Fallenreaper
Izurich
Ti
I have a CS problem. I'm going to start a group. There does not need to be as much information as I am putting into this, but, I truly can not help it. Should be up soon.
edit: okay. shit. sorry. It's a lot.
Thirty-three || Human-Sylvan || Female
.Appearance
.Biography
.Other
.Origin; arcane arms
.Activation; arcane arms
.Cast Out; standard
.Take In; alternate
.Body Heist; overbreak
.Army of Mine; unleashed
edit: okay. shit. sorry. It's a lot.
Tacache Zas Shik'isn
XXVIIThirty-three || Human-Sylvan || Female
.Appearance
Her form was as human as she was; 5’10” with limbs and digits lengthier than average proportions and tipped with claws strong enough to rip a throat out with ease. She appears slightly gaunt, with skin the color and feel of the ice she hails from; eyes reflecting a similar pale coloration with slit pupils that recalled something beastly. No one can be quite sure about the wendigo-human aging process but a youthful demeanor infiltrated all actions and thoughts. Her ears shot from behind snow white hair, pointed and exceptional at their duties. Her lips were pale, contrasting greatly with the blood that always found itself a home during battle; beneath those lips a predators jaw contained elongated and sharp canines and bicuspids. A Templar militaristic tattoo graces her neck, reading her birth name “XXVII.”
.Biography
There was no birth, no mother or father, and no childhood to speak of. It was rare even that she was allowed into existence in the anti-magic state Vroncroft, but even the Templar could be tempted by the promise of military perfection. Thus, the Wendigo Project was initiated, a secret even among the secretive; because according to any known documentation, she did not exist. But, she did. Twenty-seven of thirty, XXVII, an inartistic tattoo presented to the girl upon birth. Perhaps her existence would be legitimized if the program had been a success, but it was anything but. Of the original thirty created in the Wendigo Project there were only four still under the observation and acceptance of the commanders that created them.
Eleven were executed for their inability to control their malevolent nature before the project had reached its tenth year. The remaining subjects were forced to watch; conditioning they called it. She stood there, a nameless face among the others, as they unceremoniously injected the children who resisted control. They couldn’t resist the noxious influx that dissipated their lives though. Afterwards, they were expected to be forgotten, cremated, as if they never existed. The only telltale sign was the growing gaps in numbers. She no longer bunked, ate and sat next to XXVI and XXVIII, instead she was placed by XXI.
None were untouched by the wicked wendigo within, but the survivors learned to keep quiet about it. She herself was plagued with the dreams she never talked about, dreams in which the wendigo calls to her, starving and gluttonous. The fear that welled up from these dreams were not fear of the wendigo, but rather the “conditioning” coming into play. When it’s sickly sweet voice racked across her soul, a part of her, calling for her to come home, all she could do was picture those children. Even now, two decades later, she sees them, small and helpless as they were exterminated.
As their militaristic training continued the perils that became “cause for termination” grew. They were expected to kill, but not to imbibe their kills. They were expected to hunt, but not to press themselves so awkwardly among nature. They were expected to be human monsters, not monster monsters. Eight more were exterminated during their first drills in the outside world. She kept her head down, did as she was told and only escaped at night. She welcomed her wendigo dreams, whispering secrets with her only friend while the world slept.
It wasn’t long after the group had dwindled to eleven before the murmurs among her kin began. She couldn’t allow herself to be tempted; how could they? They had seen the same repercussions as she had, but they foolishly believed that talking was not an offense. Perhaps if it had ended with words they would have been correct, but during the night four of them ran away. The seven remaining were tasked with hunting them down and destroying them. She had hoped it would be difficult, the killing. She expected some pang of consciousness would clasp her hand before she could deliver a final blow; but she felt no guilt, no temptation to desist. She slaughtered two of them like the monster that she was. As she clawed at XVI’s neck, ripping the flesh so that the head could be returned to her masters she noticed the arcane arm. She had every intention of passing it off along with the head, but something stopped her. It stopped her.
Her collection of friends had been doubled.
Killing their own proved too much for her dwindling siblings and three of the remaining seven were removed from the facility. Their fate is unknown, presumed dead. It was abundantly clear the project was a failure and should be terminated. The four remaining genetic abominations would be dispersed to alleviate any blame or suspicion, and were also expected to keep eyes and ears open for the missing three. Other than finding her siblings, which she mentally placed at the bottom of her to-do list, their instructions were to kill demons and enemies of the Templar. For the first time in her life she had been given no strict orders. She had been given a semblance of freedom, though the threat of observation from the Templar was ever present, pushing her down a thin gray line mirroring her existence. She often feared they would find out about the arcane arm that had been gifted to her, but if they did know about it, they made no move to acquire it.
Eleven were executed for their inability to control their malevolent nature before the project had reached its tenth year. The remaining subjects were forced to watch; conditioning they called it. She stood there, a nameless face among the others, as they unceremoniously injected the children who resisted control. They couldn’t resist the noxious influx that dissipated their lives though. Afterwards, they were expected to be forgotten, cremated, as if they never existed. The only telltale sign was the growing gaps in numbers. She no longer bunked, ate and sat next to XXVI and XXVIII, instead she was placed by XXI.
None were untouched by the wicked wendigo within, but the survivors learned to keep quiet about it. She herself was plagued with the dreams she never talked about, dreams in which the wendigo calls to her, starving and gluttonous. The fear that welled up from these dreams were not fear of the wendigo, but rather the “conditioning” coming into play. When it’s sickly sweet voice racked across her soul, a part of her, calling for her to come home, all she could do was picture those children. Even now, two decades later, she sees them, small and helpless as they were exterminated.
As their militaristic training continued the perils that became “cause for termination” grew. They were expected to kill, but not to imbibe their kills. They were expected to hunt, but not to press themselves so awkwardly among nature. They were expected to be human monsters, not monster monsters. Eight more were exterminated during their first drills in the outside world. She kept her head down, did as she was told and only escaped at night. She welcomed her wendigo dreams, whispering secrets with her only friend while the world slept.
It wasn’t long after the group had dwindled to eleven before the murmurs among her kin began. She couldn’t allow herself to be tempted; how could they? They had seen the same repercussions as she had, but they foolishly believed that talking was not an offense. Perhaps if it had ended with words they would have been correct, but during the night four of them ran away. The seven remaining were tasked with hunting them down and destroying them. She had hoped it would be difficult, the killing. She expected some pang of consciousness would clasp her hand before she could deliver a final blow; but she felt no guilt, no temptation to desist. She slaughtered two of them like the monster that she was. As she clawed at XVI’s neck, ripping the flesh so that the head could be returned to her masters she noticed the arcane arm. She had every intention of passing it off along with the head, but something stopped her. It stopped her.
Her collection of friends had been doubled.
Killing their own proved too much for her dwindling siblings and three of the remaining seven were removed from the facility. Their fate is unknown, presumed dead. It was abundantly clear the project was a failure and should be terminated. The four remaining genetic abominations would be dispersed to alleviate any blame or suspicion, and were also expected to keep eyes and ears open for the missing three. Other than finding her siblings, which she mentally placed at the bottom of her to-do list, their instructions were to kill demons and enemies of the Templar. For the first time in her life she had been given no strict orders. She had been given a semblance of freedom, though the threat of observation from the Templar was ever present, pushing her down a thin gray line mirroring her existence. She often feared they would find out about the arcane arm that had been gifted to her, but if they did know about it, they made no move to acquire it.
.Other
Terrified of fire, thanks to the wendigo. If you ask a human to stop breathing they can attempt it, but in the end they will gasp for breath. Her fear of fire is similar. She can attempt to force herself into proximity and may even be able to maintain for a short period, but in the end the fear, supplanted as a will to survive, will override.
Soul Wretch
.Origin; arcane arms
Eons ago there was a being whose fate had been read long before it would come to pass, an existence plotted by ancient gods and scrawled in the burning endurance of gaseous balls far from the reach of prophets. He would be known by a mark that followed the shell from the womb; a paleness and cold touch, an evil. A predestined existence, but when he was born, he didn’t want to be evil. They told him he was and his amassing magical abilities were sure confirmation, but still, the boy struggled with such a destiny. He didn’t feel evil.How could one close off the awe inspiring beauty that surrounded each existence and become the foil to their own wants?
In an effort to summon his own self-acceptance, he began work on a magical talisman. It was an intricate metal skull, formed of blended metals whose origins spanned the cosmos. The metal was fused with the hands of his shell, imperfect things that pressed hot and cold energy into its form. Those same troublesome digits ascribed prophetic inscriptions and unknown rituals that laced the shell of the talisman. A final stone, one meticulously chosen from a century aged death shroud of a virgin oracle, was pressed into the forehead as he prayed to ancient deities for inner sight. The Talisman proved to be an effective amplifier of his magic. He could invade minds and manipulate the fates of others, but still, he could not realign his own to it’s foretold majesty. He died, disgraced, and worse yet, loved.
His aged and spindley fingers wrapped about the talisman, clutching it to his decaying chest, until his race and history had fallen away and been replaced. It was oft told with a tinge of sadness for the boy, but defying fate seemed to her a noble goal, one that whispered late into the night, kindred to her own soul. Of course, it’s just a story and variations do exist. Some say that he was evil and the creation of the arcane arm turned him good, but she favored the first story.
In an effort to summon his own self-acceptance, he began work on a magical talisman. It was an intricate metal skull, formed of blended metals whose origins spanned the cosmos. The metal was fused with the hands of his shell, imperfect things that pressed hot and cold energy into its form. Those same troublesome digits ascribed prophetic inscriptions and unknown rituals that laced the shell of the talisman. A final stone, one meticulously chosen from a century aged death shroud of a virgin oracle, was pressed into the forehead as he prayed to ancient deities for inner sight. The Talisman proved to be an effective amplifier of his magic. He could invade minds and manipulate the fates of others, but still, he could not realign his own to it’s foretold majesty. He died, disgraced, and worse yet, loved.
His aged and spindley fingers wrapped about the talisman, clutching it to his decaying chest, until his race and history had fallen away and been replaced. It was oft told with a tinge of sadness for the boy, but defying fate seemed to her a noble goal, one that whispered late into the night, kindred to her own soul. Of course, it’s just a story and variations do exist. Some say that he was evil and the creation of the arcane arm turned him good, but she favored the first story.
.Activation; arcane arms
The small, yet impossibly tenacious talisman hastily forms a bond with the curator, whispering into their mind in an ancient dialect both exotic and familiar, eerie and comforting. It is assured that each possessor has a different experience with the talisman, and her own was nothing short of revolutionary. It provided companionship when she was alone in the yawning and bleak expanse of the tundra. She would wrap her claw-like nails about her favored friend and her eyes would drift closed while power pulsed from it’s small form, entering and exiting her body with wiles barely contained. It soon blended seamlessly with her own psyche and the magic was used as habitually as a blade for a warrior.
.Cast Out; standard
From the depths of the curator “consciousness” is pulled asunder, creating a duplication of herself that can exist stand alone or possess a soulless body; most commonly the dead. Initially the ability failed to balance the pieces of consciousness in both forms so that one was almost purely wendigo, leaving the other human. This happens infrequently now, but it can still be a gamble.
.Take In; alternate
After Tacache has ingested some form of body matter, quite an easy process for one who hunts with teeth and claws, she can take in the victim. The ability weaves magic through the foreign body matter and chases it back to it’s origin, battering down any defenses and splaying open the chosen mind like a road map for the curator. While reading another being is not an exact science, it requires focus and the being to have some sort of soul force. Occasionally the chosen mind will linger within her own for a short time, which can be quite bothersome, but not deadly.
.Body Heist; overbreak
A sort of melding of the first two abilities, Body Heist allows the curator to cast out a piece of their own "consciousness" into a victim whose body matter has been ingested. Temporarily this gives the curator control of their own body as well as control over the victim. A strong willed individual can put up a mental fight, but the arcane arm suppresses any physical control, so again, this is more bothersome than anything else. It is assumed that lengthy habitation in another shell would be detrimental to the curator’s overall psyche.
.Army of Mine; unleashed
The curators "consciousness" shatters into a multitude of entities capable of inhabiting dead, inanimate objects and/or consumed victims. It is unclear what lasting effects this will have on the curator.
& Wendigo/human female created by the Templar of Vroncroft
& Afraid of fire
& Arcane Arm called Soul Wretch deals with duplication and possession
& Afraid of fire
& Arcane Arm called Soul Wretch deals with duplication and possession
