[hider=Drizzak. Currently ruling a dead city.] [center] [hider=Appearance.] [img]http://img.booru.org/grognard//images/1/8ccd3aeadaa5ba3d29fd09d9f2a54c0e2fa8c614.png[/img] [/hider] [indent][i][color=red]"Drizzak is pretty dragon. Look at Drizzak scales! LOOK!"[/color][/i][/indent][/center] [b]Name:[/b] Drizzak [indent][i][color=red]"Me Drizzak, who you?"[/color][/i][/indent] [b]Age:[/b] 16. [indent][i][color=red]"Drizzak live long time! Young now but he live forever soon."[/color][/i][/indent] [b]Race:[/b] Goblin. [indent][i][color=red]"Drizzak is Dragon! But really he Goblin. No tell no-one."[/color][/i][/indent] [b]Class:[/b] Alchemist. [indent][i][color=red]"Drizzak make the dragon-juice, he make the boom, he make the burn and sometimes he make the feelgood gunk."[/color][/i][/indent] [b]Biography:[/b] Drizzak does not speak much about his past. Its obvious from the way that he avoids questioning about it that his departure from his family and clan was not an easy thing for him. If one was knowledgable enough, they would be able to find the skin-mark on his neck in the shape of an angry goblin skull and crossbones, meaning 'exile'. All that is known about him is that somewhere out there, in the world, there is a Goblin who believes himself to be a dragon, wandering around in that tattered red dragon costume. [indent][i][color=red]"Drizzak have no past, only future!"[/color][/i][/indent] [b]Demeanor/Attitude:[/b] Drizzak is, for the most part, extremely friendly and positive, bordering on naive. If one were to attribute an overall alignment to him, it could easy be Chaotic Good. He can be extreme at times, but his heart is in the right place for the most part. His extremism comes from his tendency to be easily excited. He tends to see all other races as different sizes of Goblin for him to preside over, in all his draconic might. [i][indent][color=red]"Drizzak think he good goblin. Is you good goblin?"[/color] [/indent][/i] [b]Equipment:[/b] Drizzak has little to his name other than his chemicals, his weapons and his dragon costume. He wears the costume as much as he can, when he isn't in battle. Whilst in combat he ditches the costume for a simple pair of cloth pants, enchanted to not burn in the fire he sometimes douses himself with. They do absolutely nothing to make him immune to outside sources of fire. He seems to wear a wickedly-spiked iron collar, set with a lovely fire agate. [hider=The Dragon's Collar.] [img]https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/16/e7/d0/16e7d0ea8f0a144fc2951f9996323e33.jpg[/img] [/hider][indent][i][color=red]"Drizzak like to wear dragon skin a lot, but occasionally he like his pants. They special. No burn so easy."[/color][/i][/indent] [b]Skills/Abilities:[/b] Drizzak mainly focuses on dominating his opponents through the use of alchemical mutagens, increasing his strength and resilience. The mutagen gives him a red coloration to be more like his idolized 'ancestors'. He also has a surprisingly wide knowledge of makeshift explosives and harmful chemicals. He is not above lighting himself on fire if it comes to it. His knowledge of healing solutions consists of literally throwing potions at people. Thankfully, he knows how to aim them so the broken glass isn't TOO hard to pick out. [indent][i][color=red]"Drizzak drink his dragon-juice and he make the boom and the burn. No get hurt, okay? Drizzak aim not so good today." [/color][/i][/indent] [b]Weapons:[/b] Drizzak possesses a rather sad little crossbow, able to throw both flask and vials, and bolts. His previous jagged dagger has since been replaced with a lovely silver one. [indent][i][color=red]"He can make shooty and stabby-stab too. No laugh."[/color][/i][/indent] [/hider] [hider=Alator. She hungers for more.] [center] [hider=Appearance.] Alator is a reptilian woman standing at 6'. She is tall and lithe, some would say she was too skinny at first glance, but ignore them. Instead of a coat of rough, dark scales, her skin is smooth and glossy like that of a dolphin. It seems to always look wet, even when dry, it just has that wet sheen to it. Her skin, in the light, is coloured a deep navy that fades into an electric blue, before fading back again. Iridescent in an almost hypnotising fashion. Her eyes bear no pupil or iris, and are simply globes of white. Eerie at times, as you never know when she's looking right at you. Her face ends in a short, rounded snout. Starting at her brow and trailing down the back of her neck to her shoulderblades is a fully unfurlable frill, similar to the hood of a cobra. When angered or stressed, this frill unfolds along with a crest atop her head, giving her quite fearsome appearance. The crest continues all the way down her back to her tail. [/hider] [indent][i][color=skyblue]"Judge me as you wish. In the end, I will still remain."[/color][/i][/indent][/center] [b]Name:[/b] Alator [s]Strongscale[/s]. [indent][i][color=skyblue]"I am Alator. History has not heard my name, but you have. You are only the first."[/color][/i][/indent] [b]Age:[/b] 94. [indent][i][color=skyblue]"I'd swear I'm not a day over 30."[/color][/i][/indent] [b]Race:[/b] Lizardfolk. With a touch of something sinister. [indent][i][color=skyblue]"I walk as my mother made me. Of the scale, but parted from it."[/color][/i][/indent] [b]Class:[/b] Wizard. [indent][i][color=skyblue]"Hold a moment, and watch me light the air on fire."[/color][/i][/indent] [b]Biography:[/b] [hider=Wall of text.] Alator was born in a clutch of eggs, just like the rest of her clan was at one point or another. Her nestmates were the standard fair of reptilian clan-bound warrior breed hatchlings. Green and brown and black were their scales, suited to camouflage and combat in the grasslands, marsh wastes and dark caverns of the world. The perfect brood, bred to defend the clan at any cost. The ideal warriors. All except for one. One bad egg can spoil the dozen, they say. The same is true for the communal nests of the Strongscale clan. Even when she was within the egg, the nest watchers had trouble quantifying just what had gone wrong during her laying. Alator's parent was, surprisingly nonpresent within the clan itself. One too many times was her egg deemed to be far too small to be of lizardfolk origin. But something kept the clan from dashing her upon the rocks. When the brood hatched, it was known that Alator was a lizardfolk. It was also know that she was 'different'. No black or brown or green scales to be seen on her, or any pronounced scales to be seen at all. Only the dull, iridescent blue skin to cover her, much like a sea creature's, instead of a reptile's. Born sickly and small, she was the size of a kobold when the others were already beginning their combat training. Regardless, she was taught to fight. She favoured the staff and spear-like weaponry over all else, and instead of becoming an overall adept with a range of weaponry like her fellows, she chose to stick with a quarterstaff, becoming an artisan with it. Raids were simple enough to her, being in the rearguard. Stay near the back and keep an eye out. Simple. She had keener eyes than most, and an even keener sense of intuition when it came to danger, or misfortune. It wasn't until she found her first scroll of literature within a raid's spoils that she found her true calling. She began to go out on her own. To nearby settlements where no one knew of the slipskinned raider that she was to her clan. She went out to do something she felt had greater purpose than just raiding. She went out to learn. Language. Art. Culture. Myth. Legend. When she unearthed her latent magical ability, she immediately sought tutorship from anyone she could find. Hedge wizards, sorcerers looking for assistants, street magicians. Anyone. She began to lust for knowledge. To crave it. She had to, nay, she WOULD know everything. Her attentions turned from the wider world and focused when she found her future grimoire. Empty and discarded in the smouldering remains of a village. A village she found to have been sacked by the Strongscales. Her work had all culminated in this, her new purpose. She decided that after leaving unannounced and failing to return out of sheer hunger for more knowledge, she would return and display her magical findings. Findings that she was beginning to record in her grimoire with feverish dedication, as she [b]devoured[/b]all the knowledge she could come across on her travels. Her return was welcomed by less than she had expected. And she had been away for far longer than she anticipated. Her clan was all but dying off. Only a handful of her nestmates remained. The clan was weakened by its lack of good breeding stock. The Warriors were all but gone. Strongscale was no longer near as strong as in their glory days. She showed herself as she was now. How awesome and terrible her power, that she had spent so long acquiring and developing. She showed her grimoire. She showed herself in all that she was, but they did not welcome her. They feared her. They called her a slipskinned abomination. They shunned her. Attacked her. They made a [b]grave[/b] error. After [b]consuming[/b] what knowledge they had to offer, which was not much, she moved on. Strongscale was put out of its misery and she continued to roam, in search of knowledge that was more enticing and more rewarding than before. She needed to know more. She needs to know it all. [/hider] [indent][i][color=skyblue]"Let history be. Grasp the now. Learn as you can."[/color][/i][/indent] [b]Demeanor/Attitude:[/b] Cold. Calculating. Morose. Alator rarely shows emotion other than quiet consideration or anger, preferring to mediate and moderate herself in mind as she does in body. Her attitude towards others is as his attitude towards everything is. She speaks on the level, and as an intellectual, preferring not to squabble or fuss over explanation about his actions or goings-on. She is the type to analyse her situation, her comrades and even herself. Though she can be cold, she is not without her humor. She can sometimes spare a jape at someone's expense, or share a happy moment with another. She is not without emotion, just able to be separate from it when logic dictates her. Occasionally, when engaging her passion, be it reading, writing, conversing or actively practising about or involving magic, she can allow herself a moment to let her childlike wonder shine through. That or her ravenous hunger. If you were to ask her a question, she would be more than open to helping you to understand whatever it is that is confusing you, should she have knowledge on the subject. Eager to teach, one could say. Alator is easily placed in the Lawful Neutral alignment bracket. She will serve herself first, but tends toward common courtesy and acts with restraint. When she can. [i][indent][color=skyblue]"Come, child. When we make camp, I will tell you of the stars above our heads. There are messages for those that look."[/color] [/indent][/i] [b]Equipment:[/b] Alator carries little with her aside from what she wears and what she keeps in her pack. She grabs herself in dark robes, lined with fur and covering most of her body aside from her hands. The robes are hooded, and sit beneath a thick cloak of bearskin. Upon her back is a pack filled with relevant reagents she may need for her magic and emergency supplies. Other than those, the only other item she carries are her quarterstaff and her grimoire that acts as her spellbook. Her rather morbid looking grimoire is decorated with rusty iron and tattered cloth. It seems to be covered in occult symbols and scratchings. [indent][i][color=skyblue]"I carry my world with me. Never let what is yours away from you."[/color][/i][/indent] [b]Skills/Abilities:[/b] Alator possesses a vast knowledge base on phenomenon of magical origin. Her knowledge on other matters, and her general knowledge, are wide but mostly forgotten due to her voracious focus on magical studies. Other than that, her eyesight is sharper than the average lizardfolk and due to her strange blood, she is slightly more acrobatic than the average bulky, dumb lizard. [indent][i][color=skyblue]"Not your average garden skink, dear."[/color][/i][/indent] [b]Weapons:[/b] She carries with her a quarterstaff made of twisted wood and iron, set with a gem in its cage-like top end. Alongside this she has her grimoire. It's rather heavy. [indent][i][color=skyblue]"Careful, dear. I may not cleave you in twain, but I can give you a few lovely bruises."[/color][/i][/indent] [/hider]