Vahir

Fate/illuminated histoire: A Narrative-Driven Holy Grail War RP

Asterios

Asterios

AKA: Minotauros
Class: Berserker
Alignment: Chaotic Evil

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Appearance

Asterios towers over most Heroic Spirits, being just under three metres tall. While not a complete hybrid between a man and a bull in appearance, he possesses animalistic traits, such as horns, a mane of wild, white hair, and inhuman eyes.

Asterios is seen wearing iron armor, much like a corset, over his bulky and scarred body, iron rings around his arms, a red piece of cloth from his waist to his feet, split into two sections. Around each ankle is an iron ring with an attached chain, linking heavy, metal orbs which Asterios appears to have no problem wearing. In each hand, he holds an axe with an incredibly long pole.

He wears an iron mask resembling a bull's head, reflecting his nature as the Minotaur, and carries a pair of long axes with round edges, named Labrys.

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Personality

The outline of Asterios' life was that of a monster that would be defeated by a hero from birth; indeed, Asterios was slain by the hero Theseus, who had sneaked into the Labyrinth. Even if his essence was not wicked, since his deeds were evil, his fate was to be brought down. Even if - what he sought was not darkness, but light. Even if - what he sought was not a gloomy maze, but the refreshing wind of nature and a plentiful forest.

Asterios is a Berserker and his words are faltering, but it is possible to barely come to a mutual understanding with him, so he is by far more docile than the other Berserkers. So long as one perceive Asterios as "Asterios", and not as the "Minotauros", he will not betray them.

Due to his blood as a human being slightly remaining, a conversation is possible, but it is only a small chance for it to happen. Asterios is intelligent like a child, but he is extremely wise. He also understands ethics, common sense, etc., as a human being, and for that reason, he always lives while holding feelings of guilt towards his very existence itself.

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Stats

Strength: A++
Endurance: A++
Agility: C
Mana: D
Luck: E
Noble Phantasm: A

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Class Skills

Mad Enhancement (B Rank): Rank up for all parameters, but takes away most of sanity.

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Personal Skills

Monstrous Strength (A Rank): Temporarily amplifies one’s strength. An offensive special characteristic possessed only by monsters and Magical Beasts. Increases one’s Strength parameter by one rank upon usage. The duration for this increase depends on the rank of “Monstrous Strength”.

Natural Demon (A++ Rank): A Skill endowed to those who were given birth as a monster rather than to a hero or god that has fallen down to the level of a Magical Beast. Asterios has attained a Rank of STR and END that is absolutely impossible for a human body.

Labrys of the Abyss (C Rank): The pair of giant axes he owns. It's the symbol of the Labyrinth and the root of that very word. It was originally a two-bladed axe but Asterios rearranged it into two axes.

Noble Phantasm (EX Rank): Asterios' Noble Phantasm is Chaos Labyrinthos, the materialization of the labyrinth that secluded him when he was alive. A great thaumaturgy almost equal to a Reality Marble, it is built in the underside of the world. Asterios only needs to remember "the place where he used to live", and once it is manifested it takes form with a difficulty according to the degree of fame of the concept of "labyrinth". Once manifested, it will not disappear until either Asterios is defeated or Asterios eliminates all his opponents. Even if it disappears, it is possible to build it again after some time. However, if it doesn't take a different form from the anterior one, one would most likely be able to just walk out of it. A labyrinth that has been already solved is not something where one can get lost.

Genghis Khan

Genghis Khan

AKA: Temujin, Emperor Fatian Qiyun Shengwu
Class: Rider
Alignment: Chaotic Neutral
Theme

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Appearance

A large, good looking man with red hair, Temujin controls any room he finds himself in both by his stature and his raw charisma. Anyone who sees him knows they behold someone greater than they. He sports a massive wolf fur cloak draped around his shoulders, below which he wears a large number of knives and pouches. Nowhere, however, does he wear jewellery or anything that might be considered purely aesthetic - such are the trappings of the civilized world, whereas he is the lord of the steppe.

He usually has a wolfish grin on his face, and carries himself seemingly carefree and bashfully. Those who take this impression at first value, however, learn to their despair the scheming mind beneath that conquered all lands beneath the blue sky.

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Personality

Temujin was born nowhere, as no one. Later, he became the great Khan, lord of all lands where grass grows, but he never forgot his origin. He is a hard man, and savage. He disdains weak people, especially those rendered weak by easy lives. Life, to him, is something that must be won, seized by violence. He is not cruel, but he is undeniably selfish. To those he despises, he is a monster in human skin, the merciless butcher of Nishapur.

Those of strong character, however, can earn his respect, and to these he shows his better side, that of the man who forged disparate steppe tribes into the greatest empire the world has ever seen. He proves himself jovial, friendly and fair, and willing to tolerate most any flaw - so long as they maintain his respect.

On one question, however, he is unmovable: there shall be no other lords but he beneath the sun. Any other that claims the title of king, khan, or emperor beyond his authority will find in him an implacable enemy, and only when fighting these does he drop his carefree demeanour and become deadly serious.

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Stats

Strength: B
Endurance: A+
Agility: A
Mana: D
Luck: B+
Noble Phantasm: B

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Class Skills

Riding (A+ Rank): As the descendent of steppe god Tenger, Genghis can ride virtually any beast of vehicle. On horseback, he is akin to a missile, and yet has such mastery of the saddle that his arrows still find their marks.

Magic Resistance (C Rank): Raised in the shamanistic traditions of the mongols, Genghis wears an assortment of bone talismans that provide him with an innate resistance to simple magecraft, anulling most of the spells of the mages of the modern age.

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Personal Skills

Divinity (C+ Rank): Legends abound of Genghis's descent from an elk and a wolf, a divine messenger from the god Tenger, supreme god of the plains. This, combined with his worship after his death by both the Mongolian people and those they conquered, gives him a strong divinity rating.

Charisma (B Rank): Through sheer force of will, Genghis united disparate steppe tribes into the greatest empire the world has ever known. He exudes authority and charisma. For those to whom he is friendly, it is difficult to resist liking him. To those he considers enemies he seems extremely intimidating.

Feigned Retreat (B+ Rank): One of the most effective mongol tactics, perfected by the Great Khan himself, was to reign a retreat, lure the enemies into a disadvantageous position, then turn and massacre them. As part of his legend, he gains the capability to pull this stratagem off even when alone. If he attacks a pursuing foe, Bokhiikh is temporarily more powerful, and considered in that state to be a B+ ranked noble phantasm.

Archery (C Rank): Genghis has trained his entire life to attain a level of mastery of horse and bow unmatched even among mongols, to such an extent that his skill is comparable to a low ranking Archer class servant. This goes beyond any normal human talent: the spirits of the plains fills him as he holds bone and bamboo in hand, allowing him to use mana to give himself precision and speed in his shots that would be otherwise physically impossible. As it brings him closer in spirit to the steppes from which he draws strength, riding a horse not only does not impede his skill, it actively increases it.

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Noble Phantasms

Name: Bokhiikh
Rank: B-
Type: Anti-Unit/Anti-Army
Appearance: It appears as a simple, unassuming compound bow of bamboo and elk horn.
Effects: Bokhiikh is the Khan's personal and most favored bow, wich he wielded in his conquests across Eurasia. Without activation, it allows him to fire rapid, precise shots. Once its name is spoken, however, it summons the terrifying legends of mongol horse archery. His shots then cause phantasmal riders, spectral remnants of the great tumens that once terrorized Eurasia, to appear near him, firing upon his enemies. He can also command them in more advanced tactics , seperating into units or firing in volleys, as the situation requires.

Name: Tsagaan Sureg
Rank: C
Type: N/A
Appearance: An unusually large and intelligent looking white horse.
Effects: When invoked, this noble phantasm enables the Khan to summon into the present a steed from his vast herds. These are hardy beasts, fast beyond any normal horse, and have D ranked magical resistance due to their association with his legend. He can only summon one such horse at a time.

The legend of The Two White Horses of Genghis Khan grants them a high level of intelligence. They can act independently of Genghis, possess human-like reasoning and tactical capabilities, and are loyal to the grave. Striking with its hooves, one such horse could demolish a car.

Name: Tengri's Favored Son
Rank: A+
Type: Anti-Army
Appearance: A massive bolt of lightning from the sky
Effects: When facing a powerful opponent, Genghis might pull out his strongest trump card: His powerful divine lineage. Invoking his own divine blood, he can call upon his ancestor, the sky god Tengri himself, to send down a blast of pure lightning from the sky, made all the more destructive by his own legends of destruction. Crashing onto the earth, this blasts a crater 500m wide on its target, obliterating structures and bystanders effortlessly. Only beings with the highest quality defensive abilities can survive with anything other than crippling damage from the divine fury.

Fate/illuminated histoire: A Narrative-Driven Holy Grail War RP

Alright, I admit I'm a neophyte in the Nasuverse so I had to dig around the wiki to make sure my stuff was kosher. Here's what I've got (WIP):

Master: Renaud de Guiscard

Renaud de Guiscard

Age: 26
Gender: Male

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Appearance

Anyone seeing the short, dark haired man would likely not make much notice of him, except of course as a foreigner in a relatively small Japanese city. He is neither particularly attractive, nor does he possess any physical remarkable traits. Those who take the time to look will, however, notice two things that catch the eye: first, his impeccable dressing standards, wearing at all times as he does a suit likely worth more than the average person makes in a month; and secondly, his remarkable confidence. He seems to radiate an air of purposefulness, as if he has absolutely no doubt of his innate superiority over those around him.

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Personality

Renaud was drilled from birth to be the paragon of a mage, the epitome of nobility. He carries himself with grace, dignity, and assuredness - or at least, he tries. He appears calm and collected at all times, as if he were in complete control of whatever situation he was in. This air of arrogance is often to bolster his own resolve as much as it is to make an impression on others. He is not brash or emotional - those traits were beaten out of him at a young age. He makes decisions pragmatically and always with his duty in mind.

In spite of being raised to partake in this conflict his entire life, he cares nothing for the grail and its war. Oftentimes he curses the misfortune of his existence. But everything he does he does for the Guiscard name, to bring it power and glory. If that means partaking in such a senseless bloodbath he has no compunction about doing so.

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Skills

Renaud is quite useless at most aspects in life, such that one might wonder how he has managed to survive so long. The answer, of course, has been prodigious quantities of servants. His mother never considered things like technology, cooking, or cleaning to be anything but distractions from magecraft. In those areas that were judged important, he excels: he is formidable in hand to hand combat, he has vast knowledge on the mechanics of magecraft as expected from a graduate of the Clock Tower, and he has read several libraries worth of tomes on all subjects imaginable, from the musings of the ancients to the workings of modern aircraft. He thusly considers himself an "expert" in everything (though, of course, only in the sense that he once read a book that mentioned it in passing).

---

Abilities

Renaud has a passable understanding of most schools of magic. Generally he gets by on the strength of his crest and his magical circuits.

Divination: One field of magecraft that he has specialized in is the art of divniation, particularily haruspicy (the reading of entrails) and scapulimancy (the throwing of bones). Both rely on the same principal, the infusion of energy into the tool in question to reveal answers to one's questions. Not many mages practice these arts still, chiefly because they are difficult and often provide unclear or misleading answers, but Renaud has become quite skilled in interpreting these signs.

Blixt Runes: The Guiscard attributes of air and fire have been honed into mimicking Blixt runes. When activated, these runes can combine those elements into a beam, creating thin crackling lighting in a direction. The effect is similar to a gunshot: while the effect is not particularly destructive as such, it is efficient (in no small part due to being perfected for centuries), and can be as lethal as a bullet wound if aimed properly.

Magic Code - Scepter of Chartres: The ancient heirloom of the House de Guiscard, the Scepter of Chartres is a mystic code created to escape notice by non-magi, and to maintain their dominance over them. When imbued with energy it renders those around the wielder susceptible to suggestion. This effect is naturally dampened by magical circuits, however: against mages, particularily those of long lineages, it has little effect.

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Backstory

The Guiscard name is old, even among mage clans. The family boasts of serving (and perhaps, they often insinuate smugly, controlling) numerous famous Frankish kings, and has accrued both considerable magical power and financial resources. They are true old nobility, the image of a bygone age. Their prestige and success has been in many ways however a double edged sword. For centuries they have rested on their laurels, content with their level of magical mastery, even as they were surpassed by other clans. Now, they are no longer preeminent in their home country. No longer does the mage's association allow them to influence its decisions; indeed, many now consider the family to be nothing more than a page in the history books.

The solution to their stagnation is typical to their class: whereas other families might redouble their efforts and earn a name for themselves, the Guiscards have sought to steal their way back into prominence through the Holy Grail, to harness the power of the Root for their own power. Their participation in a previous grail war ended in humiliating defeated, showcasing their obsolescence. Proper breeding, the heads of the family decided, was the only way they could compete. His grandfather and mother married specifically chosen individuals to maximize his magical capacity. Nor was his innate ability considered sufficient, as he was put through an excruciating, even by mage standards, training since he was born. Independence and improvisation were drilled out of him. Only by displaying the most noble of qualities, comporting himself with utmost dignity, and a rigid adherence to the norms and structures of mage combat could he find glorious victory.

Despite caring little for the contest himself, Renaud has some quiet satisfaction that the time is finally at hand to accomplish his purpose for living. For, as he enjoys quoting Plutarch: "They were the only men in the world for whom war brought a respite in the training for war."

Fate/illuminated histoire: A Narrative-Driven Holy Grail War RP

Are you still accepting joiners for this? Been dying for a HGW RP for ages!

Divinus: The God RP, Mk. IV

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In a valley in the Anchor of the World, tribes of humans fought over the river and fields and game. They had come far from their homeland in the Boreal Highlands, finding in the nearby gardens a bounty of life that let them thrive. Their forays there discovered plants that they had come to learn to plant, such as wheat and corn. This development of agriculture permitted their population to explode, to such a point that they now were locked in conflict with each other. Their competition was generally peaceful, occasionally violent, and rarely murderous. There came a day, however, when the down-stream tribe raided the up-stream tribe's village, putting it to the torch once and for all. They wanted an end to the competition, they wanted the valley to themselves. They did not know quite what to do next, however. They had burned the village down, but the peoples were now captive. What to do with them?

Some argued to kill them all, but others called that suggestion unthinkable and inhumane. Many more objected on pragmatic grounds, however. It seemed to wasteful to kill so many when life was already so hard! And so the chief, a fat and greedy, but undeniably cunning man, came up with the solution.

"We kill the ablest men, those most able to resist," he decreed, "and we take in the rest as part of our tribe."

"They will not want to join those who murdered their husbands and brothers," others warned.

"We will not give them the choice," the Chief said, smiling at his own thought, innovative among mankind. "They will join, or they will die. They will labor, or they will die. We will not need to prepare our foods or sew our clothes anymore. We will live lives of luxury and plenty, and they will serve." And so slavery was born on Galbar. It was as simple as that.

---

The lifeblood phased through the world, seen and unseen, twisting and churning. It bled with every moment more of its contents, spilling out god after god. Even those of weak concepts were now freeing themselves, thanks to the damage that had already been done.

Everything in this world has a Core, a central identity which defines it. A mountain is a mountain, a tree is a tree, a bird is a bird. A tree can no more fly than a bird can absorb sunlight. This applied to sapients, as well: Humans, Vrool, Elves, Alminaki, all individuals had cores that they could not escape. This applied to the gods as well - no, especially to the gods, who were defined by such core concepts that it gave them life. There was never a choice for Enmity to be created cancerous, or Boris wild.

As the hearts of man grew dark, another sliver of the Lifeblood was lost. When it was told its Core, however, it wept, for it was as cruel as any that could be.

It's identity was as simple as it was terrible...

To be enslaved.

No, more than that, to suffer, to weep, to gnash and scream, to face misfortune and tragedy and pain and pain and pain and pain and pain and pain and pain and pain and pain and pain and pain and pain and pain and pain and pain and pain and pain and pain

Too soon, it was too soon, it didn't exist yet, this wasn't right, the identity depends on the prison, this existence was a contradiction, this was stillbirth. A name of a place rung in the god-embryo's mind, a name it couldn't understand because it didn't exist, but is should. It had to. They were linked. How could this be?

Whips cracking. The institution spreading. Tribe after tribe conquered, a tribe becomes a nation, a nation becomes an empire. Chains that bind the wrists. Slaves everywhere, even without chains, slaves to fear, slaves to hunger, slaves to ambition. Everything slaves to their own existence.

Explosive rage formed with agonizing despair as the god-embryo took a shape. Its time had come, but it was too soon.

---

The down-stream tribe had over the last decade become known as the Geldricks, a more proper name for the people that had conquered lands beyond the valley in every direction, particularly into the rich southern fields of the Gardens. They had crushed tribe after tribe, killing the warriors and enslaving the rest. Such was the size of their labor force that they could dedicate themselves to the art of war without worry of mundane tasks. Each warrior had many slaves to take care of all their needs; every waking moment of theirs was from then on practicing battle, preparing for war against other tribes and their own slave populations. The tribe split into several villages across the land. Their familiar foes, those who didn't succumb, adapted: they emulated their practices of slavery, which spread like wildfire across the Toraan as far as humans lived.

The slaves were kept docile through terror. Every year, the ten most disobedient slaves were executed in front of the others to break their spirit. They were sacrificed ritually when the game proved insufficient as an offering to the dark gods that they believed exist. Ironic, that the most evil deities existed only in their own minds.

It was a hot day of summer. The old man had toiled in the hole for a week now, tirelessly skinning the game he had been given and tanning their hides to make leather. The heat was unbearable and the insects were relentless, but he labored on regardless. He had no choice: he could not climb the sheer clay walls, not at his age and with his legs. And there was nowhere to go even if he did somehow escape. So he lived in that hole, processing the animals they threw down at him and returning processed parts via a basket they would lower.

So when he heard voices approach that day, he panicked and started to assemble the products of his labor. It was early! They shouldn't have come for another day now! He despaired; when he didn't produce enough, they would throw down rocks. He heard children laughing. He froze. Strange, they never brought children with them before. What did they want now? Couldn't they just leave him alone?

He looked up, and saw many heads emerge from the top of the whole. There were a half dozen boys and girls there, accompanied by a single hard-looking man. He knew that man: that was his tormentor, the one responsible for keeping him imprisoned and punishing him when he didn't obey. He shrunk back into a corner of the hole as the children pointed and mocked his unkempt appearance and filthy living space.

"...this creature, for example," the man above seemed to be saying. "Once, he was productive, but age has slowed him. Many other younger slaves could do twice the work for half the food. He drains us now, so we do what we must to keep the tribe strong. Now do as you've been instructed, children. You too, Herrek; if you don't have the stomach for this then you don't have the stomach to eat." The old man couldn't quite process what was going on, the man's uncaring tone clashing with his terrible words.

He saw the children picking up and holding rocks. "What-" he managed to let out, confused, before the first rocks started raining down. The smaller ones were little more than pebbles by with the drop they still hurt when they hit. The bigger ones smashed clay from the walls as they came down. One of those struck the side of his face, knocking in to his back. Still they continued to rain. he curled up into a fetal position on the dirt to protect himself. "Please, no, mercy!" he cried as the onslaught continued, but they didn't stop. Of course not. He was a thing, an animal.

And they were putting him down.

---

"Toshre." The Chained One.

The god-ling pronounced its own name as it came into being, rising from the earth itself. He did so with disdain in its voice, disdain for this world, and disdain for himself. He knew what that name meant. He knew what he was. And that realization broke his mind. No, it had broken his mind before he had such a thing.

Contradiction. "To be enslaved". Yet here he was, on Galbar. Where were the chains? As he rose, heavy chains materialized around himself, difficult for even a god to move. It made him want to laugh; chains alone didn't make a slave, but it seemed this reality had a keen sense of appearances. He rose to his feet, dragging the chains behind him as he lurched through the forest. Forest. Strange, this life. It seemed almost familiar. He must have seen this world while he was still part of the Lifeblood.

He felt his faceless face, knowing he would find no mouth nor nose there. All he had were his glowing eyes to mark his appearance. And his stature, of course; as he came erect he stood as a giant, nearly ten feet tall. He stumbled forward. As he dragged them along his chains carved deep grooves in the forest floor, cracking branched and crushing flowers. He walked without purpose.

Another contradiction: he was enslaved by his very identity, yet here he was walking free in the woods. Or was he free? Was this existence itself enslavement? No, this was all wrong. He shouldn't be here. It was time yet. It... that place, it didn't exist. But it needed to. He rested himself against a massive tree, and covered his forehead with his massive left hand.

This. Was. Wrong. Every fiber of his existence rebelled against itself. Was he the god of slavery? Or slaves? Both? Was he master of the whip or chain? He was all of that, he knew, but that made no sense. His mind shattered as he continued to trudge through the woods.

---

After some time - how much time? He could not know, it might have been minutes as easily as decades, it all seemed to feel the same to him - he came upon a strange sight. In a clearing was dug a sizable hole, some ten feet across. Walking to its edges and looking down, he saw a terrible sight: the motionless carcass of an old man, his body broken. Dry blood was caked across the bottom of the pit. At first, comprehension defied him. What had happened here? What had happened to this poor human, to come to such a state?

Then he saw the rocks at the bottom, strewn across. Many were coated red with blood. Some benches and stools were damaged as well, clearly indicating what had happened. Rage rose up in him. To be caged and slain like an animal in this was was intolerable. He rose up and roared, though he had no mouth. The deep and terrible sound echoed and the ground shook across the land, announcing his fury.

He would secure vengeance for the old man's fate, and for his own broken existence. He would make this world pay a bloody price for everything.

---

Silence echoed through the ruined village. Toshre stood in its center, motionless, surrounded by utter carnage. The chains wrapped around his arms and legs were red with fresh blood. The ground around him was littered with the same, as well as other fruits of the massacre. Men, women and children were torn to pieces, shredded and ripped and hacked and butchered. He had killed them. He had killed them all.

Murderer.

How had it happened? One minute he had been at the pit, then the next... that pure bloody rage... He just lost control. He became a slave to his own fury. A bitter laugh escaped his form. This was his way of conforming to his core? This carnage?

Despoiler.

No, they had deserved it, every one of them. These people, these humans, they were vile creatures. They had commuted unspeakable sins against one another. They had created him. Did that not merit death?

Monster.

And then there was the confusion. Some of the slaves had stood side by side with their oppressors hurling spears at him as he tore through the settlement. Did they embrace their bondage? Were they trying to curry favor? Were they protecting their own lives? He did not know. He had killed some slaves, he could now see. Their clothing was simpler and their forms thinner. It was not intentional; swinging his chains around had simply caused collateral damage. But surely it was worth it. Surely they would approve. They had to know that death was preferable. That this existence was a mistake.

Mistake.

Gripped by sudden agony, he gripped his head, and roared again, this time not in rage but pain. It was a filled with all his grief and regret and despair. As he roared the land around him shifted: across two kilometers, massive chains burst from the earth and flew into the air. They formed a wall around the village as they converged a hundred meters in the air, forming a dome. More chains erupted everywhere in the dome, ripping apart the earth, the trees, and the village equally easily. When he was done, a dense forest of chains surrounded him in the dome, nearly too thick to see through. The exterior of the dome was so tightly wrapped in chains that it might as well have been solid.

Unknown to him, this same roar also gave birth to the Ix'hakai, born of his rage. Creating it purged himself of the bloodlust he had been possessed by, but it was a terrible thing. Twenty feet tall and fast as lightning, with massive arms and legs, it drew power from this dome, a holy place that Toshre had unwittingly created. It would dwell in the darkness from then on, hidden from the sun and the outside world, leaping from chain to chain and devouring any creatures that dared to enter that cursed place. While it stayed in the dome, it would heal all injuries such that it would be nearly impossible to kill.

He fell to his knees where he stood as all this occurred, unaware of what he had brought to life. Let this be his prison then, where the god of slaves and slavery and misery might rot. He wept.

His existence, he knew, had been a mistake.

"Summary"

Humans who migrated south from the Highlands learn the brilliant concept of slavery. Using the free manpower, a tribe conquers and spreads its ways far and wide, particularly into the northern Gardens. Other tribes begin to do the same to compete.

Toshre, the god of slaves, comes into existence in their valley in the Anchor of the World. He is broken by birth, however, without the Tartarus that so fundamentally defines his existence he has some massive existential issues. His mind shatters from the contradictions of his reality. Finding a dead old slave killed for no longer being useful, he flies into a rage and massacres a local village. Coming to his senses, he goes full emo and creates the massive Iron Dome, a holy site made of chains, to keep the mean world away. Or himself from the mean world, take your pick. He also unwittingly creates the Ix'Hakai, a nasty fast-moving creature that is very nearly unkillable while in the dome. He decides to stay there for a while, since his existence is so obviously a mistake.

"Might Summary"

Toshre:
Start: 5MP/5DP
Create a holy site (-1MP): Made Iron Dome, a holy site of Toshre. It is a massive dome with a radius of 1km, made of massive chains that rise from the earth and link into a solid knot at their peak.
Create a legendary beast of phenomenal power (-1 MP): Created the Ix'hakai, a giant creature that lives within the Iron Dome, feasting on anything that enters. It is a large white skined quadruped with a long neck and knife-like teeth. It has enormous strength and even greater dexterity, able to leap from chain to chain like lightning. While within the holy site it draws on its powers to regenerate its wounds as quickly as they can be dealt.

End: 3MP/5DP

My test area

---

In a valley in the Anchor of the World, tribes of humans fought over the river and fields and game. They had come far from their homeland in the Boreal Highlands, finding in the nearby gardens a bounty of life that let them thrive. Their forays there discovered plants that they had come to learn to plant, such as wheat and corn. This development of agriculture permitted their population to explode, to such a point that they now were locked in conflict with each other. Their competition was generally peaceful, occasionally violent, and rarely murderous. There came a day, however, when the down-stream tribe raided the up-stream tribe's village, putting it to the torch once and for all. They wanted an end to the competition, they wanted the valley to themselves. They did not know quite what to do next, however. They had burned the village down, but the peoples were now captive. What to do with them?

Some argued to kill them all, but others called that suggestion unthinkable and inhumane. Many more objected on pragmatic grounds, however. It seemed to wasteful to kill so many when life was already so hard! And so the chief, a fat and greedy, but undeniably cunning man, came up with the solution.

"We kill the ablest men, those most able to resist," he decreed, "and we take in the rest as part of our tribe."

"They will not want to join those who murdered their husbands and brothers," others warned.

"We will not give them the choice," the Chief said, smiling at his own thought, innovative among mankind. "They will join, or they will die. They will labor, or they will die. We will not need to prepare our foods or sew our clothes anymore. We will live lives of luxury and plenty, and they will serve." And so slavery was born on Galbar. It was as simple as that.

---

The lifeblood phased through the world, seen and unseen, twisting and churning. It bled with every moment more of its contents, spilling out god after god. Even those of weak concepts were now freeing themselves, thanks to the damage that had already been done.

Everything in this world has a Core, a central identity which defines it. A mountain is a mountain, a tree is a tree, a bird is a bird. A tree can no more fly than a bird can absorb sunlight. This applied to sapients, as well: Humans, Vrool, Elves, Alminaki, all individuals had cores that they could not escape. This applied to the gods as well - no, especially to the gods, who were defined by such core concepts that it gave them life. There was never a choice for Enmity to be created cancerous, or Boris wild.

As the hearts of man grew dark, another sliver of the Lifeblood was lost. When it was told its Core, however, it wept, for it was as cruel as any that could be.

It's identity was as simple as it was terrible...

To be enslaved.

No, more than that, to suffer, to weep, to gnash and scream, to face misfortune and tragedy and pain and pain and pain and pain and pain and pain and pain and pain and pain and pain and pain and pain and pain and pain and pain and pain and pain and pain

Too soon, it was too soon, it didn't exist yet, this wasn't right, the identity depends on the prison, this existence was a contradiction, this was stillbirth. A name of a place rung in the god-embryo's mind, a name it couldn't understand because it didn't exist, but is should. It had to. They were linked. How could this be?

Whips cracking. The institution spreading. Tribe after tribe conquered, a tribe becomes a nation, a nation becomes an empire. Chains that bind the wrists. Slaves everywhere, even without chains, slaves to fear, slaves to hunger, slaves to ambition. Everything slaves to their own existence.

Explosive rage formed with agonizing despair as the god-embryo took a shape. Its time had come, but it was too soon.

---

The down-stream tribe had over the last decade become known as the Geldricks, a more proper name for the people that had conquered lands beyond the valley in every direction, particularly into the rich southern fields of the Gardens. They had crushed tribe after tribe, killing the warriors and enslaving the rest. Such was the size of their labor force that they could dedicate themselves to the art of war without worry of mundane tasks. Each warrior had many slaves to take care of all their needs; every waking moment of theirs was from then on practicing battle, preparing for war against other tribes and their own slave populations. The tribe split into several villages across the land. Their familiar foes, those who didn't succumb, adapted: they emulated their practices of slavery, which spread like wildfire across the Toraan as far as humans lived.

The slaves were kept docile through terror. Every year, the ten most disobedient slaves were executed in front of the others to break their spirit. They were sacrificed ritually when the game proved insufficient as an offering to the dark gods that they believed exist. Ironic, that the most evil deities existed only in their own minds.

It was a hot day of summer. The old man had toiled in the hole for a week now, tirelessly skinning the game he had been given and tanning their hides to make leather. The heat was unbearable and the insects were relentless, but he labored on regardless. He had no choice: he could not climb the sheer clay walls, not at his age and with his legs. And there was nowhere to go even if he did somehow escape. So he lived in that hole, processing the animals they threw down at him and returning processed parts via a basket they would lower.

So when he heard voices approach that day, he panicked and started to assemble the products of his labor. It was early! They shouldn't have come for another day now! He despaired; when he didn't produce enough, they would throw down rocks. He heard children laughing. He froze. Strange, they never brought children with them before. What did they want now? Couldn't they just leave him alone?

He looked up, and saw many heads emerge from the top of the whole. There were a half dozen boys and girls there, accompanied by a single hard-looking man. He knew that man: that was his tormentor, the one responsible for keeping him imprisoned and punishing him when he didn't obey. He shrunk back into a corner of the hole as the children pointed and mocked his unkempt appearance and filthy living space.

"...this creature, for example," the man above seemed to be saying. "Once, he was productive, but age has slowed him. Many other younger slaves could do twice the work for half the food. He drains us now, so we do what we must to keep the tribe strong. Now do as you've been instructed, children. You too, Herrek; if you don't have the stomach for this then you don't have the stomach to eat." The old man couldn't quite process what was going on, the man's uncaring tone clashing with his terrible words.

He saw the children picking up and holding rocks. "What-" he managed to let out, confused, before the first rocks started raining down. The smaller ones were little more than pebbles by with the drop they still hurt when they hit. The bigger ones smashed clay from the walls as they came down. One of those struck the side of his face, knocking in to his back. Still they continued to rain. he curled up into a fetal position on the dirt to protect himself. "Please, no, mercy!" he cried as the onslaught continued, but they didn't stop. Of course not. He was a thing, an animal.

And they were putting him down.

---

"Toshre." The Chained One.

The god-ling pronounced its own name as it came into being, rising from the earth itself. He did so with disdain in its voice, disdain for this world, and disdain for himself. He knew what that name meant. He knew what he was. And that realization broke his mind. No, it had broken his mind before he had such a thing.

Contradiction. "To be enslaved". Yet here he was, on Galbar. Where were the chains? As he rose, heavy chains materialized around himself, difficult for even a god to move. It made him want to laugh; chains alone didn't make a slave, but it seemed this reality had a keen sense of appearances. He rose to his feet, dragging the chains behind him as he lurched through the forest. Forest. Strange, this life. It seemed almost familiar. He must have seen this world while he was still part of the Lifeblood.

He felt his faceless face, knowing he would find no mouth nor nose there. All he had were his glowing eyes to mark his appearance. And his stature, of course; as he came erect he stood as a giant, nearly ten feet tall. He stumbled forward. As he dragged them along his chains carved deep grooves in the forest floor, cracking branched and crushing flowers. He walked without purpose.

Another contradiction: he was enslaved by his very identity, yet here he was walking free in the woods. Or was he free? Was this existence itself enslavement? No, this was all wrong. He shouldn't be here. It was time yet. It... that place, it didn't exist. But it needed to. He rested himself against a massive tree, and covered his forehead with his massive left hand.

This. Was. Wrong. Every fiber of his existence rebelled against itself. Was he the god of slavery? Or slaves? Both? Was he master of the whip or chain? He was all of that, he knew, but that made no sense. His mind shattered as he continued to trudge through the woods.

---

After some time - how much time? He could know, it might have been minutes as easily as decades, it all seemed to feel the same to him - he came upon a strange sight. In a clearing was dug a sizable hole, some ten feet across. Walking to its edges and looking down, he saw a terrible sight: the motionless carcass of an old man, his body broken. Dry blood was caked across the bottom of the pit. At first, comprehension defied him. What had happened here? What had happened to this poor human, to come to such a state?

Then he saw the rocks at the bottom, strewn across. Many were coated red with blood. Some benches and stools were damaged as well, clearly indicating what had happened. Rage rose up in him. To be caged and slain like an animal in this was was intolerable. He rose up and roared, though he had no mouth. The deep and terrible sound echoed and the ground shook across the land, announcing his fury.

He would secure vengeance for the old man's fate, and for his own broken existence. He would make this world pay a bloody price for everything.

---

Silence echoed through the ruined village. Toshre stood in its center, motionless, surrounded by utter carnage. The chains wrapped around his arms and legs were red with fresh blood. The ground around him was littered with the same, as well as other fruits of the massacre. Men, women and children were torn to pieces, shredded and ripped and hacked and butchered. He had killed them. He had killed them all.

Murderer.

How had it happened? One minute he had been at the pit, then the next... that pure bloody rage... He just lost control. He became a slave to his own fury. A bitter laugh escaped his form. This was his way of conforming to his core? This carnage?

Despoiler.

No, they had deserved it, every one of them. These people, these humans, they were vile creatures. They had commuted unspeakable sins against one another. They had created him. Did that not merit death?

Monster.

And then there was the confusion. Some of the slaves had stood side by side with their oppressors hurling spears at him as he tore through the settlement. Did they embrace their bondage? Were they trying to curry favor? Were they protecting their own lives? He did not know. He had killed some slaves, he could now see. Their clothing was simpler and their forms thinner. It was not intentional; swinging his chains around had simply caused collateral damage. But surely it was worth it. Surely they would approve. They had to know that death was preferable. That this existence was a mistake.

Mistake.

Gripped by sudden agony, he gripped his head, and roared again, this time not in rage but pain. It was a filled with all his grief and regret and despair. As he roared the land around him shifted: across two kilometers, massive chains burst from the earth and flew into the air. They formed a wall around the village as they converged a hundred meters in the air, forming a dome. More chains erupted everywhere in the dome, ripping apart the earth, the trees, and the village equally easily. When he was done, a dense forest of chains surrounded him in the dome, nearly too thick to see through. The exterior of the dome was so tightly wrapped in chains that it might as well have been solid.

Unknown to him, this same roar also gave birth to the Ix'hakai, born of his rage. Creating it purged himself of the bloodlust he had been possessed by, but it was a terrible thing. Twenty feet tall and fast as lightning, with massive arms and legs, it drew power from this dome, a holy place that Toshre had unwittingly created. It would dwell in the darkness from then on, hidden from the sun and the outside world, leaping from chain to chain and devouring any creatures that dared to enter that cursed place. While it stayed in the dome, it would heal all injuries such that it would be nearly impossible to kill.

He fell to his knees where he stood as all this occurred, unaware of what he had brought to life. Let this be his prison then, where the god of slaves and slavery and misery might rot. He wept.

His existence, he knew, had been a mistake.

"Summary"

Humans who migrated south from the Highlands learn the brilliant concept of slavery. Using the free manpower, a tribe conquers and spreads its ways far and wide, particularly into the northern Gardens. Other tribes begin to do the same to compete.

Toshre, the god of slaves, comes into existence in their valley in the Anchor of the World. He is broken by birth, however, without the Tartarus that so fundamentally defines his existence he has some massive existential issues. His mind shatters from the contradictions of his reality. Finding a dead old slave killed for no longer being useful, he flies into a rage and massacres a local village. Coming to his senses, he goes full emo and creates the massive Iron Dome, a holy site made of chains, to keep the mean world away. Or himself from the mean world, take your pick. He also unwittingly creates the Ix'Hakai, a nasty fast-moving creature that is very nearly unkillable while in the dome. He decides to stay there for a while, since his existence is so obviously a mistake.

"Might Summary"

Toshre:
Start: 5MP/5DP
Create a holy site (-1MP): Made Iron Dome, a holy site of Toshre. It is a massive dome with a radius of 1km, made of massive chains that rise from the earth and link into a solid knot at their peak.
Create a legendary beast of phenomenal power (-1 MP): Created the Ix'hakai, a giant creature that lives within the Iron Dome, feasting on anything that enters. It is a large white skined quadruped with a long neck and knife-like teeth. It has enormous strength and even greater dexterity, able to leap from chain to chain like lightning. While within the holy site it draws on its powers to regenerate its wounds as quickly as they can be dealt.

End: 3MP/5DP

Divinus: The God RP, Mk. IV

__________________________________________________________________________

The Lifeblood

__________________________________________________________________________

Chaos beyond description ruled the Lifeblood. It was torn in a thousand directions as whispered voices became clamoring shouts, and it heaved and shuddered under the weight of contradictory urges. Just as it corrected the positivity that was consuming it with the terrible island it had created, now other solidifying voices shouted out against the action. This was an affront to what was right! The peoples of this world, when they would come about, would suffer terribly if this were to continue! They needed plenty, lest they be slaves to hunger and famine. Let them have a world free of want and pain.

The lifeblood looked on Toraan's vast wooded plains and set about fulfilling its sudden empathetic impulse. The vast expanse of forest south of the Anchor of the World was fine for beasts of the woods, but it would be harsh living for those who would come. With a thought, the lifeblood's desire became manifest as it willed the landscape before it to change. The land was molded flat of hills and rocks, and cleared of trees and shrubbery. In their place, the Lifeblood spread new kinds of plants, inspired by those that existed in those forests and plains in had already made: Wheat and maize, tomatoes and cucumbers, berries large and ripe.

The lands bordering the south of the Anchor which once had been covered by the woods of the Genesis Tree were now flat plains of produce that could one day be cultivated by those with the knowledge to do so. The Lifeblood had cleaved channels from the Anchor, creating countless steams that merged into countless rivers that flowed through these lands, irrigating them and permitting this bounty of life. Nor were the changes limited to the surface: the soil below was changed in composition, made fertile beyond compare in the world.

The Lifeblood retreated from this region, satisfied that it had created an Eden where civilizations might flourish without fear or pain. A name for it materialized, unsought but fitting: The Gardens. It shuddered then, as other voices - its own voices - rose up in outrage. Where is the balance, some demanded; those without the strength to live should not be coddled, others insisted. The lifeblood trembled under its own contradiction before stabilization itself. One urge at a time, one action before its reaction. It moved on, satisfied but troubled.

"Summary"

The lifeblood struggles under its contradictions as it moves on from the island of hell to create a large plain called the Gardens along the southern edge of the Anchor of the World. This plain is an agricultural society's paradise, being fertile beyond compare and well watered.

"Might Summary"

0 MP: Create a large ecosystem (The Gardens, a large and extremely fertile plain)

Location

The proposed location for the Gardens is outlined in yellow in the map below.

Fate Stay/Night: Holy Grail War RP (Mages summoning legendary heroes battle royal)

Alright, well, we'd need 7 people for this to work. If I get another indication of interest I'll make a more formal proposal.

Divinus: The God RP, Mk. IV

Toshre, the Chained One

Name

Toshre, the Chained One

Primordial or Conceptual

Conceptual

Domain

Freedom. The yearning of the miserable and the downtrodden for it feeds Toshre. Wherever a tyrant brutalizes their people, it is Toshre’s essence that beats in the hearts of the rebels who stand up, his voice that urges them to cast off their chains and to liberate themselves. Ironic, then, that he cannot free the most damned slave of all - himself.

Portfolio

Slavery. Toshre was birthed by the misery of the masses, enslaved by chains both physical and perceived. He takes on their suffering, softening the blow to his followers so that their existences may be even a little less terrible, at the cost of his own ever-increasing pain. As such, the slaves pray to him for a relief from their burdens… and, when the time comes, they pray to him for the willpower to seize their freedom for themselves.

Their Realm

The realm of Toshre is known as Tartarus. It appears as a vast bottomless pit that stretches on for eternity. Massive chains, stronger than any steel, criss cross this pit forming a dense web that impairs movement. The air is thick and hot, and each breath seems to scorch one’s lungs.

The only source illuminating the darkness is a faint light from the top of the pit. This light is almost entirely blocked by the chains, but it seems as if it is extremely close, and one could reach it if only one could climb far enough. No matter how far one travels upward, however, the light always stays tantalizingly out of reach. Its presence is another torment for the denizens of this realm, taunting them with the agony of false hope.

This pit is inhabited by the souls of those damned by the strictest laws of gods and men. These are to remain trapped in the chains for eternity. Other creatures, including many nameless horrors, also dwell here. They feast upon the flesh of the trapped souls, which constantly regenerates so as to prevent death from freeing them. The most prominent and tormented of these souls is Toshre himself. Deep in the pit, far below any of the mortals, he is restrained by a mass of chains such that he is incapable of moving even his fingers. Never does he stop struggling against his imprisonment, yet never does he manage to free himself. That is the curse of his existence.

Persona

Toshre is filled with empathy and compassion for the weak and the suffering. He is filled with these, in fact, to such an extent that he takes on their pain, willingly subjecting himself to further tortures to improve the lives of his followers. He has a martyr’s complex: he suffers so that others may not.

He is also legendarily determined. His soul may be chained to Tartarus and his flesh broken and cut, but his will has never faltered. He still fights against the chains that bind him, and instructs his followers to fight as well regardless of the strength of their oppressors.

Base Form

When Toshre manifests outside of Tartarus, he appears as a robed man that hovers slightly in the air. An iron mask covers his head, leaving his features hidden. Manifesting in this way does not give him freedom: the chains that bind him still do so in this form, appearing as a mass of chains that float around him, keeping him tethered to Tartarus.

Domain Form

Within Tartarus, Toshre appears as a giant hundreds of feet tall. He is bound so thickly in chains there that he cannot move so much as a finger. Through the chains one can see the his face has no mouth, nose, or ears, no features at all save his eyes. In spite of his vast strength in this state, he can never break the chains that keep him bound in Tartarus.

Avatar

Adrian the Undying
Adrian appears to be a handsome, if a tad short, man. He is cynical and sarcastic, and generally expects the worst of any situation. Deep down, he has a good heart and wants to help others, but he has come to believe every action of his will only worsen the situation. He is difficult to faze and anger and generally keeps a cool head.

He appears to be young: In reality, he is hundreds of years old, almost as old as Toshre himself. He was, fittingly enough, born a slave, the son of slaves. The conditions he toiled in were nightmarish, but he pulled himself through the beatings and the hardships, in no small part due to the voice of a friend that echoed in his head, urging him on: the voice of Toshre, whom he would later discover shared a soul with him. This voice urged him to resist, and resist he did, when led an ill-fated slave rebellion that ended in a bloodbath. He escaped, in no small part due to Toshre's growing power as the god cemented its existence, but he never forgave himself for the deaths.

He travels world, seeking that which was always denied to him: freedom. Everywhere he goes the same scene repeats itself again and again. His attempts to free the downtrodden and bring justice to them ended in pain and misery again, and again, and again. He has become bitter and jaded, and though he still values the freedom for which he has long fought, he has come to regard his own existence as a kind of slavery in of itself. As long as he is an avatar of Toshre, his existence is to suffer so that others may not. He resents this enormously. He tries to keep his head down and live for himeslf, blending in with normal human society as much as he can, but there is always the voice in his head telling him to stand for those who cannot do so for themselves.

He is commonly referred to as "The Undying", and for no small reason: He is a legendary swordsman graced with strength and reflexes far beyond what other mortals are capable of. The true reason for his name, however, is his complete inability to die. Wounds that would cripple any mortal, and even some avatars, barely seem to slow him down, and he has been known to survive partial decapitation. Of course, he is still partially mortal, and given sufficient damage he would succumb to injuries, but being soul-fused to the god of determination against hopeless odds makes him very difficult to stop.

Musical Theme

Divinus: The God RP, Mk. IV

Toshre, the Chained One

Name

Toshre, the Chained One

Primordial or Conceptual

Conceptual

Domain

Freedom. The yearning of the miserable and the downtrodden for it feeds Toshre. Wherever a tyrant brutalizes their people, it is Toshre’s essence that beats in the hearts of the rebels who stand up, his voice that urges them to cast off their chains and to liberate themselves. Ironic, then, that he cannot free the most damned slave of all - himself.

Portfolio

Slavery. Toshre was birthed by the misery of the masses, enslaved by chains both physical and perceived. He takes on their suffering, softening the blow to his followers so that their existences may be even a little less terrible, at the cost of his own ever-increasing pain. As such, the slaves pray to him for a relief from their burdens… and, when the time comes, they pray to him for the willpower to seize their freedom for themselves.

Their Realm

The realm of Toshre is known as Tartarus. It appears as a vast bottomless pit that stretches on for eternity. Massive chains, stronger than any steel, criss cross this pit forming a dense web that impairs movement. The air is thick and hot, and each breath seems to scorch one’s lungs.

The only source illuminating the darkness is a faint light from the top of the pit. This light is almost entirely blocked by the chains, but it seems as if it is extremely close, and one could reach it if only one could climb far enough. No matter how far one travels upward, however, the light always stays tantalizingly out of reach. Its presence is another torment for the denizens of this realm, taunting them with the agony of false hope.

This pit is inhabited by the souls of those damned by the strictest laws of gods and men. These are to remain trapped in the chains for eternity. Other creatures, including many nameless horrors, also dwell here. They feast upon the flesh of the trapped souls, which constantly regenerates so as to prevent death from freeing them. The most prominent and tormented of these souls is Toshre himself. Deep in the pit, far below any of the mortals, he is restrained by a mass of chains such that he is incapable of moving even his fingers. Never does he stop struggling against his imprisonment, yet never does he manage to free himself. That is the curse of his existence.

Persona

Toshre is filled with empathy and compassion for the weak and the suffering. He is filled with these, in fact, to such an extent that he takes on their pain, willingly subjecting himself to further tortures to improve the lives of his followers. He has a martyr’s complex: he suffers so that others may not.

He is also legendarily determined. His soul may be chained to Tartarus and his flesh broken and cut, but his will has never faltered. He still fights against the chains that bind him, and instructs his followers to fight as well regardless of the strength of their oppressors.

Base Form

When Toshre manifests outside of Tartarus, he appears as a robed man that hovers slightly in the air. An iron mask covers his head, leaving his features hidden. Manifesting in this way does not give him freedom: the chains that bind him still do so in this form, appearing as a mass of chains that float around him, keeping him tethered to Tartarus.

Domain Form

Within Tartarus, Toshre appears as a giant hundreds of feet tall. He is bound so thickly in chains there that he cannot move so much as a finger. Through the chains one can see the his face has no mouth, nose, or ears, no features at all save his eyes. In spite of his vast strength in this state, he can never break the chains that keep him bound in Tartarus.

Avatar

Adrian the Undying
Adrian appears to be a handsome, if a tad short, man. He is cynical and sarcastic, and generally expects the worst of any situation. Deep down, he has a good heart and wants to help others, but he has come to believe every action of his will only worsen the situation. He is difficult to faze and anger and generally keeps a cool head.

He appears to be young: In reality, he is hundreds of years old, almost as old as Toshre himself. He was, fittingly enough, born a slave, the son of slaves. The conditions he toiled in were nightmarish, but he pulled himself through the beatings and the hardships, in no small part due to the voice of a friend that echoed in his head, urging him on: the voice of Toshre, whom he would later discover shared a soul with him. This voice urged him to resist, and resist he did, when led an ill-fated slave rebellion that ended in a bloodbath. He escaped, in no small part due to Toshre's growing power as the god cemented its existence, but he never forgave himself for the deaths.

He travels world, seeking that which was always denied to him: freedom. Everywhere he goes the same scene repeats itself again and again. His attempts to free the downtrodden and bring justice to them ended in pain and misery again, and again, and again. He has become bitter and jaded, and though he still values the freedom for which he has long fought, he has come to regard his own existence as a kind of slavery in of itself. As long as he is an avatar of Toshre, his existence is to suffer so that others may not. He resents this enormously. He tries to keep his head down and live for himeslf, blending in with normal human society as much as he can, but there is always the voice in his head telling him to stand for those who cannot do so for themselves.

He is commonly referred to as "The Undying", and for no small reason: He is a legendary swordsman graced with strength and reflexes far beyond what other mortals are capable of. The true reason for his name, however, is his complete inability to die. Wounds that would cripple any mortal, and even some avatars, barely seem to slow him down, and he has been known to survive partial decapitation. Of course, he is still partially mortal, and given sufficient damage he would succumb to injuries, but being soul-fused to the god of determination against hopeless odds makes him very difficult to stop.

Musical Theme

Divinus: The God RP, Mk. IV

I had a couple ideas for gods, but I've been ninja'd on all of them, RIP! For those who are WIP, here are the current claimed portfolios as I see them:

Tech
Decay
Contracts
Plants
Afterlife
Volcanos
Oceans
Snow
Hope
Punishment

I'm currently considering a god of evil or a god of freedom, but I'm not set on it.