Roughdragon1

Relatively Generic Medieval Fantasy

Saga Berenike

“What use is a shield if I no longer have anything to protect? I would rather focus on killing with both hands."

Age: 23

Sex: Male

Race: Human

Appearance: Curly brown hair, hard face, distant eyes.



Personality: Disgruntled, paranoid, distant. These words, and many more similar terms describe Saga in a fairly accurate way. After deserting his former kingdom, he developed an intense distaste for people who abided by codes of honor, etiquette, and other such rules because he believes that people use these codes to mask their true feelings and manipulate others. Because of his mannerisms, or lack thereof, he usually is not looked upon favorably by the political sort due to his brashness and blunt honesty. The only companion he trusts is the one inside his head.

Backstory: Saga hails from a faraway land, in fact, so far away, that whether one goes north, south, east, or west, it makes no difference in the duration of the unhindered journey. This particular kingdom was known for its Knights; their honor, their chivalric values, and their loyal devotion to the cause. He was one of them: Diligent in his service, unyielding, and a stalwart soldier. However, Saga was betrayed by the very values he had treasured so much. He casted away his shield, no longer content with protecting himself. Instead, he now wields his sword with both hands.

He fought in many wars, beginning as a simple foot-soldier at the age of thirteen. During that time, he fought combatants of many races, and lost many friends to them; Orcs, elves, dwarves, goblins, lizard-folk, even giants, though they were few and far between. It's no mystery that war changes a man. Even if you initially bear no burden against a species it is inevitable that, after a few cuts and gashes, as well as some death, one becomes... uncomfortable when near a former enemy.

Equipment

His old plate armor, once shining with a proud gleam and polish, an armor once thought to be impenetrable by his old enemies, is now dirty, rusted, and worn with age. It holds well against most attacks, but it is still very far from what it used to be.

His sword, a sturdy blade as tall as himself, is the only piece of his equipment he still keeps in relatively good shape. Useful for beating back the opposition, it is just as you would expect from a sword, and often, the ordinary blade is all a soldier needs.

When he was a child, he was given a “mind companion”, a certain voice only he can hear. This voice has a personality of its own, and is meant to act as a “sixth sense”, telling him relative information in regards to his surroundings.

Relatively Generic Medieval Fantasy

Ooh, I'm interested! Mind if I build a cs?

Closed

@Zelosse I apologize, but due to a sudden explosion of tests and essays, I cannot participate in the Rp. Good luck to you all!

Closed

@Zelosse Ok then, I'll get started on a CS.

Closed

Hey @Zelosse, just saw the interest check (So this is where you've been for these last few months, huh) and I'm pretty interested in joining, but is there any prior information I need to know before applying?

The Crucible - Winner Take All

Malveil

Main Street

“Oh, you are abhorrent.”

Malveil barely flinched as the shadowy abomination was shoulder-checked by one of his pawns, and had one of its supporting limbs hacked off by another’s axe. Black ash spewed from the wound instead of blood, and almost as fast as it was hacked off, the limb instantly reformed, like the pawns were chopping through mud.

The shadow monster wrapped a limb around one of the pawns, and crushed his head, helmet and all. Another pawn hacked away its limb again, but once more it regrew like nothing Malveil had ever seen. Another one of his pawns fell as the beast stuck its arm straight through his breastplate.

There must be some way to kill these things.

As the brawl continued, Malveil tried to examine the strange specimen, to discern any weak points in its form. He had to act quick, or the other two would join in. Speaking of the other two, his Knight ran one down, keeping it distracted for the time being. His Rook opened fire on the other, and it was then Malveil noted something interesting. The bullet struck the creature dead center, where it seemed a small body hung suspended by the shadowy limbs. It bled.

So that’s where they’re weakest, yeah?

Malveil ordered his pawns to focus on attacking the soft center, and try they did. However, the thing got the better of them, tripping the three remaining soldiers and crushing them with its limbs one by one. It then tried to attack Malveil, but was stopped dead in its tracks with a mace to the face. The Bishop stood between him and the shadow monster, intent on smiting the unworthy, unclean beast.

The Knight was having the most trouble. Despite his titan of a horse, a horse was a horse. The shadow monster simply twisted its limbs into a thick mess of wire, tripping up the stallion and tossing the Knight into a heap. He got up, and had no choice but to defend himself against the monster with his spear and shield. The Rook had finished off his own opponent first, and joined the Knight in attacking the second one, providing supporting fire to distract the beast so that the Knight could go in for the kill.

But now Malveil had to focus on the fight in front of him. His Bishop did not attack; instead it kept the beast at bay, using his mace and armor to ward off any incoming strikes. It was all Malveil could order him to do, lest he be killed like the other pawns. Of course, they always came back after a fight, but that didn’t matter if Malveil were to die in said fight. The Bishop was in a rough spot, defending against a multi-limbed thing with only a mace. He was the most skilled out of the three in direct combat, but sometimes that just wasn’t enough. He was fighting a losing battle. That is, until Malveil stabbed the beast in the back, and dragged his ornate dagger through the abhorrent thing, spilling whatever guts it may have had.

His Knight and Rook had finished the other beast, and it lay on the pavement, bleeding shadow. It was over, at least for now. He still had a mission to fulfil. It would take him thirty minutes to replace his pawns with new ones. The same went with his Rook, Knight, and Bishop. They were only pieces, of course. They were to be disposed of and used to further his own goal.

But now wasn’t the time to ponder the morality of disposable soldiers. It was time to move, and move he did towards the southwest.

The Patron Saints || A Unique Superhero RP

@Agent 47 Posted! To be honest, I feel that my character may potentially pan out to be pretty OP due to an ability that allows him to completely control a person. If you guys want me to switch to another character I'll gladly do it, I just want to make sure that everyone can enjoy the Rp with such a character in play.

The Patron Saints || A Unique Superhero RP

Vicker West

Location: Death Row, Jimenez Mansion.

Berlach Jimenez. The name of a dead man. Or at least, he was going to be dead. The damn fool was stupid enough to hire his personnel face-to-face instead of anonymously. Everyone knew where his hideout was, but until today, the rich boy had kept coups in line through money-loyal bodyguards. In fact, Vicker was sure that the five grand he and the warehouse lookouts were getting paid was lowball at best. When someone was paying you enough money to buy a luxury car, common sense dictates that you protect him.

But no guard would save him from justice. Whether it be from Vicker’s gun that night or the police years down the line, justice would come. However, Vicker was particularly impatient that evening. Jimenez’s hideout was damn near the stupidest place he could have picked. For one, it was a mansion. Those marble floors and walls didn’t exactly spell d-i-s-c-r-e-e-t. Also, the warehouse he shipped the cargo to was literally a block away. Yeah, the guy was rich, but no one ever said that he was smart.

Vicker had already passed the gates on his way in, and now he hit a wall. For one, there were way more soldiers than expected. Maybe Jimenez got a call from someone back at the warehouse, or maybe he was just paranoid. Either way, there were about a dozen guards patrolling the perimeter. Vicker knew that Jimenez liked to stay in the top floor inside his fancy room. It sickened him to think of children facing such a monster.

After planning for about ten seconds, Vicker discarded his plan and decided to wing it. A guard came out around the corner in front of him, yelled, and drew his gun. With a simple nod, he was under Vicker’s control.

“Okay, go to the West Wing and start shooting up the place. Avoid hitting civilians, and stay alive for as long as you can.”

“Got it.”

And off he went, carrying his automatic rifle like it was a toy. Vicker waited ‘till he heard the first gunshot, and like clockwork, the guards swarmed out of the mansion towards the West Wing. Then he made his move. It wasn’t hard, he simply walked in through the front door. Now, chances were that there were still some guards guarding Jimenez. Actually, the rich asshole definitely had bodyguards. If you had that much bank, you’d damn sure have the best protection money can buy.

Well, that’s why I’ve got a gun too.

He checked his holster for his pistol, and like always, it was there. Nothing fancy, a Hi-point 9mm. In fact, it was quite crap. The only good thing about it was that it always fired when he pulled the trigger. Where the bullet actually flew anyone could guess, but it was usually anywhere but straight.

So with gun in hand, Vicker strode down the amber-colored hallway. He didn’t see anyone yet, but that was about to change. As he rounded the corner, he stopped dead in his tracks. He saw the door to Jimenez’s personal quarter, but there was a slight complication, and it took the form of two bodyguards pointing AK-47’s directly at his face.

Well, shit.

Jimenez came out, his white suit barely able to contain the fat underneath. He wore a pair of aviators and smoked a fat cigar. He also carried a big-ass pistol that looked like it could take out a truck in one shot.

“Who the fuck are you?” he said with a thick, slurring accent. Actually, he didn’t really have an accent. He was just really drunk at that moment.

“A guy who really, really hates people like you. Do children ring a bell?”

He removed the cigar, and the wheels slowly turned in his head. After a long moment, those wheels were finally able to light a bulb.

“I mean hey, we’ve all gotta make money, right?” he said with a slight chuckle. “I’m pretty sure you’ve done bad things for money too, right?”

“There’s lines you don’t cross, Jimenez. Trafficking kids is one of them.”

“Oh, and you’re going to give me a lesson on morality? Might as well be a Saint.”

“The fuck is a saint?”

“Don’t matter for you ‘cuz you’re gonna die in a second, but I’ll indulge you; They’re wannabe cops.”

“Vigilante group? Huh, sounds pretty interesting. I’ll make sure to check them out after I’m done here.” Vicker suddenly ducked behind the corner, just as gunshots shredded the area he had been just a moment ago.

“Hey, what the hell are you–” Jimenez took a step too far forwards, right into Vicker’s range.

“Kill yourself.”

Vicker sprinted out of the building, and about thirty seconds later, he heard two booming gunshots, then a few moments after, a final one. It seemed that his guards tried to stop him. Too bad.

Now, for these Saints.

The Patron Saints || A Unique Superhero RP

K, finally posted

The Patron Saints || A Unique Superhero RP

Vicker West

Location: Death Row, lone warehouse.

Vicker West stood across the street to an empty warehouse, watching masked people unload cargo from blank vans. The cargo wasn’t important; he didn’t even know what was in it. What mattered was the pay. For a smuggling op, five thousand bucks was almost irresistible. He had his own theories, of course.

Maybe it’s a new drug hitting the streets, it’d explain all the protection.

Perhaps a stockpile of weapons? Hell, I might just spend my five thousand on a gun that ain’t crap.

What’s with all the damn holes in the boxes?

Whatever. At this point, it didn’t matter anyways. He’d see some change in the criminal landscape, and it wouldn’t take a genius to figure out where the change came from.

Still, something about all this was just bothering him. It was like a tiny itch in the back of his brain that he couldn’t scratch. Eventually, he gave into his gut and walked over to talk to one of the other guards.

“Hey, you know what’s in these crates?” Such a simple question, and also one the man had to answer, regardless of whether he wanted to or not. It was Vicker’s “gift”, per se.

“Don’t know, man. Boss said that it’s important for his clients’ ‘satisfaction’. Hell if I know what that means.”

“Gotcha.”

Vicker slunk into the warehouse, trying to avoid notice from the other guards. He was technically a guard as well, but he was supposed to be on lookout. If someone saw him stalking around the cargo, it would raise more than a few suspicions. The strangest thing was the smell, however. Who on the face of the Earth would want to buy something so repugnant?

He slowly approached one of the boxes, and looked around to see if anyone was near. Thankfully, there wasn’t. He was about to unlock the crate when suddenly, it shook.

“Jesus!” Vicker rasped as he jumped back.

Someone’s in there.

Vicker quickly unlatched the crate, and when he did, the top came off by itself, and what he saw enraged him to no end. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Drugs and violence, those were pretty normal things, especially in Death Row. But this… this was a new low.

Kids! They’re fucking trafficking kids!

The girl couldn’t be older than ten, and she looked painfully skinny. Maybe forty, fifty pounds at most? Her skin clung desperately to her bones, her eyes sunk into her skull, and human waste clung to the bottom and sides of the crate.

So that was the smell. Fucking Hell.

He could only assume that the other crates were the same. Nausea crept up his stomach, and nearly made him retch. He needed to get these kids out, every single one of them.

A masked guard came around the corner, shotgun in hand. Vicker recognized him as the guy he mind-controlled earlier. He froze when he saw the kid. Vicker didn’t even think of using his power. Right now, he just knew the kids needed help.

“Hey you! Guard! Help me!”

The man rushed over, shotgun still levelled.

“Wait, they’re shipping kids?” Behind the baklava, Vicker saw the man’s eyes widen in shock. He looked at the kid, then back at Vicker.

“You just gonna stand there? Come on!”

To his surprise, the guard shook his head.

“I’m sorry man, my family needs me. My son… he…”

“What if your son’s in one of these damn things next, huh? You just going to stand around then?”

Vicker saw that the guard wasn’t going to help, so he made him. For the second time, he took control.

“Free all of the kids. Make sure they all get out safely, even if you die. If anyone tries to stop you, kill them.”

“Got it.”

Then just like before, Vicker slunk back out like a cat. He wasn’t going to get any money from the job, but that didn’t matter. He had another target in mind.