𝐑⥀𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫
₀₁₀₀₀₁₀₁ ₀₁₁₁₁₀₀₁ ₀₁₁₀₀₁₀₁
_______________________________ N A M E :
N A M E :"He can't seem to conjure up what it was..."A G E O F D E A T H :
A G E O F D E A T H :"His age pushes over 1000, yet he can't place an exact number."R A C E :
R A C E :"He is a human, that's known for sure."G E N D E R :
G E N D E R :"There is no doubt that he is a male."P S Y C H O L O G Y :
P S Y C H O L O G Y :"Despite the smog that covers his brain the brashness and impetuousness shine through. He stands stubborn as he forces himself to try to play blocked memories of the past. Confusion, loss, anger, course through his mind as he stands in a land on the brink."Memories of the past find themselves locked away...
______________________________________________________________________________________________________________ W H A T Y O U C A N R E M E M B E R :
W H A T Y O U C A N R E M E M B E R :{M A N Y L I V E S L I V E D B Y O N E :}
{M A N Y L I V E S L I V E D B Y O N E :}For a mind so full of memories of years past, not but one stands evident as full. Fragments of glipese upon different lives in different ages flood his mindscape as he can only catch but fleeting looks at once full experiences. Distorted calls and singing within a language of old but to his mind a warmth spread when it crossed his concious. Memories meld and mix in a hazey convocation as sights of spears made of crude iron and wood turn to blades of tempered steel, turn to the wood of a smoothbore. Different memories, different times, different lives. Although he had not but a clue of who he was, he could tell he was a man who has lived a long, long time.
[1] When he awoke, the dirt and grime that surrounded him was naught but sparse. The armor he wore, ruined by a glimpse he couldn't see through the fog, sat roughly upon his body while within his hand he grips but an almost pristine iron dagger. His mind draws upon blanks on its origin, it his body seems to know it inside and out. The blade still as sharp as the day it was forged as he ran a thumb across it. For some reason, it was an item so familiar his body kept track of the movements for it that for him was hidden behind the fog of his mind.
[2] He doesn't know what he feels, but he can feel it. A burn. A scorch mark upon his soul. A fire that rages with the screaming shouts of but hundreds of voices with an anger that fuels it further. Red tendrils light up his veins as the ire consumes him. Sparks of power glow from his body as it taps into a power so familiar he can call it, yet for distant it refuses to follow his call, refuses to spark its energy any further. It stands as a mystery for as when the red tendrils fade from view, he can feel the power slowly being ripped from him.
[3?] [VYKI•]
H̸̖̭̗͊͌́̾̉̓I̷̡͐̒̿́̂ͅS̸͉̝͗̊́̆̾̂͜ͅ ̶̛̯͖̥̉́̾̆͜H̶̯̘̒̉̕Ë̸̻̫̯̝̙́̈́̎̏͋́͜Ȃ̶͕͎̳̝̜͋̓Ḏ̶̙̈́͆̽̕͠ ̸͔͑̈́̃̓̉͑B̵͖̝̑͆̿͝Ṷ̶͖̫̀R̴̜̦̦͋̋̍Ñ̶̢͉̺̠͖̆̊̑͝S̵̙͘ ̷̬̭̠͉̫̓͗̽́͘͜A̶̝̻͗̃́̆̓S̶̳̰̟̒ ̶̡̟̯̎Ţ̶̘̓͊̌̄Ḩ̴̮͓̆̃Ẽ̶̘̥̤̖͉̍͛́̂͊ ̸̗̦͋̽͝T̶̖̟̹̬̫̘͊̓R̴͇͍̙̒̎̀͐̇Ḯ̶̧̫͍̦̫̾̓̒̚Ė̵̖̹̀͝ͅS̶̚ͅ ̶͙̃̅͑T̵̢̺̥̣̗̚O̶̦̱̪̗̞̞̔͆͑̒ ̸̡̖̾̊̐͝F̵̼̬͗Ö̴̭̯̹͉̌Ŗ̶̩͍̦͍̹̋̓̓C̴̤̟̜̄̈́̕E̷͕̜͒ ̴͚̤̮̟̺͈̽̌̅̐͌͝Ţ̷̡͙͍̟̒͝H̵̰̙̽̏̎̾̋̕E̶̼̲̠̯̝͖̒̍̈́̀ ̷̮͒͝T̴̨͙̱̝̼͓̀̌͌͑̿̒Ḧ̸̜͕̫̟́̉̓̀O̶͖͉͋̾̒̏̆Ů̷̠͓̗͎̬̌̄͝G̶̡̦̀̽̐̾͝H̸̥̣͎̱̗͉̎͘͘T̵̪͈͕͇͊͐̀̊̌͠ ̸͖̘̽͑͑͠A̷̜̳͇̟̜̩̓͘C̵̢̲̲̩͕̊R̶͇͆O̶̹̺͕̫͐S̵̻̏̏͋̈́S̵͉̫̟̝͉̾̏͑̀͜ ̵̧͔͖͎͋̈̽̑̓͜H̶̫͈͖̪̾̈̀̍͝I̸̱̗̱̿̒̀S̷̗̤͚̎͋͛̉̈͝ͅ ̴̞̑̀̓̓̔Ḿ̵̧͉̟̬ͅI̷͍͕̱̋͌̚Ñ̵͙̣̖̳̰D̵̡̛̥̫́̃͂͠ͅ.̵̡̭͇̩̤̄̿ ̷̩͖͆̏͆͗͘À̸̡̢̼̙̑̎̑̔ ̶͚͋F̷̛̛͔̗͆͛̔͠I̷̗̱͈̱̖̞͌̑̉̓͠R̸͕̗͉͑̔͒E̷̫̓ ̷͎͍͎͇͑́̓͊̌A̷̡͙̻̳̥̽ͅN̵͎̹̥̓̏̔̆ͅD̷̝̣̞̤͓͗͠ ̵̰͍͝F̸͖͈͎͑̄͋͝Û̸̹̥̓̔R̵̦͕̅̑͠Y̶̦̊̽̒͊̓̚ ̵̫̞̻̟̗̝̃́͋̍̏̚Ś̴̨̨̬̫͍͙́̈Ḛ̸̊̎Ą̴̯͓̭͉̘̆̔̎͝͝R̶̡̤̹̹͂̎̓͠S̵̳͈̬͆͌̽̏̚ ̵̻̐̈̿H̵̡̻̬͛̀Í̶̼̣͒͆͑͂Ş̸̲͖̼̇̐ ̵͈̃̑L̶̥̖̤̯̯̑̒̔͐O̴̢̗͖͓̖̔̊́̇B̵̜̦͉̉͂̽̇E̷̮̫̲̗̹̋̒͐͘S̸͙̯͔͍̄̉̈́̌̚ ̴̡̭͉̬̚W̶͈̲̼̭̃͗I̶͍̪̜̭̜̯͆̽T̶̡̤̙̺̦̍̈̐̔͘H̶̳͔̗̻̫͋̂̀̐͠ͅ ̶̨̮̟͍̜̿́̂̈́͑A̵̬͂̀ ̶̯̝̔P̴̦̈͒̓̓͜͝Ȃ̵̤͈̗̏͑̓Ì̴̠͕̟̕ͅͅͅN̶̑͂̿͗ͅ ̵̡͓̖͖̖̗̅̃͐͑Ų̶͓͐̿̌̂̕N̷̘̪͇̿͛͜ͅŜ̸̨̫̩̺͔̻̀̋̓̾͝E̴͓̬͉̽̊̂̍Ḛ̵̝͗̓̓̍Ň̷̛̮̬̖͗̈́͒.̵̤͇̒̂̋̈ ̷̮̝̙͓̬̍N̵̜̖̮̊͛̕Ō̵̱̈́̇ ̴͙̫̤͂̎͂T̸̝̪̝̰̈́̎H̷̠̀O̸̡̱͐̀́̅̕U̶͇̜̔̈G̷̮̗̙̲̈́̓̓̓̑͘͜H̶͔͎̠̜͐̒̿͝ͅṪ̸̠͉̹̼̐̕͠ ̸͈͔͈̹̃͑̔Ş̴͖̙͚̦̣̑̀H̷̡̛̞̀̀͛̈́A̵̙͕̼͛͜͝L̴̡̍͘L̵̮̙̣̞̖͍̋ ̸̢̬̤̼̣̺́̽͋̾̈́͝P̶͕͋̈́̇̊̂Ą̶̜̯̯̖̽͋̂̈́͝S̸͉̩̠̭͓͚̊͋̑̑S̴̨̪͓̩͌̏͝ͅ.̷̡̺̊̃ ̵̠̻̙͑Ṅ̵̟͖͖̦̩̆͌͐͗̚Ǫ̸̙̱̦̖̳̎ ̶̣̻͕̬̓̓̈́̕T̵͓̝̫̍̑̊̿H̷̻͙̖̩̘͒͊́͜O̴͖̤̙͎̥͔̓̓Ǘ̵̯̓͐͒G̵̡̿H̶͖̼̅T̷̠̻̪̥̺͒̈́̋͠ ̵̺̊Ṣ̴͖̲͓̟̃͊̆H̵̛̱̺̺͉̎A̴̮̪͇̠̒̓̏͗ͅL̵͇̈͘L̸̛̘̞̾ ̵̲̓̓͝P̶̬͔̙̯̳̈́A̸̞̠̒͑͊́͘S̷̞̃̒̎̕S̸̱̫̞̀̅̓̅.̸̭͕͎̲̜̀ ̴̱́͑̄N̸̥̲̥̼̈̎́͐͆͜Ŏ̴̞̭͇ ̷̹̀̕͝T̸̛̟͍̒̔̐̚H̷͇͈́̌̾̅̽̽Ǫ̷̟̞̈́̃͌̕͝ͅU̵̱̪͙̘̽͝G̵͍̠̫̓̈́H̷̯͋͒́̑Ť̶̥͕ ̴̙͉̤͇̖̃͒͘S̵͙̠̉̔̔̕͜Ḥ̵̤͛A̴͍͈͖̚L̴̨͉̀̈́̌L̶͓͚̤̝̈́̚ ̷̤̱͂́͛͠ͅP̴͇̺̀̆A̶̰̍̉̈S̵̗̭̉̽́̇́ͅS̶̲͉̳͔̬̈͊̉̔͐̕.̴͚̣̰̒ ̷̨̮̎̽̕N̸̝̩̝̝͝O̷̝͇̥̘̒̅̕͝ͅ ̵̧̙̔Ṯ̸̻̑̎̈́̀H̸̤̣͂̐́͗͊̎Ọ̶̠͈͍̌͠ͅU̸̡̔̀G̵̭̓̿͠H̷̤̏́̔̏T̸͙͔̫̰̠͙͒͂̃̔̀ ̶̪̹͔̎̿̊̈́̽S̶̟̫̾H̸̹͇̙̲̉̂̌͘Ḁ̵͚̊͐̐̋̕͘L̸̖̺͋̀L̷̢̉͑ ̶̘̳̪̀̆̚͜P̸̢̡̆̍͌̈́̐̕Ą̸͈̯̱̾̅̿͠Ș̴̹͒̕S̸̢̠͒̕.̶̨̜̠̲͇̻̄̀̅͒̽ ̴̜̳̰̙̈́̀̾Ǹ̶̪͒́̅͝Ò̶̡̬̭̻͚̓͌͒ ̵̩̓T̸̨̢̧̛͓͒̈́͂͜H̷̛̲͎͖͖̀̈̽͝ͅO̴̢͉͖̔Ų̶̨̹̙̻̑͗̚͜͝G̸̜̳͈̈́̿͜H̷̫̗͇͎͕̍͊̄ͅṮ̶̦͙̞̟̣̈ ̵̰͉͑̀͑̊̚S̵̭͖͌̈́́̓͘͠H̶͍͚͚̼͉̄͂̇̀̾͜Å̵̜̞͎̳̋L̷̨̈́̾̎̚L̶̨̡͈͋͌ ̶͉̩̓͜͝P̶̨̆̀A̵̜̿̉̐Š̴̤̓̈́̈́̈̓S̴̛͙̖͓̀́̽́̂.̵̼͓̜͇̺͑̏̉̚͜ ̸̛̱̲̥̜͈̽̃͗̍̉N̶͙͔̹̼̆́͜͜͝Ȍ̴̩̬̺́̿̿́͌ ̴͕̃̔́T̶̟͗̐H̷͉̮̠͎̀̿Ǫ̵̺̥̺͕̣̿Ṷ̶̢̊͂̏̔̕̕G̵̭͛̆Ḩ̸̱̠͕̻̹̏̾̉̚͝T̸̡̬̲̲̏͜ ̷͙̭̞͓͉̃Ṡ̵̱̖̤̟̙̇H̷̜́́͝Ǎ̶̙̱̿͗͜͠Ḽ̶̜̯̍͑̚͝ͅL̶̮̟̦̦͑͊͜ ̵̛̖̤̾̑P̷̛͖̩̻͗̎͒̾̓Ä̴̤̩͒͜S̸̼̲̤͉͓̓S̸̪̬͍̟̲͙͗̏̊͝.̸͈̹͉̤͎̔͛͌̈́̍͂N̶̡̰͒Ô̶͇͇̭͍͌̃̀ ̵̩͓͑T̵̠̲̼̉̇͐͑̀̋ͅḦ̴̭̥̖̝̺́͜Ó̸̩̬͌͒̓̅Ų̷̣͉͛̿́G̷̙̱̮̒Ȟ̸̡̙͉̺̊̂̓͐̚͜ͅT̷̞͗̇̇͝ ̷̡̅̓̓͂̍S̸̲̘̥̭̰̙̽͊Ȟ̵͔̩̥͐À̸̩̙͊̌͊̕̚Ļ̷͚̺͑͜L̷͈̬̟͉̿̽̐̌͘ ̴̫͑͌Ṕ̴̨̝̭̯̗̎̅̊̌̕Ą̴͔̜͕͛̿͌̈́͜S̴͕͉͇̬̜̥͐̽͘Ṣ̷͕̺̭̫̍.̵͎̟͖͗ ̸̡͚̩̇͠͝N̸̢̑͊͝Ǫ̷͖͕̻̰̝́͊͑̾ ̶̳̀̾̒̌T̸̼̫̻͔̺͌̂H̷͈̀͂̇́̆Ò̷̢̩͋͑͛́̕Ṵ̶̕G̶̢̦͈͕̳̺̐́̌̕H̶̪͊̍̅̚T̴̟̯͂́̇͂̉̔ ̷̡̱̜̦̞͊̔̐̽̇͜͝S̸͔̖̳̈́͊͗͗̚͝H̷̺̲̼̬̥̆À̷͔̤̆L̶̢̻̗̗̍̒͊L̴͉̰̙̅̈́̾͘̚͠ ̴̥̦̦̂͆̆̚̚͜P̶̡̞̟̋̀̂̋͜Ä̷̢̝̼͕̠̿͊S̶͖̀͋̈́S̴͓̅̽̀.̷͕̹̩͗̂ͅͅ ̶̧̞̪̙͕̓͗̿͝ͅŅ̴̡̛̜̱̥̦̄́̈́O̶̦̝̥͔̻̿͝ͅ ̴̙͖̓̇̈́͠T̸̲͙̰̭͑́̈́͋͜ͅH̶̯̠͘Ö̷̳́̅́̾͋̽Ù̸̜̭̍̍͛̒̑G̴̱͂͒͠͝H̵͈͚̖͐̐̆͌̆̍T̷̨̺̝̘̭̗͛̒ ̵̤͓͎̐͐͘S̵̰̍͑͊̾̓͜H̶̺́̀A̸̡̭̭̓̎̌͜L̶̥̂L̸̖͙̲͎̤̜̏͋̈́ ̸͈̟͒Ṕ̸̛͙̱̏̓̊̕A̷͓̣͝Ś̷̢̼̮̯̰̥͋̆́̕͝S̶̛̰̥̘̲̃̀̿.̶̡̯̠͕͉̀͂̄̎̄ͅ ̴̝̲͠Ń̴͓̳̟̻͝͠Ó̶̼̖͎̗̒ ̸̳͕̣͇͛͝T̷͔̫̗̹̋͂̐̏͐H̷͖̯̼̼͉̉̌̋̚͠O̵͔̺̦̗͊͋̿̀̈́͝U̷̘͆̒̀G̵̤̣̈́̄H̶̙̼̅̓̕͘Ţ̶̧͔͚̹̼͛͛̂̀ ̵̫͇̃͠ͅS̵̩̼̰̾̽̉̀H̷̠̤͙̏́́̚͝ͅĄ̶̭͙̠͝L̵̢̛͔̮̺͈̐̆̀̓͘ͅL̴̡̮̟̔̑͑̑ ̸̦͌̔P̴̠̺̜̝̬̃̑̎̊͌A̵͚͖̲͙̔̽̎̕͝Ŝ̷͇̠͚̊̈́Ṩ̶̞̜̝͉͛͜.̵̨̯͍͓͒͑͂̂͗̆ ̷̨̦̞̞̭̘̾̔̒̕N̶̞̏͝Ó̷̱̎̋͠ ̴̨̣̲͔͓̞̿Ț̵̨̱̹̼͠Ȟ̴͍̬̖̪̟͝Ȯ̶̪̞̌̽͝͝U̵̮͕̻̗̘͎͌G̵̠͉͓̻̉̇̓H̵̛͉̳͊̓̓́̚T̷͚̯́̃̿͆̀̔ ̶̢̧͉̞̇̎͂S̸̡͉̪̖̟͑Ȟ̵͎̹̗͜Ã̴̗͕̫͇͎͌̓͜L̸͕̆̇͋̓L̷̠͋͌̍̃̌ ̶̜̞̩̎̊̍̐͒͠P̸̨͔͎̥̭̰̈́̆͝Ā̷̰̾̕S̴̯̱̝̜͌̈́͑̅̌̎͜S̴̯̟̺͚̼͝.̶̣̽ ̵͉̮̂͊̑́̕N̴̢̛̺̺̪̑͜Ö̴̩̬́ ̸͖̺̼̮͇̟͗͛̎̅T̷̟͌̄̈́̅̾H̸͖͌̽̏͜Ȍ̴̡̗͎̬̥U̷̡͈̦̐͐̇́̇͊G̶̺̘̻̀͆̕H̵̪̹͓́̂̾̎͑͠T̵̙͎̄ ̷̝͔͙̙͕̏̾͑̈́S̸͉̦̗͗̏Ḧ̷̱͑͆̏͝Ä̸̫̜̃̿̽̊L̸̢͙̟͇̜͕͌L̴̗̠͈͐͝ ̴̪́̾P̶͇̯͍̞̬̕͠A̸̧͚̬̓̉S̴̛̺̙͕̃̑S̵͖̄̿̉.̸̩̽̎Ň̵͖͋͠Ŏ̷̢̟̘̙͓͑̃̌̋̋ͅ ̷̡̯̭̝̺̪͂̆̇͛͝T̶̹̩͎̔͋́̅H̴̹̼̓O̸͕̙̬̰̤͇͐͛͐̚Ư̵͔̝̈͗̽̀G̶͔͖̍͜H̴̭͚̫̙̼̠̄̊̃T̵̼͓̅ ̵͔̯͖͚̟̌S̷̛̟̈H̴͓͈̍̂A̷̜̒̇͂͐̇̕Ĺ̶̦͑͜L̸͚͛͋͑̀̕ ̸͓͕̠͒P̴̢͉̳̠͓͆͘Ḁ̸̤̝̹̃̌̂̈͝Ş̷̢͖̠̺̃̊S̶̠̲̣̰͂.̸̧͖̱̗͗̉̈́̔ͅ ̵̢̈̈́̃̌N̸̡̢͙̗̔̅͘͜Ơ̵̘͉̿̈́̄̍ ̴̱͓̿̎͝T̶̘̠̀̀͊͝͝Ḩ̷̧͍̬͔͉͆͐̇Ǫ̵̼̖͓͉͑̅̏U̶̧͍̺̹̙̤̽͐̚͝͝G̵̮͕͉̥̈̇̌͝H̴̺̳̑̇̈́̍̃̕T̶͉̐̈́̚ ̴̜̮̋̓̈́́̾͜S̵̪̉̒̋͆̊̊H̴̥͈͚͙͕̲͆̋Ä̷͍̔̐̚L̵̝͍̓̋̆L̷̹̋̔̀ ̴͉͇͒̂̿̄̓͒P̷̗̍̈́̈́̕Ȧ̸̛̻S̸̖͉̹̈́͌͛̍̀͜͝S̶̡͎̞̩͈͗͜.̴͔͉͛̎̉ ̷̮̮̓̽͋̾̅N̴̨̢̻̥̙̊̃̿̔́̑Ớ̶̭̼̻͋́͆̚ ̵͇̟̞͆͘T̶̰͚̅́͑̄͘ͅḤ̵̤̈́͘͠Ơ̷̖̖͕̜͙̾̒̀U̵͔̹̙̇͛͘G̶̢̩̜̜̠̀̒̑H̷̳̱͙̟̋̂͋T̸̳̦̀̈́̔̈ ̵̹̗̈́S̵͔͍͓̜͆̃ͅH̷̨̲̙͐̂̋͋̽͜A̴̡͇̯̽̿̎̎̆̈͜L̸̘̓̒̄L̸͕͌́̆̈̇͠ ̸̢̛̳ͅP̷͖͖̈͜Ä̶͕͘S̸̡̗͓̰̝̽̐͐̄̑̕Ş̸̝̭͖̖͉̿̀̽̔͗͠.̸̮͋ ̶̝̼͍̞͙͊N̴̬͚͕͙̝͖̔̔̌O̴̳͙̱͖͆ ̷̛̛͇̙͊̃̃͜͠T̸̥̖̯̻̜̥̄̌̅H̷̙̭͎̭̰̖̔O̸̤̭̼͒͊̚Ủ̴͈̞̯̮̎Ǧ̸̥͔̣̩̀H̴͓̩̓̋͠ͅT̸̼͈͛̂͌̄̒͠ ̷͚̾͝S̷̛̠̪̄̾̄͝H̴̲̙̀Ǎ̶̯L̶̡̓̒͜L̴͙̙̘̗̰̺͗̚ ̶̢̺̟͇̔̃͜͠P̷͓͈̈̌́͆ͅA̴̤͙͈͎̙͘S̷̡̤̣̞͇͌̔̐͐͌͜S̶̟̪̬̰̗͂͆̀.̷̢̨̤̻̝̫̑̏͋̈́́̊ ̶̛͍̰̋͐̃̾͗N̵̡̩͍͉̥̈͜Ṓ̵̡̜͉͇͜͝ ̴̰͘͘T̵̥͐͌̍̒̎H̷̲̳͙̤̽͜O̸͓̟̹̰̱̒U̴̥͓̔̇̇G̴̞̪͂́̅͑̅͊H̸̱͚̼̤͓̥̿͗̚̕T̶̟̆́͌͝ ̶̬͓͐̎Ŝ̷͈̓̆̓Ḩ̴̨͇̠̟̻̅A̶̫͕͈̱͗Ḷ̸̫͉̹̎̾̀̓̽̂ͅL̶̝̱̹͕̏͜ ̸̯̘̄̈́̿̒P̵̡̣͙̩̗͖̔A̸̛͉̞͔͋̈͝S̷͈͉̗͊̽̿͝S̸̹͚̙͚̥̬̀.̸͚͙́̆͝ ̸̝͈̺̐̈́̿N̵͍̣̟͓͕͚̊͆̅̽Ó̷̪̭̰̳̩̺ ̶̧̦̈̇T̷̢̰͉̠͝H̸̨̯̝̲͔̒̀͒̑͘Ō̷͎̞̖̏̈̇U̸͈̞̙̲͓̼̐̓̈́́́͐G̴̳̫̋͌̀̂͆͝H̷̗̀͂̀̇̄̌T̶͔̠̆̀͗̊ ̷̘̱͙̑͂S̵̨͉̲̾͌́͂H̶̳̠͐͂͛͘Ą̶̠̝̰͉̀͗̏L̸͕̃̐̎L̸͇͊̃ ̴̨̥͈̞͒͂̕͜͠P̷̳̤͋̊̆̑̔A̵̟̯̋͑̆̔͋Ṡ̶͖͕̈́̓͒͗͘ͅS̴̡̢͖̞̣͐̄͌͝ͅ.̸̘̘̬̲̬̗̋́̊̑̐͘N̷̛̜͖̩̺̿̓ͅͅƠ̸̜̦̠̞͉̾͂ ̴̥̝͋̑̐T̶̛̩̳̻̔̃͜H̴̢̱̬̱͇̑͋̿̽͊̀Ö̷̼͔͒̈̃̄Ủ̷̮͘G̵̣͐̑̐H̴̨̙̍̃͌̏T̴̤̪̦̪̼̅̍͛ ̶̩̭̙̩̦̬̊́͑̍S̵̤͗͆H̶̱̜̥͇̑̾͑ͅͅȂ̷̡͖̺̣͈̀ͅĻ̵͓̜̤̙̺̃̓͂̿͛͠L̵̡͕̠̩̞̓́͂̄̈́ ̷̲̈͐͜P̸̘͘A̴̼̺̋̽̏̿S̸͔̯͉̖̒͑̌̌̕̚S̶̹͚̜͔̫̥̉̐̿͝.̷̨̖̾̈ ̶͚͓̾͋͘Ņ̸͍̤̜̠̩̎̅O̷̡̤̗͉̼͙͛ ̴̖̆T̷̝͙͍͉̯͚̉̈́̊̌̕H̶̨̟̐̐O̶̬̝͚͉͎̽U̵͚͉̹͋̆̅̾G̷̡̹̎̓̿͊̌̚H̴̜̐̓T̸̳́̋̔͊ ̴͕̦̩͚͍̳́͛͑͆̃̈́S̸͈͍͊͊H̸̢͔̔̋Ȁ̸̹̖̬͒͐̀̈́͘͜L̷̳̓L̷͇͆̈́́ ̵͖̖͉̝̼̘͠P̸͚͉̾Á̸̭̩̪̤̪͚S̴̖̤̼̭͖̃̉́͋̌S̸̡͇̗͔̏.̵̢̜̠̌̂̑̀̔͘ ̷͖̤͝N̴̗̣͑͜Ǒ̵͍̺̳͈͎̿̿͜͠ ̵̢͈̠̐̽̾͠Ṭ̸̦̾̈͘͜H̸̡̧̫̮̪̳̔́̉̓̏͐Ớ̸̧̗̳̹̺̪U̴̖̗̭̎̑͑̄̆̇G̴͙͍͔̱̔͑̂͝͝H̶͈̓͌̀̀͒̚T̶̹̺̑ ̵̻̭̍̊͛̈́͝S̸̲̤̽͐̌͊̕͝H̷̭̉̅͋͗̎A̴̲̖͓͙͙̚͝L̴̛̠̽͛̑L̵͙̬̣͓̬̊̾̆ ̵̠͈̬̹͓̀P̵̘̘͓̠̩̈́͝A̵̲̻̤̺͊̊̍S̴͚̘̦̐̒͝Ş̶͖̥̓.̷̨̗͙̪̻͙͐̑̏̔ ̸̻͙̜̩̙͒̉ͅN̵̨̙͍͚̱̫̽͑͠Ō̵̞̻͎̟͗̈̽́ ̴̧͓̣̺͖̯͒̍̚̚Ţ̸̖̩͇̝̮̊Ḩ̵̠͎͓̎̆́̃̚Ò̷͔̯̹͔̓̍Ŭ̷̫̙͌̋͛͠Ģ̴̹̻̗̈́̿̇͠H̴̛̖̻̭̓̈̓͊̍Ţ̵̏ ̸̧̛̥͍͓̝̣͌S̸̢̛̝̜̫͎̄̃̎͘͝H̵̛ͅA̷̱̪̝͖͙͛͝L̷̛̟̉͌͌L̸͈̩̼͊́͂̽̚ ̶̡̱̣̒̌̂̂̀̏P̶̡̩͙̟͖͑̋̔̓A̶̧͔̮̫̘̅̊͛S̷͙̻̲̱͍̪̃̏͆͑S̵̨̝̝̦̆̈́̊̈.̶͇̮͒̓ ̴̹͚͊̋̈́N̷͓̮̅̍͐͐͠Ǒ̴̻͚̝͙͔͆ ̵̢̟̫̫̮͑̏̋͝T̴̪͎͉̤̾̓̚͝H̵̜̖̯̼̠͚͐̏Ȯ̸̡̨͕̱͊̐͝͝Ů̶̺̗͍͉̺̯͒̈G̷̡̦͔͕̻̞̑́̏̍͠H̵̨͍͙̩̼͇̉̇̽͂͋T̸̗̯̥͎͈͋̓̈́̉ ̷̩̭͙̜̱̎̊̍̈́͐͠ͅS̴̨̝̦̏̓̉̓̈H̶̹͓͖̬͑̉́Á̶̢͓̲̖͋̊͛̄̀͜L̵̡̈́̅̽̔͝L̴̛̬̽ ̵̻̲̙͍̻͒P̴̨̺̹͕̳̆Ȃ̵͉͊͗S̶̨̧̞̮̅́S̶̨̻̀̀̀.̸̨͇̼̅͑̾̕͠ ̸̨̆̄̽͠͝N̴̡̠̮͖͚͍͋Ő̷̥̖̮̉̉̔͝ ̴̬̞̬̆̅̃̑̌̚T̴̹̣͇͈̈́̌̓H̷̳͉̯̣̹̩̆̆́̅Ǫ̶̺̾͆̋U̴̟̹̺̘̱͑͒̄͝Ģ̸̮̯͍͈̀͜H̴̹̓́͒͝͝T̶̫̩̔̅͛͌̈̾ ̷͔̮͕͎̗̏̀̀̇̍S̶̢͠H̷̹̼͎̮̥͒̓̚A̵̧͖̍̔L̵̫̍̃L̶͎͚̳͐̃̈́̊ ̵̠̂̽P̴̛͎̳̏A̶͚̜͎̦͛͐͛͊ͅS̴̢̺̠͗S̵͙̥̅̃̍̋̄.̵̲̣̘̑́̈́̈́̃́͜W H A T Y O U C A N ' T R E M E M B E R :
W H A T Y O U C A N ' T R E M E M B E R :{F O R A S I H O L D T H E H A T E O F M Y T R I B E ,
{F O R A S I H O L D T H E H A T E O F M Y T R I B E ,I S H A L L M A K E T H E G O D S F E E L I T S R E C K O N I N G :}
I S H A L L M A K E T H E G O D S F E E L I T S R E C K O N I N G :}Many say the Gods are not such beings one should cross; however, for man who has but naught to lose, no such regard is held.
For as his God, Comjir, had been forsaken to die upon the holy fields, he was the only surviving worshiper left to enact but only pain on these Gods who had wronged his own and had wronged himself. And so began his journey, to slay those who stood as idols for Gods who but turn their back on their godly brother in the persuit of power. Idol after idol had been felled by his hands. Temples for these wicked God burned and demolished at his word. Yet, in his journey, there was but one idol who escaped his grasp. One idol who got away. One idol who had managed to best him.
It is but always the cowards who use cheap tricks. He was caught in a trap, surrounded by idols of wicked gods, once good men trapped in the talons of evil. And but for him? The man who defied the Gods? By their might, he was left on that field alone. Torn. Broke. Shattered. As blood spewed forth from his lips, one last thought crossed his mind: "One day they shall cower."He can't seem to remember the tricks he once knew...
_______________________________________________________________________________
Age of Death: — 25
Gender: — Male
Race: — Human
Psychology: — He has a calm demeanor, almost stoic but not all the way there. But beneath his exterior lies a brave and driven person. A loyal and caring person that values his friends and family. Once he sets his mind to something, it can be hard to be convinced otherwise. Also, has a strange affinity with coins, and likes to have some on his person if just to flip them on occasion.
⑇⑉What You Remember⑉⑈
[Friendly Sparring]
The smell of the ocean and the sound of steel clash rang out as an intense fight was going on. Then the sound of a disarm and a fall, but instead of a final blow or a death cry. There was only laughter as a warm hand headed down to help the downed. It felt like a scene he had seen before but repeated several times with this person, with only this one being one of warmth and perhaps something more. A feeling he could not decipher right now. What was this about, and why was this such a friendly encounter this time?
⑴ When he wakes up in this world, in his hands lay two swords, two short swords made of steel but with runes etched on the blade. Runes that he could not decipher but felt a connection with. It felt familiar, and it weighed less than what you would expect. Making it ideal to be used in one hand and even more so with one in each hand.
⑵ Despite being blind, he is still able to see through a means thanks to his lineage. However, as he will notice, it is not like a normal human's vision and something that he will have to get used to. Lines outline each thing, both the living and the nonliving. Faces are not easily seen, but he can see some features, and at least there is color to this vision. It being day or night matters little to him and he can still clearly see despite it. He can tell people and things apart despite this and if he focuses enough. He can almost see something more, but right now, it escapes him.
[Unknown]
[Qegpmjggi•]
⑇⑉What You Don’t ⑉⑈
[This Ends Here]
For as long as he can remember. There was a monster, some kind of specter, that haunted his family for generations. Due to some curse that plagued the family due to their unique power. He thought his father managed to kill the thing, but instead, his father made a deal with it. A terrible deal that when his father died. This deal was transferred to his older sibling, and she became its host. For years, it wore his sister's skin until one day when he was forced to kill his sister, and it simply moved into another sibling.
Tired of this specter, he, with allies, made a plan, and while it worked, at first, it started to fail, and he knew what he had to do. He to destroy this specter once and for all. He sacrificed himself to end the specter. His last wish was that his family would finally be freed from this curse and be able to live in peace. Hoping that his sacrifice was not in vain.
???Age of Death: — 70
Gender: — Female
Race: — Alopiidon
Psychology: — For someone unable to recognize their own name, the Alopiidon is a rather vain and prideful one. Though, perhaps her pride is born out of a misanthrophy--to see herself as greater than her peers. Of course, for someone who has such a brutish power, she has some innate level of excitement towards blood and viscera--both her own and other's. Beyond any of that is her desire to learn--as such, she's quite indifferent to the loss of her memories and is more infatuated with the concept of a new world.
⑇⑉What You Remember⑉⑈
Marshland Academia
The cold night's air numbed her skin--though she dare not grasp herself in any attempt at warmth. She was no longer a pup. Her kith stood alongside her. Younglings of the same brood--though she would not admit such words. To do so would be to renounce her claim to adulthood. They watched as the elder dragged a human, one with various parts half-detached, across the water. Small bits of leaves covered his wounds, but could not stymie the flow of blood diffusing into the bogs. It was slow but meticulously fast--the elder dragged his body onto a stone altar in the bogs.
Observe, pups, those words rang out, of how to preserve life and, if that fails, to use its throes to learn.
⑴ To understand how to mend was ingrained in her kind. To weave flesh, marrow, and blood to reform the body--for what use was a styptic when one could naturally detoxify one's blood and put it back inside the body. Though, the prospects of one's flesh being forcibly contorted and woven is never one's first choice of [Asqkmxkirr•]
⑵ Of course, one cannot understand how to mend without knowing how one's internals functioned. What would a doctor be without practical experience? Just as easily as one can mend flesh can one rend flesh. Slowly, carefully--always to preserve the structure of lymphatic systems for greater learning and understanding.
⑇⑉What You Don’t ⑉⑈
[An End of Eras]
Apostate. That was a new one. Though, it was probably wrong of them to say such words--she never believed in their metal gods. Such were the old ways of her kin--they had no gods or masters to worship. Though, any accusation was just pretense. Simply put, it was a purge to make way for a new era. Magi were no longer needed in a world of metal, pistons, and whale oil. No matter her ability, she couldn't take the weight of a nation-state bearing down on her. Though, she did try out of principle. Even her own death would serve for her learning--even if it was as simple as how many she could kill.
As their harpoons left her impaled and no longer able to see the light of the moon, she had only a single thought.
Oh, to continue my work. That would be just swell.
Age of Death: — twenty-eight
Gender: — female
Race: — human [ telepath ]
Psychology: — Curious, affable, and delusionally outspoken. Whyever would she be meek? She knows that she is good, and she knows that she loves you. Thinks she does anyway, and she might, the way a formicarist loves an antfarm. The way a hoarder loves their things. At the very least, she would like to know everything she can about you. She's introspective, will ponder herself in circles like this if you leave her to it and continue with the questions indefinitely if you entertain them. Often even if you don't. You're terrific, after all, so why would she want to stop talking to you?
All the world is a beautiful place, if you let it be. Even a place as foul and declining as this one. All people are good people if you teach them to be. Even the stubborn ones want to be better than they are, deep down. Everyone wants to know how to be good.
She knows just how to help.
She doesn't remember who it was that taught her she is blameless and true, burdened only with the responsibility to correct and guide the flock, but she knows it to be so. Therefore she is shameless and unworried, not the kind to hand-wring or second-guess her own judgement. Accountability and anxiety are for people, who are understandably flawed and must learn from this. She is not a person. She's—
...
She's just not.
... — [HVCEQ•]
⑇⑉What You Remember⑉⑈Her purpose is a profound one.
An eye in the face of the new, man-made God wakes with the city. Dreaming a sick child's feverdreams, living a mother's early routine, a businessman's first step out the door, a student's scramble. She dreams their lives as they live them. Adores the lazy, mundane crawl of their existence.
Gonna wring his goddamn neck—
Oh! Well. She isn't the only one who hears it, but she's the first to respond. Dibs. A pressure in the back of the skull. A plummeting in the stomach. He knows he's being watched, knows better than to entertain such awful thoughts. She knows he does.
So she'll help. Of course she'll help.(1) A telepath, she can expand the limits of her own mind to experience the thoughts and feelings of those around her.
(2) So long as there is someone else present in a place, she can see past her own body into areas unseen via their perception; remote viewing.
!! Both of these skills can only be activated while in REM sleep.
⑇⑉What You Don’t ⑉⑈She's never felt her own fear before today. Has never endured this kind of confusion from herself. Pulled free of her pod, undreaming, she is alone with her own thoughts and a room full of the very people that she loves and has protected and she knows that they want to hurt her and she doesn't understand. How could this have happened when she worked so hard to guide them? How could they hate her when she made their world so safe? Didn't they understand how precious they and their goodness were to her? How she only ever wanted to save them from themselves?
The anger is short-lived, barely realized, but it burns unlike anything she's ever known. First it is the tired frustration of a weary mother (I know you know better than this) and then it's a kind of sour, self-righteous indignation (Everything I did, I did for you, and this is how you repay me?). As she's stomped out onto the pristine tile floor, that anger only mounts.
Perhaps if she could try again. Perhaps if she were firmer in her surveillance, more exacting with her reprimands, then they would all be good. Another chance is all she'd need. Another dream, and she would do it right. They would learn.
She would make them.
N A M E :Unknown
A G E O F D E A T H :Unknown
R A C E :Human
G E N D E R :N/A
P S Y C H O L O G Y :They are full of wonder and fascination, hold an appreciation of life, but do not shy away from death. They are inclined to protect, help, and guide. Theirs is a duality: kind yet merciless, naive yet wise, patient yet decisive.W H A T Y O U C A N R E M E M B E R : S E R V I N G G O D I N A G O D L E S S W O R L DA realm of light, order, purity. Celestials, the symbols of constancy resided in a dimension which was paradoxically amorphous, ever-shifting, each iteration as brilliant as the other. Not one of them knew when they had been created, or how, or where their creator was. Yet all of them held the intrinsic understanding of their raison d’être. To uphold equilibrium, the foundation of existence, they did their part so the scales did not tip too far in either direction.
In a world with no god nor archfiend waged an endless war between angels and demons. Good versus evil, light versus darkness, selflessness versus selfishness. Those were human terms, mortal attempts at understanding the sublime, unknowable design. Heavenly beings did not need to think, or to ponder, only to act. The diligent, timeless cogs in the grand wheel of space, time, and everything that was.
They were just one such being, doing as was required. Dedication was a matter of course. Their utmost effort was expected, and they provided. As long as they did not stray from the charted course, all would be well.
[1] Spectral wings. Once, they were able to traverse realms, and cross dimension within the blink of an eye. Residing in a fleshly shell, all they can muster now is a set of spiritual wings. For a short duration, the summoned appendages grant them flight. In those brief moments, they are imbued with a near-weightlessness, moving with the ease of one who was born to fly.
[2] Light magic. A remnant of their divine powers, they can conjure light. It can be a gentle, calming glow as well as a burst of blinding, scorching heat. When wielded to injure, it can damage creatures corporeal or not.
[3] [•Wsvzgzej]
W H A T Y O U C A N ' T R E M E M B E R :T H E D E A T H O F A N I M M O R T A LAn eon of fulfilling their duty, unflinchingly, unquestioningly, but by no means thoughtlessly. Somehow, somewhere along the line, the unthinkable happened. The perfect being who by their nature could not change – should not have been able to change – developed, grew. Something new formed in them. A feeling.
Curiosity.
As with all anomalies among the celestials, this deviation was their undoing in the end. As with most such transgressions, it started with the tiniest of steps. A slight detour here, a benign moment of lingering there. Lending an ear to prayers instead of immediately offering them upon the altar of The One Who Was Gone. Taking the most infinitesimal peeks into the souls of the deceased before they were sent off on their journey to the afterlife.
Step by step, without an inkling that what they were doing might be considered treasonous, they found themselves in too deep to stop before it was too late. Once, they did the one thing they should not have ever done.
Once.
They intervened on the behalf of a mortal, not from a vast distance realms apart, but directly. They answered a woman’s desperate call for help. As soon as their being interacted with hers, they came to a realization.
Oh. It had been a ploy set up by demons. They, the masters of desire, had intuited a change, an opportunity. They had directed a stage play for their benefit. Well, it was a play only from the devils’ point of view. From the woman’s, it was a horrific, heart-wrenching reality, and she could not help but enact the given role of a maiden in distress. She had prayed and prayed, until her lips were chapped, until her throat cracked and bled, until her voice was lost, until her mind begun to fray, until there was an answer.
Their timeless enemy had sensed their presence. They took the chance, and slew the woman the instance their soul came in contact with the woman’s.
When that happened, the two were one, sharing all between each other.
Just like humans weren’t meant to experience eternity for they would be driven mad by it, neither could an immortal bear the weight of a finite life perishing. It was overwhelming; the sensations, the grief, the guilt, the lost joys of past.
As the woman died, so too did the angel expire.
So, this was what death was like.
Following that thought was a twofold regret.
One, that their foolishness had cost their allies a valuable asset, which would shift the balance of their eternal war for a few centuries at least.
Two, that the very moment of learning, the culmination of their change was so short lived. Gone and there before they could properly grasp it. Yet that moment had been as rich as hundreds of thousands of years of their stagnant existence. How would it have been had they more time?
For the first time, they experienced longing. Desire. Want. The wish to live.
Age of Death: — It's complicated.????
Gender: — Female
Race: — Spider
Psychology: — Isolated. Wants nothing more than to experience meaningful interactions but is nonetheless terrified of what might happen if she tries.⑇⑉What You Remember⑉⑈The nightwatchman glanced towards the spider sitting on the library wall, warily leaning away from the large arachnid despite the almost two meters of space between them. A moment later, he turned his attention to operating the building’s warding scheme, whereupon he seemed to quickly put the spider out of his mind, his focus shifting instead to grumbling under his breath about the wards being overkill and a massive pain in his arse; apparently either not noticing or unaware that those very same wards should have deterred any natural vermin, in addition to their security functions.
While she had by now come to see the guard and his nightly patrols as more of a mildly annoying obstacle than anything else, she did at least agree with him that the wards were annoying – if for completely different reasons. An obnoxious buzz incessantly pressing against the edge of her awareness and urging her to leave. She could see how it might be enough to deter her lesser kin, not to mention the difficulties it introduced to hunting, but she wouldn’t leave. Not yet. Not when she was sure she almost had it.
How long had it been? How many hours spent peering over the shoulders of unsuspecting students and eavesdropping on lectures?
The spider waited a minute or two, though her anticipation seemed to stretch it into eternity, then, once she was confident the guard wouldn’t be returning any time soon, she scurried over to a recess she had long since come to think of as her workshop, nestled between a shelf and a wall and empty save for what scraps remained of her previous experiments.
She began to weave, limbs twitching and tapping to a strange but practised rhythm, while her spinnerets got to work extruding silk into odd geometric patterns.
Minutes later, the spider moved back to observe the odd web she had created. It evidently wasn’t any kind of web a spider would naturally produce, and while not of any human-devised spellcasting system, one with the right expertise would no doubt immediately recognise the array for what it was.
She scuttled forward, the movement almost visibly suffused with her excitement and anticipation. And then she slowed, apprehension leaking into confident motions as she drew closer to the tiny web, grinding them down to a halt. She suddenly felt nervous; a feeling she’d grown accustomed to each time this part of the night rolled around.
What if… Maybe… No.
The spider steeled herself, pushing the unnecessary thoughts from her mind. The spider’s anatomy wasn’t suited to shaking her head as a human might, but her limbs twitched to much the same sentiment. Placing her pedipalps upon her creation the spider pushed her mana into the ritual and prayed for it to work.
For several long seconds nothing seemed to happen, and the spider seemed to almost visibly deflate in dejection. She was just about to start the process of dismantling and consuming the web – wary that her experiments might end up being discovered should she not – when she felt it; a twinge at the edge of her consciousness, like a fly struggling to escape from an entirely mental web.
Scurrying out of her workshop, the spider found a human standing just on the other side of the shelf; one that looked almost exactly like the guardswoman who’d left not an hour earlier. Tentatively the spider lifted one of its forelimbs and gave an approximation of a wave, and like a puppet controlled by strings, the ‘human’ waved back.
- [1] Possibly the foremost – and likely only – expert on structured spellcasting amongst spiders, she is capable of, through trial and error, adapting spells into a form compatible with her anatomy, using a combination of ritualism and web-based artifice. Being maintained by external silk bindings, spells cast using these methods are exceptionally stable but are vulnerable to damage to those bindings and can only be operated so far from them.
- [2] Through countless hours of observation and tinkering, she has adapted a spell to create an illusionary body. While the illusions produced by this spell are intuitive to control, doing so requires active concentration. Maintaining this spell is relatively easy, however, being a spider, she lacks the mana reserves to cast the spell more than once or twice every hour or so.
⑇⑉What You Don’t ⑉⑈Why did it always have to turn out like this? It wasn’t… She’d thought… hoped that… This time was meant to be different! Mairi was supposed to understand. But when she’d shown her friend the truth she hadn’t understood, instead, she’d seemed afraid.
…
The villagers had found her. How had they found her?! She couldn’t think of any way for an ordinary villager to track a single spider… Had some kind of monster hunter or diviner been passing through? Had…
The spider halted her line of reasoning. She could think about it later but now wasn’t the time. Right now, she just needed to run.
Knowing that for all her eight legs, the villagers could easily outpace her on foot and guessing that whatever means they had used to track her this far would probably divine her exact location sooner or later, the spider abandoned any attempt at being stealthy. Injecting her mana into a portion of the threads that crisscrossed her body in elaborate patterns, an ectoplasmic shell started to take shape around her, rapidly forming into a human guise that would by now be familiar to almost all the villagers.
As expected, it didn’t take long for the villagers to take notice, and despite breaking into a run she made it all of ten steps before the alarm was called. Made it almost twenty more before a force bold struck her in the back, flinging her artificial body forwards.
The spider’s heart dropped, and not just because the attack had caused her shell to unravel, dissipating almost as fast as it had formed. An ordinary villager would not have had the means to track her down, but her friends? The ones she’d trusted enough to teach magic to. They certainly would be.
The next spell to strike her was a weaker variation of the same spell. It was a common theme amongst variations of the spell that they were more suited for injuring as opposed to killing, but this one in particular was designed to stun rather than inflict anything worse. To the spider, as small and fragile as she was, the distinction may as well not have existed.
She died in an instant, her final thoughts on whether she was truly so undeserving of love.
𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐅𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐧 𝐀𝐥𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐭
Age of Death: — 29
Gender: — Male
Race: — Forsaken Revenant (Once Human, now something... else)
Psychology: — A mind frayed between genius and madness. Once an ambitious alchemist devoted to unlocking the secrets of transmutation, his obsession led him down a path of irreversible ruin. Now, in this new world, he struggles against the echoes of his past failures, torn between seeking redemption and indulging in the cold logic of experimentation. He is meticulous, his mind a labyrinth of equations and forgotten rituals, yet plagued by intrusive visions of those he destroyed. His hands tremble when idle, as if still mixing the alchemical catalysts of his past sins.
⑇⑉ What You Remember ⑉⑈
The Whispering Cauldron
The fumes were intoxicating, swirling in iridescent hues above the village square. Their bodies had contorted first—limbs snapping, skin peeling as their flesh rebelled against them. Their screams rang through the night, but you did not hear them. You were lost in the alchemy, in the equations scrawled across your mind. Perfection was within reach, you were certain. But then, silence. When you looked up, your people were not people anymore—only things, grotesque beings bound by pulsing sinew and raw agony.
⑴Alchemical Knowledge —Despite the circumstances that led him to this place it would seem that his knowledge of alchemy followed him. He still retains the basic knowledge of what once consumed the life he left behind.
⑵ Cold Rationality—A mind that prioritizes logic above morality, allowing you to make the necessary choices where others may falter.
⑇⑉ What You Don’t ⑉⑈
The Alchemist’s Folly
You should have died. You welcomed death. The blaze that consumed your village should have taken you, too. But something—someone—pulled you free. You do not recall their face, only the feeling of weightlessness, the wrenching sensation of being ripped from the ruin of your own making. The sky was wrong when you awoke. The air was thick with something unnatural. You were no longer in your world.
A mark on your forearm appeared when you awoke, its blackened veins pulsing with something deep, something alien. It reminds you that you do not belong here, that something beyond comprehension has marked you for its own purpose. But you do not remember why. Not yet.
"Fuck, I don't know, 30, give or take 10 years?"
"Wait, seriously? Well, shit, guess I just gotta unzip then."
"Kehehe, what, do I look less human than some of the other fucks around here?"A foul-mouthed criminal, always looking out for number one but willing to play longer cons whenever necessary. For people like him, after all, a desperate life in the wild and an isolated world of solitary individuals is the worst situation to be in. The fuck's he gonna do if there's nothing to take, after all? Rub two sticks together like a monkey and hope things work out?
⑇⑉What You Remember⑉⑈Couldn't cut it out as an honest one after all. Teach told him that he could've been a craftsman or something. Smart head on his shoulders and quick fingers on his arms or something like that, but c'mon. That was a waste. Apprenticing for ten years to a miserable bastard that never made enough to retire, only to end up bent over like a bitch over the table while some fat cunt rails you (verbally) for not making the quota on whatever dingle-doodle he was supposed to sell at a 500% markup? His smart head told him that there were better things he could do with his hands, so why not go for what would leave a proper mark?
There was that one guy, after all, who had the right idea.
Steal from the rich, share with the poor, and whammo, you'd be the most popular guy on the block! Do that on a larger scale, start challenging shitty lords and worse kings, and kaplow, you're basically a hero of the commonfolk! Free beer on the tap, songs written in your name, and a crowd of ladies wanting to ride you for free! It was just that easy. You'd have to be an idiot not to do it.⑴ Half his head is missing, and in its place, there is a heatless flame, a bright energy that roars like a bonfire, yet without sound or warmth. A pale, fluorescent brilliance, one that serves as an opening to another space. He can place things in there and pull things out of there. He's tested it. Apparently, he could fit a rucksack's worth of stuff in there. Which could be a lotta money. Or it could be a very heavy rock.
⑵ His hands are quick, the sort of gift for sleight that would make any kleptomaniac jealous. Rings off fingers, cloaks around shoulders, swords off belts, food out of mouths. With such a winning smile (his fleshless mouth is set to a perpetual grimace) and a handsome face (half of which is straight-up on fire), many fall for his charms and go away without even noticing just how much he had lifted off of them in passing.
⑇⑉What You Don’t ⑉⑈What the fuck was this???
Who the hell were these four? Where were his guards? Christ, why are they in his house to begin with? What the fuck did he even d-
Oh, ok, fucking pack of rabid vigilantes barking up the wrong tree? Ugh, that's why adventurers always get such shit rep. Didn't they realize how much shit the nation would be in if they offed him here? What, were they going to fund the orphanages and the hospitals? Give work to all the vagrants that 'proper' merchants wouldn't even spit in the direction of? Fine, fuck it! If they wanted a fight, then he'd sh-
Oh god where did his hand go? Shit shit shit, is that a Meteor falling from outside his window? Gods above, what even is a "VNiodfnds WIoneifndosnd"?
This...this was bullshit!
...
And by the time the sun rose over the smouldering ruins of a once-glorious estate, the people were free from the dark and terrible reign of ██████████ the Gourmand.
Age. ???
Gender. Female
Race. Curse
Skill One. Can shrink down to about two inches in height and can also return to her original height at will. The time taken to complete the change in size is one second. Visually, she simply shrinks. There is no instant visual change, no sound, no flashing lights or effects.
__________________________...........
Skill Two. Has the ability to send and receive messages with anyone she has met. The distance does not matter and she does not need to have eye contact with them. These message are delivered telepathically and cannot be picked up or interrupted by anyone else. Replies work much the same way.
Code. Dvrgtgin
Psychology.
She is singular in her focus, driven to be as verbally obtrusive as she can. She doesn't know why, she just knows that for some reason her voice matters and everyone should hear it. Everyone is supposed to hear it, and so she's naturally loud. Loud and pragmatic. Once she knows what she and those around her are capable of, she understands where the line is and when and how not to cross it. More importantly, this means she understands how little help she is in a fight. Besides trying to be the voice of reason, or annoyance to some, she'll do little else besides stay out of the way and stay out of the fight.
She is also quite inquisitive. Of people. She really wants to know why they do what they do and then maybe try and tell them to do the opposite just to see if they will.
What I Remember. · A Crossroad.
What do I remember? Well I'll tell you what I remember. I remember a crossroad. But not like an actual crossroad. Like, the kind you find in life. The kind where there are two paths ahead of you and one of them is obviously the better one. I stood there like a signpost, okay? I stood there and I told him "Go this way! This way is safe. This way is right. THIS is where all the cool people go." But did he listen? NO! No he didn't! He said in not so similar words, "But I want to go this way." and then walked RIGHT OFF A CLIFF! But not like an actual cliff.
What I Can't Remember. · A Failure.
That idiot and his stupid dream. His willingness to kill so. Many. People. And for what? I watched him literally step on the backs of other people. I watched him take something beautiful and destroy it for his own benefit. I watched him at every crossroad in horror as he dug up the other path and set the signpost on fire. And finally, when it was my time, when his greed and rage and indifference saw to me tumbling off the cliff edge with him to our end, a single thought crossed my mind: Why didn't you listen to me?!
Oh and that cliff we tumbled off of? It was real. It was a real cliff! I died! Honestly? You people suck. Why do I even try?_
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Age of Death: — 26
Gender: — Male
Race: — Half-Elemental
Psychology: — There is a time and a place for words and a time and place for action. He believes in no such distinction and is likely to be found lecturing someone as he kicks their ass or running into trouble while relaying his plans as opposed to before. He is quick-witted, brash, and temperamental but inside of that is a naivety that the right words can change anyone's mind.
⑇⑉What You Remember⑉⑈
{Heat, Wind, And The Favor Of A Mentor}
The Eiraenn University of Arcana and Elementa was a prodigious magic academy located within the capital of his kingdom. It was during his first year of his enrollment and he had already found a teacher that he truly resonated with. Most assumed having elemental blood meant that your arcane focus would be limited to the nature of your heritage, but this teacher expected more and he wanted to be capable of more. So here he was, at a private tutoring session with his mentor, learning how to grasp at connection points between elements and arrive at complex expressions.
The teacher reminded him that his heritage gave him a knack for the wind, but to start there would be to lock himself in to his core. Start with the element of the sun and flames, of rage and compassion, heat. Feel the heat that his body exuded and cloak his arms in its aura and then, once it is embodied, channel the wind through it and create something new. Electricity.
⑴ Conductive Magic - He is capable of channeling winds around himself that can at most kick of a dirt cloud and heating objects up that he touches to the point that wood ignites or metal can cause first degree burns, but most importantly he can generate an electric charge at a short range of about 5 feet that's about as strong as a low-grade taser.
⑵ Elemental Knowledge - He retains the knowledge of the elemental patterns and how they intermingle to create hybrids, but with no fundamental magical knowledge this only serves as an analysis tool of other's magic instead of means to design new spells.
⑇⑉What You Don’t ⑉⑈
{I Will Take All Of You With Me}
Beheading is too good for him, he will suffer death by electrocution. That was the judgement given out by the king himself. His heritage and training made him highly resistant to electricity magic, so the message was clear. We will torture him until he breaks, and then continue until his body inevitably fails. A crime he did not commit, and worse, one that he was framed for by the man he trusted most. The princess's body was unrecognizable and his mentor had done more than just kill her. But the teacher was highly respected, and the jagged burned scars left on her body were similar to those he would have left on enemy soldier's during the war.
On the day of his execution, he was sat in a chair that was connected through metallic fixtures to an arcane battery that had already been charge with electrical magic. Here to witness his death was the mentor, as well as a number of others that had played there roles in this situation. He hated them all for what they did but for once, he bit his tongue and waited for his torture to begin. It was agonizing, but he waited hours until the output was set high enough that he could just barely maintain consciousness through the pain. It was the best chance he was going to get for revenge.
Through his body, he channeled the electricity inside of him and exponentially increased it's voltage causing it to discharge. Everyone in the room including himself was suddenly hit with more than lethal levels of energy, and not one of them would remain to tell tales about what he had done.
Age of Death: — Older than her cubs, younger than Mother
Gender: — Female
Race: — Ti'kari
Psychology: — Now and always, until the moment she is required not to be, she is a watcher. She observes. At times, she merely stalks; at times, she prowls close and prods, paws, speaks, asks. Anything to satiate the curiosity of a stranger in a strange land. Few are the things that scare her, the jungle sovereign, aware of her power, and not aware of yours. She fights not for fighting's sake, but if claws are to clash, she intends to outlive you and yours. She has a duty, be that she cannot remember it, cannot hear Mother here. But once she remembers, she will act, as sure as the sun rises.
⑇⑉What You Remember⑉⑈
[She who hunts]
All she remembers is the hunt.
The soil underneath her paws, the silence and the sounds both, as the jungle held its breath, and her prey did not. Air escaped it in ragged wheezes, tore from its throat as screams and shouts and terror shaped into words she did not understand. There were those that would, those alike her prey, skin on two legs, but they no longer breathed at all, for she'd caught them a moment prior. They lay upon the jungle floor in her wake, feeding the very life they had tried to take. As she ran, their blood, still warm on her paws, imprinted warnings in the duff; stay away, for you are not welcome here, you who are not of nature and do not obey its laws. You take more than you are given, you take when you do not need to take, and you take, and you take, and you take. The Mother has asked kindly - now, she demands.
There was one final scream, one final swing of a limb torn from a tree, shaped and shaved and made sharp by hands that wanted to take all. They would take no more.
⑴ A body; a weapon: her weapons were not forged in fire, not conjured by a vile humoid mind, that which dreams of war and death and conquest. They cannot be cast aside nor stolen from her, and even fear of death shall not make them tremble. They're Mother's gift to her and her kind, so that she may run, and hunt, and feed her young, and be not tamed by Them who come with cages. Fangs to break bone, claws to tear flesh, muscle to carry her, a predator, to you, the prey.
⑵ A passenger; watchful: she is not alone. She never has been, truly, surrounded by life as she was, wherever humoid had not yet tread. Her jungle, ancient, boundless, was alive in so many ways beyond the comprehension of none but Mother, and it is what made it home. But this is different. 'Tis a presence inside her, lurking underneath her skin, breathing and stirring and bleeding out where her stripes run, dormant, always, except when not. And when it wakes, she sleeps, and her dreams are not of nature.
⑇⑉What You Don’t ⑉⑈
[What you took was not yours to take, nor mine to give]
It had troubled her for a time by then, the pain in her shoulder. Pierced by the wooden beak of a humoid bird, the kind they let loose from wood and string, coated in black when it flew, then red when it struck. It had hurt, but she had been hurt before. Pain had not slowed her, so she'd pounced, and then the humoid had hurt worse. But briefly; always briefly, for a single beat of the heart, and no more.
When it did not go away, the pain, she lived with it, hunted with it, did not know it might fester, worse than anything had ever festered, in the jungle, in nature, under Mother's all-seeying eye. She did not see the signs because she could not look; the crawling up of new stripes, from shoulder to neck, to her head, to her skull, to her brain, to her mind. To what connected her to Mother and all her children, all that was.
It is not of nature to hate, even when one breathes their last. Death has walked with her since she first pounced upon an unsuspecting rodent, since her teeth first tore flesh. She has heard its whisper in the wind, as its taken away the fear of a felled boar, the pain of a deer in her claws. It has taken of her kind, too; a cub before its time, an elder calling for an end. One ought not fight it, the one enemy for whom strength means naught.
Yet, she did. And as she trashed, in pain, in fear, in agony, the dark descending upon her fast, too fast, not from the sky but from beneath her own skin, consuming her, she knew, and it made her angry. Whatever the humoids did, whatever manner of death they wrought, it was not the death of the old or the ailing, it was not the snap of a neck or the closing of tired eyes. It was devouring by a power unknown. It was consumption, as one consumes their prey, but from the inside, and for a time longer than a single beat. It was not of nature. And in fighting it, in fighting Death, she, too, was no longer of nature.
And so, she hated.
