ERode

The Wayfarer's Guild

_{@Rune_Alchemist@Aerandir@Guilty Spark}

With such eloquence of speech, perhaps the pale woman wasn’t so far off when she addressed that youth as a boy after all. Still, Finn Reinheart. Even at a glance, one could understand that the youth was a warrior. Fledging and inexperienced in more than one way, but one with a strong enough foundation that there was reason for him to be working for the Wayfarer’s Guild. Qantz-Farron drew in another lungful of smoke-infused air, and let it out. Undoubtedly, Finn was the physically strongest within this group.

But Sera could still wrap him around her finger.

And now, her gaze had turned to match his own, biting words eliciting a smirk to meet her grin. “Qantz-Farron Jinterrez Yusentein,” he replied, dipping his head and taking a step back in the mockery of a bow. “Disregard the last two, and address me by the first two.” He straightened up, but remained where he was, by the window. “I meant my words as observations only, but to construe that as a threat, hm...you are an interesting one, aren't you?”

Qantz-Farron turned towards the warrior then, his smile fading, expression without warmth.

“And Finn, it’s a pleasure.”

The Devil Hunter Agency

_[@TheWindel]

Shika closed their eyes briefly, pulling their senses ten kilometers away to the dummy they had left at the shop. Was everything going smoothly? Yes, yes it was. Shop closed, doors locked, accounting done, and everyone in bed. They'll swap tomorrow morning, after this whole debacle was dealt with. Suppose that was that then.

"Well, I'll take the shrine then. And, mm, Envoy, you're coming with! What can you do anyways? Other than be arm candy?" Shika said, hooking their arm around the eyepatch-wearing devil and dragging them off. The bartender looked powerful enough, if such violations of space could be done on a whim, and they gladly strode through, into the barren, quiet shrine. A breath later, and Shika maneuvered them to the large tree beside the shrine. Ropes laden with talismans were strung around it, and there was a fence surrounding the presumably holy tree too, but Shika simply hopped through it, motioning for the Envoy to do the same. They pulled out their smartphone soon after, placing their free hand against their cheek while shooting a wink at the camera.

A flash later, and Shika's first selfie of a soon-to-be-altered tree was taken, and they motioned for the Envoy to join in after they took a couple more.

"C'mon, gotta do it for posterity!"

The Wayfarer's Guild

_{@Rune_Alchemist@Aerandir@Guilty Spark}

The Handler was late.

Leaning against the wall beside the shuttered window, a pale-skinned man drew a shard of flint out from the pockets of his coat. He held it between his index and middle fingers, before striking it with a heavily scratched ring around his thumbs. Sparks, bits of light in an otherwise dim room, scattered and fell into the bowl of a polished tobacco pipe. A mixture of foreign herbs and leaves, dried and shred, smouldered upon contact with the sparks. They glowed red as he breathed it in, then turned gray as he released a faintly nutty smoke out. The man’s black eyes gazed at the other two in the room, not focusing particularly on either one. He felt the itch in his scars, but did not respond to their cries of revenge or retreat, and instead, remained where he was. Arms folded, flint in his pockets once more, a mahogany pipe cradled before his lips, his vision growing hazier as smoke filled the room and found no easy escape.

Another tinge of emotion. Pity this time, as those sweetly-barbed words left the pale woman’s mouth. She was pale like snow, droplets of blood where her irises laid. Tone irreverent and confident; in an age of bodies warped by the well of leylines, one could never be sure if what looked like a child truly was one. But perhaps such disrespect could be expected. This was Arskel, the dead end of the trail others named the High Road, and this was the Wayfarers’ Guild, the last chance for any aspiring adventurer, any wayward criminal, to find employment with their craftless skills. With no Handler here, what were they to do but turn on each other?

Qantz-Farron let out a small, mirthless laugh. His gaze settled on the bladed lady.

“We’re not going to get along, but I pray we get out of each other’s ways,” he said, voice as viscous as a snake’s venom. “You’ve a name, or do you prefer ‘girl’?”

Silver Gate Academy [Accepting New Players]

_{@Sho Minazuki}

Assassination attempt investigation, hrm? Made sense then. And considering the matter of the mask...

"Fine." Otis had suspected as much. It remained a curiosity to him that humans were so eager to segregate themselves from the other sentient races in the world, but perhaps a sense of xenophobia was easier to foster when you only spend time with those similar to one's self. He shrugged off that idea, storing into his mind that Utsumi was lying. That teacher had told them to set up room arrangements for groups of four, without mentioning anything about how those of a more incorporeal slant would not be arriving at their room at all for a sizable portion of the singular week they'd be spending in Kyoto. Even in the absence of any nefarious kidnapping, there was no reason why the training the demons had to undertake meant that they couldn't return to their hotel rooms at night.

Simply put, shit stank bad.

As Ultana offered a suitable distraction for him, Otis drew out a piece of paper and a pencil. He closed his eyes briefly, his exceptional intelligence retrieving the details of that assassin's mask in far greater detail than what his phone's camera could capture, before he drew multiple variations of that same mask from different angles upon the piece of paper. There was a slight pause as the Strigidae's mind raced through any other possible details that seemed unique, but after a while, he stopped and wrote down a simple question instead, before folding the letter in half.

"Utsumi," Otis said, waving the letter towards the man. "If you receive reports, you can send reports. Can you send this to Koyuki?"

Within the letter, the question address to the kitsune was simple: "Where can you buy this, specifically? -Otis"

The Wayfarer's Guild

Well, hopefully Noblebandit gets their CS up by then.

The Wayfarer's Guild

Shadows Cast in the Searing Wastes

Qantz-Farron Jinterrez Yusentein

_{24 y/o | Moriachi Blackblood | Initiate}

At a distance, Qantz-Farron is a tall shadow. Black clothing, black hair, and black eyes, none of which reflect any light. Beneath his pale skin are black veins and black scars, the markings of the peculiar witchcraft that he keeps alive on his body. But other than his face, the rest of his body is rarely shown. As a book has a cover, so does he hide the contents of his own body, and taken at a distance, nothing particular about him stands out. To those with interests in humans, he may be handsome to an extent, 6’4 and well-built, slender but not weak. Closer, however, are those void-like eyes, that gently contemptible sneer. Some swear that he’s a real bastard; others are drawn in by his easy audacity. There is no truth that can be gleaned, however. His forked tongue speaks of the machinations of the city-states, of the developed thoughts of the world-movers easily, but Qantz-Farron does not speak genuinely of his own being.

As a book, he is closed.

Magic

Qantz-Farron is a practitioner of Yusentein Witchcraft, which invokes the power of the dead in exchange for permanently marking the deeds of the dead upon the body of the caster. The spirits of mere mortals, no matter how legendary in life, are not yet sufficient in death to match the might of the divinity of the world, and thus, he still must drink deep from the leylines to recover the masteries of the departed. The scars become substitute for incantations then, similar to the ‘stenciling’ of Primal magics which enable casting speed superior to those reliant on spellbooks and arcane performances, whilst the acquisitions of new magics themselves becomes a much more difficult and painful process.

As of now, Qantz-Farron’s magic can perform two effects:

Incarnation enables him to draw on the strength of the fallen, multiplying his physical capabilities to the superhuman levels most trained warriors easily meet.
Invocation enables him to temporarily manifest the forms of the vanquished for singular actions, whether it be the swipe of spectral claws or the bite of a phantom shark.

Equipment

A lantern, so that when night falls, others know that he's coming.

History

It started with a death.

Theme

The Wayfarer's Guild

If that's the case, then I'd like to paste this in the Character Sheet section. I'll PM you the details of the History afterwards, cause it's convenient to hide this shit.

The Wayfarer's Guild

I mean, if a five word history is unironically acceptable, then I'm fine with that. ;3

The Wayfarer's Guild

WIP

Qantz-Farron Jinterrez Yusentein

_{24 y/o | Moriachi Blackblood | Initiate}

At a distance, Qantz-Farron is a tall shadow. Black clothing, black hair, and black eyes, none of which reflect any light. Beneath his pale skin are black veins and black scars, the markings of the peculiar witchcraft that he keeps alive on his body. But other than his face, the rest of his body is rarely shown. As a book has a cover, so does he hide the contents of his own body, and taken at a distance, nothing particular about him stands out. To those with interests in humans, he may be handsome to an extent, 6’4 and well-built, slender but not weak. Closer, however, are those void-like eyes, that gently contemptible sneer. Some swear that he’s a real bastard; others are drawn in by his easy audacity. There is no truth that can be gleaned, however. His forked tongue speaks of the machinations of the city-states, of the developed thoughts of the world-movers easily, but Qantz-Farron does not speak genuinely of his own being.

As a book, he is closed.

Magic

Qantz-Farron is a practitioner of Yusentein Witchcraft, which invokes the power of the dead in exchange for permanently marking the deeds of the dead upon the body of the caster. The spirits of mere mortals, no matter how legendary in life, are not yet sufficient in death to match the might of the divinity of the world, and thus, he still must drink deep from the leylines to recover the masteries of the departed. The scars become substitute for incantations then, similar to the ‘stenciling’ of Primal magics which enable casting speed superior to those reliant on spellbooks and arcane performances, whilst the acquisitions of new magics themselves becomes a much more difficult and painful process.

As of now, Qantz-Farron’s magic can perform two effects:

Incarnation enables him to draw on the strength of the fallen, multiplying his physical capabilities to the superhuman levels most trained warriors easily meet.
Invocation enables him to temporarily manifest the forms of the vanquished for singular actions, whether it be the swipe of spectral claws or the bite of a phantom shark.

Equipment

A lantern, so that when night falls, others know that he's coming.

History

It started with a death.

Theme: Rosemary's Nocturne

The Epic of Beginnings - Fragments of a weathered scroll

^{@Pyromania99@Rune_Alchemist@Guy0fV4lor@PaulHaynek}

Upon the crack of thunder, Isidore opened his eyes. A night's sleep with no shelter and hardly any bedding, exposed to the elements if not for the stubborn embers of the firepit...and his body didn't ache? Certainly, it was a miraculous situation. Reminded him of the days where he could eat trash and still be ready to work out at that humid basement the boys called 'the Gym'. Sitting up, the dark-haired youth closed his eyes once more, grasping onto that sensation of warmth spreading through his body again. His heart pumped blood to his extremities, steam rising from his form as the last vestiges of the night were chased away and the snow around him melted to water, then heated up into wisps of steam.

He chewed on the ash-covered remains of the boar, minding neither the bitter taste nor the lukewarm heat. The mountains south were shrouded in thunderclouds, bursts of lightning visible even as far as the forest they were currently in. A winter's storm, ill-equipped as they were, was suicidal under normal circumstances, and Isidore had not yet the opportunity to truly understand the limits of his current body. Mayhaps with his self-heating capabilities, he could venture through a lightning-hurling blizzard. Mayhaps his energy would simply run out and his body would only be found after the spring melt. The man's eyes settled upon Augusta's own as Donovan prayed to a once-nameless god, his eyes narrowing slightly, but it was only after Donovan addressed the rest of the group that Isidore acted.

"Mountainous traversal necessitates proper equipment. North is fine."

If there hadn't been a village to procure supplies from, Isidore would have pressed on southwards, storm or not. At worst, they could camp at the base of the mountain, after all. But seeing how the deer had only offered an incomplete answer, he was willing to detour for better chances in the future. Shaking the ice off the chains and brushing the damp off his arming sword, Isidore turned to the others, sweeping from Octavia, to Augusta, before resting on Nicholas.

"Unless your instincts tell you otherwise?"