Avatar of Nron
  • Last Seen: 9 yrs ago
  • Old Guild Username: Nron
  • Joined: 11 yrs ago
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    1. Nron 11 yrs ago

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Distractions, guild being down, and tabletop games make for slow app submitting.
Basic Information

Name: Achille Sinagra
Nickname/Alias/Etc: Leeroy Brown (to his grandfather), 'Ringmaster' (to his coworkers), 'Caesar' (those who know him at the Columbia Theatre House)
Gender: Male
Age: 22
Height: 6'5" or 195 cm
Weight: 220 lbs or 99 kg
Home District: The Northlands

Appearance

Hair Color: Black
Eye Color: Green
Ethnicity: Caucasian. Primarily of Italian/Roman and Irish descent.
Physical Appearance:

Attire:

Personality

Personality:

Hobbies/Interests: Achille's main interests revolve primarily around his line of work. Juggling, fire-breathing, tightrope walking, animal taming, lady... beard... growing. You get the idea. If it pertains to the people who work with him or the business of running a circus in question, it interests Achille. Outside of his work however Achille has a sizable amount of other interests and even a few hobbies with which to pass the time.


Skills/Talents: Despite his interest in the work of his coworkers, Achille has little actual grasp on how to go about emulating what they do. Lions yawn at him, the tightrope throws him off, and the clown car has been totaled at least four times. He has managed to attain some level of skill with throwing knives thanks to losing quite a few bets with the knife throwers, but even then the farthest distance he can boast to accurately hit is little more than 15 feet. There are however things that he can claim to be, if not good, at the very least competent at.

Prized Possession: A top hat of high quality make. Given to him by one of his coworkers, a former ringmaster himself, when he first created his circus, Achille keeps this prized hat close and safe. The coworker in question has since moved on to other things, though Achille keeps him updated on the status of the magnificent hat.
Quote(s):


History/Bio:


Family:

Grandfather - Ermes Sinagra - 86 years of age
Grandmother - Flavia Sinagra - Deceased at the age of 80
Father - Severiano Sinagra - 51 years of age
Mother - Caitlin Sinagra [Formerly Caitlin O'Dell] - 53 years of age
Sister - Eo Sinagra - 17 years of age - Meta-Human - NEST Trainee
Twin Brother - Dionisio Sinagra - Meta-Human - Currently Incarcerated

Relationships

Abilities

Power Class & Rating: Elemental 6
Power:


Weaknesses/Drawbacks:




Other: Achille is straight. He has a weakness for short women, oversized sweaters, thigh highs, and long hair.

He has never been outside of Black Fall but hopes to one day visit Rome as well as various theater houses around the world.

While he is an agnostic atheist, Achille does not view those who believe in higher powers as being less intelligent, likely because he doesn't view himself as all that intelligent to begin with.



Sample Post:
Three yeahs well aren't I lucky. I'll start work getting a character created and hopefully have an app in for you to tear apart by tomorrow night.
Still openings in this I assume?
Well we're in the Skype group chat together so you already know but I'll restate it here. So far things are going fine as far as I'm concerned. So long as everyone stays active I think we'll be fine.
The ride back to Stag's Rest had been uneventful, with Joachim making further observations about the implications their battle had in the grand scheme of things. From what he had gathered back at the village it seemed like one of the Queen's new neighbors had got it into his head to raid her lands, possibly to test her strength or resolve. Such a thing was not uncommon back in Ustynia where Tribes were known to wage blood wars against one another for decades at a time for nearly any perceived infractions, More often than not though Tribes fought to claim good hunting grounds so that their people could survive the day to day life of that frozen kingdom. To Sikarthis it seemed as if these Southern 'lords' were more interested in lining their own pockets than claiming land for their people, greed motivating their every action.

When they finally arrived at Stag's Rest Sikarthis was more than ready to dismount and hand his horse to one of the stable hands. In an odd stroke of luck, the horse he had ridden into battle had been found wandering not far from the village, the bundles of javelins he had left attached to the saddle still swinging from their harness. The beast still smelled terribly but Sikarthis supposed it was due a small bit of respect for not bolting into the wilderness with his forgotten luggage in tow. He was mildly surprised when Joachim motioned for him to follow. Despite serving with the Company for two Winters the Northman was not considered by most in the company to be trustworthy, both his foreign heritage and noncompliance to engage in most conversations earning him the general disdain of a large number of his sellsword companions. Still, it would be cooler indoors and Sikarthis could already feel the heat assaulting his senses. He followed without comment.
The Queen's Chambers

Gnarl had reacted about as well as Sikarthis had expected to the news of the attack. Apparently not even he had expected to be raided so quickly after settling in at their new home. From there it had been a quick walk to the Queen's chambers to inform the queen and, at Gnarls command, offer their own opinions on a course of action. Whereas Gnarl has addressed the Queen as if she was any member of the Company, Joachim had gone for a more tame, respectful approach, supporting Gnarl's decision as Sikarthis had expected he would. There were several parts of that plan that the Northman didn't quite like, as both the Queen and his companions were about to find out. Before he could speak his part however Rand suddenly burst into the chambers, tossing in a prisoner from the battle. When the ex-knight suggested attempt to hold their current position AND treat their prisoner like some honored guest the icy foreigner did nothing to hide the bark of contemptuous laughter that spilled from his mouth.

"You interrupt us unbidden with a plan that amounts to hiding behind our walls and hoping these enemies of ours believe the lies of a single soldier?" The Northman's accent was easily noticeable, each word spoken with sarcasm and disdain clinging to it. "Were we in Ustynian court, you would find yourself stripped of more than your old title 'ser'. Your skin, for starters."

Sikarthis turned to the Queen, who he had largely ignored since coming to her chambers. In truth it was his first time seeing her this close, having always chosen to tend to his Snowcats instead when given the option to watch her ride by as most of the Company was prone to do. She was attractive he supposed, though she lacked the wide hips, muscled body and combat prowess that appealed to him as a Ustynian. From what he had heard she had never fought in any battles either, further lowering her in his eyes. In his country she might have lasted half a Winter at most, and even then she would scarcely have been worthy of cleaning the floors of a Tribal Icelord's hall. But this, he reminded himself inwardly, is not Ustynia,

" 'Ser' Rand would lead you to ruin. Trusting in the goodwill of a man who was your enemy but an hour ago is the height of madness, even more so to expect this 'Lord Eowen' to believe any lies should the man do as he says he will. What is to stop him from taking your feast and your whores and telling his master that we are fools who cannot see the mamestrun right in front of our face? Nothing." It did not occur to Sikarthis that those in his company would not know what a mamestrun, those immense wooly beasts that stalked the ice plains in herds, was. He likely wouldn't have cared if he had, caught up in his speech. All this talk of tactics was bringing him back to another time not so long ago, in a place far colder, when he was fighting for a different crown. He gestured to the pair of companions who hadn't barged in like savage Tribesmen. "Joachim and Gnarl are only partially correct I believe. I know little of your kingdom nor it's people and, truth be told, I care little of either to begin with. What I do know however is that we are too few to wage a siege, even a short one. How many men does your enemy have at this very moment? Where is he weakest? Who are his enemies? Where does his hall reside? All of these things you must know. If you do not know them, you must find out."

Never taking his eyes off the Queen, Sikarthis laid his full helm atop a small desk that stood between them. He had had no time to remove his armour before coming to her chambers and had until now kept his helm tucked beneath one arm. He made a small show of playing with the crown atop the ancient piece of headgear, his gauntlet encased fingers running over the Ustynian runes and symbols that ran around it's surface. "I believe there is a saying you Southerners have. 'A man atop a wall is worth six men below it.' Well in Ustynia we have a different saying, 'Winter's winds break even stone.' If you want this lord you must go through whatever walls he undoubtedly has around him. Sabotage his walls and our task will be all the easier, though I dare say our numbers are still against us."

Snatching up his helm again Sikarthis made to leave, stopping once in the doorway to offer one last piece of advice. "There is another saying in Ustynia: 'A king wins no crowns from his chamberpot.' It's time you got off the chamberpot, Southerner Queen." With that, the Northman took his leave.
The Pens

Several minutes later Sikarthis managed to find his way out of the mazelike hallways of the keep and over to where he kept his Snowcats in their pens. He had intended to strip off his armour and clothes once he tended to the beasts, the smell of sweat and blood clinging about him so strong it nearly stung his nose. When he arrived however he was surprised to find that his 'cats had a visitor, one he had often seen eying them from a distance. He stopped to observe her, seating himself on one of a dozen crates littering the area around the Pens. For a time curiosity kept him from interrupting, amusement rearing its ugly head as well. It wasn't until she began to reach her hand towards one of the 'cats that he spoke up.

"You will be missing your fingers if you continue to do that I fear." There was no anger in his voice when he spoke. "What are you doing here, Wren?"
Sikarthis was not enjoying himself. He had expected (and hoped) that the knight he was facing would have learned from the mistake that allowed himself to be dismounted in the first place, reserving his strength and focusing more on using his skill as opposed to brute strength. Instead, his opponent had immediately launched into a flurry of wild swings and jabs, the full force of his strength backing up every wayward slash. It was all too simple a task for Sikarthis to bat them away with his longsword or step nimbly out of range. He had yet to even require the use of his shield, instead adopting a two handed grip on his longsword that was more than sufficient in dealing with the pathetic display of swordsmanship he had been pitted up against. Throughout their 'fight' Sikarthis couldn't help but notice his companions engaged in their own battles, suffering injuries and dealing death to opponents who, while by no means matched their skills, certainly tried a bit more than his own opponent. More importantly however was the couple of footsoldiers rushing to assist the knight Sikarthis was currently putting up with.

Without word or warning Sikarthis went on of the offensive, his longsword going from parrying and batting away swings to delivering blow after blow against the small shield his opponent had strapped to his left arm. Up and down again the blade rose, chipping away at the shaped lumber and driving the armored warrior backwards as he desperately attempted to regain both his balance and the upper hand. Neither happened. Tightening his grip on the pommel of his longsword, Sikarthis brought the sword down on the shield with all his might, sheering through shield, gauntlet, and bone all in one go. With a cry of immense pain and terror the knight fell backwards, his sabre forgotten as he attempted to stem the steady stream of blood flowing from the stump where his hand used to be. He cried out for mercy as he lay on the ground clutching his bloody half limb, sobbing and simpering like a craven. Sikarthis ignored him, turning instead to face the two footmen who were nearly upon him.

The first of the footmen arrived just as Sikarthis drew the shield from his back, swinging his one handed maul with the precision and skill more often attributed to veterans of several battles than an undertrained farmhand. Stepping out of range of the maul, Sikarthis swept his longsword down and across to put some space between them, raising his shield at the same time to intercept the spear thrust from the second footsoldier on his left. The Northman was pleased to find that his opponents were both fairly skilled and, more importantly, capable of working together well without verbal communication. For close to a minute the three of them fought, a blur of movement as Sikarthis parried, sidestepped and intercepted the various jabs, thrusts and swings from his two opponents, occasionally pushing back one or both of them with a series of cuts and feints. However when the spearman overstepped a lunging strike, inadvertently placing himself within range of Sikarthis' longsword, the Northman was ready.

Disengaging fully and suddenly from the maul wielding footman Sikarthis stepped in close to the spearman, his shield lashing out and flattening the man's nose against his face with a sickening crunch. Stumbling forward and past Sikarthis, he had barely enough time to drop his spear and cover his shattered nose before the longsword buried itself in his spine. The cry of rage from behind him told Sikarthis all he needed to know about what his other opponent was doing, and by the time the other footman realized that his overhead strike wouldn't hit his target the Northman was already pivoting down on one knee, his longsword slicing through the air as easily and cleanly as the boiled leather and bone of the unfortunate soldier's legs. Sikarthis ended the man's suffering before he could so much as beg for mercy. He had deserved at least that much for his display of skill.

Sword and shield dripping crimson, Sikarthis surveyed the battle continuing around him for a moment before stalking off towards where he had last seen the savage Alt and the younger Joachim.
As I said, they have their time and place. Every now and then doesn't hurt.
Collab posts like the most recent one would also help I believe. Reduce the number of posts in the IC while maintaining the same amount of story being told. Of course collabs are only viable in certain situations but it certainly wouldn't hurt now and then. As for posting order an established order isn't required. I think whats important is that people try to keep at least two or three separate players between them and their last post.
On the snowy plains of Ustynia there was rarely a time when high winds were not prevalent, whipping up walls of snow in the face of anyone risking their lives by traveling through the wastes. One would think that this would dissuade the use of missiles during any kind of warfare between the various Tribes and Threnhalls that called the kingdom of ice and snow home. As it happened however, the people of Ustynia simply adapted to this natural difficulty, creating a type of javelin that could be thrown far while still being weighted down enough to stay roughly on course in all but the most violent of frosty gales. Sikarthis had carried with him the knowledge of how to create such missiles upon leaving his homeland, turning it over to the Company blacksmith after such a time as he felt they could be trusted to recreate them properly. Down here in the South, Sikarthis had found, wind was rarely an issue. For him this was good, for the two knights barreling towards him atop their mounts it was anything but.

Sikarthis let fly his first javelin when there was roughly 300 feet between him and the first rider, the sleek blackened missile tracing a dark path through the air before embedding itself in the space below the neck of the riders mount. With a fountain of blood and a terrible cry from both rider and beast alike, the horse collapsed forward, its momentum causing its limp corpse to roll up and over the knight who had rode atop it moments before. The sickening crunch of shattering bones could be heard even over the rising clamor caused by the remaining enemy forces.The other rider charging towards Sikarthis took note of the fall of his comrade.

When Sikarthis released another javelin into the air with the same intent the knight was ready, swerving from his course at the last moment to let the missile pass by harmlessly. By then it was too late to try for Sikarthis to attempt another toss. With a slight grunt of annoyance he sheathed the last javelin he had prepared, drawing out the longsword from the left side of his saddle as he did so. Sikarthis had fought mounted on numerous occasions during the civil war of his own making, though during such times it had been a Snowcat bred for such a purpose that served as his mount, not something as easily taken down as the horse he was riding. Even back then however he had made an effort to dismount as soon as he was able; he worked best on his feet after all.

The two mounted warriors met with a deafening clash of steel, Sikarthis' longsword flashing left and right through the air to bat away the quick strikes of his opponents arming sabre. For a time that lasted no longer than several seconds but to the combatants felt like minutes, they fought, circling each other like snowsharks fighting over the last morsel of a kill. It seemed as if the green knight had the advantage, delivering slash after slash at his opponent, driving him to the defensive. The knight sensed this as well, his blows less reserved, more power put into them at the cost of precision. Exactly, it turned out, as Sikarthis wanted. Catching the tip of the knights sword in the handguard of his longsword, Sikarthis snapped his blade upwards, forcing a gaping hole in his opponents defenses. Quicker than expected, the longsword raced downward, trailing across the flank of the knights horse and slicing through both hide and saddle straps.

With a cry of rage and surprise the knight toppled out of his saddle, his horse running off and trailing blood as it cried out in pain. Sikarthis took the opportunity to dismount himself, taking his shield off the saddle and slinging it across his back before slapping his mount on the rear to send it off as he'd seen others do in the past. Turning to his opponent, Sikarthis was surprised to find the knight back on his feet.

"Accustomed to being dismounted are we? I suppose that's a good thing." the northman said with no trace of humor, his words muffling slightly as he slid his full helm over his head, "Come now, show me what you Southerners are capable of." And with that, their battle began anew.
-Double post because servers are dumb-
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