CitrusArms
Xaltwind
rabidbacon
Remram
ColdAtlas
princess
Damycles
PapaOso
KingofSerpentsWell, I'm just putting the Mormagi here. I'm hoping I might be able to finish the Occ during the weekend (I didn't do much with her today) - I think I actually prefer her, though it's taking me longer to finalize. Oh, also, I wasn't sure if the Long "Life" skill can be leveled up or not, so it doesn't have a 1 next to it atm. (I replaced the tables because I personally don't like them as much as a nice, clear bullet-point list :p)
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Yorsiccos![]()
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"I don't care if it's shiny, or even useful. If it's interesting, I want it."
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"I don't care if it's shiny, or even useful. If it's interesting, I want it."
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XP • 0,000 Gold • 0
Race / Species Mormagi | Sex ♂ |
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Appearance He's 5'11 tall, though hunching makes him seem a bit less than that. He's extremely thin, and kind of gangly. Most glaringly, his flesh is discouloured, his appearance that of a rotting decaying corpse. His legs and the left side of his torso still have signs of being burned in the past. His skin has a dry feel to it; any puss that may be leaking occasionally is simply due to unhealed wounds. He has no hair, his teeth are yellowed (some are missing), his nails have signs of being bitten often, his cuticles are likely permanently damaged. His hands have plenty of small scars and nicks. His whole body is littered with puncture marks - signs that he's doing his best to keep his body from literally falling apart, but it's a constant struggle. |
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Age 117 | Voice Like ancient parchment: soft spoken, raspy, dry, and scratchy as if with disuse. |
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Trade Collector | Skills Long "Life" | Craftsmanship 1 | --- |
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Quirks Talking to himself and non-sentient beings. Biting his nails, picking at his cuticles. Suturing his own wounds whenever limb-loss or major skin-loss seems likely to occur, taking the stitches out whenever he manages to heal naturally. |
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Interests Treasure. Junk. Items. Possessions. Finding things. Collecting things. Crafting things. Dismantling things. Finding out how things work. Inconveniencing day-dwellers without them realizing who the culprit is. |
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Disgusts Daylight. Daydwellers. The full moon. Getting lost. Crowds. Loud noises. Disruptions. Intruders that try to appropriate his territory, even if they only do so for a night. |
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History Born as a Stodman more than a century ago in Gillsommr, the now Mormagi had been but a young boy at the time, an orphan who earned his bread and butter as a servant for families both able and willing to afford to pay to a no-name urchin. In a bid for higher rewards in exchange for higher risks, the boy had joined several army expeditions as a teen - despite his lack of combat skills, there were groups willing to pay him to do a range of jobs (menial or even slightly risky, such as scouting), whether because the militia and the mercenaries were too preoccupied with the actual fighting or simply unwilling to perform the tasks they'd hired him to do. They boy had learned to clean well, cook decently, do minor repairs, scout for enemies, look after the horses, sharpen the weapons and polish the armour. But mainly, he had learned how to look after himself and how to avoid being taken advantage of. There wasn't anyone he trusted besides himself (and sometimes not even that - he knew he could get himself in trouble due to his sticky fingers), and he had no particular goals beyond survival. He would admit that he was a coward back then. And despite his caution, he was struck by a stray arrow, left to die in a ditch. His death was slow and painful, but if he'd had time for thought beyond the endless pain and horror, he most likely wouldn't find any regrets. No, there were none, because he'd lived the only way he knew how to. Though he'd died barely after reaching his majority, he'd be content with what he'd had if he'd known what the alternative was. The alternative, as it turned out, was undeath. He'd been thrown into a mass grave, been struck there by the Skalgwordh virus, and returned to...a form of life, if it could be called that. There had been pain, then insensate blackness, then the stench of death, the sight of corpses in various stages of decay, all crowding an enormous hole and afire. When the boy awoke, he felt strangely stiff, but not dead. No, death hadn't claimed him, though it was certainly close to doing so. The blaze was devouring the corpses. It had almost devoured him as well. As it was, the boy had awoken just in time to feel the fire beginning to wrap around and cling to him. He made a desperate, frenzied escape. The boy crawled out of the grave, and was met with the solitude of night. There were no others travelling at night time. He ventured onward unperturbed, stumbling and falling over several times, but he always picked himself up, scrapes ignored. He had managed to put out the fire and survive again. Now, he was heading somewhere. It turned the somewhere was a deep-reaching maze of a cave system. He entered the caverns, weaving his way from passage to passage, tunnel to tunnel, venturing deeper and deeper, drawn into the abyss. Despite the complete darkness, he managed to navigate well. Hours and hours later, he came upon a beautiful cave lake. He collapsed by it, his body rattling oddly, and drank from its depths. Once he had his fill of the water, he glanced at the lake, and he saw his own reflection. He was enraptured. No, he was horrified. Dazed. Stunned. Disbelieving. Wondering. Accepting. The initial self-disgust he'd felt had been muted, as if his humanity had been snuffed out alongside his change of appearance. Was it because his brain had begun to rot? Was there something intrinsically different about him now? He didn't know. He didn't wonder long. Whatever he was now, he would do the one thing he clearly remembered desiring to do - survive. He wandered his cave system, getting lost for the following few decades, but patient enough to explore the existing pathways, and digging some new ones of his own. He made his home within the caverns, and was eventually so familiar with them he was able to get in and out of them easily. And although he'd developed the patience of a mountain, he was getting bored. For the first time ever, he wanted more than the barest survival. He wanted to enjoy life, even if the joy he felt was a dull mockery in comparison to what daydwellers experienced. And so, he begun collecting things. He wandered outside during the night, never too far. He collected all kinds of strange little things. Things left, forgotten, or abandoned by Stodmen. On rare occasions, things 'stolen' from a Stodman junkyard. A memorable time or two the Mormagi even managed to nick a little something from the rare Stodman who wandered into his cave to explore or rest. He became the Collector. He remembered some Stodmen knowledge, and named himself anew. He made goals: items he wanted to find, items he wanted to dismantle, and most importantly, items he wanted to repair or items he wanted to create. |
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Traits
- Intellect: Stubborn. Character is closed to most new ideas and changes.
- Openness: Realistic. Character enjoys how things are, but can appreciate some forms of art and new concepts.
- Motivation: Reliable. Character is motivated and active, capable of self-control.
- Temper: Meek. Character is passive and mildly empathetic, lacking consideration, trust, and tending to lie, be passive aggressive, or play devil's advocate.
- Emotional Stability: Easy-going. Character has expectations regarding others and has good emotional control as long as those expectations are met.
Clothes & Equipement
- Black hood.
- Old black woolen cloak.
- A faded gray long-sleeved shirt.
- A worn brown leather vest.
- Bandages on his hands and forearms.
- Dark gray cloth trousers, with multi-colored patches covering up holes.
- A belt made up of multiple ropes braided and tied together.
- Bandages on his calves and feet.
- Faded and worn brown leather boots.
- A leather cord necklace that he keeps his needles tied to.
Inventory
- A (scavenged, old, but sturdy) metal flask containing carefully collected oil.
- Lots and lots of catgut thread.
- Five needles of different sizes (slightly rusty, but still sharp).
- Several cleaning rags (fashioned from old clothing).
- A steel knife with a leather-wrapped wooden handle.
- A hatchet.
- A large (often patched) cloth sack for carrying stuff around in.
- Rope (usually used to wrap around and carry his sack).
- Broken pieces of an abandoned gittern (only its nuts, though rusty, seem like they might be reused).
