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When do you plan on starting the IC up?


Cause of Death

There was the village, the wilds, and the ocean.

That was all he knew as a child, the eldest son of an impoverished family of fishermen. He could draw nets at the same pace he learned to walk, and he sailed with his father upon those sky-blue waves when he could understand language and motive. The family had to eat and so did the village. It only made sense to do their part best they could for the betterment of all, for who would be fool enough to hoard more than what they could consume? The largest man of the village didn’t account for much if any two others came up with sticks and stones. Knives made it even easier, if one was willing to up the ante. Fish and humans both spilled their guts after a single swing in the right place, even if one flopped around more than the other.

That was what he was born in, and he had no reason to believe it would ever change.

But the world was connected by the ocean, and what waves made in one part of the world would inevitably reach the other. Even as they ate the same amount, fished the same amount, the yield grew less and less. More ships travelled in the distance, trawling the seas, crossing the waters. And in-land, gunfire and explosions could be heard more and more frequently, the thunder that rolled over cloudless plains. The lands were lawless, but there were those who sought to instate laws regardless, who sought control over those who they’ve never even shared a meal with before. The largest man didn’t account for much if any two others came up with sticks and stones, but two others would be far from enough if the individual had an automatic firearm.

The village could no longer be allowed to exist on its own. It had to be part of a nation now, had to use the national currency, had to pay for the right to live on the land, had to report to officials with more fuel and bullets than common sense and respect for their fellow man.

His father was incensed, but himself? He wasn’t so set in the old ways. If fishing wasn’t enough, then there was another option for someone born to break the waves.


And Captain Belo was good at it.

He was already big, and he ate to get even bigger, understanding that even in the age of projectile weapons, there was nothing quite as intimidating as sheer mass to the human psyche. He learned the language of his victims, affecting himself with the accent of their leaders, for this was no crime he committed, but rather a business transaction. He remained generous, even as his activities estranged himself from his family, and the breadth of his heart made him popular in the markets whenever he needed investors to chip in on his business ventures. Others were more savage, more brutal, but with that unfettered violence came that risk of simply being conned. Captain Belo though? His name travelled as his activities did. He dressed well, possessed good manners, and his crew suffered the fewest casualties out at sea. They trusted him, and he rewarded them for their trust in kind.

It was a golden time, just as brilliant as those days in his youth, when all he had to think about was the day’s catch. He once caught fish, then he caught ships.

Now, however? He couldn’t catch either.

International patrols made his job more and more dangerous. The provisional government no longer condoned such activities, in exchange for foreign aid. The markets were frequented by less investors, and those he once knew had to turn upon their own kind in order to set food on the table. Foreign elements strengthened their foothold upon the arid lands, and when he returned to his village, to his home, he found that he had been sending money back to a ghost town.

The fisheries had dried up. Foreign vessels had won the war, and nothing remained but an old, sun-bleached skiff, laid upon the sands

He sat there for a bit. Considered the invitations he had received. There was always a need for a singular package of muscles and brains. He spoke the language of foreign merchants well, had a level-headed attitude, and could be relied upon to deliver and share. Though it would be a den of snakes he strode into, they would not bite him.

But he was a man of the sea. Caves didn’t suit him.

And so, Belo set the skiff in the waters, gripped the well-worn handle of the paddle, and began to row, off upon a voyage which he would not return from.

A nicked sword of cheap quality hangs from a loose scabbard tied on his back. Belo's not entirely certain where it came from, but considering how the grip doesn't sit too well in his new hands, it likely wasn't something he had purchased. A boot knife is sheathed, rather predictably, in his boot and has much more utility than his hand-and-a-half sword.

A length of rope is bundled up and hangs around his belt as well. Useful for a variety of things, no doubt. Where would a sailor be without their knots?

> Open Waters
> Strong Tea
> Family Lunches
> Rough Weather
> Closing Deals
> Well-Tailored Suits

> Racists
> Butter
> Cloudy Skies
> Milquetoast Behavior
> Slow Tempo Music
> Those who steal from the poor

Despite his impressive size back on Earth, Belo isn't all that big on eating meat. He's gotten his own massive musculature from fish and grains, alongside as many vegetables as he can afford. If you are what you eat, after all, it makes more sense for a sailor to eat fish than camels. And anyways, does an elephant eat meat? He rests his case.

Though one can point towards his bodybuilding and his studying and his fashion choices as all means to an end, all means of projecting his own power and authority, Belo also genuinely enjoys doing it. There is an idealized image of a 'man' in his mind, and it does not contradict his reality of being perpetually drenched in salty water.

One of his biggest childhood dreams was to watch a movie at a proper-sized cinema, complete with buttered popcorn, reclining seats, and red-and-blue sunglasses. His nation never truly got such entertainment infrastructure running, however, and Belo recognizes that it's unlikely he'd be able to fulfill such dreams in this new world either.

But his other ambition is not yet dead. He will rule the waves.

So we go and post that in the CS tab then?
Feel free to cook as you wish, ye. Not like I'm paying ya here.
Here's the non-cropped version of the art I used for Otis. Not much else to add otherwise. Outside of the whole "his gun is an ornate revolver, not a rifle" deal.
And voila, bullshit loaded and launched.


He could hear them now, pounding footsteps down the carpeted hallway, leaping over or kicking through the disable Mannekins that laid in their path. Less than twenty minutes, but that would be plenty of time still to find their seats and to sit themselves down, if not for the devastation that…

Ah, there they were.

Prospective students rushed in through the various openings of the auditorium, their forms indicative of the journey they had taken to get there. Some were bloodied, others burnt, more of them bruised, and many of them fatigued. Between the Mannekin hordes and each other, they had ran themselves ragged, only to enter an auditorium that looked like the aftermath of a warzone. Splinters cracked beneath their shoes, the stench of ozone a suffocating scent. The remains of the Foreteller laid there, a titan with its heart torn out, while nothing but scrap wood remained of the Mannekin army either. Light caught the lingering dust and debris that danced in the air. No chairs, no benches, not even stairs survived the conflict that had ravaged the auditorium.

No, amidst the wreckage and ruination, only one thing appeared pristine: the stage of the auditorium. Six students stood there. A half-elf knight, as white as bloodied snow. A well-dressed princeling, bruised and unconscious but possessing a nobility even in that deflated state. A lithe huntress, indistinct in appearance yet possessing eyes with a deathly sharpness. A reticent youth, his own wounds well-dressed and his mien unshakeable. A gloomy child, the crimson of her eyes hidden beneath a mass of black brambles. A two-faced fool, dangling between heroism and comedy, a chainsaw katana resting well upon his hands. And, standing separate from them, was a slender Strigidae with amber eyes. Of all those present, that beastkin alone looked wholly untouched by the surrounding chaos, his clothes well-creased, his hair well-kempt. His hands were cradled together with the mannerisms of a scholar, and his gaze held the weight of one who had pursued knowledge his entire life.

It was a situation enough to give the students pause.

And Otis seized that opportunity.

“The war is won!”

Essence flowed through his vocal cords, reverberating through the auditorium with a gravitas.

“While you all struggled and floundered, grappling with the foe as well as each other, these strangers have banded together and took swift action instead, striking down the heart of this mechanical catastrophe.” Light seemed to bend, spotlights forming over the six students even though the auditorium was brightly-lit to begin with. “They have earned their seats in Wingram Academy, through feats of martial and diplomatic excellence. You have not.”

Protests bubbled, but Otis continued regardless, with the apathy of a professor who had been given full authority to expel any disobedient students.

“But victory is not the ending, and the cost of turning to war for solutions is the inevitable destruction of your surroundings.” Blood could be recovered in time, and tears and sweat could be refilled with but a few cups of water. What of buildings though? What of roads, of markets, of fields, of homes? The Apocalypse had ended, but the true challenge of the Astral Era laid in what happened after. “Fifteen minutes remain, prospectives. From the wreckage here, rebuild. Clear out the ruins of the old. Craft a seat to call your own.”

If heroes could only strike down false gods, what good were they to civilization?

“That is the bare minimum. And if you cannot even craft your own seat?”

His gaze swept over the masses.

“Make a case for your potential, and pray to Astra that you earn my clemency through words alone.”
@Xaltwind They ought to be happy that the OOC is so active, even in the absence of a Discord. ;3
I dunno about that, MushroomLord. I think Dalton may have some competition for harem protagonist here.

Awfully generic except for the gray hair, he can easily blend in a crowd but when he chooses too he could be surprisingly photogenic.

I mean, just look at Digmata's CS! There's two of em now!
LN plot in LN-inspired RP? Heaven forbid!

Also huh, Dalton's a grown-up Deku, eh? I mean this in terms of appearance, not attitude.
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