Howler

Essence of the World: Cadence [Always Open]

@Themerlinhawk

Good answers, I'll keep them in mind looking through your posts.

And a failure of a character...that was actually surprisingly difficult for me to answer. I'm not sure that you can have a 'failure of a character', in that characters in and of themselves basically are what they are. To me a character is a 'failure' only in that it doesn't come through the way that you want it to, so I think I would have to say that a character of mine that failed cleanly was a soldier named Silas Colt.

He was a soldier who had come back from a distant war with his memory wiped and a dishonorable discharge for something he couldn't remember and couldn't be explained due to confidentiality, so he was a very angry fellow. I still think he was actually a very good character, but I say he failed because his tone was significantly darker than the rest of the group was interested in, so rather than a conflicted and angry veteran he came across as Murderer McMonster, Slayer of Puppies and Bunnies. Everyone basically just thought he was an asshole and left him alone, which wasn't what I'd intended with him, so I think that's probably the best character fail I can think of.

I still think he was a legit character, though. I'm a dick like that. >.>

Essence of the World: Cadence [Always Open]

@themerlinhawk
Have at you, sir!

2. Writing

What is the impression of your characters (in this game) that you want your readers to come away with after reading your posts, and what do you do to convey it?

A two-parter, so sort of cheating, but you can always cheat back. XD

A Song of Men and Arms: A Homeric Rp

Let's give this a go. It's dramatic and violent, and perhaps a bit off the wagon for what you're looking for, but it's also just the first thing I thought of. Let me know if I should keep thinking or if it's solid to go.

Stheno

Name: Stheno
Epithets: Enyo, Bloody Stheno, Hideous Stheno, The Hungry Wife
Age: Late Twenties

Gender: Female
Appearance:
Stheno is more beast than woman, something she barely bothers to hide. One eye milky and blinded, the other bright and sharp as copper, her dusty hair falls in matted and coiled dreadlocks down past her full breasts to her waist. Though she might have been beautiful once upon a time she has lost her womanly appeal and traded it for a warrior's strong shoulders and arms, thighs and calves powerful and defined instead of tender and lady-like. Pockmarked with scars she dresses simply and without thought. Her mind is far elsewhere.

Personality:
Stheno is quiet more often than not, a watcher and an outcast. Many think her mad, and are not far wrong, but more often than not her quiet words are civil and soft. Prone to small kindnesses and naivete, it is only on the eve of battle and bloodshed that her affiliation with such elements comes to the fore. Her love affair with war is legendary, such that many believe her to be the daughter of Ares himself. Others believe her a monster, her viciousness merely her true nature showing when the veneer of womanhood is shed. Whatever the truth it is in battle that she comes alive--the rest is merely a veneer, insubstantial and fragile, as any who broach such discussions with her will find.

Bio:
They call her Stheno, she who has slain more men than her sister's together. Perhaps they believe her the Gorgon of legend in true--perhaps they mean it literally. Either way, Stheno has had more than her deal of bloodshed in her life and made peace with it as best as one can.

Whoever her parents were, death claimed them and the rest of their village while Stheno was merely a girl. Then called by another name, one long ignored in the face of an obvious truth, she as a girl took up her squalling sisters and made to march for the next town in silence, her bloodied feet clotted with dust from the road and the right side of her face burned from a terrible fire. She arrived at night amidst after no fewer than three days of travel, nearly dead on her feet and unable to speak, and she and her sisters were taken in by a man and his wife for fear that the Gods would curse them for turning their backs on such children in need. But battle had left its mark on the girl and never again would her life be whole without it--though her sisters grew lovely, the fairest in town, poor Stheno was burned and hid behind her hair. She wove baskets that fell apart, cut linens that shredded and shaped clay that cracked, and though she tried her hands at the womanly arts it was clear that she had little hope. In jest someone claimed her hands were meant to break, not mend, and she had to agree.

As her youngest sister grew lovely enough to marry it was clear she would be quite a prize. A contest was held in the local villages to see what man could win her, and after three days of games it was clear that the victor would be a man named Alkaios, a soldier. Massive and athletic, it was equally clear that his persuasions ran dark and his home was a troubled one, and though none could best him in wrestling or boxing or pankration. As the eve of the third day of games came to a close not-yet-Stheno's sister came to her sobbing and afraid, grasping her tightly for strength. Instead, not-yet-Stheno stepped forward to challenge the man who would win her sister, and though many tried to halt the battle Alkaios laughed and accepted the challenge. He was not, he boasted, ashamed to strike a woman who chose to place herself in his way.

To this day none can say what happened to the young woman. Was she possessed by the Gods? A Goddess herself? Or something far worse? Her fists fell like hammers, her sharp feet like scythes. She tossed Alkaios like chaff in the breeze and battered his bones until he was bloodied and blue. Finally, in a frenzy, the man drew a dagger only to find it buried in his gut, and so then was now-Stheno's sister free.

But not for long. Word had spread of Alkaios' death and his Captain was not about to allow such treachery to occur. He marched his soldiers on the village and demanded the woman who took his man's life, lest he turn his men and raze the village in Alkaios' honor. But none stepped forward to champion her, and indeed many cried for her to step forward lest they be saved. Her own sisters, finally, pushed her from their house in fear and doubt, and she stood alone before the soldiers for them to do their worst.

They were outmatched.

What happened there was not spoken of again by any who lived to tell the tale, but Stheno slay every one of the men who came for her that night. She slay them with spears and axes and hammers, with swords and fire and her own bare hands. The wounds she took were wicked things, marring what little beauty she had left and marking her forever as the beast that she was, but to see the smile on her bloody lips as she looked back to her sisters, now terrified of her and not the invading army, well, they still tell tales of it.

And so she walked to the woods alone and never returned. They say she joined a pack of Maenads and roamed the forests, debauched and dangerous. They say she became a champion for a local lord, killing in his name and for his pleasure. Some even say she waited in the halls of Ares himself for a carnage worthy of her. But she found herself at Troy, and while Hector and Achilles and Ajax killed each other Bloody Stheno walked the fields of carnage and killed so very many others.

Enough, perhaps, for even her lifetime.

Skills:
Stheno has very few skills aside from her fury, and most are mediocre. Either contrary to legend or given enough time she has adequately learned to weave and sew, and though terrible with growing flowers she is not awful at arranging them. She also has uncommon skill with wounds and gore, apparently as appreciative of them after their bloody birth as during, though she is no physician.

Greatest Strength:
Stheno will be remembered for her fury. More than her skill with a sword or the strength of her arm, more than anything, she will be remembered for the fervor that she brings to battle, the love that she has with it. Athena has no love of her, for she cares little for cleverness or wisdom, but in the din even mighty Ares watches her amidst her foes and laughs to see her joy.

Greatest Flaw:
Stheno's greatest flaw is everything else. Unable to take pleasure from even the simplest acts, not the touch of skin or the taste of food, there is nothing for Stheno but battle and bloodshed. The rest of her life is spent in a haze, and though perhaps she has tired of such monstrosity it is all that will ever bring her comfort.

Essence of the World: Cadence [Always Open]

Loom: Midtown Swait District

Day 2, Evening, 2254
Roanne, Ian, and Zadkiel

Ah, the squabbling of children.

Well alright, to be fair they weren't children children, but Jasper had seen more than his share of folks come and go and knew well enough that even the oldest of men couldn't understand the longest picture, let alone the youngest of angels who so acutely felt the injustice of the world and longed to fix it. Therein lay the true struggle between angels and demons--the eldest among both had learned long ago to be measured in their approach, to fight the war and not the battle. It was the resurgent youth on either side that kept up this conflict so adamantly and so viciously, their battleground increasingly visible along with their casualties.

Of course, that outlook was what got them all into this mess to begin with.

As his associates did the heavy lifting (literally), Jasper cocked his head and really examined this well-meaning stranger who'd gotten into such a bickering match. Tall, dark haired, bearded, trained--he spoke of danger and training in equal measure, and if his retreat to muttering was any indication perhaps mental illness as well. Could he be treated, Jasper wondered, without rendering him less than what he was? He'd learned the hard way that most such fellows took issue to such questions, and so held his tongue on the matter and focused instead on Roanne as he helped her to her feet.

"We are all of us together in this fight for decency and dignity." Jasper reminded them only slightly sanctimoniously, bending to examine her side slightly before straightening with reasonably-well-restrained effort. "You fight your battle and he fights his. Alba, the van if you will." He added over his shoulder without looking for no apparent reason--the massive demon was already tossing the gangers unceremoniously in the back of the van, a rolled tarp the only thing there to catch them. If they weren't unconscious, they likely would have been quite a handful.

"If you'd like a ride back to the center, Roanne, you're certainly welcome." He offered as he made his way towards the muttering man in the alley, Rubra falling into step behind him like a shadow. As they drew near, she reached into a jacket pocket and handed a business card to the man mechanically--it listed Dr. Jasper Dial, M.D., D.O., at the address of the BDT facility down town.

"As are you, should you or your colleagues have need of it. You're right, of course--I am Jegudiel, as your database no doubt indicates, and profanity aside I will be more than happy to take care of the cleanup. As for taking the fall, please direct anyone inquiring to speak with me--I've no doubt we will reach a reasonable agreement on the matter." He smiled and offered a hand, slipped from his pocket, though whether or not the man shook it he would turn to head back towards the van. "Speaking of, I'm afraid I've work to do. You've caught me somewhat in the middle of something. Do keep up the good work, however, it will take the both of you and then some active on the streets to keep our flock safe."
@Fairess@Themerlinhawk

Essence of the World: Cadence [Always Open]

Yeah, I figured homeboy probably wouldn't be so into Lucy. She was a companion to him, not a God in the way that Aaurus was. As one of the OG angels, he just uses God.

Unless that's not kosher, in which case I'll change it.

Essence of the World: Cadence [Always Open]

Feeback me, bro.

But actally by all means, I similarly appreciate feedback one way or another. I promise I'll only nerd-rage snd throw things at my computer for, like, an hour after you talk about my over use of commas and dashes.

No voodoo dolls or anything. Totes promise. <3

A Song of Men and Arms: A Homeric Rp

Color me interested as well.

Essence of the World: Cadence [Always Open]

Loom: Midtown Swait District

Day 2, Evening, 2254
Roanne, Ian, and Zadkiel

The white van slid smoothly through city streets like it was meant to, nearly anonymous but for the soft green logo on its side. A stylized tree shooting up from a seed, BTD lettered rising along its side, it was surprisingly and exactly what it looked like. It didn't have rocket jets or gimmicks, it didn't have an after-market engine or fancy tires--it was an outreach van, plain and simple, but it had pulled its weight time and time again. Steady and reliable, exactly how Jasper liked it as he sat in the passenger's seat and closed his eyes so as not to have to stare at the improbably long red light in front of them for yet another minute. It had been that way for more than two now, significantly higher than the city average, and if he had to admit it he was starting to--

Move. Thank God.

A few minutes later the van slid to a halt across Beacher K's Pawn, its thick white door sliding open to reveal Alba's massive figure in the doorway. He filled it almost completely, stepping out and rolling his neck a moment to uncrink it before steeping to the passenger's door and opening it. Rubra was already making her way around the front, her red hair worn in a tight, high pony-tail that cascaded down her back in a shock of color that was almost alarming considering the muted palates of her monochromatic companions. Certainly Jasper, as he stepped from the vehicle, was not nearly so stylish. White on white, wraithlike, he accepted Alba's massive hand with a murmur of gratitude and stepped down to the sidewalk properly, sliding his hands once more into his pockets.

Roanne seemed to be her usual cheerful self, making friends and insulting people. The angel was dedicated, which was admirable, but also had little patience for those that she didn't feel felt as deeply as she did. It could be...trying, though the young man she spoke with was doing a good job of not rising to the bait. He was certainly no miscellaneous bystander judging by his aura and instrument, certainly interested in Roanne despite Jasper having specifically requested her not to draw attention to herself. He sighed, stifled a roll of his eyes, and let his face clear into a pleasant smile as he stepped forward towards the pair, Alba and Rubra falling silently in step behind him.

"Making friends, Roanne?" Jasper offered by way of introduction, making his way with slow, achy steps. For many people it was difficult to determine what to make of Jasper, his mild memory modifications constantly adjusting not perception but the memory of it. Though he wore nothing but white and his clothes were pristine, most people remembered (and 'saw') that he wore a brown suit and tie. Though he walked bare-foot on the cement and blacktop of the city most people remembered ('saw') him in loafers. And though the pair of massive white wings that stretched from his shoulder blades nearly touched the ground on either side of him, most people didn't remember those at all.

But musicians were not most people. If Ian's guard was up at all he would not be so easily fooled. The man was an angel--a barefoot, dressed-in-white angel--and Jasper doubted if he would see differently.

"I hope she hasn't been rude to you. She's in pain, as you can see, and not herself. Ian, you said your name was, do I have that right? It's a pleasure to meet you, Ian." He added, offering a thin hand and a weary smile. "My name is Doctor Jasper Dial. These are my associates, Mr. Alba and Ms. Rubra." The latter of them did not extend a hand, watching Ian from behind her glasses wordlessly. The former of them was already padding towards the unconscious gangsters, moving to check pulses and sling them over his huge shoulders to haul back to the van.

"Thank you for taking care of her. It's amazing how the lights in this city can completely ignore you, isn't it?" His conversation was pleasant and easy as he moved to kneel beside the guardian, doing his best to conceal a slight twinge in the process. He lay an easy hand on her shoulder.

"It's good to see you, though I wish the circumstances were better. Let's get you patched up."

Essence of the World: Cadence [Always Open]

Loom: Midtown Swait District

Day 2, Evening, 2254
Zadkiel

"You should know that this isn't your fault."

Ricket woke up to cold concrete against his cheek, rough and damp. The world came in through a concussive fog, the kind of headache that blanketed the real pains like the one in his jaw. It screamed as he tried to move, jagged bone against jagged bone, and was almost certainly broken. A man in a cheap folding chair was talking to him from what felt like the other side of a bottle, muffled and distorted past the ringing in his ears. He tried to talk, regretted it with a sharp groan of pain, and spat old clots to the floor. The man gave him a minute to compose himself.

He was in a dungeon. That was pretty much the closest thing to it that he could figure, a concrete box cast in dim halogen yellow by the strip-light in the ceiling, and the only way out was a door that looked meant to take on some form of moving truck and win. In front of the door was a man that looked meant to take on some form of moving truck and win, shaved-gorilla big with buzzed hair the color of snow and sunglasses on indoors. He looked like he meant business in his black jacket, black shirt, black slacks, and Ricket remembered that he meant business from that time he'd kicked him across an alley and very nearly through the brick wall on the other side. It was coming back to him in staccato flashes, the chase, the catch, Goliath over there making a mosaic out of his mandible. As he tried to move the heavy chains around his neck and shoulders, wound around his wrists and trailing down between his legs to a hook in the floor behind him made themselves apparent, and as his mind cleared he found that he could struggle at best to a kneeling position so long as he didn't expect to raise his head much.

He managed an articulate gurgle, regretting it almost immediately with a groan. It had sounded something like "What?", and so that's apparently what the man in the chair decided to run with.

"This." He repeated, motioning around with a slight circle of his finger. He was as monochromatic as his gigantic friend, dressed in white from head to his apparently bare feet. The long sleeved tee was nothing special, nor were the slacks aside from being pristine, and the long white of his hair fell down to just below his chest in straight sheets. More than anything he looked tired, weary, like he'd carried a heavy load for long enough it was a part of him now, and he'd been slouching back in the chair before he'd leaned forward to better talk in his gentle, vaguely-Swedish sing-song. "The chains, the beating, the awful things you've done. Your life, if you can call it that. It's not your fault."

Inhuman strength wasn't getting Rickets anywhere with the chains, his arms and legs and back flexing against the thick metal and finding it unyielding. He was starting to panic, which was starting to make him angry, and his demonic heritage began to show itself more clearly in the claws curling from his fingertips, the sharp barbs curling through his knuckles. His shattered jaw was beginning to heal, and he talked through the pain anyway.

"What...are you...on about...?"

Not exactly Shakespeare, but it would do. Or maybe it wouldn't, judging by the 'give me patience' Heaven-ward eye-roll the man in the chair made before turning those baby-blues back to Ricket.

"Your name is Anthony Ricket, or at least that's what they call you. You've been ducking Peacekeepers for some time now." He watched him, his eyes even and tired, and the unpleasant sensation that he'd given this talk plenty of times before was hard to miss. "You've done some very bad things, Anthony."

"Fuck...you."

Ricket was starting to feel better, or at least starting to get stupid instead of scared. Who did this fucker think he was, some surface-dweller? Ricket had clawed his way out of Hell, for crying out loud, did the guy think his little bondage chamber and walking refrigerator were going to cow-tow him? He met the man with sharp eyes of defiance, and the man just sighed and put his hands together in front of his face. He closed his eyes. He moved slowly, as if it pained him or he had arthritis or something, and spoke just a little bit quietly. Rickets was annoyed to find himself straining to hear him.

"I'm going to be honest with you, Anthony, I really would like to skip this bit. Really. I'm going to tell you what's going to happen, and you're going to tell me to go to Hell, or to go--pardon my language--fuck myself, and play the big bad demon, and talk all about how much of a beast and a monster you are and it just isn't going to get you anywhere. It really won't. If you have to get it out of your system then I get it, but if you can just hold it together for me a little while longer this whole process will really just be so much simpler."

Wanting nothing more than to rip the condescending asshole's head from his shoulders and shove it down the macho-man's throat, Rickets was beginning to realize that he might actually be in trouble. He'd been struggling the whole time against the chains, which absolutely should have popped like bobby pins by now, and only really succeeded in reminding himself how generally battered he felt. The way the man was talking said he'd done all this before, which said that he'd survived doing it before, and (whether he wanted to admit it or not) there was something intimidating in that. How many other people had he put through whatever this process of his was? Had they all been demons? What the fuck was going on, here?

"Who the hell are you?" His jaw, if not completely fixed, was at least stable enough to support speech. Chalk one up for the bad guys. "What is this place?"

The man smiled slightly in relief--if nothing else, he'd been given a brief reprieve from the vitriol he knew full well demons such as Ricket were capable of. "Thank you. This is the Brightman-Dial Treatment and Housing Facility, though most just call it the BDT. It's also your new home, so welcome to it. As for me, here I am called Jasper Dial."

"Never heard of you."

"I hadn't expected you to." He agreed, visibly glad to have the conversation turned in a more pleasant direction. Placing his hands on his knees, he stood like an old man might despite being no older than fifty at most (and probably much younger than that, though it was hard to tell). His feet bare against the concrete, his hands tucking neatly into his pockets, he slouched as he stood but didn't break eye-contact with the demon and kept the pleasant smile on his face. "You might not believe me, Anthony, but I'm glad you're here. Really, I am. This world has done some awful things to you, it's about time we got you somewhere safe."

It was hard to tell quite what to feel, as far as Ricket was concerned, but the more the man talked the more 'confused' became a primary emotion, followed swiftly by his old friend 'angry'. Really, what the fuck was this guy talking about?

"Is this some prison, then?" Ricket laughed, the sound rough and aggressive past his lengthened, bloody teeth. No one could mistake him for a human now, any vestige of disguise gone. His face had pulled into a rictus mask, his lips stretched back above rows of teeth. His eyes sunk to jaundiced gleams in the skullish contours of his face, forehead stretching and molding to a crown, there was nothing left of the human he'd pretended to be. "Something the Peacekeepers cooked up? Maybe you should worry less about what the world has done to me and more about what I'm going to do to you as soon as I slip these chains."

The man's disappointment was visible, his shoulders and head dropping, but he raised them once more with a forced smile. "Alright, Anthony, you're doing really well. Let's not mess that up, alright? You're not going to slip those chains, just like you wouldn't do anything to me if you did. That time in your life is past and done with, it's over now. I'm happy to say that starting today, we start in on a new chapter in Anthony Ricket's life, the one where you start to make something of it."

"If I'm not going to hurt you if I get out of these chains," Ricket grinned, letting his teeth click together a bit, "then why not take them off?"

"Oh I will, Anthony. I absolutely will. As soon as you've put your old life behind you, as soon as you can see how far down this dark road you've gone, I will personally undo those chains and let you make your way upstairs to greet the rest of our little family." There was something painfully annoying about being spoken to like that, something deeply irritating about such condescension. The man they called Jasper Dial around here was talking to him like a fucking child, like he was some kind of retarded, and Ricket was quickly deciding he was having enough of it.

"Look, fucker, I don't know who you think you're talking to but if you think you're going to--"

"Stop."

And he did. Ricket absolutely stopped, because the air buzzed when Jasper said that little word and suddenly his mouth was shut. It was simple as that. And much through he tried, Anthony Ricket could not open it to continue the diatribe that had been building while this idiot told him what a good boy he was. Jasper looked relieved, smiling appreciatively.

"Thank you." He added politely, for good measure. "I really do appreciate it. You don't know how often I've heard your kind go down that little tangent. 'You don't know me', 'I'm a terrible, powerful demon', 'If you think you can break me', and all that. Trust me, it's not as original as you think, which isn't exactly a surprise. It's a perfectly reasonable response to your situation, which is exactly my point. Everything you are, everything you've done so far, is a perfectly reasonable response to your situation. It's how you're wired, how you're programmed. Born of the void, without the God's love to sustain you, you lash out like any child would." It would have been easier for Ricket to ignore him if he could speak yet, but apparently he still couldn't. His jaw just wouldn't work, his vocal chords just wouldn't hum. What the fuck was going on?

"It's only natural." He was continuing, and this part of it all seemed particularly rehearsed, as if he'd said it dozens of times before if not more. "Really. Without essence you'll die, and only be stealing it from others can you attain it. What a horrible existence, Anthony!" For perhaps the first time he appeared some form of distressed, honest emotion curling into his voice as he knelt to meet the demon's silent eye. "I can't imagine what it must be like, to be without something so essential--that's where the word comes from, you know, 'essential'. 'Essence'. Something of absolute importance, the intrinsic nature of something that cannot be further reduced. That something that makes you you, that defines your character. And that, Anthony, is why I say that this isn't your fault."

Reaching forward, Jasper placed a hand on the demon's shoulder. Though he recoiled, sharply, and at first opened his mouth to snap at the wrist and hand of this creature that bound him, he stopped halfway to it at the look in Jasper's eyes. There was something there, an alarmingly pleading warning, that gave him pause, and for the first time since he woke up Ricket was afraid. He closed his mouth, then, and watched the man's warning turn to a relieved smile with wary eyes that tried not to be afraid.

"Thank you." Jasper added, closing his eyes and nodding. "I appreciate your restraint. Do you see, Anthony? Even with nothing of yourself but what you've stolen, even with nothing to define you or nurture you, you are capable of dignity and nobility. That's what this is about, Anthony. That is why I want you to know that all of this, all the pain and horror of it, is not your fault. So I'm going to give you that essential piece, that something that will define you. Today, in this room. And once you have it you'll never have to debase yourself again. There are very few individuals in the world, Anthony, who can claim to be truly righteous, but freed from the awful lack that you and your kind are born into and from you will be...righteous."

He sighed and breathed out, shuddering softly with conviction. When he opened his eyes, the blue practically blazed above his now warm smile. And, as an after thought.

"You may speak now."

When his jaw unclenched and he was sure that his vocal chords would work, Ricket chose his words carefully and slowly. One at a time.

"You. Are. Fucking. Crazy."

And Jasper deflated. He sighed, letting his eyes fall shut and his head fall slightly, his shoulders losing the vitality they'd had and returning to their slouch. He seemed older in an instant, and weary, but beneath all that weight was resolve, and he got to his feet with the same achy motions as before as Ricket continued.

"No, really. Do you even hear yourself, right now? You're the one that should be in chains, asshole, how about you let me do some fucking counseling for a bit! I'm not about to--"

But he stopped, just then, and not because Jasper made him. Instead he stopped because the most incongruous of sounds was echoing around the chamber, and it took him a minute to realize that it was coming from the gorilla's cell phone. It spat out some tinny jingle, obviously never changed from whatever it once had been at the store it was purchased from, and as he made no move to answer it Ricket looked back to his crazy captor to find his eyes closed and his lips pursed in the first display of irritation he'd seen. Jasper Dial, it would appear, did not like to be interrupted mid-session.

"...you need to take that?" Ricket finally snorted after the fourth repetition of the ring, smirking up from where he knelt as the man straightened without opening his eyes. He extended a hand and, silently, the giant plodded over and placed a slim black cell-phone into Jasper's palm. He swiped it open with visible patience, the bodyguard settling impassively at his side as Jasper placed the phone to his ear. He hadn't even know he had service down here. His other hand he extended to the demon, who incredulously watched him raise a give me a minute finger and strike up a conversation with forced cheer.

"Roanne. It's been too long."

Essence of the World: Cadence [Always Open]

Ah, I see now about Archangel and such. I imagine Zadkiel was a Seraph, then, if he was involved in the work with the Demonic Parasite, though feel free to say otherwise imagine you prefer. As far as sort of moderate proficiency in most abilities that's fine--I figure there are a few he probably mastered, such as the Tamer aspect and some degrees of Weather for personal reasons (he really likes rain), but there are plenty of others he would only have trained for posterity.

And correct, he has never died. He prefers not to engage in violence personally at the best of times and he's powerful enough to handle himself on the rare occasions he has to.