plsdeletemyacc — Roleplayer Guild

Name: Doctor Jupiter Amalarik
Epithet: The Doctor, Vessel of The Great Father
Age: Unknown. Has been around for at least seven decades.
Height: 5'10"
Weight: 162 pounds
Race: Mutant

*Extradimensional Locator- A device capable of opening multiple holes in reality. The amount and size of the portals depends upon how long the locator is charged. It cannot hold a charge for more than a half minute. A single, simple portal can be opened after a second of charging, with a height and width of seven feet. For two portals at once, or one twice that size, the locator requires three seconds. For three portals or a 21x21 foot portal, nine seconds of charging are needed, and so on. The maximum amount of portals that can be created and sustained at one time are thirteen.
The locator can also be used to summon creatures from other planes of existence, preferably the kind of things that are mind-breakingly horrible.

*Heavy Rapier- A four pound, 41 inch combat rapier that can be thrust through thick plate armor. The locator can be attached to the hilt to infuse the weapon with the power to slice rifts through space/time and channel the black energies of strange dimensions.

*The Mutagen- A fluid that when ingested or injected, begins altering the genetic makeup of the victim. Virtually any physical and mental change can be achieved, but it requires preparation to make the right mutagen for the desired effect. If haphazardly introduced to a victim, it can be expected that their end will be long and terrible, a surreal death the likes of which may be seen only in a twisted dream.

*Black Flux Bomb- A square machine similar in size to a backpack. It can be time or remote detonated. It forces the creation of an unstable interdimensional portal, twisting reality until it snaps. The result an implosion of kinetic energy that draws in all physical matter within twenty yards, compacting everything into an ultra dense ball with a diameter of six inches.

*Microfilament Garrote Wire- At the base of the locator is a small metal ball threaded through with wire made from carbon nanotubes. Too thin to be seen as anything but a brief twinkle in the light, sharp enough to shear a man in half as if he were hot butter. Within a compartment of flesh in the Doctor's crotch (replacing sexual organs) is a spare reel from which more wire may be drawn out.

*Warped Bolas- A set of organic bolas. They contain immense muscular power in their fibers, capable of constricting a target to the extend of crushing bones.

*Venom Sabre- A four pound, 35 inch blade whose blood channel is made from a porous, spongy organic material that can be soaked in any substance desired to deliver massive amounts of toxic pain. 

*Orb of Oculus- A device that allows the Doctor to see in great detail, anything happening within two hundred yards of himself.

*Combustion Cannon- A weapon that launches a jet of napalm. It must be hand-loaded with one canister at a time.

*Bag of Holding- A medical bag that can hold any number of items, as it contains within itself a pocket dimension.

*Needle Gun- A small repeater pistol that uses electromagnetic pulses to launch small needles laced with various venoms at incredibly high speeds. The strength of the shot can be increased by charging the magnetic pulse for one second, allowing it to pierce through leathery hide though no harder than that, lest the needle break upon impact. With a cartridge of needles inserted through the handle, it loads very similarly to an ordinary pistol. Fire rate of 3/s normally.

*Warped Bow- A semi-organic longbow with a draw strength of 290 pounds. The tendrils that wind about the bow aid in the draw, allowing the Doctor to fire fast and frequently. The locator can be attached to the grip, so that the bow is augmented with the ability to shoot through dimensions.

*Twin Proton Packs- A duo of large, long ranged weapons meant to be hooked up to the Black Flux Bomb. They harness the destructive energies of the Black Flux to generate massive amounts of electromagnetically accelerated protons. The result is a beam of energy that can melt a human being down into primordial soup. The downside is that each Proton Pack requires ten seconds to charge the beam. The beam can be released as a single large burst that fries everything before it, or the Pack's lens can be adjusted to concentrate the beam into an intense laser bad enough to scythe a house in two.

*Claws- The Doctor's hands, beneath his gloves, are actually retractable claws more akin to the fangs of a viper than fingers. The same is true for his feet, which are also clawed. With his grip he can inject raw mutagen into his opponents, deforming them into things so hideous that the only recourse is to put them out of their unimaginable misery.

*Fucking Damn Needles- An aptly named weapon disguised as the Doctor's gloves. When his claws are retracted, it leaves his fingers looking rather short. As such his rubber gloves come with false finger tips, which are actually plungers that each contain a micro needle and a small amount of some substance or another. When he grips something, the false tips are pushed in and the fluid is ejected through the needles hidden in the plungers.

*Mouth- The Doctor's teeth work just like his claws, injecting nasty crap into punks.

*Potion Bracer- Upon the Doctor's right forearm is a thick band of metal from which protrude a pair of tubes. When pushed in, these tubes inject the Doctor with some very nice shit. One that gives him extreme strength, one that blesses his body with incredible speed and agility.

*Boot Knives- Five inch blades are hidden inside the toe of his left boot and the heel of his right, and jut out with the flick of a small switch on either instep. 

*Source Tank- A tank worn on the back, which can be filled with nearly any fluid. It can convert the fluid inside into gas.

*Gas Belt- The Doctor's belt buckle is a vent from which he can expel various gasses, depending on what he fills the source tank with.

*Belly Rape- There are six nodes on the Doctor's abdomen. From each node can a five-foot tentacle extrude, bearing on the tip a hooked fang or claw that can inject mutagen into an opponent. They are stronger than they look, and can burrow deep into a victim's body to get at their vitals.

The Doctor is a man of average stature, with an average face and an average expression, which is the only expression he uses. He can be seen most often wearing either scrubs or a surgeon's overcoat, both colored the mottled dark brown of an old scab. He always wears a pair of thick rubber gloves and boots, and is rarely seen without his brass monocle on, whose multiple green tinted lenses function as a sort of scope. His skin at a distance seems tanned, but up close one may see that in actuality, the dark hue is due to his flesh being loose knit on a molecular level, with a feel like cold putty. His eyes are as without human emotion as his face. Fat horizontally elliptical pupils, like those of a goat, set within a lurid dark orange hazel that seems to glisten and gleam in the dark. His teeth are unnaturally white and fake looking, and for good reason. They are dental caps set over his real, hook-like teeth. His hair is a sickly gray, matted into a ponytail and a tassel that hangs over the eye that his monocle doesn't hide. Beneath his heavy scrubs he is built like a dark god, compact webs of formidable muscle straining just under his damp hide. Innumerable stitches, stretch marks, discoloration, and scars coat his entire body below the head, the results of his constant self-experimentation, a kind of self made Frankenstein's monster. His abs are puckered with nodes, instead of genitalia, there is only a tubular mound. His hands and feet, from the forearms and shins down, are no longer even remotely human in appearance. Twisted black skin and alien sinew coagulates into stubby, devilishly strong digits that can bend any way desired, with venomous inch long retractable claws. There are no venom sacs from which the claws draw their nastiness. They secrete the Doctor's own blood, which is a pure form of the vile mutagen. His blood, by the way, has roughly the same look and feel as Tang that has been left out in the sun for far too long. Yes, that's right, Tang. That shitty drink mix that you can make a sandwich out of.

Even before the Doctor had become a monster, he was brilliant. He had a keen understanding of quantum mechanics on such a level that he could create and reverse engineer inventions capable of manipulating space/time or turning humans into chickens. After he changed, he gained intelligence the likes of which no mortal can attain. The force which acts upon him has even greater intelligence, but in a manner of speaking, it doesn't have that much to work with. Only so much can be done with a human brain before it reaches its limit, but regardless, it is impressive. At a glance the Doctor can evaluate a human being down to their bare essentials, gain an intimate understanding of how virtually any machine or device functions, and devise intricate plans so diabolical that no number of righteous heroes, even with all their plot armor, could possibly hope to overcome. His strength and speed is vastly superior to what any man could gain at such a size. His physical capabilities are so great that, in effect, they simulate what a man could do if he were able to perform dissections and surgical operations with his bare hands. The Doctor can break an adult sternum in two down the middle and pry the torso apart as if he had a pair of pericardial shears, can twist femurs apart and pop open skull caps. He can chase down wild animals with his foot speed and tear them apart just as easily. His movements are as utterly decisive as his mind, his actions immediate and with no hesitation. He has no need to take up valuable time thinking things over, for he knows already, has known for a long time, precisely what he had wanted to do during this very moment. 

The Doctor can heal much more quickly by consuming biomatter, assuming it contains the right amount of proteins, acids, and nutrients to restore vitality to the damaged areas. He can recover from any nonlethal wound within two day at most. As he has three hearts, it can be assumed that the only reliable way to kill him is to destroy his brain.

The Doctor has no personality, at least not one of any sort that could be defined in relation to what Earthly humans have. At best he can pretend to have emotion, but he's a poor actor. Most of the time he is aloof and soft spoken, standing in the background and coldly observing all before him. There is no hate, as we know it. Can malice be called the desire to hurt? Yes, perhaps there is malice then. But it is not pain that the Doctor wishes to bestow upon the lower creatures. He wants to give them something that is beyond their capacity to comprehend. He wants to become them, and for them to become him, and for them all to change and become something else. He is the vessel of that change, the one who works towards it and will eventually reach it, and if you can define sadness by not wanting something to be that is, then you could say he is saddened that those whom you would call his "victims" do not enjoy his efforts to make change. 

To the Doctor, people are as incomprehensible to him as he is to them. As such, he does his best to imitate what they are. He talks like a gentleman and tries to act like one too. Unfortunately, it's easy enough for a human to identify a monster. It isn't difficult to see through the Doctor, but acting on it is a different matter. If you see a horrible thing pretending to be a man talking to you, do you call it out, or return its false smile and then quickly leave, that you may banish the thoughts of such a thing from your mind as quickly as possible? You certainly don't lay such a thing bare on the table. If you take away the façade, that doesn't leave you with a monster pretending to be a man. That leaves you with naught but a monster that is now freshly inclined to behave as it truly is.

But, that still harkens the question. Is the Doctor evil? It is simple to ascertain that. His means to an end, do they cause great distress, terror, and agony? Yes. Is his end worth it? To him it is. To the rest of us, it is a fate that leaves the worst of the Faustian hells face down in the dust. Perhaps the point is stretched too far with the whole "you are too simple a mortal to get it" thing. But yeah. It'd require a consciousness exponentially greater than that of the wisest man to have ever lived to grasp just how pants-shittingly bad this fucker is.

Amalarik was born out in the sticks, the only child of a simple family. He was an odd duck, quiet and more often than not missing from supper or bedtime. His parents assumed he was merely a free spirit and a free thinker. True as these assumptions were, they were far from the full truth. He was on another level, filled with an ambition so strong he scared himself when he thought about it, the black electricity of destiny crackling at his fingertips and shooting through his veins. He wanted to peel /it/ back. Peel life back, like a grapefruit. Uncover the genuine honest to God truth about what the Universe was made of, what thoughts and life were made of, what reality itself was. Not a day passed where he didn't seriously ask himself those fundamental questions about the meaning of life. He learned everything he could, absolutely ate it all up, and then began building on what those alchemists and scientists of old had left behind. He became very well acquainted with biology. His parents found that out early on, for he had vivisected them before moving out. He had to see what a human was like inside first hand, and in the privacy of the family home there could be no greater chance at so soon a point in time. Had he not the mourning of loss when he killed his own mother? He did, and it broke his heart to do it. He did it anyways. He even learned to like his job later on, but during his childhood, he prayed for death. He knew in his heart that he could not kill himself, and that the path set for him at birth was not to be denied. He simply had no choice. His was a life guided by something greater than the heart. He merely wanted, at his very core, to find out what he was being guided by.

He found out twenty-two years later, at the age of thirty-seven. When he did, his desire to die was renewed tenfold. It was at that point in time his hair went gray, but obviously not from age. It is an old maid's tale that when subjected to impossible fear and stress, your hair can turn white. No. Not quite white after all. What makes the Doctor move now, what makes him walk and talk and do things, isn't the same as what moves us. He is subject to a force outside of our known reality, and until he opens all planes and dimensions to its influence, allowing access to the ripe anima that flows through all things that live, he will not be easily stopped.
Diary, Sixth Age, 12th of Bennath

There are "Gods" out there. People worship them, obey them, but to me they just don't seem to be quite up to the task. I believe, nay, know for a fact that they are nothing but imperfect idiots with great power, and that is all. Past those ones though, I have heard other tales. Tales of absolute entities that are perfect and pure, or at least what one would call a complete package. Sometimes I wonder if the Devil exists. I wonder if God exists. If not God, certainly the Devil. But then, are they not just figureheads? Idols, stand-ins? Who knows what is really out there, if we can even know it? 

Soon, I might.

I've succeeded in opening the Gate, and I've seen the Seal. The headache has not yet diminished, and despite the extremity of it, I feel no inclination to perform a self prognosis. I no longer care. If I die, all my work will be in vain, but I don't care. I've wanted to cry for so long. I can't. I'm not allowed to. It is all out of my hands now. The Seal is wearing thin. I'm wearing thin. I don't want to turn on the Flux Resonation Condenser again. Please, God. Stop me.

---

Diary, Sixth Age, 16th of Bennath

The headache is gone. I've reopened the Gate and regretfully, returned alive. I'm seeing things now, even after having turned off my creation. Afterimages? Am I losing my mind? Even as I write, I have to ignore it all. Ignore the draggling thing pulling itself across the tiles of my floor, this "organism" which began staring at me not two seconds ago with eyes that look like oil. It reminds me of when I was innocent. Everything was so clear. I knew what I wanted to do. Then... God... Everything turned rotten. I want out. Kill me God. Kill me God. It's still looking at me. I'm just writing to ignore it now. I can't look up. I don't want to see it again. Last time I looked up, the thing had become my long dead mother.

*There is scrawling line, as if the quill was jerked sharply to one side*

I had to get up and walk past my mothe the organism on the floor to turn my machine off. Organism? Isn't it an illusion, a delusion? God, please. I don't even have to turn my machine on manually anymore. It turns on by itself. I don't think I'm in control anymore. Was I ever in control? Is it you, God? Are you doing something to me, God?

---

Dirayr sixths age stpetober 15

the table is leaking

klill me

everythigns is so fast is so fast movin itsf all gone its gone im gone im gond gon....

---

Diary, Sixth age, 31st of Ire of Phyrrys

This is my last entry. I've recovered from my stupor. I am now fine. Nearly a month in bed required to recover, but I am fine now. During that time, I had such dreams. In one Mother returned, full of worms, and told me to come back. Back to where? In another, I had gone blind and deaf, and could only sense many wet feelers prodding and tickling me. They felt too large to belong to any kind of insect, but then, such is the way of dreams. Nothing makes sense in them. Other things came to my bedside, but I dare not mention what obscenities I saw lest this diary enter into the public eye and tarnish my good standing. It is amusing that at this point, even when I have come so far, I still care about what others think. I suppose that is just a part of being human. Anyways everything has worked out with no complications. It is queer that my hair has become gray, when last I recall it had been a fair blonde. I have little memory of recent goings on, but then again, are not memories unreliable? I care not to think too hard about it. I don't want to. I can feel the hair on the back of my neck prickling whenever such thoughts cross my mind. I am better now. I've studied myself in the mirror this morning. Few notable changes aside from the hair, and I can see that my health has returned, even if my recent memories have not. I modified the machine, tuned it properly. When I test it tonight, the frequency should be perfect. Finally I'm done. Tomorrow I will kill myself. It will all be over. I will have seen it, and I'll be done. Done with it.

---

*This can only be assumed to be another entry, despite lacking a date. The impeccable penmanship is no longer as it was. It looks now like the scribbles of a five year old.*

momma momma tablestIllleaking don'tdoIt

I cant dieleave  wont let me
for th sake of what I stillhave I'll keep tryin to  write.
diarydiary I write to you the floormelts the wals cry I Goodbye Forever

The Warped Titans are a genetically altered version of an Abyssal Titan, which possess incredibly durable "skin". This was achieved by drastically altering the makeup of their genetic structure to improve tensile strength while retaining elasticity to keep movement fluid and generally possible. The Warped Titans retain all natural abilities present in standard Abyssal Titans. These abilities are,

*Interdimensional travel
      The Warped Titans are "racially" capable of tearing open dimensional rifts in the fabric of space, revealing the sub-dimension of the Abyss that exists parallel to our own surface dimension. It stretches far further, acting as a glue between the null of the Void and all other dimensions.

*Arcane Detection
      Being creatures comprised of primarily magic on top of physical matter, the Warped Titans are very sensitive to magic and are easily capable of tracking the source and destination of teleportation spells, as well as being drawn to active mana fonts.

*Advanced Casting
      No, these creatures are not likely to appear on the hottest eSports channel. Instead, they harness the corrupted energies that make up their essence and channel it in to raw arcane, which is then focused in to whatever spells are demanded of them. Being creatures of magic, they can easily achieve advanced spells such as moderate-scale destruction or creation.

UNIQUE:
*Hive Mind
     The good Doctor has blessed these creatures with union, bringing their lone consciousness in to a collective sentience with himself. Immediate sharing of information and peerless coordination is now possible between these creatures and the Doctor.

Name: Jeoffrey Sicarius
Epithet: The Dominus, The War-Beast, Nightmare, Fry, Ugly
Age: 46
Height: 5'9"
Weight: 198 pounds
Race: Human [Wight]

The War-Beast's armor is an efficient blend of leather and metal. The primary setup is a hard-leather bodice, with a soft-leather splitrobe cascading down from the belt, often around otherwise unarmored legs (sometimes leather chaps, usually trackpants). The design is to keep the user mobile and light on their feet, while offering moderate defense to vital areas. These are further reinforced with segmented iron plates that are strapped to the leather bodice, the core pieces forming a vest of armor that lets the user retain flexibility. Optional additions are iron spaulders strapped to the biceps. Iron can be replaced by steel. Often, this armor is accompanied with a thick tattered cloak for warmth in cold climates and further intimidation purposes.

The Dominus' armor is amost the opposite. There is more armoring on the knees and the shoulders than there is on the midriff, left almost exposed save for blackened leather. As the armoring ascends up the body it is layered with a few bolts of steel, one overtop of the other, with the bottom layers starting over the shoulders, and the uppermost layers finishing at the collar. This again retains flexibility and offers almost completely free movement of the arms and letting blades skitter off without worry of getting caught. A steel plateskirt replaces the split-robe from the War-Beast armor, leaving the thighs beneath relatively unarmored, though plating is present on the calves.

{ Also called "retractable claw, retractable blade, ret'blade, ret'stab and tool bracer.}
The Sicarius wristblade is a long, thick leather bracer that runs from the wrist all the way up to just below the elbow, with a pair of thin iron sheets on the underside that form a pocket for the blades.
The blades themselves are activated with a common bolt latch, identical to the ones you would see on the inside of doors. To pull them down, one need only slide down the latch and twist it aside, to prevent it from falling back in. 

The blades themselves are highly customisable, and vary wildly from member to member. Some Sicarius sport overarm models, whilst others prefer side or underarm variants.
The latch within is attached to a metal bar, in which three deep screw-holes have been created for the types of blade you desire to place into them.
Lockpicks, serated blades and meat hooks have all been used, as well as the traditional double edged stilletto blade featured on the common bracer. If something can fit the screw, it can be attached, so long as it's weight won't damage the leather.

Originally designed for the purposes of handshake-assassinations during the Sicarius wars, the wristblade has evolved into a much more versatile tool, becoming not only a weapon, but a key, an escape device and a climbing aid, depending on what variants the Sicarius attatches. When using unique tools, it is impractical to use more than one on the same claw, since they will clash and compromise the efficiency of each respective appliance.
Which tools are fixed on the ret'bracers are specified at the start of the match.

A tool core to this Sicarius' kit, the Magebane was once an eastern-styled blade made of mithril[essentially weapons-grade titanium]. It was imbued with ancient glyphs that inspired the weapon with a hunger for the arcane. In the presence of foreign magicks the blade would almost sing with glee, humming as it yearned to feast. Its edge was capable of cleaving through the arcane threads composing a spell and rendering it an unstable mass of raw energy comparable to nuclear fission. This effect was not unique to fresh spells. Glyphs, being of magical origin or composed primarily of magic, illusions and the like were also susceptible to the Magebane's influence. The resulting backlash of unstable energy depended on how pure and how potent the spell was. Weaker spells hastily prepared and thrown made for a pretty lightshow as they dissolved in to the air, however stronger ones would react akin to a bomb. Raw concussive energy lashing out from the center of the spell's last location, wreaking havoc on physical matter and leaving behind arcane radiation that could mutate or warp spells, organic and inorganic matter. After the weapon was introduced to the physical manifestation of a creature of pure energy, the resulting explosion shattered the Magebane, and the weapon has been refashioned in to a secondary Sicarius dagger, an Athame. Unfit for physical combat, its primary use is for counteracting magic.

Jeoffrey's wedding ring is an otherwise normal gold band  fit over his left ring finger, with an inscription in latin, "For my darling Tzo." It has been enchanted with the ability to act as the gate to the shadow realm, a subrealm layered overtop of our own. People, objects, entire structures and terraformed landscapes may be hidden within the shadow realm, inaccessible and unknown to the "surface-dwellers". Imagine it like a one-way window in regards to interaction. Those in the Shadow Realm may view the surface world in its entirety, and even minorly influence it (Open doors, etc,) though cannot interact with surface-dwellers. Jeoffrey has almost mastered the use of the gate, and can effectively "shadow-dance" by warping in and out through combat and for general travel. He has a nice manor there, come see it some time. It doubles as a Ring of Visibility, and allows him to peer in to the shadow realm almost passively, a sort of double-vision.

A traditional flanged mace, with a heavier design for better impact. This has been customized to have a spike protruding from the otherwise flat tip.

A solid piece of metal with a double-folded head, this sword is weighted to be top-heavy. The handle is beaten to resemble a bastard sword's, wrapped in leather. Single-edged and sharpened, it's dense and capable of being used in one hand or two. Capable of hacking through platemail and burying itself in shields, it's a hell of an anti-armor weapon. Jeoffrey has designed his own specialized weapon to be more of a sax-blade (Sword-ax), and primarily uses the sax-blade while in Dominus. War-Beast uses traditional.

It's a halberd. 3'8 long, hits things.

The War-mace is a large twohanded mace which is built around necrotic essence produced by Jeoffrey. He's able to channel necromantic essence through the weapon to empower his attacks to inspire rot and decay in his victims, or to release it in the air and recruit the dead beneath the dirt/walking the earth to his cause.

Jeoffrey's arbalest is a high-powered seige crossbow capable of launching large, heavy bolts at destructive speeds. Standard bolts have been proven capable of powering through moderate steel armor, though shattering in the process. Specialized bolts may be capable of more, to the design of the bolt. It comes with a crank and a stirrup, though the stirrup can be replaced by a fixed bayonet.

Well, it's a flail. A morningstar on a chain, it's a momentum weapon that fucks your day up something fierce. Jeoffrey has one where the spikes are replaced with meathooks, and another which is really just a lit oil lantern. Imagine getting molotov cocktailed while also getting smashed with the remains of a lantern. That's that.

Traditional to all Sicarius is their own style of dagger. Jeoffrey's is a full-tang knife styled similarly to a kukri, with a defender's guard.

The Gungir is a spear, just named all fancy. Counterweight from the pommel allows the Gungir to double as a quarterstaff, acting as a momentum weapon as well as a stab tool.

These two come hand in hand, and are the primary weapons for unarmored FFA ventures. The whip is fashioned out of the spine of an Abyssal demon, which offers no anomalous properties save for being more durable than a leather whip. The spine is naturally rather jagged and spiky, and so rugburn techniques are very destructive on bare tissue, as expected. A basic iron hand-ax pairs with this mainhand weapon to serve as a close-quarters tool or a way to end a foe after they've been snared.

In case of seiges, the Sicarius have a specially designed adamant tower shield for multipurpose combat. Being Adamant, it's dense and very durable, offering supreme defense against arrows, bolts, physical spells and can easily tank a few strikes from anti-armor weaponry on its own. Spikes dotting its face aren't just for cosmetics, but instead serve as a deterrant for people thinking of throwing themselves against its surface, while also acting as a wonderful ramming tool. Comes with six small ringlets for javelins, and two small ridges on the bottom so it may be lodged in earth and cowered behind while spells or ranged weaponry is prepared. In a pinch, grab it and beat a fucker's head in.

For general warfare, the blade-shield is the favorite of Jeoffrey. Also made of adamant, it lacks much of the mass of the tower shield, being just a touch bigger than a standard roundshield. Its spikes curve inwards some, more like claws than offensive tools, and can be used to latch on to opponents smaller shields entirely, or the rims of larger shields, to rip them away. Blades sprout from the bottom of this wonderful tool and line the rims, giving its punch a much more lethal oomph to it as well as being wonderful toe-nabbers.

(Also the advanced Cleaver Sword)
The Deflector is a double-folded steel shield fixed firmly to the left forearm. The primary purpose of this shield over others is its utility. It's very light and durable for its size and built to bat aside weapons. This one comes with two spikes from the top of the shield for brutal punches.

Caltrops are a cleverly designed quick-deploy trap meant to create artificially impassable terrain. Shaped so that no matter how they land there'll always be at least one spike pointing up, these make footwork in metal boots all but impossible and will pierce near any other material if stepped on, crippling the victim.

Jeoffrey's casual weaponry are a plethora of knives either on his belt or hidden in little shadow-realm pockets on his person. The knives vary between being weighted throwing knives with a length of 10 inches, and kukri-esque daggers (second image).

Jeoffrey possesses an Endomorph build, stocky and strong with plenty of scars marring his features. He's rather humble in some regards, as despite his extensive wealth and access to jewellery, he prefers to dress like the slumsters back home. Dark browns and greens, muddy steel-toed boots and baggy pants. His hair is unkept and slightly dirty, clumping together as it gets longer, and his van dyke is much of the same. His teeth are yellowed but amazingly not broken, though grainy. His face is one of the first things people notice about him, for two reasons. One, being that the entire left half of his face is horribly burnt and has come out leathery and looking almost stretched, with a faint red tint to it after minor healing was done. The second being that his eyes are warped in to a window of the Void, a mesmerising view of black nothingness that seems to draw in light which may never escape. This is a passive effect of the Wedding Ring. While rarely ever viewed, there is a scrawling, inky cursive S creeping up the underside of his left forearm, wispy lined tendrils curling around to the front and back around to meet themselves. This was once a magical glyph permanently binding him to the hivemind of the Sicarius family, though is now rendered inert with the destruction of the Family's magicks.

Human-None of Jeoffrey's traits will surpass human limits unless otherwise specified.

Sicarius combat-Being a member of the infamous Sicarius family, Jeoffrey has almost a total mastery over melee combat. He has an intimate understanding of the body and is greatly in tune with his own. He's comparatively quick to pick up on new martial arts, as well as identifying styles and adapting to them. His reflexes are heightened extensively, and intense training has resulted in advanced muscle memory allowing him to fight even without immediately recognizing it.

Sicarius thieving-Just as he's a masterful combatant, he's an expert thief. Jeoffrey is able to pick locks like his teeth, often going through locked doors without slowing down.

Wightdom-As a Wight, Jeoffrey walks the path of neither life nor death. Relatively comparable to limbo, death for him is but an inconvenience, and much harder to achieve than it is for mortals. Due to the nature of the perfect necromancy that powers his body, things like organ damage will not slow the Sicarius down for long, though it may have an immediate effect such as a bullet to the head giving him pause. Extreme bodily damage is the way to stop him. He is also not considered "undead" or "unholy", leaving him no more affected by blessings and holy fervor than other standard humans.

Shadow-Dancer-With aid from his wedding ring, Jeoffrey is capable of warping in and out of the Shadow Realm even mid-motion. This causes it to appear as if he's elegantly dancing from the sudden appearance and disappearances. Due to the Shadow Realm's nature, he's capable of using this to smash through windows or bust down doors without affecting the surface world's twin.

Magic Intolerance-Due to his wightdom, the arcane arts generally don't answer to him being as he's technically locked in limbo. Magic is almost entirely unattainable to him barring the specialized enchantments, and of course necromancy.

Necromancy-Being Jeoffrey's only attainable magic, he is of course very good with it. He's capable of raising the dead, forcing decay and rot in his victims, deadening limbs and organs, and can even wight other people to varying degrees, either inspiring anywhere from 1-100% Wightdom on them, which can have varying effects on the body as certain things shut down/go in limbo and others continue normally.

Anger-Due to his magic intolerance, Jeoffrey reacts poorly to magic being used around him. This causes his head to throb as a headache forms and, depending on the potency of the magic/how many spells are slung about, this can escalate to a crushing migraine. He reacts very poorly to this pain and instead of being crippled by it, he gets angrier, with his reflexive combat skills raising as his temper gets worse. The magic fueling his Wightdom and the enchantments on his Magebane and Skillcape do affect this, leaving him at a base anger percentage of 7%.

Slayer-While other members of the Sicarius chose to seek professional recognition of their specific combat knowledge, Jeoffrey sought to be recognized for his overall skill. As such he took up Slaying as a hobby, where he's assigned a certain number of monsters to kill before being given a new task. This helps both quell the accumulating forces of the targeted creatures, and gives Jeoffrey practice identifying weak spots in both natural and supernatural foes, as well as training his body and mind in combat, sometimes multi-way fighting. Eventually he was heralded as a Slayer Master himself and granted a Cape of Accomplishment, made out of Raharni Wildcat fur. The fur of the Raharni Wildcat is extremely durable, and can withstand far greater wear and stress than that of most other animals, as well as conduct magic enchantments such as those used in the Capes of Accomplishment. The enchantment of his Cape of Accomplishment (changed from the RS application which is useless outside of the actual game) grants him the ability to deliver a single, superpowered crippling blow against his target, once per foe. Against a magical enemy, paired with the Magebane enchantment, Jeoffrey is capable of completely sundering his opponent's ability to use magic.

Con-man-On his own time, Jeoffrey took up the life of a con-man. He can stack decks, palm cards, rig dice, misdirect and perform general slight of hand so flawlessly he could rob Barad-dûr blind.

Snake-tongue-Jeoffrey understands 12 different languages, spanning across the human realm to dwarven, elven, goblin(which encompasses other green-skinners), and gnome. He spits lies like a snake and russian like a cat, fluent in 5 of his 12 known languages.

Jeoffrey is a sociopath. He is genuinely incapable of feeling love, attachment, devotion or commitment to anything save for himself and a very very select few. Through a complex sequence of mental gymnastics he has also managed to completely repress his childhood memories, believing himself to be a prophecized champion of the Sicarius, due to his oldest attainable memory being of his emergence from the Jolly Boar Inn holding the head of his Abbas' rival in his hand. Anything other than his total ascendance to the top of the Sicarius ladder is inconceivable to him, and his malicious mind is always mulling over what he can do next to become the Dominus even while sleeping.

Aside from that, Jeoffrey is a slumster. Born and raised until adulthood in the run-down back-alleys of a thriving city, his accent has managed to stick with him even so many years later, skipping or misusing words, cutting enunciation in favor of blending two-to-five words together in a nigh incomprehensible garble, he's half viewed as a lunatic in his mad rantings. Though underneath that crazed exterior it's important to remember that a brilliant sociopath is brewing endless ploys to kill, maim, torture and climb.

After a run-in with a powerful Titan who ripped his life from him and, if not for the quick work of his necromancer, would have killed him then and there, Jeoffrey's mind tends to blank every so often. Thoughts will be interrupted, awareness of self and surroundings can fade and return sporadically, and he can easily wind up distracting himself with thoughts of his long-lost Tzo.

Jeoffrey is a slumster through-and-through. Born raised and shaped by the back-alley brawls of the otherwise reputable city of Varrock, he was raised alongside an only friend, Cyrus. They did everything together, from playing to sparring to exploring and even stealing. While Cyrus was raised to be an altar boy and later a priest, Jeoffrey was free to choose his own path, and idolized the town guard for the way they always managed to win. And so that's what he aspired to be. Growing up to work under the Town Guard Captain, he spent most of his time patrolling the market and occasionally slacking off in the church to see his friend. This habit brought him in to the wrong place at the wrong time. A Sicarius recruitment drive saw the only two inhabitants of the Church beaten, bagged and dragged across the continent to a mountain camp where they were subsequently beaten again and introduced to the life of Servus. Cyrus and Jeoffrey struggled, desperate to survive, but only one was meant to. Jeoffrey had combat experience, he had survival training, Cyrus had.. nothing. Cyrus perished. Cyrus perished and Jeoffrey lived on, struggling against the odds as new and more devastating challenges were thrown at him. From spars with other Servus to spars with the blooded Sicarius, he had to win, or he would die. With those options, what could he do? He won. Each Lexicon training excersize, each hunting session, each survival-of-the-fittest. 

Eventually disasters struck at the Sicarius. The return of their arch-enemies, their opposites, the Longclaws. Suddenly Lexicon excersizes weren't enough. Field training, attacks on villages, towns. One such field excersize saw Jeoffrey escaping their clutches. He had bided his time and made his escape, fleeing in to the city of Varrock which he knew like the back of his hand, a homefield advantage. After evading capture, he felt a.. yearning. A yearning for something more. The Sicarius conditioning was taking effect, and he lusted to prove himself to Rai and Domovoi. During his time of freedom he began laying traps, wandering and researching and stalking taverns to see a glimpse of them. He'd read enough, he knew what their code was. Eventually he found one, a lower scout. The scout was lost the moment Jeoffrey got behind him and all the sensitive information he was carrying was claimed. His body taken to Varrock, thrown in a rented room to rot. With that information he found others, and they had info on the next. Eventually he attracted the attention of the Longclaw's head, Ran, and was contacted. Jeoffrey issued an open challenge, a one-on-one. That was when contact was reestablished with the Sicarius and a vague demand for them to come to the Jolly Boar was made. They came, angry, only to see a flood of Longclaw entering the building. Of course chaos was bound to ensue.. and as the Sicarius slaughtered the Claws below, Ran Longclaw entered a death brawl with a lowly Servus on the top floor. Ran didn't last long. He fell to Jeoffrey's bastard sword and was beheaded. Ran's guards went up in flames from a molotov, and Jeoffrey broke through a window to escape the building as it slowly began to burn.

A week. A week had passed since his abduction with the Sicarius. They worked fast, and Jeoffrey worked faster. That same day he allowed himself to be taken by the Sicarius again and was brought back to the camp. He was brought before Rai, and delivered Ran's head. Rai's response was shock, and eventually, approval. Jeoffrey was blooded in to the Sicarius, the fastest ascension through the ranks in their recorded history, and he never looked back.

Of course, there's more.. But you aren't interested in that. Are you?

Skraegorn is a large black-scaled dragon easily measuring 30 feet tall with a wingspan of 50 feet, the daughter of its namesake, which wreaked havoc on a kingdom for years. Skraegorn was found just as it was hatching in the depths of a dungeon, and was quickly shepherded away to be raised in secrecy. Corrupted by Jeoffrey's necrotic essence, Skraegorn is a Dracolich, a dragon similarly treading Undeath like Jeoffrey.

Skraegorn is capable of casting its own magic as well as belching the equivalent of napalm, which carries a distinct emerald hue to it.

Name: Richard Everetts
Titles: Sir, The One-Eyed Dragon, Old Man
Age: 85
Height: 5'10 (5'11 without a hunch)
Weight: 158lbs
Race: Human

Richard's cane is of standard steel, topped with a large rounded sapphire. The butt of his cane is sharpened to a dangerous point, and the first few inches underneath the sapphire topping is a wrapping that allows the cane to double as a sword, with the sapphire acting as a counterweight. This weapon is a backup in case he's caught without his rapier on-hand, as he always carries his cane.

The weapon of choice of the One-Eyed Dragon, Richard's dueling rapier is primed for combat against most any foe. It's rather light at only three pounds, 41 inches long and made of incredibly durable carbon fiber steel, leaving it a nightmare for all but the densest of metals.

A falchion made of steel and tempered with a secret method guarded closely by the White Knights, Richard's original weapon has a nasty modification to it, being a barbed hook reaching backwards after the peak of the blade. It adds a bit of weight to the otherwise light weapon though the trade-off is exceptionally useful.

A simple white steel shortsword, it works in a pinch.

Richard's White Knight Commander uniform, circa Bravo Company era.

Richard's White Knight uniform, circa Silver Star era.

Richard's fancy silk suit.

Richard Everetts is a lean figure, standing proud even in his old age. His hair is greying though a fair bit of it still clings to its color, more brownish down by the nape of his neck than it is atop his skull. Aside from wrinkles there are very few marks on his skin, no visible scars and his beard is in good standing. His eye is a bright blue and possesses a jovial glint to it, with a smile almost always adorning his face. Richard walks with a limp, and there is a slight hunch to his posture. Despite his frail demeanor Richard is still quite healthy and has kept himself in as peak a physical condition as he can muster, which happens to take many by surprise. He takes care of himself. Beneath his eyepatch there is still an eye, however it's been stricken pure white and a demonic curse laden on it, leaving a crimson branding of the flames of Zamorak where his pupil should be.

Richard is an incredible warrior, at his peak having been able to take on five brutish members of a terrorist organization with his clever swordplay. Training as both a knight and a fencer has lead him to be a world-class duelist with surprising speed and agility. His accuracy is incredible and the lack of depth perception by his crippled eye has shown to be no hindrance to him, as he's been seen carving arrows out of the air with a simple shortsword. He has proven himself able to slip past an opponent's guard without them even realizing until the adrenaline wears off and shock sets in, and can clear distances alarmingly fast. What he makes up for in speed and accuracy he lacks in strength, often the underdog when it comes to direct matches of sheer force.

His patched eye is a blessing in a curse, in that when a mind-rending curse was lain upon him as an act of ironic vengeance, he was "gifted" the ability to see in to the future, in to every future. After two decades of isolation struggling to overcome the curse placed on him he is able to rather accurately predict immediate events, such as if a shot is coming in and from what angle, where it's aimed. Richard has become a bullet-timer, and should his eyepatch come off, his foresight is broadened beyond just projectiles.

After a brief time spent with a clan of advanced mages Richard has been taught an easy, immediate spell that summons a shield to completely negate a single attack/effect without fail, however it is so draining on his spirit that it takes him 10 minutes to gather enough spiritual energy to call it forth again.

Richard Everetts is a jolly old man, always wearing a smile and offering pleasantries and compliments to those around him. The happiness is genuine, for after the time it took to overcome his curse he found a new appreciation for life and all the joys it brings, a rather startling contrast compared to the anger he felt before. But deep inside he still holds that anger, and in the midst of battle where pleasantries are scarce, the anger bubbles up and he mercilessly cuts down all before him.

Richard Everetts' life is that of a neverending failure. From his childhood he was always the shadow to his older brother Jason, the lackey that followed him along and supported his big brother's ideas. This was a truth even in to adulthood, where at the age of 25 he followed his brother in to rivaling a conglomerate known as Avery Enterprises. The promise of a greater, more friendly business attracted many and at first Everetts Enterprises was looking to be a wonderful success, but it swiftly was stomped out by Brock Avery and his family who swept across all the Everetts owned and claimed it for themselves. Left all but penniless, the two brothers resorted to banditry for a week until, after jumping a guard patrol, they were able to secure themselves some armor that fit them quite well after some adjustments. They boasted their might in taverns, daring any to step up and on occasion leaping to crush a malicious witch or overly-machismo warrior in the hopes they'd be "discovered" and picked up by a kingdom. Well, eventually that hope came true and the two brothers found themselves at the feet of the King of Asgarnia, who challenged them who so openly assaulted patrons in the city of Falador to duel his best knights in fair combat. Richard, who had always been on the front lines of their bar-capades, kept even footing with his opponent and eventually caught him off guard with a firm shield-punch which was called in to question afterwards but deemed fair. Jason was not quite so lucky and nearly ran himself through when his bracing failed him and he tripped. The King was impressed by Richard's honorable ferocity in combat and offered him a quickened squirehood, while Jason was turned away.

Richard powered through Squirehood and after only two years saw himself Knighted. It wasn't long after that before he put in a request to start his own Chapter of Knights and was approved, and thus he created the Order of the Silver Star. Recruitment was slow as Squires often chose the more generic main Chapter instead of the fresher more inexperienced squad, and so Richard took to enlisting people of his own choosing behind the backs of the Main Chapter, with his brother being one of the first to get pulled off the streets. The Silver Star debuted in their first war when word came that an ancient Zamorakian emperor named Russia was leading a vengeful assault on a neighboring Kingdom's capital, and the Silver Star dispatched without approval or even true recognition from the Crown. Richard's ambition got the better of him and while the first three hours of the war saw a total routing of Russia's forces, hellish beastial people declaring themselves the "Worshippers" stormed through the city from the dead wilderness-lands to the north, riding armored wolves with scales like a dragon and carving through everybody who wasn't a Worshipper with ease. Their crimson weapons gleamed in the dying light and little saw what was happening. The Order of the Silver Star lived and died on that same day, with Richard being the only survivor due to his observational skills allowing him to combat these crimson weapons by parrying their flats instead of meeting them edge-on.

He returned to Falador alone, on foot, with no Order to his name, no brother to share his bloodline, and the only fire still lit within him being the burning desire to know how to better combat blades that cut through steel. He needed to learn to fence. Richard was honorably discharged from the Knights due to his appalling misconduct and was banished from the City of Falador for five years, his only saving grace being that he marched selflessly in the aid of another kingdom, and in opposition of the forces of Zamorak. He had pleaded to be allowed his armor and weapon as a reminder of his shame and on the grounds that he would not don them again, he was granted them. Richard returned home, a small house far to the south of Falador within the woods on the precipice of the primitive Goblin tribelands, a manor called Blackreach. As Richard practiced his swordsmanship in isolation he found himself to be the unlucky one residing in the spot chosen for a colossal Demon flash-mob, a destructive appearance of up to five large demons hell-bent on wreaking as much havoc as they could. Richard was caught off guard, dazed by the flashfire and the sudden obliteration of his home, but he lept to fight with almost suicidal abandon. His practice with swordplay proved to be vital as he carved through three of the four Demons with his blessed white falchion, and as his muscles tired from the strenuous combat, the fourth pressed its advantage. A fatal error lead to Richard lunging past its guard and driving the blade through its flesh which sizzled like a branding iron was being pressed to it, and the demon roared in fury. Before its life expired and essence exploded it thrust a claw in to Richard's left eye, easily done at their proximity, and laid a curse befitting of his perception. Sight in to not just one future, but all futures, spanning all possible timelines within the next five seconds.

Needless to say Richard was overwhelmed by the influx of information, a total sensory overload that had him screaming. He didn't realize he was screaming, he didn't realize where he was, he didn't even know who, what, where, when or why he was. It was too much and his brain almost broke. Yet somehow he struggled through, and within the ruins of Blackreach he sat in isolation, where so few things could happen to thrust more futures on him, so he could wrestle with this curse. So he could control the curse. It took him two decades and by the time he left Blackreach he was at the impressive age of 60, just passing his glory years. Much had changed in Falador by the time he arrived and he almost immediately ran in to a familiar White Knight order. Familiar in practice, not in name - Bravo Company. An irregular Chapter brought about from the startling lack in Knights and even fewer squires, a call to arms was being sent out for criminals and ne'er-do-wells to come and make up for their past sins by serving their kingdom. Spearheaded by a woman named Asami and sanctioned by the Queen, Lady Rena Ritel, Richard saw an opportunity to make up for his mistakes and applied. After his record was examined he was almost immediately made a Commander alongside Asami as she trusted his ambition and his expertise, and together Bravo Company made a huge splash in the kingdom. Crime rates plummeted as the efficient members of Bravo Company used their otherwise questionable skills in the name of Asgarnia to defend her, and all was going well.

However, just like any story, everything went to shit again. The main Chapter of Knights did not like the idea of Bravo Company. They saw it as blasphemous and a stain upon the Code of Chivalry, and secretly planned to overthrow the Queen and take Asgarnia for themselves. Richard, who had become a close friend of Queen Rena, was one room over as he listened to the screaming of a Knight at the otherwise alone Queen, and took the information of the overly hostile Knight to the Commander of the main chapter. The response was cold and aggressive, and so Richard stepped in to action, alerting the Queensguard and gathering all the forces of Bravo Company he could muster in such short notice, and they stepped in at just the right moment, with perhaps a little help from Richard's foresight behind the scenes. Together the Queensguard and Bravo Company swept through the ranks of the heretical traitors and crushed them in to the ground. So caught up in his own fight Richard failed to see the danger Asami was in when she stepped around a corner and took a sword through the throat, and though she survived, Bravo Company fell apart.

Such is the way of Richard's life. The only success he finds is in the continued beating of his heart and the tip of his sword ever aiming true in to his enemies hearts. All else he's done has wound up with utter failure and he doesn't believe he will find success, but he remains optimistic. As optimistic as he can be. Really, how unlucky can one man be?

-Richard's favorite drink is a rich red wine, preferably aged 40+ years.
-The Demon Flash Mod event leader was a big fan of Full Metal Alchemist, and had apparently slowly been creating his own Homunculi curses on other players. At the time I was completely unaware of Fullmetal Alchemist and Fuhrer King Bradley, and so it's amazing to me how similar Richard's final sheet is and how he turned out in comparison to Bradley's character before watching the show. So, Richard's curse is comparable to Bradley's Ultimate Eye.
-Despite not getting married until much later in life, far past the age required for him to go sterile, Richard and Asami had a kid. He's currently up in a mountain alone doing reconnaissance work for the Knights.
-Richard is part of a top-secret organization that directly serves and relays orders from Saradomin.
-Richard's codename in the Temple Knights is the "One-Eyed Dragon" as a joke about his one good eye, and a compliment to his legendary ferocity through any handicap thrown his way.
-His limp is fake.
-So is his hunch.
-Pretty much everything he does is for show, and belies what he can really do.

Name: Vile
Epithet: The Titan, Overlord, Angry Red Man
Age: Ancient
Height: 9'2
Weight: 752lbs
Race: Extradimensional Creature

The Titan's colossal figure is entirely encased within a thick (3mm) suit of incredibly durable metal that he calls "primal". The Primal armor has held up under great stress and despite all the abuse its taken, has yet to require repair. There are few scratches and even fewer dents, the metal's composition being the absolute strongest from its universe of origin. It's very compliant with magic and has welcomed the few enchantments the Titan has imbued in it with little issue, taking on the magic's properties in to itself and removing the need for magical upkeep. However this has left the armor with a need to 'amp up' before the enchantments take effect, absorbing the energies present in foreign spells as they strike the Titan in order to power its latent potential. Once powered, the armor's glyphs react to any further incoming spells and intercept them, rerouting the energies in to the Primal armor and completely nullifying the effects they would have had on the Titan otherwise. The Titan's gauntlets end in small claws like that of a tiger, allowing him to dig in to and rip at materials he'd otherwise be unable to grasp due to the metal plates.

Apart from his bare hands, the Titan has a giant greatmaul composed of a crimson mineral properly called orichalum, though more popularly titled dragonmetal. Dubbed "Tyranny", the greatmaul is of a magically rich metal that reacts beautifully to magic and enhances any spells that use it as a catalyst. Imbued with the soul of its original master, Tyranny has a mind of its own and speaks to the Titan. In other hands Tyranny is almost impossibly heavy, though whether this is true for the Titan as well is unknown, but regardless he is capable of swinging it as easily as one would a regular polearm, and can also heft it in one hand with little effort. While orichalum is nowhere near the level of Primal metal, Tyranny is still able to withstand the trauma delivered to it as the Titan fights, and should be considered unbreakable even when faced with things that damage or destroy the Primal armor.

The Titan is a colossal entity towering over most foes, managing even in this massive stature to maintain a respectable endomorph frame. There are no massive muscles, no gross oversizings  or hyperendowments, which belies the Titan's true might. What is beneath the Primal armor is undocumented and remains unknown, and theories speak that beneath the armor is nothing at all, though a very powerful magicka sources from within the Titan's chest to contradict that theory. His armor is marked with few scratches on the chestplate, almost all of them focused around the ancient symbol present in the center of his breast. From his back cascades a violet lava contained within enchanted obsidian, a mark of accomplishment for his feats within a volcanic arena. His helm is crowned with four spikes with the frontmost being the largest, and his eyes shine a brilliant violet that dim, vanish, and direct their shine as if actually eyes. His voice is a deep baritone that thrums out with not a single tinny note, hinting that it's a production of magic instead of actual vocal chords.

The Titan is undeniably an incredibly intimidating figure of a physically unmatched stature, capable of inspiring fear or doubt in even the strongest-willed opponents. His aura resonates like a sun and the might of that alone is often enough to ward off arcane-sensitive folk, or attract them like moths to a flame.

He is incredibly durable and resilient, a total brick shithouse, being the preferred combat training dummy for Gonad Yaksplitter due to his unrelenting frame even when met with the most physically destructive tests, which may shatter and break other creatures. He has not only survived but shouldered through a castle collapsing on him, stood back up after taking massive explosions to the chin, and while incredible force won't stop him permanently, it will slow him down and drive him back.

The Titan's physical might is almost insurmountable, even when compared to his size. He can tear through thick metal with the shaped claws of his gauntlets and where the claws won't catch a grip, his fists do the job. Stronger than an Ourg and heftier than a mammoth, the Titan's fists are best comparable to maces, beating down walls and sundering magical shields.

Despite all this physical might, he is still capable of harnessing magic. Primarily it is focused in to passively reinforcing his durability and his strength, but it also manifests in a gift he calls Voidwalking, tearing open rifts in space to reveal the black Emptiness beneath it and travelling through. Travel is instant and easily missed, and can be used to shorten distances against opponents that try to kite him, as well as hopping dimensions and entering new realities to hunt his prey. Voidwalking, while immediate, is capable of taking the Walker backwards, forwards or sideways in time, and this temporal effect induces a premeditative psychological horror on those near where his destination will be, causing them to feel as if a metaphysical version of himself is looming over them, sapping away the warmth and joy from their lives.  This metaphysical shape is superimposed on their minds and as such they can visualize his appearance even while having not directly seen him yet, allowing for preemptive fear to birth, and is able to be interpreted as a bad omen, or a sign of what's to come. He can use his magic to summon Tyranny, and unleash an auric shockwave that repels all physical matter within a 20 foot radius.

After the Primal armor's magical ward activates, foreign magic is all but worthless against him, and any present causes a cyan glyph to shine on his chest, dormant energies unleashing at the opposing spell and seeking to deconstruct and absorb it, using the energies from that spell to power the next activation. It takes a certain level of energy to power the initial glyph's activation, however spells on the tier of Lightning will immediately power it. Natural elements manipulated by foes such as the generating of lightning from the sky will also be considered magic, as the production of such natural elements is magical.

Within the Titan are countless souls that he has absorbed and siphoned from those who fall before him over the vast centuries that he's been active, and the strongest of those manage to retain their sense of self within him. These Voices rise to the top of the soul pool and are welcomed by the Titan to join him in what he calls the Council. Currently there are nine including himself, nine active entities conversing and determining what the Titan's next move should be. As there is no delay in the transferring of information and all thoughts and opinions are already immediately accessible to the Titan, reaction and understanding is immediate, lacking the microsecond delay of brain activity that humans possess. Of course this does not make him omniscient, and he is able to be taken by surprise, however there is no delay of processing information. This means he is also capable of changing his style or opinions on a dime.

The Titan is a beastial warrior of unmatched ferocity, feral and uncaring in combat. However this does not mean he's unintelligent. Capable of speech and even of holding intelligent conversations, he merely chooses not to in most cases. There is little that he believes outside voices can provide him that he does not recieve internally already. Morals and wants are not lost on him, and he even understands the concept of religion, however disgusted by it he is. The concepts of slavery and of forced views enrages him, though the irony of such while enslaving the dead to add to his might and knowledge is not lost on him. He is a philosophical esoteric scholar at 'heart', questioning what isn't and testing what is, using his might to create new or lost spells for use at whim. His proudest achievement is his discovery of Voidwalking, an art long lost to the ages in the universe he originated from.

His own personality, however, has all but completely eroded away under the weight of all the others he's consumed and adapted in to his own self, as well as his ceaseless hunt. The Titan craves power and his search for it is endless, the primary target being creatures who have either encroached on or achieved Godhood. Despite his own cravings for power and ascension he considers Godhood to be a mistake in creation, and defends his lust with the claim that he's slowly erasing Godhood from reality.

He arrived. That is the furthest back any documentation on him will stretch in any given universe, as he has traveled between so many that his original home is lost even to him. Aside from that his history is that of carnage, endless bloodshed and loss of lives. The Titan flocks to battles as a pasttime, finding pleasantries in crushing everything under his heel and tearing apart cities in attempts to force the powerful creatures of the world he's arrived on out of hiding. That is his background, and no further digging will bring to surface any more..
..Unless one gets him to talk about it.

Gonna throw all my mostly-finished sheets up here. If any edits are made that would drastically change the characters' strengths, I'll letcha know.
plsdeletemyacc Member

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