Dark Light

Goblins

The human/goblin years thing bugs me, sorry, pet peeve. By all means continue it but I will be using revolutions of the sun or cycle of seasons, not an estimated point in a variable lifespan.

:p

I’ll get some sort of sheet up tonight too.

Goblins

I dunno, something simple like a farmer or warrior.

Goblins

I’m interested

Mist City Story: An Urban Fantasy Mage RP

@Dark Light: Hmm, I'm not exactly sure why Arinne would go out of her way to help him? She's not exactly the most charitable person. It would make more sense if he was somehow under one of the contracts she activated.

@VitaVitaAR

Yes that’s sorta what I meant, not in a charitable supportive way but more of an enlist into service kinda thing.
Edit: Ah ok, I see my mistake.
She activated contracts not personally picked mages.
I will update it to reflect a family in her support that has sent him.

Thanks

Dark lights character archive

Terrenum: The Great War

Ezlan Hackshaw

Character Name: Ezlan Hackshaw
Racial/Ethnic Background: Caerbean (faint orc ancestry)
Grapple: Standard
Unarmed: 5
Melee Skill: 3
Ranged Skill: 3
Strength: 4
Toughness: 3
Wounds: 1
Initiative: 3
Will Power: 3
Morale: 6
Combat Sense: 6
Attacks: 2d6

Weapons:
Net (grapple 10ft)
Studded greaves (bashing)
Brass knuckles (bashing)
Punch dagger (piercing)

Armor:
Buckler (light shield 6)
Light chain shirt (B 20% / S 50% / P 30%)
Steel greaves and bracers
Leather wrappings.

Special Rules:

Caerbean Deck Hand - Saltwater runs through your veins. Adrenaline is your drug of choice. The only thing better than a good fight is a good fuck - the only thing better than a good fuck is a good fight after a good fuck. Caerbeans are natural sailors, fighters and are generally at the heart of any bar-room party. They are also quick to fight just for the fun of it and are natural showmen.

Orc Blood Rage - Anybody with a trace of orc in their lineage has a chance to be afflicted by the Blood Rage. When your blood burns hot and your vision turns red, few things can stop you. After preparing for one hour, the character gains a three-hour window in which they can voluntarily go into a Blood Rage. Alternatively, after three active rounds engaged in combat, the character will go into an involuntary Blood Rage. A Blood Rage may be ended with a successful (strength 3) Will test or upon the character taking a debilitating wound. While Blood Rage is active, the character gains +1 Initiative, +1d6 on attacks and Die Hard on a 6 (Die Hard is rolled after all normal saves and, if successful, ignores all wounds that the character might have taken at that point).

Background:

Story so far

One of his Grandparents were high nobles from Hecate, an important person of position and wealth. All was lost when they mingled with a Caerbean woman. Ezlan does not know the full extent of this story but blame of his families poverty and struggles have fallen to the uptight laws and law keepers of the Hecate.
Two generations later Ezlan, a proud follower of the storm maiden, a bringer of chaos and a notorious brawler from the docks, is interested in his family history. But to learn of such he must first make a name for himself.

Currently residing in Caerbea and calling it home, a fair amount of his childhood and past struggles occurred in the Iron Harbour. Growing up there he fought, fought a lot. He still proudly wears the scars to prove it. While he enjoys a good skirmish, his blood often boils intently with rage.
It was there, because of this, lost in a blind rage he accidentally murdered his best friend during a petty brawl.

It was a life changing moment that sent him to the church to study and grow. Eventually he found his way back to the path of the Storm maiden, became a great dock hand, was good at entertaining company and quite a knowledgeable story teller. But his short temper, violent tendencies and highly competitive reckless streaks caused him to be cast out time after time. The same reasons he has held so few friends or lovers long term.

Despite being a keen brawler and always eager for a fight he is also quite intelligent.
He has a wide curiosity and a special interest in history and biology, wanting to expand on what he learnt at the church. As such he enjoys reading and collecting.
It is that curiosity that drew him to the sea and docks where he could meet interesting people and learn their tales.
For this he has many stories to share and a knack for telling them.
His favourite stories are of history, battle or feats of strength and ingenuity. He incorporates these lessons and other gained knowledge into his fighting style to gain every advantage he can.

He is almost as good as aiding the injured as he is at injuring people.
Helping is now in his nature, and while he tries to be content with what he has, deep inside he has always had a yearning for more. To be something more. A feeling or desire to be destined for some sort of greatness. He constantly tries to prove his worthyness to himself and the Storm Maiden who guides his path.

Terrenum: The Great War (Fantasy/Realistic/Dice - Recruiting Applicants)

This should be interesting :D

Do we still have all our party members or have we lost some along the way?
If so can we bump the interest thread?

Battle of 'Gods'

Make it something like this and I’m in.

Mist City Story: An Urban Fantasy Mage RP

@VitaVitaAR

My Hider

Name: Arden Grey
Age: 19
Gender: Male
Appearance:

Hider

Personality:

Arden, lacking confidence is often considered quiet, shy and reserved, that is until something goes against his beliefs or moral judgment and then he is not afraid to show just how passionate he can be. He is curious, creative and kind, albeit nervous and a bit reclusive. He loves solidarity and music in any form.

Abilities:

AFFINITY: Sound, vibrations and the sense of hearing

_{MANA QUALITY: Exceptional
MANA QUANTITY: Average}
Intense potency but limited reserves. Arden is new to mage-craft and the supernatural world, so he doesn’t know many spells beyond his inherit abilities, and even those he has not yet mastered.

• Deep listener- Arden not only has beyond exceptional hearing with immaculate precision and control, but he also can hear things others can’t. This magical ability interprets patterns and activities of the mind into audible surface thoughts and or feelings and intent. It requires Arden’s focus and concentration and doesn’t work equally well on all people. It is more effective on non magical humans and those unaware of his ability.
• Quiet speaker- Arden’s voice, without being raised, can reach anyone’s ear within his vision and only theirs if he so chooses it.
  Master of subtle tone manipulation and with the ability to ‘hear’ people, Arden can generate frequencies to manipulate people’s emotions or make them more susceptible to suggestions. This is a near passive hypnotic effect that again works on varying degrees.
• Silent type- Arden’s control over frequency and sound allows him to also nullify it. This is very helpful for those that wish to sneak around.
• Conscientious- ’Listen to oneself.’ Arden has yet to thoroughly explore this sonar like ability through using echo location techniques. But it is there just waiting to be discovered.
• Vocal- The heart and strength of his ability. Creating and manipulating vibrations to such an extent that they has a physical effect on his environment or singularly targeted area. These ‘shock waves’ can emanate from any part of his body as the vibrations and energy come from within. Most effective though are vocal shouts or arm thrusts.
• Haphephobia- Arden can also use the above mentioned ability to violently displace the air around him creating a defensive bubble.

Skills:

He is not much of a combatant except for the odd scrape he picked up from being bullied at school. Arden’s skills fall more into the creative and intellectual realms, especially around creating music or fiddling with technology. He is a whiz around computers and programming.

Assets:

Growing up in poverty Arden possesses little of value from his past even though his abilities, if understood earlier, could have provided otherwise. Since being discovered there were those that tried to ‘buy’ him and nearly succeeded until Arrine intervened.

• Enhanced Notebook computer- Because all things are better with magic. Besides being faster, more secure and compact, it also has access to a great database of information very useful to a mage-in-learning.
• Bugs- Part technological marvel, part familiar. This conscious hive mind of little creatures exists mostly as an ordinary watch, laying dormant until called upon. Then at which point they disperse and fly through the air scouting an area or following a target. This extends the reach of Arden’s ability via microphone’s and speakers while recording everything for later analysis.
• Taser (extendable baton)- For self protection when all else fails.
• Motor bike- Method of transport.

Brief Backstory: Arden’s mother and father met but once, she couldn’t resist the handsome man, literally. It was a rendezvous that started on the busy dance floor of a high end exclusive night club and ended in an empty, cold, filthy, little alley way that didn’t even earn a name. He discarded her when done and that was the last she ever saw or heard of Arden’s father.

Arden’s mother held no magical aptitude whatsoever. She was not connected to a rich family, or any family for that matter. She was an aspiring dancer crushed under the weight of failed dreams, bad youthful decisions and financial strain.
Arden grew up in poverty, and while his mother held love for him, she was hardly around to share it.

So that left Arden’s father to be the mage of the family, and a powerful one at that because despite his training or understanding of that world, Arden possesses some strong magical talent and aptitude. It was very confusing for him to be seeing things that others around him couldn’t. Hearing things others didn’t. It took him longer than most to get recognised and then when he finally did, there were many trying to take him in and train him. All who just wanted to take advantage of the young boys ability and shape him into a tool of their own agenda, but it was Arinne in the end who got to him.

This is the right one for this rp :)
Please let me know if I need to make any adjustments.

Terrenum: The Great War (Fantasy/Realistic/Dice - Recruiting Applicants)

That was life, not everything went to plan, especially when they were the plans of Ezlan, but that was ok. He aimed high and enjoyed the journey along they way, not just the destination.

Caught in the grapple a wide excited smile took his face as he continued his introductory spiel. Loud and deep, the occasional word hindered by a labour of breath but otherwise he carried on. This was not only a small trick to pacify some of the malice and pure aggression of his opponents mid battle, but also his own. It helped him hold off that rage deep within. It was a trick beyond the conscious that trifled with the brain, splitting attention. You were not fighting for your life with everything you have because you were also in a casual conversation, processing and considering words. The friendly smile only made it worse.
Experienced in this, Ezlan took advantage of every slight opportunity it might give. Always one to use anything that might slide the scales of victory further in his favour.

Yes grappling was a skill, but it also come down largely to strength. Both qualities Ezlan was not lacking of. Whilst these men may be veterans of the field, Ezlan doubt that even combined their total tallies of bar room brawls wouldn’t equal up to nearly as many as his.

With a small shift in his weight Ezlan pivoted around his grappled foe, keeping the man between himself and any other on comers. (The elite great-swordsman) He leveraged his opponents half plate against him. The heavy protection limiting flexibility and offering Ezlan extra mechanical control and places to lever and grip. Facing his back to the wall he stacked himself beside a table, limiting the spaces and directions from which others could get involved. Then seizing an opportunity he would drive a fist, elbow or forehead at his opponents nose, and in that distraction quickly lash out with a leg at the table his first opponent was using to regain balance. Still, all’s whilst this was going on, that smug smile held true through the struggle and his words kept flowing merrily (as possible).

actions

Take control of the grapple
Use foe for cover
Strike grappled opponent
Strike table - knock over 1st attacker.

The Sorcerers' Cycle - A Fantasy Tale of Necessary Evils

WIP - sorry I don’t have word count on my phone :p

Primary Alias: Vallen Thorn
Appearance: Young, scrawny, and short. Wiry limbs and a mop of brown messy hair. Hands and feet stained with dirt. Soft freckles splatter his tanned skin.
Loose tattered rags bound by fraying ropes pass as his clothing.
Equipment: Most notably is his absence of things. Bound in simple tattered rags secured by fraying rope. A worn leather satchel hanging over one shoulder with makeshift ties along the weathered strap.
Reputation: A street rat. Defiant, brave, angry at the world.
Recent History: The wet cobbled stone path was cold and hard. Unforgiving to the bare feet frantically slapping against it. It’s stones uneven and loose, littered with traps of small pebbles and sharp rubbish just waiting for the unsuspecting, unprotected foot to fall upon, as Vallen’s did, again and again. These cruel and devious dangers sulked out of site in the thick heavy shadows cast by the ever present looming towering walls on either side, blocking what little light fell from the dark cloudy night sky.

Still, he endured. Heart thudding profusely in his chest. Lungs burning with desperation. Muscles aching, head spinning, mind a blur.

He didn’t have the luxury to care about the occasional bolt of pain shooting up his leg as again he smashed his toe or stepped on some viscous debris, no matter how intense or severe it may be. He couldn’t worry what state this left his feet in. He knew they were bloody and bruised, he could feel a warm tingle oozing along his icy cold skin. He was surely missing a nail or two from toes most likely broken, but regardless he just couldn’t stop. No matter what he just had to keep them moving. For no matter how disconcerting it might be, worse things were coming.

Disconnected from his mind they were like objects that he kept placing in front of himself. One after the other as fast as he could. Numb with pain. Without full feeling or sense of the ground on which he was running, Vallen slipped and stumbled every few meters as he darted down one alleyway and then suddenly flew around a corner into another, always frantically avoiding possible signs or sounds of trouble ahead. With every fumble a new fear rose in his stomach and his eyes widened with terror.
He had somehow been managing to keep away from his pursuers so far, but if he fell over completely, surely they would be upon him in an instant. Even if they weren’t, the young boy wasn’t sure if he could even get back up. The night was growing long and despite all his urgency and adrenaline, the malnourished young lad was growing tired and weary. Already running on empty it was only desperation and fear that still drove him.

He was so scared and yet still so hopeful that he hadn’t realised just how much he had slowed. This wasn’t the usual guard chase that lead to a simple beating if the one or two men could be bothered keeping up the pursuit. This was different. Vallen had wondered into territory that he shouldn’t have, and with his stubborn attitude he had upset the wrong people along the way. Hateful spiteful people not concerned by rules or laws except for their own. They were a viscous pack that ran these streets, more deadly and dangerous than those of the slums. This was the real reason why the upper regions had less beggars and bums. It wasn’t the guards that kept them in check.

It hit him too late...
How many others like him had came here before him. Leaving the slums in their final hours of desperation, overwhelmed by thirst or starvation. Vallen would not be the first to threaten their hold. More begging children meant more guard patrols and they didn’t want that. No. They had quick methods for despatching his kind. Vallen was running the alleyways blind, had been running them for ages, yet still he was in them. Never had he come to an open road or passed a lit up building. There were no sights or sounds of the many people living in this densely populated area. Sure he didn’t know the streets. But his pursers did.

Realisation rushed up to him as quick and as hard as the solid brick wall before him. Trapped! Isolated and alone. He had been running exactly where they had wanted him to. Vallen was known for his defiant fighting spirit, but at this point it was all gone. He had nothing left. Sight of the wall broke what little spirit and hope he had left. He didn’t even look around to see where it was going to come from. It didn’t matter. He dropped heavily to his knees, defeated, given up, just as a soft rain began to fall over him. The rain did little to conceal the tears pouring down his face, still he did not sob. How could he have been so stupid. This, this was his third and final failure.

As the rain grew heavier and the omnidirectional beating commenced, his limp body bounced around back and forth between the violent shadows. Lighting streaked the air and a bellowing thunder echoed down the alley. Despite being like them, of the street with no family, no love, living in fear, constantly fighting for survival. Having being beaten and abused, abandoned and forgotten. Looked down and spat upon. Considered lesser or nothing at all. Despite all these similarities and understandings, there was no sympathy or remorse towards him. They would beat him to death out of the rage and pain those years had built in them, or out of fear of returning to those days.
It wasn’t long until his vision dulled and his body offered no resistance to the assault as he rolled around on the floor. Hands and feet pummelled every inch of him. He was sure there were sticks too and probably some sort of bladed weapon. It didn’t matter, there was nothing he could do now and in his final moments he thought only of the sister that he had left behind. His little sweet sister who he had abandoned with that monster all those years ago. How now he could never go back to save her...

There was intent to kill, that is what they were trying to do. Vallen should have died there and then that cold and miserable night, under the heavy rain and crumbling heavens. In that lost little alleyway behind the houses of the rich wealthy and corrupt.
Perhaps it was his resilience from a lifetime of beatings or maybe a greater power like some form of divine intervention or fate, it could have even been his stubborn will and his unfinished business that forced him to cling desperately onto those last threads of life. Then again most likely was just simple sheer dumb luck and an eagerness on his attackers part to escape a miserable night too cold and too wet to be thorough.
Either way he wasn’t conscious when his near lifeless body plummeted deep into the filthy sewer drain. He barely recalls the rising rapids washing him away through the forgotten unholy pipes beneath the city or even how long that journey took.

But as with all journeys, it eventually came to an end. However Vallen’s was not yet over, one might even say this is where it truly began.

He faded in and out of consciousness multiple times over a period unknown. Light and darkness came and went. Pain was the only constant. Caught between worlds, teetering on the edge of life and death he experienced the most beautiful dreams he had ever had. He saw a mother that he had never met, played happily in safety with his sister all grown up. There was a house and food in abundance. This was all so vivid and as real as real life. He was almost convinced that this was his actual life, but always it quickly and cruelly was vanished, ripped away from him before he could truly clasp or hold it. As in life, forever evading his reach. Despite all its beauty and warmth he would have been better off without it. These visions serving only as a painfully taunting reminder of what could never be. It only gave him further to fall as it vanished, fading away to a myriad of horrid nightmares that came to torment and aggravate him. Reflections of the worst parts of his true past and his greatest fears replayed over and over again.

Seemingly he was only shown that happiness so he could be harshly reminded how far away from it he was, and had always been his whole life. How dare he think he could ever be happy.

Had he the strength to end his life and stop the cyclical nightmare there and then he would have. But even that he couldn’t do. With the visions he saw and felt he welcomed hell, but even that was too close to happiness for him. So with no other option of escape Vallen was forced to open his eyes.

He awoke to a tugging on his right arm. While the midday sun was bright in his eyes and burned at his retinae, slowly a blurry image appeared amongst the sea of white and came into focus as the blinding light faded. Vallen was in a swamp, half submerged in a soaking pile of trash and faeces, caught on the bank a little way down from an open still dripping pipe. It was only because of the heavy rains did the tunnels bring him here. No longer pure luck but divine cruelty, it had to be. It couldn’t be anything else.

Then he recalled the tugging of his right arm and looked over half expecting to see some wild dog feasting on his flesh, but it was not. It was a man, old and crooked. Patchy wisps of unruly white hair littered his chin and were weaved through his thick bushy eyebrows. He had a long thin nose that was apparently resistant to the putrid smell in which they were both bathed. Around his otherwise bald head (except for the just noticeable white hairs in his ears and nostrils.) he wore a thick dirty band on a slight angle that held a makeshift cloth patch over one eye, leaving just one beady hazel eye to gaze suspiciously at Vallen. Beside that the man was concealed heavily by a thick grey course fabric cloak that gave little else as away, leaving only his head and hands protruding.

Noticing Vallen was still alive the old man stopped trying to remove the contents of the boy’s hand. Something Vallen had been holding with a death grip, presumably grabbed in his moments of fleeting consciousness and desperation. The old man showed little interest in the boy and continued to rummage through the filth. If Vallen was to live or die, this man held no stakes or care either way. Suddenly it night and Vallen awoke to the familiar squelching swooshing of the old man rummaging new patches of waste. Had he left and returned? Had he stayed here all day? Either way Vallen welcomed the disturbance that pulled him once again from his nightmares. Once again the old man tested the boy’s grip on his treasure and quickly gave up and moved on.

The next time Vallen awoke it was not to feeling or sound but smell. Through the pungent aroma he had become accustom to cut a powerful forgotten smell that caused a trifle within his stomach and drew a new life within him. A faint orange glow shimmered, caught reflecting in the puddles of water that surround him. Light from a camp fire.

Not far from the boy the old man sat beside the humble flames holding over them sticks of skewed lizard and bugs. While he offered nothing to the near dead child he did not object as Vallen crawled his way through the cold dirt and feat upon the hot food he had set aside.
In Vallen’s movements all his injuries were revealed to him. The large and the small. Even the simple ones now infected. But he didn’t care of them. Like a man possessed, all that mattered was that food. Like the risen dead he shambled his half non-responsive body over and feasted with an insatiable desire before again blacking out. Alls whilst holding onto the thin frail leather bound journal like it was his last strand of life.

This became routine. The waking to his grip being checked. The lack of objection as Vallen helped himself to the mans unattended food. The consuming silence between them and a faint absence, both growing more noticeable as Vallen held conscious for longer and longer.