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I haven't got any messages yet. If this doesn't take off in the next day or two it probably won't go anywhere.

Seriously? I could have sworn I sent you a message just the other day. Really hope I'm not going crazy.

I'll write up a bare-bones proof of concept and send it to you soon.
This looks really interesting. Are there still any spaces?
This looks pretty interesting. Count me in.

Coinneach Mac Eòghainn - or Kenneth McEwan, to those who had difficulties wrapping their tongues around the Gaelic - drank, tapped his foot, and thought. He'd already finished two glasses of the scotch he'd brought with him, and he knew he'd need to pace himself if he wanted it to last however long they were going to be in this godsforsaken place, but-

Kenneth grimaced, catching his own thoughts. Godforsaken. Not godsforsaken. God. Singular.

Deep in his pickled mind, drowned under the alcohol, a memory stirred. "Damn it, damn it, damn it," Kenneth muttered, tossing back the rest of his drink. At the sound of Katya's order to the bartender, he latched on. He needed something real to focus on. Something that wasn't-

wasn't as yellow as the sun at midday, carved into dark stone that wouldn't stay still-


"Lass, if ye need a drink, I've got plenty. No need to waste yer coin," he offered, showing her one of the bottles he kept in the inner pockets of his heavy wool coat.

Against his will, his eyes drifted from the Russian woman next to him at the bar to that damned man in the corner. The man dressed all in yellow, singing to anybody that was listening and staring out into nothing. Mercifully, his lyrics had fallen into whispers, but his lips moved around the hushed words. Kenneth's memory stirred, threatening to break the surface, and he looked away. "Damn it all and blast it to hell," he muttered, tossing back the rest of his drink and pouring a new one before the last swallow had reached his stomach. "Something's wrong in this place. Everything's wrong in this place. What's the deal with this doctor fellow we're looking for, anyhow?"
@Sierra I'm really sorry, but I think I'm going to have to bow out. I don't think I'd be able to match the quality (or quantity, jeez) of writing made by the others in this RP.
Awright, I've posted Matty's sheet. I ended up making some minor changes for readability, and I swapped out the "Daydream" ability for terrain manipulation. And now I'm considering taking out the out-of-body experience ability because that all may be too much.


{{ MALE || 15, prolly }}

What Matty looks like depends on how close you are to him. From a distance, and if he's standing still, he might look like a pile of dirty, tattered rags. His 'wardrobe' is made up of more layers of clothing than he can count, all of it well-worn and stolen from unattended laundry lines and sleeping drunks with little care for how well it actually fits Matty's tiny frame. It serves as both protection from the elements and a bizarre sort of urban camouflage.

Closer up, it's easier to see the dirty human boy inside all the rags. Matty would be small for his age even if he wasn't malnourished, and his green eyes look particularly large and bright sticking out of his dirty, pale, gaunt face.

Any attempt to get any closer to Matty would cause the child to scamper away, vanishing into the alleyways of Dawnguard that he knows better than anything else.

Matty's story is short and sad. Once upon a time, he had parents, probably. He never knew them, personally, and probably wouldn't have cared for them if he had. They died, and Matty was left alone, and that's how things have been ever since. Story over.

But, to expand just a little: Matty grew up hard and fast in Dawnguard, the capital city of the Vahkranite Imperium, that gilded bastion of order and power in the big reeking shitball that was the Third Age. Or so say the lucky, uninformed fucks who never had to actually live there.

No matter what grand speeches the king makes about 'spreading peace' or whatever the hell else he's smoking, at the end of the day a city is just a whole bunch of people trying to get by. And in Dawnguard, where all the vaunted wealth and plenty of the Vahkranite flows from the king to his fat coterie of nobles and his massive, bloated armies, it takes a lot to 'get by'.

Matty is part of that population of unmentionables that always lurks just out of sight. The forgotten and forsaken. Former soldiers missing their arms, legs, and wits. Unlucky whores, scratching at rashes that never go away. Addled drunks and addicts, wandering in search of just one more fix, just one. And then there's people like Matty: the orphans, the urchins, the street rats. Orphaned by any one of a dozen wars, or plagues, or just pure bad luck, they're the ones that scrabble hopelessly at the scraps and leftovers, struggling to survive because they don't know how to do anything else.

It's the only life that Matty's ever known, and he's never thought of anything else. Except recently. Recently he's pretty sure he's gone crazy, because there's a man living in his head. And that man is probably more than a few cards short of a full deck, too. Goes on and on about him being the heir to the Shadow Legions or some shite, and that he has to "tear the world down" or something like that. But that's probably normal for crazy head-voices; Matty's met plenty of crazies in his time, and ain't none of them ever had a voice in their head that was just plain friendly. What's up with that, yeah?

-- Survivor
Matty has fended for himself since the time he could walk, and what he lacks in proper education, he makes up for in street smarts that have been sharpened to a razor's edge. He can scamper freely through the tangled alleys and backstreets of Dawnguard, and given a few days in any city, he'll show a remarkable ability to pick up on the local geography, lingo, and unspoken rules. Nobody sees him when he doesn't want to be seen (which is basically all the time) and nobody can catch him when he doesn't want to be caught (which is exactly all the time).

-- Street Rat
The second reason that Matty has managed to survive for so damn long on his own is that he has absolutely nothing resembling pride, honor, or shame. He has quick little hands, adept at picking pockets or snatching fruit from inattentive stall owners. He never rises above anything more than petty crime; he's made it so far by being nothing more than a temporary annoyance. The scale of his crimes make it so that permanently stopping him would be more effort than it's actually worth, so Matty can slip by without being noticed too much. But his abject shamelessness is most apparent in the case that Matty is ever forced into an actual fight. In a rumble, Matty's first and only goal isn't to kill or maim his opponent: all he needs to do is create an opening to escape, and he'll do whatever he needs to in order to get that opportunity. No soft spot is off limits, no trick is too dirty, and the best way to win is to get out alive. By that definition, Matty's never lost a fight.

-- Matty's "Sword"
Technically - very technically - Matty's weapon of choice is a sword. To be more honest, it's half a sword, and it's probably old enough that, if it was human, it would always be complaining about its joints and grumbling about how irritating kids these days are. Matty found it in a trash heap when he was eleven or so, and it had that perfect mix of 'useful' and 'valueless' that led to him keeping it instead of selling it for scrap metal. What remains of the blade is the size of a generous dagger, and the hilt - meant for a blade much longer - makes it handle a bit awkwardly, but Matty has gotten very good at using it. He keeps it as sharp as he can, but he's afraid that it's nearing the end of its life.


{{ MALE }}

Once upon a time, the totem that carries Armsael's soul was a beautiful sword, the masterpiece of one of the greatest craftsmen of the First Age. It was the sword that he carried at his hip as his thrall armies marched on the Nexus, their every step, every breath taken at his command. Time has... it hasn't been kind.

In the First Age, Armsael's deeds earned him titles and renown in equal measure. He was King Armsael the Absolute. Armsael, the Crown Thief. The Pretender. The Usurper. The Thrall-King. In the final battle of the First Age, when the Shadow Legion marched on the Nexus, the largest army on the field flew Armsael's banner and sang his praises, even as they killed and died in droves.

In the Third Age, Armsael is mostly called "Arms, the man who lives in my head an' complains a lot".

Humiliating? Oh, yes. Very.

Compared to his brothers and sisters in the Shadow Legion, Armsael has drawn the shortest possible straw in terms of vessels: a simple street rat, without a thought in his head that isn't focused on where his next meal is coming from. A boy swaddled in rags, using his once-beautiful sword to cut purse-strings. Once, the stupid brat caught a rat and ate it, raw. He was sick for a week, and Armsael laughed the whole time.

Does Armsael hate Matty? Oh, he loathes the boy. But would he take a different vessel, given the chance?

No, probably not.

Truth be told, he sees his partnership with Matty as a challenge to overcome. A wild horse that only needs a capable rider to break him in. On his own, Matty would be content to spend the rest of his short life scrabbling in the dirt, and after his death, not even the rats would remember him after picking his corpse clean. But with Armsael - King of Kings, Dominatus, He-Whose-Thoughts-Bend-Others-To-His-Will (it sounds much better in the Northmen tongue, but humans can't pronounce it without coughing) - at his side, directing him and guiding him, he could be so much more.

Kings will bow at his passing. Lords will grovel at his feet. Peasants will worship him as a god.

And if Matty proves too difficult to control, well... Perhaps Armsael will have to take a more proactive hand in matters.

-- Domination
Other Legionnaires might have the ability to bend lesser people to their will, but it was Armsael that was the undisputed master of the art. He could use the aether to mold thoughts like a potter molds clay, shaping them as he sees fit. Using simple brute force, he could turn a man into a puppet, but he preferred a more subtle approach. Twisting a man's mind until he would follow Armsael's orders not because of magic, but because he truly believed that he wanted to. This was how Armsael made himself a king in the First Age, in the height of his power: he convinced an entire country that he was their beloved, unquestioned ruler. And they believed it.

-- I Dream Of Distant Shores
Armsael could separate his mind from his body, casting his thoughts far afield while his mortal shape slept. Unshackled from his body, Armsael's mind could travel unnoticed and as fast as the aetheric winds would carry him, but the absolute king was always cautious of traveling too far from his own body. While he was immaterial, he might still be harmed by aethercraft, although no mage would be able to notice him if they didn't know what to look for. These days, he can take Matty out of his body, but the boy is the one in control, with Armsael along for the ride.

-- King of Land, Sky, and Sea
Armsael's aetheric talents were not confined to his mastery over his thralls; he was adept at manipulating the elements of earth, air, and water, as if the world around him obeyed his commands as easily as the people he ruled. Sadly, he could never grasp fire, which he blames on the element's impermanent nature.
Moving this from the interest check to the proper OOC as requested. Expanded upon, picture-ified, and awaiting merciless critique.

Okay, I've whipped up a quick proof-of-concept sheet. This is by no means complete, but I'll leave it here for input, critique, and further expansion in the coming days.
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