Draken

The Last Embers (Dark Steampunk/Fantasy)

Good stuff @Draken! I’ll give it a closer look tomorrow but upon a first read through I think you’re good! We’ll talk more about his water/illusion magic tomorrow.

@Lovejoy

Actually, we can drop the illusion stuff. Instead I made the specialized Paling for his bullets (to help add to being a marksman) and half-tossed the pure water restriction (but also explained why Father Ilya doesn't just blood bend everyone to death). I had that restriction initially because I was thinking of magic as our bread and butter, not an exquisite 3 layer chocolate cake.

The Last Embers (Dark Steampunk/Fantasy)

Name: Father Ilya Bjornlie
Age: 21

Height/Weight: 5'11", 197 lb.

Race: Native Varyan

~

Appearance: Though not unattractive, Father Ilya Bjornlie seems to think he's handsomer than he is. His body has a definitively light tone and though not as burly as most other successful inquisitors, his physique is quite well toned below the layers of official garb he wears. Every piece of kit, identification, and medal is always present, but half of it is always at a slightly altered angle. The belt droops slightly on his left, his official sword is slightly loose in its scabbard, and his goggles rest haphazardly around his neck, yet his powerful rifle is perfectly secured in its strap on his back.

Father Ilya stays carefully clean shaven, and less successfully keeps a mostly charming smile on his face. His hair is short and styled somewhat, as he attempts to play off of the asymmetry of his outfit and play up his blue eyes and strong jawline. The look is practical as well, since there is no chance hair being caught in the straps of his googles or being caught in the seal when he's aiming a shot.

My Hider

The image is ripped from deviantart. Apparently the character is from a show called Generation Kill? No idea, but he looks close to what I'm going for and has approximately the right level of projected cockiness.

~

Personality: It would be wrong to call Father Ilya Bjornlie an asshole. Yes, he can be abrasive, and yes, he mostly sees others as tools, but he's in truth a decent person. Well, alright. He's not a bad person. To most people.

Father Ilya is goal driven, and his life's goal is to be a great and successful hero. This means a number of things. First is to be exceedingly good at war, which is why he has gone through the Red Seminary - learning combat, magic, and tactics along the way. Second is to have grand exploits, hence being the very first Inquisitor to volunteer for this voyage. Third, is to recognized and loved for his achievements. This may be the most difficult part.

Father Ilya does his best to project the image of a charming war hero, but that only applies to the general public. With his peers, he is far less concerned with appearances, and far more concerned with work and results. As such, he is often dismissive and irritable to people who insist on wasting time without something useful to offer him, and is a natural-born workaholic. He plans his days to the level of 10 minutes when he can, and in the pursuit of efficiency (in turn for the pursuit of glory), genuinely considered sleeping more productive than spending "free time" with other Inquisitors. As a result, the people he is closest to are not friends so much as business partners.

The inspiration for Ilya's dedication comes in large part from Varya himself, as well as his chosen favorites over the centuries. However, one would be wrong to mistake his wrote memorization of the nation's grandest tales of conquest for pure devotion. He lies somewhere in between a fanatic servant and a lone wolf. He serves Varya because Varya is the greatest - everybody knows that, and to stand against such greatness is to guarantee ones failure. So instead, he works with this font of glory, because he is nothing if not practical in pursuing his ambition.

~

Background: Poverty has never truly been known to Father Ilya Bjornlie, but that is not to say he has lived without want. Even before his time in the Red Seminary, Father Ilya was born into the wealthy Bjornlie family well above the surface of the ice surrounding Magnagrad. His father was a military man, and his mother the heiress to a booming ether business. However, both of them knew the dangers that lurked in cushy affluence, and so Ilya's only tastes of natural foods were major holidays and when a sufficiently important guest visited that he was required to dine with his parents while they worked their social circles. Indeed, though he spent more time with servants and slaves than his parents, they were omnipresent in his life. Not one day passed where he did not have an assignment. Some days he was exercising his control over his ether for as long as he could stay awake. Other days he was tested against challenger after challenger his father's closest companion selected from the slave pits. Periodically, his mother would take him along to social gatherings, and even leave him with "friends" of hers who needed to be charmed, or have facts she told him leaked on "accident." Such was Ilya's life until he enrolled with the Red Seminary and said farewell to his parents for the last time in 5 years.

Though Ilya had achieved some impressive feats with ether, he was not nearly the best with magic in the Red Seminary. Though Ilya had defeated some skilled foes from the slave pits, he was not nearly the best fighter in the Red Seminary. Though Ilya had charmed some cynical nobles in courts, he was seen right through at the Red Seminary. With all of his skills not holding him above the rest, there was only one option available to Ilya Bjornlie: Do Better.

Practice, study, and planning became Ilya's life. In his second year a relatively unique talent was revealed within him: marksmanship. Though forgone by most Inquisitors, Ilya's steady hand and keen eye found targets twice as easily compared to his peers. Perhaps it was the legacy of his father, or perhaps simply because he had seen them work a hundred times before, but Ilya Bjornlie took to the gun as readily as ice to the sea. He took this strength and promptly began pushing himself. Nowdays, he is the premier, if only, marksman among the Inquisitors.

As it turns out, Ilya's eye was not only keen when it came to shooting targets, but also for strategic planning. Though occasionally thwarted by unexpected turns of events, the joke runs that Ilya could plan better and for more contingencies in an hour with a notebook than an army captain could with a day and a map. Though never put to the test, there are solid odds this is true. In the Red Seminary, he was initially praised for his capabilities. However, when they failed to push Ilya's brain by changing the situation, they began to change the rules. As soon situations - simulated or in practice, moved beyond his contingencies Ilya's actions began to break apart. Although practiced has improved this somewhat, Ilya still flounders when pressed for time and options. Indeed, instead of becoming more adaptable, his training has mostly increased his capacity to plan for a massive number of contingencies.

~

Talents/Ethereal Abilities: Ilya is likely the best marksmen among the Inquisitors, which is, in truth, a relatively easy feat since nearly none bother learning more than the basics. Still, his aim is top notch, and he personally honed the ability to coat his bullets in a specialized paling, helping them to slide cleanly through the air and whatever winds it may hold. Thanks to this innovative technique (which he is attempting to teach to the army as "Father Ilya's Piercing Paling"), his range and precision are far above expected levels. Given a chance to aim, he can take out a target from nearly a thousand feet away. ((For reference, the shortest range of the modern top 10 snipers is ~4000 feet))

Some would argue that it's too much to call Ilya a tactical genius, but Ilya would disagree if it didn't mean going against his public image of moderate modesty. His plans are incredibly in depth - even if when they fall apart, they completely and utterly fall apart. If something isn't accounted for, its because he can't quite grasp the very idea of it happening and as such will flounder in the face of it.

Ilya's spells officially revolve around the manipulation of water. He could, hypothetically, start messing with someone's blood, but to manipulate water so impure takes a major chunk of ether. In addition, the existence of a paling multiplies the enormity of the task, so that is almost never done. Indeed, the manipulation of water in the world is not what Father Ilya is known for - though he wears a tank of two gallons on his back beneath his cloak. Instead, its for his bullet paling, which he generally draws upon tiny slivers of his own ether for - unless he needs enough oomph to pierce a paling projected by his target.

~
Personal Seal:
I don't know how to upload what I drew. Meanwhile: it's a blue circle with a crashing wave inside, its blue juxtaposed to the dark grey of a night sky. Under the curling water a 4 pointed star shines.

Self-Made Trash in Paint

~

Character Relationships: ((Not yet decided. I'll need to talk with people and review everyone's CS once/if I'm accepted.))

The Last Embers (Dark Steampunk/Fantasy)

Alright, before I buckle down on this sheet, I wanna contribute back to this power level conversation.

I severely misunderstood the "use" of magic in this RP. I think most of us need to make the mental adjustment from "battle mages" to "fighters with badass emergency magic."

I imagine that if all seven of us used one vial of external ether a day, and accounting for fuel to travel to the continent as well as back... We would have half a year? I don't quite remember how large the ships are, and I'm also assuming that none of the hundreds of other people are using ether. This is "ace in the hole" level stuff. If 1 vial can run the necessities and amenities of a household for one year, I can totally believe that it could cause a sizable explosion from a highly trained (if young) professional.

With this in mind, I'd like to ask about visual illusions. I would think that Ilya (the name I've decided on, since my character is Varyan) would take pains to extend his reach of water spells to work with light and create false images. Upon contact, of course, they would be revealed as the thick mist they are, and the attention to detail required would doubtless require Ilya's full concentration - years of practice or not.

The Last Embers (Dark Steampunk/Fantasy)

Sorry, I'll have a character sheet tomorrow. As is my lot in life, I have a paper due.

For people who want to bother gambling on my character making it and brainstorming some relationship ideas, I imagine he will not be unfriendly, so much as difficult to approach because he keeps wanting to tie things back to business. Some boasting will be involved, but he is very driven, and most good relationships he has are due to some sort of ongoing exchange. (Not hanging out, but mutual tutoring, sparring, etc. may apply.) He will definitely hold all other races in some slight disdain, since he views them as generally inferior to Varyans, but he struggles his way towards seeing everybody's value as an individual. An individual who can help him on his way to greatness. I imagine he fancies himself very flexible in an emergency, like the water he controls, but in truth he performs much better when allowed to plan and to follow that plan.

The Last Embers (Dark Steampunk/Fantasy)

Hello! I'm a smidge rusty, but this looks to be a fantastic RP. I'm thinking to make a Varyan marksman whose spells revolve around water. Example uses include coating floors, creating mist, and attempting to forcefully down someone by shoving water down their throat. Restrictions would include it needing to be essentially pure water (no blood, sewage, etc.) and that he cannot change its temperature (such as in Avatar TLA freezing/unfreezing). So far as his personality goes, I'd imagine him a bit of a glory hound, wanting to get something done and grumbling about what he calls "down time." That said, there is no better feeling to him than a plan perfectly executed and he will work through whatever it takes if its for some clear goal. Since his goal is to be a war hero, that means working through whatever it is Varya's military wants of him.

A question, since this wasn't quite directly addressed: do people recuperate their ether? That is to say, is the pool they're born with their pool forever, or does the body slowly produce more, like blood?

Spiritum

So... Now what? Time for @Hexaflexagon to post again?

Spiritum

Collab with @Mercenary Lord

Daryll was the last to enter the truck, having taken the moment to check the dent Zimmy left behind. While he was no expert, it clearly wasn't about to make the rust-bucket break down. He closed the door behind him and took a seat on Zimmy's left, away from the hand Lee was focusing on. He had no phobia of blood, but averted his gaze from the sight regardless.
A minute later, even after Lee had finished his work, Daryll knew something was up. Zimmy's quiet was unnatural to someone who had known her for so long. Even in the past, when she'd have the standard WARDEN mid-year confidence crisis, there was always a face put forward. An act of normalcy while she tried to tuck away the pain. Not even that was present on this morning.
"Hey..." Daryll said, quietly as he could over the rumbling engine. He set his hand gingerly on Zimmy's shoulder, hoping to provide some comfort. "You know you saved my ass last night, right?"

Zimmy didn't look at anyone while Lee worked on her hand. She didn't want to see their sympathy, their confusion. "Thanks, Lee," was all she said, before turning to face Daryll. She looked at his feet, her lips moving wordlessly for a few moments. "I wanted to be something special," she said. "Mom and dad: they were something special. They were Second Class, you know? Higher-ups. They could have gone First if they hadn't had me."
"So, you know, they wanted me to carry the torch. Pressured me a lot to get into training and practicing and reading. They were...tough on me. Not mean or hurtful, but I had to earn my praise, yeah?" She sniffed, rubbing her nose with her non-damaged hand. She would not cry.
"I told them that something really big had come my way. Something special, that would make them proud. They believed me. I believed me. Any now look at me. I got duped. Fuckin' doomsday cult recruited me to be a spy, to spy on my own friends. And I didn't even stop to think about why I was special. Why they'd chosen me. Because I'm a fucking gullible idiot, Daryll. That's why."

Daryll stayed quiet for a few moments, processing what he had heard. None of the details were new, but the framing was. He chose his words with some care.
"Everyone has a weak point. It's as true in combat as it is about ourselves. These guys don't sound like any sort of joke. I don't wanna know how long they spent researching you and creating the perfect pitch, but I doubt any of us could've resisted if they had chosen a different target. But do you know why they chose you? Not for gullibility, but because you're the best of us at that shit. Let's be honest, if anyone in this truck was going to not only sneak their way behind enemy lines, but cause pandemoneum while still staying uncaught? It'd be you. It's like a vote of confidence."
Daryll put on a cheesy gruff voice, hoping to lighten the mood on their corner of the benches. "This girl! This one's gonna survive! We can't let all our work go to waste!" He dropped it, looking Zimmy right in the eyes with a smile. "And you know what? They're right. You're alive, I'm alive, we all made it! Heck, they underestimated you! Realistically speaking they got what? One day of intel out of what must've been at least a year until they approached you? You've practically thrown the whole thing in their face!"

"Never been very good at following instructions," Zimmy muttered, before looking at Daryll for the first time. "Doesn't change the fact that I'm an idiot. Am I a traitor to my country now? I know I can spy. That's all I can do, Daryll: I'm not great a fighting head on, if you haven't noticed."
She sighed. "I can't even remember if I went anywhere classified after they gave me that fucking bracelet. For all I know, it could have been recording everything I saw as well. Who knows what weird Mist shit they've cooked up?"
She nursed her recently repaird hand while she spoke, as if not quite believe that it was whole again. To be honest, she hadn't even felt any pain after she'd smashed it to bits. She snorted. "You know, I used to be the funny one. Now look at me."
Daryll decided to take her literally and gave her a quick scan. Her clothes were as clean as anyone's, although she seemed even more exhausted, hunched over, with her elbows on her knees and head on her hands. Daryll didn't expect some instant recovery, but brooding would only hurt his friend.
"I don't understand why you say "used to." Everyone has slumps, and this one is just hitting particularly hard. I'm not going to claim it'll all go back to whatever we're supposed to call normal, but you're still the Zimmy I've known. Perhaps a bit more wary and a touch more wise, yet I have no doubt you are fundamentally the same excitable young woman who had half our year guessing at what the hell was going to happen next. Plus, there's no use brooding on what they may have seen. You can't take it back, you've stopped giving them more, and even that info is becoming more outdated by the second."
Daryll gave a long pause, wanting to find good words which could give some sense of temporary closure. "No matter what happens, Zimmy, I'm here if you need me. Just say the word and I'll be there to listen, to fight, or help with your latest mischief. I'm sure Trent and Lee would be delighted to as well." He gave her a gentle pat on the back and a smile. It was a sad smile, but sincere.
"Lee literally just wants to have sex with everyone I swear to god," Zimmy muttered, leaning back and putting her head against the wall. "He'd fuck his own shadow if it had tits."
Daryll was right, of course. Dickhead. Always being rational. There was nothing to do now but keep moving. Their lives were very much in danger. "Well, we did kind of kick some ass, didn't we? Did you think that aerial shit would have actually worked? I told everyone, didn't I? It's genius."
Daryll perked up slightly at the change of topic. "Probably best not to do it without good covering fire, but yeah. Leaves them helpless!" He mused for a moment, knowing very well that Lee was still mere feet in front of them, and Zimmy was just as aware. "We might wanna come up with a few more tricks, actually. And coordinating that stuff would be awesome. Both of us up in the air would be tricky, especially since you didn't spend too-many-goddamn-hours practicing spot-teleportation. Still, I'm sure there's a load of shit that we could cook up..."
They passed a solid hour this way, tossing suggestions back and forth, cooking up absurd "tactics" that may be liable to get them killed. They even pulled others in for feedback every now and then, whiling away their time in the rickety old truck.

Spiritum

@Mercenary Lord, are we gonna have to have a little counseling session collab where Daryll helps remind Zimmy how badass she is? Because I'm totally down for them to ignore everyone else in the truck while Daryll is a well-grounded Good Friend.

Spiritum

Do we still use the discord

@Mercenary Lord

According to us on the Discord, yes. Really, no.

Spiritum

I was rereading some of the OP for the OOC, and realized we'd all kinda forgotten about religion and stuff. (Plus we're apparently guaranteed Eldritch Abominations at some point.) Perhaps we could seek out the Order of Dawn and use them as a neutral ground from which to navigate this crisis?