Ducksworth — Roleplayer Guild

Jet had just finished loading the Snivvian into the cargo containers when the situation began to escalate. The air was thick with tension, and the atmosphere crackled with unease. Fel was visibly furious, his face a mask of barely contained rage. The plan had gone awry, and now they were surrounded by a multitude of witnesses—or hostages, depending on one’s perspective. The room was filled with a chaotic mix of fear and uncertainty, each person a potential threat or ally.

As the Chiss spoke up, Jet’s eyes darted around, assessing everyone in the room. He observed Fel’s intense contemplation, noting the way his jaw clenched and his eyes narrowed in thought. Fel was seasoned in these things, but even he seemed momentarily at a loss. Jet then turned his attention to Aellyn, whose calm demeanour was a stark contrast to the turmoil around them. 

Simultaneously, Jet attempted to piece together his own understanding of the situation. The stakes were high, and the margin for error was non-existent. He knew they needed to act quickly and decisively, but the path forward was fraught with peril. The Chiss was an unknown variable, and Jet couldn’t shake the feeling that any misstep could lead to disaster. He took a deep breath, steeling himself for whatever came next.

“Let me live and I’ll forget I ever saw you.” the Chiss pleaded, his voice tinged with desperation.

Jet was about to interject, but Aellyn spoke first. He held his breath, weighing the potential consequences. Taking the Chiss as a hostage could jeopardize the entire operation, but what other options did they have? The room was filled with tension, and Jet could feel the weight of the decision pressing down on him. He knew that any wrong move could lead to disaster. The Chiss was a wildcard, unpredictable and potentially dangerous. Yet, leaving him behind wasn’t an option either. The stakes were too high, and the margin for error was razor-thin. Jet’s mind raced through possible scenarios, each more perilous than the last. He glanced at Fel, whose anger was barely contained, and then at Aellyn. They needed a plan, and they needed it fast.

“If he thinks about double-crossing me, I’ll shoot him myself. What about the kid?” Aellyn asked, her voice steady and cold.

“Alright!” Jet barked, his voice gruff and commanding, cutting through the tension like a knife. He jabbed a thumb back at the containers holding the thugs, his eyes narrowing with disdain. “These lowlifes can rot here. They’re useless, know nothing, and are worth even less.” He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in before continuing. “As for the Chiss, we’re stuck with Aellyn’s plan for now. We’ll use his transport and get onto the Basilisk.”

Jet pulled off his helmet, revealing a face etched with weariness and a hint of determination. His eyes, though hardened, softened slightly as they fell on the kid. The kid was a local, a product of this harsh environment, and Jet couldn’t help but feel a pang of pity and a sense of responsibility.

“And the kid’s coming with us,” he said, his tone firm but not unkind. “He’s a local; he knows things this guy doesn’t.” He nodded towards the Chiss, who sat silently, observing the exchange. “He’ll either prove his worth or I’ll personally toss him from a height much higher than that damn balcony.”

Jet’s mind was a whirlwind of thoughts, but his resolve was clear. The mission had taken an unexpected turn, but he was determined to see it through. He glanced around at the rest, his expression one of steely determination. With a bit of luck and a lot of grit, they might just make it work.

  GENERAL
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‣ NAME: 		Thalorian Silverheart		‣ RANK: 		Platinum
‣ CLASS: 	Paladin					‣ AGE: 		34

  APPEARANCE
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‣ HEIGHT:		195cm		‣ WEIGHT:		90kg
‣ HAIR:			Light brown	‣ EYES:			Blue

Thalorian stands slightly above average height, his build a harmonious blend of slender grace and underlying strength. His unassuming appearance masks the compass of his morality—a compass that guides him through life’s labyrinthine choices with unwavering precision.

His light brown hair cascades loosely over his forehead, framing a pair of piercing blue eyes. Those eyes hold secrets—the weight of countless decisions, the echoes of right and wrong. When he gazes upon the world, it is as if he sees beyond the mundane, discerning the delicate threads that weave together the fabric of existence.

Upon his face lies a short, soft beard—a testament to both wisdom and vulnerability. His gentle smile, often hidden in quiet contemplation, reveals a man who has weathered storms of conscience and emerged with an unwavering commitment to justice.

Thalorian’s attire speaks of purpose. A deep blue cloak wraps around his chest, its folds cascading down his back like a waterfall of determination. Beneath it, a buttoned blue shirt clings to his frame, its fabric worn but meticulously cared for. Light brown trousers lead down to sturdy leather boots, each step resonating with resolve.

  PERSONALITY
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Thalorian adheres to a strict moral code that shapes every aspect of his existence. His unwavering convictions cast the world in stark black and white, leaving no room for compromise or shades of gray. To him, moral dilemmas are not mere intellectual exercises—they are crucibles where every choice is starkly right or wrong, a litmus test of character.

His altruism borders on obsession. Thalorian’s heart beats in rhythm with the chivalric ideals of knighthood: honor, loyalty, and courage. These virtues are not mere abstractions; they are the very air he breathes. 

Yet, beneath the unyielding exterior lies a surprising tenderness. Thalorian’s actions reveal a man who, despite his rigid code, shows kindness and empathy toward those in need. When a beggar pleads for alms, he does not merely toss a coin; he looks into their eyes and sees their humanity. When a wounded foe lies at his mercy, he offers a hand to lift them up rather than deliver the final blow.

His code of honor is a fortress, impervious to compromise. It dictates his every move, from the way he treats a steed to the manner in which he addresses a queen. For Thalorian, there is no gray area—only the stark contrast of right and wrong. Some call him inflexible, but others recognize the purity of his purpose.

  BACKSTORY
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Disheartened and beaten down, he had spent countless years as a company man—shuttling to and from the office during the dark hours, overworked and perpetually tired. Oblivious to the impending shift in his life, he remained dedicated to the company, neglecting family, friends, and even his own marriage. When his wife finally left him, he sought solace in alcohol, drowning his emotions in the dimly lit corners of his regular bar. It wasn’t a favorite place; after all, what was the point of having a favorite haunt for blacking out?

One fateful night, after an exhausting stint at the office, he stumbled out into the street a moment too soon. The screech of tires, the impact—it all blurred into a disorienting haze. When he opened his eyes again, he found himself in an empty void, the floor beneath him an endless expanse of water. Sober, yet strangely unburdened by the need for a drink, he surveyed his surroundings. Every direction offered the same featureless emptiness.

Then, a voice shattered the silence—a voice both commanding and calm, echoing through the void. It presented him with a choice: return to his previous life, mired in misery and destitution, or awaken in a new world with a purpose that would drive his every step. Pragmatism guided his thoughts. He considered the options, weighed them like a merchant assessing goods. And in that moment, he reached a stark conclusion: his previous existence had been nothing but a charade.

Summoning courage, he asked the voice for a fresh start—a life infused with purpose and hope. And that’s when the voice took form: a sword, its silver blade gleaming like the bottom of a wishing fountain. It introduced itself as Irisiel—the upholder of balance between right and wrong. In his heart, Irisiel sensed morality, and thus, the man became the chosen wielder.

“I have weighed many mortals’ hearts upon their crossing,” Irisiel declared, “and found none worthy. Your unwavering dedication to duty is your saving grace.” As the man accepted the blade, the void around him ignited, revealing a magnificent temple. He was reborn, reincarnated—the Chosen of Irisiel.

  PALADIN FORM
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From head to toe, Thalorian donned a suit of gleaming silver metal armor—a testament to both his unwavering resolve and the weight of responsibility he carried. The armor encased him like a second skin, its surface etched with justice and honor.

His helmet, crowned with an orange plume, concealed his features, leaving only narrow slits for his piercing blue eyes to peer through. Those eyes held the weight of Irisiel’s judgment—the ancient sword that lay sheathed at his side. 

The cloak draped over his shoulders was a vivid orange—a stark contrast to the silver armor. It billowed behind him as he moved, catching the wind like a flame flickering against the darkness. The color spoke of purpose—a beacon for those who sought justice, a warning for those who dared defy it.

Leather straps adorned his waist, securing the scabbard that cradled Irisiel—the blade that had chosen him. When Thalorian drew the sword, its blade shimmered, reflecting the world’s dualities—the delicate equilibrium between right and wrong.

  KARMIC JUSTICE
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Through the power of Irisiel, Thalorian is able to move any wound that someone may sustain to himself without limitations.

  IRISIEL'S PROTECTION
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Irisiel has granted the ability to shield another from harm completely, reflecting damage, for as long as they remain righteous and on the correct side of justice whereupon this protection is dispelled. (10 minute duration or until recipient uses an attack or spell)

In the expanse between realms, there existed, before mortal worlds took their first breath, an angel named Irisiel. Irisiel was not bound by flesh; he was the embodiment of equilibrium—a fulcrum of righteousness

When the Demon Wars erupted across the planes, Irisiel descended upon Ceosia, a realm teetering on the precipice of annihilation. He joined the celestial host in their desperate struggle against the malevolent forces. His singular eye, a radiant sapphire, pierced through the chaos, seeking equilibrium in the maelstrom of battle.

Yet, Irisiel was no ordinary warrior. His desire for balance extended beyond the battlefield. He questioned the very nature of good and evil, seeking harmony even in the clash of swords. While his brethren fought with righteous fury, Irisiel was overconfident and believed that he could defeat the Demon General—the embodiment of malevolence. In his hubris Irisiel confronted the Demon General. Their clash shook the foundations of reality, each blow resonating across dimensions.

The Demon General exploited this weakness. With a cunning strike he cast him down. In that moment, he made a choice: to seal his essence within a blade—a blinding silver sword forged for his soul. The blade drank in his celestial soul, its shine mirroring Irisiel’s unwavering purpose. 

Generations passed. Heroes sought the silver sword, but Irisiel’s discerning eye found them wanting. Until Thalorian Silverhear emerged—a flawed yet noble soul. His heart bore scars, etched by mistakes, yet it also held compassion and unwavering resolve.

Irisiel bonded with Thalorian. The blade became an extension of his will. Thalorian fought not to defeat demons but to preserve balance in all things. When he wielded the silver sword, Irisiel’s essence guided him. The scales tipped differently. Thalorian always tried to spare his fallen foes, understanding that even celestial beings could falter.

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