@Sadu Absolutely! discord.gg/6DN4u9zGJR feel free to join the discord and chat about your character concept. Vidar should have the OOC up soon enough as well
Nicknames/Aliases Ren to his friends, Gojinka to strangers, occasionally “foolish boy” to Tsuki, and “Nightmare of the Kurotori” to those on the receiving end of his fury
Birth City/District: New-Paris
Age: 22
Height 5’10 or 1.77 m
Racial Background: Irish/Japanese
Race: Y.S.G Natural Born
Hair Color: Red
Eye Color: Yellow
Appearance: Ren inherited his mother’s bright red hair, one of the only things that ties him to his human origins. Most of his body is covered in charcoal colored fur, his legs ending in cloven hooves and his hands tapering into sharp, black claws. What little exposed skin one can see is a silvery-grey in color, contrasting against his yellow, predatory eyes. Wings of mottled brown and red feathers stretch out from his back above a cobalt blue tail covered in snakeskin. Its eyes track those surrounding it with a baleful intelligence, occasionally letting out a low hiss or widening its maw just enough to reveal a hint of fang. Within his own mouth, a forked tongue hides behind a row of sharp teeth. Curling horns of black obsidian crown Ren’s monstrous form.
Mutation Marker(s):
Little Orochi: The true Yamata no Orochi has many heads. Ren has only two, the one atop his shoulders, and the bright blue snake acting as his tail. Usually it remains silent, but has been known to let out a hiss of displeasure when Ren makes certain choices.
Chimeric Icarus: Rust colored wings grow from out of Ren’s shoulder blades, and reside in a visible but retracted state when he is grounded. However, with feathers flared Ren is capable of taking to the skies for a short time despite the effort involved, or gliding even longer.
Luciferian Ram: Dark fur covers Ren’s legs and parts of his torso and arms, his feet absent in place of powerful hooves.
Draconic Visage: There is something almost kingly about the dark horns atop Ren’s head despite their savage appearance. The same could be said for his yellow eyes, which shine with a cunning that bears no resemblance to any earthly reptile. His claws too, are not the grasping talons of a bird of prey, but rather powerful, slashing things.
Personality: Complicated is a good word to start with. Ren lives his life fast and recklessly when his time is his own, whether that’s soaring above the streets by wing or hoverboard or racing through them atop his motorcycle. When Ren needs to blow off steam, he sheds the trappings of his humanity and gives into the base, animalistic urge kerneled at the center of his brain to just… Go!
He laughs easily, loves to have fun, and enjoys a wide variety of interests beyond the kinetic. History and yokai science are of particular fascination to him. At the same time, he has a cold streak and a bit of a chip on his shoulder from the circumstances of his upbringing. As much as he loves Tsuki and is fiercely loyal to the gang, he can’t stand the sense that he’s being stifled, and wants desperately to return to his childhood, one that was free of the trappings of human society with all of its rules and judgments.
He knows such a thing would be impossibly foolish, so the reckless ideal persists only as a dream to escape within.
In combat, he will usually focus on resolving the conflict as swiftly as possible regardless of the brutality involved, though there are some days that something resentful sinks into his stomach and stays there until it worms its way out. As such, Ren has been accused of “playing with his food” on more than one occasion, toying cruelly with combatants that never had a hope of defeating him in the first place.
Ren is contradictorily both prideful of himself yet not usually one to put down the abilities of others. So while his arrogance can at times propel him into dangerous situations, he still has full ability to appreciate and admire the successes of others.
Aspirations:
Freedom: Moment to moment, Ren wants to live fast and live free. Anything that stifles this for too long is a problem.
Family: Fraught as it is, Ren’s connection to Tsuki is more important than words can describe. He doesn’t want to lose what he has with her. In fact, he’d like to find some way to make peace with her and with himself, if he can. Would be that it were that simple.
Yokai: Why and how did the yokai gene get introduced to humanity? Why are there both yokai that resemble humans, and humans that resemble yokai? What secrets can be uncovered to reveal the shared destiny of yokai and humanity? Ren doesn’t know if he’ll ever find the answers to these questions, but he keeps his hopes up.
Fears:
Losing Tsuki: Tsuki is one of the few people Ren holds in high esteem, and he’d never be so prickly around her at times if not for the fact that he values her opinion of him strongly. Whether through death or rejection, Ren does not want to be parted from her.
Jaegers: As much as he wanted to become a Jaeger, and sometimes still does, they represent a force capable and willing to annihilate him for not playing by the city’s rules. Well, he doesn’t. He’s not even a legal citizen. It’s fair to say that fear is very mixed up with resentment and hatred.
Vehicle: Mitsubishi Horizon ZR6 Some of Ren’s favorite memories growing up were speeding along the streets of Neo-Tokyo clinging to Tsuki’s back as she raced forward with her ZR6. It was unsurprising but extremely exciting for Ren that he was gifted with the same bike when he was old enough to ride on his own. Ren’s is deep red with blue highlights, and has all the same functionalities as his mother’s, except for a handful of modifications Tsuki did herself to make the vehicle more comfortable to use in Ren’s form.
P O W E R I N F O R M A T I O N
Strengths/Natural Abilities:
Yokai Whisperer: Ren grew up in the Brokenlands, and has been exposed to more varieties of yokai than most, or maybe anyone, ever will. Not all share a language, but he still remembers how to speak to many of them. They are monsters, but thanks to the course evolution has taken humanity down, so are people.
Born Explorer: Just like in the Brokenlands, Ren always loved traversing the glitz and the grime of Neo-Tokyo, allowing his curiosity and unique physiology to take him into and out of all kinds of trouble. He has a strong awareness of the locations of the city, its winding streets and alleys, and useful shortcuts.
Tricky Serpent: Little Orochi knows things. It reads people, sees right through them. In turn, Ren knows how to read Little Orochi. They’ve only made it as far as they have by working together.
Savage Warrior: Ren’s fighting style is an animalistic expression of his innermost instincts, and it shows. His natural abilities combined with his informal training in the Brokenlands, and the principles of combat taught to him by Tsuki, leave him a force to be reckoned with as he slashes with claws, kicks with his sturdy hooves, and utilizes his wings and biting tail to full effect in a combat style uniquely his own.
Speed: By hoof or by wing, Ren’s raw speed and the necessary reflexes that accompany it are significant.
Weaknesses/Flaws:
Reckless: Ren is prone to impulsive decision making, especially when agitated. When on the job, this can usually be regulated to some degree, even if this causes friction. However, in his freetime, if Ren wants to do something, very little will be able to stop him from doing it, not even the warning hiss of his serpentine brother.
Lack of Social Grace: Ren’s appearance is monstrous enough, but coupled with his general attitude and lack of care for appearances, makes him somebody that many strangers would find initially off putting at best. He may have his places where he fits in, but nowhere is that less true than in the presence of distinguished individuals.
Obvious: Ren is capable of stealth, but he is definitely not capable of blending in. He’s too distinctive not to notice, and by consequence would be easily identifiable by anyone searching for him or questioning witnesses.
Y.S.G Ability(ies): Basic Ability: Flame of the Dragons Ren has command over a source of mystical fire, able to breathe it from his lungs in a wide cone or summon it to his hands to throw bursts of it at his enemies from afar. This flame can also augment physical attacks or otherwise be manipulated into various shapes and forms by Ren. Consequently standard fire cannot harm him and he has a certain degree of resilience to energy based weapons.
First Awakening: Draconic Command Like the legendary dragons of old, there is a kind of regal savagery in the way Ren carries himself. This innate quality can be amplified into a powerful command that only the strongest YG holders could resist, even certain yokai will fall under Ren’s sway. The effect is weaker the more individuals Ren tries to command at once, while able to reach maximum potency when focused on a single individual. Powerful yokai, YSG holders, and extremely exceptional zero percenters have a higher ability to combat the enchantment. Naturally this power is most effective on those that have reason to fear or respect Ren. This power has fairly diminishing returns if used many times over a single day. Additionally, failing to command a powerful individual causes Ren to experience psychic blowback that can range from temporarily stunning to physically harming him. The final downside is that the more adverse an individual is to following a given command, the more resilient they become to the effect in the future.
Second Awakening: Serpentine Awakening In desperate times, the ever faithful and ever cunning Little Orochi may fuse its essence with Ren’s own, initiating a powerful transformation that begins to scratch the surface of the monstrous godhood that Ren could be capable of if he ever let go of his humanity entirely. His flames burn hotter, his commands bend wills with greater ease, and his resilience to harm vastly increases. The fusion of Ren and Orochi moves swifter, strikes harder, and sees further. Indeed, while in this form Ren seems to hold an awareness of events outside his ken, able to predict the movements of his opponents in combat and otherwise receive limited visions of the future, whether they help him in the moment or not. This ability is potent, but limited. While an unknown factor, repeated transformations bear the risk of complete yokaification for Ren, or otherwise death, as the few times he has undergone this transformation, he always emerges from it extremely exhausted and pained
Soul Binder: Naginata - The naginata suits Ren perfectly as a weapon. A powerful polearm capable of doling out deadly cuts at medium range. Its blade is so sharp it has yet to find a substance it couldn’t cut through when given sufficient effort. Ren doesn’t often wield his soul binder weapon, but when he does, his fighting style takes on a more disciplined, focused attitude reflective of the fact that all his expertise with the naginata is entirely thanks to Tsuki’s training.
The light rail filled the interior cabin with a soft hum as it traveled smoothly through the air. Charlotte Alarie cradled the babe in her arms with a furrowed brow, trying once again to remove the pacifier from its mouth so that she could place the tip of the bottle into her baby’s mouth. Its teeth were already grown in, and far too sharp, to feed any other way. Just like last time, as her hand inched closer, a flash of blue darted from within the bundle and nipped at her hand. She managed to jerk back just in time.
Was it venomous? She didn’t even have a clue. How large were the horns on its head going to get? Flinching, she scolded herself internally. She didn’t mean to call him an it. It was just- he wasn’t human. Even with this yokai gene thing… he looked more like a Nue or something out of French myth than an actual human baby. That’s why she had to take him to see his father and demand that he do something about this, whether he was prepared to take responsibility as a parent or not. Hence the trip from New-Paris to Neo-Tokyo.
She frowned down at the azure snake that glowered at her.
“You’re part of my child. That means I’m doing all this for you as well,” She scolded in a firm tone. “So behave.” To her surprise, the snake actually retreated back into the swaddle as she pulled the pacifier free, quickly replacing it with the bottle of milk.
For a brief, fleeting moment, her baby’s reptilian eyes flickered open and met with her own. Something in her heart twinged as she let out a soft gasp. Golden light from the setting sun filtered through the windows and cast the pair in a heavenly aura. She understood, then. Her baby was beautiful.
“Your name, I think it will be-”
As she spoke, only five minutes out from reaching Neo-Tokyo, a monster that Charlotte never had the chance to see collided with the light rail and sent it careening to the ground below, and all passengers but one to their deaths.
The monstrous baby would have sobbed, if not for the scolding hiss given by his serpentine companion. Somewhere deep inside its mind, the Little Orochi knew that only silence would allow them to survive through the night.
The Brokenlands Book
The Chimera Boy grew up with only the wisps of memory of the life that was ripped from him. The world was big, scary, and fantastical. There was too much to run from and too much to run towards to worry about things like why and how. What wonders and horrors he and the Little Orochi beheld in their time within the Brokenlands.
Yokai the size of elephants but twice as docile. Creatures that bartered in strange languages and traded faces as freely as others might exchange pleasantries. Dark, lurking horrors in the depths of crystalline caves, and dragons soaring across the sky with scales glittering in all the hues of the rainbow. The noble Kotobuki that would guide the Chimera Boy across dangerous expanses, and the hateful Nue that hunted him through its territory while speaking in the tongue of humans.
He and the Little Orochi made many friends, and made many enemies too. Wailing women and tearful trolls and wide mouthed cats and more filtered in and out of the Chimera Boy’s life. Yet, all was ephemeral. He forged east for months and years in a crooked, uneven path, guided as much by his own sourceless instincts as the insistent hissing of his brother snake.
The Walls of Neo-Tokyo
When at the age of five, although he didn’t know it, the Chimera Boy at least reached the thing that he sought. He crept closer to Neo-Tokyo’s border in time to be caught up in a confluence of chaos. There were people in strange clothing wielding glowing weapons and a tall, horned yokai leading a host of creatures, many of which resembled species that the Chimera Boy had seen before in his travels. He wanted to get closer and ask what was going on but as he did so everything erupted.
Explosions, screams, sprays of blood and clouds of dirt decorated what was now a battlefield. Loud bangs echoed around him. Smoke filled the air as the strangers and the yokai charged against each other with battle cries of hatred. He stumbled blindly through this chaos until he collapsed and realized faintly that he was bleeding. Through flickering consciousness he remembered a pair of wings, silver hair that seemed to shine despite the smoke and darkness all around, and a solitary blue eye drawing nearer and nearer.
Mama Tsuki
That day during the chaos of a Rank 4 Outbreak, Tsukiyama Fujino became something she never bargained for. A mother. Raising the boy, whom she named Ren, was not particularly easy. To say nothing of having to teach him both English and Japanese (curiously, he was found speaking a kind of broken, self-made language that combined elements of French, Japanese, and other dialects she had never even heard of), the entire adoption was illegal to begin with. At this stage in her life she did not have the wealth nor prestige to push this adoption through the proper channels. So she didn’t.
There were other challenges. The apparently sapient snake head growing from his tail seemed to hate her, he refused to wear any form of clothing except when explicitly necessary (a debate that Ren has long since won), and if anyone else wanted to try raising a feral, flying child, she did not recommend it.
Somehow, the two (or three, if you count the tail) of them muddled through it, and in time their communication improved as Ren’s grasp of language and the world around him was strengthened. He was always going to be reckless, but at least he wasn’t demanding that “Little Orochi” be given language lessons too anymore. Besides, something about the way that snake looked at her made her think it understood her just fine.
Loyalty
As Ren aged, he expressed a desire to become a Jaeger, a desire that Tsuki would shut down at every turn. It became a running point of contention between them, one that only worsened when Tsuki would quit the entire program and refused to give Ren any explanation as to why. All he wanted was to be around more people like him, and to understand yokai better.
Some days he felt more isolated in a city of billions than he did alone in the wilderness of the Brokenlands. It’s not something the two of them would ever get over. Time heals wounds, but it leaves behind scars too.
Tsuki was his mother, and he was loyal to her. So if her leaving the Jaegers was the death knell of his aspiration, her forming the Kurotori was the final nail on that coffin. Of course he was going to stick by her side. She educated him, raised him, loved and trained him.
He was the natural choice to be her lieutenant, anyways. A good thing too, as its doubtful that Ren’s pride would have allowed for any other outcome.
The Nightmare of the Kurotori
Ren quickly proved himself to be a dedicated lieutenant and a savage opponent. Sometimes, too savage for Tsuki’s preference. He has received many scoldings for the speed with which he resorts to brutality when faced with a problem, and in a handful of instances has been teleported away by Tsuki for going too far entirely. When that happens, there are times where she doesn’t see him for days at a time after. Whether he’s roosting in random rooftops or slumming it at some motel, those are the times that Ren needs to listen to Little Orochi’s hissing insistence and get away from it all.
And this leads the story into the present.
Ren is as reckless and fearsome as ever, but he cares about the gang and he gets things done. As far as he’s concerned, everything will somehow work itself out.
Little Orochi knows better.
Dropping my character here after getting the OK from Vidar
@Estylwen By the way in your post did you miss/retcon Glutton teleporting the hostages in the lobby out of the vines or was that in reference to hostages vined up elsewhere in the bank?
Not that easy. Silver Sentry was also a "technology" hero so just choosing another would be difficult.
Though it's looking like she'll already have something going with Glutton...I was thinking about doing it later but I was thinking that Guardian would see Glutton as a "What if". Like, had she decided to stay in New York all those years ago but get into worse habits like killing others more often rather than just info leaking.
Teach him how to be a true hero! Chuck is always happy to learn from other great super heroes like him!
When in the thick of combat, Veeza’s opponents and onlookers alike find it easy to mistake the massive Argonian for a dragon. Standing at six foot five, with dull red scales the color of blood pulled taught over tightly coiled muscles, Veeza is a giant. His tail, thick and muscular like the rest of him, is a dangerous weapon in it's own right. Atop his head lies a mismatched crown of spikes, varying from half a palm to a full palm in length, about as wide as a sword hilt at the base, and tapering into sharp points. Many of them are chipped, while a few are broken off entirely, leaving bony, jagged stumps in their place. Veeza’s eyes are a pale, sickly yellow, with thin-slitted pupils that flare with intensity.
While his scales act as a natural defense, long years spent fighting for his life in the arena has left Veeza with a plethora of scars marring his body, leaving none of him untouched. The worst of them have been caused by a wayward spear that found itself buried in Veeza’s stomach; the scales did not regrow, and a knot of angry pink scar tissue remains just up and to the left of his belly’s navel. Veeza dons a simple set of iron armor sans helmet in the hopes of preventing future scarring of any kind. He is most comfortable when wearing his armor, though he owns a pair of cloth trousers just in case he desires to swim.
Personality:
As opposed to his intimidating appearance, Veeza is actually quite the personable fellow. Conversation comes easily enough when he’s able to relax in the moment, though he often comes across as detached and somewhat irritable when stressed. He has a direct, somewhat blunt manner of speaking, but one always knows where they stand with him. All he asks of others, regardless of their level of ability, is to work hard and pull their own weight. He admires anyone capable of feats of valor in battle, whether they use sword or sorcery to get there.
In battle, Veeza stands stoic against the enemy, ready to endure blows meant for others and dish out the pain he’s receiving tenfold upon his opponents. It is in the middle of a good fight that the Argonian feels most at home, and his mind seems clearest. The thrill of fighting for his life against worthy adversaries is simultaneously both thrilling and terrifying, feelings that are magnified as he crushes bones aided by nothing but his own immense strength and a gauntleted fist. He excels at fighting both aggressively and defensively, and has not yet faced a foe capable of shaking his confidence.
Veeza is also a reader, eager to expand his understanding of the world around him. Combat temporarily shrouds life in the veil of simplicity, but in reality it is anything but. To be alive is to be part of the world, and Veeza is not keen on following in the footsteps of those that came before him. Mush-La was passionless and oftentimes cruel. His own father was so overwhelmed by reality that he turned to drink to cope. His mother chose to risk her life in battle near daily in order to provide for her family, rather than try any other way, and it cost her everything. Perhaps education and a bit of philosophy might have saved these people from themselves.
Skills:
Veeza is trained in a variety of martial weaponry, being particularly proficient with bladed weapons. However, while he could hold his own against most inexperienced foes regardless of the tool he wields, his particular focus is on unarmed combat. Using his fists and tail to deliver crushing blows and unexpected maneuvers in a fighting style uniquely his own, or at the very least uniquely Argonian. He also has competent first aid capabilities, both with mundane tools and via the use of alchemy. He knows how to search for and prepare ingredients that could be used for restorative purposes.
Magic:
Veeza is skilled enough to call upon restorative magic to heal the wounds of himself or others.
Personal Items:
A pair of trousers
The Lock Box:
His iron armor, the gauntlets are reinforced with steel and have studs made of dwarven metal inlaid along the knuckles
Kvatch arena raiment
A steel shortsword
A leather travel pack
A mortar and pestle
A suturing kit
Stored Items:
Nothing of note, perhaps some septims and additional equipment at his home in Kvatch.
Background:
Drunken Lizard
Gulum-Ra sighed, looking down at the small Argonian child swathed in blankets, resting on the floor of the small hovel the two shared together in the Waterfront. “Your mother was the fighter, boy. Not me. She was the one that fought for everything we have. Had. Every day she went back into that arena, that damn arena, so she could pull the weight of her useless son and his addict father. That’s us, you piece of sewer filth. Taseel always said that you had the makings of a fighter, like her. Strong bones, she said. Lots of energy. She wanted you to go train with your uncle in Kvatch, so you could be a big strong fighter just like her.”
Gulum-Ra paused abruptly, his bitter tone ceasing, as he took a swig of ale. He shook the bottle discontentedly; it was nearly empty. “Well she went into that arena again today, and guess where that got her? Nowhere. She’s dead. So tomorrow morning I’m going to pay the first capable stranger I see as much as it takes to get you to that uncle of yours. He’ll train you to be a fighter-” Swig. “-like your mom. Who knows, maybe you’ll join her. I, however, will take the rest of my funds and purchase enough skooma to fatally overdose-” Swig. Empty. “-ten times over. I love you, you stupid kid. But I’ll never be the father you need. Your uncle’s a bastard, but he’ll make something out of you.” Gulum-Ra continued his tirade for a while longer before sinking to the floor a few feet away from his son, drifting into a drunken stupor.
Veeza continued to pretend he was asleep.
Nothing But A Pair Of Fists
Veeza’s uncle was a stern and uncompromising man; things were done his way or not at all. From the moment Gulum-Ra thrust Veeza into Mush-La’s care, there was no time to do anything but train. Even at age three, the young Argonian was worked to near exhaustion every day with a series of intensive workouts meant to build up his muscular endurance and strength, his uncle shouting encouragement or criticism as necessary every step of the way. From an early age he learned to remain cool in the midst of stressful situations; Mush-La was almost as physically imposing as Veeza would one day become.
Through his younger years and into adolescence, he was trained with a variety of weapons in a variety of different styles of combat, either by his uncle or fighters from the arena aiding Mush-La for the sake of coin or camaraderie. It was at twelve years old, when Veeza nearly caved in the face of another child that was harassing him, that he knew he wanted to focus on hand to hand combat. Mush-La, having spent most of his life fighting in Kvatch’s arena, was one of the few that had mastered the art of warfare without weaponry. From then on, Veeza’s lessons would focus on the fine art of rupturing organs and shattering skulls with nothing but a pair of fists.
Graduation Day
The years seemed to fly by after that, and things fell into their own steady rhythm. Not yet allowed to fight in the arena, Veeza spent much of his time in the bloodworks, picking up some basic first aid from compliant members at the local mages guild to provide help to wounded combatants whenever he had free time. Mush-La always refused his help, however. It almost seemed fitting that a few weeks after Veeza’s seventeenth birthday, his uncle entered the arena alive for the last time, leaving it as a corpse. Though a few members of Kvatch’s arena felt sorrow for the unexpected loss, Veeza was not among them. His uncle was a mean man, and though he respected Mush-La as a teacher, there was no love between them.
In his own way, in his own time, he would come to mourn Mush-La.
But now was not the time to dwell on thoughts of mortality. Veeza had already scheduled his first match.
The Pit Dragon
The Orc before Veeza was big. Veeza was bigger. The fight did not last as long as one might think, in all honesty. The green brute charged the Argonian in a blind fury. Sloppy. The two grappled together throughout the arena, each holding on to the Orc’s axe with grips like vices. Eventually, Veeza managed to drive his opponent against a pillar, stunning him for a brief moment. In an instant the weapon was out of their hands and skittering across the dusty stone. He took the opportunity to seize the defenseless Orc by his tusks, ramming the back of the warrior’s head into the stone pillar again, and again, and again. The opposing pit dog ended up dropping to the floor like a bag of stones, the back of his head a bloody paste. Veeza still held onto his tusks, one in each hand.
The trend of brutal, uncontested victories continued throughout most of Veeza’s career. Years later he would still be known as the Pit Dragon in recognition of both his race and his ferocity on the battlefield, even as a new blood; a pit dog.
It was during the fight that would promote him to the rank of gladiator did Veeza receive his most grievous scar. His opponent was well bred and well trained, a Nord known as Nilki Silver-Head. He never figured out whether that was in recognition of her prowess with her silver tipped spear, or for her striking platinum hair, tied back into a long ponytail. The match was nearly a disgraceful defeat for Veeza, within ten minutes of dodging her attacks and failing to disarm the woman, she had him close to death leaning against a pillar, her spear burrowed deep into his flesh. Hubris, however, can be a powerful tool. Nilki had turned her back to Veeza, shouting to the roaring crowd in triumph, a dagger as silver as both her spear and hair clutched within her left hand. She wanted to finish things up close and personal. Veeza fulfilled her wishes. He snapped the spear off at the head, using the shaft of wood to sweep Nilki’s legs out from under her. One more moment and he was straddling her back, his hands grasping at her hair, pulling upwards as hard as he could with the tip of her spear burrowing deeper into him. She screamed in terror for only a short while, then the sound of a sickening snap emanated from her neck, and she grew silent. Veeza rose to his feet, both hands clutching at the deadly wound Nilki dealt him, blood pouring between his fingers. He was victorious.
She In The Moonlight
Veeza made his prayers at night. The quiet, empty pews and the columns lining the hall of worship stood in stark contrast to the chaos that daylight hours brought. Here, things were calm. Simple. The first time he saw her, she was practicing her spellcraft beneath a willow tree clinging to the edge of the pond beside the chapel. The light of the moon filtered through the vines and cast her blue skin in an ethereal light. She was a Dunmer from Cheydinhal, recently transferred to Kvatch’s mages guild, and the most beautiful person Veeza had ever seen.
After the third night of curious, appreciative glances, he finally got the courage to approach her. She was as pleasant to converse with as she was to look upon. Her name was Ildrani, and though there was much history between their people, both of them were citizens of the empire first, having been born in Cyrodiil. The conflicts of Morrowind and Black Marsh were irrelevant to the burgeoning connection they had begun to nurture.
The New Arena
Veeza was part of the grand celebration thrown at the Imperial City. Before the Gray Prince’s ill-fated duel, many more exhibitions were held, including matches involving visiting gladiators from Kvatch. He had won his own match with relative ease, retiring from the festivities early to treat himself to some food and drink at a local tavern. The Gray Prince against a Companion from Skyrim? It wouldn’t be a real fight. He supposed there was nothing wrong with a fluffy bit of nationalism, but it held no interest for him.
Far earlier than expected, the tavern began to fill up with a crowd of very angry, riled citizens. There was something about a brick, blabbering about someone trying to kill the Gray Prince, and a general din of pointless and disquieting negativity that soon erupted into a full on brawl. Veeza kept to himself in the corner of the tavern for as long as he could. He really did.
But on principle, if someone snaps their jaws at the Pit Dragon, the Pit Dragon bites back.
So he broke more than a few noses.
Ambition:
Currently, to get back home to Kvatch and Ildrani. Also, track down the imperial guard that stole his 500 septims. No matter how long it takes.
Defeat Langurius, the current grand champion of Kvatch, and claim his title.
When in the thick of combat, Veeza’s opponents and onlookers alike find it easy to mistake the massive Argonian for a dragon. Standing at six foot five, with dull red scales the color of blood pulled taught over tightly coiled muscles, Veeza is a giant. His tail, thick and muscular like the rest of him, is a dangerous weapon in it's own right. Atop his head lies a mismatched crown of spikes, varying from half a palm to a full palm in length, about as wide as a sword hilt at the base, and tapering into sharp points. Many of them are chipped, while a few are broken off entirely, leaving bony, jagged stumps in their place. Veeza’s eyes are a pale, sickly yellow, with thin-slitted pupils that flare with intensity.
While his scales act as a natural defense, long years spent fighting for his life in the arena has left Veeza with a plethora of scars marring his body, leaving none of him untouched. The worst of them have been caused by a wayward spear that found itself buried in Veeza’s stomach; the scales did not regrow, and a knot of angry pink scar tissue remains just up and to the left of his belly’s navel. Veeza dons a simple set of iron armor sans helmet in the hopes of preventing future scarring of any kind. He is most comfortable when wearing his armor, though he owns a pair of cloth trousers just in case he desires to swim.
Personality:
As opposed to his intimidating appearance, Veeza is actually quite the personable fellow. Conversation comes easily enough when he’s able to relax in the moment, though he often comes across as detached and somewhat irritable when stressed. He has a direct, somewhat blunt manner of speaking, but one always knows where they stand with him. All he asks of others, regardless of their level of ability, is to work hard and pull their own weight. He admires anyone capable of feats of valor in battle, whether they use sword or sorcery to get there.
In battle, Veeza stands stoic against the enemy, ready to endure blows meant for others and dish out the pain he’s receiving tenfold upon his opponents. It is in the middle of a good fight that the Argonian feels most at home, and his mind seems clearest. The thrill of fighting for his life against worthy adversaries is simultaneously both thrilling and terrifying, feelings that are magnified as he crushes bones aided by nothing but his own immense strength and a gauntleted fist. He excels at fighting both aggressively and defensively, and has not yet faced a foe capable of shaking his confidence.
Veeza is also a reader, eager to expand his understanding of the world around him. Combat temporarily shrouds life in the veil of simplicity, but in reality it is anything but. To be alive is to be part of the world, and Veeza is not keen on following in the footsteps of those that came before him. Mush-La was passionless and oftentimes cruel. His own father was so overwhelmed by reality that he turned to drink to cope. His mother chose to risk her life in battle near daily in order to provide for her family, rather than try any other way, and it cost her everything. Perhaps education and a bit of philosophy might have saved these people from themselves.
Skills:
Veeza is trained in a variety of martial weaponry, being particularly proficient with blades weapons. However, while he could hold his own against most inexperienced foes regardless of the tool he wields, his particular focus is on unarmed combat. Using his fists and tail to deliver crushing blows and unexpected maneuvers in a fighting style uniquely his own, or at the very least uniquely Argonian. He also has competent first aid capabilities, both with mundane tools and via the use of alchemy. He knows how to search for and prepare ingredients that could be used for restorative purposes.
Magic:
Veeza is skilled enough to call upon restorative magic to heal the wounds of himself or others.
Personal Items:
A pair of trousers
The Lock Box:
His iron armor, the gauntlets are reinforced with steel and have studs made of dwarven metal inlaid along the knuckles
Kvatch arena raiment
A steel shortsword
A leather travel pack
A mortar and pestle
A suturing kit
500 septims, the earnings from his last victory
Stored Items:
Nothing of note, perhaps some septims and additional equipment at his home in Kvatch.
Background:
Drunken Lizard
Gulum-Ra sighed, looking down at the small Argonian child swathed in blankets, resting on the floor of the small hovel the two shared together in the Waterfront. “Your mother was the fighter, boy. Not me. She was the one that fought for everything we have. Had. Every day she went back into that arena, that damn arena, so she could pull the weight of her useless son and his addict father. That’s us, you piece of sewer filth. Taseel always said that you had the makings of a fighter, like her. Strong bones, she said. Lots of energy. She wanted you to go train with your uncle in Kvatch, so you could be a big strong fighter just like her.”
Gulum-Ra paused abruptly, his bitter tone ceasing, as he took a swig of ale. He shook the bottle discontentedly; it was nearly empty. “Well she went into that arena again today, and guess where that got her? Nowhere. She’s dead. So tomorrow morning I’m going to pay the first capable stranger I see as much as it takes to get you to that uncle of yours. He’ll train you to be a fighter-” Swig. “-like your mom. Who knows, maybe you’ll join her. I, however, will take the rest of my funds and purchase enough skooma to fatally overdose-” Swig. Empty. “-ten times over. I love you, you stupid kid. But I’ll never be the father you need. Your uncle’s a bastard, but he’ll make something out of you.” Gulum-Ra continued his tirade for a while longer before sinking to the floor a few feet away from his son, drifting into a drunken stupor.
Veeza continued to pretend he was asleep.
Nothing But A Pair Of Fists
Veeza’s uncle was a stern and uncompromising man; things were done his way or not at all. From the moment Gulum-Ra thrust Veeza into Mush-La’s care, there was no time to do anything but train. Even at age three, the young Argonian was worked to near exhaustion every day with a series of intensive workouts meant to build up his muscular endurance and strength, his uncle shouting encouragement or criticism as necessary every step of the way. From an early age he learned to remain cool in the midst of stressful situations; Mush-La was almost as physically imposing as Veeza would one day become.
Through his younger years and into adolescence, he was trained with a variety of weapons in a variety of different styles of combat, either by his uncle or fighters from the arena aiding Mush-La for the sake of coin or camaraderie. It was at twelve years old, when Veeza nearly caved in the face of another child that was harassing him, that he knew he wanted to focus on hand to hand combat. Mush-La, having spent most of his life fighting in Kvatch’s arena, was one of the few that had mastered the art of warfare without weaponry. From then on, Veeza’s lessons would focus on the fine art of rupturing organs and shattering skulls with nothing but a pair of fists.
Graduation Day
The years seemed to fly by after that, and things fell into their own steady rhythm. Not yet allowed to fight in the arena, Veeza spent much of his time in the bloodworks, picking up some basic first aid from compliant members at the local mages guild to provide help to wounded combatants whenever he had free time. Mush-La always refused his help, however. It almost seemed fitting that a few weeks after Veeza’s seventeenth birthday, his uncle entered the arena alive for the last time, leaving it as a corpse. Though a few members of Kvatch’s arena felt sorrow for the unexpected loss, Veeza was not among them. His uncle was a mean man, and though he respected Mush-La as a teacher, there was no love between them.
In his own way, in his own time, he would come to mourn Mush-La.
But now was not the time to dwell on thoughts of mortality. Veeza had already scheduled his first match.
The Pit Dragon
The Orc before Veeza was big. Veeza was bigger. The fight did not last as long as one might think, in all honesty. The green brute charged the Argonian in a blind fury. Sloppy. The two grappled together throughout the arena, each holding on to the Orc’s axe with grips like vices. Eventually, Veeza managed to drive his opponent against a pillar, stunning him for a brief moment. In an instant the weapon was out of their hands and skittering across the dusty stone. He took the opportunity to seize the defenseless Orc by his tusks, ramming the back of the warrior’s head into the stone pillar again, and again, and again. The opposing pit dog ended up dropping to the floor like a bag of stones, the back of his head a bloody paste. Veeza still held onto his tusks, one in each hand.
The trend of brutal, uncontested victories continued throughout most of Veeza’s career. Years later he would still be known as the Pit Dragon in recognition of both his race and his ferocity on the battlefield, even as a new blood; a pit dog.
It was during the fight that would promote him to the rank of gladiator did Veeza receive his most grievous scar. His opponent was well bred and well trained, a Nord known as Nilki Silver-Head. He never figured out whether that was in recognition of her prowess with her silver tipped spear, or for her striking platinum hair, tied back into a long ponytail. The match was nearly a disgraceful defeat for Veeza, within ten minutes of dodging her attacks and failing to disarm the woman, she had him close to death leaning against a pillar, her spear burrowed deep into his flesh. Hubris, however, can be a powerful tool. Nilki had turned her back to Veeza, shouting to the roaring crowd in triumph, a dagger as silver as both her spear and hair clutched within her left hand. She wanted to finish things up close and personal. Veeza fulfilled her wishes. He snapped the spear off at the head, using the shaft of wood to sweep Nilki’s legs out from under her. One more moment and he was straddling her back, his hands grasping at her hair, pulling upwards as hard as he could with the tip of her spear burrowing deeper into him. She screamed in terror for only a short while, then the sound of a sickening snap emanated from her neck, and she grew silent. Veeza rose to his feet, both hands clutching at the deadly wound Nilki dealt him, blood pouring between his fingers. He was victorious.
She In The Moonlight
Veeza made his prayers at night. The quiet, empty pews and the columns lining the hall of worship stood in stark contrast to the chaos that daylight hours brought. Here, things were calm. Simple. The first time he saw her, she was practicing her spellcraft beneath a willow tree clinging to the edge of the pond beside the chapel. The light of the moon filtered through the vines and cast her blue skin in an ethereal light. She was a Dunmer from Cheydinhal, recently transferred to Kvatch’s mages guild, and the most beautiful person Veeza had ever seen.
After the third night of curious, appreciative glances, he finally got the courage to approach her. She was as pleasant to converse with as she was to look upon. Her name was Ildrani, and though there was much history between their people, both of them were citizens of the empire first, having been born in Cyrodiil. The conflicts of Morrowind and Black Marsh were irrelevant to the burgeoning connection they had begun to nurture.
The New Arena
Veeza was part of the grand celebration thrown at the Imperial City. Before the Gray Prince’s ill-fated duel, many more exhibitions were held, including matches involving visiting gladiators from Kvatch. He had won his own match with relative ease, retiring from the festivities early to treat himself to some food and drink at a local tavern. The Gray Prince against a Companion from Skyrim? It wouldn’t be a real fight. He supposed there was nothing wrong with a fluffy bit of nationalism, but it held no interest for him.
Far earlier than expected, the tavern began to fill up with a crowd of very angry, riled citizens. There was something about a brick, blabbering about someone trying to kill the Gray Prince, and a general din of pointless and disquieting negativity that soon erupted into a full on brawl. Veeza kept to himself in the corner of the tavern for as long as he could. He really did.
But on principle, if someone snaps their jaws at the Pit Dragon, the Pit Dragon bites back.
So he broke more than a few noses.
Ambition:
Currently, to get back home to Kvatch and Ildrani.
[h3] [color=f49ac2]Synopsis[/color] [/h3]
I like telling engaging stories with cool people :)
Collaboration and teamwork are very important to me when telling a story- I could write any genre as long as the group dynamic is healthy.
If you're chill and understand grammar we'll probably get along!
[hr][h3] [color=bc8dbf]Details[/color] [/h3]
[list][*] 23
[*] Male
[*] Filthy American
[*] I like video games
[*] Comics and novels
[*] TTRPGs (mainly D&D and Fate but I'll try anything)
[*] The natural world (especially the ocean)
[*] Poetry
[*] Aspiring author (poor)
[/list]
[hr][h3] [color=#FF7F50]RPs I'm In[/color] [/h3]
[list]
[*][url=https://www.roleplayerguild.com/topics/194801-hell-on-earth-supernatural-demonic-detectives/ooc]Hell on Earth: Supernatural & Demonic Detectives[/url]
[/list]
Language is the tool I use to connect myself to the world around me and to the people that I care for.
[@POOHEAD189] taught me how to play D&D
<div style="white-space:pre-wrap;"><div class="bb-h3"><font color="#f49ac2">Synopsis</font></div><br>I like telling engaging stories with cool people :)<br><br>Collaboration and teamwork are very important to me when telling a story- I could write any genre as long as the group dynamic is healthy.<br><br>If you're chill and understand grammar we'll probably get along!<br><br><hr class="bb-hr"><div class="bb-h3"><font color="#bc8dbf">Details</font></div><br><ul class="bb-list" style="white-space: normal;"><li>23</li><li>Male</li><li>Filthy American</li><li>I like video games</li><li>Comics and novels</li><li>TTRPGs (mainly D&D and Fate but I'll try anything)</li><li>The natural world (especially the ocean)</li><li>Poetry</li><li>Aspiring author (poor)</li></ul><br><br><hr class="bb-hr"><div class="bb-h3"><font color="#ff7f50">RPs I'm In</font></div><br><ul class="bb-list" style="white-space: normal;"><li><a href="https://www.roleplayerguild.com/topics/194801-hell-on-earth-supernatural-demonic-detectives/ooc">Hell on Earth: Supernatural & Demonic Detectives</a></li></ul><br><br>Language is the tool I use to connect myself to the world around me and to the people that I care for.<br><a class="bb-mention" href="/users/poohead189">@POOHEAD189</a> taught me how to play D&D <br></div>
Member
Inertia,
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Chrys,
Ducksworth
