GodOfWar

BLEAK

@Prisk Alright, I'll get working on finding some fitting art.

Torchlight

nah I'm alive.

BLEAK

Alright, gonna hop on this bandwagon of finished characters.

@Sync, I happened to link Venser to Venito, just because the bond made good sense story-wise. Please take a look at the memories section and tell me if I portrayed your character correctly.

Hope ya'll enjoy!

✧ Venser Sitol ✧

V E N S E R S I T O L
_{✧ 20 ▎ MALE ▎ 5' 5" ✧}

P R E S E N C E

_{"H e W a s B o r n U n d e r T h e S i g n S c o r p i o..."}
Venser's body is a scattered array of cremes and reddish browns, resembling the messy palette of an artist that had been busy painting a much more refined person. His frizzy hair erupts from his freckle-coated face with a kind of ambition the rest of his body lacks, his torso and legs skinny and pasty. The fragility and cowardice that his body type denotes, however, is anything but truthful to the observer.

_{"H i s S u n A n d M a r s W e r e F i l l e d W i t h S i m i l a r l y A g g r e s s i v e S i g n s..."}
His speech is imposing; his body language confident out of both habit and necessity. Every tightening of his jaw is followed with sharp glances and vocally blunt observations. It is the tempered will of much older men condensed, years of mental endurance and defensiveness piloted by the body of youth. Yet, the distinctive cautiousness and finesse that comes with those years are absent, replaced by a driving will and fiery bravado indicative of those who work outside of stability. Practiced improv, adaptable rigidness; Venser is the business man with the fury to break the system that he profits from. Conflict characterizes the young man, warping his life's trajectory like his Aeon powers shift reality. Both profit from the existence of risk.

_{"A n d T h o u g h H i s M o o n & N e p t u n e D i d T e m p e r H i m W i t h S o f t e r C o n s t e l l a t i o n s..."}
Yet this shell of channeled impulse protects the vulnerability of a brittle core, one which fears the future it is beginning to inherit, one which doubts the authenticity of others and the reliability of a relationship. Past traumas stunt how far the roots of confidence grow into Venser; the splinters of child-hood trying to reform into an adult, their bonds fated to be weak. A broken man is only as strong as the sum of his intact parts.

_{"S c o r p i o S t i l l R e s t e d I n I t s R u l i n g H o u s e; P l u t o."}
Venser is possessed by the spirit of self reliance; independence and skepticism his implements of subsistence. His ideals are ingrained, cut into the crude granite of his person in choppy, bold letters. But yet, a youthful spark still compels him to dwell on the probability of better times. He is an Icarus unsure of if his wings should be rebuilt.

C H R O N I C L E

Venser jerked himself awake, the maelstrom of sickly familiar images that had penetrated his dreams during sleep causing sweat to roll down his brow. The front door slammed by his mother, her frail form twisted with an anger only she could exude. His father, prostrate on his bed as he always was, helpless as he called out to her. Venser frozen in the hall-way, bandages in hand, watching this all unfold. They were moments and emotions that impressed an insidious weight unto him. The ginger felt his chest become increasingly heavy, and so did his breathing.

"Ven? What's up?", said a timid voice in the corner of the bedroom. Venser gave no response other than the subtle rustling of his bed sheets. His mind's eye dwelled on that constant conversation topic; their child was an Aeon. They couldn't let anyone know, they would induct him into the military. Look what the resistance did to his father. His mother could never live with two cripples; she expressed this over and over for as long as she was present.

"Venser!", Ezi finally cried, his chubby hands rocking his guardian's shoulders back and forth rapidly. Venser finally snapped out of his daze, crude memories retreating from the present and allowing the young man to catch his breath. He looked into the dark, pudgy face of the young Ezi; his brown eyes held an innocent concern that only children could possess. Venser took a series of deep breaths before answering to the kid. "Nightmares", he excused, tossing aside his blanket and standing up to turn on the dim, orange light above. With a swift click, the small area was illuminated, Venser and Ezi's cots revealed to be surrounded by the whirring motors and sagging wires of numerous radio tappers and electronic hackers. "Again? Ven, you need some medication or something if its getting that bad,", chimed the mahogany-skinned child, his round head slipping through a light blue T-shirt as he spoke. "A doctor won't keep this rig running, will it? One problem at a time.", the ginger countered, his long legs stepping into a pair of ragged jeans as he powered up his bulky computer. "Resistance hasn't been sending shit over the radio, so that doesn't help either," Venser continued, beginning to turn on the monitor.

"Heh, I think that's Whiskey 21 out there. Just getting to dawn and he's out here being impatient," Ezi remarked, his eyes glancing through the slits of a drawn shade on the room's only window. Venser pushed past Ezi to look out of the window, soon spotting the recognizable form of a waiting, uniformed resistance fighter. "Those guards are like hungry dogs, always begging for their bribes. Here, take these credits to him, and tell him to fuck off." Venser commanded, slipping the boy a small electronic chip from his rugged wallet. "First radio silence and now these increased watch-shifts. This is fucking absurd. Hey! Don't forget the package for Delta 33." Venser continued to snap, his hands darting from one machine to the next with quick, deliberate motions. Though the surveillance hardware around Venser's house had long since been dismantled, these code names made sure client anonymity was ensured. And it had to be ensured.

The small Ezi darted down the creaking stairs and out of the house, his rotund body becoming briefly illuminated in soft sunlight before he slammed the door behind him. Venser watched the exchange through the blinds; the guard received the payment, nodded, and quickly left. Ezi flipped the uniformed man the bird when his back was finally turned, and used his other hand to pull a dull grey balaclava over his head. Venser tightened the blinds as he turned away from the window.

The red-head whispered a small prayer to Gaia, just like he remembered his father once doing, and then began to work on siphoning the bribe credits back out of Whiskey 21's bank account.

M E M O R I E S

Ezi Useys
An orphaned child that Venser has taken on to raising, the 12 year old returns the favor of the Aeon's protection with his own help in Venser's "business" (namely running packages and keeping up with electronic maintenance). Though Ezi is one of the only individuals aware of Venser's Aeonic nature, he is not knowledgeable of the red-head's past. All he knows is from what he hears Venser murmur in his occasional night terrors.

Jetay Sitol
Venser's absent mother, having left the Aeon and his impaired father for a better life in Eastbourne. Venser's only memories of her come from before he was ten years old, but he has since found her residence in Eastbourne through some net researching. He has not acted on such information, however, finding it satisfying enough to "let the wench be."

Venito Lambardi
A brash man that Venser owes an excessive amount of debt to, mostly due to his family's past of buying expensive medical supplies and, after being orphaned, the red-head's procurement of electronic equipment. Though his temper and pride rivals that of Venser, he is an important asset to the Aeon due to his numerous market contacts. He is also one of the figures that helped to shape Venser's attitude for a life on the streets, preparing him to become committed to illegal activities.

Foxtrot 11
The code name of one of Venser's most influential clients; a high ranking official in Dedana's resistance forces which the Aeon feeds a constant stream of sensitive Helston military information to. In the name of the partnership, neither side has divulged their identity to the other; the relationship is confidential and mutually beneficial.

BLEAK

I am extremely interested in this planet-worshiping, reality-warping dystopian RP. Would love to join if you have another free spot, @Prisk.

Torchlight

Posted! Excited to find that dead lich so we can bond over it. >:)

Torchlight

A D I L A A L B A K I R A

@The Fated Fallen@Paradoxial@Nameless@Eisenhorn@rivaan
____________________________
_{"Muddy ground merely means we are still blessed with rain."}
____________________________

Adila breathed in deep; the marshy, humid air filled her lungs with a foreign feeling, one so much different from the dry winds of the east. She heard the creaking of pained, wilted trees, the croaking of small frogs and their buzzing insect companions. Nothing here reminded her of the whirl of dunes and the twirl of tribal flags. There was no barren silence nor communal hum. This place had its own symphony of life and death.

Adila exhaled, sighing a small prayer under her breath. "Umdal ak meli, Shee'l Tor."

The warrior opened her eyes and turned to face the dis-repaired coach. Already, a host of other travelers had crowded around it, their various equipment jiggling and swinging as they began carefully hopping up into their mildewed seats. Adila took some time to unfurl the call to arms she clenched in her hand; aged paper that smelled of many a spilt man's drink and blood. Its texture was coarse to the touch; the result of so many days baking in a Julda's tent, ignored until Adila made its acquaintance. She tucked the parchment away into one of her leather bags, slung her belongings across her muscled shoulders, and secured her yellow fabric veil over her nose and mouth. She inhaled once more, stood up from her squatting position, and then exhaled. Adila's steps were rhythmic and confident as she approached the coach. She silently waved at Roake as he beckoned her in.

The cleric ducked under the narrow doors and bounced softly into the carriage, her spear almost scraping across the top of the low ceiling as she did so. The coach jostled as she sat down; with the state of both its structure and beast, this trip would be uncomfortable at absolute best. Adila crossed her long legs as she leaned against the seat back-rest, her armored belt jingling with the swish of her hips as she plopped her bags down underneath her. She looked at those who sat across from her currently, catching the gazes of both a fellow woman of faith and a dirtied wielder of fire arms. Her interest was mixed with a twinge of distress.

"No expense spent, only the best for us." chuckled the paladin, the bass of her voice threading unintentional command into her innocent icebreaker. Adila, feeling unusually threatened by the righteousness glowing from this woman's symbols and demeanor, responded with a nod and a firm tapping of the carriage's creaking floor with her weapon; roaches were startled out of the crevices like puss from a wound. Responding to the stiffness of the un-acquainted party, the roguish man produced a flask from one of his many pockets and offered it up to any willing to drink with him. “Bandit’s Vice. Helps to be inebriated during times of boredom”, he declared.

Adila held out her hand to receive, and took to the bottle with vigor. The cleric tugged her veil down to her chin and took three swigs in rapid succession, the back of her left hand wiping her mouth as she returned the vice with her right. Another jingle of her adorned belt, and she had materialized a long, creme-colored candle in one hand and a coal-black match in the other. With a swift striking of the match head, Adila lined up the candle wick and flame as if she was aiming down the barrel of a gun, and shot a line of liquor through her teeth like a trained spitting viper. The intoxicant whizzed through the flame, caught fire, and lit the candle with a soft pop. The pleasant smell of hickory incense began to fill the carriage as the wax began melting.

Adila gave the rogue a devious smile. "Drink gives dead men courage" she cooed, pulling her veil up with a careful gesture.

Torchlight

@The Fated Fallen Thank you! I'm glad you guys like what I put together.

Also, I'm excited for both Kiera and Adila to fight side-by-side as proper religious zealots ⚔

Torchlight

Adila Al Bakira

|| This one has endured the heat of death once before, and knows the ways of surviving that sweltering desert. ||

C L A S S
Priest
^{"My faith is the force that binds the sands into the dunes."}

D E V O T I O N
Shee'l Tor
^{"The trials of death have forged me into his capable weapon."}

S P E L L L I S T

2nd Tier ➤ "The sands will shift..."
Adila darts her hazel fingers into the pouch at her side, drawing a handful of chalky, tan rocks into her palm and crushing them with a swift clenching of her fist. A sickly green smoke arises from the gaps between her knuckles, and a sulfurous stench fills the room. The cracking and reshaping of flesh is suddenly audible, and you choke back your urge to vomit.

Minor physical injuries are mended on an ally (such as small scrapes, bruises, or fractures). Moderate to major injuries are instead transferred to another ally of Adila's choice. Any injuries on the receiving ally are, likewise, traded. This spell cannot be cast if it would cause any ally to die, unless such an ally is Adila. Adila can target herself to receive wounds. If the receiving ally is unwilling to take on wounds, such injuries are instead brought back to effect Adila.

.

2nd Tier ➤ "... and the sun will set."
Adila's spear is quickly dragged across the dim cobblestone in front of her, sparks spawning from the friction between the refined Damascus steel and dirtied earth. She sprinkles the now powdered rock out of her hand and onto this line of embers, the soft, clay-like flakes catching quickly and flaring out like firecrackers. Your mind melts with the fiery display, feeling rather pleasant until you sense the clawing, inhumane thoughts of a beast suddenly slip into your consciousness. A hulking, abyssal foe behind you screeches in harmony with the intrusion, its thick fur becoming matted in fresh maroon blood.

A spiritual bond is formed between an ally and an enemy. While the two are linked, any physical injuries to the ally will also be inflicted onto the enemy, and the ally will progressively gain stress the longer the bond goes unbroken. Any damage the enemy endures will not be shared with the ally. The bond breaks only if either the ally or enemy dies, or if the ally or enemy get 30 feet away from each other. If wounds are transferred to an ally through "The sands will shift...", and that ally is in a spirit bond, the enemy will also sustain such wounds.

B A C K S T O R Y

Sun-baked tents, huddled in a tight ring around a shallow, muddy watering hole, weather the whipping winds of the South-Eastern deserts. Their flags, skinny and dyed in weak greens and grays, denotes the authority of a small tribe. One Julda rules over the active warlord, with around five dozen warriors loyal to his name. None of these individuals are present in their quarters during this blazing evening. They are out at the looming ruins.

It is an exquisite piece of architecture, the abandoned temple standing like a testament to the superiority of some long-forgotten civilization. A quiet cult inside, consisting of nearly twenty people in bumble-bee colored robes, panics in a fit of realization. They have been surrounded by a Julda ruling over an active warlord, with around five dozen warriors loyal to his name.

The crude altars to Shee'l Tor are overturned in a sudden rush of men, sand being kicked up and whisked around in a room now clogged with chaotic shouts. Gold tokens forged in the god's image are ripped from velvety threads, baskets of incense crunched beneath the soles of thick leather boots. As the sun begins to rest in the crimson pool of the horizon, the remaining cultists have been rounded up and bound together with abrasive lengths of frayed rope. All robed men have been slain on the spot, their corpses now piled in a wide corner of the temple. Women are tied in a line that will make them easier for transport. Every good even remotely valuable has been seized. To the Julda, this is a righteous raid on a cult that exemplifies their evil god. It does not matter that they found no weapons.

The moon illuminates the sorrows of the survivors, their shock and despair contrasted by the cheerful drinking of tribe warriors all around them. They are constantly harassed throughout the night, their stifled sobs interrupted by the sharp quips and unwanted advances of stupidly merry men. The Julda approaches an especially fair cultist, his arrogance leading him to pull up her hood and force unto her a kiss. She, in tear-choked retaliation, spits on his face. Embarrassment seizes him as the warriors around him begin to laugh.

The fair woman, named Adila, is commanded to be made an example of, as to ensure the subservience of all her fellow cultists. A pole is quickly struck into the compact sand, and tinder from the temple is clumped around it. Adila is restrained to the pole, and watches as the bushels of dried plants around her begin to catch flame at the Julda's command. Acrid smoke surrounds her as she squirms, the heat of the fire crawling closer to her long robe. She cries out for mercy, for forgiveness, and wails as silence accompanies the crackling of the flames. Finally, with the tendrils of heat now creeping up against her reddening flesh, she pleads for Shee'l Tor to intervene.

The last grains of sand have begun to drain from the top of the hourglass, one life filtering down into the next, the usefulness of the first methodically feeding into the second. Yet, a gnarled hand reaches out and grasps the divine teller of all time, and with a sudden flick flips the structure. The course of the sands have been switched, as the patron of death so wills it.

The sensation and terror of immolation leaves Adila, and she no longer feels tears upon her face. Yet, she still sees herself, burning there, screaming out incoherently. She looks down to her body in sudden disbelief; she is a strong, tan woman in tribal warrior gear. Her grip is firm on her spear, and her feet lay solid in the loose ground. The warriors around her are silent as they continue to watch her previous body become consumed and shrivel up in a column of flames. The smell and the sounds drive her to vomit on the pale ground in front of her.

Her family and friends sold off and nowhere to be found, and having stolen a secretive call to arms from the tribe's Julda, Adila is now adamant on claiming the soul of the Mad King Osidius in the name of Shee'l Tor. For the miracle of her revival, she will present her patron with an equal payment, and secure her place as a worthy champion.

That is, if Shee'l Tor doesn't collect his debt early...

Torchlight

@Paradoxial Here she is. Hope it's all to your liking.

Adila Al Bakira

Adila Al Bakira

|| This one has endured the heat of death once before, and knows the ways of surviving that sweltering desert. ||

C L A S S
Priest
^{"My faith is the force that binds the sands into the dunes."}

D E V O T I O N
Shee'l Tor
^{"The trials of death have forged me into his capable weapon."}

S P E L L L I S T

2nd Tier ➤ "The sands will shift..."
Adila darts her hazel fingers into the pouch at her side, drawing a handful of chalky, tan rocks into her palm and crushing them with a swift clenching of her fist. A sickly green smoke arises from the gaps between her knuckles, and a sulfurous stench fills the room. The cracking and reshaping of flesh is suddenly audible, and you choke back your urge to vomit.

Minor physical injuries are mended on an ally (such as small scrapes, bruises, or fractures). Moderate to major injuries are instead transferred to another ally of Adila's choice. Any injuries on the receiving ally are, likewise, traded. This spell cannot be cast if it would cause any ally to die, unless such an ally is Adila. Adila can target herself to receive wounds. If the receiving ally is unwilling to take on wounds, such injuries are instead brought back to effect Adila.

.

2nd Tier ➤ "... and the sun will set."
Adila's spear is quickly dragged across the dim cobblestone in front of her, sparks spawning from the friction between the refined Damascus steel and dirtied earth. She sprinkles the now powdered rock out of her hand and onto this line of embers, the soft, clay-like flakes catching quickly and flaring out like firecrackers. Your mind melts with the fiery display, feeling rather pleasant until you sense the clawing, inhumane thoughts of a beast suddenly slip into your consciousness. A hulking, abyssal foe behind you screeches in harmony with the intrusion, its thick fur becoming matted in fresh maroon blood.

A spiritual bond is formed between an ally and an enemy. While the two are linked, any physical injuries to the ally will also be inflicted onto the enemy, and the ally will progressively gain stress the longer the bond goes unbroken. Any damage the enemy endures will not be shared with the ally. The bond breaks only if either the ally or enemy dies, or if the ally or enemy get 30 feet away from each other. If wounds are transferred to an ally through "The sands will shift...", and that ally is in a spirit bond, the enemy will also sustain such wounds.

B A C K S T O R Y

Sun-baked tents, huddled in a tight ring around a shallow, muddy watering hole, weather the whipping winds of the South-Eastern deserts. Their flags, skinny and dyed in weak greens and grays, denotes the authority of a small tribe. One Julda rules over the active warlord, with around five dozen warriors loyal to his name. None of these individuals are present in their quarters during this blazing evening. They are out at the looming ruins.

It is an exquisite piece of architecture, the abandoned temple standing like a testament to the superiority of some long-forgotten civilization. A quiet cult inside, consisting of nearly twenty people in bumble-bee colored robes, panics in a fit of realization. They have been surrounded by a Julda ruling over an active warlord, with around five dozen warriors loyal to his name.

The crude altars to Shee'l Tor are overturned in a sudden rush of men, sand being kicked up and whisked around in a room now clogged with chaotic shouts. Gold tokens forged in the god's image are ripped from velvety threads, baskets of incense crunched beneath the soles of thick leather boots. As the sun begins to rest in the crimson pool of the horizon, the remaining cultists have been rounded up and bound together with abrasive lengths of frayed rope. All robed men have been slain on the spot, their corpses now piled in a wide corner of the temple. Women are tied in a line that will make them easier for transport. Every good even remotely valuable has been seized. To the Julda, this is a righteous raid on a cult that exemplifies their evil god. It does not matter that they found no weapons.

The moon illuminates the sorrows of the survivors, their shock and despair contrasted by the cheerful drinking of tribe warriors all around them. They are constantly harassed throughout the night, their stifled sobs interrupted by the sharp quips and unwanted advances of stupidly merry men. The Julda approaches an especially fair cultist, his arrogance leading him to pull up her hood and force unto her a kiss. She, in tear-choked retaliation, spits on his face. Embarrassment seizes him as the warriors around him begin to laugh.

The fair woman, named Adila, is commanded to be made an example of, as to ensure the subservience of all her fellow cultists. A pole is quickly struck into the compact sand, and tinder from the temple is clumped around it. Adila is restrained to the pole, and watches as the bushels of dried plants around her begin to catch flame at the Julda's command. Acrid smoke surrounds her as she squirms, the heat of the fire crawling closer to her long robe. She cries out for mercy, for forgiveness, and wails as silence accompanies the crackling of the flames. Finally, with the tendrils of heat now creeping up against her reddening flesh, she pleads for Shee'l Tor to intervene.

The last grains of sand have begun to drain from the top of the hourglass, one life filtering down into the next, the usefulness of the first methodically feeding into the second. Yet, a gnarled hand reaches out and grasps the divine teller of all time, and with a sudden flick flips the structure. The course of the sands have been switched, as the patron of death so wills it.

The sensation and terror of immolation leaves Adila, and she no longer feels tears upon her face. Yet, she still sees herself, burning there, screaming out incoherently. She looks down to her body in sudden disbelief; she is a strong, tan woman in tribal warrior gear. Her grip is firm on her spear, and her feet lay solid in the loose ground. The warriors around her are silent as they continue to watch her previous body become consumed and shrivel up in a column of flames. The smell and the sounds drive her to vomit on the pale ground in front of her.

Her family and friends sold off and nowhere to be found, and having stolen a secretive call to arms from the tribe's Julda, Adila is now adamant on claiming the soul of the Mad King Osidius in the name of Shee'l Tor. For the miracle of her revival, she will present her patron with an equal payment, and secure her place as a worthy champion.

That is, if Shee'l Tor doesn't collect his debt early...

Torchlight

@Paradoxial Came across this roleplay and I am sufficiently interested. Do you happen to have room for one more?