That's good to hear. How're the rest of you coming along with posts and finishing up character sheets, @Moonjuice7, @Dead Cruiser, @Ambrosia, @Expllo, @Foxxie?
Grif of Hearts Member
Sometimes vaguely amusing
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- Grif of Hearts 10 yrs ago
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Did a post! Productivity, yay.
Digbeth was a quiet little town, nestled away in the middle of nowhere. Nowhere was, apparently, somewhere in the south westerly regions of Galadia, which meant that there was not a single reason for any normal person to head down that way. The rural countryside, made up mostly of fields and sparse woodland, was characteristically quiet and unexciting. The midday sun shone down on the landscape, the birds in the trees chirped their songs pleasantly, carried on the soft, warm southern wind that carried in from the ocean and the warmer lands south of Galadia, and the bandits sitting in waiting to ambush the next passer by finally got their chance to jump on their prey.
Wait a second.
“Alright, stranger. There’s a lot more of us than there are of you. So just drop your things and make this easy on all of us.”
Bandits were unusual around these parts, but in the quieter corners of Galadia you could find all sorts of strange things both magical and (at least relatively) mundane. This forest path was rarely used, passed off in favour of the longer but clearer road around it, with only a few lone travellers who risked the more dangerous trip often falling prey to this band of few but plucky bandits and thieves. Four of them stood, clad in studded leather and some patchwork plate, brandishing rusted knives, axes, and clubs that had seen far better days. The tallest and broadest of the bandits spoke, his voice deep and booming and his face obscured by a crow-like metal helmet, as he raised his large axe and pointed it towards the figure that stood in the middle of the circle of criminals.
The man before him smiled. Behind his long, shaggy brown hair and the hood of his green cloak that hung loosely off of his shoulders his facial features were obscured, other than his mouth, which quickly twisted from a smile into a huge, hysterical grin, and then into an almost maniacal laughter. There was no malice to it, just amusement, as if he had just been threatened by a child brandishing a kitchen knife rather than a monstrous brute of a man. The green garbed figure raised an arm, pushing away the green cloak and pointing behind his back. The figure was tall and broad, more so even than the leader of the bandits, but it seemed not to phase the vultures that eyed his weapons and equipment eagerly. The men surrounding him instinctively brought their weapons forward as he acted, not striking, but just reminding him that they were armed and willing to attack. He did not flinch, but his laughter soon stopped.
“You see this thing?” He motioned to the contraption that was holstered to his back in a large, leather sheathe. A blade, longer than the man himself was, settled diagonally just so he could keep it there without it dragging into the ground, was strapped firmly to his back. Two triggers sat on either side of the handle, and as he motioned to the sword it almost seemed to hum with energy as if eager to be used. Eager to kill something. “That, my friends, is a little something of mine that I like to call Reaver Riot. Yes, as you might have already guessed, it is an Arcane Arm, and I am very, very well practiced with it.”
The bandits seemed to falter. All but the largest one, who seemed to stand as their leader, who hardly moved at the attempt to threaten his band. A pitiful attempt at a thread, he thought. A smaller man obscured completely in a loose fitting grey cloak, or woman as it turned out to be from her softer voice, spoke next, catching her leader’s attention. She held a short sword in her hand and a light crossbow was slung over her shoulder, although her tight grip on her blade had turned loose and her aggressive stance had vanished as she took a step backwards. “Hey, Bartr, boss, if he’s telling the truth we might want to back down and let him go. Those things are serious busin-”
Bartr snapped back, bringing a hand up to her face and extending his index finger. The woman immediately recoiled, clearly expecting to be hit for stepping of line. “Listen here, you follow my orders, correct? If I say we stay and rob this fool for everything he’s worth, we do. Do you understand?” he barked.
“Mutiny in the ranks? Look, if you four are just going to squabble with each other then I’ll be on my way, okay? Try and do me a favour and don’t be here when I get back, okay? You might hurt yourselves on those little butter knives you’ve got there,” said the figure in green as he quite casually started to walk forwards, right passed Bartr, another wide smile on his face.
The figure in green quickly felt a thick, firm hand grab at his collar, tugging down his hood and pulling him back. The figure smiled and held his ground, his now-revealed green eyes glimmering with excitement as he turned on his heel and flashed a smile at Bartr. One hand shot up to grab Bartr’s extended arm, and the other felt for a grasp on the bandit’s chest piece. His fingers hooked in one of the belts on his leather armour, and with one mighty heft he brought the man over his shoulder and threw him into the dirt and mud. The man gasped for breath, winded and with mud in his mouth, even as a thick leather boot slammed into his back and pushed him down and kept him in place. The green figure, pushing most of his weight onto the bandit beneath him, felt for the hilt of his sword and drew the entire, mighty blade from its sheathe in one fluid motion. It was huge, separated by three lines that ran down the length of the blade, one in the centre and one on each side of the central line. He held the half-ton sword in a single hand in the air for a moment before he slowly brought it down, the blunt edge resting uncomfortably close to Bartr’s neck only about an inch away. Bartr froze in place, expecting the sword to connect with his neck and kill him in an instant. He closed his eyes, waiting for that cold embrace, but it never came. He opened his eyes slowly, looking to the side, seeing the blade perfectly still, thrust slightly into the ground to support it. He waited for the green figure to move, but he did nothing.
Well?!” yelled Bartr, tired of the absence of… well, anything he expected to be happening right now. “Aren’t you going to-
“What, kill you?” asked the green figure, eying him curiously. “I try not to do that anymore, so you’re good. A bit bruised, maybe, but good. Strange, it’s almost like you expected me to be that cruel.”
He brought the blade back, dragging it through the soft earth and carving a line through it, and aimed it at the rough undergrowth of the forest that sat along the edge of the road. The blade clicked, widening as a the blade separated alone one of the lines along the blade, single gun barrel appearing from within the blade as the metal pieces parted, now exposed and primed. The figure pulled the trigger and there was an eruption of green energy from the barrel as a thick, black iron ball was fired from the weapon, crashing into a small tree and splintering it in two. The figure slammed the blade down into the ground again, this time with the blunt edge against the earth, forcing the parted piece of metal back into its old position, the gun receding into its metal covering.
“But I’m not adverse to knocking you four in the head with the flat side until you get the message, so if you try anything funny you’ll have a whole slew of new bruises to worry about. If I’m feeling especially mean I’ll even drag you all to the nearest town and get y’all thrown in prison. So please, don’t try and play the hero.” He paused for a moment. “Villain? What kind of people do you roguish types look up to, actually? You know what, never mind. Just don’t be that guy and we’ll all get out of this fine and dandy. Who knows, maybe we’ll even end up the best of friends?”
The snapping of twigs behind the figure in green made him respond immediately. He brought the sword back down, edge under an inch away from Bartr’s neck, but with his other hand he grabbed the grip on the other side of the blade and wrenched it back. The blade separated, almost torn in two along the long, central separation of the blade, transforming it into two thinner but equally long swords. He pointed it directly to his right where the tip of the blade rested only half an inch away from the neck of a fifth bandit, long hidden in the forest undergrowth, who had thought now would be the perfect time to sneak up on the figure in green. If they had taken a single step forward they would skewered themselves on the sword, but instead they froze in place, especially as the smaller blade separated just as the huge blade had before, exposing another cannon nestled within it.
“Oh, c’mon,” the figure in green said, groaning in frustration. “What did I just say? It’s like you guys don’t even know who I am!”
The bandits all shrugged in unison.
“Really?” replied the figure in green, raising an eyebrow as he titled his head to the side. “But I thought you all knew who I wa-”
“No idea,” grumbled Bartr, coughing out some dust from his mouth.
“I…” the figure in green found his words caught in his throat. In an instant that disappointment turned to determination, as a wide grin came across his face. “Clearly the news has yet to reach this side of Galadia, which means it’s my duty to spread the word of a rising star! To tell the tale of a soaring phoenix of a hero, rising from the ashes of despair blade in hand and green cloak around his shoulders, determined to use every ounce of his courage and determination to save the world from the forces of evil!”
The figure slammed his sword in the ground, thrusting the pointed tip deep into the mud, and brought his hands to his waist and puffed out his chest, striking the most heroic pose he possible good. He laughed loudly and brought a hand up, pointing to the sky and turning his head to follow it. “My name is Crash Vega, rightful wielder of the Reaver Riot, and I-”
Crash felt a blunt wooden club crash over his head, and he stumbled forwards as he recoiled from the blow. He grit his teeth, clenched his fists, and threw his hand out to grab Reaver Riot which immediately found purchase in his hand. This was going to be a long day.
Wait a second.
“Alright, stranger. There’s a lot more of us than there are of you. So just drop your things and make this easy on all of us.”
Bandits were unusual around these parts, but in the quieter corners of Galadia you could find all sorts of strange things both magical and (at least relatively) mundane. This forest path was rarely used, passed off in favour of the longer but clearer road around it, with only a few lone travellers who risked the more dangerous trip often falling prey to this band of few but plucky bandits and thieves. Four of them stood, clad in studded leather and some patchwork plate, brandishing rusted knives, axes, and clubs that had seen far better days. The tallest and broadest of the bandits spoke, his voice deep and booming and his face obscured by a crow-like metal helmet, as he raised his large axe and pointed it towards the figure that stood in the middle of the circle of criminals.
The man before him smiled. Behind his long, shaggy brown hair and the hood of his green cloak that hung loosely off of his shoulders his facial features were obscured, other than his mouth, which quickly twisted from a smile into a huge, hysterical grin, and then into an almost maniacal laughter. There was no malice to it, just amusement, as if he had just been threatened by a child brandishing a kitchen knife rather than a monstrous brute of a man. The green garbed figure raised an arm, pushing away the green cloak and pointing behind his back. The figure was tall and broad, more so even than the leader of the bandits, but it seemed not to phase the vultures that eyed his weapons and equipment eagerly. The men surrounding him instinctively brought their weapons forward as he acted, not striking, but just reminding him that they were armed and willing to attack. He did not flinch, but his laughter soon stopped.
“You see this thing?” He motioned to the contraption that was holstered to his back in a large, leather sheathe. A blade, longer than the man himself was, settled diagonally just so he could keep it there without it dragging into the ground, was strapped firmly to his back. Two triggers sat on either side of the handle, and as he motioned to the sword it almost seemed to hum with energy as if eager to be used. Eager to kill something. “That, my friends, is a little something of mine that I like to call Reaver Riot. Yes, as you might have already guessed, it is an Arcane Arm, and I am very, very well practiced with it.”
The bandits seemed to falter. All but the largest one, who seemed to stand as their leader, who hardly moved at the attempt to threaten his band. A pitiful attempt at a thread, he thought. A smaller man obscured completely in a loose fitting grey cloak, or woman as it turned out to be from her softer voice, spoke next, catching her leader’s attention. She held a short sword in her hand and a light crossbow was slung over her shoulder, although her tight grip on her blade had turned loose and her aggressive stance had vanished as she took a step backwards. “Hey, Bartr, boss, if he’s telling the truth we might want to back down and let him go. Those things are serious busin-”
Bartr snapped back, bringing a hand up to her face and extending his index finger. The woman immediately recoiled, clearly expecting to be hit for stepping of line. “Listen here, you follow my orders, correct? If I say we stay and rob this fool for everything he’s worth, we do. Do you understand?” he barked.
“Mutiny in the ranks? Look, if you four are just going to squabble with each other then I’ll be on my way, okay? Try and do me a favour and don’t be here when I get back, okay? You might hurt yourselves on those little butter knives you’ve got there,” said the figure in green as he quite casually started to walk forwards, right passed Bartr, another wide smile on his face.
The figure in green quickly felt a thick, firm hand grab at his collar, tugging down his hood and pulling him back. The figure smiled and held his ground, his now-revealed green eyes glimmering with excitement as he turned on his heel and flashed a smile at Bartr. One hand shot up to grab Bartr’s extended arm, and the other felt for a grasp on the bandit’s chest piece. His fingers hooked in one of the belts on his leather armour, and with one mighty heft he brought the man over his shoulder and threw him into the dirt and mud. The man gasped for breath, winded and with mud in his mouth, even as a thick leather boot slammed into his back and pushed him down and kept him in place. The green figure, pushing most of his weight onto the bandit beneath him, felt for the hilt of his sword and drew the entire, mighty blade from its sheathe in one fluid motion. It was huge, separated by three lines that ran down the length of the blade, one in the centre and one on each side of the central line. He held the half-ton sword in a single hand in the air for a moment before he slowly brought it down, the blunt edge resting uncomfortably close to Bartr’s neck only about an inch away. Bartr froze in place, expecting the sword to connect with his neck and kill him in an instant. He closed his eyes, waiting for that cold embrace, but it never came. He opened his eyes slowly, looking to the side, seeing the blade perfectly still, thrust slightly into the ground to support it. He waited for the green figure to move, but he did nothing.
Well?!” yelled Bartr, tired of the absence of… well, anything he expected to be happening right now. “Aren’t you going to-
“What, kill you?” asked the green figure, eying him curiously. “I try not to do that anymore, so you’re good. A bit bruised, maybe, but good. Strange, it’s almost like you expected me to be that cruel.”
He brought the blade back, dragging it through the soft earth and carving a line through it, and aimed it at the rough undergrowth of the forest that sat along the edge of the road. The blade clicked, widening as a the blade separated alone one of the lines along the blade, single gun barrel appearing from within the blade as the metal pieces parted, now exposed and primed. The figure pulled the trigger and there was an eruption of green energy from the barrel as a thick, black iron ball was fired from the weapon, crashing into a small tree and splintering it in two. The figure slammed the blade down into the ground again, this time with the blunt edge against the earth, forcing the parted piece of metal back into its old position, the gun receding into its metal covering.
“But I’m not adverse to knocking you four in the head with the flat side until you get the message, so if you try anything funny you’ll have a whole slew of new bruises to worry about. If I’m feeling especially mean I’ll even drag you all to the nearest town and get y’all thrown in prison. So please, don’t try and play the hero.” He paused for a moment. “Villain? What kind of people do you roguish types look up to, actually? You know what, never mind. Just don’t be that guy and we’ll all get out of this fine and dandy. Who knows, maybe we’ll even end up the best of friends?”
The snapping of twigs behind the figure in green made him respond immediately. He brought the sword back down, edge under an inch away from Bartr’s neck, but with his other hand he grabbed the grip on the other side of the blade and wrenched it back. The blade separated, almost torn in two along the long, central separation of the blade, transforming it into two thinner but equally long swords. He pointed it directly to his right where the tip of the blade rested only half an inch away from the neck of a fifth bandit, long hidden in the forest undergrowth, who had thought now would be the perfect time to sneak up on the figure in green. If they had taken a single step forward they would skewered themselves on the sword, but instead they froze in place, especially as the smaller blade separated just as the huge blade had before, exposing another cannon nestled within it.
“Oh, c’mon,” the figure in green said, groaning in frustration. “What did I just say? It’s like you guys don’t even know who I am!”
The bandits all shrugged in unison.
“Really?” replied the figure in green, raising an eyebrow as he titled his head to the side. “But I thought you all knew who I wa-”
“No idea,” grumbled Bartr, coughing out some dust from his mouth.
“I…” the figure in green found his words caught in his throat. In an instant that disappointment turned to determination, as a wide grin came across his face. “Clearly the news has yet to reach this side of Galadia, which means it’s my duty to spread the word of a rising star! To tell the tale of a soaring phoenix of a hero, rising from the ashes of despair blade in hand and green cloak around his shoulders, determined to use every ounce of his courage and determination to save the world from the forces of evil!”
The figure slammed his sword in the ground, thrusting the pointed tip deep into the mud, and brought his hands to his waist and puffed out his chest, striking the most heroic pose he possible good. He laughed loudly and brought a hand up, pointing to the sky and turning his head to follow it. “My name is Crash Vega, rightful wielder of the Reaver Riot, and I-”
Crash felt a blunt wooden club crash over his head, and he stumbled forwards as he recoiled from the blow. He grit his teeth, clenched his fists, and threw his hand out to grab Reaver Riot which immediately found purchase in his hand. This was going to be a long day.
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Name: Crash Vega.
Race: Human.
Age: Twenty-six.
Sex: Male
Appearance: Crash Vega is a remarkable figure of a man. His features are distinct with broad shoulders, a heavily muscled frame that just peaks at seven feet tall, strong jaw, and piercing green eyes that sparkle whenever he grins; which is to say always. His hair is long and shaggy, dark brown and reaching down to just below his eyes, and no attempt has been made to manage the thick, tangled mess. A thin layer of stubble runs along his jaw, darkening it slightly, and his skin, darkly tanned and covered in scars from a thousand different wounds, seem to show some faint patterns of unknown origin. Barely visible except up close, they mostly cover his chest, arms, and neck in indistinct shapes, but can be found on his legs and face as well.
Seemingly a stranger to modesty, Crash is happy to show off his muscled torso, a thick grey-green coat worn over his upper body with the buttons left undone, no undershirt worn beneath it, and a thick band of orange material wrapped around his right bicep and tied tightly. Loose green trousers cover his legs, held up by a thick brown leather belt, and end in hefty leather boots capped with iron. Tough leather gloves wrap around his hands, fingerless, and the knuckles covered in iron bands, matching his sturdy, protected boots. A long, orange scarf is worn loosely around his shoulders, over his jacket and looped once around his neck.
History: Crash’s early life is a mystery, even to the conclave elders that raised him. He was orphaned at an extremely young age, only a newborn at the time, brought to the Shenjiang Conclave on the Rumbia border in the middle of a harsh winter by a feminine figure in a green cloak. The cold took her life as she stumbled towards the conclave and the monks, usually secretive and isolated, could not turn away the freezing infant that she clutched tightly in her arms. They took him in as one of their own, knowing not where the woman wished to take the young boy, and hoped to provide him a safe home away from whatever his “mother” wished to take him away from. Crash grew healthy and strong in his new home, weathered from any and all information about his past; he knew he was not like the other children, born in a land far away from the conclave, but it hardly mattered to him. He had a home, so why worry?
His transition into adolescence was defined by the spiritual and physical teachings of the conclave elders. Crash was rash, impulsive, and practices in patience were wasted on him. He struggled to understand their teachings, although not for lack of trying. He was deathly loyal to the conclave that had raised him, but the difference of ideologies made relations strained at times, particularly with his teacher, Zidiah Zher, who was otherwise like a father to him. Crash did, however, excel at their physical training, learning the Shenjiang Conclave’s style of swift, fluid martial arts with ease, and even devoting his time to practicing his own style of slower, heavier martial arts that focused on heavy strikes and debilitating blows; an extremely controversial style among the Shenjiang Conclave, but an effective style regardless.
From an early age Crash showed signs of being more than what he appeared; strong, smart, and resourceful, if rash and impatient, and constantly with strange, recurring dreams. He dreamt of himself, older and stronger than he was now. He dreamt of fire, emerald green and endlessly fierce. He thrust his hand into the fire without thinking, grabbing and wrenching an enormous silver blade free from it. He felt no pain, only power as the green flames rushed up his arm. It moved with him effortlessly, despite his lack of training and the sheer size and weight of the blade, and he brought it over his shoulder. The faint markings that lined his body, almost like pale tattoos, began to glow the same emerald green and then ignited, as he turned to face-
The dream never went further than that, When he first went to the elders they waved it off as nothing more than a dream, but Zidiah suspected something more. By the tenth time they became slightly more suspicious, although none seemed capable of explaining these vivid dreams to Crash. Zidiah insisted that Crash undergo more extensive mental training, suspecting something more, but nothing truly came of it in the end.
So, with no answers, he persuaded himself that they were just that. Dreams.
The conflict with the Iramu giant clan was what first contested the conclave’s views on pacifism. Tensions grew quickly and seemingly out of nowhere, as the giant clan seemed to take interest in the fortress that the Shenjiang Conclave had lived in for generations, while the inhabitants merely wanted to stay and live there peacefully. In an attempt to formally solve the dispute, the giant chieftain, Tia’Iramu, was invited to the conclave to discuss the situation in peace. Tia’Iramu did not arrive, instead usurped by his son, Irga’Iramu, who brought giant berserkers and war tamed beasts the size of buildings with him. Violent and tyrannical, wielding an enormous silver blade with a rusted orange hilt, Irga’Iramu brought hellfire down upon the conclave. Giants broke down the gates, tearing through the conclave’s defences with ease. The monks of the conclave had all trained in martial arts since children, and put up a desperate struggle against their attackers, but what they made up for with skill they lacked in strength and a willingness to kill. Staying true to their strong beliefs on pacifism, the monks only disabled their giant foes rather than killing them, while the giants attacked with wild abandon, making them almost impossible to control.
Perhaps one of the most capable fighters of the conclave, Crash stood at the front lines, defending himself and the conclave with enormously fierce strikes, landing heavy blows on the joints of giants, dropping them with remarkable precision and force. By the time it had taken three monks to tackle one giant he had already dropped two by himself. He fought defensively, until he saw his mentor, Zidiah, stand up against the giant Igra’Iramu and begged for peace. The man was cut down in an instant by the enormous blade the giant wielded.
Something clicked with Crash then. His mentor had fallen, and that sword… it was the sword he had dreamt about, he knew it. Like a man possessed, Crash charged the giant chieftain, a monster over twice his size. He tore through the giant’s personal guard with strikes strong enough to break the bones of even giants, and challenged the chieftain to single combat. Irga’Iramu laughed. What threat could a mere human pose to him?
While the giant laughed, Crash wrenched a dagger from the grip of another fallen giant and dug it deep into Irga’Iramu’s leg, tearing out the calf muscle completely.
The chieftain, while weakened, was still enormously powerful, and the battle between the two was fierce. Irga’Iramu was strong and possessed a mighty magical sword, but Crash was swift, agile, and possessed supernatural strength that only seemed to grow in the presence of the giant king’s sword. In fact, as Crash’s strength grew the chieftain’s faltered, and as the fight came to a close the two seemed equally matched in power. The giant brought his sword over in an enormous overhead swing, planning to crush Crash beneath the weight of the dull blade, but he only met resistance as Crash, arms stretched out above his head, caught the blade. He wrenched it from the hands of the giant as as he did it burst into green flames, engulfing the sword and setting those faint patterns along his skin an emerald green. He leapt high into the sky, the sword high above his head, and drew the blade directly down Irga’Iramu’s body, slaying the tyrant in an instant. His surviving kin fled soon after.
With the giants slain, the monks of the conclave came out of hiding. The sounds of battle had ended, but peace was not restored. Crash had killed in the presence of the conclave, and while many were thankful for forcing the giants back, he had betrayed one of their most sacred oaths. He was banished from the conclave, given only the most basic of equipment to survive and nothing more. Crash saw this as an opportunity. He bid his friends farewell and, along with what small rations the conclave had given him, he took the enormous hulking sword from the slain chieftain that hummed with arcane energy. He decided what he would do now quickly; he would learn to use the sword and find out what it was. It was a Sacred Arm, he was sure, but why did it seem so intrinsically linked to him? He did not know, but he believed he would soon find out. Befitting his new life, Crash forgot his old name and took up a new one, and set out into the great wilds beyond.
Other: Theme.
Sacred Arm: Arcane Arm, Reaver Riot.
Standard form; Titansblade.
In its standard form, Reaver Riot resembles an oversized double-edged straight sword, littered with dents and scratches that make it look less like a powerful arcane weapon and more like a scrapped antique. The Reaver Riot is a sword designed for a giant, and is certainly too large for any ordinary human to use it. Yet, Crash has no trouble hefting the eight-foot long silver blade, and can use the blunt blade equally as a weapon and as a shield, hiding behind the flat of the blade.
The hilt and handle, a hefty piece of rusted orange metal in its own right, possesses two triggers, and three lines run vertically down the blade; one in the centre and two just to the sides of that. Upon pulling the triggers the outer two lines separate, pushing the blade edges outwards and revealing two large cannons hidden within the blade. Another pull of the triggers fire them, launching huge, fist-sized spheres of metal and an eruption of green energy at whatever the blade it pointed at. The cannons have no trigger to retreat into the blade, and Crash usually just opts to bash Reaver Riot against something until they slot back into place.
Alternate form; Broadside Barragers.
The central vertical line hides no secret cannons, but instead shows where two separate weapons seal together. The Reaver Riot can, when forced a little bit, split in half, transforming into two single-edged straight swords that are each wielded in one han. The guns remain fully functional and the swords can be used much more swiftly than they could in their true form, especially when utilising the bladed edge, the hefty blunt side, and the firearms concealed within in tandem.
Overbreak form; Endless Overload.
Removing anything close to what could be considered a limiter, one side of Reaver Riot’s blade breaks away, exposing the raw, volatile arcane converter that channels Crash’s own arcane energy into the sword. The back half remains functional, still allowing the use of the blunt bladed edge and cannon, although Reaver Riot ceases to be able to be split in two. Instead, where a blade once sat at the forward end, a torrent of green arcane energy pours forth like fire, seeming to crystallise where the blade once ended to mimic what was lost. Along with supreme cutting power beyond anything Reaver Riot had before, in this form it can fire powerful blades of green energy to strike at a distance, or singular blasts of energy with a blade thrust.
Unleashed form; Hymnsblade.
No longer is the sword a giant’s weapon crudely used by a human. Arcane Arms unleash the wielder’s magical potential, and a true wielder needs a weapon designed for him and him alone. The rest of the blade sheds away, revealing a large, slender bastard sword made of silver, etched arcane runes running up the edge of the blade that glow white. Green energy engulfs the blade as it does in Overbreak form, but burns with an intensity far greater than before, the flames taking on the rough shape of the huge buster blade it once resembles. While it lacks the crude hitting power of its most basic form its energy generation is exceptional,
Race: Human.
Age: Twenty-six.
Sex: Male
Appearance: Crash Vega is a remarkable figure of a man. His features are distinct with broad shoulders, a heavily muscled frame that just peaks at seven feet tall, strong jaw, and piercing green eyes that sparkle whenever he grins; which is to say always. His hair is long and shaggy, dark brown and reaching down to just below his eyes, and no attempt has been made to manage the thick, tangled mess. A thin layer of stubble runs along his jaw, darkening it slightly, and his skin, darkly tanned and covered in scars from a thousand different wounds, seem to show some faint patterns of unknown origin. Barely visible except up close, they mostly cover his chest, arms, and neck in indistinct shapes, but can be found on his legs and face as well.
Seemingly a stranger to modesty, Crash is happy to show off his muscled torso, a thick grey-green coat worn over his upper body with the buttons left undone, no undershirt worn beneath it, and a thick band of orange material wrapped around his right bicep and tied tightly. Loose green trousers cover his legs, held up by a thick brown leather belt, and end in hefty leather boots capped with iron. Tough leather gloves wrap around his hands, fingerless, and the knuckles covered in iron bands, matching his sturdy, protected boots. A long, orange scarf is worn loosely around his shoulders, over his jacket and looped once around his neck.
History: Crash’s early life is a mystery, even to the conclave elders that raised him. He was orphaned at an extremely young age, only a newborn at the time, brought to the Shenjiang Conclave on the Rumbia border in the middle of a harsh winter by a feminine figure in a green cloak. The cold took her life as she stumbled towards the conclave and the monks, usually secretive and isolated, could not turn away the freezing infant that she clutched tightly in her arms. They took him in as one of their own, knowing not where the woman wished to take the young boy, and hoped to provide him a safe home away from whatever his “mother” wished to take him away from. Crash grew healthy and strong in his new home, weathered from any and all information about his past; he knew he was not like the other children, born in a land far away from the conclave, but it hardly mattered to him. He had a home, so why worry?
His transition into adolescence was defined by the spiritual and physical teachings of the conclave elders. Crash was rash, impulsive, and practices in patience were wasted on him. He struggled to understand their teachings, although not for lack of trying. He was deathly loyal to the conclave that had raised him, but the difference of ideologies made relations strained at times, particularly with his teacher, Zidiah Zher, who was otherwise like a father to him. Crash did, however, excel at their physical training, learning the Shenjiang Conclave’s style of swift, fluid martial arts with ease, and even devoting his time to practicing his own style of slower, heavier martial arts that focused on heavy strikes and debilitating blows; an extremely controversial style among the Shenjiang Conclave, but an effective style regardless.
From an early age Crash showed signs of being more than what he appeared; strong, smart, and resourceful, if rash and impatient, and constantly with strange, recurring dreams. He dreamt of himself, older and stronger than he was now. He dreamt of fire, emerald green and endlessly fierce. He thrust his hand into the fire without thinking, grabbing and wrenching an enormous silver blade free from it. He felt no pain, only power as the green flames rushed up his arm. It moved with him effortlessly, despite his lack of training and the sheer size and weight of the blade, and he brought it over his shoulder. The faint markings that lined his body, almost like pale tattoos, began to glow the same emerald green and then ignited, as he turned to face-
The dream never went further than that, When he first went to the elders they waved it off as nothing more than a dream, but Zidiah suspected something more. By the tenth time they became slightly more suspicious, although none seemed capable of explaining these vivid dreams to Crash. Zidiah insisted that Crash undergo more extensive mental training, suspecting something more, but nothing truly came of it in the end.
So, with no answers, he persuaded himself that they were just that. Dreams.
The conflict with the Iramu giant clan was what first contested the conclave’s views on pacifism. Tensions grew quickly and seemingly out of nowhere, as the giant clan seemed to take interest in the fortress that the Shenjiang Conclave had lived in for generations, while the inhabitants merely wanted to stay and live there peacefully. In an attempt to formally solve the dispute, the giant chieftain, Tia’Iramu, was invited to the conclave to discuss the situation in peace. Tia’Iramu did not arrive, instead usurped by his son, Irga’Iramu, who brought giant berserkers and war tamed beasts the size of buildings with him. Violent and tyrannical, wielding an enormous silver blade with a rusted orange hilt, Irga’Iramu brought hellfire down upon the conclave. Giants broke down the gates, tearing through the conclave’s defences with ease. The monks of the conclave had all trained in martial arts since children, and put up a desperate struggle against their attackers, but what they made up for with skill they lacked in strength and a willingness to kill. Staying true to their strong beliefs on pacifism, the monks only disabled their giant foes rather than killing them, while the giants attacked with wild abandon, making them almost impossible to control.
Perhaps one of the most capable fighters of the conclave, Crash stood at the front lines, defending himself and the conclave with enormously fierce strikes, landing heavy blows on the joints of giants, dropping them with remarkable precision and force. By the time it had taken three monks to tackle one giant he had already dropped two by himself. He fought defensively, until he saw his mentor, Zidiah, stand up against the giant Igra’Iramu and begged for peace. The man was cut down in an instant by the enormous blade the giant wielded.
Something clicked with Crash then. His mentor had fallen, and that sword… it was the sword he had dreamt about, he knew it. Like a man possessed, Crash charged the giant chieftain, a monster over twice his size. He tore through the giant’s personal guard with strikes strong enough to break the bones of even giants, and challenged the chieftain to single combat. Irga’Iramu laughed. What threat could a mere human pose to him?
While the giant laughed, Crash wrenched a dagger from the grip of another fallen giant and dug it deep into Irga’Iramu’s leg, tearing out the calf muscle completely.
The chieftain, while weakened, was still enormously powerful, and the battle between the two was fierce. Irga’Iramu was strong and possessed a mighty magical sword, but Crash was swift, agile, and possessed supernatural strength that only seemed to grow in the presence of the giant king’s sword. In fact, as Crash’s strength grew the chieftain’s faltered, and as the fight came to a close the two seemed equally matched in power. The giant brought his sword over in an enormous overhead swing, planning to crush Crash beneath the weight of the dull blade, but he only met resistance as Crash, arms stretched out above his head, caught the blade. He wrenched it from the hands of the giant as as he did it burst into green flames, engulfing the sword and setting those faint patterns along his skin an emerald green. He leapt high into the sky, the sword high above his head, and drew the blade directly down Irga’Iramu’s body, slaying the tyrant in an instant. His surviving kin fled soon after.
With the giants slain, the monks of the conclave came out of hiding. The sounds of battle had ended, but peace was not restored. Crash had killed in the presence of the conclave, and while many were thankful for forcing the giants back, he had betrayed one of their most sacred oaths. He was banished from the conclave, given only the most basic of equipment to survive and nothing more. Crash saw this as an opportunity. He bid his friends farewell and, along with what small rations the conclave had given him, he took the enormous hulking sword from the slain chieftain that hummed with arcane energy. He decided what he would do now quickly; he would learn to use the sword and find out what it was. It was a Sacred Arm, he was sure, but why did it seem so intrinsically linked to him? He did not know, but he believed he would soon find out. Befitting his new life, Crash forgot his old name and took up a new one, and set out into the great wilds beyond.
Other: Theme.
Sacred Arm: Arcane Arm, Reaver Riot.
Standard form; Titansblade.
In its standard form, Reaver Riot resembles an oversized double-edged straight sword, littered with dents and scratches that make it look less like a powerful arcane weapon and more like a scrapped antique. The Reaver Riot is a sword designed for a giant, and is certainly too large for any ordinary human to use it. Yet, Crash has no trouble hefting the eight-foot long silver blade, and can use the blunt blade equally as a weapon and as a shield, hiding behind the flat of the blade.
The hilt and handle, a hefty piece of rusted orange metal in its own right, possesses two triggers, and three lines run vertically down the blade; one in the centre and two just to the sides of that. Upon pulling the triggers the outer two lines separate, pushing the blade edges outwards and revealing two large cannons hidden within the blade. Another pull of the triggers fire them, launching huge, fist-sized spheres of metal and an eruption of green energy at whatever the blade it pointed at. The cannons have no trigger to retreat into the blade, and Crash usually just opts to bash Reaver Riot against something until they slot back into place.
Alternate form; Broadside Barragers.
The central vertical line hides no secret cannons, but instead shows where two separate weapons seal together. The Reaver Riot can, when forced a little bit, split in half, transforming into two single-edged straight swords that are each wielded in one han. The guns remain fully functional and the swords can be used much more swiftly than they could in their true form, especially when utilising the bladed edge, the hefty blunt side, and the firearms concealed within in tandem.
Overbreak form; Endless Overload.
Removing anything close to what could be considered a limiter, one side of Reaver Riot’s blade breaks away, exposing the raw, volatile arcane converter that channels Crash’s own arcane energy into the sword. The back half remains functional, still allowing the use of the blunt bladed edge and cannon, although Reaver Riot ceases to be able to be split in two. Instead, where a blade once sat at the forward end, a torrent of green arcane energy pours forth like fire, seeming to crystallise where the blade once ended to mimic what was lost. Along with supreme cutting power beyond anything Reaver Riot had before, in this form it can fire powerful blades of green energy to strike at a distance, or singular blasts of energy with a blade thrust.
Unleashed form; Hymnsblade.
No longer is the sword a giant’s weapon crudely used by a human. Arcane Arms unleash the wielder’s magical potential, and a true wielder needs a weapon designed for him and him alone. The rest of the blade sheds away, revealing a large, slender bastard sword made of silver, etched arcane runes running up the edge of the blade that glow white. Green energy engulfs the blade as it does in Overbreak form, but burns with an intensity far greater than before, the flames taking on the rough shape of the huge buster blade it once resembles. While it lacks the crude hitting power of its most basic form its energy generation is exceptional,
Name: Crash Vega.
Race: Human.
Age: Twenty-six.
Sex: Male
Appearance: Crash Vega is a remarkable figure of a man. His features are distinct with broad shoulders, a heavily muscled frame that just peaks at seven feet tall, strong jaw, and piercing green eyes that sparkle whenever he grins; which is to say always. His hair is long and shaggy, dark brown and reaching down to just below his eyes, and no attempt has been made to manage the thick, tangled mess. A thin layer of stubble runs along his jaw, darkening it slightly, and his skin, darkly tanned and covered in scars from a thousand different wounds, seem to show some faint patterns of unknown origin. Barely visible except up close, they mostly cover his chest, arms, and neck in indistinct shapes, but can be found on his legs and face as well.
Seemingly a stranger to modesty, Crash is happy to show off his muscled torso, a thick grey-green coat worn over his upper body with the buttons left undone, no undershirt worn beneath it, and a thick band of orange material wrapped around his right bicep and tied tightly. Loose green trousers cover his legs, held up by a thick brown leather belt, and end in hefty leather boots capped with iron. Tough leather gloves wrap around his hands, fingerless, and the knuckles covered in iron bands, matching his sturdy, protected boots. A long, orange scarf is worn loosely around his shoulders, over his jacket and looped once around his neck.
History: Crash’s early life is a mystery, even to the conclave elders that raised him. He was orphaned at an extremely young age, only a newborn at the time, brought to the Shenjiang Conclave on the Rumbia border in the middle of a harsh winter by a feminine figure in a green cloak. The cold took her life as she stumbled towards the conclave and the monks, usually secretive and isolated, could not turn away the freezing infant that she clutched tightly in her arms. They took him in as one of their own, knowing not where the woman wished to take the young boy, and hoped to provide him a safe home away from whatever his “mother” wished to take him away from. Crash grew healthy and strong in his new home, weathered from any and all information about his past; he knew he was not like the other children, born in a land far away from the conclave, but it hardly mattered to him. He had a home, so why worry?
His transition into adolescence was defined by the spiritual and physical teachings of the conclave elders. Crash was rash, impulsive, and practices in patience were wasted on him. He struggled to understand their teachings, although not for lack of trying. He was deathly loyal to the conclave that had raised him, but the difference of ideologies made relations strained at times, particularly with his teacher, Zidiah Zher, who was otherwise like a father to him. Crash did, however, excel at their physical training, learning the Shenjiang Conclave’s style of swift, fluid martial arts with ease, and even devoting his time to practicing his own style of slower, heavier martial arts that focused on heavy strikes and debilitating blows; an extremely controversial style among the Shenjiang Conclave, but an effective style regardless.
From an early age Crash showed signs of being more than what he appeared; strong, smart, and resourceful, if rash and impatient, and constantly with strange, recurring dreams. He dreamt of himself, older and stronger than he was now. He dreamt of fire, emerald green and endlessly fierce. He thrust his hand into the fire without thinking, grabbing and wrenching an enormous silver blade free from it. He felt no pain, only power as the green flames rushed up his arm. It moved with him effortlessly, despite his lack of training and the sheer size and weight of the blade, and he brought it over his shoulder. The faint markings that lined his body, almost like pale tattoos, began to glow the same emerald green and then ignited, as he turned to face-
The dream never went further than that, When he first went to the elders they waved it off as nothing more than a dream, but Zidiah suspected something more. By the tenth time they became slightly more suspicious, although none seemed capable of explaining these vivid dreams to Crash. Zidiah insisted that Crash undergo more extensive mental training, suspecting something more, but nothing truly came of it in the end.
So, with no answers, he persuaded himself that they were just that. Dreams.
The conflict with the Iramu giant clan was what first contested the conclave’s views on pacifism. Tensions grew quickly and seemingly out of nowhere, as the giant clan seemed to take interest in the fortress that the Shenjiang Conclave had lived in for generations, while the inhabitants merely wanted to stay and live there peacefully. In an attempt to formally solve the dispute, the giant chieftain, Tia’Iramu, was invited to the conclave to discuss the situation in peace. Tia’Iramu did not arrive, instead usurped by his son, Irga’Iramu, who brought giant berserkers and war tamed beasts the size of buildings with him. Violent and tyrannical, wielding an enormous silver blade with a rusted orange hilt, Irga’Iramu brought hellfire down upon the conclave. Giants broke down the gates, tearing through the conclave’s defences with ease. The monks of the conclave had all trained in martial arts since children, and put up a desperate struggle against their attackers, but what they made up for with skill they lacked in strength and a willingness to kill. Staying true to their strong beliefs on pacifism, the monks only disabled their giant foes rather than killing them, while the giants attacked with wild abandon, making them almost impossible to control.
Perhaps one of the most capable fighters of the conclave, Crash stood at the front lines, defending himself and the conclave with enormously fierce strikes, landing heavy blows on the joints of giants, dropping them with remarkable precision and force. By the time it had taken three monks to tackle one giant he had already dropped two by himself. He fought defensively, until he saw his mentor, Zidiah, stand up against the giant Igra’Iramu and begged for peace. The man was cut down in an instant by the enormous blade the giant wielded.
Something clicked with Crash then. His mentor had fallen, and that sword… it was the sword he had dreamt about, he knew it. Like a man possessed, Crash charged the giant chieftain, a monster over twice his size. He tore through the giant’s personal guard with strikes strong enough to break the bones of even giants, and challenged the chieftain to single combat. Irga’Iramu laughed. What threat could a mere human pose to him?
While the giant laughed, Crash wrenched a dagger from the grip of another fallen giant and dug it deep into Irga’Iramu’s leg, tearing out the calf muscle completely.
The chieftain, while weakened, was still enormously powerful, and the battle between the two was fierce. Irga’Iramu was strong and possessed a mighty magical sword, but Crash was swift, agile, and possessed supernatural strength that only seemed to grow in the presence of the giant king’s sword. In fact, as Crash’s strength grew the chieftain’s faltered, and as the fight came to a close the two seemed equally matched in power. The giant brought his sword over in an enormous overhead swing, planning to crush Crash beneath the weight of the dull blade, but he only met resistance as Crash, arms stretched out above his head, caught the blade. He wrenched it from the hands of the giant as as he did it burst into green flames, engulfing the sword and setting those faint patterns along his skin an emerald green. He leapt high into the sky, the sword high above his head, and drew the blade directly down Irga’Iramu’s body, slaying the tyrant in an instant. His surviving kin fled soon after.
With the giants slain, the monks of the conclave came out of hiding. The sounds of battle had ended, but peace was not restored. Crash had killed in the presence of the conclave, and while many were thankful for forcing the giants back, he had betrayed one of their most sacred oaths. He was banished from the conclave, given only the most basic of equipment to survive and nothing more. Crash saw this as an opportunity. He bid his friends farewell and, along with what small rations the conclave had given him, he took the enormous hulking sword from the slain chieftain that hummed with arcane energy. He decided what he would do now quickly; he would learn to use the sword and find out what it was. It was a Sacred Arm, he was sure, but why did it seem so intrinsically linked to him? He did not know, but he believed he would soon find out. Befitting his new life, Crash forgot his old name and took up a new one, and set out into the great wilds beyond.
Other: Theme.
Sacred Arm: Arcane Arm, Reaver Riot.
Standard form; Titansblade.
In its standard form, Reaver Riot resembles an oversized double-edged straight sword, littered with dents and scratches that make it look less like a powerful arcane weapon and more like a scrapped antique. The Reaver Riot is a sword designed for a giant, and is certainly too large for any ordinary human to use it. Yet, Crash has no trouble hefting the eight-foot long silver blade, and can use the blunt blade equally as a weapon and as a shield, hiding behind the flat of the blade.
The hilt and handle, a hefty piece of rusted orange metal in its own right, possesses two triggers, and three lines run vertically down the blade; one in the centre and two just to the sides of that. Upon pulling the triggers the outer two lines separate, pushing the blade edges outwards and revealing two large cannons hidden within the blade. Another pull of the triggers fire them, launching huge, fist-sized spheres of metal and an eruption of green energy at whatever the blade it pointed at. The cannons have no trigger to retreat into the blade, and Crash usually just opts to bash Reaver Riot against something until they slot back into place.
Alternate form; Broadside Barragers.
The central vertical line hides no secret cannons, but instead shows where two separate weapons seal together. The Reaver Riot can, when forced a little bit, split in half, transforming into two single-edged straight swords that are each wielded in one han. The guns remain fully functional and the swords can be used much more swiftly than they could in their true form, especially when utilising the bladed edge, the hefty blunt side, and the firearms concealed within in tandem.
Overbreak form; Endless Overload.
Removing anything close to what could be considered a limiter, one side of Reaver Riot’s blade breaks away, exposing the raw, volatile arcane converter that channels Crash’s own arcane energy into the sword. The back half remains functional, still allowing the use of the blunt bladed edge and cannon, although Reaver Riot ceases to be able to be split in two. Instead, where a blade once sat at the forward end, a torrent of green arcane energy pours forth like fire, seeming to crystallise where the blade once ended to mimic what was lost. Along with supreme cutting power beyond anything Reaver Riot had before, in this form it can fire powerful blades of green energy to strike at a distance, or singular blasts of energy with a blade thrust.
Unleashed form; Hymnsblade.
No longer is the sword a giant’s weapon crudely used by a human. Arcane Arms unleash the wielder’s magical potential, and a true wielder needs a weapon designed for him and him alone. The rest of the blade sheds away, revealing a large, slender bastard sword made of silver, etched arcane runes running up the edge of the blade that glow white. Green energy engulfs the blade as it does in Overbreak form, but burns with an intensity far greater than before, the flames taking on the rough shape of the huge buster blade it once resembles. While it lacks the crude hitting power of its most basic form its energy generation is exceptional.
Race: Human.
Age: Twenty-six.
Sex: Male
Appearance: Crash Vega is a remarkable figure of a man. His features are distinct with broad shoulders, a heavily muscled frame that just peaks at seven feet tall, strong jaw, and piercing green eyes that sparkle whenever he grins; which is to say always. His hair is long and shaggy, dark brown and reaching down to just below his eyes, and no attempt has been made to manage the thick, tangled mess. A thin layer of stubble runs along his jaw, darkening it slightly, and his skin, darkly tanned and covered in scars from a thousand different wounds, seem to show some faint patterns of unknown origin. Barely visible except up close, they mostly cover his chest, arms, and neck in indistinct shapes, but can be found on his legs and face as well.
Seemingly a stranger to modesty, Crash is happy to show off his muscled torso, a thick grey-green coat worn over his upper body with the buttons left undone, no undershirt worn beneath it, and a thick band of orange material wrapped around his right bicep and tied tightly. Loose green trousers cover his legs, held up by a thick brown leather belt, and end in hefty leather boots capped with iron. Tough leather gloves wrap around his hands, fingerless, and the knuckles covered in iron bands, matching his sturdy, protected boots. A long, orange scarf is worn loosely around his shoulders, over his jacket and looped once around his neck.
History: Crash’s early life is a mystery, even to the conclave elders that raised him. He was orphaned at an extremely young age, only a newborn at the time, brought to the Shenjiang Conclave on the Rumbia border in the middle of a harsh winter by a feminine figure in a green cloak. The cold took her life as she stumbled towards the conclave and the monks, usually secretive and isolated, could not turn away the freezing infant that she clutched tightly in her arms. They took him in as one of their own, knowing not where the woman wished to take the young boy, and hoped to provide him a safe home away from whatever his “mother” wished to take him away from. Crash grew healthy and strong in his new home, weathered from any and all information about his past; he knew he was not like the other children, born in a land far away from the conclave, but it hardly mattered to him. He had a home, so why worry?
His transition into adolescence was defined by the spiritual and physical teachings of the conclave elders. Crash was rash, impulsive, and practices in patience were wasted on him. He struggled to understand their teachings, although not for lack of trying. He was deathly loyal to the conclave that had raised him, but the difference of ideologies made relations strained at times, particularly with his teacher, Zidiah Zher, who was otherwise like a father to him. Crash did, however, excel at their physical training, learning the Shenjiang Conclave’s style of swift, fluid martial arts with ease, and even devoting his time to practicing his own style of slower, heavier martial arts that focused on heavy strikes and debilitating blows; an extremely controversial style among the Shenjiang Conclave, but an effective style regardless.
From an early age Crash showed signs of being more than what he appeared; strong, smart, and resourceful, if rash and impatient, and constantly with strange, recurring dreams. He dreamt of himself, older and stronger than he was now. He dreamt of fire, emerald green and endlessly fierce. He thrust his hand into the fire without thinking, grabbing and wrenching an enormous silver blade free from it. He felt no pain, only power as the green flames rushed up his arm. It moved with him effortlessly, despite his lack of training and the sheer size and weight of the blade, and he brought it over his shoulder. The faint markings that lined his body, almost like pale tattoos, began to glow the same emerald green and then ignited, as he turned to face-
The dream never went further than that, When he first went to the elders they waved it off as nothing more than a dream, but Zidiah suspected something more. By the tenth time they became slightly more suspicious, although none seemed capable of explaining these vivid dreams to Crash. Zidiah insisted that Crash undergo more extensive mental training, suspecting something more, but nothing truly came of it in the end.
So, with no answers, he persuaded himself that they were just that. Dreams.
The conflict with the Iramu giant clan was what first contested the conclave’s views on pacifism. Tensions grew quickly and seemingly out of nowhere, as the giant clan seemed to take interest in the fortress that the Shenjiang Conclave had lived in for generations, while the inhabitants merely wanted to stay and live there peacefully. In an attempt to formally solve the dispute, the giant chieftain, Tia’Iramu, was invited to the conclave to discuss the situation in peace. Tia’Iramu did not arrive, instead usurped by his son, Irga’Iramu, who brought giant berserkers and war tamed beasts the size of buildings with him. Violent and tyrannical, wielding an enormous silver blade with a rusted orange hilt, Irga’Iramu brought hellfire down upon the conclave. Giants broke down the gates, tearing through the conclave’s defences with ease. The monks of the conclave had all trained in martial arts since children, and put up a desperate struggle against their attackers, but what they made up for with skill they lacked in strength and a willingness to kill. Staying true to their strong beliefs on pacifism, the monks only disabled their giant foes rather than killing them, while the giants attacked with wild abandon, making them almost impossible to control.
Perhaps one of the most capable fighters of the conclave, Crash stood at the front lines, defending himself and the conclave with enormously fierce strikes, landing heavy blows on the joints of giants, dropping them with remarkable precision and force. By the time it had taken three monks to tackle one giant he had already dropped two by himself. He fought defensively, until he saw his mentor, Zidiah, stand up against the giant Igra’Iramu and begged for peace. The man was cut down in an instant by the enormous blade the giant wielded.
Something clicked with Crash then. His mentor had fallen, and that sword… it was the sword he had dreamt about, he knew it. Like a man possessed, Crash charged the giant chieftain, a monster over twice his size. He tore through the giant’s personal guard with strikes strong enough to break the bones of even giants, and challenged the chieftain to single combat. Irga’Iramu laughed. What threat could a mere human pose to him?
While the giant laughed, Crash wrenched a dagger from the grip of another fallen giant and dug it deep into Irga’Iramu’s leg, tearing out the calf muscle completely.
The chieftain, while weakened, was still enormously powerful, and the battle between the two was fierce. Irga’Iramu was strong and possessed a mighty magical sword, but Crash was swift, agile, and possessed supernatural strength that only seemed to grow in the presence of the giant king’s sword. In fact, as Crash’s strength grew the chieftain’s faltered, and as the fight came to a close the two seemed equally matched in power. The giant brought his sword over in an enormous overhead swing, planning to crush Crash beneath the weight of the dull blade, but he only met resistance as Crash, arms stretched out above his head, caught the blade. He wrenched it from the hands of the giant as as he did it burst into green flames, engulfing the sword and setting those faint patterns along his skin an emerald green. He leapt high into the sky, the sword high above his head, and drew the blade directly down Irga’Iramu’s body, slaying the tyrant in an instant. His surviving kin fled soon after.
With the giants slain, the monks of the conclave came out of hiding. The sounds of battle had ended, but peace was not restored. Crash had killed in the presence of the conclave, and while many were thankful for forcing the giants back, he had betrayed one of their most sacred oaths. He was banished from the conclave, given only the most basic of equipment to survive and nothing more. Crash saw this as an opportunity. He bid his friends farewell and, along with what small rations the conclave had given him, he took the enormous hulking sword from the slain chieftain that hummed with arcane energy. He decided what he would do now quickly; he would learn to use the sword and find out what it was. It was a Sacred Arm, he was sure, but why did it seem so intrinsically linked to him? He did not know, but he believed he would soon find out. Befitting his new life, Crash forgot his old name and took up a new one, and set out into the great wilds beyond.
Other: Theme.
Sacred Arm: Arcane Arm, Reaver Riot.
Standard form; Titansblade.
In its standard form, Reaver Riot resembles an oversized double-edged straight sword, littered with dents and scratches that make it look less like a powerful arcane weapon and more like a scrapped antique. The Reaver Riot is a sword designed for a giant, and is certainly too large for any ordinary human to use it. Yet, Crash has no trouble hefting the eight-foot long silver blade, and can use the blunt blade equally as a weapon and as a shield, hiding behind the flat of the blade.
The hilt and handle, a hefty piece of rusted orange metal in its own right, possesses two triggers, and three lines run vertically down the blade; one in the centre and two just to the sides of that. Upon pulling the triggers the outer two lines separate, pushing the blade edges outwards and revealing two large cannons hidden within the blade. Another pull of the triggers fire them, launching huge, fist-sized spheres of metal and an eruption of green energy at whatever the blade it pointed at. The cannons have no trigger to retreat into the blade, and Crash usually just opts to bash Reaver Riot against something until they slot back into place.
Alternate form; Broadside Barragers.
The central vertical line hides no secret cannons, but instead shows where two separate weapons seal together. The Reaver Riot can, when forced a little bit, split in half, transforming into two single-edged straight swords that are each wielded in one han. The guns remain fully functional and the swords can be used much more swiftly than they could in their true form, especially when utilising the bladed edge, the hefty blunt side, and the firearms concealed within in tandem.
Overbreak form; Endless Overload.
Removing anything close to what could be considered a limiter, one side of Reaver Riot’s blade breaks away, exposing the raw, volatile arcane converter that channels Crash’s own arcane energy into the sword. The back half remains functional, still allowing the use of the blunt bladed edge and cannon, although Reaver Riot ceases to be able to be split in two. Instead, where a blade once sat at the forward end, a torrent of green arcane energy pours forth like fire, seeming to crystallise where the blade once ended to mimic what was lost. Along with supreme cutting power beyond anything Reaver Riot had before, in this form it can fire powerful blades of green energy to strike at a distance, or singular blasts of energy with a blade thrust.
Unleashed form; Hymnsblade.
No longer is the sword a giant’s weapon crudely used by a human. Arcane Arms unleash the wielder’s magical potential, and a true wielder needs a weapon designed for him and him alone. The rest of the blade sheds away, revealing a large, slender bastard sword made of silver, etched arcane runes running up the edge of the blade that glow white. Green energy engulfs the blade as it does in Overbreak form, but burns with an intensity far greater than before, the flames taking on the rough shape of the huge buster blade it once resembles. While it lacks the crude hitting power of its most basic form its energy generation is exceptional.
I should probably boop here even though my character is ninety percent done.
Boop.
Oh yeah this is probably a good time to mention that I'm the co-GM here.
It's hard to say, but I'm sure we can make it fit. Send Dargo or I the character concept so we can give it a decent look.
That works. There are lands far off from Galadia where ronin (or at least an equivalent) could come from, and with such a long life there are plenty of opportunities for one to find themselves in Galadia. The idea sounds good!
Boop.
Oh yeah this is probably a good time to mention that I'm the co-GM here.
Question: I've a character that I made but never got chance to use that I could repurpose quite easily for this, but his backstory is... well it's pretty grim by my standards.
I guess what I'm asking is 'how dark is too dark'?
It's hard to say, but I'm sure we can make it fit. Send Dargo or I the character concept so we can give it a decent look.
Here's my pitch: a centuries-old swordsman bound to an Eldritch Arm that imbues him with immortality. Wanders the world sort of like Yojimbo as a nameless vagabond, though meddles with the affairs of common people when he feels need to.
Now, I didn't see an explicit Japan analogue written up, so I'll refer to my character as a "swordsman" for now, but my original idea had him as basically a ronin.
That works. There are lands far off from Galadia where ronin (or at least an equivalent) could come from, and with such a long life there are plenty of opportunities for one to find themselves in Galadia. The idea sounds good!
Of course you want me in your roleplay, Dargo.
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