after Abilene. …Kark.”

He rubbed at the back of his neck. The frustration wasn’t with Jet, and the Spacer hoped he knew that.

Jet chuckled and gave Fel a hearty slap on the back, trying to lighten the mood. "Don't sweat it, Fel. We'll manage. We always do," he said with a reassuring grin. "I'll cover the costs with my share, too, no problem. Between the two of us, we can shoulder the whole expense. No need to worry about splitting it with the rest of the crew."

Jet took a step back, his stance more relaxed. "We'll get what we need, one way or another. And you know I always have your back. Just point me in the right direction, and we'll sort it out." He glanced out the viewport at the swirling vortex of hyperspace, then back at Fel. "We'll be fine. Just another day in the life, right?"

Fel smiled good-naturedly. “Yeah… just another day, living the dream.” He thought about the fifty different ways they could have got dead in the last twenty-four hours, the host of issues surely to come, the tense dealings to come with Abilene, getting paid (or not getting paid) and the, well, cat issue. Dream. Right. Better than any day under the yoke of the Empire, though. Silver linings…
Astloveran Hjoren Kilstaf

Interaction(s): Everyone Location: Olenta's Throne Room


Astlo offered a curt nod in return to the steward, his acknowledgment tempered by his age and a tendency to forego the flourish younger men might employ. Respect was given, though not with the elaborate gestures that so often accompanied courtly displays. After decades in service, Astlo had earned the privilege of brevity.

He inhaled deeply, the air filling his lungs before escaping in a slow, deliberate sigh. The idea of a royal heir being found was, on its surface, a hopeful proposition, one that could alter the course of a faltering kingdom. Yet Astlo’s seasoned mind, sharpened by years of intrigue and deception, found it difficult to embrace such hope without skepticism. It was far more plausible that the story was born of idle tongues—some mountain charlatan seeking favor or fame, perhaps to impress a lover or secure a fleeting moment of grandeur. Such tales had a way of inflating with each telling.

Despite his doubts, Astlo could not dismiss the matter outright. The summons to investigate had come directly, and with it, a clear mandate: to ascertain the truth and to curb the overzealous actions of those desperate to prove themselves. For all his cynicism, a faint ember of hope remained within him. If the rumors held even a shred of truth, the discovery of an heir might restore not just the royal line, but the stability of a fractured realm. And should such a day come, Astlo fancied he might play a part in shaping this heir—not merely in matters of ceremony and etiquette, but in the deeper arts of governance and wisdom.

He stepped forward, his boots striking the polished stone floor with a deliberate rhythm. Clearing his throat, Astlo addressed the steward, his voice measured and calm.

"My Lord Steward," he began, his tone imbued with a practiced steadiness born of countless councils, "I must admit that the likelihood of these rumors being anything more than mere fabrication seems exceedingly slim." There was no arrogance in his words, nor a lack of deference—only the tempered perspective of a man who had seen far too many false hopes raised.

Pausing, he stroked the length of his beard, as if the action might tease further insight from his thoughts. "That said, I will attend to this matter as requested. Any course of action that merits your attention deserves to be pursued with diligence, regardless of my reservations."

His gaze met the steward’s, the weight of his words hanging in the air. Astlo’s doubts were clear, but so too was his commitment to the task at hand. Whatever the outcome, he would approach it with the care and gravity it deserved.

[The Old Sentinel District, a Derelict Warehouse]
[The Night Before]

Draven trudged through the crumbling streets of the old Sentinel District, a plastic grocery bag dangling from his hand. The ‘hero’s’ salary—what little was left of it—had sustained him thus far, but it was a far cry from the life he used to lead. His latest attempt at grocery shopping had been another exercise in frustration. The stores were crowded, even during hours when only night owls and misfits once roamed. He had preferred it that way, back when he didn’t have to dodge strollers or endure the endless chatter of the public he once served.

As he neared the warehouse that now masqueraded as his home, he paused at the battered metal door. A sigh slipped out, carrying with it a quiet prayer.

Please, not tonight, he muttered under his breath, his voice tinged with resignation.

The door groaned open, the hinges protesting in a drawn-out wail. The interior was just as he’d left it—dim, damp, and bearing the scars of long-forgotten fires. Charred walls and a lingering smell of ash reminded him daily of the life he’d burned to the ground, both literally and figuratively. Yet, past the desolation of the outer corridors lay a patch of relative normalcy.

Draven had spent months carving out a semblance of living space from the ruins. The concrete walls, ceiling, and floors gave the area an austere, bunker-like quality, and every piece of furniture—if it could be called that—was made of concrete or metal. Anything remotely flammable was locked away in fireproof containers. It wasn’t ideal, but it was safe, and for Draven, safety had become synonymous with solitude.

He entered the makeshift kitchen and set the offending plastic bag on the counter. The fact that paper bags had fallen out of fashion annoyed him more than it should have. After all, they were biodegradable. Grumbling to himself, he unpacked the meager assortment of items he had managed to procure.

For once, the warehouse was silent, devoid of unwelcome visitors. His self-proclaimed ‘fan’ hadn’t shown up yet, which spared him the task of scrubbing scorch marks off the floors after futile attempts to burn the creature into oblivion. He leaned against the counter, his mind drifting.

Why Glutton—that thing—kept coming here was beyond comprehension. The demon, as he liked to call it, was the only one who still dared to call him by his old name: Blaze. A name Draven had long since buried, along with the bright-eyed fool who thought the world was worth saving.

Blaze was dead. Nova City had killed him. He had been remade in the ashes of their betrayal—he was Hellfire now. A villain, yes, but at least an honest one.

Still, Glutton clung to the name as if it had meaning, as if the hero it belonged to could somehow be coaxed back to life. Blaze, the creature would rasp with that maddening grin. Draven’s fists clenched at the memory. He’d tried to burn it out of Glutton, but the demon was as stubborn as it was grotesque.

Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to calm down. The flames flickering at his fingertips faded.



[The Following Morning]

The sun hadn’t risen yet, but Draven was already awake. Sleep came in short, unsatisfying bursts these days. Concrete beds weren’t exactly designed for comfort, even when covered with the best flame-retardant sheets he could find. Not that it mattered. The lingering heat from his Hellfire often left the bedding smelling faintly of smoke by morning.

Swinging his legs over the edge of the slab, his feet met the cold, unforgiving surface of the concrete floor. He winced slightly, slipping on a pair of well-worn, fireproof slippers that made faint scuffing sounds as he shuffled into the kitchen.

With the remote in one hand, he flicked on the television, letting the familiar hum of morning news fill the air. It wasn’t so much entertainment as it was white noise to drown out the echoing silence of the warehouse. The anchor’s monotone voice prattled on about weather forecasts and mundane local events, but Draven hardly paid attention.

His focus was on the battered coffee maker sitting on the counter—a relic from a better time. He filled it with water and a scoop of cheap, pre-ground coffee, its bitter smell wafting through the kitchen as it brewed. Grabbing a chipped ceramic mug, he waited, leaning against the counter as the machine sputtered to life.

The screen behind him flashed brighter as the segment transitioned, catching his eye. He turned back, watching absently as the headline scrolled across the bottom of the screen.

Bank robbery in progress at Nova First National Bank,” the anchor announced, her voice carrying a note of urgency.

Draven’s brow furrowed, his interest piqued. He grabbed his mug, the coffee still steaming, and took a careful sip as the report continued. The camera cut to a chaotic scene outside the bank—shattered glass, panicked civilians, and the familiar glint of hero armor.

Still shirtless, he crossed the room, leaning closer to the television. The announcer began listing the heroes who had arrived on the scene, her voice now bordering on excited. Then, a name that made him freeze:

”Glutton.”

Draven’s breath hitched slightly, the mug hovering mid-air. He set it down with a faint clink, his jaw tightening as the screen displayed the figure of the demon among the would-be heroes.

What the hell are you doing? he muttered, his voice laced with irritation.

He turned from the television and walked briskly back to the bedroom, the concrete floor cool under his feet. Tossing on a black shirt and a pair of worn jeans, he caught a glimpse of himself in the cracked mirror propped against the wall. A shadow of who he’d been stared back—gaunt, unshaven, and tired.

Fully dressed, he returned to the kitchen, pouring another splash of coffee into his mug. Glutton’s name repeated in his head, each echo tugging at a mix of curiosity and annoyance.

The thought of the demon meeting its end in a mundane robbery was, at first, satisfying. But the longer the idea lingered, the more it rankled. Draven chuckled dryly, shaking his head as he leaned against the counter to watch the broadcast unfold.

”I’ve tried to kill you myself, you bastard, he mused aloud, taking another sip. ”If I couldn’t, I doubt a couple of crooks will manage it.”

He set the mug down, his lips twitching into a wry smile. Still, a flicker of unease remained. Whatever game Glutton was playing, it was bound to be as maddening as it was dangerous.

Do not disappoint me, Demon. Draven muttered, his voice low and cold.

As the camera panned to the ongoing chaos, he settled into the chair nearest the television, coffee in hand, wondering just how far the morning would spiral.
[Deleted]
@ManyThings Right? He was already pretty finished before you posted yours and I was just like.. no way
© 2007-2025
BBCode Cheatsheet