Cubix

A Prized bride (The return)

The audible stomps of metallic greaves echoed around the grand halls of Shadow Worth. It's been too long, far too long since he had set foot back in the South. The skirmishes in the East proved gruelling, not because the battle was hard to win. No, rather, the difficulty presented itself through the boring and predictable patterns of war that Cuwarr came to familiarize himself with. Cuwarr, himself, forgot the reason as to why he was sent to the East in the first place, but it had something to do with uprisings of some sort. However, his journey to the orient proved to be quite fruitful as evident when he had smuggled a lot of his weapons to the enemy side, only for his men to collect back the fallen iron when they slaughtered the rebels who were too stupid to realize that the people who sold them their weapons were the same soldiers they had been fighting. In other words, his profit grew by a staggering five-fold, and his expenses were but a few men, and a few bottles of rust removers. His four main lieutenants counselled for the warlord to return to the South for a bride, if only to spare themselves of the agonizing lecture of which was more artful: an arrow to the temple, or an arrow to the throat. After all, if Cuwarr fetched himself a wife, then, someone else could listen to his ramblings other than them.

Pezach, the eldest of the lieutenants, believed that Cuwarr's heart was merely split in two: a portion for this senseless art, and a portion for perfection. These two halves join together as one in the moment before he fires the arrow, and, as Cuwarr placed it, makes art. However, no matter how infuriating the warlord grew to his subordinates, his men remain ever loyal to the young drakken who brought honor once more to the Naxremis name.

Cuwarr led the party of five towards the place of choosing, and it wasn't unheard of for the warlord to always bring his four lieutenants around with him. Pezach at his right, Havfalun at his left, Qiorach behind him, and Belnun at the rear of the formation. The four were considered to be the closest brother-in-arms the warlord had, and tagged with him wherever he goes on an important mission. At this moment, Cuwarr still wore his intricate, metal chestplate with emblems of dragons etched on its surface, alongside his armguards and greaves-- almost as if he was still going to war. A deep, red streak of crimson stained his armor-- one that earned Qiorach a discipline lecture because the warlord, being a deadly marksman, should never be stained with blood since he operates at the backline. However, a bunch of rebels snuck up behind them, and if it weren't for Cuwarr's skill with the blade, he would have suffered more than a stain.

"Dominus, are you sure carrying your longbow will be wise?" Pezach remarked, eyeing the yew-made bow whose limbs were fashioned with roses of different shades. "Wouldn't it be better if I carried your weapon, sire?"

"The act is received well, even if it is not accepted." Cuwarr replied, hoisting the bow over his left shoulder using the string. "I, alone, must be the one to carry the Paintbrush."

"As you wish, sire." Pezach nodded before turning his attention to the hallway in front of them. "Do you have a bride in mind, dominus?"

"No," A slight smirk formed on the warlord's lips as he thought about the potential gemminite. "But, it fuels my curiosity as to what sort of gem can pique my interest. I believe it wouldn't be that tasking to feed a wife."

"Dominus, you remember Lord Huron?" Havfalun inquired.

At this, Cuwarr let out a soft laugh before speaking. "The better inquiry would be from whose mind would Huron's shame slip through?" Cuwarr composed himself before turning to his lieutenant. "What point do you wish to press, Havfalun?"

"He had four wives, Dominus, and yet he's still searching for one. Think about that, sire." the lieutenant replied.

Cuwarr took a moment to ponder before he gave his answer. "Even a distinguished lord fares badly against a gemminite whore." His lieutenants bowed solemnly. "Do not let worry grip your hearts, brothers. I am not as savage as my uncivilized counterparts. You shall witness."

Finally, Cuwarr arrived inside the Grand Hall, and he almost drooled at such magnificence. He heard tales of how the Grand Hall reflected gemminite architecture in all its splendor, but never did he imagine that it would exceed his expectations.

"Beautiful, is it not?" Cuwarr mumbled, removing his hood, and pulling down the metal mask that covered the lower half of his face. He observed the grand design through hazy visions, brought on by the piece of cloth covering his eyes. "I wonder what it looks like when my eyes can see it for themselves." Then, Cuwarr turned to his lieutenants. "Enjoy, and make merry yourselves among the food here. I am not famished. We have not stopped from our travels from the East, brothers. I know your stomachs require nourishment. Now, go."

As his guards dispersed, Cuwarr opted to take his seat among the distinguished warlords of the Drakka, and even recognized some familiar figures. He saw the Tigress conversing with one of the less significant officers before she waltzed off to fetch a bride of her own. Cuwarr only conversed a few times with the Tigress, but he knew from the start that she earned her keep within the ranks of the warlords. Next was Huron, and how Cuwarr released an amused laugh at the droll display of the warlord fetching another wife. How long would it be until he adds another one to the list of wives he's lost? He also recognized his colleagues among the rabble of lust-ridden drakken, all but craving to taste the flesh of gemminite women. At this thought, Cuwarr rolled his eyes (thankfully, the cloth prevented anyone from seeing his look of disdain). "Nothing but savages, they are." he remarked before he stood up.

Cuwarr opted to admire the gemminite architecture further, if only to distract himself from the boring sight of his brethren sneering and jeering as to which gem in the hall had the tightest crevice possible. Conversations like these were beneath that of Cuwarr, and he found no reason as to why he should taint his glory with such desperate conversations of narrow-minded imbeciles. Cuwarr believed himself to be above most, if not all. He found no reason to kill his enemies directly, and opts to give the killing to others. As a matter of fact, a few of the warlords would know that Cuwarr is the only warlord without a single confirmed kill on the battlefield. While his deadly prowess with the bow brought him to fame, Cuwarr chose to just shoot enemies with the purpose of incapacitation, preferring others to land the killing blow for him. When asked, Cuwarr merely replied that he found no glory in killing someone so defenseless. But, he always adds that he wants his first kill to be remembered-- he wants his first kill to be on someone notable, not just any grunt who just happened to pick up a sword.

His adoration for the intricate spiral etches and designs on one of the pillars in the hall robbed Cuwarr of his attention, causing him to bump into an unknown person. At first, he stepped back and observed the offender, but his frown softened into a grin upon seeing that it was just a frightened gemminite, wearing one of the most artistic dresses he had ever seen: red cloth mixed with yellow alongside floral designs really made her chestnut eyes shine. The shaking of her shoulders, and the way her cheeks twitched gave away her otherwise neutral posture, and if Cuwarr was someone of low standards, he would have already taken her as a bride. Instead, he placed his hand on the crown of her head, patting it gently. "Take courage, child. The more you act like a caged bird, the more you draw the worthless lords to travel down your thighs. After all, the best lords are the ones who take a challenge. Lift your head if you want to survive longer than normal." Cuwarr chuckled before moving onward. "Oh, and don't just stand idly there; waltz and sing, worthless one. You won't be so lucky to bump into me again."

The warlord shook his head at the gemminite's predictable nature. Oh, how he wished the gems that were brought here were better than her. And, oh, would his prayers be answered when Cuwarr turned a corner, and stopped in front of another gemminite who was being escorted by drakken guards. Immediately, his eyes trailed down her figure, and the warlord's breath hitched in his throat. Her dress, still of a floral design, was matched with a flowing white curtain that made her appear like a white lotus amidst a great turmoil. Then, he went to her face, and again, he swallowed a lump down his throat. "Oh, my." he mumbled. The girl's eyes were unlike any other, and bore a mixture of courage, fear, desperation, and will. The myriad of emotions found all over her face reminded the warlord of an abstract painting he found in Gem. Hard to understand, difficult to comprehend, but, oh-so meaningful on its own. Immediately, the warlord turned to the guards, and waved them off. "She'll be my company for the night, gentlemen. Now, go, stuff yourselves into each other's posteriors if you would." The guards huffed angrily before marching away.

Cuwarr turned to the woman with a smile, and although her features were harder to determine because of the cloth on his eyes, the warlord still managed to grin. "And, through what combination of letters do I address this white lotus before me?"

@Vesuvius00 @SevenStormStyle

War of The Angelic Trio

Caymdahr Mellurium Fairchild

"The King moves with every decision being strategically chosen, because he knows that he is betting everything on the line with all the fatal mistakes he committed. He takes in the sins of the people as his own, because he is Gabriel, and Gabriel is him. Through it, he is connected with everyone in the kingdom, and everyone in the kingdom to him."

Name

Caymdahr Mellurium Fairchild, the Immortal Son

Age

Physical age, 15; Real age, 45

Race

Cursed Human-- afflicted by the demon, Baranur.

Role & Kingdom

King of Gabriel

Ability & Weapon

Immortality's Folly - After being cursed by Baranur, the potential years that the king and queen of Michael were supposed to live through were inflicted upon Caymdahr, causing him to be younger by 30 years. Thus, the curse entails that whenever Caymdahr would kill anyone outside of the rules of war (assassination, executions, etc...) whether direct or indirect, will cause that person's potential years of life to be deducted from his current age. Hence, if Caymdahr's current age is 50, and he executes a thief with a potential lifespan of 30 years, then, his current age will be deducted by 30, causing him to have the physical age of 20 (mental and emotional maturity remains). While good to think about at first glance, Caymdahr soon learned of the disasters this curse could bring. In his current age of 15, if he kills someone with a potential span of even 16 years, he could be reduced to that of a wailing infant which is disastrous for the throne (not to mention that he needs to hit puberty again). Of course, he is doomed to forever watch his loved ones die while he continues to age at a slower rate.

Swordsmanship - Caymdahr is a trained swordsman as was tradition for every monarch to be under the tutelage of one of the best knights in the kingdom. He favors a shortsword which he hangs from his waist. He can easily hold his own against a single opponent, but he can be outmatched through numbers and wit. However, at his current physique, he has laughable strength as compared to other warriors.

Biography

The bloodline of the Fairchilds took much residence in the long line of monarchs who ruled Gabriel from its genesis to its current state. The rulers of Gabriel believed in the motto of 'Utter Surety', and as such, their lifestyle revolved around taking responsibility for the actions of one of their own. When Tenebris, Caymdahr's father, succeeded the throne the old man was plagued with dreams of how the kingdom of Michael would soon sunder the world under their hubris, and these visions continued to haunt the king until his deathbed. At his solemn and final moments, Tenebris called his son to his side, and revealed to him the terrors that siphoned at the king's health until his entire body fell under stress and trauma. Tenebris recalled of how the monarchs of Michael, when left to their own devices, would soon bring the world under to its knees due to utter hubris and pride. As the king breathed his last, the same visions began to haunt Caymdahr as his next few years on the throne became a vicious cycle of waking up in the middle of the night, plagued by dreams, and even faltering in the middle of political affairs due to the stress.

Even though his wife supported him throughout the ordeal, the night terrors gnawed at his being until Caymdahr could sustain no more-- his sanity teetered on the edge of snapping, and he would be damned before he let himself die in the same way as his father. He believed in utter surety, and he would bear the grunt of the deed that he would soon command his men to do. On the eve before the festival of peace, where the kingdoms' defenses were at its slackest, Caymdahr sent his best assassins to the land of Michael under the guise of a celebratory dinner between the two kingdoms' Alliance Library-- the largest sanctum of knowledge in the land. As the night waned by, the crimson stains of the Michael monarch's painted the sky as the visions that plagued the Gabriel monarch vanished into nothingness.

However, the alliance between the two kingdoms was eradicated as Caymdahr prepared himself for the inevitable war that was to come. He would take responsibility for this war, and he would make sure to win. He believed himself on the side of good, and by the gods, he believed in his father's prophecy. Then, one fateful night, a demon, Baranur, visited Caymdhar and revealed to him the truth: Baranur had been the one who sent the visions to Tenebris, and all of these events was part of the demon's tapestry of plans. Caymdahr, aghast, asked Baranur whether Michael's tyranny was true, to which, the demon replied that he would soon know in the future. However, because he, on a whim, set forth a war that could tear the earth asunder, Caymdahr was cursed with the demon's spite-- an immortal's folly. Since the king failed to appreciate the life that he took, then, he would bear the brunt of those severed lives by living them in his own lifetime. All of this was Baranur's plan to curse one of the highest ranking officers in the land.

But, Baranur would not meddle much in Gabriel's affairs for he believed that everything would be revealed in the future. As such, his essence lives on in a crimson rose that Caymdahr would always carry in his right suit pocket. Caymdahr and Baranur have reached an agreement that if he manages to successfully unify the land under one ruler, then, the curse would be lifted from him.

Thus, when a meeting sponsored by Raphael was proposed, Caymdahr took months to ponder on it, and before he knew it, he had accepted. Though his younger looks make it hard for others to take him seriously, Caymdahr moves with precision so that the same curse would not happen again. His strained eyes looks beyond the possibility of forging the alliance between the kingdoms, and instead, envisions the time when the three kingdoms are one under his bloodline.

@Ace of flames01 I am your father.

A Prized bride (The return)

I like how the gemminites are so diverse in terms of personality that not one gemminite is a carbon-copy of another. Truly, a great way to start off a story from different perspectives. They're so different that I can only think of two who could match Cuwarr's perfectionist and, dare I say it, artful standards of destroying things outside the box.

The first one is Sorici. Her fiery and stalwart blaze is something she hides under an image of submissiveness and timidity-- something that will inevitably make the warlord mad since to suppress oneself is to hide the potential art that could bloom. More than that, the khopesh she wears will draw in Cuwarr's interest, and will inevitably cause him to inquire about it as well as to find the origins of such a masterpiece. Her attitude and negativity kindles Cuwarr's curiosity that was lost with all the plain and predictable cycle of drakken life. After all, art is also found in a soul that is unwavering even in the face of defeat and utter power. What could have caused such an unbreakable spirit, and what will it take to see that same will bent in half? That is art in itself.

The second one is Kalani, and for an obvious reason: her aspiration towards perfection. Her passion to be at the top rivals that of Cuwarr, and he will inevitably admire such a vision and mission. The main reason as to why Cuwarr even took a bride is so that he may perfect his art, and what better way to perfect it than to take a fellow perfectionist like Kalani? The culture and practice of the gemminites piqued the warlord's interest, and to finally meet one who might be, for the lack of a better word, his counter-part on that end of the spectrum is not one he would easily miss out on.

But, unfortunately, he would be, more or less, taking only one wife (unless dictated otherwise by the supreme ruler). But, I'm still deciding on the two.

Mains | League of Legends

"He's a murderer. I saw the victim in the dumpster with spectral energy seeping out of it," Leon smirked before heaving the shovel over his shoulder. "Basing on your reaction, you're not surprised by a person with powers from a certain videogame. I'd say you're one of those people as well." he took a step forward. "And, you knew his name: Raze. I guess you also know that his manifestation is from the Shadow Isles... just like me. "I saw you from café Wi-Hi alongside the blue-eyed maiden and the burning witch," Leon recalled, jabbing at a certain searing-skinned woman. "Where are the others from the café? I guess it's not too far-fletched of an idea to say that almost everyone inside Wi-Hi are like you and me. So, where are they? Being gathered for a vigilante army? Gearing up to destroy the world? To make it fall on its knees? But, hey, we're just all kids here. It's not like we can end the world in a few days." A laugh escaped his lips before the shovel vanished into thin air as Leon dusted his hands.

"I aim to stop the Shadow Isles from corrupting the minds of those who are like me. I will hunt down this Raze, and he will be put down before he can harm any of the innocents," Leon walked pass the woman as he spared a lavender-eyed glance at her. "And, you won't stop me. Next time, Raze won't be so lucky. I don't care what champion you are, but I only aim to keep this town safe, and your little vigilante group will not hinder my goal."

"Once I get stronger, I will hunt down Raze and end him myself."

I'm not strong enough yet, I need to improve my skills...

Mains | League of Legends

I'll be patching up a post tomorrow! Sorry for the delay! Thesis has been destroying my butt for the past few weeks from framework to framework XD

Mains | League of Legends

Leon propped himself against the alley wall as the harbinger of doom escaped his grasp. If he didn't pursue the murderer, who knows what that horseman could do?! Silently, the gravedigger cursed himself amidst pained breaths and heaving chests; he never expected his condition to catch up to him at this single moment. Of all the times he could be debilitated, it just so happened to be now. Leon clutched his chest, bowing his head whilst he took in heavy, much-needed inhales with an accompanying exhale. His left hand still gripped the shovel tightly in his rage. He could have caught the man, saved a lot of lives if he just was stronger than this! He was never strong enough, and it led to the deaths he had sustained, and would sustain. Leon viewed his condition as a dog chasing its tail, as a child chasing its shadow. It was like... waiting for a rain in a drought-- pointless and disappointing. Lavender eyes opened gently before peering at the solemn heavens, cursing his fate and his weaknesses.

Was the gravedigger doomed to keep on chasing shadows and winds? Everything he ever wanted to accomplish and treasure slipped through his fingers like soil and sand. Leon looked down on the puddle in front of him, noticing his pale reflection as well as his fatigued eyes. He never really got enough sleep for the past days, and that must have what triggered the attack. However, as he looked at the waving water-mirror, Leon remembered the deaths that led him to this moment, that led him to this quest. A shrewd smile formed on his lips as he plunged the shovel into the ground, aiding him in standing up. As soon as he felt his chest loosen, and his breathing normalize, Leon combed back his locks with his fingers. "It's not over yet. The next time I see him, he's going down." he cheered himself up before toting the shovel on his left shoulder. As he walked through the alley, his shoes splashed against some puddles as he kept kicking at a certain tin can which he pursued over and over again, sending it farther and farther away. Leon whistled calmly, relaxing his entire body from the failed endeavour. Perhaps, he would get a drink or something. After all, there was no way in hell he was going back to school at this rate. However, as he kept kicking the can, he failed to see the ominous shadow standing directly in front of him, partly, because he had lost his glasses in the pursuit. After all, his 5.0 eyeglass grade really made a difference between people and pixels.

However, soon, he spotted the dark mirage. Immediately, Leon looked up as he began to see a woman whose face he swore he had seen before. But, really, she didn't matter. No, what mattered most was what she saw, and whether she would do anything about it. Immediately, Leon gripped the shovel and propped it on the ground. Then, he looked at the pixelated woman with half-lidded eyes. "How," Leon began, swallowing a breath down his throat. "How much did you see?"

And, what are you going to do about it?

A Prized bride (The return)

Cuwarr Naxremis

"What's this?! Oh, my! Ohhhh... A glorious painting of the glory of war! Look at that brutal streak of scarlet glittering outside the flawless rings of this rich yellow burst! Tell me, worthless one, what message of battle does this masterpiece aim to convey?"

"M-my Lord... t-this... uhhh... is just a sunrise..."

-A conversation between Cuwarr and an artist in Gem.

Lord Cuwarr Naxremis

Warlord of Clan Naxremis; the Blood Art Collector; the Deathsworn

Race

:Drakken:

Age

:105:

Element(s)

:Wind and Water:

Height

:6'3:

Bio
The Naxremis clan grew to prominence among the families in Drakka through their intricate and sophisticated understanding of the weapons of war. The family Naxremis delved in the art of weapon-crafting, smithing out deadly and gruesome claymores, axes, recurves, and arrows. Every twist, every inch of detail and metal in each weapon had a brutal purpose-- whether to tear tissues on contact, or to cause the victim to bleed out on the spot among others. Thus, as the Naxremis grew in strength and influence, Stezius, the past leader, grew complacent with his weapons' quality. Confident that the drakkens were too stupid to notice the drop in quality within their weapons, Stezius held back on materials and resources, eventually hoarding a great portion of all minerals for himself whilst causing the arms to easily break and bend. During one of the battles, the Naxremis' weapons were naught but dull, and as such, the drakkens had to resort to unarmed combat (a battle they still won, by the way). Thus, the warlords seized Stezius, and incarcerated him for producing weapons sub par to the glorious fighting skills of their nation. Without a clan head, the young Cuwarr was left to inherit his father's chair in the dishonored Naxremis name.

Cuwarr was unlike any other drakken in terms of their art of war. While most drakkens preferred the usual guillotine-esque slashes, and one hit, one kill manoeuvres, Cuwarr saw something in the crimson field: a sense of meaning and purpose. Surely, war was not only about lifting a sword and swinging it at enemies; no, war was about sending a message to the cowards and infants of the less significant tribes-- a message that will forever imprint the gore that the drakkens left on the field of blood. Every death on the field deserved a beautiful passage towards the afterlife of cowards! Every cut must be felt in a certain body part, and every slice must build towards a climactic end. There should be a pattern, a drawing! After all, their enemies' bodies were nothing but flailing canvases! Why waste such willing blank slates, when you could leave your masterpiece there forever?

Thus, fuelled by a lunatic's drive for art in war, Cuwarr set about straightening the slacking skills of the naxremis weapon and armour smiths. The warriors may have forgotten the fear of a twisted and vicious edge of a serrated claymore during Stezius' droll reign, but as the grand artist, Cuwarr, took to the reins of the clan, all of them remembered the feeling of a wind-cutting blade. Of course, Cuwarr refuses to merely share his art to the drakkens alone (which was like throwing pearls in front of swine), but he also smuggles them to other tribes where he gains immense profits from it. Naturally, Cuwarr denied all accusations, and besides, all of his critics were short-lived (in that, they lived a short life).

However, the repetition of the boring and cliché life of the drakkens began to gnaw at Cuwarr's heart. And, he thirsted for more exposure and experiences aside from just artfully killing their enemies. Thus, he joined in one of the expeditions towards the land of the Gem. There, he became enthralled and fascinated by miniature, painted canvases. These paintings, as what the gemminites fearfully told him, brought out unspoken feelings inside Cuwarr, and his mouth opened at such a sight. The canvas, so brightly painted with gradients of red and yellow incited terrific and inspiring feelings of war and victory within the warlord, and he couldn't help but take all of the paintings (without paying, naturally). Cuwarr wondered how such a backward and weak race could house so much artistic talent that not even Cuwarr, himself, could surpass. He drooled at all the magnificent statues and architectures, and, painstakingly, Cuwarr admitted to himself that his art was pathetic compared to all of these.

However, if he could learn the art of these gemminites, his work could transcend war and victory! His work would be remembered for all battles and massacres to come! People would call his art sublime, phenomenal, and perfect! Turned on by the thought, Cuwarr decided to take a bride for himself, if only because that gemminite woman could teach him the art and splendour that Cuwarr could never find in his plain and predictable nation.

Other
-Cuwarr wears a translucent piece of intricately designed cloth over his eyes. This doesn't really do anything other than make him look ridiculous, but he wears it for a certain 'artistic' purpose.
-Cuwarr is calmer as compared to his drakken kindred, but he does share the same bloodlust and thirst of war as his nation. He has a longer fuse, but he is often sadistic in terms of making his enemies suffer. Also, he is a crude-mouthed person.
-Cuwarr prides himself in his marksman or archery skills. While he is experienced with the blade, his real ability lies in his bow, dubbed as the Paintbrush, and his arrows, dubbed as the Paint. He can accurately shoot a target from over a hundred yards away. However, his raw strength is weaker than most of his comrades, but he can still hold his own.

A Prized bride (The return)

If you will have me, I humbly present a Drakken! :D

Cuwarr Naxremis

"What's this?! Oh, my! Ohhhh... A glorious painting of the glory of war! Look at that brutal streak of scarlet glittering outside the flawless rings of this rich yellow burst! Tell me, worthless one, what message of battle does this masterpiece aim to convey?"

"M-my Lord... t-this... uhhh... is just a sunrise..."

-A conversation between Cuwarr and an artist in Gem.

Lord Cuwarr Naxremis

Warlord of Clan Naxremis; the Blood Art Collector; the Deathsworn

Race

:Drakken:

Age

:105:

Element(s)

:Wind and Water:

Height

:6'3:

Bio
The Naxremis clan grew to prominence among the families in Drakka through their intricate and sophisticated understanding of the weapons of war. The family Naxremis delved in the art of weapon-crafting, smithing out deadly and gruesome claymores, axes, recurves, and arrows. Every twist, every inch of detail and metal in each weapon had a brutal purpose-- whether to tear tissues on contact, or to cause the victim to bleed out on the spot among others. Thus, as the Naxremis grew in strength and influence, Stezius, the past leader, grew complacent with his weapons' quality. Confident that the drakkens were too stupid to notice the drop in quality within their weapons, Stezius held back on materials and resources, eventually hoarding a great portion of all minerals for himself whilst causing the arms to easily break and bend. During one of the battles, the Naxremis' weapons were naught but dull, and as such, the drakkens had to resort to unarmed combat (a battle they still won, by the way). Thus, the warlords seized Stezius, and incarcerated him for producing weapons sub par to the glorious fighting skills of their nation. Without a clan head, the young Cuwarr was left to inherit his father's chair in the dishonored Naxremis name.

Cuwarr was unlike any other drakken in terms of their art of war. While most drakkens preferred the usual guillotine-esque slashes, and one hit, one kill manoeuvres, Cuwarr saw something in the crimson field: a sense of meaning and purpose. Surely, war was not only about lifting a sword and swinging it at enemies; no, war was about sending a message to the cowards and infants of the less significant tribes-- a message that will forever imprint the gore that the drakkens left on the field of blood. Every death on the field deserved a beautiful passage towards the afterlife of cowards! Every cut must be felt in a certain body part, and every slice must build towards a climactic end. There should be a pattern, a drawing! After all, their enemies' bodies were nothing but flailing canvases! Why waste such willing blank slates, when you could leave your masterpiece there forever?

Thus, fuelled by a lunatic's drive for art in war, Cuwarr set about straightening the slacking skills of the naxremis weapon and armour smiths. The warriors may have forgotten the fear of a twisted and vicious edge of a serrated claymore during Stezius' droll reign, but as the grand artist, Cuwarr, took to the reins of the clan, all of them remembered the feeling of a wind-cutting blade. Of course, Cuwarr refuses to merely share his art to the drakkens alone (which was like throwing pearls in front of swine), but he also smuggles them to other tribes where he gains immense profits from it. Naturally, Cuwarr denied all accusations, and besides, all of his critics were short-lived (in that, they lived a short life).

However, the repetition of the boring and cliché life of the drakkens began to gnaw at Cuwarr's heart. And, he thirsted for more exposure and experiences aside from just artfully killing their enemies. Thus, he joined in one of the expeditions towards the land of the Gem. There, he became enthralled and fascinated by miniature, painted canvases. These paintings, as what the gemminites fearfully told him, brought out unspoken feelings inside Cuwarr, and his mouth opened at such a sight. The canvas, so brightly painted with gradients of red and yellow incited terrific and inspiring feelings of war and victory within the warlord, and he couldn't help but take all of the paintings (without paying, naturally). Cuwarr wondered how such a backward and weak race could house so much artistic talent that not even Cuwarr, himself, could surpass. He drooled at all the magnificent statues and architectures, and, painstakingly, Cuwarr admitted to himself that his art was pathetic compared to all of these.

However, if he could learn the art of these gemminites, his work could transcend war and victory! His work would be remembered for all battles and massacres to come! People would call his art sublime, phenomenal, and perfect! Turned on by the thought, Cuwarr decided to take a bride for himself, if only because that gemminite woman could teach him the art and splendour that Cuwarr could never find in his plain and predictable nation.

Other
-Cuwarr wears a translucent piece of intricately designed cloth over his eyes. This doesn't really do anything other than make him look ridiculous, but he wears it for a certain 'artistic' purpose.
-Cuwarr is calmer as compared to his drakken kindred, but he does share the same bloodlust and thirst of war as his nation. He has a longer fuse, but he is often sadistic in terms of making his enemies suffer. Also, he is a crude-mouthed person.
-Cuwarr prides himself in his marksman or archery skills. While he is experienced with the blade, his real ability lies in his bow, dubbed as the Paintbrush, and his arrows, dubbed as the Paint. He can accurately shoot a target from over a hundred yards away. However, his raw strength is weaker than most of his comrades, but he can still hold his own.

Mains | League of Legends

It was Singed all along.

War of The Angelic Trio

Rancor Opperen

"He smiles, yes, but I know that he hates those monarchs for making his life miserable. He is duty bound to keep them alive, but I assure you, the moment the tables are turned, he will turn his own blade against their throats."

Name
: Rancor Opperen :

Age
: 21 :

Race
: Blessed Human :

Role & Kingdom
: Personal Servant of the Monarchs of Michael :

Ability & Weapon
: Mitotic Override : - When he was blessed by the angel, Rancor's cells mutated into rapidly dividing proportions. These cells, as Rancor dubbed, the Covenant, are located everywhere in his body, both internally and externally. By itself, the mutated cells merely provide increased regeneration and self-healing for Rancor. This means that the servant heals at a faster rate than a normal human. Severed limbs and major injuries can take days and even weeks to heal; the former can only be regenerated after a week depending on the extremity amputated. However, the main feature of the Mitotic Override is the ability of his flesh and blood to heal a person. If an individual bites Rancor's skin, the cells transfer to his/her body, providing additional self-healing capabilities-- the cells soon die afterward since they can only survive in Rancor's system. The most effective healing method is for the person to fully consume a piece of Rancor's skin, or to fully drink a portion of his blood. Just because Rancor can regenerate lost body parts, does not mean that he can survive if his head is cut off, or if he is blown into pieces. Since the cells are produced in the pericardium and in the hypothalamus, ripping out the heart or the brain can cause him to die.

: Dagger Mastery : - Mostly learned through his kitchen cutting and dicing skills as well as a training from a friend in the military, Rancor is adept in the art of knives and daggers. He prefers a more defensive stance with the dagger in an icepick grip whilst the edge is pointed to the right. His right arm is also extended as his body folds tightly with his left hand covering his right shoulder. In his standard uniform, he conceals two of his daggers in his belt. However, Rancor rarely told anyone about his talent for knife-play, and he assumed that not even his lieges know of his ability which was bestowed to him by an angel. He prefers it that way, though. After all, with less expectations comes less responsibilities.

: First-aid Knowledge : - As a servant, Rancor needed to be acquainted with basic first-aid, apothecary, herbal medicines, and the like. He is no doctor, though, and his limit is often reached on major wounds. As such, he resorts to his Mitotic ability to save lives when the need arises.

: Refined Cooking and Waiting Skills : - Taught by the finest cooks in the kingdom, Rancor is able to whip out the delicacies that his lieges prefer. He is also adept in the kitchen, being able to manage the heat with precision and timing without breaking a sweat. He is also a fan of tea and confections which he often makes under the guise of giving it to the monarchs, only for Rancor to consume it himself. His training under the castle's finest servants also made Rancor into the diligent and responsible servant he is now. From waiting on his masters to reminding them of their tasks, he is one of the kingdom's finest servants to date.

Biography
: Being born in the slums of the kingdom had its perks as well. One, a person born in the slums matures faster and learns more about the real world at a pace not even the smartest of the scholars in the castle can live up to. Two, you learn to live and die by the blade. The barbaric environment of the slums in Erekon proved to be an arena for those who wished to survive, because there were only two ways to get out of the slums: garnering the attention of a military officer, so that you can be sent to the castle for training, or you smuggle yourself out. In this desolated place, people displayed their full prowess in front of the guards in hopes of being sent for training, but not one was chosen for more than a decade.

Rancor, the eldest of a family of five, observed these fights because he already had a plan to bring his paralyzed father, sickly mother, and twin baby sisters out of the hellhole that was Erekon. As he reached maturity, all his training led up to this moment when he stood in front of a burly man twice his size. He had prayed to the high heavens to grant him this mercy, to deign in answering his silent litanies and odes. And, by the angels, he wouldn't lose. He couldn't accept just standing still in life, because those who just stood in life are the ones who run from death. As a matter of fact, never did Rancor stay still.

As he faced off against the brute, a minute into the bout, Rancor was sent reeling through the air as he sustained a broken rib and arm. The crowd jeered and cheered for the brute as he towered over Rancor like how the moon eclipsed the earth. Instantly, memories of his family rotting in Erekon surged in his mind, prompting Rancor to send, for the last time, a plead to the skies above to grant him deliverance. And, as if time stood still, a figure, clad in the whitest garment he had ever seen, hovered over the boy.

It was an angel, and a beautiful one at that. Not even the most precious of gems and coins held a candle to this angel, and with but a few words, a deal was sealed. Instantly, a runic mark, a thorny serpent coiling around a bloody rose, was inscribed on his abdomen. All his injuries regenerated, and as Rancor bolted forward and pierced the man with his own dagger, his fate was also sealed. The officer, awed at the sight of a man regenerating broken bones in a matter of seconds, immediately sent for Rancor (who requested his family to be moved as well) to the wealthier part of the kingdom. He intended Rancor to be a soldier, but when his regeneration abilities lessened over time, the boy had a difficult time keeping up with the army's rigorous training. Instead, Rancor was assigned to household and sanitary duties like cleaning the barracks and the like. His industriousness and hard work earned the praise of common men, but for soldiers like him, they only sneered at his weakness. One of the officers intended to relieve Rancor of his duty, and send him back to Erekon. After all, if they wanted a cleaning person, they could just hire from the castle cleaners. However, the same officer who took in Rancor saw another potential in the child. The good officer confronted Rancor with this discovery, and warned him of the impending send-off if he doesn't shape up. Thus, Rancor revealed to the officer the real extent of his abilities of helping others. The officer realized that while Rancor might not be an effective soldier, he still possessed abilities that could benefit the monarchs' safety with his power.

Instead of sending him back to Erekon, the officer recommended for Rancor to be a servant in the castle, and he should work his way up. And, he would earn his own keep. Rancor started at the bottom, cleaning up messes wherever they were, and doing the filthiest of cleaning duties until his superiors felt easier around him.

Thus, as Rancor ascended to the role of a servant for the monarch, he still bears a deep gratitude to the divine powers for the aid they had provided. At the moment, Rancor operates as one of the monarch's personal servants, catering to their commands, wishes, and needs with utmost precision and quality.

But, still, his bitterness and 'wit-of-tongue' against the very monarchs he served are still evident to this day. Up to now, Rancor couldn't fathom why these royals couldn't spare a look of mercy for those who were suffering outside the castle's cold parapets of stone.

Song
: Solemn Hour : youtube.com/watch?v=p4h1wciz45o

Caymdahr Mellurium Fairchild

"The King moves with every decision being strategically chosen, because he knows that he is betting everything on the line with all the fatal mistakes he committed. He takes in the sins of the people as his own, because he is Gabriel, and Gabriel is him. Through it, he is connected with everyone in the kingdom, and everyone in the kingdom to him."

Name

Caymdahr Mellurium Fairchild, the Immortal Son

Age

Physical age, 15; Real age, 45

Race

Cursed Human-- afflicted by the demon, Baranur.

Role & Kingdom

King of Gabriel

Ability & Weapon

Immortality's Folly - After being cursed by Baranur, the potential years that the king and queen of Michael were supposed to live through were inflicted upon Caymdahr, causing him to be younger by 30 years. Thus, the curse entails that whenever Caymdahr would kill anyone outside of the rules of war (assassination, executions, etc...) whether direct or indirect, will cause that person's potential years of life to be deducted from his current age. Hence, if Caymdahr's current age is 50, and he executes a thief with a potential lifespan of 30 years, then, his current age will be deducted by 30, causing him to have the physical age of 20 (mental and emotional maturity remains). While good to think about at first glance, Caymdahr soon learned of the disasters this curse could bring. In his current age of 15, if he kills someone with a potential span of even 16 years, he could be reduced to that of a wailing infant which is disastrous for the throne (not to mention that he needs to hit puberty again). Of course, he is doomed to forever watch his loved ones die while he continues to age at a slower rate.

Swordsmanship - Caymdahr is a trained swordsman as was tradition for every monarch to be under the tutelage of one of the best knights in the kingdom. He favors a shortsword which he hangs from his waist. He can easily hold his own against a single opponent, but he can be outmatched through numbers and wit. However, at his current physique, he has laughable strength as compared to other warriors.

Biography

The bloodline of the Fairchilds took much residence in the long line of monarchs who ruled Gabriel from its genesis to its current state. The rulers of Gabriel believed in the motto of 'Utter Surety', and as such, their lifestyle revolved around taking responsibility for the actions of one of their own. When Tenebris, Caymdahr's father, succeeded the throne the old man was plagued with dreams of how the kingdom of Michael would soon sunder the world under their hubris, and these visions continued to haunt the king until his deathbed. At his solemn and final moments, Tenebris called his son to his side, and revealed to him the terrors that siphoned at the king's health until his entire body fell under stress and trauma. Tenebris recalled of how the monarchs of Michael, when left to their own devices, would soon bring the world under to its knees due to utter hubris and pride. As the king breathed his last, the same visions began to haunt Caymdahr as his next few years on the throne became a vicious cycle of waking up in the middle of the night, plagued by dreams, and even faltering in the middle of political affairs due to the stress.

Even though his wife supported him throughout the ordeal, the night terrors gnawed at his being until Caymdahr could sustain no more-- his sanity teetered on the edge of snapping, and he would be damned before he let himself die in the same way as his father. He believed in utter surety, and he would bear the grunt of the deed that he would soon command his men to do. On the eve before the festival of peace, where the kingdoms' defenses were at its slackest, Caymdahr sent his best assassins to the land of Michael under the guise of a celebratory dinner between the two kingdoms' Alliance Library-- the largest sanctum of knowledge in the land. As the night waned by, the crimson stains of the Michael monarch's painted the sky as the visions that plagued the Gabriel monarch vanished into nothingness.

However, the alliance between the two kingdoms was eradicated as Caymdahr prepared himself for the inevitable war that was to come. He would take responsibility for this war, and he would make sure to win. He believed himself on the side of good, and by the gods, he believed in his father's prophecy. Then, one fateful night, a demon, Baranur, visited Caymdhar and revealed to him the truth: Baranur had been the one who sent the visions to Tenebris, and all of these events was part of the demon's tapestry of plans. Caymdahr, aghast, asked Baranur whether Michael's tyranny was true, to which, the demon replied that he would soon know in the future. However, because he, on a whim, set forth a war that could tear the earth asunder, Caymdahr was cursed with the demon's spite-- an immortal's folly. Since the king failed to appreciate the life that he took, then, he would bear the brunt of those severed lives by living them in his own lifetime. All of this was Baranur's plan to curse one of the highest ranking officers in the land.

But, Baranur would not meddle much in Gabriel's affairs for he believed that everything would be revealed in the future. As such, his essence lives on in a crimson rose that Caymdahr would always carry in his right suit pocket. Caymdahr and Baranur have reached an agreement that if he manages to successfully unify the land under one ruler, then, the curse would be lifted from him.

Thus, when a meeting sponsored by Raphael was proposed, Caymdahr took months to ponder on it, and before he knew it, he had accepted. Though his younger looks make it hard for others to take him seriously, Caymdahr moves with precision so that the same curse would not happen again. His strained eyes looks beyond the possibility of forging the alliance between the kingdoms, and instead, envisions the time when the three kingdoms are one under his bloodline.