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Pariah Online | Season One

G R A V E S

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• Tʜᴇ Dᴜɴɢᴇᴏɴ •

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Tension laced Graves's form. His every digital muscle was taut with stress and anxiety. Ready to strike out the instant another monster deigned to show it's ugly mug. Tight, cramped corridors, with his back all but pressed against the party member behind him, wreaked havoc on his fortitude. Blood still dripped from the head of his halberd's ax from the last scout that Graves had managed to catch. Others fell to the chains of Tessa, or the arrows of their ranger- several, though, were too quick for any to catch. The monsters were watching them. It was the only explanation for it. Since when were monsters programmed to perform reconnaissance? They knew exactly where their party was. An ambush could've been waiting around the corner. Or maybe it'd just come right from underneath them.

This...this didn't feel like a game anymore. Not with their lives hanging on the tip of a needle. Not with the creatures of the dungeon acting the way they were. Graves was a wreck. His heart was racing a thousand miles a minute. Everywhere he looked, he thought he saw something out of the corner of his eye. The relative silence of their march made things all the worse. Graves found himself glancing backward to check on everyone else- making sure they were alright, and that they were still with him. At the very least, the Blood Knight could say he was lucky that he had others around to make him feel secure when the warning came from the devs. He didn't want to imagine what it'd be like to be in this kind of situation alone. Knowing his usual playstyle, it was a miracle that hadn't happened to him.

Thankfully the labyrinth of tunnels ended, at least for a short while, as they came upon a cavernous room. A ceiling so high that sunlight could be seen peeking through the grates at the top. Far...far out of reach. Chains hung from above like vines, thick and metallic. And there were odd channels dug into the floor around the room, where a thick, sapphire liquid flowed. What was most apparent between the heavy pillars and chains, though, were the three doors, one that led in each direction.

Graves tore his gaze away from the tiny speckles of sunlight that leaked down into the darkness, his eyes shifting over toward the first of the crew to really speak up in the last twenty minutes. Tif had her humor about her, somehow. Graves hadn't the heart to draw up a smile, his lips still twisted down into an uncomfortable frown. "Well, we're not splitting up, so nobody even fuckin' suggest it." There was no way Graves was letting any of these idiots out of his sight. The second they took a few steps away from him, they'd end up dead; and really, Graves didn't want to have to live with that on his conscience.

The more he looked around, the more uneasy the tank felt. This room had the looks of a boss room. And though this dungeon shared little in common with other games, or even the rest of Pariah, Graves couldn't shake the feeling that they were going to be dealing with an attack imminently. It kept his grip on his polearm tight, and head on a swivel. He didn't really care what direction they decided to take. They were going to end up backtracking anyway, more than likely; so it wasn't too important. "Everybody holdin' up okay?"

Superboy's Shitty Characters

G R A V E S

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• Tʜᴇ Dᴜɴɢᴇᴏɴ •

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Tension laced Graves's form. His every digital muscle was taut with stress and anxiety. Ready to strike out the instant another monster deigned to show it's ugly mug. Tight, cramped corridors, with his back all but pressed against the party member behind him, wreaked havoc on his fortitude. Blood still dripped from the head of his halberd's ax from the last scout that Graves had managed to catch. Others fell to the chains of Tessa, or the arrows of their ranger- several, though, were too quick for any to catch. The monsters were watching them. It was the only explanation for it. Since when were monsters programmed to perform reconnaissance? They knew exactly where their party was. An ambush could've been waiting around the corner. Or maybe it'd just come right from underneath them.

This...this didn't feel like a game anymore. Not with their lives hanging on the tip of a needle. Not with the creatures of the dungeon acting the way they were. Graves was a wreck. His heart was racing a thousand miles a minute. Everywhere he looked, he thought he saw something out of the corner of his eye. The relative silence of their march made things all the worse. Graves found himself glancing backward to check on everyone else- making sure they were alright, and that they were still with him. At the very least, the Blood Knight could say he was lucky that he had others around to make him feel secure when the warning came from the devs. He didn't want to imagine what it'd be like to be in this kind of situation alone. Knowing his usual playstyle, it was a miracle that hadn't happened to him.

Thankfully the labyrinth of tunnels ended, at least for a short while, as they came upon a cavernous room. A ceiling so high that sunlight could be seen peeking through the grates at the top. Far...far out of reach. Chains hung from above like vines, thick and metallic. And there were odd channels dug into the floor around the room, where a thick, sapphire liquid flowed. What was most apparent between the heavy pillars and chains, though, were the three doors, one that led in each direction.

Graves tore his gaze away from the tiny speckles of sunlight that leaked down into the darkness, his eyes shifting over toward the first of the crew to really speak up in the last twenty minutes. Tif had her humor about her, somehow. Graves hadn't the heart to draw up a smile, his lips still twisted down into an uncomfortable frown. "Well, we're not splitting up, so nobody even fuckin' suggest it." There was no way Graves was letting any of these idiots out of his sight. The second they took a few steps away from him, they'd end up dead; and really, Graves didn't want to have to live with that on his conscience.

The more he looked around, the more uneasy the tank felt. This room had the looks of a boss room. And though this dungeon shared little in common with other games, or even the rest of Pariah, Graves couldn't shake the feeling that they were going to be dealing with an attack imminently. It kept his grip on his polearm tight, and head on a swivel. He didn't really care what direction they decided to take. They were going to end up backtracking anyway, more than likely; so it wasn't too important. "Everybody holdin' up okay?"

Warhammer 40K: Knives in the Dark - An Only War/Guard RP

For the briefest interval of time, tensions reached a crescendo. Two of the blindly faithful Guardsmen did indeed lift up rifles, though they chose to turn them upon their saviors. A man of gaunt features and of unshakable loyalty to a broken system led the mutiny, 'demanding' of the Major evidence to prove himself a speaker of truth. His insanity was backed up by the woman who deigned to call all who lifted a las-gun traitors. It was preposterous, in the eyes of Steiner, for these two to choose to side with the Inquisition. They hadn't a clue what was actually going on, only the barest knowledge possible;- all of which was provided by the men they called traitors.

"For the love of-" The medical officer grunted. He didn't raise his gun up in defense of the Major. For all of his prattle, Franklin didn't have a real dog in this fight. None of this political bullshit mattered. Not when there was a firefight going on just outside that room. He couldn't care less about shadow organizations, secret wars or whatever the hell else had sparked this whole thing. All he wanted to do was stay alive. Why was that such a difficult concept to grasp for these guardsman? Steiner swore some of them must've had a death wish, the way they went around flashing firearms at everyone that helped them out of a tight spot.

Thankfully for Doc's sanity, Bohman wasn't going to stand there and let two troopers way out of their depth get themselves killed for the men that tortured them. He revealed the nature of the enemy they fought against. These were not normal Tempestus Scions of the Inquisition, but...mutants. Heretics, touched by the cursed magic of the Ruinous Powers, and deformed by their damnable existence. Chaos, as Frank had originally surmised, was actually responsible for what was going on. "I called it. If we're keeping score." He muttered under his breath, no matter how inappropriate a comment it might be in the moment.

If that wasn't enough for the grunts, the Major also produced an item of incredible value. A talisman, bearing the icon of the Ultramarine Chapter of the Adeptus Astartes, apparently given to the leader of the Shadow Order by the Primarch himself. Steiner held back a sarcastic whistle. It was a fancy little trinket. Really, it was. And if Bohman had really received it from Guilliman, than his path was certainly the 'righteous one.' As righteous as the Imperium could be. However. If the gaunt, robot-of-a-man and his babyfaced partner in crime refused to acknowledge that the Inquisitional Stormtrooper with a horrifically mutated face was sufficient evidence against their 'theory' that Bohman was a traitor, Steiner very much doubted that a necklace would do much to help Bohman's case. Though, on further thought, icons and items were important in the mind of the loyal guardsman; all it took was the symbol of the Inquisition to turn them against their rescuers, after all.

Thankfully, though, it was enough. Both decided to lower their weapons, joining the Shadow Order on their righteous crusade to purge that voidship of it's ruinous infection. Steiner let the tension in his muscles visibly relax. A firefight in this tiny room would end in several bodies falling. Steiner didn't want to be among them. "Thank the throne."

Next came the hard part: actually clearing the remainder of the ship. Stormtroopers, those infested by Chaos especially, were a bitch to kill. Their armor was stubbornly hard to cut through with a standard las-gun, unless one managed to land a clean shot. To make matters worse, all of the guardsmen of the glorious Imperium were practically naked. All they had were some cloth to cover their naughty bits. Steiner could shrug off the draft, his body hardened to the freezing temperatures of his icy homeworld. But a las-bolt or two to the chest was a little harder to ignore.

What was most difficult to look past, though, were the grunts of pain coming from the lady officer that was planning to shoot him a couple of seconds prior. 'Ah, Emperor above.' Steiner moved toward the door, purposefully keeping at least one body in front of him to absorb the first round of las-bolts. He shifted his harsh gaze over toward the loyal guardswoman. "Ay, pup," Frank called to get her attention. "You fallin' apart on us? If yer hurt, I can give it a look. I'm a medic." He informed her and, by extension, the rest of the company, of his skill set. "Sergeant Steiner. Been a real pleasure gettin' to know ya." She was going to shoot him in the back. It was all but guaranteed.

Superboy's Shitty Characters

For the briefest interval of time, tensions reached a crescendo. Two of the blindly faithful Guardsmen did indeed lift up rifles, though they chose to turn them upon their saviors. A man of gaunt features and of unshakable loyalty to a broken system led the mutiny, 'demanding' of the Major evidence to prove himself a speaker of truth. His insanity was backed up by the woman who deigned to call all who lifted a las-gun traitors. It was preposterous, in the eyes of Steiner, for these two to choose to side with the Inquisition. They hadn't a clue what was actually going on, only the barest knowledge possible;- all of which was provided by the men they called traitors.

"For the love of-" The medical officer grunted. He didn't raise his gun up in defense of the Major. For all of his prattle, Franklin didn't have a real dog in this fight. None of this political bullshit mattered. Not when there was a firefight going on just outside that room. He couldn't care less about shadow organizations, secret wars or whatever the hell else had sparked this whole thing. All he wanted to do was stay alive. Why was that such a difficult concept to grasp for these guardsman? Steiner swore some of them must've had a death wish, the way they went around flashing firearms at everyone that helped them out of a tight spot.

Thankfully for Doc's sanity, Bohman wasn't going to stand there and let two troopers way out of their depth get themselves killed for the men that tortured them. He revealed the nature of the enemy they fought against. These were not normal Tempestus Scions of the Inquisition, but...mutants. Heretics, touched by the cursed magic of the Ruinous Powers, and deformed by their damnable existence. Chaos, as Frank had originally surmised, was actually responsible for what was going on. "I called it. If we're keeping score." He muttered under his breath, no matter how inappropriate a comment it might be in the moment.

If that wasn't enough for the grunts, the Major also produced an item of incredible value. A talisman, bearing the icon of the Ultramarine Chapter of the Adeptus Astartes, apparently given to the leader of the Shadow Order by the Primarch himself. Steiner held back a sarcastic whistle. It was a fancy little trinket. Really, it was. And if Bohman had really received it from Guilliman, than his path was certainly the 'righteous one.' As righteous as the Imperium could be. However. If the gaunt, robot-of-a-man and his babyfaced partner in crime refused to acknowledge that the Inquisitional Stormtrooper with a horrifically mutated face was sufficient evidence against their 'theory' that Bohman was a traitor, Steiner very much doubted that a necklace would do much to help Bohman's case. Though, on further thought, icons and items were important in the mind of the loyal guardsman; all it took was the symbol of the Inquisition to turn them against their rescuers, after all.

Thankfully, though, it was enough. Both decided to lower their weapons, joining the Shadow Order on their righteous crusade to purge that voidship of it's ruinous infection. Steiner let the tension in his muscles visibly relax. A firefight in this tiny room would end in several bodies falling. Steiner didn't want to be among them. "Thank the throne."

Next came the hard part: actually clearing the remainder of the ship. Stormtroopers, those infested by Chaos especially, were a bitch to kill. Their armor was stubbornly hard to cut through with a standard las-gun, unless one managed to land a clean shot. To make matters worse, all of the guardsmen of the glorious Imperium were practically naked. All they had were some cloth to cover their naughty bits. Steiner could shrug off the draft, his body hardened to the freezing temperatures of his icy homeworld. But a las-bolt or two to the chest was a little harder to ignore.

What was most difficult to look past, though, were the grunts of pain coming from the lady officer that was planning to shoot him a couple of seconds prior. 'Ah, Emperor above.' Steiner moved toward the door, purposefully keeping at least one body in front of him to absorb the first round of las-bolts. He shifted his harsh gaze over toward the loyal guardswoman. "Ay, pup," Frank called to get her attention. "You fallin' apart on us? If yer hurt, I can give it a look. I'm a medic." He informed her and, by extension, the rest of the company, of his skill set. "Sergeant Steiner. Been a real pleasure gettin' to know ya." She was going to shoot him in the back. It was all but guaranteed.

Superboy's Shitty Characters

"I'd rather ya toss me into the ocean with nothin' but a piece of driftwood to cling to than make me live in a fookin' cave. I hate caves."

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✶ P R O F I L E

BIRTHNAME:
Gashin Kazor

OTHER NAMES:
Captain, Gash, Sea Hound

AGE:
34

GENDER:
Male

RACE:
Half Human, half Dwarf

BIRTHPLACE:
Ryth, Amorynthia

RELIGION:
Worships Zorion, God of Freedom and Will

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✶ P H Y S I C A L I T Y

HEIGHT:
4'11 ft

WEIGHT:
123 lbs

APPEARANCE:
Captain Gashin Kazor is a short man, as one might expect. His stature is nearly a foot higher than the average dwarf, though several inches shorter than most men. Gash's origins are clear to anyone who give him a cursory glance. From his brawny, short form to his scraggly facial hair, to his strong accent and even stronger desire for pipeweed and alcohol, Kazor screams dwarf. Yet another look might cause the mind to doubt, for he's too tall to be a dwarf, his beard is horribly short and- strangest of all- he wears the badge of the Amorynthian Navy upon his breast.

Apart from his heritage, the captain's appearance is markedly similar to that of most men of his occupation. Gash's flesh is tanned and leathery from years spent out under the beating sun on the deck of his ship. On his head, the captain wears golden bandanna and a black tricorn hat. On his feet, a pair of dusty old boots. And on his hip, the sheathe for his reliable cutlass. A white, low cut shirt, a golden vest adorned with runes of ages past and a sash of crimson tie together the sailor's attire.

Several scars from boarding hatchet and cutlass adorn his arms and chest; the gnarliest of which rests right over his heart. His hands, calloused and worn by the sea, have several cuts across their dark surface.

Tattoos, too, mar his flesh alongside those wounds of old. A sea serpent coils about his left arm from wrist to shoulder. An anchor, with a mermaid hanging from it's hook, sits in the center of his broad chest. Most important to him, however, are the letters lined upon each finger. Put together they read the name of Kazor's vessel: Saint Leona.

SKILLS, STRENGTHS & TALENTS:

Captain Gashin Kazor, of the Royal Navy's Saint Leona, is a sailor without equal. None commands the high seas with the same tenacity, skill, or vigor of the half dwarf captain. He particularly specializes in Caravels, such as the Saint leona herself, preferring speed and maneuverability to size and bulk. Gashin is a pirate hunter. He chases down the rogues and bandits of the sea with ruthless efficiency, carving out a safe haven for Amorynthia's merchant fleets. Anyone who dares to fly the black flag knows the name Gashin Kazor, and of his damnable vessel, and fears him; those that wish to survive more than a fortnight on his ocean, anyway.

Though ship to ship combat is where Kazor is best known, the Sea Hound of Valdez excels in all aspects of sailing. He can guide a vessel through the sharpest rocks and the narrowest of paths, barely scraping by areas that any other captain would say was impassible. When Gashin must travel across the open ocean in long, drawn out voyages to far away lands, he can reliably guide the Saint Leona using the stars. Kazor rarely gets lost anymore, his knowledge of the heavens allowing him to get his bearings without the need for maps or landmarks.

A sailor first, and a navigator second, Captain Gashin is far from completely helpless when not manning his ship. While he's no master swordsman who dedicated his life to learning the ways of the blade, Kazor wields a cutlass well enough to skewer most who dare lift up a weapon against him in a duel. His training as a marine of the Royal Navy allows him to stand toe to toe against most foes he could expect to face. Alongside his curved blade, Gashin typically carries a boarding axe as a secondary weapon. It works well in tandem with a sword, and as a last resort if his primary armament was damaged or lost. Other weapons Kazor has some experience with are pikes, throwing axes and clubs.

Learned skills and talents are not all that Kazor has at his disposal. The blood of the dwarves runs through his veins, offering him a sturdy form and strapping muscles. He's naturally stronger than the average man, making the half dwarf a frightening wrestler in hand to hand. Alongside his dwarvish heritage, Gash is partially human. This gives him the advantage of height, reach, and agility over a full blooded dwarf.

WEAKNESSES & DRAWBACKS:

The Sea Hound of Amorynthia is at his best on the deck of a ship. His ship, specifically. Taking him from that and putting him down in another place takes Gashin out of his comfort zone. Ships larger or smaller than the Saint Leona are alien to him; Kazor can count the number of times he's had to captain another ship for any extended amount of time on one hand. This is not to say he'd be useless, far from it. But a lack of familiarity with his vessel makes the captain less effective in the whole. Other environments- such as forests, deserts and caves- are similarly out of Gashin's area of expertise.

Physically, Kazor's blood is as much a disadvantage as it is an advantage to him. While Gashin might be stronger than a man, he's almost always weaker than a dwarf. He may be more agile than a dwarf, but Gashin's slower than a human. His half breed status means that the captain lacks the all-in strength of either race, while still possessing the weaknesses of each.

Being a half breed is more a curse than a gift in the eyes of society as a whole. Men look down on him for his Dwarvish heritage, throwing him in the same class as the disenfranchised race of stocky slaves and craftsmen. His peers in the Navy view Kazor as a stain on their prestigious institution. More than one concerted effort has been made to force Gashin into an early retirement, though the half dwarf has never given in to the pressure of his fellow soldiers. He has few friends in Amorynthia, but even fewer among the Dwarves. Acting as an agent of the king responsible for the Dwarven Exploitation marks Gashin as a traitor to his own people.

✶ B E L O N G I N G S

ATTIRE:
The attire donned by the Sea Hound is an unmodified uniform of the Royal Navy, marking Gashin as an officer in service of the Crown. A white waistcoat and a puffed shirt of the same color, accented by golden stripes and facings, protected the captain's chest from the rough conditions of the sea. Trousers matching Kazor's long jacket in color and material keeps his lower half warm and himself decent. More lavish is the long jacket that Gashin wears over everything else. Buttons of gold and dark blue linen mark it as a high quality product, though years at sea have sullied it's appearance significantly. Epaulettes, medals, and tassels can be added to the coat for ceremonial purposes, though Kazor's idea of a party involves more grog and fiddles than the a ballroom dance in the capital. The most treasured of his uniform is the old tricorn hat and bandana he wears on his head.

WEAPONS:
Wielded by sailors of all classes, ranks, races and creeds, the cutlass is as synonymous with the men of the sea as their ships. Gashin's cutlass is twenty nine inches long and a little under a pound in weight. A basket hilt embroidered with gold protects the captain's hand. The blade was forged with tempered steel by the venerable smiths of the Amorynthian military, and enchanted to be sturdier and sharper for longer. Named after a young maiden that Gashin courted in his youth, Betsy is a fearsome sword to cross indeed.

Alongside the mighty Betsy is a far less exciting boarding axe. Unenchanted though usually well crafted, Kazor has gone through more than a dozen over his career as a sailor. He has a habit of losing or breaking them, so Gashin likes to carry several on him at once. On occasion, if the situation calls for it, Gashin can use his axe as a ranged weapon.

TOOLS:
Any number of navigation tools are carried in Gashin's pack. A sextant, spyglass, a pocket watch, maps and various charting tools, and Kazor's trusty compass are all kept on his person when he travels anywhere. A short working knife, rope, bandages, rations, a lighter, and a bedroll were included in his equipment when he set off on the king's expedition.

PERSONAL ITEMS:
Golden earrings and a single iron band marked with the symbol of the king are all the jewelry worn by Captain Gash. One of the only personal items Kazor keeps with him is a worn copy of A Kraken's Tale; an old novel about a captain obsessed with killing a sea monster that destroyed his first ship. Gashin has read the book more times than he can count, though he never tires of the narrative and likes to come back to it whenever he has nothing else to do.

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✶ H I S T O R Y

Use this space to tell us your character's story so far, from birth to the present day. Write to your best standard, as this section will also be used to assess the quality of your work. This section should also show us what your character's personality is like, and how they became that way.

Let's B!tch. I feel it's a healthy release for our roleplay annoyances 2.0

So you know that feeling where everything you write is inadequate, you think you're under performing, and you can't help but compare what you write to others you believe to be flat out better than you?

Yeah.

Fuck that feeling in particular.

What Makes a Good Villain?

Specifically, what makes a good villain in a Roleplay setting. How do you go about crafting a worthy antagonist for your players? What do you keep in mind while you're creating the big bad, and what differentiates a mediocre baddie from a quality villain?

How do RP antagonists differ from standard antagonists in other fiction, such as novels and film?

Lethe: The Inalienable Dreamless

Helvete The Wise

H E L V E T E

“Me? One of the hated man-things? Perish the thought, perish the thought! I am one with the Wood, and the Forest is I!”

Character Name

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Helvete Solon The Wise, of Brightwood

Age

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Fifty One

Gender

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Male

Archetype

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Druid Priest

Moral Conflict

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As caretaker of the Wood, one of the Druid's duties is to protect nature from those who would do it harm. Helvete, lost in his zeal to defend what mattered the most to him, committed heinous acts against his fellow man- the same people who, ironically, belong to the natural world he's meant to safeguard. In the twisted logic of his mind, men are but parasites. Entities of hate who cannot appreciate the world the gods built, only tearing it apart to fuel their endless wars and bloody conflicts. He sealed himself within the root walls and twisted bark of his homeland, slaying all who so much as entered it, in some horrific crusade to cleanse the natural world of what he saw as leeches and vagabonds.

Physical Description

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Before his soul passed on and his remains tossed in a ditch to rot, Helvete covered himself in parts of the Forest. A deer's skull was shaped into a rough mask to hide his hideous man-flesh, antlers protruding from his head. A coat of leaves, vines and thickets made him look larger and more menacing to those who trespassed in his home, serving the duel purpose of keeping him warm in the winter.

But all that has become one with the earth once more. All that remains of Helvete's old attire are the tattered clothes he had fashioned from animal hides and linens. Upon his chest is a tightly woven and heavily worn out shirt of Linothorax- armor of cloth, some metal and animal fat. Beneath it lie less protective robes, colored in a mix mash of dark greens and browns, so that he might blend in with his surroundings.

Physically, Helvete is...odd. Once upon a time, he was young and strong. Of strapping muscles and leather-like skin, the Druid survived in a harsh environment with few luxuries provided to him. However, age has weathered his physical might and prowess. His arms and legs have lost a great deal of their original strength, and the old man grows winder more easily than he would like. There's also an awful knot in his back that he just can't seem to knock out. Long, unruly hair of blond is deafened by time's ever shifting sands, gray and white overtaking first his beard and slowly creeping up toward his head.

Full red cheeks are complimented well by the lines and creases brought along by his age. Eyes of deep emerald,
once so bright and hopeful, darkened significantly in the days before his death. Most odd of his look, as strange as it is, are the Druid's ears. They are extended, scarred and pointy, lacking the roundness one might expect. A cruel ritual of magic, meant to stave off the beginning signs of deafness, as well as to further distance himself from his human roots.

How Helvete died is not a mystery to him, or any who look upon him. Scars that could come only from the piercing of a spear cover the area over his heart. Parts of his body are burned, too. Spots of scarred, burned flesh cover his arms, legs, torso and neck. Whatever happened to the priest was a violent affair that he didn't wish to dwell on. It was all on the past, after all! He had a world to save. No time to dwell, no time at all.

Personality Traits

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The man that rose up from the grave exists in a strange state of halfness. In part he is like he was when he passed from this world: strange in his speech patterns, prone to muttering to himself to hear the sound of someone's voice, and insistent that he is not, in fact, a man. Rather, Helvete believes himself a spirit of the Wood. A wisp of the Forest given form. It's the only explanation for how he hears the trees whisper to him, after all; even if he doesn't understand a lick of what those damned things are saying.

Yet in part, Helvete is also like his old self. Before he fell from grace, his heart consumed by hatred and contempt for the very flesh that hung to his own bones. He holds within his chest the same heart of bright joy and love, particularly for nature, but also for his fellow man. Prone to share nuggets of wisdom he'd learned from the Forest, and ever ready to help any in need. A song exists upon his lips, and he's quick to try and make friends. Though eloquence is lost on him, Helvete loves to speak. To others, to the trees and animals, and to himself- anyone who will listen to him prattle on about whatever topic it is that has captivated his fractured mind.

When presented with the darkest humanity has to offer, that bag of resurrected bones always feels an odd...pressure in his chest. He cannot explain it. Like a knife has been plunged into his heart and set alight. It brings forth feelings that he doesn't enjoy to feel. Cruel, twisted rage is near alien to the old druid, yet he feels it burning in his heart more often than he would like. Solon is afraid of it. Afraid of what it means, and what it might mean if his memories ever return to him.

Attributes

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"Nature is the great provider!"

A man that has lived in the woods all his life knows more of berries, weeds and deer than he does practically anything else. While Helvete Solon remembers not the name of individual plants, he can tell you from instinct alone what is edible and what should never be put anywhere near the mouth. He knows a monster's den from that of easy prey, and animal tracks are as discernible as text to his old eyes.

"Suck on this frog."

One of the primary needs men had of the druid when he still served them was that of a medicine man. While nothing like those stick up pricks in big cities who could heal wounds with a flourish of the hand and a little magic, Helvete had methods that were...sort of...just as effective! He knew how to cure a cold, treat a fever and the best way to suck poison from a wound. While no master at potion crafting, Helvete knows a few remedies to help quicken the natural healing process.

"Ugly goblin-creep, have at you!"

Though older and more ragged than most of his part, Helvete is not entirely defenseless without his magic. His lessons have been forgotten, the Druid Priest knows his way around a quarterstaff through muscle memory alone. He can beat, bash and twirl with a stick better than your average woodsman. In a fight, Solon much prefers to stand behind men with a little more stamina and strength. However, if something manages to get past them and to him? The druid has it in him to fight back, even if he can't keep it up for very long.

"Come, monster-beasts, taste the fury of the Wood!"

By focusing his magic through his staff, Helvete is able to manipulate the power of Nature to assist him in battle. By his might he is able to cause a pair of Vilespines to sprout up from the ground, directing their poisonous spines to be fired into his foes. Or he might grow a vine out of the wall, commanding it to wrap around the arm of an enemy so that his ally might be spared a deadly stroke of the sword. A small tree may be raised to defend from a hail of arrows, or to knock a group of tightly packed opponents off balance.

As plants obey his words so, too, do some animals. Beasts of the wood, who's wills are small and easily bent, may be persuaded to aid in battle. Creatures of a fierce intellect will resist his call, if they so choose, sometimes even being enraged at the Druid's presumption that he is their master.

It takes a deal of concentration to use magic, especially in greater acts. The more complicated or difficult the spell, the more Solon the Wise must zero in on it. This may make him vulnerable while he is casting due to his lapsed attention, or the Druid may be able to only use that singular ability instead of multiple weaker ones. Magic depletes his stamina as well. If he's too tired, Helvete will be unable to perform most rituals, save for, perhaps, the very easiest of his magics.

Inventory & Equipment

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"This is my stick. His name is Oakheart."

A seven foot long staff made of Oak, crafted with an expertise that suggested it was an item of some importance. Even the sands of time have done little to unravel it, magic working to preserve it against all odds. There appears to be some fire damage, though the integrity of it's structure isn't compromised too badly by it. At the head of the staff lies a glowing gemstone, it's surface cracked and it's light dimmed, existing as a likely source of power for the Druid. Without the staff in hand, he is unable to focus his magic, so it is assumed the crystal has something to do with it.

"Who uses potion bottles to carry birdseed? Well, me, I guess."

A leather satchel with several holes in it's aging surface was found about the Druid's shoulder when he 'awoke' from the endless sleep. Based on the size of the bag and it's contents, it appears that he'd lost most of what he was carrying in it. However, there did remain a pair of specially crafted bottles within, their surfaces scratched up and ugly, but unbroken. They contained birdseed when Helvete first found them, but he believes they'd be quite useful for holding medicine.

"So unfortunate. I wish I knew what it said.."

An amulet lay about the neck of the old man, it's chain rusted and it's once beautiful surface made ugly by time. The silver necklace once held a runic inscription upon it, though the words had been scratched off, leaving it a mystery to the druid. A weak magical energy can be felt radiating off of it, though it's far too weak to be of any use. Perhaps once upon a time it was an artifact of some importance; now, though, it was little more than a hunk of metal.

Gift of Rebirth

---

"A living statue. No moving, no seeing...what a terrible thing."

The gods, cruel as they are, seek to keep their resurrected warriors safe. When and why it happens, the druid knows not. But at intervals, Helvete finds himself growing horribly cold. Frozen to the touch, even. But a moment later his flesh transforms into granite, shifting in a terrifying and painful fashion. His ability to move is stolen from him, as well his his senses, though he is still 'aware' of himself. The forest wizard is nigh impervious when he's a 'statue,' though the drawbacks make it...less than an enjoyable experience for the man.

Superboy's Shitty Characters

Helvete The Wise

H E L V E T E

“Me? One of the hated man-things? Perish the thought, perish the thought! I am one with the Wood, and the Forest is I!”

Character Name

---

Helvete Solon The Wise, of Brightwood

Age

---

Fifty One

Gender

---

Male

Archetype

---

Druid Priest

Moral Conflict

---

As caretaker of the Wood, one of the Druid's duties is to protect nature from those who would do it harm. Helvete, lost in his zeal to defend what mattered the most to him, committed heinous acts against his fellow man- the same people who, ironically, belong to the natural world he's meant to safeguard. In the twisted logic of his mind, men are but parasites. Entities of hate who cannot appreciate the world the gods built, only tearing it apart to fuel their endless wars and bloody conflicts. He sealed himself within the root walls and twisted bark of his homeland, slaying all who so much as entered it, in some horrific crusade to cleanse the natural world of what he saw as leeches and vagabonds.

Physical Description

---

Before his soul passed on and his remains tossed in a ditch to rot, Helvete covered himself in parts of the Forest. A deer's skull was shaped into a rough mask to hide his hideous man-flesh, antlers protruding from his head. A coat of leaves, vines and thickets made him look larger and more menacing to those who trespassed in his home, serving the duel purpose of keeping him warm in the winter.

But all that has become one with the earth once more. All that remains of Helvete's old attire are the tattered clothes he had fashioned from animal hides and linens. Upon his chest is a tightly woven and heavily worn out shirt of Linothorax- armor of cloth, some metal and animal fat. Beneath it lie less protective robes, colored in a mix mash of dark greens and browns, so that he might blend in with his surroundings.

Physically, Helvete is...odd. Once upon a time, he was young and strong. Of strapping muscles and leather-like skin, the Druid survived in a harsh environment with few luxuries provided to him. However, age has weathered his physical might and prowess. His arms and legs have lost a great deal of their original strength, and the old man grows winder more easily than he would like. There's also an awful knot in his back that he just can't seem to knock out. Long, unruly hair of blond is deafened by time's ever shifting sands, gray and white overtaking first his beard and slowly creeping up toward his head.

Full red cheeks are complimented well by the lines and creases brought along by his age. Eyes of deep emerald,
once so bright and hopeful, darkened significantly in the days before his death. Most odd of his look, as strange as it is, are the Druid's ears. They are extended, scarred and pointy, lacking the roundness one might expect. A cruel ritual of magic, meant to stave off the beginning signs of deafness, as well as to further distance himself from his human roots.

How Helvete died is not a mystery to him, or any who look upon him. Scars that could come only from the piercing of a spear cover the area over his heart. Parts of his body are burned, too. Spots of scarred, burned flesh cover his arms, legs, torso and neck. Whatever happened to the priest was a violent affair that he didn't wish to dwell on. It was all on the past, after all! He had a world to save. No time to dwell, no time at all.

Personality Traits

---

The man that rose up from the grave exists in a strange state of halfness. In part he is like he was when he passed from this world: strange in his speech patterns, prone to muttering to himself to hear the sound of someone's voice, and insistent that he is not, in fact, a man. Rather, Helvete believes himself a spirit of the Wood. A wisp of the Forest given form. It's the only explanation for how he hears the trees whisper to him, after all; even if he doesn't understand a lick of what those damned things are saying.

Yet in part, Helvete is also like his old self. Before he fell from grace, his heart consumed by hatred and contempt for the very flesh that hung to his own bones. He holds within his chest the same heart of bright joy and love, particularly for nature, but also for his fellow man. Prone to share nuggets of wisdom he'd learned from the Forest, and ever ready to help any in need. A song exists upon his lips, and he's quick to try and make friends. Though eloquence is lost on him, Helvete loves to speak. To others, to the trees and animals, and to himself- anyone who will listen to him prattle on about whatever topic it is that has captivated his fractured mind.

When presented with the darkest humanity has to offer, that bag of resurrected bones always feels an odd...pressure in his chest. He cannot explain it. Like a knife has been plunged into his heart and set alight. It brings forth feelings that he doesn't enjoy to feel. Cruel, twisted rage is near alien to the old druid, yet he feels it burning in his heart more often than he would like. Solon is afraid of it. Afraid of what it means, and what it might mean if his memories ever return to him.

Attributes

---

"Nature is the great provider!"

A man that has lived in the woods all his life knows more of berries, weeds and deer than he does practically anything else. While Helvete Solon remembers not the name of individual plants, he can tell you from instinct alone what is edible and what should never be put anywhere near the mouth. He knows a monster's den from that of easy prey, and animal tracks are as discernible as text to his old eyes.

"Suck on this frog."

One of the primary needs men had of the druid when he still served them was that of a medicine man. While nothing like those stick up pricks in big cities who could heal wounds with a flourish of the hand and a little magic, Helvete had methods that were...sort of...just as effective! He knew how to cure a cold, treat a fever and the best way to suck poison from a wound. While no master at potion crafting, Helvete knows a few remedies to help quicken the natural healing process.

"Ugly goblin-creep, have at you!"

Though older and more ragged than most of his part, Helvete is not entirely defenseless without his magic. His lessons have been forgotten, the Druid Priest knows his way around a quarterstaff through muscle memory alone. He can beat, bash and twirl with a stick better than your average woodsman. In a fight, Solon much prefers to stand behind men with a little more stamina and strength. However, if something manages to get past them and to him? The druid has it in him to fight back, even if he can't keep it up for very long.

Inventory & Equipment

---

"This is my stick. His name is Oakheart."

A seven foot long staff made of Oak, crafted with an expertise that suggested it was an item of some importance. Even the sands of time have done little to unravel it, magic working to preserve it against all odds. There appears to be some fire damage, though the integrity of it's structure isn't compromised too badly by it. At the head of the staff lies a glowing gemstone, it's surface cracked and it's light dimmed, existing as a likely source of power for the Druid. Without the staff in hand, he is unable to focus his magic, so it is assumed the crystal has something to do with it.

"Who uses potion bottles to carry birdseed? Well, me, I guess."

A leather satchel with several holes in it's aging surface was found about the Druid's shoulder when he 'awoke' from the endless sleep. Based on the size of the bag and it's contents, it appears that he'd lost most of what he was carrying in it. However, there did remain a pair of specially crafted bottles within, their surfaces scratched up and ugly, but unbroken. They contained birdseed when Helvete first found them, but he believes they'd be quite useful for holding medicine.

"So unfortunate. I wish I knew what it said.."

An amulet lay about the neck of the old man, it's chain rusted and it's once beautiful surface made ugly by time. The silver necklace once held a runic inscription upon it, though the words had been scratched off, leaving it a mystery to the druid. A weak magical energy can be felt radiating off of it, though it's far too weak to be of any use. Perhaps once upon a time it was an artifact of some importance; now, though, it was little more than a hunk of metal.

Gift of Rebirth

---

"A living statue. No moving, no seeing...what a terrible thing."

The gods, cruel as they are, seek to keep their resurrected warriors safe. When and why it happens, the druid knows not. But at intervals, Helvete finds himself growing horribly cold. Frozen to the touch, even. But a moment later his flesh transforms into granite, shifting in a terrifying and painful fashion. His ability to move is stolen from him, as well his his senses, though he is still 'aware' of himself. The forest wizard is nigh impervious when he's a 'statue,' though the drawbacks make it...less than an enjoyable experience for the man.

Warhammer 40K: Knives in the Dark - An Only War/Guard RP

@AdvancedJ3lly Nah, it looks good!

I'll probably hold off on replying again until we get through another GM post.