Magister

Dead Roleplay, Ignore

i.imgur.com/TkT3k7g.png

Full Name: N/A

Nicknames/Aliases: Lazarus, Butcher Of The Bulge, Brigadier.

Age: N/A

Gender: Male

Gift: Regeneration

Loyalty: To whom he pledges himself, ultimately, his ethics.

Description: Lazarus sports the workman's cut of a bygone age, much like his choice of dress. Astride his shoulders he wears a military jacket fashioned after a long, long defunct fighting force, black with red trim. Below, a pair of tailored military fatigues, black, reminiscent of drainpipe trousers, rolled above a pair of black wingtip boots. His face is a strong jawline, below robust cheekbones and a skin tone that hints at roots within this country despite his roots beyond the pond.

Personality: Flippancy and utter seriousness, humor and judgement, his personality is tempered by who is is, and the person he is surely to become.

Skills: He is a talented small united tactician, with martial prowess that clearly indicate an innate gift. Often, his deductive skills are ignored in favour of 'the moment', an abstract idea he seems most enamoured with.

Weaknesses: His weakness lies in his attitude toward surviving, and his compassion towards the weak.

Brief History: He is truly a man out of time. Months of wandering have lend a larger context to his particular condition, but have not given him answers. In light of this, he chose to seek his own fortunes, rather than dwell on this mystery for much longer.

Other: Found, and is currently making use of a record-player he happened upon.

Hider

Full Name: Roderic Alder Mayberry Montana

Nicknames/Aliases: Lazarus.

Age: 198

Gender: Male

Gift: Regeneration

Loyalty: His Morals

Description: Montana stands at 5'10, built with compact, functional muscle. His iris is indistinguishable from the pupil. His hair is medium length, black, and always swept behind the ears.

Wears a European cut suit, covered by a grey, form fitting overcoat. Favours a wide brimmed hat.

His face remains youthful despite his advanced age, as does his body, due to the nature of his gift. Perhaps those of a keener eye could discern his age by the look that lingers in his eyes.

Personality: Distant, subdued, with moments of keen interest. Perhaps a bit whimsical in a nostalgic way


Skills: Talented in Martial Arts and Weapons training, with experience that spans over a century.

Experience in a variety of combat, espionage, and tactical situations.

Very perceptive, relying on logic and deduction.

None of this has mattered for quite some time.

Weaknesses: His dispassion can be used to take him by surprise.


Brief History: Montana's history spans nearly two centuries. None of this has mattered for quite some time.

Briefly resurrected his Mercenary company after the Gifted Human War. It is now defunct but some of its members, or children of members may still roam the Ashland.

Other: Most of those who are old enough to remember are long dead, and the few who recall use names he's long abandoned.

Dead Roleplay, Ignore

i.imgur.com/TkT3k7g.png

Full Name: N/A

Nicknames/Aliases: Lazarus, Butcher Of The Bulge, Brigadier.

Age: N/A

Gender: Male

Gift: Regeneration

Loyalty: To whom he pledges himself, ultimately, his ethics.

Description: Lazarus sports the workman's cut of a bygone age, much like his choice of dress. Astride his shoulders he wears a military jacket fashioned after a long, long defunct fighting force, black with red trim. Below, a pair of tailored military fatigues, black, reminiscent of drainpipe trousers, rolled above a pair of black wingtip boots. His face is a strong jawline, below robust cheekbones and a skin tone that hints at roots within this country despite his roots beyond the pond.

Personality: Flippancy and utter seriousness, humor and judgement, his personality is tempered by who is is, and the person he is surely to become.

Skills: He is a talented small united tactician, with martial prowess that clearly indicate an innate gift. Often, his deductive skills are ignored in favour of 'the moment', an abstract idea he seems most enamoured with.

Weaknesses: His weakness lies in his attitude toward surviving, and his compassion towards the weak.

Brief History: He is a man out of time. Months of wandering have lend a larger context to his particular condition, but have not given him answers. In light of this, he chose to seek his own fortunes, rather than dwell on this mystery for much longer. Life is an adventure to some, but an eternity to him. It would be redundant to question his circumstances.

Other: Found, and is currently making use of a record-player he happened upon.

Welcome to Marchand!

Dinner was irrelevant to Azaziel. Eating was a biological function that he at times enjoyed, but never allowed to get between himself the work he did. So, instead of heading downstairs for a dinner expertly prepared by Marchand's fine cooks, he was holed up in his room, reading, and writing. He had moved his desk to the middle of his room, greatly cutting into his absent roommates personal space. Flanking it, were two books held open on sheet-music stands. They were titled 'A colloquial take on Familiars' , and, 'Treatise on Blood Magic' respectively. A final book was perched in the front. Its human leather binding marked it as a genuine copy of the Necronomicon. He sat cross legged in his chair, in aught but his boxer-briefs.

On the table were several pieces of parchment beside a measure of Heparin in a clear vial. Separate from these, were two stacks of paper, one had very obviously been written on, while the other stack blank, aside from the one he was currently writing on. His writing drifted between haphazard scrawling, and deep, deliberate strokes.

Zaze's free hand moved up to his mouth, bringing the pocket pancake into biting distance. All the dinner he needed.

Welcome to Marchand!

As am I

Starwars: Galaxy in terror

Brax and Rishnot had cut themselves as a single archetype when they had moved to speak; earnest. This is what piqued his interest in what they had say. The first one who spoke, Brax, held a steady, unblinking gaze. There was a steadiness to his words, and face, that in conjunction with the somewhat artificial quality to his person, pointed to one thing. Android. The other one, who more versed in the subtleties of negotiation, had also held this earnest quality. He looked experienced, if his lack of fear was anything to go by.

Roan nodded in agreement, but did not speak, as to avoid calling anymore attention to the three of them. It was important to make allies while captured. It was an extra set of eyes to watch your back, and an extra pair of hands if things got tense.

When they were called into line, he moved in front of them, a gesture of trust, as he was willing to expose his back to them.

He changed without complaint, dropping his clothes in a casual manner. His body was lined with hard, functional muscle, built through a martial training regiment, and hard living.

The pickaxe felt familiar in his hands, as did striking the rocks, destroying the rocks, and redepositing them. He glanced up at the other groups, noting the conversations, and the growing familiarity.

No brawls had broken out yet. This was good.

@DriveEMout

Welcome to Marchand!

Mariana's observation spoke on how well she understood the air of uncertainty he naturally cultivated around himself and the moves he made. Death would earn it's final victory eventually, but it wouldn't be acknowledged by his name resting above the epitaph. "One that no one will ever be sure they've solved, as the answer will be coming with me." A droll thought emerged in his mind, of a graveyard visitor seeking him out to find the answer to that question in the afterlife.


"They look well. Healthy, both in very admirable careers." While he had no hand in raising the two children beyond his sparse, but at times lengthy, interactions with them, he had met the brothers during a very crucial times in their lives. While did not have a vested interest of their mother, their well being was important to him nonetheless. Their mothers war had influenced them for the better. Good.

The third child, James had grown quite a lot since the last picture Montana had seen. The baby fat had been burned away, and his features had sharpened into those of a budding young man. It caused his eyes to linger for far longer on his face than the other two. The eyes looking up at him were unmistakable, dark oculi that could swallow all secrets but one. The gravity of his realization weighed on him far beyond his mask.

"James has grown into a fine boy."

Montana waited until Ray was finished talking. Some of his discomfort had alleviated from what he could tell, but that something remained. It was that something that gave Ray his remorse, his humanity. Perhaps that is what truly separated the two of them, something Montana had long noticed in most people he met. Montana was sure the life, and lives Ray took weighed on him, it weighed on many of the teachers, in small, and large ways. Some had gone from wide eyed, hopeful young folk into the hard as granite veterans. Others had redefined themselves, coming out of the war who they wanted to be.

When he dreamed of the peopled he killed, he critiqued how long it had taken him to end their lives. When he saw the faces of his victims, he was only reminded of how he had judged them in their final moments. When he saw the battlefields Alpha-Omega had laid to waste, adrenaline coursed through his veins.

It had always been about the satisfaction of ending the life of a powerful, or deserving enemy, rather than just taking life for, and in the name of the cause he fought for. No, he had taken those lives for himself as well.

When he looked into the faces of the Fox siblings, and other children left behind by slain parents, he felt no remorse. He felt nothing but a duty to ensure that their education served to keep them safe in the future.

That was what set him apart, a lack self-reproach for the breath he stole, and for the humanity that existed in Ray, but not him.

That is not to say he did not feel the shadow of condolence when he thought of the survivors, and the orphaned children. It simply meant that he viewed lives taken during the war as an unavoidable truth. His penchant for violent confrontation was separate, in his mind.

"I, much like Mr.Matheos, have been keeping busy with odd jobs. I had been doing some work for the council, when I was asked to be an instructor of Defense and tracking."

"I am fortunate to be teaching your son soon. Meeting him has been something long overdue, Mariana.

Starwars: Galaxy in terror

The one, comforting thing about being captured and processed was the familiarity of the proceedings, and the range of unique, but dangerous looking characters that were always being processed. That comfort and familiarity ended once they were pushed past the threshold of the facility, and he saw that this was not your average penal colony.

That was one question that was answered for Mephisto. Every nonchalant turn of his head lead to glimpses of bits and pieces that a mining corporation shouldn't need. High tech medical facilities, far too advanced for a slave population, or even the guards who'd be watching said population. Weapons, explosives, enough to supply a decent sized border conflict.

They came to a halt, and not a second has passed when a prisoners mounting frustration culminated in them rushing for the shield, only to be thrown back a moment later.

Some chuckled. He didn't. There wasn't anything shameful about a single push for freedom, no matter how futile.

He remained quiet, and observed. There were a lot of predators in this group.

Himself included.

Welcome to Marchand!

Azaziel was, admittedly, confused. So confused, that he didn't bother to take the confusion off of his face when he turned to reply to the feminine voice that asked him that question. This question, spoken with a sincerity that a liar would be hard pressed to mimic, came from a fairly normal looking female. As normal females went, hair, face, legs.

She was clean, and she dressed like those mannequins he'd see inside store windows. She looked like she could walk among the the masses without a second thought yet, out of that normal mouth came an abnormal ass question.

He put his palms on the table behind him, and leaned backward slightly. "It's popular enough to be a generational secondary. Necessary enough that someone you know will probably ask you to ward something for them." She was about to receive the entire rundown asking a question like that.

"Is it treated with some prejudice because it involves smearing your vital fluids on walls, objects, and yourself? Yah yah, sure, but it is necessary, therefor popular by demand."

"That's not a normal or expected question from a Mage." It was rather ineloquently put, but it wasn't sand in a standoffish manner. It was said with interest. "But you aren't a non-magical human. What's your story?

Now it was her turn to answer his question. He wouldn't accept any vague, bullshit, oh let me keep my cards close to my chest, answer either. Nor did he expect it. Not from someone who took the time to approach his person, when he made his person hard to approach in the first place.

@LorelleQuips

Starwars: Galaxy in terror

Sounds good! I'll put my character on the adjacent page.

Nightscourge: A Redwall Tale

@The One

Are you asking for my support in a plot to usurp the king? Ahaha

If that's what you feel is best, sure.