Avatar of Ezekiel

Status

Recent Statuses

4 yrs ago
Current What's the worst thing about the Roleplayerguild and why is it the status bar?
3 likes

Bio

User has no bio, yet

Most Recent Posts

Name/Titles:
Taenarion and Lesara Dépitcoeurix

Appearance:

It takes relatively little time when studying either of the Dépitcoeurix to come to the conclusion that they stray beyond the constraints of humanity. Their movements are lithe and fluid in a way that a human cannot match, more akin to a feline predator than the relatively meandering motion of a hominoid. Sometimes in the company of those that may be sensitive to such they obscure the more obvious elements of their appearance and conserve their motion, but once in action and revealed their can be little doubt.

Beyond this shared ancestry, however, the siblings have little in common. Taenarion strikes the more typical appearance for his species, pale and dark haired, hauntingly handsome in a manner that is supremely arrogant and cruel, his form is tank-grown with the lithe muscle of the Kabalite warrior caste. To those informed of the siblings family, Taenarion would seem to have almost identical resemblance to the patriarchal sire of the Dépitcoeurix, cloned from the gene-stock of his family for use in the ever cut-throat battles of Commorragh.

Lesara on the other hand, could not be mistaken for typical either as a scion of their bloodline or simply as a denizen of the dark city. Slightly shorter than average, with a powerful form for an Eldar, her eyes form motes of fey-light rather than a normal iris. Were it not for this, she might look akin to some of the more physically focused of her ilk, the wyches and beastmasters, but ultimately the curse which has caused her lifetime of exile from her peoples' shadow realm is not one that can be hidden. While usually, the soul of a Drukhari is a twisted, shrivelled thing, her own blazes with the warp touch of a psyker.



Personality:

As one might expect of the Drukhari, neither of the siblings are particularly warm beings. Forced to feed on the pain and suffering of others as all their kind are, lest they fall into the embrace of She Who Thirsts, their exile and thus longer periods of time in real space have made them creative in how they achieve this. They are not so supremely arrogant as would be the norm, willing to work with the lesser races for more extended periods than most to achieve their ends.

Much as their appearances differ on most points, so to do their personalities. Taenarion is a disciplined and cunning warrior, it is written into his very being by the procedure that birthed him. That is not to say he is quiet, or even uncharismatic, but once the fighting begins, or risks are involved, he maintains a cold focus that borders on zealotry to whatever his desired aim may be.

Lesara is more vibrant, strangely so, for her kind, gifted by the curse of the psyker with a fuller sense of self than many Drukhari possesses, she is less afflicted by the withering of the soul. In many ways this is masked as the combat and torture highs that the Drukhari of all ilks are known for, but it stems beyond that, she possesses the capacity for an existence beyond the vampiric leeches of her people, even if it is far more likely to damn her to oblivion.

Biography:

The Dépitcoeurix Bloodline is a relic of a lost age of the Drukhari, a fleeting memory of a time when the nobility of the ancient Aeldari Empire still ruled its last true enclave. At least, this is how they would tell the story. In reality, they were but one of many retainer families attached to greater houses. Centuries upon centuries of shadow war has all but removed the trace of the previous rulers of Commorragh, such that those which could once only claim to be valued servants, now cling to the faded scraps of their glory.

Even this barest grasp of greatness was denied to these particular Dépitcoeurix siblings however, caught in the last final challenge against the authority of Vect and the Kabals, many of the household, along with their retinues, were forced to flee the Shadow City, to the fringes of the Webway, and to the limited real space holdings of the Drukhari. It is during this moment of desperate exodus that the pair of Drukhari were born, one to the rare natural birth of a valued offspring, the other yet another tankbred warrior-clone of a far flung sire, aboard the same ship. The jarring cross into realspace would imprint most dramatically on the trueborn girl. The Drukhari are not without psykers from accident, a deliberate purge of the otherwise psychically gifted Aeldari race prevents the threat of demonic disjunction within the Shadow City, thousands of years of this practice has made the manifestation of such gifts rare. To be exposed to unshielded psychic energy of real space, and the predations of She Who Thirsts, at the moment of birth, however, may have contributed to the soul of Lesara alighting with psychic potential, that, or she was simply a rare birth among rare births, saved from immediate destruction by her family's desperate flight.

Away from Vect and the authority of the Kabals, the Dépitcoeurix were less inclined to maintain the laws of the city they had fled, and even less inclined to waste the birth of a trueborn child while already fleeing with diminished resources. Thus the young Drukhari girl was kept alive, as much a potential plaything as a member of a reduced family. While kept in relative isolation due to the risk any psychic potential has on the careful balance of the Drukhari's staving off of Slaanesh, over the centuries of her youth Lesara was still trained and prepared as any scion of a Drukhari household should be. Foremost among these were the art of the kill, cunning and cruelty.

Meanwhile, the tank born Taenarion lived surrounded by peers, just another warrior for the bloodline's ends. Trained to fight and kill in units, not as individuals, invested with just another ambition and selfishness to be manipulated, but never seen as more than the blades by which the bloodline would strike against its foes. Desperate as the exiled family were by this juncture, their tankborn were rushed to fight younger and younger. Before Lesara had even been allowed out of her own personal quarters, Taenarion had fought in raids against the lesser races in the desperate raids for souls, and against other Drukhari in the cutthroat politics of the Drukhair's real spaceports.

It was the final execution of the bloodline which sprung both siblings free from the roles they could have endured for centuries more. The period of grace from the pursuit of Vect's agents coming to a close, likely simply because the Kabals grew bored of what had distracted them in the interim. The Ancient Dying Sun Battleship that had long been the Dépitcoeurix's final stronghold being struck by a much more numerous force from the Shadow City. During the fighting, Taenarion found the usual urges of his 'programming' to fight and die for his genetic 'betters' overridden, and a new voice in his head. The pair abandoned what remained of their once 'noble' family to die, escaping within the sleek form of a voidraven.

Since then the pair of Drukhari have lead their lives as exiles, but in a far more isolated manner than before, condemned mostly to the horrors of realspace and the ever hungering draw of She Who Thirsts. They have swallowed their pride and worked with the lesser races, but recent events have presented an opportunity, one which they hope to use to secure themselves an existence beyond the scrap-feeding reality they find themselves in.

Other:
The stars themselves once lived and died at our command, yet you still dare to oppose our will.

Mysterious planetside contacts (potentially) reporting in.

Name/Titles:
Taenarion and Lesara Dépitcoeurix

Appearance:

It takes relatively little time when studying either of the Dépitcoeurix to come to the conclusion that they stray beyond the constraints of humanity. Their movements are lithe and fluid in a way that a human cannot match, more akin to a feline predator than the relatively meandering motion of a hominoid. Sometimes in the company of those that may be sensitive to such they obscure the more obvious elements of their appearance and conserve their motion, but once in action and revealed their can be little doubt.

Beyond this shared ancestry, however, the siblings have little in common. Taenarion strikes the more typical appearance for his species, pale and dark haired, hauntingly handsome in a manner that is supremely arrogant and cruel, his form is tank-grown with the lithe muscle of the Kabalite warrior caste. To those informed of the siblings family, Taenarion would seem to have almost identical resemblance to the patriarchal sire of the Dépitcoeurix, cloned from the gene-stock of his family for use in the ever cut-throat battles of Commorragh.

Lesara on the other hand, could not be mistaken for typical either as a scion of their bloodline or simply as a denizen of the dark city. Slightly shorter than average, with a powerful form for an Eldar, her eyes form motes of fey-light rather than a normal iris. Were it not for this, she might look akin to some of the more physically focused of her ilk, the wyches and beastmasters, but ultimately the curse which has caused her lifetime of exile from her peoples' shadow realm is not one that can be hidden. While usually, the soul of a Drukhari is a twisted, shrivelled thing, her own blazes with the warp touch of a psyker.



Personality:

As one might expect of the Drukhari, neither of the siblings are particularly warm beings. Forced to feed on the pain and suffering of others as all their kind are, lest they fall into the embrace of She Who Thirsts, their exile and thus longer periods of time in real space have made them creative in how they achieve this. They are not so supremely arrogant as would be the norm, willing to work with the lesser races for more extended periods than most to achieve their ends.

Much as their appearances differ on most points, so to do their personalities. Taenarion is a disciplined and cunning warrior, it is written into his very being by the procedure that birthed him. That is not to say he is quiet, or even uncharismatic, but once the fighting begins, or risks are involved, he maintains a cold focus that borders on zealotry to whatever his desired aim may be.

Lesara is more vibrant, strangely so, for her kind, gifted by the curse of the psyker with a fuller sense of self than many Drukhari possesses, she is less afflicted by the withering of the soul. In many ways this is masked as the combat and torture highs that the Drukhari of all ilks are known for, but it stems beyond that, she possesses the capacity for an existence beyond the vampiric leeches of her people, even if it is far more likely to damn her to oblivion.

Biography:

The Dépitcoeurix Bloodline is a relic of a lost age of the Drukhari, a fleeting memory of a time when the nobility of the ancient Aeldari Empire still ruled its last true enclave. At least, this is how they would tell the story. In reality, they were but one of many retainer families attached to greater houses. Centuries upon centuries of shadow war has all but removed the trace of the previous rulers of Commorragh, such that those which could once only claim to be valued servants, now cling to the faded scraps of their glory.

Even this barest grasp of greatness was denied to these particular Dépitcoeurix siblings however, caught in the last final challenge against the authority of Vect and the Kabals, many of the household, along with their retinues, were forced to flee the Shadow City, to the fringes of the Webway, and to the limited real space holdings of the Drukhari. It is during this moment of desperate exodus that the pair of Drukhari were born, one to the rare natural birth of a valued offspring, the other yet another tankbred warrior-clone of a far flung sire, aboard the same ship. The jarring cross into realspace would imprint most dramatically on the trueborn girl. The Drukhari are not without psykers from accident, a deliberate purge of the otherwise psychically gifted Aeldari race prevents the threat of demonic disjunction within the Shadow City, thousands of years of this practice has made the manifestation of such gifts rare. To be exposed to unshielded psychic energy of real space, and the predations of She Who Thirsts, at the moment of birth, however, may have contributed to the soul of Lesara alighting with psychic potential, that, or she was simply a rare birth among rare births, saved from immediate destruction by her family's desperate flight.

Away from Vect and the authority of the Kabals, the Dépitcoeurix were less inclined to maintain the laws of the city they had fled, and even less inclined to waste the birth of a trueborn child while already fleeing with diminished resources. Thus the young Drukhari girl was kept alive, as much a potential plaything as a member of a reduced family. While kept in relative isolation due to the risk any psychic potential has on the careful balance of the Drukhari's staving off of Slaanesh, over the centuries of her youth Lesara was still trained and prepared as any scion of a Drukhari household should be. Foremost among these were the art of the kill, cunning and cruelty.

Meanwhile, the tank born Taenarion lived surrounded by peers, just another warrior for the bloodline's ends. Trained to fight and kill in units, not as individuals, invested with just another ambition and selfishness to be manipulated, but never seen as more than the blades by which the bloodline would strike against its foes. Desperate as the exiled family were by this juncture, their tankborn were rushed to fight younger and younger. Before Lesara had even been allowed out of her own personal quarters, Taenarion had fought in raids against the lesser races in the desperate raids for souls, and against other Drukhari in the cutthroat politics of the Drukhair's real spaceports.

It was the final execution of the bloodline which sprung both siblings free from the roles they could have endured for centuries more. The period of grace from the pursuit of Vect's agents coming to a close, likely simply because the Kabals grew bored of what had distracted them in the interim. The Ancient Dying Sun Battleship that had long been the Dépitcoeurix's final stronghold being struck by a much more numerous force from the Shadow City. During the fighting, Taenarion found the usual urges of his 'programming' to fight and die for his genetic 'betters' overridden, and a new voice in his head. The pair abandoned what remained of their once 'noble' family to die, escaping within the sleek form of a voidraven.

Since then the pair of Drukhari have lead their lives as exiles, but in a far more isolated manner than before, condemned mostly to the horrors of realspace and the ever hungering draw of She Who Thirsts. They have swallowed their pride and worked with the lesser races, but recent events have presented an opportunity, one which they hope to use to secure themselves an existence beyond the scrap-feeding reality they find themselves in.

Other:
The stars themselves once lived and died at our command, yet you still dare to oppose our will.
Lo and Behold

Tis I
Inteerrrrrrested

Although I am both spread thin and desperately without time to write atm, but a casual rp might work for me.
*SMACKS WITH APPROVAL STAMP*

Go play, Kid.
Stamp number 2!

Welcome to the game.
Now that Ellri has gone over the force side of things with you In happy to also give my stamp of approval.

Welcome to the Game :)


The Stepstones




By the time Corlys pulled his blade from the last of the assailants, his arm ached with a bone-deep pain which he knew would persist for many a day. Gone were the days where he could spring forth through an endless stream of melee and remain as unscathed as ever. Now each fight was a sacrifice, a piece of his future given for a greater goal.

"Pull us away from her less she drowns us with her." The seasoned sailor called back to his crew, pulling open the guard of his helm to shout the order. The Myrish had been fighting a losing battle the entire time, but not there was no avoiding it. Some were even risking the sharks to avoid any further fighting. The straights were narrow enough that some of them might reach the rocks before the fish got them, not that Corlys favoured their chances. Now would usually be the time to ransack the stricken enemy vessel for supplies, but, this was not a simple engagement or a raid, this was a campaign, and they did not have time to delay.

By the time The Sea Snake had fully extracted itself from the Myrish vessel and pushed on past, flames had already began to lick across the Essosi ship. Daemon's forces had little need for further ships at their current strength, even if they had the men spare to secure it in the meantime, so, instead, none would benefit. Corlys watched the building inferno for a few moments longer, before his eyes cast forwards.

"Stay ready, we're here for a fortress, not a ship." With that the Head of House Velaryon slammed his helm shut. Their intelligence was as good as any, there was little that could be hidden from dragonback after all, not even in the winding straights of the Stepstones. One of the last remaining holdouts in the Stepstones was close, they would bring it to heel. They did not have to wait long to find their quarry, another few twists and turns among the rocky outcrops of the islands to spy the Pirate Holdfast. A sorry thing, a wooden fort perched atop a sea-lashed rock, it's docks far outstripping the size of the fortification itself. Once an outpost for raiders, the Myrish had seized it in their efforts to control the Narrow Sea, for now, it's port remained empty. Daemon had pulled the fleet away, Corlys would strike the blow.

The low twang of Ballista soon filled the air, the Sea Snake banked around to present its broadside to the Hillfort. Many bolts simply threw up salt spray, but among them was the crash of wood and the screams of men. As time went on, the skilled crew of the Velaryon flagship struck home more and more. A spattering of return fire responded to them, but the Sea Snake weaved out of range of the land-based emplacements, and as soon as they revealed themselves, the crew had their primary targets. The Sea Snake's artillery teams ripped gouges into the wooden fort, ripping out the enemy emplacements. When the fort went silent, this was when Corlys ordered the vessel forwards.

The Sea Snakes archers cleared the enemy docks of any resistance, the flagship coming abreast of the docks, gang planks slamming down. No need to risk a boat-crossing when the foe's own docks could be used against them. Then the Westerosi, and all their assorted allies, issued forth, the crop of Daemon's forces sent to subdue a final, lonely outpost. Corlys strode among them, despite the ache in his joints. He wouldn't have it said the Old Snake could no longer stand beside his men.

I am too old for this.
With @Heat

As the Sith assassin watched the Republic supreme commander ascend closer towards him. A smirk danced across his lips at the sight of it, and all of the commotion he had apparently caused. He had drawn eyes away from the infiltration of the temple. The day before he laid his trap he had spent a day around Coruscant, part of it he’d paid a visit to the smouldering ruins of the Jedi Order’s former home. It sent chills down his spine, the sight of it. Even from a distance as it was blocked off by the Republic. It must have been glorious watching it burn on that day of reckoning for the Jedi. Such a stuffy, ignorant group deserved no less.

He did indeed intend to not have to face this fool down, Zes would have preferred if Malcolm had gone up in flames inside of his apartment. Left as a cooked corpse, a proper death for a constant pain in the side to the Empire. Still, he had the advantage here. His identity was still well hidden, he had no need to call upon the Force. No reason to bare his lightsabers, his superiors had told him exactly not to do that. The planet wide city gave a multitude of escape avenues. Plenty of alleyways to disappear down, places where the security did not care to look deep enough. As always, Zes was confident.

He gave a brief glance at Malcolm, then ran to the side where a dark blue speeder awaited him. He climbed into the driver’s side, locked his fingers around the controls and slammed his foot into the ignition pedal. The undercover Sith zoomed away from his position, intending to escape the supreme commander and any of the man’s lackies.

This is a stupid plan.

To say the thought crossed Jace’s mind would perhaps exaggerate the amount Jace Malcom actually ‘thought’ at times like these. He was a man of action by nature, one that could analyse a hell of a lot more data than most while in such a state, but it didn’t change who he was.

Armoured boots clanked against the building’s surface as he burst into a run, already, jets that had already burned through their fuel reserves sputtered to a semblance of life as the advanced armour anticipated the advancing drop. He had a moment, the blaster wouldn’t do it, the speeder could take the shot, nor could he guarantee a killing shot in the window of opportunity he had.

This is a really stupid plan.

With a sudden inhale and exhale of breath, the Supreme Commander of the Republic military jumped. What had been solid ground gave way to a sheer drop to the cityscape below, so far one would struggle to even see the top layer of Coruscant's many separate levels of habitation. Traffic blurred beneath him. Jace took in none of this, all he saw was the target and the speeder they were on. Gravity began to take hold of him just a moment too soon.

The impact of what could generously be considered a large man in full combat armour was enough to push the civilian speeder into a momentary downward spiral. Jace got one hand, then two hands, to the metallic surface, losing his blaster in the process, but his suit soon magnetised him to the craft. A good thing too, even with a strong grip the prospect of hanging on to a speeder about to hit its acceleration as it careened downwards wasn’t one even a hero of the Great Galactic War would be likely to consider. For now, before the assailant could gain control of the vehicle, it was all Jace could do to simply hold on.

Zes’ eyes went wide as the armored man clasped onto the front of the speeder, an incredibly bold move. But not one that was entirely unexpected considering the commander’s history of risk in the battlefield during the war.The Sith forcefully lifted the controls up to regain control, breathing heavy as the spiral downwards into speeding traffic sent a chill through his spine. With a frantic yank he managed to level the vessel, avoiding catastrophe. The panic in his veins ceased as he was in full control. A terrible prospect for his target who clung to the hood practically at Zes’ mercy. He slammed on the ignition, as the speeder powered forward into the busy traffic.

He rapidly shifted left and right, doing his damndest to fling Malcom off the hood. If he couldn’t send the man flying off then he’d scrape him against a building. With a quick glance, an affirmation that he had buckled in he shifted the speeder. He watched as the sides floated around him, then smiled as the rapidly moving vessel was now upside down. The Falleen was still in control as he whizzed through traffic. The force guided him, cautioning him of any imminent dangers he could not see. Horns honked and brakes slammed around him as he dodged other speeders, making as many near collisions as he could.

Jace was immediately very thankful he was wearing his helmet. The world spun and lurched around him, but the stabilisation sensors within his armour and helm shielded him from the worst of the discombobulation. Still, it was a disconcerting experience to remain hanging from the wildly turning vehicle in the middle of heavy traffic by only the magnetic force of his armour. His initial instinct was to reach for his sidearm, now magged to his thigh, but the forces throwing him about reduced his ability to aim successfully to practically nothing. Perhaps he had prevented the Assassin from an easy escape, but it seemed beyond him to finish the job himself. The thought brought a growl of frustration to Malcom’s lips.

There was one final parting gift he could leave, however, momentarily bracing both hands on the vehicle, another gesture within his helm activated a secondary module within the armour, a small tracking device slipping from his palm to attach to the speeder. He highly doubted an accomplished agent would fail to notice it for long, but it might give the Republic forces a chance to catch up, at the worst, it was simply another pain for the attacker to deal with, and Jace was petty enough to take some joy from that. Once the tracker was set, he exhaled slowly, calming himself despite the chaos around him. Meditation was a Jedi trick, but, well, it had its uses.

In the next moment, the Supreme Commander threw himself from the speeder, pushing off against it, the magnetic lock of his armour disabling with the motion, and for the third time in one evening Jace Malcom found himself suspended in nothing. This time, however, it was remarkably short lived. The armoured form of the ex-trooper immediately struck a large freighter among the bustling traffic of Coruscant, the force jarring through him, and he half span-away due to the impact. He flailed out with one hand, just about catching the rim of the vehicle to arrest his descent, once again the enhanced grip of his armour keeping him from the plummeting drop below. While he was rather glad to have survived, even with the advanced systems of his armour, the sight of the would-be-assassin was soon lost to him in the blur of the skyline.
© 2007-2024
BBCode Cheatsheet