Sweet, I'll move Pharamond over to the character tab then. I'll try to get my first post up in the morning when I'm less exhausted. Anyone have any ideas as to where I should start him off? :'D
Done! Hope this is alright, I went with something a little different, but feel free to let me know if this isn't what you guys are looking for. :D
Pharamond
Also known as: Faramund, The Sacrifice, The Vulture
Age:Very young for a god - about two thousand years, give or take.
God Status: God of Nomads, Protection and Sacrifice
Personality: Callous, self-absorbed, and a little cruel from time to time, Pharamond can be said to be the archetypal enfant terrible. While he might not be the brightest, or the most knowledgeable, he is a good judge of character, and it takes little time for him to classify someone. He is particularly good at thinking on his feet, but doesn't often give much thought to long-term consequences. Depending on which day of the week you catch him on, he can either be your best friend or your worst enemy. To his subjects, he’s always cordial, almost sickeningly sweet, giving them exactly what they want each and every time they come crawling back - provided they offer something in exchange, of course. Pharamond is particularly fond of blood sacrifices, be it animal or human; though who could deny the merits of the latter?
As for those he has no need of, however, they often find themselves put off by his bluntness. He doesn't abide by the rules, he doesn't play fairly, and he certainly doesn't let anyone think they can get one up on him. Naturally venomous, mephitic, and even distant, he is used to guarding himself emotionally, something he does by being lacing his words with caustic sarcasm. Pharamond doesn’t like feeling vulnerable - he hates it. If he likes something, chances are he'll let you know it, and if he doesn't, well, he's never been shy about voicing his opinion in that matter as well. Yet beneath all his flaws, Pharamond believes that his word when given is law, and never makes a promise he does not intend to keep.
Parents: None. Pharamond was created by humans, given life through ritualistic means.
Sexuality: Asexual
Form on Earth:
Standing at a mere 5'7", with a lean, ectomorphic build, it's safe to say that Pharamond isn't the most intimidating of figures. A mop of messy, blonde hair sits atop his head; falling into pale blue eyes. For all intents and purposes, he resembles your typical teenager, though it's not hard to notice the way he looks at people, watching their every move like a caged animal. His other, most common form, is that of a bearded vulture.
True Form:
Similar to how he usually appears on Earth, yet with a few unmistakable differences. His true form is that of a boy, no older than eighteen, pale skin stretched over a lanky, adolescent frame. Long locks of scraggly, blonde hair hang all the way down to the small of his back. He is draped in an assortment of rags and animal skins, too thin to provide any meaningful refuge from the elements. Bloody gashes line his skin, though the deepest, most obvious injuries are centred over the left side of his chest, where one’s heart would be. Warm blood flows from the wounds without stopping, running down his body to pool and puddle on the ground beneath him. Most striking of all, however, are his eyes. Golden irises, wide and wild, flecked with streaks of amber bear a remarkable resemblance to those of birds of prey.
Powers: Pharamond is capable of minor shape-shifting, carrion eaters being his forms of choice when he doesn’t have to appear human. He also has something of a psychic connection with the lands, a mental map in his head, if you will. He is able to sense danger in his immediate vicinity, and if he is searching for something or someone, an innate, magnetic pull will lead him to them.
Additionally, he also has the ability to bestow good fortune. Those blessed by him find themselves almost infallible, everything seeming to go their way. This effect, however, isn’t permanent, nor is it all-powerful. To sustain it, one must offer up gifts to Pharamond in the form of blood and flesh - preferably the freshly dead corpse of an animal or human.
Weapon: Pharamond wears a necklace of shattered bones around his neck, the only part of himself he has left. It is an extension of his powers - channeling them into a concentrated point for easier, more potent access. Without his direct influence, however, the necklace becomes nothing more than it seems. It’s not exactly a weapon per se, but Pharamond has never been the most martial of gods.
History (Pre-Earth bound): -
History (Post-Earth bound): Pharamond was human once. Born into a tribe of nomads, he was taken from his parents even before he let out his first squall, before he even saw his first ray of light. For years, he remained shuttered away in an isolated tent draped with animal hides, thick and heavy enough to block out the sun. He touched no one, saw no one, but the tribe fed him well, better than any of the other children.
All he knew was darkness.
And then, some sixteen, seventeen winters on, when the night was at its longest, Pharamond was dragged from his tent, into a circle of bonfires. The light was blinding, an explosion of colours - red, yellow, white - he had never seen anything so bright. Around him, the fevered chanting of the tribe grew and grew, a cacophony of human voices ringing in his ears.
But none of it compared to the blades that pierced him. Iron and bronze, the blades broke his skin, skewering anything and everything in their way before finally finding their target - his heart. Like a hot knife through butter, the organ was sliced to ribbons right in his chest, and the last thing Pharamond remembers before choking on his own blood, eyes rolling back in his head, was the pain.
It seemed like an eternity, after that, the amount of time he spent floating in absolute nothingness. He didn’t exist. Nothing did. Then, as if on a tether, Pharamond was pulled from the void, back onto this mortal coil.
At first, he couldn’t see, hear, or feel a thing. He’d never been underwater, but he imagined this was how it would be like. And then, slowly but surely, everything started to come into focus. He was in the sky, amongst the clouds, too far up for a human to venture, a formless force that was still too weak to influence the world around him. But as time went by, as the tribe began to believe, his power grew, and he was able to take a physical form. From dust in the wind, Pharamond became a beetle, then a lizard, then a sparrow, then a hawk, until finally, he looked how he did in life.
The tribe had carried his remains from encampment to encampment, though they were no longer anything more than a pile of fragile bones wrapped in furs, having long been picked clean by carrion eaters. They sacrificed animals and children to him, praying for good fortune as they travelled through the lands, and eventually, Pharamond proved to be just what they needed.
The luck of the village; they called him, and for a century or two, the proclamation rang true. Every time they moved, Pharamond would fly ahead in front of them, making sure the road ahead was safe, and ripe with opportunity. When they foraged for food, he would point out the trees bearing the most plentiful fruit. Those who fell ill recovered quickly, the tribe’s children grew up to be strong and healthy, and he learnt how to speak their language. Thanks to his newfound abilities, the nomads prospered.
But as the saying went; all good things must come to an end. Year after year, sacrifices became scarce. The tribe began to grow resistant to the idea of giving up their children, instead resorting to animal carcasses, and even that stopped after a while. Perhaps the tribe believed he would continue to aid them out of the goodness of his heart, or perhaps they simply forgot, but without them upholding their end of the bargain, Pharamond had no reason to stay, and one morning, before the sun rose, he left, taking his own remains with him.
For years, he wandered the earth, though he soon grew weak without the tributes of blood that’d breathed life into him. It was somewhere around the eighth century, when he found himself in Constantinople, that he began to take things into his own hands. Children were snatched from their beds, only to turn up days later on the outskirts of town, seemingly mauled to death by some kind of animal, chunks of flesh ripped from their bodies.
No one suspected the blonde haired, blue eyed Pharamond of being the culprit, and no one questioned him about the small, wooden chest he carried around with him.
In exchange for its children, Pharamond watched over the city. Constantinople, and by extension, the Byzantine Empire flourished, rivalling even the Romans under Trajan’s reign. Of course, he couldn’t be credited with accomplishing such a thing all by himself. It was a combination of sound judgement, formidable armies, and wise kings - the otherworldly intervention of Pharamond could only do so much, after all.
Still, it wasn’t long before Pharamond grew bored, and the salty, ocean breeze which he found refreshing on arrival was beginning to make him sick.
Once again, in the early hours of dawn, he left, taking wing in the form of a red-feathered vulture. Across the ocean, he flew and flew, until he reached the New World - the Americas.
The cycle repeats.
Motive: Pharamond doesn’t have one, apart from his survival. The ceaseless quarrelling between these so-called greater gods isn’t something he’d like to get involved in.
Okay, my internet finally got its shit together, after like, two days. So here's my character, I guess. Forgive me if it makes absolutely zero sense because holy crap, am I exhausted, right now.
Not the most imposing of figures, Tariq stands at a respectable 5’8”, with a lithe, leanly muscled build. Fading scars line his skin, and he walks with a slight limp from a past injury. Still, he carries himself with an air of tepid arrogance and regality, as is common for one of his station. Dark-haired and olive-skinned, it is not hard to notice his Ghiscari heritage, though his accent is a dead giveaway for the unusually oblivious. The wealth Tarik has acquired through his father’s slaving business has allowed him to incubate a taste for the finer things in life. His fingers (two of which are missing from his right hand) are often adorned with golden rings, and he always dresses in the finest embroidered vests, shirts, breeches, and boots money can buy.
“The gleaming of precious jewels, that white, sparkling smile... None of it can hide the blood on his hands, and he’d be a fool to think otherwise.”
“Ours is the blood of ancient Ghis, whose empire was old when Valyria was but a squalling child. You would do well to remember that, my friend, if you fancy keeping your tongue.”
Name: Tariq zo Hazzar, though he’s known to most as Jaqos Vhassinar.
Nickname: -
Age: 28
House: House of Hazzar
Parents: Grizhin zo Hazzar - A sturdy, broad-shouldered Yunkai’i, even in his old age. While he may seem slow and dull-witted, he has a head for business like no other, building up his empire over the years. Sirera Dynion - A noblewoman from Norvos, attracted to Grizhin by his bottomless wealth, rather than any true affection. She left soon after Tariq was born, leaving him in the care of his father and his many servants.
Siblings: He has many half-siblings, though none he particularly cares about.
Personality: At first glance, Tariq might seem like someone you could easily befriend. Disarmingly charismatic, he is exceptionally skilled at talking his way out of any and all situations. But that doesn’t mean that with his playful repartee and downright infectious laugh that he isn’t dangerous - the blood of old Ghis still runs strong in his veins, after all. Cruel, mercurial and self-serving, he doesn’t abide by the rules, he doesn’t play fairly, and he certainly doesn’t let anyone think they can get one up on him. Every thought in his brain is designed toward his purpose, his goal, and anything at hand will be treated like a tool. If there’s any atrocity he won’t commit, it is only because of its impracticality.
That however doesn’t mean he has no soft spot to speak of, it merely is particularly difficult to find. Naturally venomous and aloof, he is used to putting on a variety of faces so as to achieve any means to an end. He won’t hesitate to mock a person’s stupidity and praise it all in one breath. Never assume that what face he puts on is what he truly feels, it'd be the last thing you’d do.
Skills: - Tariq is exceptionally skilled at talking his way in and out of any situation under the sun; courtesy of a lifetime of practice reading body language. Of course, it doesn’t hurt that he has more than enough coin in his pocket to pay off the entirety of the City Watch... twice.
- Fluent in both High Valyrian and the common tongue.
Religion: The Graces
Bio: Born in the city of Yunkai, Tariq has lived in the lap of luxury since day one. The city has since been rebuilt, back to its former glory, nearly a century after Daenerys Targaryen had laid siege. Without her presence, or her dragons, the Wise Masters and their loyalists managed to quell the slave rebellion without much trouble. Of course, there was some permanent damage. The seeds of discord had already been sown amongst the slaves in Yunkai, and it would be a good century or two until they finally gave up their dreams of rebellion. Still, these little skirmishes weren’t anything to worry about - hired mercenaries could take care of them. After all, “mhysa” wasn’t returning to liberate them, was she?
The twelfth of his name, Tariq zo Harraz is the blood of Old Ghis, one of its last, remaining scions. Most of his childhood was spent running around his father’s manse, and playing with the children of the other Wise Masters. He holds little memory of his mother, only vague flickers of her deep, green eyes staring back at him, flecked with gold.
Despite his cushy upbringing, not everything was rosy. In one of the greatest uprisings ever seen in decades, a twelve year-old Tariq was caught out on the streets by a group of slaves. His father found him later that night, collapsed in a ditch, beaten bloody and missing two fingers from his right hand.
Countless slaves were tortured and executed in the following weeks, two for each noble that turned up dead or injured. This incident became known throughout Slaver’s Bay as the Night of the Red Harpy.
Ever since then, Tariq has held a special hatred for the lowborn. His cruelty towards those he deemed socially inferior to him were great, and even his father began to grow concerned with his behaviour. Corpses of slaves would turn up in the streets - eyes missing, hands broken - mutilated beyond recognition. The total body count was never something that came to light, but it was clear that Tariq was very quickly becoming an inconvenience, and that he had to be dealt with.
Sensing that his demise was close, Tariq took as much as he could, before chartering a ship bound for Westeros. When the assassins sent by the Wise Masters showed up at the Harraz estate to slip a dagger between his ribs, he was already gone, with nothing left behind but a single chest of silks.
In Westeros, Tariq made a living as a merchant lord - operating under an alias - in Dorne. After all, the Westerosi were strangely opposed to slavery, and it wouldn’t do him any good if people were to find out, would it? With some coin, he managed to shut up any whistleblowers. Still, he can’t keep an eye on everyone, and rumours of the sanguinary being behind the rebuilding of Vulture’s Roost have been spreading, slowly but surely.
[center][h2]GEEETTTTTTT DUNKED ON[/h2]
[img]http://i1148.photobucket.com/albums/o567/flaywright/7052c337-96e3-438d-bbaf-afc16007c1e8_zpsfyiarndj.jpg[/img]
[i][ 19 - they/them - ISTP - GMT+8 ][/i]
this is phloem and i'm literally the worst
[sub]...forreal tho hmu if you wanna rp[/sub][/center]
<div style="white-space:pre-wrap;"><div class="bb-center"><div class="bb-h2">GEEETTTTTTT DUNKED ON</div><br><img src="http://i1148.photobucket.com/albums/o567/flaywright/7052c337-96e3-438d-bbaf-afc16007c1e8_zpsfyiarndj.jpg" /><br><br><span class="bb-i">[ 19 - they/them - ISTP - GMT+8 ]</span><br><br>this is phloem and i'm literally the worst<br><sub>...forreal tho hmu if you wanna rp</sub></div></div>
