Enkryption

Granblue Fantasy: Rhapsody in Red

I don't know. Probably not my character. If he does anything, it would probably be chef, since he's been cooking for himself for a long time.

Granblue Fantasy: Rhapsody in Red

<Snipped quote by The Irish Tree>

No. Yes.

@Shizuochan

World Record Backdown.

Granblue Fantasy: Rhapsody in Red

Really starting to notice a trend here of people looking way younger than actually are.

@The Irish Tree

@The Irish Tree There's no island old men, that's why.

Granblue Fantasy: Rhapsody in Red

Marshall Chambers

Appearance:


Name: Marshall Chambers

Gender: Male

Age: 1920, appears to be 16

Race: Human

Element: Light-natured; formerly Dark-natured

Dream:

Less of a dream, and more of a mission, Marshall’s conscripted is to collect seven hearts steeped in sin; one for each of the Seven Deadly Sins. It is not a matter of if, he’s able to succeed, but once, that he will be allowed to dream of death forbidden.

Home:

Yoltaire; a land of darkness, where overcast sky and lasting rain is the norm, is where Marshall hailed many years ago under a name forgotten forever. Naturally a denizen of the Dark, his cursed existence has many him an outcast in his own land, and such, he calls no place home; merely a place to rest before moving on.

Gimmicks:

Immortality has its talents. Marshall cannot die in a technical sense, but be majorly incapacitated via removal of limbs; his Dark nature, though, makes his body easy to repair, should he be able to recover removed limb. However, if he should lose his right arm, he also loses his primary means of attacking: the Touch of Virtue – a ranged magical artifact that serves beings of a Light-nature with the ability to shoot light in thin beams from the fingertips, or a large beam from the palm. However, being of a Dark-nature, Marshall is forced to shoot his own blood; now saturated with the Element of Light.

Furthermore, despite his immortality, Marshall has a “limited ammo counter” equal to two pints of blood, before he starts to suffer from the effective of blood loss as he’s still human. This can be temporarily mitigated, however, by successfully drawing blood from a bleeding target (usual victimized by puncture or slash damage before his "turn", or suffering a bleeding effects) within melee range, and “actively reloading” with this foreign blood. Due to its foreign nature, Marshall can weaponize someone else's blood differently, using the ether within the blood to deal elemental damage or even cause status afflictions, such as natural toxins. As such, drawing blood inherently changes the shot "properties" until he exhausts this ammo.

However, Marshall cannot draw blood by just seeking to do so, or if impeded from making direct contact, such as by armor.

Personality:

Blunt. That's the best descriptor for Marshall's personality. Before becoming cursed by his benefactor – of sorts – into servitude, the thief known, currently, as Marshall Chambers was a brash and confident “reliever of items”. Never overconfident, but, pridefully, willing to maintain his reputation, Marshall gambled it all away in a moment. Having lived generations gone, seeing the ups and downs of many, and longed to join those gone Marshall is withdrawn and blunt, whenever he needs to speak to someone.

There are rare occasions, like seeing twinned snowflakes, that his old personality resurfaces for the sake of people; however, he remembers the pain of it, and is swift to cage it. He's a job to do, and the longer it takes, the longer he suffers the hell that is living, in his mind. However, for all his bluntness, he has a soft spot for that which is fluffy and furry, and regularly entertains a kitten or puppy from infancy to the grave.

Background:

Once upon a time, there was a Human that was born in the shadow of a shadow, under an overcast sky, when the moon was new, and the rain fell lightly across the ever-shaded island of Yoltaire. His name is long since forgotten, even though, he still lives and breathes. His history a memory of being unparalleled in his clan; a thief that could relieve anyone of anything, and gained the appropriate reputation for such a feat. He was brash, yet friendly; confident, yet collected; he took nothing to heart... save for one challenge: Stealing the heart of another.

Longingly, the thief sought for the hand of the daughter of the Clan Grandmaster. Unwilling to relinquish his daughter to any one man, he tasked upon the would-be suitors a single item from the Caress of Virtue – a suit of armor that could be used to snuff the darkness without fail. The Clan Grandmaster knew, even a single piece's absence would set back the production of the armor, and delay the worst, if only for a bit.. It was slightly for his pride in his reputation, and largely for his desire for the hand of the coveted daughter, that the thief swore to bring back a piece.

That was over 1,900 years ago, 1904 to be exact. He was sixteen, by human years, and had been since he met her: the Lady of Virtue, a Primal Beast of Light. He stole into her workshop, into her domain, and over his head. Perhaps, the Clan Grandmaster knew the outcome was undefiable failure, he surmised, as he held to a knee before the being of Light; his right arm burning and bleeding, as the Touch of Virtue bound to his being – surrendering its once beautiful silken look and royal colors of golds and red for a charred fabric appearance and burnt ash muddled with blood for colors.

Unthinking Light for its cruelties, the thief found himself bound to the Touch of Virtue, to The Will of the Creator, he found himself given a bargain from his pathetic state and surrendered freedom: “Bring seven hearts steeped in sin, one for each, and, with them, atone for the sins you hold yourself. Until that day, wander, forever alive until the True Light fades, unable to die, but able to suffer all pain and loss.”

And so, the thief did wander, suffer, and lose; unable to return home, for the light inside him, and unable to stay rooted for the darkness brimming underneath. He wandered, surviving on, as the “immortal mercenary with the bandaged arm,” and becoming known as a man that simply would not die – even if ordered at the point of a sword and barrel end of a rifle. Death was too trivial a request to honor, if those demanding it could not even answer a simple question: “Where are six hearts are steeped greatly in Sin?”

Unfortunately, he would find that to anger law enforcement – especially the corrupt – then the sheer inability to die upon command can be spun as something worthy of capital punishment, and rewards by rotting away in a prison cell for forever.

However, for the immortal thief Ziggurat is a mere setback, and, perhaps, a sign...

Inventory:

The Touch of Virtue; see Gimmick

A Lust-soaked Heart; the Heart of a woman steeped deeply in Lust, stilling beating without its hostess...

Selmia's Dagger; currently traded for reasons exchanged between Marshall and the Woman in Grey for his Bowie Knife, a simple knife that has seen more blood than several wars.

Bag of Chilled Holding; a magicked bad that holds temperature and numerous bottles of chilled blood. Ammunition for future occasions. Sadly, emptied out... for now.

Is a Kitten an inventory item?

---

Sayaka of Malovarna Forest

Appearance:

Name: Sayaka of Malovarna Forest

Gender: Female

Age: Unknown

Race: Erune (Kitsune)

Element: Earth

Dream: There is no greater dream -- no, aspiration -- for a kitsune that to gain nine tails and become a Primal Beast. Sayaka holds this same desire in her heart, and set out as a mere kit to rumble her way to celestial-dom.

Home: Malovarna Forest of Malovarna Island; a blissfully green forest with a smattering of things to do here and there for a kitsune, such as Sayaka, and a really unhealthy horde of goblins to rumble with.

Gimmicks:

Legendary Experience of the Nine: Nine tails, grown from years of experience and survival; gifting to the kitsune that grew them the power of a celestial. Each tails is a host to a power of it own, and takes one-hundred years to foster and develop. Unless you’re sick hype and ready to challenge Destiny straight out the womb, like Sayaka. Instead of waiting years to get experience, for some reason, Sayaka gains years of experience through combat -- every fight won is a year on her life, as far as gaining a new tail is concerned. In this way, every 100 won fights is a new tail.

Each tail gained multiplies her strength, magical control, and magnifies her very existence, too; in addition, to giving her a new power worthy of a future Primal Beast.

Powers

• First Tail: Transformation; Having fought 100 foes, made up mostly of the many goblin and hobgoblin invaders of her forest home, Sakaya has not grown a second tail, as she expected, but, instead, she’s unlocked the power of her birth tail: transformation. Able to transform into any humanoid creature or person she’s lain her fists against in combat, as well as a basic Erune form, Sakaya can take fights to new heights.
• Second Tail: TBD
• Third Tail: TBD
• Fourth Tail: TBD
• Fifth Tail: TBD
• Sixth Tail: TBD
• Seventh Tail: TBD
• Eighth Tail: TBD
• Ninth Tail: TBD
• Ten Tail: TBD

Personality: Sayaka could be described as spunky, spirited, overzealous, and a smidge egotistical. However, such is to be expected, when you were going to surpass Primal Beasts through your fists alone -- and, a few kicks, here and there... maybe some biting. Fighting isn’t fair, okay?

Background: Born in a hole, destined to rules in the sky. Sayaka came to exist in a hovel, with the power to ascend to greatness. A simple fox with a simple dream, striving to become a legend through hard work and hardcore rumble skill. There is little to say about the brawler beast with aspirations for godliness, beyond look out, for the future Queen of the Foxes is coming to slam-jam for that royal experience.

Inventory:

Nothing as of yet.

Granblue Fantasy: Rhapsody in Red

...sneaking out the bushes with a character...

Marshall Chambers

Appearance:


Name: Marshall Chambers

Gender: Male

Age: 1920, appears to be 16

Race: Human

Element: Light-natured; formerly Dark-natured

Dream:

Less of a dream, and more of a mission, Marshall’s conscripted is to collect seven hearts steeped in sin; one for each of the Seven Deadly Sins. It is not a matter of if, he’s able to succeed, but once, that he will be allowed to dream of death forbidden.

Home:

Yoltaire; a land of darkness, where overcast sky and lasting rain is the norm, is where Marshall hailed many years ago under a name forgotten forever. Naturally a denizen of the Dark, his cursed existence has many him an outcast in his own land, and such, he calls no place home; merely a place to rest before moving on.

Gimmicks:

Immortality has its talents. Marshall cannot die in a technical sense, but be majorly incapacitated via removal of limbs; his Dark nature, though, makes his body easy to repair, should he be able to recover removed limb. However, if he should lose his right arm, he also loses his primary means of attacking: the Touch of Virtue – a ranged magical artifact that serves beings of a Light-nature with the ability to shoot light in thin beams from the fingertips, or a large beam from the palm. However, being of a Dark-nature, Marshall is forced to shoot his own blood; now saturated with the Element of Light.

Furthermore, despite his immortality, Marshall has a “limited ammo counter” equal to two pints of blood, before he starts to suffer from the effective of blood loss as he’s still human. This can be temporarily mitigated, however, by successfully drawing blood from a bleeding target (usual victimized by puncture or slash damage before his "turn", or suffering a bleeding effects) within melee range, and “actively reloading” with this foreign blood. Due to it foreign nature, Marshall can weaponize the blood differently, using the ether within the blood to deal elemental damage or even cause status afflictions, such as natural toxins. However, he cannot draw blood by just seeking to do so, or if impeded from making direct contact, such as by armor.

Personality:

Blunt. That's the best descriptor for Marshall's personality. Before becoming cursed by his benefactor – of sorts – into servitude, the thief known, currently, as Marshall Chambers was a brash and confident “reliever of items”. Never overconfident, but, pridefully, willing to maintain his reputation, Marshall gambled it all away in a moment. Having lived generations gone, seeing the ups and downs of many, and longed to join those gone Marshall is withdrawn and blunt, whenever he needs to speak to someone.

There are rare occasions, like seeing twinned snowflakes, that his old personality resurfaces; however, he remembers the pain of it, and is swift to cage it. He's a job to do, and the longer it takes, the longer he suffers the hell that is living, in his mind.

Background:

Once upon a time, there was a Human that was born in the shadow of a shadow, under an overcast sky, when the moon was new, and the rain fell lightly across the ever-shaded island of Yoltaire. His name is long since forgotten, even though, he still lives and breathes. His history a memory of being unparalleled in his clan; a thief that could relieve anyone of anything, and gained the appropriate reputation for such a feat. He was brash, yet friendly; confident, yet collected; he took nothing to heart... save for one challenge: Stealing the heart of another.

Longingly, the thief sought for the hand of the daughter of the Clan Grandmaster. Unwilling to relinquish his daughter to any one man, he tasked upon the would-be suitors a single item from the Caress of Virtue – a suit of armor that could be used to snuff the darkness without fail. The Clan Grandmaster knew, even a single piece's absence would set back the production of the armor, and delay the worst, if only for a bit.. It was slightly for his pride in his reputation, and largely for his desire for the hand of the coveted daughter, that the thief swore to bring back a piece.

That was over 1,900 years ago, 1904 to be exact. He was sixteen, by human years, and had been since he met her: the Lady of Virtue, a Primal Beast of Light. He stole into her workshop, into her domain, and over his head. Perhaps, the Clan Grandmaster knew the outcome was undefiable failure, he surmised, as he held to a knee before the being of Light; his right arm burning and bleeding, as the Touch of Virtue bound to his being – surrendering its once beautiful silken look and royal colors of golds and red for a charred fabric appearance and burnt ash muddled with blood for colors.

Unthinking Light for its cruelties, the thief found himself bound to the Touch of Virtue, to The Will of the Creator, he found himself given a bargain from his pathetic state and surrendered freedom: “Bring seven hearts steeped in sin, one for each, and, with them, atone for the sins you hold yourself. Until that day, wander, forever alive until the True Light fades, unable to die, but able to suffer all pain and loss.”

And so, the thief did wander, suffer, and lose; unable to return home, for the light inside him, and unable to stay rooted for the darkness brimming underneath. He wandered, surviving on, as the “immortal mercenary with the bandaged arm,” and becoming known as a man that simply would not die – even if ordered at the point of a sword and barrel end of a rifle. Death was too trivial a request to honor, if those demanding it could not even answer a simple question: “Where are six hearts are steeped greatly in Sin?”

Unfortunately, he would find that to anger law enforcement – especially the corrupt – then the sheer inability to die upon command can be spun as something worthy of capital punishment, and rewards by rotting away in a prison cell for forever.

However, for the immortal thief Ziggurat is a mere setback, and, perhaps, a sign...

Inventory:

The Touch of Virtue; see Gimmick

A Lust-soaked Heart; the Heart of a woman steeped deeply in Lust, stilling beating without its hostess...

@The Irish Tree And, EDITED.

Fate/Kaleid Prisma Connections

Maggie dropped a skeleton; correction, several skeletons, as she dropped a large skeleton onto his skull into a crowd via a Full Nelson that transitioned into a German Suplex from a standing leap that made the entire thing a really confusing, yet sick hype flying Tombstone Piledriver with the impact zone of a Moonsault. Jumping up, she looped her jawbone around the neck of a skeleton, and jump, going prone, and brought them to a crashing halt out of nowhere. It was only when the skeleton army's more than feeble attempts to scratch and claw and actual break her -- both in flesh and morale -- stopped, did she noticed they had stopped, and did she take note of their pause, the cause, and his focus on her. Why? Why was he staring at her? Why was he smiling? Was he acknowledging her strength, her bloom, her brilliance...?

It felt nice.

It felt so nice, it was terrifying. Such grand acknowledgement. Such a powerful acknowledge that radiated around and away. It was so goddamn terrifying. It felt so nice, though. For a moment, she wanted nothing more than to become lost in it; to run away from it, and yet to it, as well. It terrified her -- just as her current form did. He was so strong -- stronger, still, than her. That couldn't stand. That couldn't be. If she wasn't stronger, then she would be like she always was. Alone. Scared. Weak. A pathetic nature that her maddened thought reviled, so strongly, it made her want to vomit. She wanted to be lost in his strength, his madness, his... his..

[Bravery.] supplanted the guiding voice, the beacon in her madness, the very cause and nature of it. [It's his bravery, you seek, my little flower. Same as the bravery, I give; generously.] The voice was different. Less creepy. Less risque. It was level, higher than her own. "I... I do..." Maggie all but asked. It wasn't a question, but acknowledgement, seeking affirmation. [Of course, you do.] Affirmation given, tout de suite. [Go, Margaret. Take his bravery. Kill him.] whispered the voice, coaxing her to its level. [Be braver, by being the only one that remains.] Maggie grinned, and tensed her muscles. Suddenly, her body relaxed, and slumped forward; from behind the curtain formed of her messy bangs, madness peered back at Flamma. "I'm going to take your jawbone, and beat your skull in." she promised, before THROWING herself straight at him.

It was on like Donkey Kong.

---

Meanwhile, less than willing to gamble on his own life, the Assassin-keeper stepped outside; teleported, as far as most eyes were concerned, but, nevertheless. However, he didn't retreat; tactical repositioning, is all. Besides, he was more interested in the one that was thrown outside than leaving. From his vantage point, he'd watched the scene unfold, and play out. He had accessed most of the Classes in play; roughly judging from their weapons, appearances, and behaviors. Makoto had hung back, and then suddenly a pillar impaled the new threat. That bespoke of one thing: "Caster, judging from the garish attire and that little trick of magecraft," he surmised with a casual callousness, standing behind Makoto, "Makoto, isn't it? Here's a question: what's your best magic trick? Don't dally answering. It might just save a lot of lives."

Fate/Kaleid Prisma Connections

Enter, a new challenger.

As Hal swung, under the control of guiding hand, a soft, pearl-white slipper tapped, ever so gently, upon the axes, as they crossed each other; adding just the finest hair's breadth of weight, as a ivory-white skirt flapped before him, and crossed before the sights of kings and heroes. "I'll leave this to you, old man," said a distinctly male voice, in the mere seconds of passing, before the flapping skirt gave way to a cloak, and descended. 'I'll ask you, once more, Astolfo.' says the teen, as he descended, 'Serve me.' A haunty snort entered his mind. [I descend to no depths as dark as yours. It would besmirch the name of all I honor.]

Sneering, the teen pivoted in the air, and materialized a grand lance. 'Spare me. I'll relinquish you, when this is through. I have no time for a disobedient Servant.' He received a snort, in kind. [I will relish the moment.]

Ceasing the conversation, the boy landed on the back of the elephant with the skills of a trained rider, as if he'd been born to. "Wounded. Enchanted. All odds against you, and yet, you charge without mercy," he says. "I thought, I could make use of your master’s power, but, I have no use for them, for there is only one arrogance in this world I shall entertain," he raised his lance, "My own."

"Seek it's heart, Argalia." the skirted boy intoned, as he plunged the lance in; deep and true, seeking the heart of the maddened, loosed beast.

---

[Oh. A new flower has bloomed, such a mighty one, at that.] Maggie growled, as the elephant went crashing to the earth. Her eyes turned to followed, glaring at the skirted boy, as he descended upon the dying mount. No-one was stronger than she was. No-one! He'd told her so! He watered her! He fed her! He strengthened her! Weeded her! Fertilized her! Promised her! He made her stronger! That's why she bloomed so brightly! [How passionate you've become.] Maggie shifted, and took her jawbone off the floor. Her hair seemed to glow with the intensity of a flame, and skin gleamed with the shine of the sun, as she turned her attention from Xerxes towards the newcomer.

Jawbone in tightened hand, she battered the beast in the side, one-handed, and sent it skidding away with a caved-in torso. Gracefully, like a pixie, the boy landed. "My, my, how strong," he says, clapping the backseat of his skirt, before ruffling his pink hair, "I admire that. You don't need anyone here, do you, Margaret?" Maggie faltered for a moment. "If I had to guess, you're the Berserker in this game for seven, right," he asks, spinning his lance, "Let's test how much sanity you've retained, then." Maggie acted on instinct, as she swung up her jawbone, and deflecting the testing poke of a surprisingly fast attack. "Maybe, you aren't all gone, like him. I wouldn't have a used for you, if you were."

[How curious. Entertaining, even.] Maggie snarled, as she threw herself forward; swinging aimlessly, and was countered at every turn. [He's barely trying. Barely can. He's not as strong as I thought. He is fast, though.] Maggie panted, slowing, but launching all she had into a singular strike. "Gah!" she gagged, as her body locked in place, nature rejecting the situation at hand. "You really are useless, aren't you," the boy asks, disdainfully. "Couldn't even piercing divinity?"

Maggie gagged and growled, as she was, humanly, reacting to the spear-tip of the lance being pressed against the hallow of her throat. It didn't break flesh, but, it still hurt, as if it had -- her brain imagining the pain, and recreating it. Driven to her knees, she reeled for a solid moment, as the pain screamed though it. Even without activating the lance's hidden power, it was still formidable in it's legend. However, that was not enough to stop her forever, and she recovered. "You stabbed me," she asks, incredulously, looking up with the ground -- eyes wide and maddened. "I'm going to bury you in my garden, and blossom in your corpse." A broad smile cross the boy's lips, and he stepped back, "Unfortunately, that's not on the menu," he crossed both hands over his chest, and lost his white skirt and cloak for a black skirt and hooded cloak with the addition tightly wound system of fishnet and leather armor pieces.

Flicking his hand forward, he tossed a small card at Maggie's face, and three gumball-sized spheres. Distracted by the card, Maggie didn't noticed the sphere, until the crashed into her, and burst into a sizeable plume of smoke. Looking around, she didn't see the boy anywhere.

---

~Click-clack. ~

Behind Rebecca, the sound was sharp and noticeable. "Rebecca, no," asks the skirted boy, standing right beside her, yet he felt nonexistent, "A bit of silence, hm? I don't think she's happy with me." Chuckling, the boy watched the discard Class Card coast around the around; as if, being carried on winds of fate, before disappearing behind the bleachers. 'You were useful, I suppose, Astolfo. Pity, you didn't stay so. Isn't that right, Hattori-san?'

[Hai, McQueen-dono.]

Fate/Kaleid Prisma Connections

[Time to bloom, little flower. Become watered by such a beast's virility.] Maggie's grip on the jawbone strengthened, as she took the bone in to both hand, and flipped it upright; teeth bared. Silently, she took a golf swing at the elephant; burying the ancient molars into the elephant -- but, not the leg proper. No, her cruelty was of a significant depth. [Such a beautiful bloom.] Maggie wrenched the jawbone towards her, and drug the bones through the pad of the elephant's foot like a sawblade. Blood coated the bones, flesh between the teeth, and she raised it to her lips. "Thank you, for the drink," she says, licking the blood slowly.

Maggie didn't even care that Rebecca was being showered by the blood. In fact, she didn't even seem to notice Rebecca in general; her face was marred by displeasure. "Thirsty..." she says, listlessly. "I'm still thirsty." A sinisterly bemused chuckle rose in her mind, [Sup more, my little flower.] Maggie hefted her jawbone weapon higher, and brought it crushing down on the reeling elephant's jaw. A sickening crack filled the air, and she dropped her built-in weapon. "I'M A THIRSTY FLOWER!" Maggie snapped, and grabbed the elephant's cracked lower jaw; digging her hand into the damaged flesh, working fingers through muscle, with mindless determination to take it off.

To be watered.

[Bloom brighter, my thirsty, little dandelion. Open for me, and we may spread madness like a weed amongst your garden.]

Fate/Kaleid Prisma Connections

Attention; it was something that Maggie gave a great deal to the world around her, as she sought to avoid much of it. For her, the game at hand didn't exist; it was an exhibition of people -- some to fear, some to trust, most to avoid. Her eyes flittered from place to place; space to space; person to person, like two blades of grass in a heavy wind, as she attempted to map out the motion, in order to escape as quickly as she could, should the need arise. It was her greatest hope that it wouldn't arise, but, she never fancied herself that lucky. A smart person knew her escape route.

[And, you're ever the smart, little girl, aren't you?] asked a lecherous voice, slipping into her thoughts; invading her mind with its maddeningly pervasive tone and whim. "Don't talk to me," Maggie muttered, bringing her knees to her chest, hiding her face. [Don't talk to me.] mocked the voice, arrogant in tone and bemused, as well. [I haven't a single soul else to. Surely, you'll indulge an old man the fruits of his labor.] Maggie groaned, trying to seem smaller -- less noticeable. It wouldn't work on him. It hadn't in the span of a week; surely, it wouldn't start now. [Come, now, child. A little flower such as yourself should be vibrant. Not hidden away like a wilting bloom. You're only just beginning to bud.]

Maggie opened an eye, still behind her arms, crossed before her, "Why? Why do you talk to me like this? I know what you mean! Don't... I don't... I don't like it..." A faint chuckle sounded. "Why does my misery amuse you? Why do you haunt me? I'm nothing, nobody. I'm --" [--all you need to survive.] interrupted the voice. [I'm strong. You're not. Embrace that, little flower. Embrace me. We're destined for each other. I didn't simply appear, because I wanted to.] Maggie opened her mouth to speak, but, suddenly the walls ratted, and the bleachers shook with the tremendous force coming in. If she screamed, the bellow of the elephant crashing down the western wall, and the demands of an ancient -- and dead -- king drowned out her misery.

Against her breast, the card in demand warmed in maddening desire to be "played from her hand," so to speak. [Let's show him what you can do, little flower. A kindred spirit is ours, he and I. I can sense it. I know you can. Aren't you drawn to it? Don't lie, little flower. It might kill you.] taunted the voice. "Y-Yes," Maggie stammered, as she clenched her fists before her knees. "I c-can f-f-feel it... Bu-But, I c-can't!" she cries, legs tensed, ready to spring up and run away. [Oh, you can, little flower. Just open your eyes. Let me help you... water your garden...]

Maggie drew a shaking breath, and her right hand shook, as it drew to the card. "Pl-Please... I don't... I don't wanna... I feel..." she let the world fall silent, with her right hand; the only sound was the heavy, dull THUD of a pearl-white, immense jawbone. "...I feel... that no-one demands anything of me." Maggie snarled, as she drew to her feet. "I serve no-one, but myself," she says, brushing back her hair, "Besides, subservience to you is impossible... if you're dead."

[Bloom, my little flower.]

Fate/Kaleid Prisma Connections

Margaret “Maggie” G. Karp

Master

Name: Margaret “Maggie” G. Karp

Age: 17

Gender: Female

Height/Weight: 5’0”/Average (I ain‘t gonna know girl weight in any country)

Personality: Maggie is a wallflower; passive and quiet with a fearful undertones. A pacifist, Maggie is prone to the “flight” option of her “fight or flight” response, and tries to escape conflict, as opposed to participate in it. However, she cannot bring herself to leave people that she considers friends or are in genuine trouble.

Character Alignment: Chaotic Good. Despite her fears and pacifistic nature, Maggie is more than willing to protect herself above others, but, can bring herself to stay in the realm of danger, if it is to protect her friends or someone truly in need of help.

Class Affinity: Berserker

Background: Margaret Gertrude Karp, better known to most as Maggie, is a typical teenage girl with hair that falls to her waist, as crimson as a flame, against skin as pasty as an eggshell, and hiding eyes as green as grass -- from the outside. First, and only, born of a immigrant Dutch-Irish couple, and raised in a fairly sheltered manner, Maggie developed few personal skills, and a weak understanding of the reality of the world; which was brutally changed, due to a botched breaking and entering that left her motherless, fearfully clinging to a crippled father, and afraid of existing. After years of therapy, homeschooling, and coaxing, Maggie enrolled in Fudomine Academy as a test of her abilities to trust... in society, people, and most importantly, herself.

For two years, she was able to grow, and while her fears never truly diminished – simply becoming a strong lean to pacifism and running away from danger – Maggie was able to adapt, in her own ways, to a public life, and make connections. However, for all that is good, a shadow of bad looms with threat. For Maggie, this came in the form of a strange card that was slid between her school shoes.

A card that was designed with the image of a shockingly skinny man that exuded threat with his head of a wolf, upon the back and front, and had but one word printed upon it:

SAMSON.

Unable to relinquish the card from her grip or person, Maggie wanted to burn it with all her heart and soul, and yet, it seemed to leech into her mind; perverting her thoughts, preventing its destruction, and bringing her a brand-new fear: the fear of herself, of what she could do, couldn't do, and, worst of all, the unknown reason behind it all.

Occupation: Maggie is a second-year student of Fudomine Academy.

Known Magic: None

Special Talents/Hobbies: Maggie can whistle. It's not much, but, she's proud of her limited skill set. It helps her to calm down, so it's a used as a metric for the strength and duration of her fear and/or stress; the weaker the whistle, the more terrified she is, and remains as such until she calms.

Ambition: Ambition is too grand of concept for Maggie. All she needs is to pass through each day, and survive her interactions at school and her rare outings. Right now, all she desires most is to understand the reason she cannot be rid of the card that torments her.

Servant(s)

Samson; Chaotic Berserker

Parameters
STR: A (Mastered: EX)
AGI: D- (Mastered: D)
END: C (Mastered: A+)
MAN: D (Mastered: C)
LUK: E-
NP: D ~ A (Mastered: EX) [Conditional: Her hair must remain uncut below her original length.]

Noble Phantasm: Final Ruling of Israel's Last Judge; Maggie is able to draw fully into Samson’s legendary feat of slaughtering 1,000 Philistines with the jawbone of an ass. During this execution, Maggie becomes functionally immortal, gaining the strength of flesh and bone to repel all conventional blade and ballistic – even Noble Phantasm under A-rank – so long as hair remains uncut above her waist. Fully mastered, Noble Phantasms must be A-rank or better.

This is an Anti-Army Noble Phantasm that Targets: Self.

Include: Maggie takes into her possession the jawbone of an ass (a donkey).

Install: Maggie gains the simple clothing of a peasant woman in Samson's era, as well a sudden growth in her hair, musculature, the jawbone of an ass, and noticeable mental instability becoming uncharacteristically aggressive, if provoked.

Skills:

All Skills carry the Condition: “Her hair must remain uncut below her original length,” in order to be at maximum potential.

Mad Enhancement; In breaking his Nazarite Vow so many times, Samson corroded his own mentality, as he was gifted his immense strength several times over, leading to the fracture of his humanity.
(Minimum) Rank E-
(Maximum; Unmastered) Rank C-
(Maximum; Mastered) Rank A+

Aptitude for Slaughter (Tools); Having no martial training, Samson was reliant on his own two fists to solve his combat problem, and, as he's best known for it, the jawbone of an ass once.... 1,000 times in a row.
(Minimum) Rank E-
(Maximum; Unmastered) Rank B-
(Maximum; Mastered) Rank A

Battle Continuation; Although, not extended to his hair, Samson's divine strength translates into the endurance of his very flesh and blood to fight and survive in the heat of combat.
(Minimum) Rank E-
(Maximum; Unmastered) Rank C-
(Maximum; Mastered) Rank A++

Eternal Arms Mastership; As he has no martial training, Samson does not suffer greatly from his madness to the point where it empowers him, in fact.
(Minimum) Rank E-
(Maximum; Unmastered) Rank B-
(Maximum; Mastered) Rank A+

Install Appearance: Maggie’s current wear is replaced by a basic sheepskin tunic, cloth wrappings that functions as underwear, and a pair of loose sandals; in addition, her waist-length hair grows to her knees, and her bangs nearly cover her face awkwardly.

Servant Biography: Samson is one of the most famous protagonist in The Bible. Born a Nazarite from the womb, Samson was the last of the Israelite Judges in the ‘Book of Judges,’ and, raised to obey three express rules in order to obtain and maintain superhuman strength, as blessed by God. However, of these most strict rules, if he were to cut his hair, he would lose all his strength. In his time, Samson loosely obeyed these orders, which fully allowed his strength to pervert his mortality; leaving him able to freely destroy property, as well as murder people, in order to settled perceived wrongs – both legitimate and delusional.

His murder of 1,0000 Philistines is one of the most infamous examples.

This behavior and lifestyle culminated in the betrayal by Delilah, the woman that would guilt Samson into revealing the strength of his hair, and order it cut in his sleep, upon the bribe of three men for 1,000 silver coin each. Into the Philistines, was Samson delivered, and his death by mass-murder/suicide by collapsing the temple in which he was held captive, as his last prayer to God.

Servant Personality: Samson, for better or worse, is an ass -- both a dumb ass and an asshole. Boasting strength beyond all man tends to institute a sense of superiority that is nigh uncontrollable. The most infamous display of this fact is the chain of events that lead to the Samson breaking his Nazarite Vow, murdering innocent men for clothing, to settle a childish (and unfair) bet, torching crops in petty revenge, and culminating with the murder of 1,000 Philistines with the jawbone of an ass. Samson's cockiness, temper, and inability to settle for failure commonly results in death of those that surround him -- especially if they are Philistine. This nature, in combination with his own ignorance in control, is what lead him to Delilah, the whore, and his own death.

Musical Stuff:
Character Theme <-- Lost thanks to TV Tokyo copywrite on a video from TWO-THOUSAND-EIGHT....
Combat Theme