Tackytaff

Dragon Age: Seas Of Thedas

I need this in my life. Getting started five minutes ago.

Return of the Dragonlords (High-Casual)

Ack Sorry sorry sorry @Superman I promise I didn't mean to steal your ability it was in my cs when I first sent it to Aerith. But if either you or @Aerith of Brae have an issue with them being too similar let me know and I can change it.

Return of the Dragonlords (High-Casual)

Name: Amelise Tharem (Unamia ‘The Death Bringer’)
Age: In her mortal form, she appears to be in her mid to-late 20s.
Race: Elf/Dragon (Guardian)

Inherited Abilities:

Elf Form: Shadow Jumping

Dragon Form:
-Death Fog:Like all dragons, Unamia has a special breath ability. Unlike most dragons, however, who typically breathe fire, Unamia's breath is different. Death Fog is an ability given to Unamia by the God of the Abyss himself. A noxious fume flows from Unamia's jaws, coating yards of enemies in a sheen of fumes toxic enough to kill.

-Banshee Cry: The Banshee Cry is a sound no one wants to hear. Although Unamia can direct it toward an enemy, the cry itself causes one's blood to run cold, and those in its path soon find themselves lost in madness.

Acquired Abilities:
-Shadow Warrior: Not quite foolish enough to go completely un-armed in mortal form, she does much prefer hand to hand close-quarters combat. While she cannot always overpower her opponent with brute force, she can typically use her speed and agility to out-maneuver them. Her weapons of choice, when armed, are a flexible enchanted staff and short dagger.

-Spirit Perception: All of Unamia senses are heighted compared to those of normal mortals. She can see as clearly in the dark as on the brightest day, and hear the sound of a falling stone in the midst of a crowded market.
-Spirit Consumption: Wandering spirits cover the earth now, and Unamia is able to tap in, or consume their essence. With every nearby death friend of enemy, she grows stronger, faster, and even heals rapidly in the midst of a battlefield.

Appearance:

Elf Form

Dragon Form

Personality: Unlike most of her elders, Unamia does not have the patience or wisdom one would associate with living for millennia. She retains a rather youthful demeanor; good humor offset by her own pride, vanity, and quick temper. The resentment she once held for mortals has mostly faded, to be replaced with a sort of amusement; a similar regard most would have towards kittens or small children. Despite the restrictions to using her dragon form she enjoys her time on the mortal plane for its newness and constant change: She adores excitement in all forms and can even be optimistic when things don’t go according to plan; granted something hasn’t come about to raise her temper.

History: Unamia is the second the carry the name ‘Death Bringer’. The first was her own mother, Desrem who had the title for a very different reason. Desrem did Ral’s purpose; she led the dead to the afterlife, but was killed in the early days of the great purge. Despite orders and many advising against it, the mere centuries old Unamia went on a rampage of vengeance in Darrodell. The destruction and havoc she caused play its own role in helping old king persuade the other kingdoms to join him in the purge, thus leading to more deaths of her kind; a great many of which where Ral’s remaining guardians. An injury severe enough to force Unamia to sleep for several years saved her from the final purges. Upon wakening, Ral bestowed her mother’s title on her and she became his chosen guardian until there came a time the dragon lords could return.

A Tale of Owls and Wolves

Ack really really sorry that took so long. I had some midterms and went camping and -insert more excuses here- and tbh took me a while to come up with something that I didn't want to delete as soon as a wrote. Hopefully wont happen again. Hopefully this stays alive? Cheers!

A Tale of Owls and Wolves

Jesma was a rotten liar. This had come as something as a surprise; there had been few occasions that called for lying in her life so far, and when it had come to such, the victim had always been her father; who had always been perhaps too distracted to notice his daughter’s change in compaction or sudden interest in her stained fingertips. Then again, it hadn’t helped that the smoke came from her room. Or what had been her room for two nights. Everything made of wood, never had she been in such an impractical place. If just the desk had been given a stone or even glass top – everything could have been avoided. As it was the desk, the chair, the floor, the bed, even the damned window frame caught ablaze and no sooner had she left the building, coughing and stomping smoke off her trousers then she found herself pinched between two city guards and on the wrong end an ill-tempered in-keeper’s vindictive glare. It was clear no one knew what to do with her at first, aside from disbelieve every excuse she offered; the deemed her a Halfling and dwarf blood was made for mines and didn’t see much issue sticking her with the rest of their prisoners. But not before giving her a good wash; if all of her saved worldly possessions hadn’t just been taken and she hadn’t been condemned to spending an indeterminate amount of time laboring in the damp underground she might have found it amusing. The water had been cold; and only a single bucket given, but the hard sour-smelling soap worked well enough to get the soot and ash from her hair. It had been her hands which concerned the guards most however; first she had been sent back to wash them again, and again returned coloured black form fingertips past the wrists. A guard followed her in after, and attempted to clean them himself, until his own palms where pink and raw. There had then been the question as to if she was diseased. Jesma had not responded to their questions, but watched mutely as they argued, swinging her legs under the bench she had been told to wait on.

A few hours after being shown to her cell Jesma questioned why they bothered washing her at all. Hair had begun to clung to her face wetting again from cold sweat the musty air caused, and he skin was already had a thin coating of grime that crawled to the back of her throat with each breath. The first three meals she had refused to eat out of resentment. By the fourth, it was clear no one noticed of cared much if she ate her food; but she had worked her first shift in the pits and insolence there was very much noted. Meager by some standards the food had suited Jesma well enough; she was accustomed to small portions and her stature didn’t demand much nourishment. The work was much different and not something she was ever able to get used to regardless of however many days she had lost track of during her stay at Arsdent’s Pit.

‘Skyview’ As she liked to call the mine where she and a handful of prisoners toiled today was darker than usual. The sun was just disappearing behind the line of the narrow hole reaching all the way to the surface; bleeding to a red sky. Sunset, so they had been digging east perhaps north-east. She wondered if they would get to the ocean or perhaps even go under it.
“Girl” Jesma didn’t stand straight or even stop scratching the rat bite on her shoulder, only peered over to one of the two guards standing some ten feet away. Guards where more or less indistinguishable all where the same height as far as she was concerned; taller. They all wore the same uniform if varying degrees of order, and most wore a cloth around most of their face, to keep out the smell. Of miners or prisoners? She had been foolish enough to ask that once. The cloths where the easiest identifiers, typically, thought the one that spoke to her now had a very large boil forming on the tip of his nose that she couldn’t seem to look away from.
“Girl, you come with us.” The workers had all stopped, she realized, suddenly hearing the near silence; the absence of metal on stone. A meal would be at the cell soon then, and being personally escorted did not typically mean the usual destination.
“Something special for dinner then?” Boil didn’t appreciate the comment, it was difficult to see from here height and distance but his eyes may had narrowed. The other guard, with what might have once been a blue cloth round his face stood from leaning against the wall, beaconed then turned to walked away. It irked Jesma that he would take it for granted that she would follow, but follow she did, picking up her pickaxe (a quarter her size and nearly a third her weight) and dragging it behind her.
“A bath then? Can I really rank worse than Therber?” She sniffed her stained shirt, but whatever sense of smell she may have had was gone. Somewhat blessedly she mused. One guard, she suspected the one with the boil but they had their backs turned making them once again indistinguishable muttered something to the other and they continued walking.
”Or perhaps our warden, the sweet angel of mercy himself, has granted my leave of his pit of justice” To her own amazement, that remark was met with a snort.
[”Aye girl, three months and nine days, we’re full up and you’re getting out” Something in the way the guard said the words stopped Jesma from rejoicing. That and her own disbelief. It was hard to maintain and hope or optimism in the pits; few truly believed they would ever get out. Three months. Her mouth was very dry, and she had a sudden urge to sit down but didn’t dare lose pace with the taller men. It was impossible to track proper days without seeing the sky often; time was measured by work shifts and meals. No one in their party of three said another word until reaching a solid wood door at the end of a hall. Jesma held her breath as the handle turned and it opened, in case anyone heard her breathing and suddenly realized their mistake.

It was a bit of a blur for a moment, a clean room with proper walls and men dressed in more than prisoner’s rags, not all guards either; some in proper provincial clothes. Then she had been whisked away and found herself once again naked and alone in a room staring into a bucket of water, soap in hand. Trousers, tunic, and even shoes (Shoes!) from another life lying in the corner. It took a good deal of willpower not to run over to them straight away. Instead, every inch was meticulously scrubbed, every hair rinsed of sweat and dust and the callouses that had formed on her feet soaked and softened. Cold as the water may have been, Jesma felt like a dream walking out of that room; wearing her old clothing that now hung somewhat looser then it had before. She was sat down before a very large dark wooden desk behind which sat a rather plump mustached man with a red face. Before he even began speaking Jesma had stopped listening; just to her left sat a smile pile of items. Her items.

”Might I have some water?” The man seemed only mildly surprised at her interruption before nodding to a guard and continuing to drone on about ‘public obligations’ and ‘second offences’. The vials where there, as was the journal, and a small tin, even the watch (which she had expected to be stolen) remained, and amazingly most wonderfully and impossibly placed-barely-an-arms-length-away; her pistol. Not a scrap of money on the table, not even a line of credit to her name. But she had belongings. More than tattered clothes and a pickaxe she could barely swing; things she had made and where of home.

A Tale of Owls and Wolves

Jesma Corr (may still be edited)

Name: Jesma Corr
Continent of Birth: Carthus
Race: (mostly) Human
Class: Grenadier

Starter Equipment:
-5 vials of power that produce various outcomes upon release
-1 large single-shotpistol nearly the length of her forearm
-A black journal filled with sketched blueprints and notes
-Tin of gunpowder
-Leather/cloth clothing suited to traveling
-Gold watch

Age: 23
Personality: Erratic at the best of times; it is rare for Jesma to know where her mind goes herself, but she is always focused on achieving something. Idleness is not habit she possesses any more than patience as a virtue. She was never taught proper etiquette, especially not that of polite society, and as such most social queues are mostly lost on her. This paired with her all-too-quick temper, and general appearance give enough reason for people to avoid her.

Strengths:
-Demolitionist/engineer
-Educated (Math and sciences)
-Small/agile (4’10)

Weaknesses:
-Weak
-2 missing fingers on right hand
-Impulsive
-Pigheadedly-stubborn/socially inept

Fears:
-Magic
-Dark/High Elves

Brief History: Jesma was born to a Dwarf/human halfling father and human mother, the latter of which died 8 months after her birth. Her father; Kolm Corr was a craftsman, who build and sold his wares on both sides of the border of their home in DawnTown. He was an irregular father, with a still more irregular daughter though how much of that was his own doing became indiscernible as she grew. She followed him everywhere he went, and unless recently reprimanded, tamped with all that was in her short reach. Kolm, as distracted of a man as his daughter was destined to be, saw it only fit to teach her the basics of his craft if for safety more than anything else. By the age of 13; armed with a small set of tools acquired from both honest and dubious means, she began her own tinkering; mostly small traps barely mimicking the great machines her father constructed, to the dismay of the various pet cats she had over the years.

As time wore on, and Kolm began to lose eyesight and develop a tremble in his hands, he came to depend on his daughter. Following his dictation in construction Jasma learned true skill and gained access to the most prized substance in that small craftsman’s world; the supply of gunpowder. She discovered a design for a pistol in her father’s journal and set about it in her meager free time, it was a clumsy mess and it’s first shot cost two of her right hand fingers and earned a scolding she was much too old to receive, but was entirely worth it.
Shorty after Jasma’s 23rd year, whatever had been ailing her father for near a decade killed him leaving her entirely alone. His contacts, who had traded with her in his name for so many years began to look elsewhere for goods. It wasn’t long before she had to give up her home, and eventually after stripping it of as much as she could; her father’s workshop. She found herself writing to impossibly distant relatives she could barely pronounce the names of and eventually managed to find an apprenticeship in Smyrna on the distant continent of Penault. With no other option, she packed her remaining belongings for Port Town to find a ship willing to take her. No sooner did she find one and spend nearly all her remaining funds booking passage, then she found herself in the miner’s prison.