Icos: Character Accepted! Would you like him and Iorveth to meet up to discuss stuffs?
I am guessing that the troll character is out, but should he return, he will be welcome..
Palamon: Great character. Sir Brenn is accepted.
Fulsom: Amir is accepted, of course...
Sini: I had some qualms about accepting a half-elf that looked so much like a human, but there were a few that were like that, so accepted! Although recall that an elf's magic is considerably different than human magic, and that would have been apparent in his training.
Kate: Keira Metz and Saskia are accepted...
Moon: Sera is accepted, but again, elf magic is different from human magic.
Bane: Your characters are totally awesome and accepted...
Deamonbane Member
STATUS: When you see a sock on the doorknob, the only civilized way to react is to kick the door down, declaring loudly that," Player Three has entered the game!" 9 yrs ago
- Last Seen: 8 yrs ago
- Joined: 11 yrs ago
- Posts: 874 (0.22 / day)
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Username history
- Deamonbane 11 yrs ago
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When you see a sock on the doorknob, the only civilized way to react is to kick the door down, declaring loudly that," Player Three has entered the game!"
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Most Recent Posts
If you choose to accompany Iorveth to Vergen, you find a way that you can keep from killing Saskia... look it up in the wiki...
Also, from the looks of it, Yennefer is a complete bitch... Triss, totally...
Also, from the looks of it, Yennefer is a complete bitch... Triss, totally...
Sorry for spamming the character thread....
Name:
Dros Delnoch
Race:
Human
Class:
Witcher
Age:
97
Appearance:
There have been many descriptions for this particular witcher, but many have been exaggerated over the years. Many have described him as a giant, standing well over 7 feet tall, swinging his ax Snaga to dreadful effect into ranks of unsuspecting warriors. Reality is far less kind. Standing barely an inch above six feet, he is hardly a giant of any sort, except in sheer mass, which he has plenty of. A stout man, with immense arms the size of most men's thighs, a thick chest topped by broad shoulders. His legs are thick and stout, and as any man would tell you, it is quite difficult to get him to lose his balance. His hair and beard are a pure white, and his eyes are the color of a winter sky, with the pupils slitted, like a cat's.
He is best known for his armor, a helmet of northern make, with silver skulls embedded over each temple. Dressed in a coat of mail, covered in small plates over the chest, gauntlets of steel, leggings of leather, with extra protection around the groin area, and steel-toed boots, if you saw him charging at you with a double-bladed ax, you would know that you are finished. When not in battle garb, he tends to be dressed in a bear pelt coat, sheepskin shirt and the same leggings and boots. He carries a medallion with a lion's head on it wherever he goes.
In general, a 90-year-old that lives like a fifty-year-old and fights like a 30-year-old.
Personality:
Generally a good-meaning fellow, with a deep hearty laugh and a good sense of humor, along with a taste for drink and women, he is known for drinking many a champion to sleep, telling tales of magic and wonder, and even singing, if that is one of his lesser skills. A man that is hard to be missed, whether he is travelling, drinking, rutting, or, especially, fighting. He gives off a very large presence, which dumber or more poetic (in his eyes, the same thing) people see as him being physically larger than he actually is.
While one hell of a fighter, thanks to 3 quarters of a century spent fighting, and with his witcher's adaptation and training, he is also feared for being a natural beserker, a man that can go into what some call a battle rage or a Kon Dar (blood thirst, in Nilfgaardian) at will. Nearly unstoppable when he goes into one of those, the sheer menace that he radiates, besides the fact that an already intimidating figure is covered in the blood and gore of his fallen enemies, screaming and cursing in different languages has been known to have even the greatest of warriors soiling themselves, and running.
Weapons:(Nothing too overpowered here, please)
Snaga, the Sender (steel), usually carried in his hands.
Drucos, the Receiver (silver), Generally sheathed on his back
Bio:
His origins are murky, but it is generally agreed that he is not a born Nilfgaardian, although he has been given many regards by the Emyr himself, given full citizenship by the same. He was born in some unknown, unnamed village of a kingdom north of Nilfgaard, and was one of the first to fall into the Empire. His parents were killed in the war when he was young of age, and he was one of the many orphans of that war. Taken in by the Lion's Witcher school, the last one in the south, he trained there for about 20 years, leaving at the age of 25, to seek out his own fortunes. He joined the Nilfgaardian army then, fighting alongside them, quickly distinguishing himself among many, soon being promoted to Emyr's champion.
He fought in the second Nilfgaardian War, and while they lost, it was not for lack of his effort. One of the most powerful figures in that war, he is said to have dueled the White Wolf himself, and beaten the other Witcher to a standstill, both sides conceding a draw. After that war, however, some say because he was disappointed at the retreat of Nilfgaard, he abandoned the Empire and became what witchers usually tended to be: A monster hunter and a mercenary.
Even as this he gathered quite a name for himself, and while he seemed a bit more mellow than he was in his past days, he was still a fighter to behold and fear, both against men and monsters, fighting in the various smaller wars that the North was known for. However, as his age began to grow (although his body, barring his hair, remained quite young and strong), he began to see futility in the fighting, and retired in general, enjoying rather to travel across the North and enjoy the countryside, killing monsters and escorting caravans and noblemen in their travels when he needed coin.
Dros Delnoch
Race:
Human
Class:
Witcher
Age:
97
Appearance:
There have been many descriptions for this particular witcher, but many have been exaggerated over the years. Many have described him as a giant, standing well over 7 feet tall, swinging his ax Snaga to dreadful effect into ranks of unsuspecting warriors. Reality is far less kind. Standing barely an inch above six feet, he is hardly a giant of any sort, except in sheer mass, which he has plenty of. A stout man, with immense arms the size of most men's thighs, a thick chest topped by broad shoulders. His legs are thick and stout, and as any man would tell you, it is quite difficult to get him to lose his balance. His hair and beard are a pure white, and his eyes are the color of a winter sky, with the pupils slitted, like a cat's.
He is best known for his armor, a helmet of northern make, with silver skulls embedded over each temple. Dressed in a coat of mail, covered in small plates over the chest, gauntlets of steel, leggings of leather, with extra protection around the groin area, and steel-toed boots, if you saw him charging at you with a double-bladed ax, you would know that you are finished. When not in battle garb, he tends to be dressed in a bear pelt coat, sheepskin shirt and the same leggings and boots. He carries a medallion with a lion's head on it wherever he goes.
In general, a 90-year-old that lives like a fifty-year-old and fights like a 30-year-old.
Personality:
Generally a good-meaning fellow, with a deep hearty laugh and a good sense of humor, along with a taste for drink and women, he is known for drinking many a champion to sleep, telling tales of magic and wonder, and even singing, if that is one of his lesser skills. A man that is hard to be missed, whether he is travelling, drinking, rutting, or, especially, fighting. He gives off a very large presence, which dumber or more poetic (in his eyes, the same thing) people see as him being physically larger than he actually is.
While one hell of a fighter, thanks to 3 quarters of a century spent fighting, and with his witcher's adaptation and training, he is also feared for being a natural beserker, a man that can go into what some call a battle rage or a Kon Dar (blood thirst, in Nilfgaardian) at will. Nearly unstoppable when he goes into one of those, the sheer menace that he radiates, besides the fact that an already intimidating figure is covered in the blood and gore of his fallen enemies, screaming and cursing in different languages has been known to have even the greatest of warriors soiling themselves, and running.
Weapons:(Nothing too overpowered here, please)
Snaga, the Sender (steel), usually carried in his hands.
Drucos, the Receiver (silver), Generally sheathed on his back
Bio:
His origins are murky, but it is generally agreed that he is not a born Nilfgaardian, although he has been given many regards by the Emyr himself, given full citizenship by the same. He was born in some unknown, unnamed village of a kingdom north of Nilfgaard, and was one of the first to fall into the Empire. His parents were killed in the war when he was young of age, and he was one of the many orphans of that war. Taken in by the Lion's Witcher school, the last one in the south, he trained there for about 20 years, leaving at the age of 25, to seek out his own fortunes. He joined the Nilfgaardian army then, fighting alongside them, quickly distinguishing himself among many, soon being promoted to Emyr's champion.
He fought in the second Nilfgaardian War, and while they lost, it was not for lack of his effort. One of the most powerful figures in that war, he is said to have dueled the White Wolf himself, and beaten the other Witcher to a standstill, both sides conceding a draw. After that war, however, some say because he was disappointed at the retreat of Nilfgaard, he abandoned the Empire and became what witchers usually tended to be: A monster hunter and a mercenary.
Even as this he gathered quite a name for himself, and while he seemed a bit more mellow than he was in his past days, he was still a fighter to behold and fear, both against men and monsters, fighting in the various smaller wars that the North was known for. However, as his age began to grow (although his body, barring his hair, remained quite young and strong), he began to see futility in the fighting, and retired in general, enjoying rather to travel across the North and enjoy the countryside, killing monsters and escorting caravans and noblemen in their travels when he needed coin.
*roar*
*growls*
Starting to piss me off...
Triple post...
Double post...
Name: Jonathan Eclesius
Nickname, if applicable: Deathwalker
Age: 32
Human Appearance:
Home Country:
Baelor, a country covered in forests and low mountains, called the Copper Hills. The land is tough and cold, hard to grow anything on, and the people rely on hunting and whatever they can plant for food. The forest provides them with wood, and the Copper Hills are aptly named, although copper is not the only metal that they found there, simply the first. They export iron, coal, copper, tin, wood, and even gold, silver and precious gems in exchange for grain from other countries and for this reason, few want to wage war against them.
The people are skilled craftsmen, both with wood and metal, and are extremely superstitious. So much so that the Church is the ruling body and government.
Background:
Jonathan Eclesius was not his born name, although what that was faded long ago from his memory. Born in the cold northern country of Baelor, he discovered that he had magical potential at a young age, although old enough to know the curse that it was. He fled his parents house at seven years of age, running for his life as some of the village people discovered what he was, and wanted to burn him for it. They feared the forest, however, and there he found solace and sanctuary. Of a sort.
Darkness grew in his heart as he turned his magic into something terrible and awful. His power grew, and as did his legend in the area. So much so that the church deemed him a threat and charged a special unit to capture him and bring him back to a court to stand trial for his witchcraft. But the young warlock had no intention of going quietly. The battle that ensued was of legendary proportions, and at the end of it, Jonathan was left nearly dead.
Oddly enough, and elderly priest, the head of the troop came forward and used great light magic to heal him. But the event was traumtizing, leaving the young man without any magical power or much memory of his past before he came to the forest. He was brought back for judgement, but the elderly priest pleaded his case before the jury, telling them that he was no longer capable of practicing magic. However, he did owe a great debt to the church for what happened in the forest, so he vowed, from that moment forward, that he would fight for the church, bringing down their enemies, especially the witches and warlocks. His name was given: The Deathwalker, named so because he was living, as the Church saw it, on borrowed time. He owed the Gods for his life, and as thus, had to repay them in the blood of the dark ones.
His name took on a different, more lethal meaning for the ones that he was charged with hunting down and slaughtering in the name of the Church.
Strengths: Works best in the dark, able to see perfectly well even in a pitch black environment. Faster than a lightning bolt and agile as a cat, as well as moving as silent as one, hard to hit is the name of his game.
Weapons: Right Vambrace with retractable claws.
Two daggers, carried around his waist.
All weapons are blessed against breaking and working as poison against dark ones, including himself. If the blades puncture the skin, without magical help, the target would be dead within minutes even from the smallest wound.
Nickname, if applicable: Deathwalker
Age: 32
Human Appearance:
Home Country:
Baelor, a country covered in forests and low mountains, called the Copper Hills. The land is tough and cold, hard to grow anything on, and the people rely on hunting and whatever they can plant for food. The forest provides them with wood, and the Copper Hills are aptly named, although copper is not the only metal that they found there, simply the first. They export iron, coal, copper, tin, wood, and even gold, silver and precious gems in exchange for grain from other countries and for this reason, few want to wage war against them.
The people are skilled craftsmen, both with wood and metal, and are extremely superstitious. So much so that the Church is the ruling body and government.
Background:
Jonathan Eclesius was not his born name, although what that was faded long ago from his memory. Born in the cold northern country of Baelor, he discovered that he had magical potential at a young age, although old enough to know the curse that it was. He fled his parents house at seven years of age, running for his life as some of the village people discovered what he was, and wanted to burn him for it. They feared the forest, however, and there he found solace and sanctuary. Of a sort.
Darkness grew in his heart as he turned his magic into something terrible and awful. His power grew, and as did his legend in the area. So much so that the church deemed him a threat and charged a special unit to capture him and bring him back to a court to stand trial for his witchcraft. But the young warlock had no intention of going quietly. The battle that ensued was of legendary proportions, and at the end of it, Jonathan was left nearly dead.
Oddly enough, and elderly priest, the head of the troop came forward and used great light magic to heal him. But the event was traumtizing, leaving the young man without any magical power or much memory of his past before he came to the forest. He was brought back for judgement, but the elderly priest pleaded his case before the jury, telling them that he was no longer capable of practicing magic. However, he did owe a great debt to the church for what happened in the forest, so he vowed, from that moment forward, that he would fight for the church, bringing down their enemies, especially the witches and warlocks. His name was given: The Deathwalker, named so because he was living, as the Church saw it, on borrowed time. He owed the Gods for his life, and as thus, had to repay them in the blood of the dark ones.
His name took on a different, more lethal meaning for the ones that he was charged with hunting down and slaughtering in the name of the Church.
Strengths: Works best in the dark, able to see perfectly well even in a pitch black environment. Faster than a lightning bolt and agile as a cat, as well as moving as silent as one, hard to hit is the name of his game.
Weapons: Right Vambrace with retractable claws.
Two daggers, carried around his waist.
All weapons are blessed against breaking and working as poison against dark ones, including himself. If the blades puncture the skin, without magical help, the target would be dead within minutes even from the smallest wound.
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