Magister

The Runes (In Need of Players!)

For Makorai, the city limits was the best place to drink in the mornings. Despite its inherent danger, it represented his livelihood for almost a decade. Now, it represented a place he could no longer go without permission. Parting wasn't such sweet sorrow. He just liked the view. What was there to miss? He had a place to sleep, and whatever cash he managed to scrounge up, went to pleasure items. A gilded cage was still a gilded cage right? Makorai stood for a moment longer, and offered his final opinions on the matter. "Fuck freedom."

The young man turned his back on the wall, like he had done many a morning before, sat on his motorbike, kicked the stand up, and drove off. He wasn't terribly concerned with being late for meeting one, or orientation, whatever they called it. He wasn't far off, and he always drove better when he was drunk. Makorai swerved suddenly, narrowly avoiding winging the mirror off of a car. "I /am/ better at driving drunk." He said. More than words of reassurance, he had changed the nature of his travel. Positive thinking taken to a whole new, directly tangible level.

Makorai disembarked, kicked the stand town, and took an even stroll up to the door. He knew the routine well enough, hello to the guards, drop his flask off in the basket. Pat down search for whatever.

Bidding the security guards a farewell, he took another slow stroll to the orientation room, where, upon opening the double door, he was greeted with his first listen of his fellows.

Fuck Cult.

All-Daddy.

Pleasure Doll?

Popping a piece of gum, and hastily wiping his nose, he approached the group. Mako grabbed a chair, turned it around so he could lean on the back, and straddled the seat.

"All-Daddy? guess my reputation proceeds me." He offered them a quick smile, and promptly rested his arm, then his chin, on the back end of the chair.

"I'm Makorai. Forgot what my rune is. Something about the future."

The Runes (In Need of Players!)

Hider

Full Name: Makorai Saika

Nicknames/Aliases: One Hit Wonder, Lucky, "Where's my money?", "You still haven't paid off your tab."

Age: 26

Gender: Male

Rune/Location: Forehead, where the third eye is said to sit. It's often covered by his hair.

Rune Powers: The vision beyond sight, the ability to divine the future and see between the lines in the present. The ability to influence reality, and people through speech, and to ascribe special power to words, spoken or written.

Description: Makorai is a slim, but muscular male, standing at 5'9, with a near permanent flush around his nose and cheeks, due to the near constant consumption of alcohol. His hair is brown, and medium length at the top. This is function rather than fashion, as it serves the purpose of hiding his rune. Usually, he can be found wearing a v-neck t shirt, slim jeans, and slip on shoes, with an interchangeable coat. All things that are easy to put on and take off, as he enjoys. Beyond his clothes, his eyes carry mirth and sarcasm, and his mouth is quite capable of conveying either.

Personality: Hedonism is a word that best describes Makorai. His life is ruled by earthly pleasures. The buzz of a drink, the warm flesh of a woman, the thrill gambling, and the culture that surrounds all of it. On the surface, he seems like an entertaining, but ultimately self interested individual. Beneath all of the bravado is a man who regrets taking life, and one who values friendship far more than he would and could, articulate.

Skills: Makorai is a sharpshooter of considerable, near peerless skill. He is able to employ the use of both eyes, as his master eyes, meaning he can both shoot, and look for new targets simultaneously, removing the need for a spotter of any kind. He has a strong, unconscious understand of mathematics, which allows him to calculate the distance, speed, and drop off of the bullets he fires, relative to his target. This ability had been supercharged by his rune, which influences his cognitive ability. Future vision allows him to place is shots not only where is target is, but where they are going to be. Aside from his sniper skills, he's an accomplished brawler, and is quite capable in using his rifle, plus bayonet, in close quarters engagements. He's agile, well versed in parkour, and uses his agility to traverse obstacles with ease. He often mixes his acrobatics in with his shooting, and can pull off shots from frankly absurd angles.

Weapons: Makorai favours a high caliber rifle, but prefers to use iron sights on shots a mile and under, citing 'easier to move around and whatever' as his reasoning behind it. Over a mile, he'll attach his scope, depending on conditions and terrain. On the front of his sniper is a mounted knife, with enough length to easily pierce a vital organ. For closer combat under a mile, he uses a Mauser style pistol with a rifle stock.

Weaknesses: His lack of discipline, and adherence to his base desires can be exploited by the right person.

Brief History: Makorai's life was marred with tragedy, much like a few of his comrades His parents were killed when he was still a toddler, leaving his memories of them faint, mostly smells and colours. They had fallen victim, along with the rest of his town, to opportunistic beasts after a storm had laid waste to their wards and defenses. He, and a few others were found among the wreckage of the town. Found by a group of roving mercs, they took him, and what they could salvage of his parents belongings, and dropped him off in a nearby settlement, offering the belongings as payment to a woman.

The woman took him in, and cared for him for a while, but ultimately sold his parents things, and promptly dropped him off at a nearby orphanage.

It was here that Makorai spent most of his early days under the oppressive, but well meant thumb of the orphanage tenders. He often found himself at odds with the strict rule of the faculty, and at the age of 15, decided to strike out on his own, where he felt he'd be able to live by his own rules.

He found friendship in those darker places where people existed. What he lacked in education and drive, he supplimente3d with experience and cunning, two things that were a priceless commodity in the society he had chosen to exist in.

At the age of 18, he enlisted in a town watch of sorts, and was issued a rifle. It was nothing spectacular, a worn standard issue with none of the trappings, but for him, it was the most important gun of his life. It was important because it showed him where his true skill lay. After a week with the force, he absconded with a rifle, and took his life on the road again.

He found that through creature bounties, often found on town and city notice boards, he could eek out a living. A few jobs, and he could relax a few weeks, maybe highlighting as a waiter or a bartender if he needed the extra cash in a pinch, or if he just felt like meeting people and getting some free liquor. His life was relatively simple before the incident.

He had been atop a grassy knoll, checking the planes for any sign of life, pretty standard recon gig for a town, when a young woman caught his eye. She was short, blonde, and seemingly oblivious to the world around her, but, she had caught his eye, which meant Makorai was going to take a moment to study her. Maybe see what she liked, use that if he decided to walk down and talk to her. Before he really got his chance to see, he was overtaken by a vision of the girl being grabbed, and crushed by a giant.

He was so profoundly disturbed by this vision, all ideas of romance had left his mind, and he no longer watched her with the eyes of a womanizer, but the eyes of a sniper.

A moment later, a head emerged from the trees.

Another moment, the trees were still once again.

He had left the area without a word, surprised blonde girl forgotten, pondering on what had just transpired. The rune that had burned itself onto his forehead was step one in finding an answer to his question.

Other: Probably wont pay you back if he borrows money.

The Runes (In Need of Players!)

Full Name: Makorai Saika

Nicknames/Aliases: One Hit Wonder, Lucky, "Where's my money?", "You still haven't paid off your tab."

Age: 26

Gender: Male

Rune/Location: Forehead, where the third eye is said to sit. It's often covered by his hair.

Rune Powers: The vision beyond sight, the ability to divine the future and see between the lines in the present. The ability to influence reality, and people through speech, and to ascribe special power to words, spoken or written.

Description: Makorai is a slim, but muscular male, standing at 5'9, with a near permanent flush around his nose and cheeks, due to the near constant consumption of alcohol. His hair is brown, and medium length at the top. This is function rather than fashion, as it serves the purpose of hiding his rune. Usually, he can be found wearing a v-neck t shirt, slim jeans, and slip on shoes, with an interchangeable coat. All things that are easy to put on and take off, as he enjoys. Beyond his clothes, his eyes carry mirth and sarcasm, and his mouth is quite capable of conveying either.

Personality: Hedonism is a word that best describes Makorai. His life is ruled by earthly pleasures. The buzz of a drink, the warm flesh of a woman, the thrill gambling, and the culture that surrounds all of it. On the surface, he seems like an entertaining, but ultimately self interested individual. Beneath all of the bravado is a man who regrets taking life, and one who values friendship far more than he would and could, articulate.

Skills: Makorai is a sharpshooter of considerable, near peerless skill. He is able to employ the use of both eyes, as his master eyes, meaning he can both shoot, and look for new targets simultaneously, removing the need for a spotter of any kind. He has a strong, unconscious understand of mathematics, which allows him to calculate the distance, speed, and drop off of the bullets he fires, relative to his target. This ability had been supercharged by his rune, which influences his cognitive ability. Future vision allows him to place is shots not only where is target is, but where they are going to be. Aside from his sniper skills, he's an accomplished brawler, and is quite capable in using his rifle, plus bayonet, in close quarters engagements. He's agile, well versed in parkour, and uses his agility to traverse obstacles with ease. He often mixes his acrobatics in with his shooting, and can pull off shots from frankly absurd angles.

Weapons: Makorai favours a high caliber rifle, but prefers to use iron sights on shots a mile and under, citing 'easier to move around and whatever' as his reasoning behind it. Over a mile, he'll attach his scope, depending on conditions and terrain. On the front of his sniper is a mounted knife, with enough length to easily pierce a vital organ. For closer combat under a mile, he uses a Mauser style pistol with a rifle stock.

Weaknesses: His lack of discipline, and adherence to his base desires can be exploited by the right person.

Brief History: Makorai's life was marred with tragedy, much like a few of his comrades His parents were killed when he was still a toddler, leaving his memories of them faint, mostly smells and colours. They had fallen victim, along with the rest of his town, to opportunistic beasts after a storm had laid waste to their wards and defenses. He, and a few others were found among the wreckage of the town. Found by a group of roving mercs, they took him, and what they could salvage of his parents belongings, and dropped him off in a nearby settlement, offering the belongings as payment to a woman.

The woman took him in, and cared for him for a while, but ultimately sold his parents things, and promptly dropped him off at a nearby orphanage.

It was here that Makorai spent most of his early days under the oppressive, but well meant thumb of the orphanage tenders. He often found himself at odds with the strict rule of the faculty, and at the age of 15, decided to strike out on his own, where he felt he'd be able to live by his own rules.

He found friendship in those darker places where people existed. What he lacked in education and drive, he supplimente3d with experience and cunning, two things that were a priceless commodity in the society he had chosen to exist in.

At the age of 18, he enlisted in a town watch of sorts, and was issued a rifle. It was nothing spectacular, a worn standard issue with none of the trappings, but for him, it was the most important gun of his life. It was important because it showed him where his true skill lay. After a week with the force, he absconded with a rifle, and took his life on the road again.

He found that through creature bounties, often found on town and city notice boards, he could eek out a living. A few jobs, and he could relax a few weeks, maybe highlighting as a waiter or a bartender if he needed the extra cash in a pinch, or if he just felt like meeting people and getting some free liquor. His life was relatively simple before the incident.

He had been atop a grassy knoll, checking the planes for any sign of life, pretty standard recon gig for a town, when a young woman caught his eye. She was short, blonde, and seemingly oblivious to the world around her, but, she had caught his eye, which meant Makorai was going to take a moment to study her. Maybe see what she liked, use that if he decided to walk down and talk to her. Before he really got his chance to see, he was overtaken by a vision of the girl being grabbed, and crushed by a giant.

He was so profoundly disturbed by this vision, all ideas of romance had left his mind, and he no longer watched her with the eyes of a womanizer, but the eyes of a sniper.

A moment later, a head emerged from the trees.

Another moment, the trees were still once again.

He had left the area without a word, surprised blonde girl forgotten, pondering on what had just transpired. The rune that had burned itself onto his forehead was step one in finding an answer to his question.

Other: Probably wont pay you back if he borrows money.

Lost Lands - A Medieval Fantasy RP

Ayame is open to any and all interaction. :)

Lost Lands - A Medieval Fantasy RP

Ayame had crouched in the pungent stew of the sewer system, waiting in the Kingdom of Rodents for the next prisoners wagon. Something was to be said about the single place within this sprawling city that even the homeless dared not go. The reason for this were simple. The rats that lived beneath had once been contented on the garbage that flowed through. However the underworld, with their penchant for disposing of bodies, along with the victims of poverty and disease, had changed the sewer rats palate. They had formed a fondness for the taste of human flesh. Ayame understood this, and had come prepared. Food was offered as a stipend to their King and his court. Two bodies lay beneath where he laid in wait, their wounds were consistent with blunt force trauma. Perhaps they had been victims or the inquisition, or a hungry man with a club. Either way, their death served to give him life.

His humble offer had awoken the benevolence of the Rat King, who dined on the flesh of the death with his subjects, and the remainder of his time among them was spent without incident. The wagon he had been waiting for ground to it's scheduled stop above him, groaning as it's old wood settled down to rest as the fighting men above gathered unfortunate souls in the dreary garb for their journey to the Yulian dungeons. For now, the only contrast between he and they was the desire in his heart to see the inside of the Cursed Kingdom, the sanguine robe familiar to him with it's thin fabrics and intricate designs, was stowed in a travel pack, leaving him in naught but his grey bandage to stave off the elements.

His hands, covered by this hardy fabric, grasped the railing of one such wagon that strayed close enough to the Grand Gutter of the Rat Kingdom and shimmied up the wall. Slowly, his arms extended until his body hovered over the ground in a straight line. Slowler still was his rotation, achieved by alternating the position of his hands, one cupping under while the other grasped over. In moments his body had turned completely, and he pulled himself beneath of the wagon.

The countryside that lined either side of the dirt road had long given itself over to the degradation. It's trees arced up in an accusatory fashion, seeming to curse the sky and its inhabitants with every branch and twig it could muster, the grass beneath had wilted to nothingness, and with no nutrition in the soil, the ground had become slush that threatened to suck a plated boot into its belly for eternity. "Woe to any wagon that loses it's way on this road." The voice was laden with jovial arrogance, the tone of a man who believed in his own abilities enough to never put himself in the category he spoke on. "Fear they'll ne'er get it out. Folk inside will be left to rot. /I/ ain't gonna be fishing n'e of the ne'er-do-wells out of that slop."

"Lest the Yulia's see fit to jab me till I do, aye?" Roaring laughter, followed by a polite chuckle from the guard sat beside him. Ayame was as oblivious to their words as he was to the dead countryside. The turning of the wheels made it hard for him to hear aught else, and the remainder of his attention was focused on ensuring his grasp remained firm. The slightest error would see him cast to the ground below, and crushed beneath iron spokes.

Time passed, and Ayame's aching muscles were rewarded by the final halt of the wagon. He felt it rise and all as it's mute passengers shuffled outward and in to the keep. Even the man who had responded to the desolate land around their travel with his boisterous nature and fallen into an uneasy silence. The Swordsmen could feel the pressure around him, squeezing the stone and it's denizens, prematurely aging both in a haze of pain and depression until cracks had formed on the walls and resentment in the hearts of the living.

When the second to last passenger disembarked, the wagon left, heading towards the warehouse for fitting and repair, while the horses were taken to be nourished. The last passenger lowered himself to the floor, and rolled from beneath his deliverance before the assorted feet, clad in their heavy workmen's boots, worn from use, stomped to where he had been hiding.

Tired eyes tended to focus on the task at hand, rather then wander like the relaxed and the bored. No one care to look to the back wall where Ayame knelt, hastily wrapping himself in a brown cloak, and throwing a saddlebag full of tools over he shoulder.

No guard looked twice at the unassuming man who filtered through the throngs of human gloom, shackled to one another in the chains of slaves. Not even the downtrodden themselves noticed the look of sadness that crossed his features when he stole a glance in their direction.

Their were many faces, most of them held the woe of the walls, and their circumstance. Others retained their pride, their arrogance. They would notice him, surely. Much like the Rat King and his legion of knights, he'd be a stranger in their midst, and one with no offering. Like the rats, without one, they might try to eat him alive.

Or perhaps not. Even in the word of circumstances benevolence existed.

His musings followed him into the corridors of the fort.

Lost Lands - A Medieval Fantasy RP

Hider

Full Name: Ayame Iediori

Nicknames/Aliases: Kyojin Kira, The Maneater, Pale Swordsman.

Age: N/A

Gender: Male

Occupation/Class: Disgraced Jiamo/Roving Swordsman

Kingdom of Origin:The Far East

Description: Ayame's odd appearance, his stark white hair and youthful face, often makes him a curiosity in lands where such is an uncommon occurrence. His youthful features glow with a good nature, and make each emotion displayed on his face stand out with clarity. His eyes are a warm brown, with bright gold hues circling his pupils. During the heat of battle, his eyes sometimes take on a malevolent red tint, but this could simply be a trick of the light. He is slim, but well toned. His legs, arms, and torso are all covered in grey bandage, leaving no skin visible aside from his face, which is rarely missing it's small, reflective smile. Over this is a thin robe of a robust red, with depictions of various flora, armed with teeth and wickedly hooked thorns scattered haphazardly across the fabric.

Equipment:

The Nagamaki: A curious weapon from the east. The blade is a bit thicker then other weapons originating from the hidden lands, wrought from a dark metal that seems to absorb light. The hilt of this blade is of a sanguine hue, with dark metal plates in choice locations along it's length, which near equals the blade. The more imaginative would claim the weapon looks something akin to hungry, and that it seems to sigh when a person draws near.

The Wikizashi: A small blade from the far east. More commonly associated with Assassins and Emissaries then honest swordsmen. Aside from the strange symbol etched into the hilt, a vine intertwining around a pair of lips, it's unspectacular, and only useful in a handful of situations.

Hilt of Life: This hilt, bound with black cord that hung from the bearer's neck, is dark green in colour, and missing a blade. It is a kind looking thing, pale blue, with darker blue, curved streaks,naturally occurring on it's surface. It is a calming sight, with a kind tone that seems reflective of the owner.

Ayame's Bandages: Bandages that would cover every inch of a relatively normal sized person's body. Spun from a hardy, eastern plant known for it's difficulty to kill due to it's tough consistency. It is particularly strong against piercing and slashing attacks, which are common in the land it was made. Is only a notch up from being nude due to the way it hugs one's frame.

Ayame's Robes: A robust red robe that hangs comfortably from the wearer's body. In contrast perhaps, to the horrifying depictions of man eating plants embroidered across the fabric with disconcerting realism. On toward the hem where few eyes would wander, it would seem the plants are devouring humans, their blood splashing to the ends of his thin robe, dying it a darker shade then the rest. More often the not, Ayame has this disturbing section rolled up, and thus, obscured from view. Boasts a respectable defense against against that which cuts with no blade.

Personality: Ayame is an immediately disarming character, a warm smile is often the first thing on his face when greeting a stranger, with eyes that always smile in cohesion with his mouth. He isn't fond of deception, and would prefer to stay silent rather then mislead others. He is initially warm and inviting, and maintains that attitude even if it isn't reciprocated. His affinity and skill in swordsmanship and killing are viewed as necessary tools for his life, with the latter being something he tries to avoid when possible. Kind to a fault, Ayame will naturally try to coexist with most. That being said, there is a niche personality type he doesn't like, and will not interact with said personality type unless it's unavoidable.

Skills: Ayame is a swordsman of considerable skill, who can adapt to different fighting styles, and combat situations with ease, as well as float between different sword techniques on the fly. He is able to wield his sword with brutal efficiency, and boasts strength that far exceeds the optimal for using his weapons. Ayame's situational awareness is an asset to him in battle, and contributes to his effectiveness in a team, along with the intuitive ability to call upon the energy that surrounds him, and that which resides within him.

Weaknesses: His lack of heavy armour means that even a single hit can be devastating if not parried or avoided properly.

Fatal Flaw: His dreamlike nature.

Brief History: Ayame's career as a Roving Swordsman started when he struck down Jiama Ni'oshi, leader of the Jiamo, and claimed his sword as his own. With his oath broken, he left the East, a land of writhing mists, absconding lands, and carnivorous plants, to find and perfect a sword technique that would accomplish the impossible. A sword technique that could heal the mind, body, and soul. The first part his puzzle was found, a hilt that healed the user. The second, remained out of sight.

Which is why he was inexorably drawn to this cursed Kingdom.

Other: Is in love with personalities, not people.

Lost Lands - A Medieval Fantasy RP

Full Name: Ayame Iediori

Nicknames/Aliases: Kyojin Kira, The Maneater, Pale Swordsman.

Age: N/A

Gender: Male

Occupation/Class: Disgraced Jiamo/Roving Swordsman

Kingdom of Origin:The Far East

Description: Ayame's odd appearance, his stark white hair and youthful face, often makes him a curiosity in lands where such is an uncommon occurrence. His youthful features glow with a good nature, and make each emotion displayed on his face stand out with clarity. His eyes are a warm brown, with bright gold hues circling his pupils. During the heat of battle, his eyes sometimes take on a malevolent red tint, but this could simply be a trick of the light. He is slim, but well toned. His legs, arms, and torso are all covered in grey bandage, leaving no skin visible aside from his face, which is rarely missing it's small, reflective smile. Over this is a thin robe of a robust red, with depictions of various flora, armed with teeth and wickedly hooked thorns scattered haphazardly across the fabric.

Equipment:

The Nagamaki: A curious weapon from the east. The blade is a bit thicker then other weapons originating from the hidden lands, wrought from a dark metal that seems to absorb light. The hilt of this blade is of a sanguine hue, with dark metal plates in choice locations along it's length, which near equals the blade. The more imaginative would claim the weapon looks something akin to hungry, and that it seems to sigh when a person draws near.

The Wikizashi: A small blade from the far east. More commonly associated with Assassins and Emissaries then honest swordsmen. Aside from the strange symbol etched into the hilt, a vine intertwining around a pair of lips, it's unspectacular, and only useful in a handful of situations.

Hilt of Life: This hilt, bound with black cord that hung from the bearer's neck, is dark green in colour, and missing a blade. It is a kind looking thing, pale blue, with darker blue, curved streaks,naturally occurring on it's surface. It is a calming sight, with a kind tone that seems reflective of the owner.

Ayame's Bandages: Bandages that would cover every inch of a relatively normal sized person's body. Spun from a hardy, eastern plant known for it's difficulty to kill due to it's tough consistency. It is particularly strong against piercing and slashing attacks, which are common in the land it was made. Is only a notch up from being nude due to the way it hugs one's frame.

Ayame's Robes: A robust red robe that hangs comfortably from the wearer's body. In contrast perhaps, to the horrifying depictions of man eating plants embroidered across the fabric with disconcerting realism. On toward the hem where few eyes would wander, it would seem the plants are devouring humans, their blood splashing to the ends of his thin robe, dying it a darker shade then the rest. More often the not, Ayame has this disturbing section rolled up, and thus, obscured from view. Boasts a respectable defense against against that which cuts with no blade.

Personality: Ayame is an immediately disarming character, a warm smile is often the first thing on his face when greeting a stranger, with eyes that always smile in cohesion with his mouth. He isn't fond of deception, and would prefer to stay silent rather then mislead others. He is initially warm and inviting, and maintains that attitude even if it isn't reciprocated. His affinity and skill in swordsmanship and killing are viewed as necessary tools for his life, with the latter being something he tries to avoid when possible. Kind to a fault, Ayame will naturally try to coexist with most. That being said, there is a niche personality type he doesn't like, and will not interact with said personality type unless it's unavoidable.

Skills: Ayame is a swordsman of considerable skill, who can adapt to different fighting styles, and combat situations with ease, as well as float between different sword techniques on the fly. He is able to wield his sword with brutal efficiency, and boasts strength that far exceeds the optimal for using his weapons. Ayame's situational awareness is an asset to him in battle, and contributes to his effectiveness in a team, along with the intuitive ability to call upon the energy that surrounds him, and that which resides within him.

Weaknesses: His lack of heavy armour means that even a single hit can be devastating if not parried or avoided properly.

Fatal Flaw: His dreamlike nature.

Brief History: Ayame's career as a Roving Swordsman started when he struck down Jiama Ni'oshi, leader of the Jiamo, and claimed his sword as his own. With his oath broken, he left the East, a land of writhing mists, absconding lands, and carnivorous plants, to find and perfect a sword technique that would accomplish the impossible. A sword technique that could heal the mind, body, and soul. The first part his puzzle was found, a hilt that healed the user. The second, remained out of sight.

Which is why he was inexorably drawn to this cursed Kingdom.

Other: Is in love with personalities, not people.

Dead Roleplay, Ignore

Another day, another empty portfolio. Lazarus had packed up his supplies, save for the gramophone, which wasn't an antique by any means. It was a dime store thing, something that the previous owner had no doubt picked up in a novelty store. It played a handful of pre recorded songs, a few of which were familiar to the mercenary. The technology had been alien to him, but it hadn't been beyond his mental capability to figure out. However, it was beyond the machines capability to moved beyond the two songs that had survived the passage of time, and nature.

The tune followed him down the path he had taken, and into a broken street containing a number of intact buildings. One drew his attention near immediately. It's rotting archway was the only one that had been disturbed recently, indicated by the footprints that had disturbed the dust, and tore at the threshold.

He placed the machine down in the doorway, allowing the music to travel on the acoustics of the building, filling it's old walls with music for the first time in what was likely, decades. His footsteps soon followed the music, deliberated and pace, with no regard for disturbing whomever may be inside. He had no reason or want to hide his presence. Arrogance played a smaller part than intention in this instance. Sulking around buildings like a common thief didn't lend any credence to the confident air one needed to exude as a mercenary.

The man continued into the building, eventually coming to stop atop a dried pool of blood, and, upon further inspection, a young woman who by his estimation, had lost a little to much to be lucid.

The music had been a worthwhile idea. His coming had been announced, so he wasn't likely to startle her with the,

"Good day." that left his lips with an easy confidence that matched his posture, one fist on his hip, with his opposite palm on a nearby stand.

Dead Roleplay, Ignore

I'm kind of jonsing for some interaction right now, so if anyone has a character just idling, we can work something out.

Dead Roleplay, Ignore

He cut a brazen figure beneath the stifled Ashland sun. Lazarus knew that too, and he felt a perverse sense of hilarity because of it. Though he was far removed from the repressive structure of his former society, there would always be social taboos wherever one went. Firstly, he was the picture of perfect health; the dark circled, gaunt, dogged look of Ashland survival was missing from his even toned face. Secondly, his military coat, sleeves rolled above his elbows, was open, exposing his well muscled midriff, solar plexus, and chest, to attack.

It was a taboo to look so healthy, and simultaneously expose oneself to assault at once. It bespoke an unfortunate ignorance and pampered life to some, and a dangerous confidence to others. Why any of this mattered to anyone passing is the question of course. The answer to this question sat on either side of his reclining person. Both of them were signs, painted black against a makeshift wood background.

One read "LOOKING FOR WORK." With minute pictures of combat and a smattering of various weapons. The message was obvious, he felt. Mercenary work was in abundance from what he had seen during his time wandering amongst the Old World monoliths and the denizens who were content with scraping by.

The other said "NOW HIRING." With another smattering of symbols and pictures. Unlike the one which advertised his skill-set, this one sported a myriad of different indicators. Some depicted a need for mchanicao expertise, while others pointed to a need for skilled mechanics and technical experts.

Fights as well, of course. The meat and bones of any mercnacy operation required those with disposition geared towards combat. Or at the very least, the ability to fake it.

As an added piece to the man's marketing strategy, a box sat directly in front of him, inside lay a small pile of medical supplies, anti inflammatory pills, bandages, and a bottle or two of peroxide. Beside it, an open bowl of gel packets containing life affirming water.

The only catch was you had to bend down and be momentaliry exposed to attack. This was intentional. He had no intention to attack anyone who stopped for succor, it was just an exercise for her own reasons and purpose.

Perhaps the most interesting piece to his workshop of sorts, was an old gramophone, currently playing barely legible music, save for the sigh of a wind instrument.

Lazarus whistled along with it, dashing the background noise with occasional pieces sung in a casual baritone.

"Let us leave the confusion and all disillusion behind; like birds of a feather, a rainbow together we'll find.