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Current Ninety-nine bottles of bottles of bottles of bottles of bottles of bottles of bottles of bottles of bottles on the wall
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Biting Spider Writing
4 yrs ago
Welcome to Lemons' fourth year on RPGuild. PRAISE BE!
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5 yrs ago
They will look for him from the white tower...but he will not return, from mountains or from sea...
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5 yrs ago
RIDE WITH ME, MY FRIENDS! WE DO NOT STOP 'TIL VALHALLA!
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In Lem's Stash 1 mo ago Forum: Test Forum

_______________________________________________




Physical Description
A woman of perhaps 5'5" with an extremely average build, Quinnlash can melt into a crowd of people with relative ease as long as she pulls a hood over her head. Not only imbued with a pyromancer's ember but a pyromancer herself, her single eye gleams with a brilliant yellow light. Her hair is very long, kept in a tight braid that trails down her back. Though most if it is the dark gray it always was, bits and pieces of the fringes around her face have begun to bleed the same vivid hue as her eye.

While her body certainly isn't unfit by any stretch, it's not to the same standards that many other Hunters have trained to. Her tendency to keep her distance means that much of her evasive skills in combat rely on creating space between her and enemies as fast as she can. She's nimble enough, of course, needs to be in order to avoid being struck by any return fire, but not very strong. The most obvious place to see this is in her musculature. It is very apparent that she's not a frontline fighter by any means. What she lacks in strength, though, she makes up for in consistency. Though her muscles aren't overly strong, they are filled with a seemingly unnatural endurance and surefootedness even for a hunter. Bought and paid for with each backwards step taken while lining up a shot, that manifests in confident and easy movement, even in the most perilous situation.

She wears long, baggy, thick clothes with many layers, worn and tattered by now, as she travels. She no longer feels the cold now, heated as she is with an ember from deep inside. But deep within her, in a part that she despises, there is a fear that one day, she will lose what makes her human. That perhaps she already has. That her soul, already so fragile, will shatter like a pane of glass, and she'll lose something very, very important.

Character Conceptualization
Quinnlash was a scholar once. A books-in-a-library-in-Midnos, dyed-in-the-wool scholar. She'd been raised to be one her entire life. Ever since she could read, her parents—both reputable scholars themselves—had inundated her, drowned her, with diagrams, carvings, and so many books. Some as heavy as she was and varying widely in topic, the only way for her to keep her head above water was to swim. And swim she did, meekly accepting her parents' demands and doing her work, kept totally isolated in her room within the small but lavish house in the capital of Midnos. She grew very knowledgeable for her age as she simply read. Not that she could understand most of what was in the books. But what else was she to do? With nothing else around her, all the time she could ever want, and the only two people in her world constantly telling her to study at such a young age, what could she do but eat, sleep, and read? She didn't want to go outside. Her parents told her that it was dark. It was dark, and scary, and filled with things that wanted to hurt you. Best to just stay inside studying, right? She could go outside when she was older.

But when she was seven, she was allowed to leave the house. Just once, with her father close beside her. She clung tightly to him, looking fearfully at the dark world, as he took her to see a strange woman. The two of them spoke seriously in low voices for some time. What little she could hear, she didn't understand. Words like "magical affinity," "innate talent," "potential for phenomenal things." She had no idea what was going on, and flinched away, clutching to her father's clothing, when the woman reached her glowing hand out to her. She averted her pale violet eyes from her and closed them tightly, terrified. But no touch came, only a faint warmth that soon faded entirely. She opened her eyes in time to see the woman nod gravely at her father and then turn to walk towards her. And no matter how Quinnlash struggled, no matter how she screamed or cried—the pyromancer took her. The last things she ever heard from her family were two words from her father, as she tearfully begged him to take her back home with mama, please, whatever she did she was sorry, she'd be a good girl from now on, she'd never ask to go outside again:

"Goodbye, Quinn."

From then on, she studied different topics, in different ways. How to conjure flame. How to use it to defend yourself. How to exercise fine control over it. How to channel it for sustained periods. The work was grueling—mentally and physically exhausting. Months bled into years and years bled together, as she studied and trained as a pyromancer, first from a small group of skilled pyromancers and then—as her prodigal once-in-a-generation skill became apparent—by Ezlineia Aldos, the Pyromancer-Queen of Midnos, whom she became very close to. She even started calling her Mom.

Still, the habits ingrained into her by her parents held. Whenever she had time to spare, little enough of it thought there was, she would plod her way into Ezlineia’s library and find the book that Ezlineia told her to sink her brain into to distract her from the crippling fear she felt of the outside world. In reference tomes and manuals of pyromancy, the world was categorized. Understandable. Dissected. But whenever she stepped outside, it all bled together into a mess of darkness and confusion that she fled from time and again. She'd heard the stories of the Void. She'd heard tales about what lurked out there in the darkness. And she was, as ever, afraid. So she buried herself with scholarship and training, distracting herself from the terrifying world around her. She was a perfect piece of moldable clay: quiet, meek, obedient, desperate to be loved, and hopelessly eager to please.

Time ticked by, revealing Quinnlash, now a very powerful—if very inexperienced—pyromancer of 24 years, still lurking in Ezlineia’s libraries, reading about the world that she was ever and always too scared to explore, even past her doorway. There was a hidden, growing part of her that wanted, that desperately yearned, to see what was out there. But it was crushed beneath something far more meaningful that had bubbled up beneath her of late. Studies had been done in Midnos on how to fight the Void. How to resist their corruptive influence. She should know, she’'d read them all. But nothing she'd ever found in her mentor’s library knew what they were. And with that realization, the deep-rooted anger reared its head. She had been shut up her entire life, first of her parents' will, then Ezlineia’s, then her own. And now, 24 years into her life, what did she have to show for it? An exhausting fear. A horrible feeling of being trapped. And not a fragment of new knowledge to contribute to anything. She knew how to wield fire, but what did that matter if she didn’t even know what she was fighting?

Angry. Angry. Angry. Angry at the entire world. But she didn't let it out. She couldn't let it out. She closed in again. And she let it fester. It simmered beneath her for a year and a half, during which time she grew increasingly desperate to find out more about the Void. To find out something, anything, about the Void. A way to justify to herself the decades spent in isolation.

But she never did.

And nearing the tail end of her twenty-fifth year, the caldera of rage had swollen within her, growing more and more misplaced tremors of anger. Anger at her parents, who locked her in one room for years, and instilled deep within her the fear of the unknown that still dogged her feet. Anger at that damned pyromancer Elan for taking her away from her family when she was scarcely old enough to understand what was happening. Anger at Ezlineia, for her obsessed devotion to training her to become the next Queen. But most of all? Most of all, she was so furious it made her sick to her stomach at herself. If all the Midnosian studies on the Void were useless, what was she? Hiding in the library walls, never daring to take more than a few steps outside? Her whole life...what did any of it mean?

No more. No more calculating decisions for weeks before taking a single action. No more staring silently at the ceiling, unable to sleep, eyes fearfully darting about the room for hours. No more suppressing her emotions, crushing them down until they boiled her alive. No more books. No more. No more useless scholarship. No more being groomed to take the throne by Ezlineia. After all, a queenship was just another, shinier cage. Never again. No more. She needed to leave this place. To escape. To throw herself into something else, something so singular and savage that she could only ever think of it. Her brain screamed for it.

The caldera burst. The volcano erupted.

With barely a conscious thought, she found herself strapped to a table as a willing volunteer, with Mom standing above her.

"Are you really sure you want to do this, Quinnlash?"
"Fucking yes! Hurry up already!

The Queen sighed almost mournfully. And then came the pain. Her pyromancy warred with the ember growing within her, violently rejecting this foreign flame. Her skin peeled off and regrew. Her blood seethed and boiled. Her muscles were shredded, rebuilt, and shredded again. She vaguely remembers her bones snapping like brittle burnt twigs under their own weight. And her eyes incandesced, searing themselves white hot and bubbling within her skull. One of them ran out of her face, dripping like magma to the floor and collecting in a smoking, ruined pool. Only the other made it through the transformation from scholar to something far more dangerous, and it was forever dyed with a baleful yellow light.

In the years since, she's changed so much from the her that hid from the world that she doesn't even recognize what she was anymore. She's a different person now. The life of a Huntress was one that she'd only come upon through reckless abandon and overpowering emotion—sheer blinding anger—and so that is who she became. She barely even remembers the old Quinnlash. The Quinnlash that she left behind. And for that she is thankful, as she embraces a new Quinnlash. The Quinnlash who fights the darkness. Who embraces the constant pain. Who does all she can to not feel fear. Because if she does, then the rest of her—the one she's tried so hard to forget—may come creeping back.

Never again. Fight for the sake of fighting. Never again. Move on. Never again. Don't ever look back.

Other Information
TBD

In Lem's Stash 1 mo ago Forum: Test Forum

_______________________________________________



Physical Description
Slender and short—only an inch or two above five feet and not quite skinny enough to see her ribs, but almost—Advance-Captain of the Midnosian Pyromancer-Knights is not the first thing that comes to peoples' minds when they see Sozaelamine Vaega Aricia. There are people who have asked her whether or not she's playing in her daddy's armor, ignoring the perfect fit, the hand resting on the pommel of the longsword, the confidence in her stance, the hard set of her soft young face, and the glaring judgement that dances behind her brilliant purple eyes. For the most part, she wears her knight's armor; plates of intimidating metal backed by chainmail and fitting like a glove. Done up in gleaming silver-black and chased with bright orange, it truly fits her like a glove. Since her transformation into a hunter, she's foregone the helmet, letting her short, pale gray hair fall freely.

She moves with a practiced grace that shows how skilled she is, and how strong. Not a foot out of place, not a move too sloppy, she is extremely invested in being skilled and in showing how skilled she is. Tein in particular rises and falls like a dancer's ribbon, scything through Voidlings in the dozens, if not hudreds.

Character Conceptualization
There was a silver spoon in Sozaelamine's mouth from the second she was born.

The scion of the illustrious Aricia family, she truly was coddled as a child, and through many of her formative years. Her parents spoiled her rotten and she wanted for pretty much nothing at all. Instead she looked over Midema from the balcony of her parents' manor and thought of herself as the master of all she saw.

Some years went by and she got slapped in the face with a harsh dose of reality when her parents grew sick of her indolence and kicked her out of their house. Not permanently, but long enough for her to spend some time having a think about who she wanted to be instead of slacking off all day. It was the Void Eclipse, there was no room for people like that in Midnos.

In the span of one night, Sozaelamine was catapulted from the highest rung of society down to the lowest level, booted firmly into the dirt of Midema. Her only option was to pull herself out of that dirt (well, it wasn't her only option, but something inside her refused to let herself creep back to her family in failure). So instead, she did exactly as her parents wanted and started getting her hands dirty. Over the next few years, she worked odd job to odd job and began to value the freedom more than the comfort, and stayed gone. Her muscles grew hard. Her eyes grew sharp. And one day—completely by chance—she happened to run into a woman named Keypiir in all her knight's finery. She saw Keypiir, and was instantly enraptured by this member of the Pyromancer-Knights. And Keypiir, for her part, looked at this young woman—still a girl, really, only barely fifteen—and saw within her the makings of a fine knight.

And so that is what she became. Taken underneath Keypiir's wings, she steadily rose through the ranks. As did Keypiir. Ten years hence, she attained the illustrious title of Advance-Captain. Sozaelamine, of course, what thrilled for her. Over the years, the two of them had formed a very close mentor-student relationship. And even something almost sisterly.

All that changed during one fateful defense of Galah, a small settlement in the outlying regions of Midnos. The hunters were dispatched elsewhere, and so the Pyromancer-Knights stood before the Void.

Too much. Too much. They were overwhelmed quickly, and the end of the world stood before them. All of the Pyromancer-Knights retreated, with the exception of Keypiir, still fighting to evacuate all the villagers, and Sozaelamine, who stood paralyzed looking out at the horror-night.

Then Keypiir—strong, brave Keypiir—ran up to her, brandishing a blade in her right hand a flame in her left, and let a small, sad smile show. "Live, Soza. Live."

She threw herself forward.

Sozaelamine ran.

Her next dream was tormented by the images of Keypiir's last moments. She should have been braver. She needed to braver. She needed to be as brave as Keypiir. She needed to be Keypiir, to show her fortitude and bravery to everyone. She needed to destroy the Void, just as her beloved mentor had tried to do so valiantly that horrible night.

And so, Advance-Captain Aricia submitted herself to the ministrations of Queen Ezlineia, and let the flame become her. Let it forge her into a brand against the eternal night, so that one day, she can purge the cloying guilt that clings to her, and make Keypiir proud.

Other Information
TBD
In Lem's Stash 2 mos ago Forum: Test Forum

_______________________________________________



Physical Description
Slender and short—only an inch or two above five feet and not quite skinny enough to see her ribs, but almost—Advance-Captain of the Midnosian Pyromancer-Knights is not the first thing that comes to peoples' minds when they see Sozaelamine Vaega Aricia. There are people who have asked her whether or not she's playing in her daddy's armor, ignoring the perfect fit, the hand resting on the pommel of the longsword, the confidence in her stance, the hard set of her soft young face, and the glaring judgement that dances behind her brilliant purple eyes. For the most part, she wears her knight's armor; plates of intimidating metal backed by chainmail and fitting like a glove. Done up in gleaming silver-black and chased with bright orange, it truly fits her like a glove. Since her transformation into a hunter, she's foregone the helmet, letting her short, pale gray hair fall freely.

She moves with a practiced grace that shows how skilled she is, and how strong. Not a foot out of place, not a move too sloppy, she is extremely invested in being skilled and in showing how skilled she is. Tein in particular rises and falls like a dancer's ribbon, scything through Voidlings in the dozens, if not hudreds.

Character Conceptualization
There was a silver spoon in Sozaelamine's mouth from the second she was born.

The scion of the illustrious Aricia family, she truly was coddled as a child, and through many of her formative years. Her parents spoiled her rotten and she wanted for pretty much nothing at all. Instead she looked over Midema from the balcony of her parents' manor and thought of herself as the master of all she saw.

Some years went by and she got slapped in the face with a harsh dose of reality when her parents grew sick of her indolence and kicked her out of their house. Not permanently, but long enough for her to spend some time having a think about who she wanted to be instead of slacking off all day. It was the Void Eclipse, there was no room for people like that in Midnos.

In the span of one night, Sozaelamine was catapulted from the highest rung of society down to the lowest level, booted firmly into the dirt of Midema. Her only option was to pull herself out of that dirt (well, it wasn't her only option, but something inside her refused to let herself creep back to her family in failure). So instead, she did exactly as her parents wanted and started getting her hands dirty. Over the next few years, she worked odd job to odd job and began to value the freedom more than the comfort, and stayed gone. Her muscles grew hard. Her eyes grew sharp. And one day—completely by chance—she happened to run into a woman named Keypiir in all her knight's finery. She saw Keypiir, and was instantly enraptured by this member of the Pyromancer-Knights. And Keypiir, for her part, looked at this young woman—still a girl, really, only barely fifteen—and saw within her the makings of a fine knight.

And so that is what she became. Taken underneath Keypiir's wings, she steadily rose through the ranks. As did Keypiir. Ten years hence, she attained the illustrious title of Advance-Captain. Sozaelamine, of course, what thrilled for her. Over the years, the two of them had formed a very close mentor-student relationship. And even something almost sisterly.

All that changed during one fateful defense of Galah, a small settlement in the outlying regions of Midnos. The hunters were dispatched elsewhere, and so the Pyromancer-Knights stood before the Void.

Too much. Too much. They were overwhelmed quickly, and the end of the world stood before them. All of the Pyromancer-Knights retreated, with the exception of Keypiir, still fighting to evacuate all the villagers, and Sozaelamine, who stood paralyzed looking out at the horror-night.

Then Keypiir—strong, brave Keypiir—ran up to her, brandishing a blade in her right hand a flame in her left, and let a small, sad smile show. "Live, Soza. Live."

She threw herself forward.

Sozaelamine ran.

Her next dream was tormented by the images of Keypiir's last moments. She should have been braver. She needed to braver. She needed to be as brave as Keypiir. She needed to be Keypiir, to show her fortitude and bravery to everyone. She needed to destroy the Void, just as her beloved mentor had tried to do so valiantly that horrible night.

And so, Advance-Captain Aricia submitted herself to the ministrations of Queen Ezlineia, and let the flame become her. Let it forge her into a brand against the eternal night, so that one day, she can purge the cloying guilt that clings to her, and make Keypiir proud.

Other Information
TBD


Cafeteria, Fortuna | In Orbit over Arish IV
February 21st, 3061

"A lovely viewpoint, Ms. Holliday. I wish I was still as young and—"

Captain to exo-pilots, assemble in the hangar and prep your Frames for deployment. We got ourselves a contract. Will debrief you all when I get there.

She took a long, deep breath and let it out in a satisfied sigh, a small smile plastering itself to her face. "I would love to continue this conversation, truly. Perhaps later?" Then, shoving her tray to the side—she really didn't know how many nutrient cubes she'd eaten at this point but she really, genuinely didn't care—she shoved her chair back and stood, giving Mox a nod and then turning to William, the smile on her face growing just a little wider. "Tomorrow then, little prince!" Turning her back on them, she quickstepped over to the cafeteria door and rammed it open. The smile on her face stayed.

Inasmuch as she could really feel emotions, there was one pumping through her right now: anticipation. She hadn't been on a battlefield—a real, military battlefield (she'd been a Major, right? It was sometimes hard to remember)—in quite a long time. But still, every time she headed to where her beloved was resting, she felt her pulse quicken at the thought of mounting up again.

It wasn't long until she made it to the hangar. She'd almost run there, after all, and it was still mostly empty. Finally she reached her goal: on the far left side, two from the edge, was a monolithic beast of metal and bad news. She stroked it gently. "The joints are looking decent," she muttered to herself. "Hopefully decent enough." Last time she'd taken Perses out for a spin, she'd ended up raining hellfire with her induction cannon, missile pods, machine guns and retrofitted plasma cannon all at the same time, and the left ankle joint had broken loose. It had been unusable since. But now? Good as...well, not good as new, but good enough. Her eyes flicked up to the barrel of the Thanatos folded up on its back. "Good. Excellent."

Now all she needed to do was wait for Captain Deckard and the other pilots to get down here for briefing.

Well, that and get in the thing.

Where's that ladder gone off to?
In Lem's Stash 2 mos ago Forum: Test Forum

_______________________________________________



Physical Description
A tall woman of nearly six feet and rail-thin, Sansean doesn't so much stand as she looms, her narrow and pale-gold eyes holding undisguised judgement for anybody that they play over. Deep green hair frames a delicate face, long strands of it falling down to her waist in front. Her mouth is forever twisted into a frown, though whether sad or irritated, it's difficult to tell. Her body, in defiance of her Hunter strength, looks soft and weak, with little discernable musculature. She stays back in fights most of the time, and until she became a Hunter she was an academic and researcher more than anything else.

Her clothing is long and baggy, usually done up in some variety of green and capped with a deep brown robe of dense fabric. Though of course she never grows cold, the rain will always be uncomfortable, and it's convenient to be able to pass as a normal human being. In addition, it serves to mask the long strings of elaborate magical formulae tattooed all across on her upper back, shoulders, and and upper arms.

Character Conceptualization
As far as cities without bias go, Scilis is not one of them

The level of anti-Midnosian and Ldranti sentiment is...unsurprising. And understandably so, really; a countrywide slavery is still fresh in their collective psyche, and the festering open wound has only been bandaged by the Void Eclipse. Not clotted, not scarred, and certainly not healed. And the Scilis that Sansean was born was barely even bandaged. The Great War was still raging under the sun when she took her first breath. It was some months before the lights abruptly went out and the tenuous peace was struck.

As Sansean grew, she was surrounded with this fierce and independent hatred. It mattered very little that she had no context whatever for it; it was impressed into her young brain the same by her parents, who had fought in the rebellion themselves. She grew up with the firm belief that Midnos and Ldrant were just waiting for the sun to rise to continue their conquest. Around this time—perhaps twelve years after the Eclipseshe took a deep interest in the natural world. With the Hearths surrounding Scilis built by this time, it was safe enough for her to poke around the strange ways life had started to adapt without a sun to guide it. As she aged, this grew into a more scholarly interest in how things ticked, how they were structured. And as her nascent pyromancy began to develop a touch more, she began to research that too; the structure of magic, and all the ways it could be bent without breaking.

Her parents took note of this eventually, and instead of dissuading it, they asked an old friend of theirs whether or not he could make use of it. At seventeen years old, her intelligence, scholarly nature, and deep interest in how and why the world around her functioned earned her a spot at a place that would define her for the rest of her life:

The Locke Institute at Algaeon.

It was an unprecedented opportunity for her. A whole world had opened up for her and she embraced it with a fervent and delighted energy, growing her understanding and skill every day she studied there. She grew through the ranks rapidly, her meticulous eye and unmatched ability to retain and synthesize information quickly catching the attention of Locke himself. And just as valued was her clinical eye and loose relationship with value and conscience. Loose enough that she barely batted an eye at the horrors of the Pit and the crushing darkness of the ember farm.

More time passed. More pyromancer children came and went. She moved up more and more until she essentially became Locke's right hand, a firsthand observer of the conditioning and a confidante of all of his strange secrets.

Which was why she raised an eyebrow when he began a project that he didn't tell her anything about. It was completely blank to her; the only context she was given was "I'll have less time. I can't tell you why." And, a good assistant, she didn't pry. Years later until he finally unveiled the project: a new Hunter procedure. It was almost finished. But even looking at the formulae and procedure, she could see a few tiny errors here and there. He handed it off to her for finalization. She toiled on it for several weeks until she finalized her edits, creating a copy for her own records, then handing it off to Locke. And when the first melter came off the proverbial production line, she beamed with a fearsome smile.

A few weeks later, though...something began to bother her. A strange, niggling feeling in her chest whenever she saw one of the children go under the hunter's knife. And another week or so later, she realized what it was.

It was her conscience.

From that point on, she played...damage control. Not around Locke; she was careful to keep her previous persona up as best as possible whenever she was with him. But whenever he was gone—and she knew—he wouldnd't return and she was safe—she would sneak in to the poor children that Locke was grooming for their deaths or undeaths. She would talk with them. Give them little bits of real food. Stroke their hair, if they let her. But as more and more fell and became melters, she was certain: she couldn't stay. She just couldn't. She went to her small room-cum-office and, with the help of a particularly compliant child who had been conditioned and, as a side effect of her stay in the pit had lost her tongue and couldn't spill a secret, she tattooed every word, ever number, every symbol of her revised Lockesian Embersoul formula across her body before taking all of her notes and and, with a brief pulse of pyromancy, setting them ablaze. Then, with nothing left to her name but her deep brown robe to hide the horror on her body, she ran off into the night.

For the next year, she wandered, an itinerant healer. Her knowledge of anatomy and the human body allowed her to be a very efficient medic. To her, it was a form of repentance: all the poor children she had sent to the gallows weighed heavily on her mind, and every life she couldn't save only brought that crushing weight down harder. No matter what she did, she couldn't purge the memories of those children screaming as forever-pain overwhelmed them for the rest of their short lives. It was a constant terrible companion that she bore quietly and painfully. And so she eventually came to a conclusion of what she needed to do to repent all those that had become hunters because of her, and she traveled to Kethiline.

As she was recovering from the procedure, a new Gift for healing and a new and burning pain fresh within her, she discovered a strange book on the library shelf. And when she opened it, it sprang into the air next to her and...began to talk. Aschmat, it introduced it—himself, or at least his old grimoire that now had a kind of life. It had been cooped up in the library for over a century, it told her. And she would give her all the power that she asked of it—if it deemed it a good idea, of course—as long as she took it away from here.

Now her lifestyle as a wandering healer has been restored, this time far more powerful with the addition of her Gift. And with ever life saved and ever burn from the Embersoul within her blood, every town saved from destruction from the fire and lightning she and the Aschmat Grimoire scoured the Void with, she felt herself drawing ever closer. Perhaps she would never truly be able to redeem herself for all the pain she caused. Perhaps it would swing ever closer, but the asymptotic graph of forgiveness of sins would never truly be crossed.

But that didn't mean she wouldn't keep trying.

For as long as she needed to.

Other Information
TBD
In Lem's Stash 2 mos ago Forum: Test Forum

_______________________________________________



Physical Description
Slender and short—only an inch or two above five feet and not quite skinny enough to see her ribs, but almost—Advance-Captain of the Midnosian Pyromancer-Knights is not the first thing that comes to peoples' minds when they see Sozaelamine Vaega Aricia. There are people who have asked her whether or not she's playing in her daddy's armor, ignoring the perfect fit, the hand resting on the pommel of the longsword, the confidence in her stance, the hard set of her soft young face, and the glaring judgement that dances behind her brilliant purple eyes. For the most part, she wears her knight's armor; plates of intimidating metal backed by chainmail and fitting like a glove. Done up in gleaming silver-black and chased with bright orange, it truly fits her like a glove. Since her transformation into a hunter, she's foregone the helmet, letting her short, pale gray hair fall freely.

She moves with a practiced grace that shows how skilled she is, and how strong. Not a foot out of place, not a move too sloppy, she is extremely invested in being skilled and in showing how skilled she is. Tein in particular rises and falls like a dancer's ribbon, scything through Voidlings in the dozens, if not hudreds.

Character Conceptualization
There was a silver spoon in Sozaelamine's mouth from the second she was born.

The scion of the illustrious Aricia family, she truly was coddled as a child, and through many of her formative years. Her parents spoiled her rotten and she wanted for pretty much nothing at all. Instead she looked over Midema from the balcony of her parents' manor and thought of herself as the master of all she saw.

Some years went by and she got slapped in the face with a harsh dose of reality when her parents grew sick of her indolence and kicked her out of their house. Not permanently, but long enough for her to spend some time having a think about who she wanted to be instead of slacking off all day. It was the Void Eclipse, there was no room for people like that in Midnos.

In the span of one night, Sozaelamine was catapulted from the highest rung of society down to the lowest level, booted firmly into the dirt of Midema. Her only option was to pull herself out of that dirt (well, it wasn't her only option, but something inside her refused to let herself creep back to her family in failure). So instead, she did exactly as her parents wanted and started getting her hands dirty. Over the next few years, she worked odd job to odd job and began to value the freedom more than the comfort, and stayed gone. Her muscles grew hard. Her eyes grew sharp. And one day—completely by chance—she happened to run into a woman named Keypiir in all her knight's finery. She saw Keypiir, and was instantly enraptured by this member of the Pyromancer-Knights. And Keypiir, for her part, looked at this young woman—still a girl, really, only barely fifteen—and saw within her the makings of a fine knight.

And so that is what she became. Taken underneath Keypiir's wings, she steadily rose through the ranks. As did Keypiir. Ten years hence, she attained the illustrious title of Advance-Captain. Sozaelamine, of course, what thrilled for her. Over the years, the two of them had formed a very close mentor-student relationship. And even something almost sisterly.

All that changed during one fateful defense of Galah, a small settlement in the outlying regions of Midnos. The hunters were dispatched elsewhere, and so the Pyromancer-Knights stood before the Void.

Too much. Too much. They were overwhelmed quickly, and the end of the world stood before them. All of the Pyromancer-Knights retreated, with the exception of Keypiir, still fighting to evacuate all the villagers, and Sozaelamine, who stood paralyzed looking out at the horror-night.

Then Keypiir—strong, brave Keypiir—ran up to her, brandishing a blade in her right hand a flame in her left, and let a small, sad smile show. "Live, Soza. Live."

She threw herself forward.

Sozaelamine ran.

Her next dream was tormented by the images of Keypiir's last moments. She should have been braver. She needed to braver. She needed to be as brave as Keypiir. She needed to be Keypiir, to show her fortitude and bravery to everyone. She needed to destroy the Void, just as her beloved mentor had tried to do so valiantly that horrible night.

And so, Advance-Captain Aricia submitted herself to the ministrations of Queen Ezlineia, and let the flame become her. Let it forge her into a brand against the eternal night, so that one day, she can purge the cloying guilt that clings to her, and make Keypiir proud.

Other Information
TBD
In Lem's Stash 2 mos ago Forum: Test Forum


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Physical Description
Cecilia Monaghan, known sometimes as CC, has a bit of a weird appearance. She has all the makings of someone stereotypically beautiful; California-sunkissed skin, wispy hair a beautiful honey-blonde, and--one of her really big claims to fame as an up-and-coming child star--eyes that appeared more purple than blue, like the old actress Elizabeth Taylor's were supposed to be. She's 5'6" and well-proportioned, with a symmetrical face and a cute button nose. Her figure, too, is no slouch; while certainly not an hourglass, her pear-shaped hips have certainly turned some heads over the years, even before she started obsessively padding her chest to make her appearance more balanced. But the thing is...she has all these makings of a beautiful woman, but methodically and categorically refuses all of them. She spends all her time inside, ruining her complexion. She refuses to wash and brush her hair most of the time, leaving it a matted, greasy, tangled mess. As mentioned, she does her best to balance out her prominent hips with a padded bust. Her lovely face is twisted with the most unpleasant, grumpy expressions 99% of the time she's conscious. She's the picture-perfect epitome of, well, what she is: a formerly-popular child star, now long burnt out.

Vizera, on the other hand, is what CC longs to be more than anything. She's not beautiful in the same revolting 'cute' way that Cecilia has always been considered, ever since she was catapulted into fame. She's sleek. Dangerous. All of the curves in her hips that she detests are smothered, and her modest bust follows suit, leaving her a tall, thin, whiplike woman with a jagged expression on her face, halfway between a grin and a grimace. Her usual attire--board shorts and a tank top--are discarded for a long, dramatic, black trench coat, capped with a feathered hat. Of course, Cecilia is still visible underneath--her hair is the same color, and her face has the same shape, her skin is still the same tan. If you looked carefully enough, you could easily pin the washed-up child star to Vizera. But one very important thing has changed: ever since the pressure started building, Cecilia learned to hate her violet eyes. They brought her nothing but attention, and she wanted absolutely zero to do with them. This, at least, is a wish that has been granted to her by Pariah: her eyes are a merciful red-orange.

Character Conceptualization
Vizera probably doesn't like you.

Or, well, that's what she lets on. Which might make you wonder why she spends time around you, because she sticks around for some weird reason. And it probably confuses you for quite some time, since she seems to...well, she doesn't seem to have the energy to hate your guts, but she seems like she would if she did.

But then you realize a couple days in when you're on a dangerous dungeon delve that gives you literally no loot and Vizera insists on accompanying you--and you can see her resisting being closer to you when you're moving through the dungeon--that Vizera probably doesn't dislike you. Or, well, she doesn't dislike you as much as she can not dislike anybody. No, what you end up realizing halfway through this lootless dungeon after Vizera stays close to you instead of wandering off searching for whatever someone might have missed is that, past her layers of irritability, annoyance, and bullshit, Vizera is desperately lonely.

And yet--in a seeming contradiction that might leave you confused if you don't understand what's led her to that point--she really seems to hate it when attention is on it. To DESPISE it in a truly fantastical way. She'll nose into your life, sure, but if you ask her a single thing about herself, either in game or IRL, she clamps her mouth closed in record speed and moves on. The insane pressure that has been placed on Cecilia for most of her life, and certainly all of her adult life, gives her an intense aversion to being the center of attention, and this carries through into Vizera just as strongly. She's done things that some would balk at to avoid being known; she monitors her position on the DPS leaderboard OBSESSIVELY, and whenever it breaks into the top five thousand slots she goes on a rampage of terrible group dungeoneering, throwing herself into hordes of enemies without building up her Heat and barely making it out in time to be healed. She throws entire dungeon raids into the garbage for the sole purpose of making as few waves in Pariah's overall community as she possible can. After all, better to be 'that one shitty DPS that ruined our raid' than a celebrity here too; one that will inevitably burn out once again.

She also seems to be online a lot more than most people are. She'll log time into Pariah for over ten hours a day, and that's part of the reason that she's managed such a specialized build and such a high level, despite only playing for a couple months at this point.

Recently, she's found another way to avoid notice; despite her trash position on the boards, she's managed to finagle her way into a guild called the Gloro Inquisitors with a couple well-done raids, and remains near the very bottom of the guild. After all, goes her rationale, who are paid less attention than the worst members of a good guild?

Other Information
In Lem's Stash 2 mos ago Forum: Test Forum


"Yes, my father is an English teacher. Yes, he named me. No, I'm not happy about it."


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Physical Description
Edgar is interesting among Pariah inhabitants, in that his quiet self-confidence causes his avatar Hvitørn to look exactly the same as him, with the exception of haircut and clothing. Golden-blonde hair inherited from his Norwegian mother, her incredibly fair skin so prone to burning in the sun, his father's amber-hazel eyes and six-foot lanky frame—everything about him just screams 'golden child,' metaphorically and literally. At work, Edgar wears standard laboratory protective equipment; long white lab coat over a button-up shirt, gloves, heavy trousers, smart formal loafers, and safety glasses over his own narrow rectangular wireframes. When not working, even when just walking down the street, he wears a smart, bespoke black suit in the business-casual style over any number of dress shirts, as well as black socks and more formal loafers. He really does need to be alone with his wife in his apartment to be anything less than business casual.

In Pariah, he has a similar sense of style. Close-fitting, equally-bespoke mage robes, done up in black with white trim and embroidery. He makes the concession of wearing well-tooled boots instead of his loafers. He carries his spellcasting focus—a brilliant pale yellow gemstone the size of his fist—with him at all times in a pocket concealed in his robes' voluminous sleeves. His trademark wireframe glasses remain, perched on the bridge of his nose at all times; though he doesn't need them to see as there is no astigmatism in Pariah, they're so integral to his self-image that they go everywhere with him. The only time he takes time to calmly remove them is if an enemy is closing in on him. It wouldn't do for an impertinent goblin to break them with a lucky hit, after all.

Character Conceptualization
Golden child indeed.

The middle child of five siblings—all sisters—Edgar was anything but the golden child. Quiet and unassuming since childhood, his busy, busy parents did their best, but he had the least attention lavished on him of the entire family. And you know what? He was fine with that. He was independent and driven, a model student. He didn't know exactly what to apply himself to as he aged; he enjoyed schooling well enough through middle and early high school, taking home perfect grades every time as though it were effortless. But at home, his parents were beginning to be concerned; with their daughters mostly out of the house, whether it be to occupation, college, or socializing, they realized how listless their only son seemed. But whenever they asked him what was wrong, they received a noncommittal answer as he stared off into space.

And then everything changed in his junior year with AP Physics. And he fell in love with it.

Suddenly, his home life shifted dramatically. He talked excitedly about what he was learning with his parents and his sisters, when they were home. He spent most of his free time poring over his textbook, lips quirked in a satisfied smile, as he relished the sensation of unraveling the mysteries of the universe.

With his perfect GPA and self-surety, he magnetized to MIT, voraciously consuming every single physics course they had on offer and striking a special chord with nuclear physics. He spent every spare moment studying. He aced all of his classes. And it was only in the first semester of his senior year, when he tried to talk to classmates about what he'd been studying and they looked at him like he was insane, that he realized he had...no friends.

None.

Of course, he hadn't been close to many people in high school, but he'd always had his sisters, and a couple acquaintances. But now, for the first time, he was alone. So terribly alone.

He kept working. He kept getting those perfect grades he was so proud of. But the excitability in his voice when he was answering in class was gone. He enjoyed it still, but it all felt so...hollow. He applied for grad school at MIT. Got in, of course. Kept learning. Felt hollow. Kept studying. Felt inferior. Kept moving. Felt distant. Stopped eating. Kept going. He realized he'd only lived for his studies. Ever. First grade through grad school. No friends. Not really.

Felt empty. Kept working.

Then, when he was 23, at the height of his isolation and depression, he met a graduate student of particle physics named Annalise Turner. And for the first time in his sad, limited life, when someone talked to him, he talked back to her. She was incredibly smart and liked to joke around, as little as he laughed. But, more important to Edgar, she seemed to have an inborn talent to cut through his deadpan expressions to figure out what was going on underneath. She teased him with impunity, but it was never malicious; she saw that he was incredibly alone. And she felt very, very sorry for him. They ended up spending a huge amount of time together, whether it was studying their respective fields or just...talking.

No points for guessing what happened next.

With her help and support—and eventually, her love (which he was very bad at dealing with, she laughed lightly)—he got through school. Graduated with honors when he was 27. Got a job in one of the fusion plants near Minneapolis. And then, thinking about everything that had happened in the past few years. All the new feelings that he'd experienced. All the confidence that he'd regained. And then, at the headwaters of Lake Itasca—in the fourth year of their relationship—he went down on one knee and proposed to Ms. Turner, with that same grave expression that he always wore. She gave a tearful yes.

Then told him to cheer up, and pushed him into the lake.

Some time later, after they'd been married for about a year, he heard something from a colleague. A brand-new video game made in Japan with proprietary VR technology with an enchantment system more like a science than anything else. Interest piqued, he picked up a system, and started to play it occasionally when he had time off and Annalise was busy with her own job as a professor. His colleague was right; he found the enchantment system endlessly fascinating, and resolved to spend some more time trying to figure it out. He loved physics, but he felt like he was...plateauing a bit in what he could learn. But here was a whole new world to figure out.

He couldn't wait.

Other Information
In Lem's Stash 2 mos ago Forum: Test Forum

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Physical Description
The first thing that people notice about Briddell is how imposing she looks. Nearly six feet tall and very muscular and well-built, she very much looks the part of the frontline brawler that she is. A pair of narrow dull yellow-brown eyes that show a deep dissatisfaction with the world—and beneath that, a profound sorrow—sits beneath shoulder-length hair, strands split between a rich chocolate brown and a gleaming golden-blonde. She leaves it loose-hanging and tangled almost all the time, though with some brushing and styling it cleans up rather nicely. She carries herself proudly, but the tightness of her muscles and the lines on her face show the anger that boils underneath her skin.

She dresses in a traditional Scilari style done up in black and red-brown for the most part, but has cut a great deal of her clothing down to make it both less restrictive of movement and less terribly hot around the burning heat that is her Embersoul. On the occasion that she ever runs into polite company, she carries an equally traditional Scilari shawl-robe that drapes long sleeves over her arms, but leaves her hard shoulders exposed.

Character Conceptualization
Briddell grew up in a Scilari orphanage from ten years old, one of the countless children of the Great War. The matron of the orphanage, one Ina Tamwell, is still the kindest person she has ever met. With a full orphanage—twenty children—she still managed to give them all the attention that they wanted and the food that they needed, and always had a smile ready. The orphanage, positioned almost directly on the border of Scila with Midnos, never had a vacancy; whenever a child died, was adopted, grew up, any way of leaving, there was always another to fill the gap. Despite all of her siblings vanishing, Briddell grew up as a cheerful, helpful child. She had never been close to her parents, and they certainly hadn't been close to her; all she really had from them was the name Loethwynn, and so Ina was, as far as she was concerned, her real mother. So shouldn't she help with the chores?

As she grew, that helpfulness and desire to help her mother matured into a deep sense of responsibility. Ina had put her heart and soul into raising them, and though none of her original brothers or sisters were still there, even as she aged past childhood and into her adolescence, she remained. Not out of a feeling of obligation, but a genuine desire to help her adoptive mother as much as she could. Ina wasn't getting any younger. Her strength was beginning to flag, and she could no longer give every child of war the attention they deserved.

And then, when she was sixteen years old, the sun stopped shining.

From the darkness beyond the pale came the ravening Void. And though the war came to an end, there was still no shortage of orphans. Two years later, before the Hearths had been conceived, Ina—she was over sixty by then—took a fever that would not break. And though she tried her hardest, Briddell just...couldn't help her.

With their guiding light gone, the children—some too young to realize why the sun wasn't rising anymore—began to lose that spark of hope that had always defined Ina's orphanage. So Briddell, unwilling to see them lose anymore, stepped forward. The Tamwell Orphanage became the Loethwynn Orphanage, and though she was barely more than a child herself and the days of plenty were long gone—the nice meals that Ina fed them all those years ago were nothing but a fading dream now—she gave it everything she had. It was at this time that she began to really practice her latent geomancy in earnest, determined to keep the fires of her home burning bright.

Years passed, and she came into her own as the new matron, taking a fierce pride in being called "mother." Strong and protective, she sheltered all of the children under her wings as best she could. With the advent of the Hearths, the Void wasn't so bad. Ina took care of her at the epicenter of a colossal war. There was no reason she couldn't do the same for her children. She knew, sure as she knew her own name, that this was what she was meant to do.

And then—a full twenty years after the Eclipse—a renegade group known as the Red Branch came to the border, let by a man named Fray. She didn't pay much attention to their machinations; she was busy enough as it was. But then it became worth paying attention to when the Red Branch was destroyed. Midnosian pyromancers roamed the streets of villages, burning them to the ground and stacking blackened bodies high. Fires in the night no longer brought comfort, only another threat to contend with. And the region—already under a very tenuous peace before—was destabilized completely. What knifes-edge peace there had been before was thoroughly shattered, and her beloved children were left in ever more danger. The Red Branch had ruined the land, ruined the people, ruined everything. Everybody was in danger now, and it was all the fault of Fray. And with all the chaos, she became sure that her natural geomancy just...wasn't enough. And though she spent the next five years deliberating and weighing the odds, she knew in her heart what she needed to do.

And so she left her protege, the next director of the orphanage—a girl eighteen years old now who she'd raised nearly from birth she'd named Eva, and a budding powerful pyromancer in her own right—in charge, and traveled to Kethiline. She knew what being a Hunter meant. No taste. No sleep. A soul replaced, and condemned to die. And, of course, an eternal engine of pain burning within her for the rest of however much 'life' she had left. But, if it meant she could keep them safe for one second longer...no price was too high.

Two weeks. She was only gone for two weeks. But when she came back to the region, which was only barely managing to knit itself back together in the loosest sense, she found the Loethwynn Orphanage—her beloved, and her home—in ruins.

And worse...all of the children were gone.

There was nothing left for her here. Her life—what remained of it—was shattered. The agony coursing through her was all for nothing, wasn't it? And a fierce hate for humans was kindled in her heart.

She couldn't protect the children she'd spent her entire adulthood raising. And it tore her up inside like nothing else ever could. So what was she to do, now, with a long, empty unlife ahead of her? With nothing left but the clothes on her back and the stone beneath her feet? She would travel, fighting the Void wherever she found them. And searching. Searching for anybody who had some information about her children. They couldn't all be dead. She would never believe it.

And if she ever found the ones who took them—who had taken her life and torn it to pieces—she wouldn't hesitate to bring down the mountain upon them.

Other Information
TBD
In Lem's Stash 2 mos ago Forum: Test Forum

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Physical Description
Owing to an entire childhood spent barely escaping starvation, stealing food from those more dominant than she, and having her fingernails torn off as a result, Sirona is a short woman, standing at just a hair beneath 5'2", and less slender than she is skinny. Her eyes are piercing ashen-white-gray, and seem a bit more...glazed than most. Her hair is a wild mess of stark whiteness, and her skin is almost completely white as well. Around her head looms the Scar-Crown Usariom, a jagged tangle of black iron and silvery steel that twists above her in a sick parody of a halo. One of the most important features she displays, though—and the most damning evidence of the life that was inflicted upon her—lies in her smile. Unwavering, unchanging, unbreakable; the calm smile, perfect down to the last muscle, is forever scarred into her face, and even she can't change it.

As a general rule, she wears long black clothing, usually fairly tight, with light plating here and there. The only thing that's truly ubiquitous is a thick black cloak pinned in front with the Scilari symbol. Because of a specific incident in the pit, she is missing the last knuckle of her left pinkie finger.

Character Conceptualization
Before she had a name, before she had a life, before she had anything at all to call her own, Sirona was only "L.I.-14, Group One, Number 22."

Her childhood, if you can call it that, was a nightmare of empty stomachs and constant pain. She never learned to dominate others, to force her will upon them, the way one needed to in order to eat in the pit of the Locke Institute. She never really even learned to fight. A scared, broken shell of a child, all she could do was sit alone in the dark and cry.

And as was the way of the pit, the only thing that crying earns you is more pain. It was a vicious cycle for Twenty-Two. Crying. Pain. More crying. More pain. No matter how much she needed to, she just couldn't stop the tears. And so, the rest of the pit kids learned very quickly that Twenty-Two wouldn't—couldn't—stop them from taking whatever they wanted from her. Food. Water. Space. Fingernails. And, on one occasion, the last joint of her left pinkie. Until one enterprising youngster, L.I.-14, Group One, Number 17, came up with a brilliant idea: if this weak dumb kid couldn't stop anybody from taking from her, then she wouldn't have food. She would be desperate. So Seventeen reached out a hand to her. She would be given food. Tiny scraps of it, but enough that she wouldn't starve. And all she needed to do was everything Seventeen said.

Of course, that news didn't spread any slower than the lack of resistance. From then on, Twenty-Two was mostly left alone in her dark corner. Until some other pit kid, one with a spine, came along and gave her direction in life. Servility was as natural and necessary as breathing.

And then, when she was perhaps eight or nine, came Papa Locke.

She didn't know why she was being pulled from the pit. She didn't know what Locke wanted from her. But she knew that he saved her. He lifted her from the dark corner where she cried and let her eat real food, and sleep in a 'bed,' which she thought must have been the closest thing to perfect there could be. Whatever he wanted, she would give it to him, as natural and necessary as breathing. He was her Papa, and she was his daughter. Years passed by, and she grew more and more devoted to him. There were many words that could be used to describe her. Docile. Servile. Subservient. Compliant. Passive. Locke taught her many lessons, which were burned and scorched and seared into her mind as thoroughly as her own thoughts: be polite. Be calm. Be obedient. Be diffident.

And, above all...smile.

She was perfect, she thought. A perfect daughter. A tool. Even a weapon, said Papa, though she didn't understand how.

Undergo this procedure, said Papa Locke. And with the bliss of serving, the perfect daughter did as she was told. She was polite. She was calm. She was obedient. She was diffident. And she smiled. Even when she was strapped down, when her mind nearly shattered from the agony as liquid fire roared through her veins, as her body shattered, snapped, broke down, only to be reconstructed...still she smiled, face twisted in a permanent rictus of tranquility. Be polite.

When the procedure was over, she was...different. The pain wasn't as mind-warping anymore, but it remained trapped within her chest like molten metal. But the outside...she shivered...the outside was freezing. And she couldn't get warm. She didn't understand. It was like a switch had been flipped in her head as soon as the straps were let loose. Why Papa would do this. Why he would put her through so much pain. Why Papa hated her. And yet on the outside, she showed nothing. None of the pain, none of the heartache, none of the scorn. Be calm.

Fine. If he hated her, then she could hate him in return. No longer Papa. Just Master Locke. But before she could really process what this meant—what she would do now that Master Locke hated her, and how to live in a world of ice—she was given a strange circlet of sharp, twisted metal. Place it over your head, they said. Be obedient.

The pain only became worse. So much worse. For a moment, there was a feeling like her head inverting itself, and then a feeling of a circle of blades slicing into it. When the pain abated—though, like before, it would never truly fade—she blinked the tears from her eyes—she couldn't stop them—the circlet hung above her head, locked there for the rest of her life. As she thought of it, it began to dribble streams of liquid-hot steel. And yet nothing touched her. Indeed, far worse than the feeling of the blaze was the guilt that screamed inside her because of those tears. Be diffident.

And so she was bound irrevocably to the Scar-Crown and taken to Scilis, where she learned who and what she now was. She was a Hunter. And just like Papa—just like Master Locke said she would be, though she didn't understand it at the time, she was a weapon to fight the Void. She accepted her new duty with the resolution that she would never again obey Master Locke. He no longer owned her. She was free from his mental chains. He would never threaten her with sleeping in the pit if she messed up again. She had her own life now. And she gave herself a name. She didn't know what it meant. She didn't know if it meant anything at all. But she liked how it sounded, and she liked how it made her feel. Sirona. She was Sirona, Hunter of Scila. Hunter of the Void. She would never listen to Master Locke again.

But perhaps she isn't quite as far from him as she thinks. As much distance as she puts between them, as much as she has convinced herself she's free of him, as much as she knows she hates him...

She is still polite. She is still calm. She is still obedient to some extent. She is still diffident. She is still just a weapon. And she still can't shake that smile.

Other Information
TBD
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