My hatred, tossed into the ring. For all to see.

[hider=Alexander Aima, Bloody Blade]

[b]Character Sheet[/b]

[b]Name[/b]: Alexander Aima
[b]Age[/b]: 39 
[b]Appearance[/b]: 
[img]https://i.ytimg.com/vi/6Ri_VG9pEX4/maxresdefault.jpg?sqp=-oaymwEmCIAKENAF8quKqQMa8AEB-AH-DoACuAiKAgwIABABGHIgSSg0MA8=&rs=AOn4CLBYauQQOJs7imQ9aR73EQgeqeR7pw[/img]

[b]Background[/b]:

Life was peaceful, once.

Back on the farm he was born on. Raised by loving parents and spending days raising the animals, riding the horse, harvesting wheat and potatoes and all the other crops. Not a worry beyond when the next rain would come.

Even enrolling in the small school in the nearby town did nothing to overtly change things. He went to the same building and had the same teachers all the way up to graduation. He made friends, learned things practically and mundane, and when presented with an option to join a college he turned it down.

The only thing he had to worry about was the annual competition with the neighbor across the way to see who could harvest the most spuds.

Then they arrived, a set of well dressed men. Not a suit and tie, but nice clothes, tight shoes. The kind you do not see in a farming town, with some gilded tags to show off a name brand. They spoke with his father and left with many insults to their backs.

Life tensed, but carried on. Until they returned.

Alexander did not know how many came into the town to set it ablaze, he only knew once his house was lit. A cold night spent sleeping in the barn to keep an eye on a sick horse, warmed by the distant bonfire of wood and lit horizon of grain. By the time he arrived, nothing could be done.

All that could be seen were cars peeling off and a town that disappeared overnight.

Searching found few survivors, some of his friends. Together they pooled what information they had and set out on a journey to track down those who decimated their town.

First came criminals, the nearby gangs of a city and the mafia. Neither had answers no matter how many legs they broke. Moving onto cartels or other large syndicates proved just as worthless. Leaving them all battered and confused about who it was that they should direct revenge to.

Then, Alexander had a stroke of luck. Walking through crowded city streets, he spotted a generic car. It was newish, with a few scratches in the paint and a set of fuzzy dice on the rear-view mirror. But he saw the license plate, caked in dust but that dirt just let him remember it easier.

So he waited an hour, then two before a familiar face got in it. A simple effort led to him sliding into the passenger side and…persuading them into a more private area.

A day later and they had their information and a target. It was a surprise, but the government itself had moved against them. Further investigations proved this was hardly the first time, using their own secret forces and mercenaries to clear out towns for whatever reason they had at the moment. Money, or expansions, or just because some member wanted to.

It mattered little, they had crimes and they must pay. So Alexander's band of friends expanded out into a revolution. Turning a quest of vengeance into one of freedom for their small country. Creating a bloody civil war that led to a year of conflict that ended with the capital city consumed in explosions.

Soon, they stood upon a gallows of rubble and hung those who caused it all to start. It was a glorious day of fireworks and celebration, then…

His friends, those who he had fought and bled for try to reinstate that which caused all their problems. They spent so long fighting a government, why would they want to make another? Why would they [i]betray[/i] him like that?

Perhaps he should have walked away, perhaps he should have seen the benefits of what they planned, but all he could see in the reflections of that celebratory bonfire were eyes that looked so similar to that Tyrant they overthrew.

Hindsight means nothing for what happened next. Alexander pooled his resources, called in his favors, and on the day that the new government building had been finished did the country once more see the fires of anarchy.

There was nothing left of that bright eyes revolution. Only dust and blood caked underneath the nails. So he left, traveling far north till he ended up in the vast regions of Siberia after years of wandering.

He built a cabin, a barn. Tended to what few animals could survive the cold and planted more potatoes. It was a peaceful life.

Until he got summoned.


[hider=Archtype and Mythic]
[b]Archetype[/b] - [i]The Anarchists Blade[/i]

Those who have taken the title of ‘The Blade’ is a being who has become so proficient in the art of death that anything in their hand is as deadly as a Blade wielded by a master. They are not just mere warriors, they are those who have become a creature that has found some cause that they will do anything to win their battles for. They will scheme, they will shed their blood to leave an enemy on the ground, they will drive a pick through the teeth of those who dare try and obstruct them. They are presented as cunning, and simple minded folks who have been pushed beyond tilling the earth for potatoes and now seek to fertilize it with mountains of bodies.

The Anarchists Blade is marked by a singular obsession with freedom above all. Many call them Anarchists for many who become one have been under the thumb of an unjust government for far too long, but such reasons are not the only reasons one becomes a Blade. Some seek to free those from binds, others simply wish to see their family's wings free to soar the sky, others still just want the absolute freedom to be left alone in a cold cabin with their companions.

In the end, they fight for freedom. The only measure is how extreme the individual gets.


[b]Mythic Path[/b] - [i][color=#FF0400][b]Blood God[/b][/color][/i]

To those who have nothing left but the blood soaked fields they stand in. Those who have been abandoned by family, country, friends, traitors all. Those who have the thousand thousand voices of all those they have slain chanting in their minds and soul, [color=#FF0400][b]BLOOD! BLOOD! BLOOD![/b][/color]

These are those who have hit the breaking point, the farmer turned butcher by those they sought to protect, gaining power from the viscera that soaks them and muddies the ground. From it, drawing forth weapons, constructs, beasts and magics that all cause more bloodletting to occur. Crafting a perfect feedback loop of violence unending.

They lay no claim to divine domains or power, but their title comes from the fearful tales spread of them. Of those who witness one man face a nation and leave a crimson ocean. Those who whisper in shaky breath, ‘Fear the Blood God, for nothing mortal remains that can be reasoned with if his eyes see you.’

Progression

[b]Level 1[/b]
[i]Fallen Hero[/i]
Gain access to blood magics both offensive and self-healing. Their effects scale with the amount of bloodshed in the area, but take a toll on the user faster than they can heal. They must incorporate their own lifeforce into each move.

[b]Level 2[/b]
[i]Blood-Soaked Warrior[/i]
Gain Access to blood weapon constructs. Inanimate objects made of hard, crystalline ichor that can match most mundane weapons construction.

[b]Level 3[/b] 
[i]Bloodborne Power[/i]
Can imbue others with blood transfusion, giving them limited time healing factors. In return, can claim a tithe of blood from willing participants nearby to strengthen himself and powers for a duration.

[b]Level 4 [/b]
[i]Bloodshot Eyes[/i]
Can now see blood through objects and effect it through Line-of-sight with magics and manipulation. Letting them draw it from great distances and see biological things that try to hide.

[b]Level 5[/b] 
[i]Bloodrush[/i]
A large increase in power of all abilities, alongside increased control. The cost of abilities is reduced and physical attributes are enhanced.

[b]Level 6[/b]
[i]Life Blood[/i]
Able to now make Constructs of crystallized blood they have a life of their own. They can be self propagating or nearly rivaling the Blade in strength if built up enough. A side effect of this is the ability to teleport through constructs or through large enough pools of blood. 

[b]Level 7[/b]
[i]Blood Chant[/i]
The mere presence of the Blade causes the weather to change, drawing the blood fresh and long dried from the earth to cause a storm of crimson lightning and Wuthering Gales of viscera. The blood magics gain more raw power, now in the realm of being able to tear the life straight from the body of an enemy to create a weapon to stab back in. The sheer scale of everything also receives an increase.

[b]Level 8[/b]
[i]Blood Toll[/i]
The self-sacrifice costs of all moves are now basically nonexistent, letting the Blade now become a truly unstoppable force that spews blizzards of crystallized blood shards and can heal or replace lost limbs in seconds. 

[b]Level 9[/b]
[i]Final Bell Chime[/i]
The toll of the final bell rings across the battlefield. All who hear it feel their ears run with blood and cry tears of crimson. Their pores weep and their hearts beat in tune with every ring of that distance sound. Merely being around the Blade when they are in combat will cause all that perceive him as an enemy to profusely bleed and empower him. The only correct way to describe them is a juggernaut, and the land shakes with his steps.

[b]Level 10[/b]
[i]Blood God[/i]
There is no such thing as the divine for one so drenched in blood. There is no hell flame hot enough to dry his hands. He walks the earth alone, with only the countless Legions of blood made constructs around. Above roars the greatest creation, and below is an ever churning sea of faces that fell. Each voice an echo within their head as their life is used to drown the world in a biblical flood created from their bodies. How does one stop a man who bled the world dry and still wrung more out of it?

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