Cycad

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Nihayat—Sehten

Qazah

☩
Cherish your mortality child,
For the love of Qazah shall rob you of your youth,
That blessing which grinds even mountains to dust,
You will long to escape it in time.
☩

ℬasic ℭharacteristics

_{“ℭharacter motto here”}

☩ ℕame--

Qazah

☩ God of--

Decay, Aging, Struggle

☩ Gender--

Unclear

☩ Ѻrientation--

Any

Ⱥppearance

_{خدایان فریاد می زنند}

☩ ℘ortrayal--

Qazah appears most often as a constantly shifting mass of wheat in human form, ever rotting and being replenished. In moments of rage or joy this appearance can shift. Negative feelings bring forth locust who feed upon the wheat which makes up the gods essence, while positive emotions tend to slow the decay of Qazah's form and herald the emergence of a more human and static appearance. These more human appearances may show the god as either a man or woman depending on the situation.

☩ ℋeight--

Varying, as the wheat that forms Qazah grows and withers endlessly their height rises and falls with it.

☩ ωeight--

Varying.

☩ ℇyes--

Qazah's eyes like all the gods features are sculpted from endlessly shifting wheat. Whether they be vacant voids or intricately sculpted eyes depends entirely on Qazah's mood.

☩ Ƀuild--

Varying.

℘ersonality

_{و آسمان فرود می آید}

☩ ℘ersonality--

Qazah is, perhaps incongruously, one of the more altruistic gods. Ever fascinated by humanity, Qazah spends much of their time keeping a close eye on their followers and on Tira-Kin. Perhaps as a result of this Qazah sees the debaucheries of brethren on the mortal plane as inappropriate and harmful to its occupants. Of course, this obsession with mortals has not always been to their benefit. Qazah, by their very nature, precipitates the natural deterioration of the mortal world and with every visit to it often brings great suffering.

In some ways this tortures Qazah, whose love for mortals is great. Yet for whatever pain Qazah causes the god has never truly despaired, as they see decay, which they embody, as a vital part of life. Other gods handle the beginning and the end of life, but it is all that happens in between with concerns Qazah. As much as they are the god of decay Qazah is also the god of struggle, and life itself is a struggle. Qazah loves all mortals, and though they may suffer for that love Qazah sees that suffering as a part of what makes them lovable at all.

This affinity for mortals and their struggles is more than a mere drive for Qazah, though. Always watching events below and so deeply relating to them has left Qazah prone to dangerous mood swings, for if the mortals are to suffer or rejoice in their struggles then Qazah will suffer or rejoice with them.

☩ Ⱥctive Ⱥbilities--

The Agents of Decay
Qazah may summon the agents of Decay at will, notably locusts. These creatures and their ilk can be summoned and banished by Qazahs will.

The Touch of Age
Qazah may focus their ambient abilities into their physical manifestation so that a mere touch may age men and their works years in mere moments.

☩ Ⱥmbient Ⱥbilities--

The Struggle of Life
Qazah is a god of Againg and Decay, and this is the effect of their presence. Their love for mortal life is felt with ever wrinkle on a human face, and every crack in a cornerstone. To be in the presence of Qazah is to age in mind and body, but also to live more deeply; mortal passions will intensify and even passing motivations become unstoppable drives.

☩ Ⱥversion--

Mark down 3 key dislikes of your character

☩ Ⱥmbitions and ℱears--

Mark down long-term, short-term goals and (deep) fears for your character.

ℋistory

_{آخر الزمان}

☩ ℱamily--

Connections to other deities, whether alive or dead.

☩ ℂharacter relations--

Details of significant opinions or relations with other deities, creatures, or mortals.

☩ Ƀiography--

Mark down the (relevant and significant) life events of your character

≈ Nihayat—Sehten, Beginning of an End

Sounds neat

Blood Debt - Medieval/Fantasy

Blep

Tombs & Treks: A Pulp Roleplay

Yeah hate to say so but I'm probably not going to try for another char.

Best of luck yall.

Tombs & Treks: A Pulp Roleplay

I'm going to try a new char, ignore that last sheet.

Tombs & Treks: A Pulp Roleplay

Withdrawn

Benedict Keys

________________________________________
________________________________________
Character Summary

Name: Benedict Keys

Aliases: James Wright

Age: 31

Nationality: British

Ethnicity: English

Current Residence: Vancouver, Canada

Gender: Male

Education: Pilots Training in the Royal Flying Corps

Job: Pilot

Role: Pilot / Muscle

________________________________________
________________________________________
Appearance

Height: 5'9"

Weight: 195 lbs

Build: Muscular

Eyes: Green

Hair: Light Brown

Skin Tone: Tan

Tattoos/Scars/Piercings: A large and jagged scar on the right leg, and a smattering of small scars across the face.

Personal Style: Benedict has always gone the distance, perhaps in vain, to compensate for the injuries he sustained in the Great War. He sports a pair of custom made sunglasses and a leather brimmed hat to conceal his face somewhat, and rarely is he seen wearing anything less than heavy canvas trousers. Though hardly conventional, Benedict does not flout fashion completely and wears a grey single breasted jacket. Of course whenever the opportunity presents itself, usually far from civilized society, he often makes a show of wearing his rather large wartime gun belt and Webley revolver.

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________________________________________
Psychology

Trait * Trait * Trait * Trait

Sexuality: Heterosexual

Relationship Status: Single

Personality: While not solitary per say Benedict hardly covets the company of others. Deep seated insecurities stemming from his injuries have made him a man most would label a shut in, though he’s far from unwilling to go out when such is prudent or necessary. Hardly a warm person, Benedict has struggled with relationships throughout his life. That said, he is not cruel, brash, or even impertinent. Merely, he often acts with an excess of caution in his interactions with the world at large, a habit that has made many of his acquaintances question his ability to feel for anyone.

All this has led to Benedict seeking a life away from the bustling world at large. From pilot, to hired gun, and back, he has never worked closely with more than a handful of individuals. In truth the Benedict of today is a far cry from the young man he was. In his teens Benedict was boisterous and outgoing, perhaps in excess. Some of that boy remains in Benedict, for it’s unlikely he’d have started on a life of adventure if he’d truly wished to be forgotten by the world.

In many ways Benedict looks to recapture what he feels he’s lost by doing the one thing he was good at. Adventure, conflict, the confident boy lost for almost two decades has eluded him through it all, but thirty isn’t so old he’s ready to stop trying.

Habits:
-Meticulous grooming, rarely will one stop an errant whisker on Benedict.

-Reading pulp magazines before bed.

Hobbies:
-In the years since his last try at adventure Benedict has spent a great deal of time in his greenhouse. Exotic plants from his travels, more common fair, his collection is one of the few things he’s come to truly prize.

-Benedict has a talent for the Piano and often finds himself playing it in his study whenever time permits.

-One of the few things that draws Benedict from his Garden and home other than work is a weekly shooting club he attends. Not the best shot, nor the most sociable, Benedict frequents the range to keep himself proficient in a skill he feels will always be needed.

Fears:

• Being seen as disabled.
• Dying alone.
• Losing his ability to fly.

Likes:

• Flying.
• Thrills.
• The Ocean.
• Cigars.
• Spring.

Dislikes:

• Crowds.
• Storms.
• Deceivers, liars, all manner of dishonest folk.
• Confined spaces.

________________________________________
________________________________________
History

A Memory: Minimum of 1 well developed paragraph of a memory

History: Benedict was born in 1898 to a fairly middle class family. His father was an accountant for a local bank and the expectation was that Benedict was study his figures one day and join him. A particularly active boy it was often hard for Benedict to keep up with his lessons, but sure enough what he wouldn’t learn was beaten into him, often literally. Even so, compared to most Benedict led a privileged life. His schooling proceeded despite his best efforts and by the time the Great War broke out it looked like he’d be employed with his father long in a couple short years. Of course by 1916 it had become clear that even accountants sons wouldn’t be spared. With conscription a month away in parliament and his 18th birthday weeks past him Benedict decided he’d rather join of his own accord than be forced into the army.

In some ways Benedict did it to avoid what he saw as dying in the mud. Sure, pilots didn’t exactly have better luck, but when he volunteered to fly for the army he figured dying in the air would be the more exotic option. Training came and went and soon enough he was flying on the front lines of the war that would never really leave his mind. Combat came and went, men died, often ones he was close with, but the war raged on for another two years before Benedict first got a real taste of what had been the fate of so many.

During the Spring Offensive of 1918 Benedict was flying an observation plane, watching the carnage above and below as he had a dozen times before. Only this time he hadn’t kept his eyes on the horizon and let the observer do their job. Out of the sun came a single German fighter, and before he knew it the observer was dead with the engine. Benedict would manage to set the plane on a course away from the front by the time the damaged rudder sent him into a spin, but he’d never recall the impact.

When he awoke it was to red, his face peppered with shards of glass and his leg impaled on a strut that had been ejected from the aircraft alongside him. All alone in a muddy farmers field, unable to even properly see, Benedict faced his death with a sense of cruel irony, in the end he’d never even get to die the right way. How many times he slipped in and out of consciousness before the soldiers found him he couldn’t say, but against all the odds he’d survive. Though he’d often wish he hadn’t.

With the end of the Spring Offensive the end of the war was in sight, and Benedict heard of the armistice from a hospital bed. Somehow he’d avoided amputation, but he’d never stop fearing it. Somehow he still had his sight, but his face would always be a patchwork of little scars. He’d return home with to his father, but he’d never consider taking up the old man’s craft. Benedict would slowly retreat into himself, finding work here and there, but always looking to get away. The Great War had killed him in a sense, and he began to wonder if another war couldn’t making him anew as well, at least into something better than the worthless child who’d come back broken.

That urge would eventually lead him to America, and from there to China. American mercenaries had made names for themselves fighting for the various warlords in the region, but Benedict would find his war to be something else entirely. The chaos in China came as opportunity to some, and like the good imperialists their parents were the industrialists of America sought to get what they could out of the middle kingdom. Whether it be selling arms, disposing of political rivals, or outright robbing the Chinese of their ancient treasures, Benedict and a number like him, all with assumed names, kept busy on orders from an ocean away. It all came to a head in 1926, when the Kuomintang launched their great campaign to unify the country. In the midst of a real war Benedict and others looted burning cities across the country for the sake of trinkets to please wealthy men across the world, and they made themselves rich in doing so.

However, the jig was up by mid-1928. The Kuomintang and god knows who else all knew what had been happening, and now they sought to end it. James Wright would die in China with a dozen like him, and they’d all turn up back home with their old names in the spa of a few months. Benedict though, was done with home. He settled where the ship made port in the old colonies, the port of Vancouver. For a year he knew some peace, flying the occasional survey, playing his piano, tending to his garden, and yet he was yet to rest easy. Benedict hadn’t found what he wanted in China, and he silently resolved to find it elsewhere.

Tombs & Treks: A Pulp Roleplay

Is this open?

I'd love to join if there's space.

Blood Debt - Medieval/Fantasy

Vasile pulled yet another of the wretched burs out of his scraggly beard and silently cursed. Who knew the better part of a decade spent teaching spoiled twats to heft swords without dismembering themselves would leave him so lamentably out of practice? That wasn’t to say the job was without its benefits though, his favorite of them being easy access to a barber; an underrated privilege of the elite and pleasure of life, that one. He owed it to the old man, but if this whole business took as long as he expected it would Vasile would have to make peace with roughing it for a second time in his life. He supposed that was fitting, all things considered.

For now it seemed he’d slipped the foraging mercenaries easily enough. It was just his luck to have run into them so far off the roads, after all was it really home if he wasn’t crawling through underbrush? There was always the more convenient solution, but he’d really prefer to not start killing people until everyone was on the same page, there. Knowing the others it wasn’t likely they’d settle for a funeral and call it water under the bridge, but better safe than sorry. The barrow wasn’t too far now anyhow, an hours walk at worst he reckoned. Then again the woods here had changed enough that that was only guess. Back when he’d called the Nightwood home he’d have just known, and that one was a skill he’d have to reacquaint himself with soon.

In truth he never was cut out for a ranger’s life, but that hadn’t stopped him from learning how to be a ranger. Oh he’d forgotten a good third of everything Brand ever taught him, notably the lessons about charity, but the real important stuff? That’d never go, no matter how rusty it got. He might not have passed invisible through the forest, but he’d be damned if he left a single good track for those mercenaries to follow.

The barrow was just ahead now, but Vasile stopped. He wasn’t like to be the first, but the question was who’d beaten him? More pertinently, if they had beaten him here, had he done anything to grievously offend his adopted siblings of late? He’d been serving the King of Allia for the last two years, and the Allians were a notoriously prickly lot, not that he’d ever say that to their faces. Well, hopefully none of his siblings had had a run in with one of those ridiculous raiding parties the Allians insisted on propping up as a ‘cultural institution’.

Then again there was always Kay. Ah well, even if he’d done something to ruffle the elf’s feathers, there was Harvey. Sometimes Vasile felt blessed, he could never outdo that particular bad seed. Well there was no sense in wasting time. He took a half step before he stopped again and muttered aloud, “Oh balls.”

There was no way he’d forgotten how to get into the barrow. Had he? It had something to do with the perimeter runes, he was sure of that. Yes, runes. As he thought on it he stepped closer and mumbled, “It was probably just… Ah and there was… For god’s sake Rangers never making anything easy…”

With a light touch a rune glowed and he nodded to himself before making his way in. Surely it had taken the others a few moments to remember as well. Really, he’d left when he was nineteen. How could he be expected to be that quick on the draw? Surely they’d all struggle with the runes, at least a bit? Inwardly he hoped nobody had been watching.

Finally entering the barrow proper Vasile caught sight of Dakgu and Harvey. As he gave the two a desultory wave he grinned, only the third to arrive? After all that nonsense Vasile had a silent moment of pleasure at his haste being enough to beat most of the others here. Polished or not, he still had it.

Blood Debt - Medieval/Fantasy

I heard mid sixties.

Blood Debt - Medieval/Fantasy

Name: Vasile
Age: 32
Race: Human
Faction/Unit: Brand's Brood
Location: Bosfyrd
Synopsis of Role: As a wanderer who has leveraged their skills tutoring the rich and entitled heirs of nobility across half the known world, Vasile owes much to Brand; the ranger who saved an unremarkable boy from an equally unremarkable fate.

Would you like to know more?

History:

Vasile was a mere boy of eight when he first came to face the cruelty of nature. It was not bandits, monsters, nor anything dramatic or meaningful which rendered him an orphan. Vasile’s parents had simply chosen to make the trip to a nearby village, and as traders who made the journey every so often they felt confident enough to bring along their child. In hindsight they could have known, any more experienced and further ranging traveller could have told them, but events so transpired that they never saw the danger in distant storm clouds as they forded what seemed to be a minor stream. By the time the water began to rise it was too late, Vasile and his parents were swept away alongside their meager cart. The horses which drowned first, and in the years to come, despite the fact he’d heard the final cries of his mother and father, it would be that panicked and hopeless braying that came to haunt him. Happenstance, coincidence, a log floating above the rest, whatever the reason Vasile survived the wash out, he was alone in having done so.

How far the stream carried him, how far a child can walk subsisting only on dirty stream water before succumbing to the inevitable, Vasile never did find out. All he knew was that by the time Brand found him aimlessly following that cursed stream in the Nightwood Vasile was skin and bones, closer to his parents than his saviour in condition. Brand would take the child on, but it would be another year before Vasile spoke, and longer still before he shared what had befallen him on that night when everything changed for no reason at all.

Vasile’s years under Brand’s tutelage would prove to be harsh, but among the best of his life. Slow to learn compared to some of the others, Vasile took to whatever lessons he had to learn with determination. He was not the strongest, nor the smartest, kindest, or most charismatic, but he never faltered. Driven by what he saw as a responsibility to repay Brand and the world at large for a second chance at life Vasile worked to become more than merely capable. By the time he departed the Nightwood at the age of nineteen Vasile was a skilled fighter and outdoorsman. Yet he would not stop there. In the years since Vasile has wandered from nation to nation, eventually teaching what he knew to others, though often less charitably.