[hider=Littlest killer] [center][h2]Chiyo Kouko[/h2][/center] [center][img]https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/366129818791575552/470142925259538442/7d509b13767350549c0119b539239f94--anime-kawaii-anime-girls.jpg[/img][/center] [center][b]Age: 18 | Gender: Female | Weight: 40kg | Height: 4'5 Affinity: n/a | Native | Race: Human[/b][/center] [u][b] Description [/b][/u] Graceful and silent, the eerie gaze of her eyes focused upon you is unsettling by itself. The dagger held in her hand rarely compares. [u][b] Appearance Description (optional) [/b][/u] Relatively short in stature for her age, her tiny frame hides an unsettling amount of physical prowess. Her hands and wrists under scrutiny reveal the tell tale signs of one well practiced in the use of something with a sharp edge, minor scarring across the knuckles along with signs of longfaded bruising or fractures further reveals practice with her bare hands. [u][b] Personality [/b][/u] There is something disturbing about Chiyo, a darkness of soul that hides under the pretty facade of a young girl brough up in some unnamed countryside town of travelers and wandering mercenaries. Every step this little terror takes has the poise and perfect balance of a battle hardened veteran killer. If not for the unblinking gaze that speaks of ill intent you would think the girl a skilled dancer born to weave through the air. Ruthless is a far better way to describe Chiyo, when you get past the stare and stride. Equally adept at feigning friendliness and that warm smile, it is not uncommon for her gaze to size up everyone in a room looking for a threat or a target as a familiar ease of juggling her dagger end over end is a bad habit as she gets ready to strike. [u][b] Class [/b][/u] Frontline striker. [u][b] Bio [/b][/u] Raised in a port town on Kararagi bordering woth the Volakia Empire, Chiyo is no stranger to back alley fighting or the whispered rush of a poisoned dagger sliding from its sheath to menace its victim. Her childhood was one of solitary practice and the rush to claim life before your own was, a veritable dance of relentless urchins and vagabonds trapped in this backwater city seeking coin and food to survive another day. Chiyo had few to call friend and those who did were kept at arms length. Whispers in her head spoke of violence, attacks, styles of combat rarely if ever seen in the alleyways. They were the visions of golden warriors applying their skills in such detail it wasn't hard to think they were her in past lives. So vivid and detailed were the teachings, fighting styles she could hardly believe were true, that Chiyo lost herself in mastering the scenes that played in her minds eye until they had become a reflex. A warriors true skill. With a small frame it was difficult to master attacks requiring brute strength but every style had been tailored to the visions of the warrior in her mind and were adapted to her smaller physique in a matter of months as she actively sought out targets to fill her purse and test her growing understanding. Even now she has mastered only the barest fraction of the teachings locked in her mind but that has been enough to mold that eager mind and body into a ruthless weapon. The question that nags at yer now is a weapon for what? Having moved on from back alleys to exploring the wider world, Chiyo is eager to know what next. Where to. What for. Will the ego of her bladework create another mindless killer or a valiant hero. Time will tell. [u][b]Magic[/b][/u] Life energy: c Flow: c [u][b]Abstract magic[/b][/u] Divine protection of the many bladed - The recipient of this blessing receives nothing that cannot be obtained already. No immunities to the ravages of time, the sting of an arrow, no aid against powerful magics. Indeed it is useless to anyone not possessing the drive and will to improve. In the mind of each recipient it watches and stores memories of experience in combat or alone in practice, hundreds of swordsman and strange fighters across the world have been taught to fight by one more skilled than them to help mold a new being woth their style of combat. Chiyo is the 80th generation to receive this blessing and found the will to learn from the warriors long dead that held this divine protection. While some did not live their lives as warriors and their memories of no use, others displayed great skill and dedication. Unarmed: A monk from the 30th generation, a master of close quarters combat without wielding any weapon but their own body. Boasts agility and precision at striking vital areas such as the throat and knees with intent to cripple or outright kill. While a stronger body would be better, Chiyo has perfected the styles impressive flexibility and keen sense of anticipation. Dagger: an assassin of great skill in the 67th generation, this style further complimented the already impressive agility Chiyo possesses as the style revolved around ambushing enemies with sneaky blade rushes and throwing knives. While it was never great at self defense it is exceptional at keeping the enemy on guard. Duelist: Coined as such by the 79th generation user, the duelist was a style that reloed on the use of a shortsword and a long stilleto to catch and sweep an enemiesblade while prodding with the opposite free weapon on an unending dance of striking steel. It was a preferred combat method for dealing with multiple opponents simultaneously. While there are many other styles floating at the back of Chiyos mind thanks to her blessing, none have beem manifested for one reason or another. Those that have are oftem ignored if the visions rely on heavier weapons. [u][b] Extra [/b][/u] Chiyo is a bit jaded from her toils at surviving her young life and her dedication to the arts, making the young lady a tad unstable mentally. You are either in her way or a friend to be protected, often violently.[/hider] [hr] [hider=Regular old man] [center][h2]Mirt[/h2] [img]https://i.pinimg.com/564x/eb/0c/5b/eb0c5badd2a8c1c9e78037133cd39f60.jpg[/img] [b]Age: 55 | Gender: Male | Weight: 225 pounds | Height: 6foot Affinity[sub]None[/sub] | Native | Race: Human Northerner[/b][/center] [u][b] Description [/b][/u] Unbreakable body, unbendable will, yet burdened be a heart weighed down with sorrow enough to still test these unmatched qualities day after day. [u][b] Appearance Description (optional) [/b][/u] Mirt is elderly, that much is clear any way you look at him, and still his body remains the graceful despite the extra weight piled on in recent years. Training for the holy warriors of his homeland are rigorous and demanding with many often killed in their youth by their fellow practitioners in rare lapses of focus. Despite the added weight gained from many years as a gentle wanderer there is no doubt the skills of his youth have retained their edge. Strong arms bulge like oak trees at his sides and his legs still carry the weight of a falling avalanche behind every strike. When asked why his impressive gut remains despite the training still regularly done, the reply is often 'Youths today go easier when they think the enemy is fat or old. Doubly so if both!'. [u][b] Personality [/b][/u] Mirt carries a weight in his heart and shackles of his mind that impede the once glorious cause he strove to uphold and defend with a ferocity that outshined many of his fellow Warriors when they marched across the frigid plains of Aier'Sun. Beyond its often frozen walls lay beasts big enough to claim lives at their leisure for fun or sport and Mirt had claimed their lives on the regular, their broken bodies used to feed and warm the people of his homeland that could not do so for himself. It was who he was that demanded the defense of those who could not make do for themselves. His heart was often ridiculed as soft for his mercy in a land where only the strongest could thrive. His wife had been frail, his children had been strong, and his heart had carried their spirits high. In the clergy itself he was devout in his worship of the holy sun and its infinite warmth. To defy the sacred orders of their righteous ways meant death and Mirt was all too often the one who mete out punishment for thieves, rapists, murderers, stalkers, and the worst betrayers to the faith: Deserters. To reject the teachings was to accept the darkness of the worlds heart into yourself. Misguided hate guided his fists for far too many years. Recent years, the many long and lonely years after the tragedy that broke him, have created a softer Mirt. Still the kind hearted soul who could and would give everything to see justice through has become a secluded fellow dedicating what is left of his life to seeing another rise from the ashes of their life, and is prepared to protect them at any and all costs. Despite having become a mercenary, there is no more hate left in his wounded old heart. [u][b] Class [/b][/u] Mirt is the shield to his allies spear, deflecting endless blows with nothing but his skill and fists. The training of his homeland for the men focused on devastating blows that kill or cripple with the barest effort and his mastery of disarming an enemy or trapping them in a grappling hold is second to none but the First Warrior of Aier'Sun themself! [u][b] Bio [/b][/u] [hider=Aier'Sun Background] The frozen lands far to the north west lands of Gusteko are home to a hardy and stern people, brave men and women of proud and heroic lineage that worship the sun and hunt the nights at command of their holy texts that spoke of demons in the shifting snows, with their many forms and species said to be a representation of the land and thus control a layer of hell. In total there is said to be 11 layers of this devil infested plane. Though the city is vast it is secluded in a corner few travel save for merchants and traders who call this fortified city their home, risking life and limb to travel and secure goods that are hard found in this frigid homeland. The clergy are the ruling powers of the winter city of Aier'Sun, warrior clerics trained from birth in the ways of deadly combat. Women are trained to be undoubtedly the most dangerous as their principles of combat believe it is far easier to steal the strength of your enemy and use it against them by crushing the various clusters of nerves and sensitive muscle tissue across the human form. It is said that a single strike from the white clothed Holy Women can cripple your leg, a second can stop your heart. These are not shallow boasts. The men have many castes in this place, from the worthless subjects groveling at the feet of the clergy, to the stout spearmen who protect the village, all the way up to drillmasters and specially trained watchers. The highest ranking a male can claim without being royalty is that of the Warrior Cleric. Leaders of the devout practitioners and the hundreds of proud fighting men across the city, respected for their years of service under the royal 'First Warrior' that leads the city proper. To become these proud men and women of influence and power is a matter of birth. Not luck. Not training. Not skill. The clergy has carved bones with dozens of their holy symbols and believe their sacred casts can predict a beings future. It is extremely rare for a first warrior the be called upon by the bones but it is a guarantee of a bright future. To be a warrior cleric, man or woman, is the result of a single roll in over 100. Their teachings are strict, brutal, physically and spiritually demanding, and many are crippled in their training and cast out of the order as they are stripped of their sacred clothes, sworn to never reveal the inner machinations of their training. It is not uncommon for an open mouthed castaway to be executed and denied heaven as a result for their transgressions. [/hider] Mirt was born to the weakest caste of peoples living within the confines of Aier'Sur, the peasantry. Unfit to fight or forage they were merely the servants of the higher castes of honorable warriors and healers of the realm that prided themselves on their prowess in the night and their fervent worship of the holy texts drilled into them day by day. A single roll of the bones can make or break your entire lineage, so it is said at the bottom. Mirt had a destiny only 1 in hundreds of thousands could claim. The bones had been rolled, read, and rolled again to be sure that it was no error. At the age of 8 he had been called by the gods to be Aier'Suns First Warrior. How he hated those bones then, how he had fought against their prophecies and fortellings when every day of his life young life had been controlled by their incessant clattering upon the stone floors, and how his rage swelled even now when the day that broke him had come from those accursed carvings. Mirt excelled in his training under the Warrior Clerics, rising to their every challenge with a fierce determination. Perfection was the only thing close to acceptable for one of his future standing and there was no time to formulate his own personality while under the grips of his masters. His mastery of their many grappling techniques quickly distinguishes him as the youngest Warrior Cleric ever born at only 17 and already nearly unbeatable in Aier'Suns heirarchy. It gnawed at him to be unchallenged and still not free. Increasingly rebellious, Mirt found allies in the Clergy that aided their future First Warrior in finding that freedom to run and live as he pleased with the sun was high and the many ranking officials still slept as they awaited the night. Ten long years of this secret life did not go unnoticed. At first it had been an acceptance of the next First Warriors right to live his life, but when Mirt became infatuated with a woman of a lower caste it been taken all the more seriously. The First Warrior could take no wife not of the highest standing in the city or the bones said it would create ruin for his rule. All lies. Mirt defied the bones for the first time in his life and the punishment had been severe in the extreme. Alyara, the light of his life, was executed. Many other innocents he had dallied, friendly or not, were dealt the same fate. Ordinarily it would have cost Mirt his life too to defy any casting of the bones' many predictions but again the title of First Warrior, a destiny he had begun to hate, spared him. It had been too much to handle. In a fit of rage as the reality of his wasted lifetime sank in and the memory of his beloved still boiled in his heart, an attack on the western wall had transpired. An act of terrorism that had killed a patrol that had included the young daughter of a close ally. The very first person on the road to First Warrior that had ever granted him freedom.. His rage burned like fire as the grievances piled too high. Pushing the ripe age of 43, Mirt sruck back at his jailers. Freedom was his to take but it could never be here, not in the palace, not in the slums, not in the confining walls. It was out on the tundra far away from this place and he took it. Took it along with the lives of over a dozen Warrior Clerics, and nearly the life of the reigning First Warrior himself. The blow had nearly cost Mirt his own life as the two staggered away bruised and bloody, unwilling to die to the other. With his freedom at last his to choose it would be nearly 7 more years before the mystery of Anyons disappearance, her body never recovered or identified, had been solved. A vagabond as he was. Their time travelling was one of purest joy. They went hungry, worked hard, brought healing and harm to those who deserved it, and the laughter they shared spoke of true expression. The sky truly was their limit. Even when their needs of survival turned to mere mercenary work it was always with a code of ethics and reservations attached to it and by the Sun they excelled. [u][b]Magic[/b][/u] Life energy: S Flow: Letter F [u][b]Abstract Magic[/b][/u] None [u][b] Extra [/b][/u] While Mirt was a master of his homelands martial prowess, his many years away from the hardships of the north have softened him tremendously. Still a being to be feared he is nowhere near as powerful as he was at his peak. Where once he claimed to have the strength of 10 men, now it is only 3. Still more than enough to toss you around a room though. Note: Mirt carries no weapon except for a pair of hand wraps sporting a thick metal plate across the back of his hand. [/hider]