Member
TokyoPewPew
BayRat
rabidbacon
Tlaloc
Silly
The World
Sylvan
AvaP
RevekaRed
Zapdos
P R E S E N C E
He may no longer be a follower of Shiva but some habits remain, quietness is to be valued, hospitality is sacred and politeness is as natural as breathing. That said he tends to be overly detached, traveling has made it difficult to form long lasting connections so nowadays he does his business, and leaves as soon as it is done.
That doesn't mean he doesn't care, he wouldn't do half the things he does if that was the case, he just prefers to burn bright and quick then seek the next battlefield.
When he was much younger he used to be rash and abrasive but time and discipline have mellowed him out, nowadays he is able to control his worst impulses and think before acting, even though his internal thoughts have not changed that much. Somewhat stern and uncomplicated, he prefers to tackle problems head-on, believing that letting a problem persist leads to festering and rot.
His relationship with the cult of Iffrit is friendly, with his home it's strained and with his cult it's complicated.
As a wanderer he prefers slower methods of transport, be it carts and trucks driven by farmers, walking if it is an option if he doesn't have to spend more than two weeks in the wilderness. It doesn't originate from a loathing for modern vehicles but rather a wish to take his time and reflect, it may be slow but it is ever forward.
C H R O N I C L E
Born in a small rural town in the mountains of northern Spiera, there were a few things that were clear the moment he was born, cold was his people's way of life, a warm house wasn't to be denied to anyone and Lady Shiva was the Dominant they followed.
He never quite fitted.
Active where others were placid, loud instead of quiet, and quicker to resort towards violence -merited or not.
It was perhaps a quirk of fate, an old swordmaster arrived at their village, he was an old follower of Ifrit and this was to be his last pilgrimage. Of all the other children it was he alone who dared to approach the stranger, pestering him with question upon question, despite this the stranger took the time to answer each one with patience, perhaps recognizing something within him that mirrored his own youth. There was a faint sense of disproval from the elders of the village but that only drove him to interact further with the swordmaster until one day he finally decided to pop the question.
'Can you teach me how to use a sword?'
... Admittedly he was never the most eloquent person.
What followed were some of the hardest and most rewarding years of his life.
At first it was grueling work. As a young boy he was filled with impatience, wanting to leap straight into swordplay, to swing and slash as he had seen in stories. But the old master was unyielding, the lessons were about discipline, the control of one's body and mind. Hours were spent holding stances, practicing footwork, and learning to breathe in a way that harmonized the spirit with the movement of the blade. Even though he was quick to anger and frustration, he never quit. Each day, he returned, determined to prove himself worthy of his Master's teachings.
Slowly, the sword began to feel like an extension of his own body. He learned to harness the aggression that had once gotten him into trouble, to channel his fiery nature into something controlled, something dangerous yet disciplined. The more he learned, the more he realized how little he truly understood before. The sword was not just a tool of violence; it was a path to mastery over himself.
He even managed to convince the old Master to teach him how to use a little complementary magic, nothing like a dedicated caster could but mere tricks to serve in conjunction with his sword.
His relation with the rest of the village changed too, although most were put off by his new obsession -with some of the most conservative members even objecting to it- it proved to be an overall boon to his social standing, no longer was he the firecracker that kept causing trouble but instead a polite teenager that had found a sense of purpose.
But nothing lasts forever, sooner than he wished his Master decided it was his time to depart. As a last gesture, he gifted him a blade, a small crystal, and some parting wisdom.
"Fire doesn’t seek peace -it seeks to burn, to grow. And you, boy, you are a flame"
If only the both of them knew how true that was.
Life moved on, he kept with his training now all by himself, practicing each day in the quiet solitude of the mountains. Though the village carried on with its usual rhythm, the absence of the swordmaster left a noticeable gap in his life. He tried new things, fishing, woodworking, smithing. Nothing ever clicked the way swordsmanship did.
There was a restlessness inside him growing every day.
It came to a head one fateful winter. News reached the village that a band of raiders, notorious for pillaging small settlements around mining towns, was heading toward their remote mountain home. But these weren’t just common thieves, there were rumors that they were followers of Ifrit’s darker aspects, flame and destruction without discipline. The villagers, usually peaceful and insular, were unprepared for such a threat. As panic spread through the village, many advocated for fleeing into the deeper mountains or hiding in the caves until the raiders passed. But that wasn’t an option for him. This was the first time in his life that the sword he had spent years mastering would be put to real use, his mind burned with purpose, and the flame within him truly roared to life for the first time.
Against the wishes of the elders, he took up his sword and set out alone to face the raiders. He knew the terrain better than anyone and used that to his advantage. Perched on a narrow cliffside path, he watched the raiders approach, waiting until they were close enough. Then, with the discipline and precision his Master had drilled into him, he descended upon them. The fight was brutal. These men were not like the quiet villagers he had grown up around, they were strong, experienced fighters who lived for battle. But he was faster, more agile, and -most importantly- his flame had a purpose. Every swing of his sword was driven by years of pent-up energy and a fierce desire to protect the village he had once thought stifled him.
He cut and was cut away, fire was used as a distraction by both sides, for every enemy he felled another two took its place, a few bullets grazed him and his blood ignited like never before. It wasn't long before he lost himself to the fire of battle
[And you, boy, you are a Flame]
...and found 'SOMETHING' gazing at him.
When lucidity returned to him he stood amidst the aftermath of the battle, wisps of fire licking his wounds, for the first time in his life, the cold failing to affect him in any way. Around him, most of the raiders were either dead or unconscious, with the remaining few watching him with a mix of emotions.
It was... uncomfortable, the way they looked at him, awe, fear, and hunger in each of their gazes.
Vitality was still flowing inside him but he was tired, more tired than ever before, around him 'Flakes' were slowly descending and landing in everything, including the riders. He had some suspicions about what had transpired and the reason for the particles falling around him. With as much strength as he could, he ordered them to leave and never return.
Miraculous enough they complied, their gazes clouded.
His return to the village was met with a mix of emotions. The villagers, who had heard the commotion and seen the distant flickers of fire in the night, initially greeted him with astonishment. Some were relieved, grateful for his bravery and for warding off the raiders, while others watched him with trepidation, unsure of what had truly transpired on that battlefield. The strange sensation of fire coursing through his veins hadn’t left him, it pulsed beneath his skin like a second heartbeat. He could feel the eyes of the villagers on him, some filled with admiration, others with uncertainty. His mind flashed back to the raiders' gazes, their fervent obedience when he had ordered them to leave.
Something had changed in him.
In the days that followed, he tried to return to normal life. But nothing felt the same. The villagers treated him differently, even his closest friends seemed distant. There were hushed conversations whenever he passed, glances stolen when they thought he wasn’t looking. The fire inside him, once a source of comfort and purpose, now felt like a weight, an uncontrollable force that had burned too brightly for too long.
He couldn't stay, that much was clear, the feelings for his actions were grateful but the knowledge of what they meant was weighing down everyone. So he made his decision. He called a meeting with the elders and announced his leave.
There were attempts to stop him, but he could tell they were halfhearted.
He packed his belongings and took one last look at the village that had been his home. The snow had begun to fall again, covering the ground in a fresh blanket of white. It was beautiful and cold, a stark contrast to the fire that now roared within him. And so, with the blade his master had gifted him, a heart full of resolve, and a spirit aflame with unfulfilled potential, he stepped into the unknown, ready to face whatever challenges awaited him. The journey ahead would be long and uncertain, but he was ready to embrace it with the full force of his flame.
For the last 5 years he has been wandering, imitating his Master pilgrimage, and searching to find himself through the edge of his blade.
After all, fire seeks to grow and he is a Flame.
H O M E
The capital of Spiera is a temperate country known for its metal ores, its expensive wines, beautiful ships, and its historic temples. Much has been done to preserve the ancient parts of the city, and as seen from the drones, one is struck by the clear divide of darkness between old and new during the evenings. However, unlike the usual template mainland, the mountains tend to be very cold all year long with heavy winds due to their closeness to the sea.
Mathias's birth home is called Gazet Village, a small rural town in the mountains of northern Spiera.
The main worship is Shiva, but shrines exist to Leviathan and Garuda. The village's closest neighbor is a mining town and one of the biggest concerns for the elders of the village is the new tendency for the youngsters to migrate there in search of a better life.
The town is small, barely reaching above 100 in population it is headed by an elected council of six elders. It is identical to hundreds of small settlements found in the northern regions of Spiera and the surrounding nations.
T R I V I A
Likes
-Sour candies
-Swordsmanship
-Cold
-Followers of Shiva
-His cult
Dislikes
-Stifling environments
-Recklessness
-His cult
Neutrals
-The remnants of that band of Raiders have formed a cult around him, inducting others with similar mentality into their ranks, however, the cult possesses a strange method of worship. They seek to attack him, to enter in battle, and force him to enter his Dominant form. It is only then that the surviving members are 'worthy' of absorbing the residue.
-His Master was a relatively high-standing member of the cult of Ifrit, and a well-known Grandmaster swordsman.
S O C I A L
Has heard about a few of the most famous ones but has never met anyone(?)
He may no longer be a follower of Shiva but some habits remain, quietness is to be valued, hospitality is sacred and politeness is as natural as breathing. That said he tends to be overly detached, traveling has made it difficult to form long lasting connections so nowadays he does his business, and leaves as soon as it is done.
That doesn't mean he doesn't care, he wouldn't do half the things he does if that was the case, he just prefers to burn bright and quick then seek the next battlefield.
When he was much younger he used to be rash and abrasive but time and discipline have mellowed him out, nowadays he is able to control his worst impulses and think before acting, even though his internal thoughts have not changed that much. Somewhat stern and uncomplicated, he prefers to tackle problems head-on, believing that letting a problem persist leads to festering and rot.
His relationship with the cult of Iffrit is friendly, with his home it's strained and with his cult it's complicated.
As a wanderer he prefers slower methods of transport, be it carts and trucks driven by farmers, walking if it is an option if he doesn't have to spend more than two weeks in the wilderness. It doesn't originate from a loathing for modern vehicles but rather a wish to take his time and reflect, it may be slow but it is ever forward.
C H R O N I C L E
Born in a small rural town in the mountains of northern Spiera, there were a few things that were clear the moment he was born, cold was his people's way of life, a warm house wasn't to be denied to anyone and Lady Shiva was the Dominant they followed.
He never quite fitted.
Active where others were placid, loud instead of quiet, and quicker to resort towards violence -merited or not.
It was perhaps a quirk of fate, an old swordmaster arrived at their village, he was an old follower of Ifrit and this was to be his last pilgrimage. Of all the other children it was he alone who dared to approach the stranger, pestering him with question upon question, despite this the stranger took the time to answer each one with patience, perhaps recognizing something within him that mirrored his own youth. There was a faint sense of disproval from the elders of the village but that only drove him to interact further with the swordmaster until one day he finally decided to pop the question.
'Can you teach me how to use a sword?'
... Admittedly he was never the most eloquent person.
What followed were some of the hardest and most rewarding years of his life.
At first it was grueling work. As a young boy he was filled with impatience, wanting to leap straight into swordplay, to swing and slash as he had seen in stories. But the old master was unyielding, the lessons were about discipline, the control of one's body and mind. Hours were spent holding stances, practicing footwork, and learning to breathe in a way that harmonized the spirit with the movement of the blade. Even though he was quick to anger and frustration, he never quit. Each day, he returned, determined to prove himself worthy of his Master's teachings.
Slowly, the sword began to feel like an extension of his own body. He learned to harness the aggression that had once gotten him into trouble, to channel his fiery nature into something controlled, something dangerous yet disciplined. The more he learned, the more he realized how little he truly understood before. The sword was not just a tool of violence; it was a path to mastery over himself.
He even managed to convince the old Master to teach him how to use a little complementary magic, nothing like a dedicated caster could but mere tricks to serve in conjunction with his sword.
His relation with the rest of the village changed too, although most were put off by his new obsession -with some of the most conservative members even objecting to it- it proved to be an overall boon to his social standing, no longer was he the firecracker that kept causing trouble but instead a polite teenager that had found a sense of purpose.
But nothing lasts forever, sooner than he wished his Master decided it was his time to depart. As a last gesture, he gifted him a blade, a small crystal, and some parting wisdom.
"Fire doesn’t seek peace -it seeks to burn, to grow. And you, boy, you are a flame"
If only the both of them knew how true that was.
Life moved on, he kept with his training now all by himself, practicing each day in the quiet solitude of the mountains. Though the village carried on with its usual rhythm, the absence of the swordmaster left a noticeable gap in his life. He tried new things, fishing, woodworking, smithing. Nothing ever clicked the way swordsmanship did.
There was a restlessness inside him growing every day.
It came to a head one fateful winter. News reached the village that a band of raiders, notorious for pillaging small settlements around mining towns, was heading toward their remote mountain home. But these weren’t just common thieves, there were rumors that they were followers of Ifrit’s darker aspects, flame and destruction without discipline. The villagers, usually peaceful and insular, were unprepared for such a threat. As panic spread through the village, many advocated for fleeing into the deeper mountains or hiding in the caves until the raiders passed. But that wasn’t an option for him. This was the first time in his life that the sword he had spent years mastering would be put to real use, his mind burned with purpose, and the flame within him truly roared to life for the first time.
Against the wishes of the elders, he took up his sword and set out alone to face the raiders. He knew the terrain better than anyone and used that to his advantage. Perched on a narrow cliffside path, he watched the raiders approach, waiting until they were close enough. Then, with the discipline and precision his Master had drilled into him, he descended upon them. The fight was brutal. These men were not like the quiet villagers he had grown up around, they were strong, experienced fighters who lived for battle. But he was faster, more agile, and -most importantly- his flame had a purpose. Every swing of his sword was driven by years of pent-up energy and a fierce desire to protect the village he had once thought stifled him.
He cut and was cut away, fire was used as a distraction by both sides, for every enemy he felled another two took its place, a few bullets grazed him and his blood ignited like never before. It wasn't long before he lost himself to the fire of battle
[And you, boy, you are a Flame]
...and found 'SOMETHING' gazing at him.
When lucidity returned to him he stood amidst the aftermath of the battle, wisps of fire licking his wounds, for the first time in his life, the cold failing to affect him in any way. Around him, most of the raiders were either dead or unconscious, with the remaining few watching him with a mix of emotions.
It was... uncomfortable, the way they looked at him, awe, fear, and hunger in each of their gazes.
Vitality was still flowing inside him but he was tired, more tired than ever before, around him 'Flakes' were slowly descending and landing in everything, including the riders. He had some suspicions about what had transpired and the reason for the particles falling around him. With as much strength as he could, he ordered them to leave and never return.
Miraculous enough they complied, their gazes clouded.
His return to the village was met with a mix of emotions. The villagers, who had heard the commotion and seen the distant flickers of fire in the night, initially greeted him with astonishment. Some were relieved, grateful for his bravery and for warding off the raiders, while others watched him with trepidation, unsure of what had truly transpired on that battlefield. The strange sensation of fire coursing through his veins hadn’t left him, it pulsed beneath his skin like a second heartbeat. He could feel the eyes of the villagers on him, some filled with admiration, others with uncertainty. His mind flashed back to the raiders' gazes, their fervent obedience when he had ordered them to leave.
Something had changed in him.
In the days that followed, he tried to return to normal life. But nothing felt the same. The villagers treated him differently, even his closest friends seemed distant. There were hushed conversations whenever he passed, glances stolen when they thought he wasn’t looking. The fire inside him, once a source of comfort and purpose, now felt like a weight, an uncontrollable force that had burned too brightly for too long.
He couldn't stay, that much was clear, the feelings for his actions were grateful but the knowledge of what they meant was weighing down everyone. So he made his decision. He called a meeting with the elders and announced his leave.
There were attempts to stop him, but he could tell they were halfhearted.
He packed his belongings and took one last look at the village that had been his home. The snow had begun to fall again, covering the ground in a fresh blanket of white. It was beautiful and cold, a stark contrast to the fire that now roared within him. And so, with the blade his master had gifted him, a heart full of resolve, and a spirit aflame with unfulfilled potential, he stepped into the unknown, ready to face whatever challenges awaited him. The journey ahead would be long and uncertain, but he was ready to embrace it with the full force of his flame.
For the last 5 years he has been wandering, imitating his Master pilgrimage, and searching to find himself through the edge of his blade.
After all, fire seeks to grow and he is a Flame.
H O M E
The capital of Spiera is a temperate country known for its metal ores, its expensive wines, beautiful ships, and its historic temples. Much has been done to preserve the ancient parts of the city, and as seen from the drones, one is struck by the clear divide of darkness between old and new during the evenings. However, unlike the usual template mainland, the mountains tend to be very cold all year long with heavy winds due to their closeness to the sea.
Mathias's birth home is called Gazet Village, a small rural town in the mountains of northern Spiera.
The main worship is Shiva, but shrines exist to Leviathan and Garuda. The village's closest neighbor is a mining town and one of the biggest concerns for the elders of the village is the new tendency for the youngsters to migrate there in search of a better life.
The town is small, barely reaching above 100 in population it is headed by an elected council of six elders. It is identical to hundreds of small settlements found in the northern regions of Spiera and the surrounding nations.
T R I V I A
Likes
-Sour candies
-Swordsmanship
-Cold
-Followers of Shiva
-His cult
Dislikes
-Stifling environments
-Recklessness
-His cult
Neutrals
-The remnants of that band of Raiders have formed a cult around him, inducting others with similar mentality into their ranks, however, the cult possesses a strange method of worship. They seek to attack him, to enter in battle, and force him to enter his Dominant form. It is only then that the surviving members are 'worthy' of absorbing the residue.
-His Master was a relatively high-standing member of the cult of Ifrit, and a well-known Grandmaster swordsman.
S O C I A L
Has heard about a few of the most famous ones but has never met anyone(?)
