Six years and change, but guess who's back, back again. Looking at my post history and remembering what a cringey twenty year old I was.
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7 yrs ago
Dog sitting for my mother while she's in the hospital. Ill reply to RP's tomorrow or the day after. (She's fine.)
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7 yrs ago
Happy fuckin' new year, folks
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8 yrs ago
Either the guild's broke or everybody went on vacation at once...
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Bio
Name's L.C. I write, work, sleep, write some more, work some more, sleep some more... You get the point! Finally here to stay, and itching for partners, let's go.
Darius had spent the bulk of the afternoon helping out around the shop as a matter of course. He was hardly any good at repairing bikes, but there was plenty of heavy lifting and cleaning to be done in any shop, and he was happy to lend a hand... Even if it was only to stave off his own restlessness and boredom, while the younger folk got up to their training. When the time came to be seated and briefed, he sank into his chair with a soft grunt, and focused up. He could almost wish he hadn't, a frown deepening over his features the more Shouko explained.
By the time she finished, he was leaned forward in his seat, fingers laced on the table to keep from fidgeting and back rigid, concern clear in every line of him.
"Up until now, we've been led to believe that Hollows are practically animals- Clever animals, but still operating on simple needs. Hunger, violent envy for the living, the simple need to lash out. What you're describing now sounds more like a terror cell on the move- I've certainly sat through enough of those briefings to know the sound of it. Are you telling me these things can organize? That there's some higher thinking going on?"
D.O.B October 24 | Age 16 y.o | Sato Kiri | Region Shizumi | Rank Chūnin | Caste Kiri Refugees
Mimoto Mimoto
Terumi Jin
Shigoto Shigoto
Police
Joretsu Joretsu
B-Rank
外伝 外伝
Flashback
Monogatari Jin was destined for a life of struggle and disappointment from the moment of his birth. He was born when tensions were at their highest in Kirigakure, and born to a bloodline that was already the focus of that tension; Worse, he didn't even have the protection of the family he was hated for being part of. He was the product of an affair, a source of shame for the Terumi family, even as he was hated by outsiders for being of the same blood as so many Kekkans. Those tensions reached their boiling point before he was old enough to even remember it, and the civil war in Kiri began.
Reviled by his own bloodline, feared by those without it, his only source of protection came through his mother, a commoner, and fairly poor besides. All of his earliest memories involve running, from one group or another- Always on the move, a step ahead, but terrified to fall a step behind. With skirmishes breaking out constantly, and the fear of a knife in the dark to drive them, their only choice was to flee the Land of Water entirely, making way for the welcoming arms of the Land of Fire as refugees. While they never knew it, they escaped only minutes ahead of Jin's father, determined to erase the stain on his honor.
Once within the Land of Fire, things improved dramatically for the pair. Jin's mother was a talented seamstress, and while her skills would never make her wealthy, they were enough to earn her a place with a dressmaker in Oto, home of fashion in the Land of Fire. It meant a childhood almost approaching normalcy for Jin. He made friends, explored, the grim memories of his escape from his homeland fading swiftly. He was even able to, with help from his mother's employer, be taken into the local academy despite being from the Land of Water. It was here, however, that he would learn his limitations. Despite his bloodline, and all the famed Shinobi within it... Jin was a hopeless student. He showed only the bare minimum talents for Ninjutsu and Genjutsu, and while he excelled in Taijutsu, and was quite adept at the most raw forms of Chakra manipulation, it was clear that he would never be a shining star. Indeed, despite his ancestry, he was never even able to harness the power of the Kekkei Genkai within him.
In a way, it was a relief. It made him normal. Perhaps even less than normal. It meant he would live a quiet life, if not a peaceful one, never to rise up as a public figure, never to have the spotlight on him. His mother greeted that realization with joy, and after a time, Jin began to believe it a blessing as well. Still, he trained hard in the arts he was able to, and through sheer effort and grit, placed well in the Chunin exams at the first opportunity. It meant that while he may never shine, neither would he be trapped in the archives doing clerical work all his life. He's been quite content, since then, to do his duties with Konoha's police forces, a notoriously jubilant and pleasant presence on the street.
性格 性格
Individuality
Kokoronaka Jin is, put frankly... A bit simple. He isn't actually stupid, of course- He never would have made it through the exams if he were. But he is simple, and direct, and he knows his place in the world will forever be right in the middle of the pack. It allows him a level of complacency, the freedom of not being destined for great things. It lets him take his life a day, an hour, a minute at a time, and to never overthink things that don't concern him in the least. This leads to a laid back and cheerful attitude that is often mistaken for his being dense, and that perception is strengthened further by his refusal to hold a grudge- People think they can get one over on him, or take advantage of him. To an extent, they even can; If only because he can't be bothered to put in the kinds of effort and angst it would take to get them back for it.
Yet, by the same token, it has led over time to people liking him all the more, some even becoming defensive of him, and solving such problems before they ever arise. After all, what good is it to take advantage of somebody so perpetually good natured... Especially when they have friends who can and will rip you apart for it? He has become the Cop that everybody knows and everybody loves, the name you can call out on the street to get a hand moving something heavy, just as much as to stop a crime in its tracks. The only time he can be said to behave seriously, let alone look it, is when he's busy training, or when he actually has to do his job. For all his easy going nature, there can be no denying that Terumi Jin can, and will, throw hands with the best of them.
It's a simple life. A happy life. A life he's content to live.
Kirainamono Kirainamono
Hates
Kirai - Taking Things too Seriously - Mathematics - Entitlement.
Specialty Chakra Control- While his ability to perform Ninjutsu is subpar, Jin possesses excellent foundations in raw chakra control, for such techniques as water and wall walking, dispelling Genjutsu, and physical enhancement.
Taijutsu Specialist- His lacking skills in Ninjutsu and Genjutsu have led to Jin specializing in Taijutsu. While he is not on par with such legendary masters as Might Guy or Rock Lee, his skills cannot be dismissed, either.
The Muscle- Jin is, even without the use of Chakra manipulation, disconcertingly physically strong and enduring. If something heavy needs moving, or something durable needs breaking, Jin is the one to ask.
Scientific Ninja Tool "Scorch Knuckles". Weighted knuckle dusters with a fire-nature chakra battery designed to get them red hot without his expending any chakra.
AIGHT, I give you Terumi Jin! Spoilered to save peoples' scrollwheels.
木ノ葉 １２ 木ノ葉 １２
D.O.B October 24 | Age 16 y.o | Sato Kiri | Region Shizumi | Rank Chūnin | Caste Kiri Refugees
Mimoto Mimoto
Terumi Jin
Shigoto Shigoto
Police
Joretsu Joretsu
B-Rank
外伝 外伝
Flashback
Monogatari Jin was destined for a life of struggle and disappointment from the moment of his birth. He was born when tensions were at their highest in Kirigakure, and born to a bloodline that was already the focus of that tension; Worse, he didn't even have the protection of the family he was hated for being part of. He was the product of an affair, a source of shame for the Terumi family, even as he was hated by outsiders for being of the same blood as so many Kekkans. Those tensions reached their boiling point before he was old enough to even remember it, and the civil war in Kiri began.
Reviled by his own bloodline, feared by those without it, his only source of protection came through his mother, a commoner, and fairly poor besides. All of his earliest memories involve running, from one group or another- Always on the move, a step ahead, but terrified to fall a step behind. With skirmishes breaking out constantly, and the fear of a knife in the dark to drive them, their only choice was to flee the Land of Water entirely, making way for the welcoming arms of the Land of Fire as refugees. While they never knew it, they escaped only minutes ahead of Jin's father, determined to erase the stain on his honor.
Once within the Land of Fire, things improved dramatically for the pair. Jin's mother was a talented seamstress, and while her skills would never make her wealthy, they were enough to earn her a place with a dressmaker in Oto, home of fashion in the Land of Fire. It meant a childhood almost approaching normalcy for Jin. He made friends, explored, the grim memories of his escape from his homeland fading swiftly. He was even able to, with help from his mother's employer, be taken into the local academy despite being from the Land of Water. It was here, however, that he would learn his limitations. Despite his bloodline, and all the famed Shinobi within it... Jin was a hopeless student. He showed only the bare minimum talents for Ninjutsu and Genjutsu, and while he excelled in Taijutsu, and was quite adept at the most raw forms of Chakra manipulation, it was clear that he would never be a shining star. Indeed, despite his ancestry, he was never even able to harness the power of the Kekkei Genkai within him.
In a way, it was a relief. It made him normal. Perhaps even less than normal. It meant he would live a quiet life, if not a peaceful one, never to rise up as a public figure, never to have the spotlight on him. His mother greeted that realization with joy, and after a time, Jin began to believe it a blessing as well. Still, he trained hard in the arts he was able to, and through sheer effort and grit, placed well in the Chunin exams at the first opportunity. It meant that while he may never shine, neither would he be trapped in the archives doing clerical work all his life. He's been quite content, since then, to do his duties with Konoha's police forces, a notoriously jubilant and pleasant presence on the street.
性格 性格
Individuality
Kokoronaka Jin is, put frankly... A bit simple. He isn't actually stupid, of course- He never would have made it through the exams if he were. But he is simple, and direct, and he knows his place in the world will forever be right in the middle of the pack. It allows him a level of complacency, the freedom of not being destined for great things. It lets him take his life a day, an hour, a minute at a time, and to never overthink things that don't concern him in the least. This leads to a laid back and cheerful attitude that is often mistaken for his being dense, and that perception is strengthened further by his refusal to hold a grudge- People think they can get one over on him, or take advantage of him. To an extent, they even can; If only because he can't be bothered to put in the kinds of effort and angst it would take to get them back for it.
Yet, by the same token, it has led over time to people liking him all the more, some even becoming defensive of him, and solving such problems before they ever arise. After all, what good is it to take advantage of somebody so perpetually good natured... Especially when they have friends who can and will rip you apart for it? He has become the Cop that everybody knows and everybody loves, the name you can call out on the street to get a hand moving something heavy, just as much as to stop a crime in its tracks. The only time he can be said to behave seriously, let alone look it, is when he's busy training, or when he actually has to do his job. For all his easy going nature, there can be no denying that Terumi Jin can, and will, throw hands with the best of them.
It's a simple life. A happy life. A life he's content to live.
Kirainamono Kirainamono
Hates
Kirai Taking Things too Seriously/Mathematics/Entitlement.
Kiffar groaned as the others continued to fuss over such silly things as plans. So intricate, so complicated- and, he felt, entirely unnecessary, particularly given their discussion was infringing on his time to nap and lounge. More ideas were floated, and he could taste the fringes of tension in the air, certain this would fall into arguments and raised voices if things didn't come to a conclusion soon. He might enjoy that, in truth... But seeing who would fight who could wait for when he wasn't quite so sleepy. The Legionnaire took his leave, just in the tail of Sylruna and Sindri, and Kiffar rolled to sit upright on the pew with an irritable chuff. Even seated, he towered well over the eye lines of most in the room, movement alone often enough to draw attention to him.
"Kiffar does not believe the Legion Stomper intends to return. You all bicker too much, and this one is deprived of rest. Since the thinkers cannot think as one, Kiffar says that Kiffar is the leader, and that the Nord is the victor of words. Coin-Violence suits many here, and is simple. This works for Kiffar. It is decided, yes? Kiffar will accept challenges to his leadership after he has had a nap."
He pushed himself fully upright with a weary sigh, the pew groaning as if in relief once he was free of it. Apparently done with the conversation one way or another, yet too agitated to return to his planned rest, the Khajiiti stretched out, and made way for the door, stooping down to step outside, a flicker of his tail given in lieu of a wave for the others.
"We meet with the rising sun at this door to collect our things, yes? This one will find another place to rest until then."
I have been asked to join in, so here we go again xD Bit of an oddball concept, but Bee approved, so it just needs a glance over by the CoGMs
6'4" || 240lbs
Name: Sìorraidh || Schroedinger
Age: Appears to be in his Thirties
Nationality: Celtic
Noble Arm Name & Appearance: Mionnan an Fhaoillich A single edged, one handed sword in the style of Messers, Mionnan an Fhaoillich bears a nearly mirror polish, with guard and pommel styled after a raven. The flat of the blade bears writing, etched in rose gold against the silvered surface. "𝕻𝖗ì𝖘 𝖆 ’𝖈𝖍𝖚𝖒𝖍𝖆𝖈𝖍𝖉 𝕬𝖒𝖆𝖎𝖉𝖊𝖆𝖈𝖍𝖉 𝖓𝖆 𝖍à𝖗𝖋𝖍𝖆𝖎𝖈𝖍 𝕭𝖎𝖔𝖉𝖍 𝖙𝖍𝖚 𝖈𝖊𝖆𝖓𝖌𝖆𝖎𝖑𝖙𝖊 𝕲𝖚 𝖇𝖗à𝖙𝖍 𝖙𝖚𝖎𝖑𝖑𝖊𝖆𝖉𝖍"
Noble Arm Rank:
Power: D Speed: A Range: D (S) Persistence: A Precision: S (Affects Only Himself) Potential: F
Noble Arm Type, Element, and Range: Melee, Entirely Self-Affecting
Noble Arm Abilities: Àrdachadh: Mionnan an Fhaoillich provides modest enhancement to Sìorraidh's physical abilities, offering strength, speed, and reflexes marginally above what may be naturally obtained by humans. The blade itself is uncannily sharp, and wielded by skilled hands, devastating in melee combat.
Briseadh: When unpercieved by others, Sìorraidh can traverse modest distances (Up to around fifty meters) instantaneously and precisely. In example, he may step behind the cover of an Ally's shield, and emerge from behind an enemy, as if traversing the distance in the same step, so long as both points are not actively observed. The range of this ability is vastly increased should another individual actively think about him and attempt to summon him, such as by uttering his name as a command- He may, in such cases and only in such cases, appear near to that person no matter how far away they are.
Ceangaltach: Sìorraidh is bound to life, to existence, in a manner even he does not quite understand. Mionnan an Fhaoillich has dictated that he must exist, always- and this force of will is laid across him like a curse. In practice, it appears that he is incapable of death- should he be felled, he will fall only until he is no longer perceived. Once this happens, he becomes once more, as if he never fell at all. This state of being has been compared to the theoretical Schroedinger's Cat, given the apparent reliance on perception.
Misc Abilities: While his physicality is enhanced by his Noble Arm, Sìorraidh's prowess with the weapon is entirely his own- he is a masterful swordsman and martial artist. His talents with modern weaponry, however, are sorely lacking, and he possessed little in the way of leadership skills. He is, and has always been, a servant- a tool to be wielded by others.
He is also, apparently, an excellent cook, and has a talent for music.
Personality:
*Likes: Fine Dining, Clear Direction, Dancing
*Dislikes: Dishonesty, Getting His Clothes Dirty, Being Ignored
Fears: Being Forgotten, "The Drift", Being Lost Once More
Bio: Sìorraidh remembers little if his life before the incident- it comes in flashes, a confused tangle of memories from what feels like a thousand different lives. He knows, vaguely, that he was part of a training program meant to create Arms Masters- and he knows for certain that it was a brutal, punishing experience, meant to break participants down until they either had nothing left to give, or manifested an Arm. He remembers more vividly the moment his came to bed- remembers the driving though, his only remaining thought, in the moments before the program killed him.
I will be.
As the addage goes, be careful what you wish for. Mionnan an Fhaoillich manifested to him in that moment, and in a twisted manner, it gave him all that he desired. His last desire. He would not perish. He would be... Forever. Like a cat in a box, he was bound to existence, to be where ever and when ever he was perceived, with no escape, no release. So he has been, and will be, always. He was adrift, then, lost in between, living myriad lives and none, until he found one to anchor him.
A prince. Another who knew of the space between, a power mirror to his own. They spoke, and Sìorraidh swore himself to service- anchored himself to this boy prince, for both their sakes, to serve as an instrument of his will.
Kiffar had remained, for the mostpart, quite silent after his arrival- Patiently waiting, head bowed, for the blessing he was to receive. He was not a particularly religious sort, but it seemed the way these things were done, and holy people deserved at the least an attempt at civility and respect from him. It also served to let him listen, ears flicking this way and that as each voice aired ideas, or criticized the ideas of another. All of it sounded like a great deal of cactus husk to him- But then, the ideas of thinkers often did. Once the blessing was given in full, he rose to his full height once again, an appreciative nod offered to the Confessor before he turned to the others. The vast feline prowled through the group, one claw extended to none-too-gently prod Alexios' armored chest on his way past. He flopped with all the grace of a tired cat onto one of the pews, wood groaning under his weight, though it held. For now.
"That one... Thinks ill of us. Kiffar thinks that one is wise. We chitter like kittens for fancy ideas. The task we are given is simple, no? We escort the talkers and the thinkers, we kill the plotters and the schemers. Kiffar has found in life that if a problem cannot be solved by fighting or by fucking, then it is not a problem for Kiffar to solve. We meet the talkers and the thinkers in this Bruma. We walk with them. We kill things that try to kill them. We get much coin to line our pockets, and food to line our bellies. Simple, yes? Leave the scheming and the plotting for the people we will kill. Schemers and plotters always fail to remember that they can be killed."
He stretched out upon the pew he had claimed, yawning massively- A brief, terrifying impression of just how wide those jaws could spread- before he melted into his place of rest in the way of cats big and small, draped over hard edges as if they were the most comfortable of cushions. Eyes like ice never closed, however, flitting from person to person among their mismatched group.
"But perhaps Kiffar is too simple for saying so. This one leaves the thinking to thinkers- He wishes only that the thinkers would not argue so much, when we have been given many hours for the napping. He also thinks it is impolite, not to introduce one's self, after another gives their name. The Meen-La has given hers. Kiffar has given his. Who are these other thinkers?"
Herding Kiffar to the Priory had been a... Task, for the poor guardsmen that were sent to fetch him for this charge. He had been working, at the time, playing merchant guard to a caravan making it's way out of Skyrim, though the mere presence of the vast Khajiit had been enough to ward off common banditry and the occasional stray wolf pack. Which, unfortunately for all involved, meant that he was terribly bored when they arrived- and that a patrol of Imperial Guards was the most interesting thing to come off the side of the road in days. He has immediately decided that, clearly, they were here to pilfer the goods from this merchant.
That unfortunate misunderstanding made for an interesting entrance, when they finally arrived, just in time to hear the beginning of the Confessor's speech. Two guardsman shouldered through the doors, their faces badly bruised, one with their arm in a sling- another six coming in behind them, dragging Kiffar in their wake. He was walking along willingly enough by then, though he was forced to duck low to squeeze through the door, grinning broadly all the while. The massive Khajiit was shackled and chained, though there hardly looked to be a scratch on him, his voice a deep, throaty thing that seemed always but a hair from developing into a roar.
"Kiffar has told you, this crime was only a misunderstanding. Kiffar believed you to be tricksy bandits, yes? You may unbind him. This one promises he will not throw any more horses... Maybe not any more people, either, if the Imperials share the jerky Kiffar can smell, hm?"
The mere mention of horses was enough to make the poor man in a sling grimace, while another approached Kiffar as one might a wild animal, taking cautious steps and leaning away the whole while. Kiffar simply smiled- a terrible, toothy smile- and held his wrists out to be unchained. The moment he was free, manacles clattering to the ground, he took a firm step towards the two who has been bruised up in the attempt to bring him along, earning a startled yelp from one, and a growling laugh from Kiffar.
One of the more senior guardsmen rolled their eyes, leaning around Kiffar's bulk to offer an apologetic nod towards the Confessor.
"He calmed down once we explained what we were about- but whatever they want with this.... Citizen, they'd better be prepared to keep him on a short leash."
Out they went, then, leaving Kiffar to stand, towering, in the middle of the room- rubbing the ache from his wrists idly, while gnawing on a strip of jerky hanging from the side of his mouth, either stolen or gifted while the focus was on his escort. He listened politely enough to the Confessor's introduction, then, the explanation of why he had been brought here and what they were to do. When the offer of blessing came, he stepped forward with a low rumbling, easing to a knee before the Confessor. Even then, he was at easy eye level.
"Kiffar will take the green woman's blessing. The Empire is good work, for stray kitties, hm?"
Appearance: As a Cathay-Raht, Kiffar will never have an easy time blending into a crowd. Standing at a full three meters and change in height, with a broad, powerful physique, he towers over kin and strangers alike. Orange fur, striped with black and accented by cream, make him stand out all the more- for even amidst his fellow Cathay-Raht, commonly darkly hued, he is unusual. Eyes of an icy blue give his stare a disconcerting level of intensity, let alone the unwavering nature of a feline gaze.
Beyond the natural gift of size, he is well muscled by a life of hard training and effort, with a fair share of scars beneath the veil of his pelt- enough to suggest a life of violence, though not so many as to imply he does not know how to duck. So far as gigantic tiger men go, he may yet be considered handsome, despite the beginnings of grey sneaking through the orange and cream around his chin, brows and whiskers.
Age: 36
Skills:
Path of the Warrior:
One Handed - Expert - Swords, Axes, Daggers Two Handed - Expert - Great Swords Unarmed - Master - Khajiit Has Hands If You Want Problems Thrown Weapons - Adept - Javelins, Axes, Daggers
Path of the Thief:
Sneak - Adept - Hides in Bushes. Smacks Things. Alchemy - Novice - Cannot brew himself, but a Master of identifying other brews Light Armor - Novice - Prefers to go Unarmored Speech - Adept - Surprisingly Charming
Path of the Mage:
He Is Orange. Magic Is Hard. Kiffar Does Not Magic.
Personality: Kiffar is a simple man, of simple drives. While it would be incorrect to call him stupid, he does not make a habit of concerning himself with intellectual matters, believing them best left to others with wiser heads than his own. He believes that there are very few problems that cannot be solved with either violence or flirting, and he vastly prefers the former option when possible. On his own, he is prone to aimless wandering- But with proper direction, he can be a terrible tool of brute force... So long as he remains fed and entertained.
Bio:
Kiffar, the Vast Born a Cathay-Raht, destiny marked Kiffar for war, to be used by his people as an instrument of brutality, in defense of their home, or in pursuit of their goals in other lands. Even amidst his kindred, he grew to be large, powerful limbs lending him speed and strength fit only for violent use. The Cathay-Raht were once described as large and fast enough to do battle with werewolves, and Kiffar is a breathing example of that truth. They named his Kiffar the Vast, and he did battle in their charge.
Kiffar, the Manesguard So great we're the actions of Kiffar the Vast, in the years of his youth, that honors were extended to his family- To come to the city-state of Torval, to be of the kind of the Mane. Kiffar was to serve as warrior guard, to be bastion and claw to the Mane himself, and he took this duty with pride. For ten years did he protect and serve the leader of his people. For ten years, he bore the palanquin upon his shoulders when his master sought to wander his realm. For ten years, they named him Kiffar the Manesguard.
Kiffar, the Unbound War came to Elswyrr in the fourth era. War came, for leadership was lost. Assassins came in the night for the Mane, and like ghosts, evaded the watch of his guard. The Mane was slaughtered in his bed, and Kiffar knows only that the deed was done in the wake of his master's refusal to back the Thalmor. He believes, knows in his spine, that it was they who brought blades in the night. But this belief does not rid him of blame, and of guilt. The Manesguard failed in their charge, and were reviled for their failure. The whole of them were removed of their posts, as war began in the sands of Elswyrr, and vanished to wander, shamed. They named him Kiffar the Unbound, and he left his home forever.
Appearance: As a Cathay-Raht, Kiffar will never have an easy time blending into a crowd. Standing at a full three meters and change in height, with a broad, powerful physique, he towers over kin and strangers alike. Orange fur, striped with black and accented by cream, make him stand out all the more- for even amidst his fellow Cathay-Raht, commonly darkly hued, he is unusual. Eyes of an icy blue give his stare a disconcerting level of intensity, let alone the unwavering nature of a feline gaze.
Beyond the natural gift of size, he is well muscled by a life of hard training and effort, with a fair share of scars beneath the veil of his pelt- enough to suggest a life of violence, though not so many as to imply he does not know how to duck. So far as gigantic tiger men go, he may yet be considered handsome, despite the beginnings of grey sneaking through the orange and cream around his chin, brows and whiskers.
Age: 36
Skills:
Path of the Warrior:
One Handed - Expert - Swords, Axes, Daggers Two Handed - Expert - Great Swords Unarmed - Master - Khajiit Has Hands If You Want Problems Thrown Weapons - Adept - Javelins, Axes, Daggers
Path of the Thief:
Sneak - Adept - Hides in Bushes. Smacks Things. Alchemy - Novice - Cannot brew himself, but a Master of identifying other brews Light Armor - Novice - Prefers to go Unarmored Speech - Adept - Surprisingly Charming
Path of the Mage:
He Is Orange. Magic Is Hard. Kiffar Does Not Magic.
Personality: Kiffar is a simple man, of simple drives. While it would be incorrect to call him stupid, he does not make a habit of concerning himself with intellectual matters, believing them best left to others with wiser heads than his own. He believes that there are very few problems that cannot be solved with either violence or flirting, and he vastly prefers the former option when possible. On his own, he is prone to aimless wandering- But with proper direction, he can be a terrible tool of brute force... So long as he remains fed and entertained.
Bio:
Kiffar, the Vast Born a Cathay-Raht, destiny marked Kiffar for war, to be used by his people as an instrument of brutality, in defense of their home, or in pursuit of their goals in other lands. Even amidst his kindred, he grew to be large, powerful limbs lending him speed and strength fit only for violent use. The Cathay-Raht were once described as large and fast enough to do battle with werewolves, and Kiffar is a breathing example of that truth. They named his Kiffar the Vast, and he did battle in their charge.
Kiffar, the Manesguard So great we're the actions of Kiffar the Vast, in the years of his youth, that honors were extended to his family- To come to the city-state of Torval, to be of the kind of the Mane. Kiffar was to serve as warrior guard, to be bastion and claw to the Mane himself, and he took this duty with pride. For ten years did he protect and serve the leader of his people. For ten years, he bore the palanquin upon his shoulders when his master sought to wander his realm. For ten years, they named him Kiffar the Manesguard.
Kiffar, the Unbound War came to Elswyrr in the fourth era. War came, for leadership was lost. Assassins came in the night for the Mane, and like ghosts, evaded the watch of his guard. The Mane was slaughtered in his bed, and Kiffar knows only that the deed was done in the wake of his master's refusal to back the Thalmor. He believes, knows in his spine, that it was they who brought blades in the night. But this belief does not rid him of blame, and of guilt. The Manesguard failed in their charge, and were reviled for their failure. The whole of them were removed of their posts, as war began in the sands of Elswyrr, and vanished to wander, shamed. They named him Kiffar the Unbound, and he left his home forever.
Name's L.C. I write, work, sleep, write some more, work some more, sleep some more... You get the point! Finally here to stay, and itching for partners, let's go.
<div style="white-space:pre-wrap;">Name's L.C. I write, work, sleep, write some more, work some more, sleep some more... You get the point! Finally here to stay, and itching for partners, let's go.</div>
Member
Azure Bubbles
BladeSS4
