[b]Name:[/b] Crash Vega.
[b]Race:[/b] Human.
[b]Age:[/b] Twenty-six.
[b]Sex:[/b] Male

[b]Appearance:[/b] Crash Vega is a remarkable figure of a man. His features are distinct with broad shoulders, a heavily muscled frame that just peaks at seven feet tall, strong jaw, and piercing green eyes that sparkle whenever he grins; which is to say always. His hair is long and shaggy, dark brown and reaching down to just below his eyes, and no attempt has been made to manage the thick, tangled mess. A thin layer of stubble runs along his jaw, darkening it slightly, and his skin, darkly tanned and covered in scars from a thousand different wounds, seem to show some faint patterns of unknown origin. Barely visible except up close, they mostly cover his chest, arms, and neck in indistinct shapes, but can be found on his legs and face as well.

Seemingly a stranger to modesty, Crash is happy to show off his muscled torso, a thick grey-green coat worn over his upper body with the buttons left undone, no undershirt worn beneath it, and a thick band of orange material wrapped around his right bicep and tied tightly. Loose green trousers cover his legs, held up by a thick brown leather belt, and end in hefty leather boots capped with iron. Tough leather gloves wrap around his hands, fingerless, and the knuckles covered in iron bands, matching his sturdy, protected boots. A long, orange scarf is worn loosely around his shoulders, over his jacket and looped once around his neck.

[b]History:[/b] Crash’s early life is a mystery, even to the conclave elders that raised him. He was orphaned at an extremely young age, only a newborn at the time, brought to the Shenjiang Conclave on the Rumbia border in the middle of a harsh winter by a feminine figure in a green cloak. The cold took her life as she stumbled towards the conclave and the monks, usually secretive and isolated, could not turn away the freezing infant that she clutched tightly in her arms. They took him in as one of their own, knowing not where the woman wished to take the young boy, and hoped to provide him a safe home away from whatever his “mother” wished to take him away from. Crash grew healthy and strong in his new home, weathered from any and all information about his past; he knew he was not like the other children, born in a land far away from the conclave, but it hardly mattered to him. He had a home, so why worry?

His transition into adolescence was defined by the spiritual and physical teachings of the conclave elders. Crash was rash, impulsive, and practices in patience were wasted on him. He struggled to understand their teachings, although not for lack of trying. He was deathly loyal to the conclave that had raised him, but the difference of ideologies made relations strained at times, particularly with his teacher, Zidiah Zher, who was otherwise like a father to him. Crash did, however, excel at their physical training, learning the Shenjiang Conclave’s style of swift, fluid martial arts with ease, and even devoting his time to practicing his own style of slower, heavier martial arts that focused on heavy strikes and debilitating blows; an extremely controversial style among the Shenjiang Conclave, but an effective style regardless.

From an early age Crash showed signs of being more than what he appeared; strong, smart, and resourceful, if rash and impatient, and constantly with strange, recurring dreams. He dreamt of himself, older and stronger than he was now. He dreamt of fire, emerald green and endlessly fierce. He thrust his hand into the fire without thinking, grabbing and wrenching an enormous silver blade free from it. He felt no pain, only power as the green flames rushed up his arm. It moved with him effortlessly, despite his lack of training and the sheer size and weight of the blade, and he brought it over his shoulder. The faint markings that lined his body, almost like pale tattoos, began to glow the same emerald green and then ignited, as he turned to face-

The dream never went further than that, When he first went to the elders they waved it off as nothing more than a dream, but Zidiah suspected something more. By the tenth time they became slightly more suspicious, although none seemed capable of explaining these vivid dreams to Crash. Zidiah insisted that Crash undergo more extensive mental training, suspecting something more, but nothing truly came of it in the end.

So, with no answers, he persuaded himself that they were just that. [i]Dreams[/i].

The conflict with the Iramu giant clan was what first contested the conclave’s views on pacifism. Tensions grew quickly and seemingly out of nowhere, as the giant clan seemed to take interest in the fortress that the Shenjiang Conclave had lived in for generations, while the inhabitants merely wanted to stay and live there peacefully. In an attempt to formally solve the dispute, the giant chieftain, Tia’Iramu, was invited to the conclave to discuss the situation in peace. Tia’Iramu did not arrive, instead usurped by his son, Irga’Iramu, who brought giant berserkers and war tamed beasts the size of buildings with him. Violent and tyrannical, wielding an enormous silver blade with a rusted orange hilt, Irga’Iramu brought hellfire down upon the conclave. Giants broke down the gates, tearing through the conclave’s defences with ease. The monks of the conclave had all trained in martial arts since children, and put up a desperate struggle against their attackers, but what they made up for with skill they lacked in strength and a willingness to kill. Staying true to their strong beliefs on pacifism, the monks only disabled their giant foes rather than killing them, while the giants attacked with wild abandon, making them almost impossible to control.

Perhaps one of the most capable fighters of the conclave, Crash stood at the front lines, defending himself and the conclave with enormously fierce strikes, landing heavy blows on the joints of giants, dropping them with remarkable precision and force. By the time it had taken three monks to tackle one giant he had already dropped two by himself. He fought defensively, until he saw his mentor, Zidiah, stand up against the giant Igra’Iramu and begged for peace. The man was cut down in an instant by the enormous blade the giant wielded.

Something clicked with Crash then. His mentor had fallen, and that sword… it was the sword he had dreamt about, he knew it. Like a man possessed, Crash charged the giant chieftain, a monster over twice his size. He tore through the giant’s personal guard with strikes strong enough to break the bones of even giants, and challenged the chieftain to single combat. Irga’Iramu laughed. What threat could a mere human pose to him?

While the giant laughed, Crash wrenched a dagger from the grip of another fallen giant and dug it deep into Irga’Iramu’s leg, tearing out the calf muscle completely.

The chieftain, while weakened, was still enormously powerful, and the battle between the two was fierce. Irga’Iramu was strong and possessed a mighty magical sword, but Crash was swift, agile, and possessed supernatural strength that only seemed to grow in the presence of the giant king’s sword. In fact, as Crash’s strength grew the chieftain’s faltered, and as the fight came to a close the two seemed equally matched in power. The giant brought his sword over in an enormous overhead swing, planning to crush Crash beneath the weight of the dull blade, but he only met resistance as Crash, arms stretched out above his head, caught the blade. He wrenched it from the hands of the giant as as he did it burst into green flames, engulfing the sword and setting those faint patterns along his skin an emerald green. He leapt high into the sky, the sword high above his head, and drew the blade directly down Irga’Iramu’s body, slaying the tyrant in an instant. His surviving kin fled soon after.

With the giants slain, the monks of the conclave came out of hiding. The sounds of battle had ended, but peace was not restored. Crash had killed in the presence of the conclave, and while many were thankful for forcing the giants back, he had betrayed one of their most sacred oaths. He was banished from the conclave, given only the most basic of equipment to survive and nothing more. Crash saw this as an opportunity. He bid his friends farewell and, along with what small rations the conclave had given him, he took the enormous hulking sword from the slain chieftain that hummed with arcane energy. He decided what he would do now quickly; he would learn to use the sword and find out what it was. It was a Sacred Arm, he was sure, but why did it seem so intrinsically linked to him? He did not know, but he believed he would soon find out. Befitting his new life, Crash forgot his old name and took up a new one, and set out into the great wilds beyond.

[b]Other:[/b] [url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n4AbU-XSOAo]Theme[/url].


[b]Sacred Arm:[/b] Arcane Arm, Reaver Riot.

[b]Standard form;[/b] [i]Titansblade[/i].
In its standard form, Reaver Riot resembles an oversized double-edged straight sword, littered with dents and scratches that make it look less like a powerful arcane weapon and more like a scrapped antique. The Reaver Riot is a sword designed for a giant, and is certainly too large for any ordinary human to use it. Yet, Crash has no trouble hefting the eight-foot long silver blade, and can use the blunt blade equally as a weapon and as a shield, hiding behind the flat of the blade.

The hilt and handle, a hefty piece of rusted orange metal in its own right, possesses two triggers, and three lines run vertically down the blade; one in the centre and two just to the sides of that. Upon pulling the triggers the outer two lines separate, pushing the blade edges outwards and revealing two large cannons hidden within the blade. Another pull of the triggers fire them, launching huge, fist-sized spheres of metal and an eruption of green energy at whatever the blade it pointed at. The cannons have no trigger to retreat into the blade, and Crash usually just opts to bash Reaver Riot against something until they slot back into place.

[b]Alternate form;[/b] [i]Broadside Barragers[/i].
The central vertical line hides no secret cannons, but instead shows where two separate weapons seal together. The Reaver Riot can, when forced a little bit, split in half, transforming into two single-edged straight swords that are each wielded in one han. The guns remain fully functional and the swords can be used much more swiftly than they could in their true form, especially when utilising the bladed edge, the hefty blunt side, and the firearms concealed within in tandem.

[b]Overbreak form;[/b] [i]Endless Overload[/i].
Removing anything close to what could be considered a limiter, one side of Reaver Riot’s blade breaks away, exposing the raw, volatile arcane converter that channels Crash’s own arcane energy into the sword. The back half remains functional, still allowing the use of the blunt bladed edge and cannon, although Reaver Riot ceases to be able to be split in two. Instead, where a blade once sat at the forward end, a torrent of green arcane energy pours forth like fire, seeming to crystallise where the blade once ended to mimic what was lost. Along with supreme cutting power beyond anything Reaver Riot had before, in this form it can fire powerful blades of green energy to strike at a distance, or singular blasts of energy with a blade thrust.

[b]Unleashed form;[/b] [i]Hymnsblade[/i].
No longer is the sword a giant’s weapon crudely used by a human. Arcane Arms unleash the wielder’s magical potential, and a true wielder needs a weapon designed for him and him alone. The rest of the blade sheds away, revealing a large, slender bastard sword made of silver, etched arcane runes running up the edge of the blade that glow white. Green energy engulfs the blade as it does in Overbreak form, but burns with an intensity far greater than before, the flames taking on the rough shape of the huge buster blade it once resembles. While it lacks the crude hitting power of its most basic form its energy generation is exceptional.