Had some spare time on my lunch break and decided to go for a shorter backstory for now. If it isn’t up to snuff or deals with too abstract a concept I can add a third section with more concrete information for the purposes of the Background Feature.
Whisper is a Kenku; a feathered biped whose wings falter and fail, whose voice dies, and whose dreams of creation are stymied by a divine curse generations in the making. All things considered, he maintains strange cheeriness and aloofness from his circumstances. It's quite impressive for a bird whose body more closely resembles an incorrectly constructed puppet mixed with a leaking water balloon than a living creature.
The Bright has cursed Whisper with a form most egregious, indeed; bones protrude from his wings, from his limbs, granting him a shambling and gangling gait- his living motion plagued by discomforting protrusions and difficulties in ambulation. To top it off, most of his face has slipped away- leaving behind skeleton and beak, hollow eyes as black as the first Night gazing ever outward. It is a form contrived of the stuff of nightmares, and it belongs to a very misunderstood creature.
Occupation "Death isn't cruel - merely terribly, terribly good at his job." -Terry Pratchett
Death's Apprentice - Warlock of the Grim Reaper
Whisper's final moments flashed before his lidless eyes yet again. The light. So bright. So all encompassing. Such totality. He could scarcely remember what was there before the light- and yet his mind raced. Yearned. Forced form into being, drawing upon the fragments of power that remained in his spirit as it drifted through the Inbetween. Forgetting who you were was common. Forgetting those you loved came easy. Clinging to the past, to purpose, to people- that is what gives the spirit definition. That is what Whisper sought to do. What caused panic was that the Light seemed to not be satisfied with merely eviscerating his body; it also clung to his very soul.
On one hand, regaining his shape came easy. On the other, this unnatural tie was worrisome.
There was no time to worry about it right now. Whisper drifted through the darkness of the afterlife, being dragged out from the shadows he knew he belonged, and towards the world of Light once more. As Life rushed to meet Whisper, so too did memory.
Blinding light. Definition. Shape. Quadruped, a great wall of muscle- it was the Steed.
The horse stamped its hooves. Snorted. Even in the face of this immense danger, it remained aloof
Next came its rider, a gaunt figure. Hooded and bestride the great beast, a single skeletal hand gripped the reigns. A resurgence of memory followed that image- definition and tangibility exploding into reality through the Light, bringing with it darkness and tone. Whisper could imagine the feeling of the ground beneath his feet. He could almost taste the air as the scene played out before him.
THERE IS NO ESCAPING IT. ALL THINGS MUST END. SO TOO MUST THIS KINGDOM
His master's voice was like the closing of coffin lids, a booming tone that echoed from the beginnings of time and spoke of an inevitability that would reach through the future until the end of all things. It was a voice that had once made Whisper shiver, but now brought him calmness. It was the voice of the entity who had gazed upon his wretched form so long ago and given it purpose.
FATE'S STRINGS ARE PULLED TAUGHT, MY BOY. HEED MY WORDS AND CARRY THEM WELL. YOU WILL BE TRIED. TESTED. TEMPTED. MEDDLING IS NOT OUR WAY; THE FATES CHOOSE THEIR TOOLS AND WE OBSERVE. THIS, HOWEVER, DISRUPTS THAT ORDER. THE GODS THEMSELVES HAVE SOUGHT TO HIDE IT AWAY. WE WILL NOT BE DENIED SO EASILY.
At the time, the words had been hollow to Whisper. Even now as he listens again and again to the words of his Master, his feathers rise and his bones creak. His beak opens- a warning cry of ravens echoing out of his spectral throat. Beyond Death's horse, silhouetted in the light, rose a figure who wielded great power. Death's shadow, born of blackest night and the dreams of the abyss itself, was unwavering in the light even as his physical form was slowly absorbed by the oppressive brightness radiating from that figure.
Soon it was all that consumed Whisper's vision. That figure, radiating light. His flesh melting away, his spectral form evaporating in its might. And yet Death's shadow remained, seen walking through the light as carefree as any other day. A final message ringing in Whisper's ears.
THIS IS NOT THE END, MY BOY. DEATH IS ONLY A BEGINNING. FORGET NOT YOUR PURPOSE. SET THINGS RIGHT.
Whisper relived this memory ceaselessly. Chasing himself and memories of his master through it. Every excruciating moment of death and radiant bane brought with it a relived insight of clarity. Again and again Whisper yearned to grasp onto the Fell energies his master instilled within him and break free of the hold the Light had on him. Time and time again he heard his master’s words.
When he awoke, finally escaping the cycle of death and life, the final image of a great tower rising behind the silhouetted figure of power had seared itself into his mind. Whatever had happened, whoever that creature was who could temporarily banish Death itself was, Whisper’s answers and purpose could be found there.
Years ago, there was a thief. Silent as an unspoken idea and deft as a street performer with a spare hand for change. She was damn good at what she did to keep it short, but not good enough to avoid the yearnings of the heart and the ache of loneliness. This thief bore a child- but let us back up a few scenes, shall we?
Her name was Bellarmina. However, and you try saying that with a tape recorder that has never had that name recorded upon it, the common name accepted for this thief was Bell. Bell was a damn good thief who was slowing down for some reason, and she would learn why too late; Bell, unbeknownst to herself, was with Child. Ordinarily a wonderful thing (depending on persuasion), but in this case merely a tragic thing.
A Witch is someone who is lightly trifled with and usually for only good cause; a Witch in the Bright Lands is a creature best avoided at all costs. Bell crossed one such witch, a heist gone astray leading to blades flying and curses being thrown. Bloodied and ensorcelled, Bell had to flee with the Witch’s flying broomstick in hand- and a darkness at work within the child she carried.
For the record, Bellarmina tried her best. Truly, she did. Giving birth to a heap of bones and feathers would fray at anyone’s sanity, which in these lands is something already quite infirm as it stands, and the struggle to support an infant whose face was truly something only a mother could love in a hostile world helped her regain her edge.
But in the end, Bellarmina was in a corner. She kept the broomstick. She abandoned the baby. Leaving it in the wilderness, not capable of ending the wretched thing’s life herself, Bellarmina flew away to leave the horribleness behind. Emotionally speaking, that is.
What came along later was not some foul creature or mutated beast- but rather the trotting of a large and impressive horse. Its rider pulled out a sheet of parchment, then referenced a broken hourglass in a bony hand.
THERE IS ALWAYS SOMETHING, ISN’T THERE? NEVER A SIMPLE DAY OF WORK ANYMORE. IT IS NOT YOUR TIME, LITTLE ONE.
When the figure spoke first to Whisper as a child, its timeless boom of a voice made him weep. Being lifted into the skeletal arms of the Pale Horse’s Rider, however, brought about a calmness that rivaled the dead. In silence, the wretched Whisper grabbed at the broken Hourglass.
YOU MAY KEEP THAT, I SUPPOSE. IT IS YOURS AFTER ALL.
Other I intended to add more backstory, but what I consider to be the core idea of the character is present and am debating leaving the rest as ‘regained’ memories down the line as he ‘regains’ his power.
oh, neat, I forgot about birthsigns until I reread those other sheets. Did you want us all to use them? Would you want them to grant their special boons, or just be flavorful? Either way I'm loathe to adjust my sheet for anything, but I might add the flavor of one of them to a misc note depending on my fancy.
The warmth of his room was something Elias Malkinson would soon come to miss. It would be a pleasant memory- the heater at full blast, pipes dripping to try and stave off what was whispered to be an inevitable freeze if the weather did not relent, and Elias himself was grateful that his mother was a stout woman of practical principles. He'd often thought she would make a good Witch- practicality was a trait well favored by the practicing occultist, after all- but couldn't stand the thought of his mother trying to maintain a conversation with him about such things. For some reason, despite being open to the idea on a surface level, his mother knowing the spells and hexes he knew just turned into the feeling of fear one can only get by imagining a scornful parent.
All things considered, best to leave the magic out of dear mumsy's hands.
And while he was aware that this warmth would be but a cherished memory soon, he was a resolved man. Chuck was missing. Zoey was distraught- and locked in her room, her parents much more proactive in the protection of their child than the Malkinson clan was. It was something that was in Elias' favor- for now, at least. With one last glance into a mirror he paused. He squinted a bit, frowning. That wouldn't do. He leaned close and grabbed at the applicator on his desk, sighing to relax his face as he lifted it and began to dutifully touch up the mascara he had donned. It was an aesthetic decision that had earned him many a strange look- but it was understood that makeup and jewelry were just something that Elias Malkinson was going to do.
Satisfied with the makeup, he finally relented and abandoned the mirror to its fate. Establishing that his pentacle was, indeed, where it always was (about his neck) he gripped the icon tightly. A silent prayer thought to the heavens and moon passed his thoughts, then he pulled on his winter clothing- the more mundane heavy jacket and mittens covering fingerless leather gloves and a tight long sleeved shirt. A scarf wrapped around his neck concealed the silver necklace that the pentacle hung from. A beanie pulled down atop his head scarcely contained the wild mop of hair that sprouted from his height.
And, finally, he laced up the tall black boots he favored. Pulling them tight, his pants tucked into them, and double knotting them. He hated how one of them inevitably came untied no matter what he did and this was an effort to stop that nonsense on this important day. Chuck needed saving, and that meant he'd need to be ready for anything. Pockets of salt and iron shavings, a carton of chalk, a canteen of water warmly tucked in the depths of his supplies, his inseparable Tarot Deck, and as many packets of herbs and esoteria as he could fit into the confines of the common school backpack. It wasn't a heavy load, but it was bulky and quite impractical to the common person- but for Elias Malkinson, every tidbit felt just as critical as the last.
Slipping his earbuds in, he made good practice and shuffled the Tarot deck. If this shindig was going to go down how the Sheriff intended, he was keen on getting to know the people he was about to be working with.
King of Cups - Emotionally Balanced Knight of Wands - Hastiness, Adventurous, Energetic Two of Swords (Reversed) - Indecision, Confusion, Information, Stalemate Eight of Pentacles - Mastery, Skill Development Judgement XX - Absolution, Rebirth, Inner Calling
And then one for himself...
The Moon XVIII - Fear, Illusion, Anxiety, Intuition.
Elias Shivered. Sometimes fortunes were a little too close to home.
Standing in the crowd was the hardest thing Elias had ever done. Every forced laugh, every cheerful optimism, made his prophecy ache in his heart. Goddess, why hadn't he tried to warn Chuck a few months ago that he'd had a negative portent? Would it have even mattered? Fate is a fickle mistress, and predictions can sometimes be a curse for the Fortune Teller. Elias was lost deep in his thoughts- only to now find himself standing in a smaller group as the greater crowd dispersed. He opted to focus on the here and the now. He dutifully waited as others spoke- Jake and Hattie familiar faces, but the unknowns and the curiosity they piqued in him were second to the gnawing thoughts of Chuck.
"Elias Malkinson." He said finally, hopping from foot to foot energetically, in way of introduction. His mind raced- Hanako was clearly the Knight, and Goody Durlin was clearly the Eight of Pentacles in his mind. That left him to debate on David, Jake, and the other woman. Time would reveal who was who in his prediction. "It's a pleasure to meet you all.. Er, re-meet some of you." His words were punctuated by a hand grabbing at his scarf, reaching for the pentacle reflexively, as he let out an awkward chuckle.
I’ve got my mechanics down as well, methinks. Once I see the OOC i’ll tweak as needed then fill out your other requirements. Warlock of the Undead patron, pact of the blade, Kenku, is what I went with for the sale of other folks knowing. Going for a grim reaper/Ferryman style vibe.
Source: Me, randomly smashing buttons on Artbreeder until I got a picture that was neither a woman nor a fully bearded man. Consider it an inspiration rather than a hard-set image as, to my eyes, this still possesses some measure of uncanniness that stems from modern films using grown men to play teenaged boys in movies.
| Like: Magic!* | Fear: The Dark | Like: Dusty, old, wondrously scent imposed, books | Fear: Blood** Heights |
Physical Description The shortest possible description*** of Elias Malkinson would be to set before oneself a blank canvas and, with little concern for the sharpness of the action or skill present, hastily draw upon this blank canvas with a slant-tipped magic marker the numeric symbol '1'. Now that you have the fundamental physical understanding of young Elias well situated before you, let the imagination wander over words such as Mop, Square, and some would be quite vocal to use the word Lanky as well. Take the time to embellish the portrait as you see fit with these new concepts in mind. At this point if you are now gazing upon a tall thing whose legs and hair have outgrown the rest of his body, whose head has sharp angles and a distinctive slant to it above the brow, and is topped in thick waves of hair, you would be somewhere near correct for a spontaneous amateur portrait of Elias Malkinson.
You simply forgot to leave one of the shoes untied, classic mistake.
Age Seven and Ten more after that****
Relationship with Hildon Elias’ relationship with Hildon is that of Love and Hate. There is no other way to put it; the lad despises the town, despises the geography and the layout, finds it utterly stifling to any artistic passions one might have- however he bears a deep love and affection for the people of this humble township. They are his people, even if he himself is quite different from the rest of them, and if he could pack them all up in a box and move them all into a New York City Studio apartment he surely would. But that would be unreasonable. Those people like Hildon. The law might call it abduction.
He knows the town inside, outside, backwards, frontwards, and everything in-between. Seventeen years of living there and trying to stave off insanity-by-boredom has lead Elias into the nearby wilderness countless times, and many of the quiet places in the town itself bear some mark of his presence in the form of quiet 'street art' he has imparted in secrecy [Everyone most assuredly knows it was him] with a can of spray-paint. These little ‘secret’ ‘tags’, as the youth these days refer to them, consist almost entirely of ‘protective symbols’ he has learned from various spellbooks.
To elaborate on his relationship with the people of Hildon, Elias has a strange place where he fits comfortably in the social hierarchy. Well meaning and generally empathetic, he has a positive attitude and outlook from many people. He always asks how people are doing, has a smile to offer, or a conversation to share, and this generally makes him a pleasant person in the eyes of most. However, his propensity and hobby of practicing modern alchemy, attempting to distill potions and brews, and a seemingly mad conviction that surely these spells DO work and that demons or some other unfathomable creatures DO exist often keeps him at the edge of most wider social circles.
In the end, he’s the kid behind the counter at the gas station and that does well enough for most.
Occupation Hildon’s Sole Witch and Fortune Teller*****
Useful Items 1) A wardrobe laden with clothing appropriate to both the cold and the gothic scenes. Mutually exclusive properties, mind you. Mothers have a good habit of keeping seasonal wear in the home.
2) A personalized deck of Tarot featuring Wiccan iconography.******
3)A license to kill******* A surprisingly thorough stock of plant parts and modern chemicals for the use of ‘potion making’ and ailment remedy.
The not-so-useful bits 4) Thee Spells Ov Thee Moderne Wytch, by suburban mother Theresa Walker********
5) An MP3 player with exactly four songs on it…********* Crazy On You - Heart, 1975 Can’t Stop - The Red Hot Chili Peppers, 2002 Complicated - Avril Lavigne, 2002 Yellow - Coldplay, 2000
6) There is no way at all this key ring (with keys!) to the gas station will ever be useful, right?
Backstory The Short One:
Born in Hildon. Raised in Hildon. Will probably die in Hildon.
Elias Malkinson is a strange lad; his school life is busy and social but lacking in fulfilling relationships. With few exceptions, most see him as a source of entertainment or a benign weirdo.
Empty relationships push him towards creativity and self fulfillment, creating a benevolent delinquency founded on his ideology of witchcraft and demonology. This also creates a strong dependence on those he feels like he can rely on.
The Sudden Chill and Disappearance of Charles Christian lead Elias to begin his own search, the ace hockey star having been a source of inspiration for him and his classmates. Where others are scared of the strange disappearances and weather- Elias finds them a supernatural curiosity. Privately he believes that without Charles the town wouldn’t be the same.
Sunlight glints through shaded lenses, refracting light from a harsh glare into a manageable glow. Sweat drips down shaggy hair, matted to his forehead in a manner belying it a forgotten nuisance, as concentration burns within his eyes- shielded from the salty sting of his exertion by the sunglasses he wore. A gloved hand lifts and adjusts them slightly as he chances a glance down the alleyway-
Zoey Thompson. She was still there. Still keeping watch. It was a good day so far. Zoey was the only one who seemed to like Elias beyond cursory pleasantries. She was the only one willing to drive him out of Hildon like this. Zoey was a loyal, if flaky, friend. This trip had been planned since before school ended for the Summer- and Elias had persisted in this plan being kept.
Nodding once, affirming her presence there at the end of the alley, he turned back to the formerly-barren wall before him. Whirling an aerosol-spewing paint-spraying can of bona fide Teenage Outlet in his hand, he returned to the task at hand. The Triple Moon- emblazoned with life beyond its simple outlines. Vines creeping along the borders of the moons- flowers in bloom along thorn'd lanes- hands reaching down from on-high and grasping at an outstretched hand from below whilst framed in the full moon central to the Wiccan Icon...
An image of salvation and rejuvenation, brought to life by a case of thin paints and acetone. Moments like these brought an intense clarity to Elias' mind. A liberation, if you will, from outside influence and the pressures of expectations. Being here, in Concord, was all part of the plan. He had made a promise, after all.
Shaky hands. Nervousness. A blank canvass- in the form of the smooth concrete wall outside the gas station where Elias worked. It was a quiet afternoon. It was the summer; nobody would need to use the snowmobile section. It was as good a place as any for one of his experiments...
And yet his hand trembled, and he hesitated.
A soft sigh slipped from his lips and his eyes shut tight, recalling in vivid detail the symbol he sought to place here upon this place; the Triquetra. A symbol of time, interlocking the past, the present, and the future into the embodiment of the Goddess. The symbol a promise to protect and cherish.
Resolving himself, the top of the can popped off almost before his mind caught up with his hands. Calmed and still, his fingers deftly drew the basic outline of the symbol on the wall. He took a step back and reached for a second ca-
"Malkinson, what are you doing?"
The voice made Elias freeze. He knew everyone in Hildon- which meant that everyone knew him. Even the deputy, Walter Grey. Casting an uneasy glance towards the deputy was easy; following up that glance with words was not. Shuffling in place, Elias lowered the offending spray can down and capped it.
"It's supposed to be a protective charm." He said finally, wilting somewhat beneath the gaze of the Sheriff's Deputy. He respected Walter, always had, but something about being caught with your hand in the proverbial cookie jar had a way to make someone feel so much more guilty than they actually were. And Elias had been caught very much so with the cookies in hand, so to speak. "I just wanted to make sure nothing bad happened here, you know? It's harmless."
The deputy took time to measure his response; time enough for Elias' mind to run wild with the possibilities of what might come next. Grounded? Juvie? Losing his job? This last thought was sudden and unexpected, and he whirled to look upon the painted Triquetra with wide eyes.
"Harmless, sure." the deputy said eventually. "But folks like things to stay calm and quiet here, kid. I know you mean well, but I'll be honest- I don't understand that mumbo-jumbo you spout and neither do most people. I'll ignore today, and the rest of the little secret art installations you've made, but you've gotta stop doing it. People will get uncomfortable. Some people already are."
Elias felt a surge of emotions at that. Initially he still feared for his job, then his freedom in the face of parental intervention, and finally a sort of gloom as the deputy's request dawned on him.
"I- yessir, I understand. I won't do it again, Deputy Grey. I won't mess up everyone's beloved little Hildon." Briefly, rebellion flared in his mind- who was this man to tell him where he couldn't put up protective symbols?- but it calmed as swiftly as it arose. There were lots of places that didn't count as... Hildon. He'd just have to get creative.
Finally. It was complete. He'd been agonizing over this design for weeks, dreaming of finally seeing it up in full splendor against the back of a building- and here it was. He had but a moment to bask in the glory of it all before he was suddenly yanked from his reverie.
Zoey. Her hand like iron. So uncharacteristic of the bubbly girl whose only offense in ordinary circumstances was being entirely elsewhere on her phone while standing right next to you. The grab was like a cold shower, thoroughly dragging Elias back to reality. He dropped his can of spraypaint as Zoey's hand closed around his bicep, and when he turned to look at her face whatever cross words had been about to leave his lips died in the air.
Zoey was frightened. That wasn't an expression he saw often.
"It's Charles Christian." She said, her other hand gripping her phone to her ear. "He went missing- his parents have started a search for him. We should get back now, Eli, like...Now."
"Chuck?" Elias managed out quietly, confusion and concern filling his voice. Charles Christian- missing?! That's insane, things like that do not happen in Hildon! "Missing? What do you mean?"
"I-I don't know. Just--" She stopped, listening in to her phone intently as she chewed her lip. It was a nervous tic. One Elias was well familiar with.
Elias surveyed the game from a distant perch. He was affixed to the back of the bleachers, a large book open on one knee, while a small vial rolled in the palm of his other hand. Even he, as interested in sporting events as the average jock is Classical Literature, was drawn to Charles Christian when he was on the ice.
Watching him outmaneuver and outplay the enemy team was enthralling. One person in the crowd- Elias couldn't place who, not in the uproar- even dubbed Charles the next Gretzky. Elias wasn't sure who that was, but it sounded impressive. Elias had already forgotten where he was in the current spell twice. Much to the chagrin of the nearby Zoey Thompson.
"Eli-- come onnnnnnn. I've tried everything but he won't even notice me! You promised you'd have something that can help." Zoey was chewing her lip quite viciously here. Elias hoped she had chapstick- he'd left his at home.
"Hm?--Ah, I mean, yeah. This one right here should do the trick." He pulled his eyes off the game and turned to look at Zoey fully. Briefly, he amazed at how she could multitask so well. One hand gripped her phone- a perpetual accessory- while her gaze was glued to the game down below, and her words were spoken to Elias at her side. Truly a marvel of human possibility, Zoey Thompson. "All you need to do for this one to work is add a splash to your morning water, then approach him throughout the day. The spell will enhance your charisma and beauty and is bound to make him notice you more."
Half of being a witch was...Applied psychology, in a sense. People had to believe in a spell for it to work; Elias certainly believed in them, and his earnestness had a way of seeping into those who sought his help. Even poor Zoey was softly believing in the veracity of this 'potion' of his- a humble blend of lemon juice and natural oils he'd blended together that morning, sealing the vial with a dash of salt to keep the magic contained.
Zoey took the vial in her hand and looked at it quietly.
"Just a splash? Really? Shouldn't I drink the whole thing?"
"Only if you have a headache and need to clear your sinuses." Elias said easily, a gentle smirk curling his lips upwards. "In small doses, though- perfect for what you need. And now we'll predict the future of our Person of Interest-"
The ensuing roar of the crowd as Charles Christian scored another goal gave Elias ample time to pull out his Tarot deck and shuffle the cards. In short order, he had a quick prophecy ordained;
Four of Wands, Reversed - Not welcomed, Not arriving safely, No happiness Temperance, Reversed - Not the right path, no peace, no harmony, misaligned purpose Nine of Wands, upright - Feeling threatened, Old Wounds
Elias stared at the cards in silence, before shaking his head and quietly putting the cards away. That prediction was...troubling. He wouldn't trouble Zoey with it. As he glanced her direction, she was already too focused on the game anyway.
Naturally, Hildon won.
Elias grabbed her with his other hand; a firm grasp about her shoulder that seemed to steady the nervous girl. He made eye contact with her and nodded slowly. Zoey sighed softly and shut her eyes.
"Alright- yeah, mom, I'm okay. Eli is here. We're on our way back. We'll be back in Hildon in a few hours. Yeah, no. Straight back home. Yes mom, no detours. Alright. Love you."
"You okay to drive?" Elias asked steadily.
"Not like you can, doofus." She deflected, forcing a shaky smile. her grip finally lessened and she seemed to lose all her energy. Elias swiftly packed his bag and fell into step beside her as they meandered their way through Concord's streets back to Zoey's beat up Hatchback. It was a '95, and had served Zoey well in her teenaged escapades. Calming chatter was made, and soon they were racing along at just-above-the-speed-limit speeds. Zoey, already a reckless sort, was driving on pure emotion right now.
Elias, for his part, double checked his seat belt.
"Is it a little chilly to you?" Was the only conversation he attempted after a few hours on the road.
Zoey wasn't a very good travel companion today.
*= Some people do still believe in magic and the unexplained. Elias is one of them.
**= He doesn't mind blood in general, but the sight of his own is particularly upsetting.
***= The Long One(Tm) (which is too long to leave lying around like this, mind you) includes far more information, tedium, and apostraphes. See:... Height: 5'11" [Most of which appears to be Leg at a glance] Weight: ~145 LBS [alternatively roughly 10 stone, for those of you who prefer rocks to do your weighing] Hair Color: Something like the color you would assign to Sand. But only the sand of a river Estuary in the late evening. Roughly one step up from mud, to be honest. Eyebrows: Thick.
****= See Also: 17
*****= When not reading the Tarot, Seancing the Ouija, or attempting to make a love potion for Zoey Thompson, Elias is a Highschool boy- the founding and sole member of the unofficial ‘Paranormal Activity Club’ in the small highschool of Hildon. When he’s not doing that, such as on weekends or over the summer, he’s the young man holding down the fort known as ‘The Gas Station’*^2
*^2= No, Keith, he does not control the price of gasoline.
******= Hey, it’s useful to him. Shove off.
*******= Can you imagine if he did, though? This would be a very different story then. In fact, in that reality, the cold weather is just due to the freezer in his garage being left open. THAT Elias is simply a young serial killer.
********= Theresa Walker happens to be the most successful Modern Witch in the United States. Her status as a suburban housewife is well earned and considered by the rest of her Coven to be quite desirable. Witches are practical people.
*********= There has been much debate as to which song shall be granted the honor of being ‘The Fifth’. Beyonce is currently in the lead with Single Ladies, but Adele’s Cold Shoulder is gaining popularity in the polls.
Formerly:Lady Gynabeth Nytvanne, minor noblesse of Glenumbra and heiress to the Nytvanne Estate.
Race A Breton, hailing from the Kingdom of Daggerfall, Imperial province of High Rock.
Age Twenty Four
Physical Description Frelayne presents a distinctive visage. Her uniform is well kept, meticulously maintained and clean, and she keeps herself in just as pristine a condition whenever possible. Her dedication to cleanliness and manicure can be witnessed even in her eating habits; a kerchief is kept close at hand and she practices a disdain for fussy eating. There are oft times where mess cannot be avoided and she does not seem troubled by these times- she is an Imperial Legion Mage after all, it is to be expected- but it is when circumstances wherein the wielding of caution could have avoided a mess arise that cause her frustrations to fly.
Moving on in short order, the first thing many people note about Frelayne is her height. She rises to a rather impressive stature, for a Breton, of 5'10"- a height that is wielded fully by a perfected posture. Where in some such height would lead to gangling or lanky demeanor, Frelayne appears to have filled her frame well and instead is possessed by a measure of grace and comeliness well suited to the social environs she used to operate within.
That is to say, she is by no means the most beautiful of women. She cleans up exceptionally well, and certainly knows how to wield her charms when the need arises, but these days the wear and tear of a life on the move and an enlistment into the Imperial Legions has, perhaps, hewn away the softer edges of a life in Bretony Courts and gentle politicking in favor of a more reserved and demure woman.
Thick hair that, frankly, seems like it would be a chore to maintain seems to be her quiet pride- it the primary focus of all her meticulous ministrations and something she seems to keep an intense focus on maintaining. Her eyes are a striking grey color, underlying hazel tones granting an almost golden-brown coloration to them in certain light. Her hands and body bear callouses and blisters- signs of hard work, but only recently gained- and while she was capable of keeping pace in the Enlistment and Training to join the Legion she lacks the overt musculature and tone of a practiced martial warrior.
Faith: Devout of Magnus and the Magne Ge, accepting of the Eight Divines and the Bretony Pantheon. Talos is a sore spot; he is NOT one of the Divines, but it is unmistakable that the cult of Talos has grown and that the figure represents a just ideal for all, and a great pride for the Empire. This means she respects those who choose to worship him, but she herself does not beyond the minimal offering of recognition and respect. To state it in a hierarchy, her faith is focused on the Magne Ge and, indeed, Magnus himself above all others, with the Eight Divines being on the forefront due to societal importance in an Imperial Province, then the Meri deities common of her ancestry, and Talos being accepted.
The contentions over the reinstatement of Talos trouble her, but she is patriotic in ideal and the Empire has officially welcomed Talos back. The Eight and One arise anew and she will defend people's legal right to worship.
Position - Mage Frelayne is a Mage. A rather well trained one, indeed, who owes her particular education in magical application to the extensive tutoring received in the Nytvanne Estate in her youth, which coupled well with a natural knack for handling Magicka. Further experimentation and study while travelling has refined her magical abilities.
Magic Her unique talents lie in the arts of Alteration and Illusion, though her travels have instilled within her an appreciation of Destruction magics as well.
Approximate skill level in the magical arts Alteration - Adept Illusion - Adept Destruction - Apprentice [Favors Shock magic] Else: Negligible practical capability, novice conceptual understanding
Specific Spells Known [1 Adept, 1 Apprentice, 3 Novice] Alteration - Telekinesis [Adept], Equilibrium [Novice] Illusion - Fear [Apprentice], Clairvoyance [Novice] Destruction - Sparks [Novice]
Young Noble Woman of the Kingdom of Daggerfall, well educated in the ways of Magic and the Court, who accidentally killed a young nobleman who was tormenting her after a spurned courtship visit from a neighboring realm. Seeking to cause as little harm to her family as possible, she fled from Daggerfall and changed her name.
Now living on the road as "Frelayne Ildered", the woman had to struggle with the harsher realities of the Bretony Peasantry. Life was not as glamorous and bright at the bottom of High Rock's social strata, and she had to pick up several hard-knock lessons while on the run. A new appreciation for Destruction magics bloomed at this stage of her life out of sheer necessity, and dedicating herself to advancing her study of it consumed a vast majority of her resources and temporarily plateaued her rising mastery of Illusion and Alteration magics.
Soon lacking in funds or safe havens, Frelayne was forced to seek alternatives to life in High Rock. She travelled for some time, visiting Cyrodiil and the center of the Empire. She never stayed in one place for long- which created a longing for somewhere to belong, a place to call her own. She missed having a family, friends. She missed having purpose. Survival was not enough.
She enlisted into the Imperial Legions, the rising war effort calling to the patriotic hearth that burned in her heart, as a mage. She is enthusiastic, if afraid, of this decision; war is a terrifying thing, the scale of this conflict beyond most people's understanding, and the repercussions of it will have infinitely long reaching consequences. She just hopes to try and protect the memories she has of quiet days and peaceful learning.
I am not the most well versed in Elder Scrolls lore. I pretty much never played Skyrim beyond the beginning of the game, my time with Oblivion was so long ago that it's all fuzzy memory, and I spent far...far......far too much time with the game 'Daggerfall'. Thusly much of my knowledge is very dated, if present at all! To make this sheet I perused several wikipedia pages, remarked that Thaumaturgy and Mysticism magic no longer existed, exasperated over the fact that Bretons seemingly are no longer a 'tall' race and decided to make my character 'tall' anyway, and now have an ongoing research project into the deities of the elder scrolls universe.
I blame all of you for this newfound research project, but it will keep me busy and reading for some time as it seems it will be an important facet of this particular roleplay. Now that I've gotten the miscellaneous information about Fading Memory out of the way...
This is an orchestral piece I listened to just because I liked it, and it happened to be playing as I started the sheet. Decided to put it on repeat a few times. I find its slower pace and tranquil tones to be a good feeling for the underlying emotional state of the character. She just wants people to be able to live together in peace, and because of her life 'on the run' she longs for familiar places and a 'home' to call her own. The underlying tones of sorrow are also very fitting, in this regard.
The largest chunk of inspiration for the character comes from my girlfriend, actually, who within the last few months had many Jane Austen audiobooks playing out loud in our home. Prim and proper upper class etiquette has been burned into my head because of this, and I needed an outlet to get those vibes out of my head before I went insane. I decided to dump those feelings into this particular character, with the twist that she had to leave it all behind and is struggling to fit in with lower class society even after years of being on the road.