Lugubrious

Blades of the Shogun - The Island of Screams

Seeing all the interest and activity has got me pumped. I hope you find this character acceptable!

Fuchigami Momoko

Name: Fuchigami Momoko
Age: 24
Gender: Female
Class: Monk
Clan: Tsubaki

Appearance: She has a soft physique, thigh-length straight black hair in a hime cut, and unusual pale gray eyes. From her ears hang large, metal loop earrings of an earthy coloration. Her customary garb is a violet kimono, cut in an extremely improper fashion at her upper thigh, with crimson hems and a white silk sash that sports lavender tassels. Teal and white swirls decorate the kimono, and red sandals complete her outfit. While conventionally attractive, she is no pinnacle of beauty, particularly when it comes to her bearing and manner

Weaknesses & Fears:

• Noncombatant - one hundred percent useless in physical combat. Not only is she untrained in weaponry, but it's not a stretch to say she hasn't performed a hard day's labor in her whole life.
• Ever-tipsy - more often than not at least a little inebriated. While she's very used to it and still functions more or less normally, some impairment is to be expected. This includes dexterity, motor functions, and pain, which is a weakness
• Self-centered - her own safety and comfort are usually her priority
• Flippant - her off-kilter behavior makes it difficult for people fixated on honor, what is proper, and so forth to get along with her
• Possessive - she is terrified of losing her enchanted artifacts

Equipment:

• Umeshu Basin – an enchanted, ceremonial bowl of gleaming gray china that can fill itself with plum wine that boasts exceptional restorative properties. Specifically, imbibing it speeds up natural healing, dulls pain, and strengthens one's inner fortitude
• Ikiryo Pipe – an enchanted pipe said to be stuffed with the ashes of the dead, rather than herbs. Smoke given off by it is capable of gathering into clouds that can lift up and carry people and even heavy objects. Oddly enough, its clouds give off an impression of fleeting sentience, understanding what Momoko wants them to do and moving accordingly
• Medicinal Kit – a special case, not too large, but filled with bandages, balms, poultices, herbs, and all sorts of remedies useful for healing

Bio: Among the seafarers whose homes and bases of operation speckle the outer islands of Kujin, the merchant family Fuchigami stood as one of the most prosperous since the inception of the Shogun's reign—and, as it is rumored, some time before. The end of a war economy did not, however, lead to an end to the Fuchigamis' fortune in the new era of peace and prosperity, as the mineral and spice trades continued to serve them well. However, this life of plenty is not Fuchigami Momoko's any longer.

When Momoko was born, her family had already risen to prominence among the merchants for its singleminded support of Tsubaki's military endeavors through the sale of supplies and arms. As a result, Momoko and her sister enjoyed a life of wealth and privilege—too much, in fact. Her sister wised up; Momoko did not. By the time she was eight, Momoko had earned a reputation as a spoiled brat, and her attitude paired with rising difficulty for the Tsubaki clan proved too much for her overworked parents to stomach. She found herself deposited at an island sanctuary, for her own protection and education, she was told. Her parents did not return.

With no alternative, Momoko was forced to adopt the life of a monastic, studying and worshiping with the other miko. Over the years her rebellion ceased and her temperament cooled. Finding she had an interest in ceremony and artifice, she took instruction in the handling, restoration, and even improvement of magical artifacts, alongside her tutelage in healing. As a result, she developed a remarkable skill in both medicine and magic. As she grew up at the monastery, safe from the war-torn world in an environment of beauty, ritual, and sophistication, she found herself more than thankful.

The war would, however, come to her. It was only a matter of time before operatives from the Lotus clan determined that taking down the newly-discovered island monastery would cripple the Tsubaki clan's usage of enchanted items, which they needed for the items' creation, cleansing, and repair. Since an invasion would be noticed and countermeasures taken, the Lotus clan sent groups of ninja in secret to the island, where they went to work. They contaminated the monastery's water supply in the dead of night, then lay in wait to ambush any Tsubaki that came once they dropped off their artifacts. One by one, the monks grew sick.

Thanks to both luck and skill Momoko was the first to realize the symptoms, and warned against consumption of the water, but before long the situation had grown dire. The monks that didn't perish from the diseased water suffered from thirst and hunger, wasting away or falling to madness by drinking seawater or in desperation feeding on the island's noxious berries. Momoko alone remained healthy, keeping herself alive by drinking the plum wine from her Umeshu Basin, though it left her in a constant drunken stupor. When the Lotus ninja, having exhausted the monastery's artifacts, finally made their move, Momoko was passed out in the forest away from the temple. When she returned she found the sick slain and the remaining survivors taken away. Laughing bitterly, Momoko helped herself to the head monk's favorite item, the Ikiryo Pipe, then set fire to the temple and waited.

When Tsubaki ships arrived, lured by the smoke cloud, they found Momoko unconscious on the dock. She would eventually be found by her parents, but she wanted nothing to do with them, even as the war ended and the Shogun's rule began. Permanently touched by the massive quantity of wine she had drunk, Momoko was never quite the same as before. Of course, she had developed a terrible addiction to alcohol, though by a stroke of luck she was not by nature a malicious drunk. Despite her eccentricities and dependence on her wine, she found abundant work in purification, cleansing, artifice, and healing thanks to her skills and precious artifacts. Discovering that she had a massive resistance to malevolent effects, no doubt a permanent side effect of her wine consumption, Momoko practically threw herself into danger, heedless of (or perhaps even in pursuit of) harm to herself, brute forcing her way through possessions, hauntings, and so forth by all manner of dark spirits, yokai, and mononoke. The pretty, ever-tipsy priestess earned quite a reputation across Kujin's islands and beyond, so it was only natural that Daimyo Mitsuhide would summon her to support his foray to the Island of Screams.

Blades of the Shogun - The Island of Screams

This looks very interesting! I'm already brainstorming a potential Monk.

Project Crossover [Video Game Crossover RP]

Azura
Level 2
Day 3
Location: The Land of Skyrim
Experience: |||||||||||||||||||| (4/20)
Word Count: 506

Whispered words sifted through the night, filtering into the tent and into the dreamless sleep of the woman in white. At first Azura took them to be figments of her imagination, or mistaken whistles of a wandering wind, but the more she ruminated upon them the realer they seemed, until she could have sworn some mysterious visitor was beckoning to her from beyond the flaps of the tent. Yet, at the same time she knew her caller to be neither conjuration of the night nor hidden stranger. Earlier in the day she heard that voice, and soonafter had she heard it denied to her. This voice came from far away and from on high, neither malicious nor enigmatic, but rather like a grandfather calling his grandchild to an important talk.

“The Greybeards,” she breathed, eyes blinking open. Finding herself plagued by stiffness when she tried to move, she rolled her neck and stretched her muscles with gritted teeth until the soreness passed, and stood. In a moment she stood outside, staring into the night. Her thought did not lay upon the dreariness of her habitation or the less-than-pleasant company she kept, but upon the distant summit silhouetted against the moon. Dim visions of stone walls and arches, bathed in snow and awash in wind, slipped through her mind, and with a shiver she wondered if this was a dream after all.

But her surreal fixation on the call did not abate. Danger waited out in the darkness, and more noises than the biting breeze interrupted the night's tranquility, but she had been chosen. Lance in hand, she made her wait through the camp, a silent white wraith in the torchlit dark. When she reached the walled camp's perimeter, she slunk toward the wooden wall away from the nearest brazier, for she saw several figures standing guard. They were talking in low tones, she realized, and after a short time one moved away on patrol, leaving the other behind to stare out into the night. The remaining sentinel's silhouette struck Azura as familiar, and after a few moments she came to a conclusion and approached.

”Captain Piper,” she began, her voice soft. ”I should have expected you here. I must confess that I do not have much knowledge of beings such as you, but the magical constructs of my world have no need of things like food or sleep.” She fell silent for a time, then leveled the tip of her Blessed Lance at the mountain not too far off. ”A short time ago, I was called again. They called me 'the chosen one'. I feel...like I have to go there. Not rational, but a sort of...deep-seated urge.” She gave the machine a slight, rather woebegone smile. ”I am glad it is you that I met here. You will not, I don't think, try to stop me. If you are especially charitable, I would be grateful for accompaniment as well, but I ask nothing more than your leave.” Azura offered a bowed head as if begging permission.

Relics: Trials of Kheris

When traveling, one tended to take advantage of local events to get a good grasp of the culture. For his part, Harold felt that he knew the culture plenty well already, and that it did not become of a member of society's upper strata to spectate glorified blood sports, but he couldn't deny that a tinge of wonder nibbled at him. How barbaric could those of Kheris' dominion possibly be? If nothing else, he wanted to satisfy that morbid curiosity.

An obvious foreigner with his complexion and clothing, he drew his fair share of stares as he wound his way through the excited throng, searching for a lofty place to call his own within the colosseum seating. A number of the people he squeezed past treated him none too gently or considerately; were it not for his frame and awareness, he suspected with a dry smile that he might be bearing several bruised ribs already. Having reached the upper perimeter, he banished the idea of making his way any higher and contented himself with leaning on the low wall, figuring he would not remain long.

Sure enough, the two fighters in the great ring tore one another to pieces before long. One stood victorious, but what was victory to a slave? A mere continuation of suffering, Harold supposed. His attention shifted to a twinge of movement in the royal box, and into a position of prominence strutted nothing less than the sovereign himself. “So that is Kheris,” he murmured, his disdain voiced in such a way that the average man wouldn't realize. “A god made flesh.” Kheris unleashed his vaunted voice, impossibly making his everyday tone heard in every seat in the arena. The smallfolk, hearing their emperor, might be touched by his appealing words, but having seen his fair share of politics Harold felt he could see right through them. “He has charisma, I'll give him that...” Aware of the rising drums, he listened with an amused smile as Kheris promised a battle of demons -the condemnation his government applied to Evokers, more than likely as an act of suppression against any potential challengers- with redemption on the line. Not a chance. The show must go on, and any danger must be stomped out. More than before, he felt justified in his choice earlier that day leaving the Standard leaning against the wall in his inn room like the walking stick it was supposed to be. Overhead, the sky had grown dark, and a sudden bolt from the cloud made him jump in surprise. Irked, he crossed his arms and watched as gladiators spilled from the dark to drench the sand in blood.

I've just about seen enough for this cultural experience. Though perhaps I should stay and see if I could learn anything. Pushing off from the low wall, he cast about to find a place to sit. Whether or not he liked it, things were happening here today, and it wouldn't pay for a man on a mission to let personal taste get in the way of his objective.

Project Crossover [Video Game Crossover RP]

Slayer
Level 5 || Day 3 || King Boo's Castle
@Zarkun @Majoras End @Tenma Tendo @ONL
Experience: |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||| (20/50)
Word count: 520

A warm smile overcame Slayer as Heavy expressed his gratitude, prompting him to repay the large man in kind. ”I am delighted to hear it!” Akira, meanwhile, managed without his help. In fact, the young man ended up putting on a display of both alacrity and altruism as he helped ferry little Six across the gap. Though so far things seemed to be going well, the task at hand was hardly over. One at a time the team of heroes made its way across the platform-profuse void, and while progress came slowly, no difficulties presented themselves until -upon reaching the yawning pit's far side- a new menace arose. Turning up his nose, Slayer took note of the specters' more nebulous coloration, and of the fierce glint in their eyes. He did not expect one to start talking, but took it in stride when it did, first badmouthing its more reticent forebears and then promising a tougher obstacle. Even before the Dark Boo finished his challenge, the group could guess that their first real foes lay before them. Slayer did not miss that the Dark Boo's words seemed to imply that King Boo would not be far away.

Violet flames flared to life, illuminating the eerie paintings that lined either wall, their subjects' pallid faces contorted by the unnatural light into twisted, wicked leers. Unlit candle sconces stood against the walls, and cobwebs clung to every corner. Behind the heroes remained the abyss they just crossed, a lingering threat preventing retreat. Slayer did not think, however, that they intended to. The otherworldly flames flooded forward, but the vampire did not flinch. Though no pyromancer, he knew well certain sepulchral flames of purple and fuchsia, for they radiated from his stronger attacks as a mere side-effect. He stood tall and, when the time came lashed out with a great revolving kick whose own burst of displaced air and ghostly fire carved an arc through the onrushing wall. While simply teleporting at the right time did occur to him, he figured that his allies might be less prepared to deal with such an assault than he, and thus resolved to protect them as best he could.

Whether or not he volley of flames washed over him, Slayer took a brief moment to consider his enemies. Though not very threatening, and more like mischievous entities than vengeful spirits of the departed, these Boos did seem to be ghosts and function as such. While his flames might ward them off, they were after all nothing more than accentuating byproducts of his physical attacks, so neither they nor said attacks really be used offensively. Fearsome as Heavy's minigun was, the gentleman did not anticipate his comrade being able to do much, either. Six, who he assumed to still be holding on to Akira's back, looked to be at a disadvantage as well—how could one drain the life of one who harbored none to begin with? Akira might, he reflected, end up being the star of this little episode. Nevertheless, he raised his hands in boxing stance, preparing to retaliate against the boos as best he could.

Relics: Trials of Kheris

Harold - History's Invoker

Name: Harold Valedine
Age: 26
Gender: Male
Faction/Allegiance: The Kalnach Inquisition / A Better Age
Relic Description: Named simply the Standard by its wielder, this relic is a lacquered hardwood staff with a sharp point and long, high crossguard of the same wood, inlaid with metal rings. When used, the cross manifests a brilliant, ghostly banner depicting the emblem of the archaic warrior culture the Standard was produced by. At that point the wielder can freely though very temporarily summon Einherjar -warrior spirits- to attack, defend, or otherwise help him. While Einherjar can cry out, they cannot speak, and they last anywhere between a couple of seconds and a few minutes. They possess all the skills they did in life, though whether these apparitions are the actual spirits of the warriors or merely imitations is unknown. There are two limitations: first, the Standard drains not the wielder's energy, but his life, and extended use actually shortens his own life. Second, the wielder must have a very high degree of knowledge about he warrior he is to summon; until he has certain information he cannot summon at all, and any Einherjar is stronger the more he knows about his or her life. Beyond its extraordinary properties, the Standard is fairly usable as a nigh-indestructible spear
Appearance: Well-suited for high society in Kalnach's cold climate, Harold gives off every impression of a well-bred scholar. His long overcoat, predominantly dark blue, sports patches of gray-brown leather on the edges of pockets and across the shoulders and upper back. Tucked beneath the pronounced collar is a decorated white sash that extends in either direction to his knees, prone to flowing in the wind. Just visible above where his coat is tied is his vest and tie, and he wears dark trousers with ultra-thin vertical stripes in dark blue. As for the man himself, he is white with thin features, a sharp jaw, green eyes, and medium-long auburn hair perenially slicked back and tucked behind his ears. 'Pretty boy' describes both his appearance and physique reasonably well
Flaws: Easy to Hate – both Harold's appearance and attitude make it easy to dislike him, whether out of envy, disgust, resentment, or whatever
Suboptimal Build – for a warrior-scholar, Harold is unremarkable in physique. While not weak or slow, he is not strong or fast, and will be beaten out by most fighters in straight combat
Proud – with his mantra of embetterment, as well as his upbringing, Harold's constructive criticism usually come out as condescension, he can be blind to some of his own errors and flaws, and one often feels that he is looking down on them
Unhappy – having learned from and grown to idealize the past, Harold despises the stagnation, oppression, and violence of Kalnach culture, yet he is a part of it, it having made him who he is, and he is too afraid to openly oppose it. This contradiction creates guilt and self-loathing, which in dark times gives rise to despair
Selfish – while driven in part by duty and principle, Harold tends to act in whatever way will better himself. This comes out most strongly when his own life is at risk, making him very cautious and pragmatic
Skills: Smart – sharp of mind, a quick thinker, observant and studious, able to figure things out, pragmatic and persuasive when necessary
Learned – boasts a wealth of knowledge, especially about the past and many of its interesting figures. This translates directly to power where his Relic is concerned
Trained – though sound enough of body, he utilizes training in dexterity to fight effectively with a crossbow, his aim true
Suave – stylish, elegant, proper, and clean, he fits the bill as a respected member of upper society
Discreet – Harold knows how to keep himself from standing out, to disappear when necessary, and to make things happen indirectly. He endeavors to avoid attracting attention, or giving information on himself
Biography: A scion of the Valedine family, part of the Lower Noblity, Harold discovered his penchant for learning at a young age. Faced with a country mired in rigidity and callousness, he found fascinating refuge in tails of a glorious past, where magic filled the world and legends were real. While his elder brother Florence followed the path of their Inquisitor father Viscount Leonard Valedine from the start, Harold pursued the path of the scholar, educating himself in a reality long since passed. It was there, in the timeless tales of old and myriad societies with different principles and ideals, that Harold solidified his imperative: that life was about growth and betterment, never stagnation under the assumption that one was perfect as one was. His initiation in the histories as a potential career, during his teenage years, came from the interest of Countess Marian Revret, the wife of the Count to whom the Valedines were vassals. An ambitious and temperamental woman famed in the region for her beauty, she held her own wistful regard for humanity's better eras, and through correspondence with her -and convincing of her husband- Harold was able to secure admittance to one of Kalnach's institutes of learning. It was with sorrow that, a year later, Harold learned that Countess Marian seemed to vanish off the face of the earth. Rumors of delving and discovery in ancient Relics -taboo for a woman in Kalnach- circulated for a while, then were gone.

In Harold's later years of study his father and brother began to push for Harold to think about taking up the family occupation of Inquisitor, and after some reluctance the young man elected to agree. His long hours of poring over books and manuscripts became diluted by lessons in discipline and combat, and after an internship at Kalnach's inquisitional headquarters that introduced it to its workings and notable members, Harold discovered something of his own. An aged inquisitor, having been revealed as an Evoker and due for death, owned a Relic that intrigued Harold in particular—a Standard able to call up visions of warriors long dead. While a harsh critic of the Inquisition's methods and leadership, he found it hard to resist the temptation, and ultimately decided to enroll as a warrior-scholar once his studied were complete in the lofty hopes of reforming the organization from within. Of course, he was present at the old Evoker's execution and was chosen by his commander for his historical knowledge as the perfect candidate to bring an end to the inflammable, unbreakable Standard. He turned in a few splinters bearing chemical scars and was commended for his achievement, though what really happened to the Standard is not hard to guess.

Before long, Harold found himself fighting alongside his brother and father to quell violent disturbances inside the nation. Firsthand he witnesses the cruelty of the Inquisitors, and despair clawed at him—both for the permanence of his society's damage, and his inability to part from it. To retreat now, however, was to invite death, so work he did. When alone he wielded the Standard, having acquired it from the afflicted elder, with unprecedented mastery, bringing fragments of the history he loved to life, but whenever under scrutiny he fought from afar with an ordinary crossbow. During that time, he met a stocky, bearded man who was to become his good friend: Levi, an imaginative, worldly, good-humored brawler who complimented Harold's stoic wit perfectly. Levi and Harold's family, who shared to lesser degrees his disgust for the Inquisition's ignorant violence, were his only lights.

Before long, Harold's mission of helping to reform the Inquisition from within led him on a nebulous path. Persecution of those who should by all accounts be innocent, though never absent, had surged in recent months. In particular, annihilation of forbidden female evokers was on the rise—more seeming to appear than ever before. More worryingly, inquisitors who spoke of corruption and conspiracy began to disappear, one by one, along with random male citizens across the entire spectrum of classes. Though security was doubled and redoubled, no bodies were ever found. In the course of one wretched week, during the bitter winter, both Florence and Leonard disappeared, leaving Harold the sole living male Valedine. Dread gnawed at Harold's mind as he found his search subtly obstructed by agents of High Inquisitor Derenguer, a cruel man whose rise in the ranks over recent years had been startling to behold. His gaze turned to Derenguer himself, and the utter lack of information about him prior to his appearance and subsequent ascent. Similarly shrouded in mystery was Derenguer's Relic, purported by furtive men in shadowed stairwells to be deadlier than any weapon.

Unable to progress with his investigation for fear of his own sudden disappearance, Harold turned his mind elsewhere. Less than a week later, something strange took place. During one of his visits to an oft-overlooked book store, Harold found himself accosted by a ragged woman with short, red-brown hair and terror in her eyes. While even in this state many would have thought her pretty, Harold realized that a bizarre, lingering feeling of familiarity prevented any kind of attraction. That sensation convinced him to hear what the woman had to say, and in hushed tones she gushed forth mad, seditious ravings. Harold went home amazed and disturbed, filled with doubts and apprehensions.

The next day, he turned his research once again toward ancient Relics. Poring over the records, he found -to his surprise- mention of a decadent lost civilization's bizarre, indulgence artifices, including a curved dagger alleged to swap the sex of its victims. Such a thing was an oddity in any other land, he realized, but an object of nightmarish potential in Kalnach, particularly where Relics were involved. Puzzle pieces began to fit into place, about his strange visitor, about the talks of corruption and many disappearances...about High Inquisitor Derenguer.

After arranging a meeting with the mysterious woman and his friend Levi, Harold made a plan. Letters were sent, their warnings and explanations read by certain authorities, and before long word came of an inquisitional raid on the home of Derenguer and his subsequent arrest. Little is known about what occurred in those trials, but Derenguer never reappeared, and instead Countess Marian appeared and was denounced to the public as an Evoker. The next day she was duly obliterated, just as Derenguer had so many others -whether guilty or not- in an ingenious pursuit of vengeance. However, her knife, meant for the same oblivion, disappeared.

Life for Harold, however, returned to normal—even a bit better. With the scare over and its toll taken, things were quiet in Kalnach. Murmurings of war brewing within Kheris, however, and the assumed death of inquisitors sent there, hinted of chaos and war in the near future that threatened Kalnach's status quo. Harold, known far more broadly as a historian rather than a fighter, was selected as one of a number of discreet men to go undercover and enter Kheris in order to find out just what was going on. Glad to get away from Kalnach, he did not object, but neither did he, as the mission stipulated, go alone.

Personality/motivation: While 'enigmatic, haughty genius' is the best summation of the impression Harold has left on others, and one that he does not try to dissuade, it does not tell the whole story. He's definitely intelligent, with a tongue as quick as his wit often put to use in cutting jokes, sarcastic observations, and general condescension. In addition, he is faster to be critical of women, though predominantly in psychological matters. That said, while he may make idle fun of others and put them down, any kind of malice more than teasing is only meant to be constructive, and anything more malicious than that does not exist.

Beneath the somewhat pompous exterior is a man who wants the best for himself and others, whether or not they realize it or want his help, this attitude even extending to those of lower class—which itself hints at his profound dissatisfaction with the stagnant state of Kalnach. It is one of life's imperatives, he believes, to continue growing and changing, becoming better every day. His behavior, characteristic or a slightly inconsiderate perfectionist, stems in part from his own self-loathing for not being able to be a better, more altruistic person, and for being a part of the system he has grown to despise. Though quick with words when he feels like it, he is more often quiet and reclusive, skirting around talk about himself at every opportunity. While he seems perfectly at place in a cathedral or a ball he's far happier in a library or the archives. Less prideful than others might expect of him, though not quite humble, he does not treat others with open scorn, and is genial with the friends he does earn. Learning is one of his great pursuits, with history and its incredible characters as his chief passion.

In terms of motivation Harold is not so driven by principle that he is not self-serving, desiring both to be respected as a warrior-scholar and to live a exciting, interesting life, but to that end he is also motivated by the preservation of his nation against possible chaos and war, even if he does not approve of its way of life.
Relations: Levi – a good friend. Stocky, black-bearded, and bald, his is a powerful and commanding presence, but his companionable good nature and military sensibility balance it out to make him an excellent companion. Nevertheless, he is quite the fighter, and sports a hot temper. In battle he wields a great cleaver capable of splitting into pieces along a central rope, making it into an enormous, deadly whip.
Flora – a steadfast accomplice. Not dissimilar from Harold in appearance, she is supposedly his half-sister, but even a little time spent around her gives the impression that she has lived a very different life, for she seems broken in some inexplicable way. If asked, she tells that she was enslaved at a point in her early adulthood and barely managed to escape alive. Though shy and untrusting, with an aversion to being out in the open, she is dependable, rational, and a capable fighter with an axe that, while clearly wielded with experience, is oddly ill-suited for her hand.
Humphrey Swallowtail - an inquisitor, and Harold's commander. Humphrey is a man who has suffered much, thanks to Kalnach life, Evokers, and even the inquisition itself, making his drropy, mustached face as grim as his deeds. Yet, one might get the idea by looking at him that he's tired of the excessive burning and bloodshed; of the strong crushing the weak just because they can. His judgment in cases is slightly less fanatical than the others, though he's more than willing to give the order to annihilate evildoers. Humphrey himself fights with extreme talent, using a rapier shaped like a needle, its pommel a ring with attached thread that winds around a retractable drum
Final Point - Secrets: Bright bluebird

Relics: Trials of Kheris

I hope this is suitable!

History's Invoker

Name: Harold Valedine - “Flagbearer”
Age: 26
Gender: Male
Faction/Allegiance: The Kalnach Inquisition / A Better Age
Relic Description: Named simply the Standard by its wielder, this relic is a lacquered hardwood staff with a sharp point and long, high crossguard of the same wood, inlaid with metal rings. When used, the cross manifests a brilliant, ghostly banner depicting the emblem of the archaic warrior culture the Standard was produced by. At that point the wielder can freely though very temporarily summon Einherjar -warrior spirits- to attack, defend, or otherwise help him. While Einherjar can cry out, they cannot speak, and they last anywhere between a couple of seconds and a few minutes. They possess all the skills they did in life, though whether these apparitions are the actual spirits of the warriors or merely imitations is unknown. There are two limitations: first, the Standard drains not the wielder's energy, but his life, and extended use actually shortens his own life. Second, the wielder must have a very high degree of knowledge about he warrior he is to summon; until he has certain information he cannot summon at all, and any Einherjar is stronger the more he knows about his or her life. Beyond its extraordinary properties, the Standard is fairly usable as a nigh-indestructible spear
Appearance: Well-suited for high society in Kalnach's cold climate, Harold gives off every impression of a well-bred scholar. His long overcoat, predominantly dark blue, sports patches of gray-brown leather on the edges of pockets and across the shoulders and upper back. Tucked beneath the pronounced collar is a decorated white sash that extends in either direction to his knees, prone to flowing in the wind. Just visible above where his coat is tied is his vest and tie, and he wears dark trousers with ultra-thin vertical stripes in dark blue. As for the man himself, he is white with thin features, a sharp jaw, green eyes, and medium-long auburn hair perenially slicked back and tucked behind his ears. 'Pretty boy' describes both his appearance and physique reasonably well
Flaws: Easy to Hate – both Harold's appearance and attitude make it easy to dislike him, whether out of envy, disgust, resentment, or whatever
Suboptimal Build – for a warrior-scholar, Harold is unremarkable in physique. While not weak or slow, he is not strong or fast, and will be beaten out by most fighters in straight combat
Proud – with his mantra of embetterment, as well as his upbringing, Harold's constructive criticism usually come out as condescension, he can be blind to some of his own errors and flaws, and one often feels that he is looking down on them
Unhappy – having learned from and grown to idealize the past, Harold despises the stagnation, oppression, and violence of Kalnach culture, yet he is a part of it, it having made him who he is, and he is too afraid to openly oppose it. This contradiction creates guilt and self-loathing, which in dark times gives rise to despair
Selfish – while driven in part by duty and principle, Harold tends to act in whatever way will better himself. This comes out most strongly when his own life is at risk, making him very cautious and pragmatic
Skills: Smart – sharp of mind, a quick thinker, observant and studious, able to figure things out, pragmatic and persuasive when necessary
Learned – boasts a wealth of knowledge, especially about the past and many of its interesting figures. This translates directly to power where his Relic is concerned
Trained – though sound enough of body, he utilizes training in dexterity to fight effectively with a crossbow, his aim true
Suave – stylish, elegant, proper, and clean, he fits the bill as a respected member of upper society
Discreet – Harold knows how to keep himself from standing out, to disappear when necessary, and to make things happen indirectly. He endeavors to avoid attracting attention, or giving information on himself
Biography: A scion of the Valedine family, part of the Lower Noblity, Harold discovered his penchant for learning at a young age. Faced with a country mired in rigidity and callousness, he found fascinating refuge in tails of a glorious past, where magic filled the world and legends were real. While his elder brother Florence followed the path of their Inquisitor father Viscount Leonard Valedine from the start, Harold pursued the path of the scholar, educating himself in a reality long since passed. It was there, in the timeless tales of old and myriad societies with different principles and ideals, that Harold solidified his imperative: that life was about growth and betterment, never stagnation under the assumption that one was perfect as one was. His initiation in the histories as a potential career, during his teenage years, came from the interest of Countess Marian Revret, the wife of the Count to whom the Valedines were vassals. An ambitious and temperamental woman famed in the region for her beauty, she held her own wistful regard for humanity's better eras, and through correspondence with her -and convincing of her husband- Harold was able to secure admittance to one of Kalnach's institutes of learning. It was with sorrow that, a year later, Harold learned that Countess Marian seemed to vanish off the face of the earth. Rumors of delving and discovery in ancient Relics -taboo for a woman in Kalnach- circulated for a while, then were gone.

In Harold's later years of study his father and brother began to push for Harold to think about taking up the family occupation of Inquisitor, and after some reluctance the young man elected to agree. His long hours of poring over books and manuscripts became diluted by lessons in discipline and combat, and after an internship at Kalnach's inquisitional headquarters that introduced it to its workings and notable members, Harold discovered something of his own. An aged inquisitor, having been revealed as an Evoker and due for death, owned a Relic that intrigued Harold in particular—a Standard able to call up visions of warriors long dead. While a harsh critic of the Inquisition's methods and leadership, he found it hard to resist the temptation, and ultimately decided to enroll as a warrior-scholar once his studied were complete in the lofty hopes of reforming the organization from within. Of course, he was present at the old Evoker's execution and was chosen by his commander for his historical knowledge as the perfect candidate to bring an end to the inflammable, unbreakable Standard. He turned in a few splinters bearing chemical scars and was commended for his achievement, though what really happened to the Standard is not hard to guess.

Before long, Harold found himself fighting alongside his brother and father to quell violent disturbances inside the nation. Firsthand he witnesses the cruelty of the Inquisitors, and despair clawed at him—both for the permanence of his society's damage, and his inability to part from it. To retreat now, however, was to invite death, so work he did. When alone he wielded the Standard, having acquired it from the afflicted elder, with unprecedented mastery, bringing fragments of the history he loved to life, but whenever under scrutiny he fought from afar with an ordinary crossbow. During that time, he met a stocky, bearded man who was to become his good friend: Levi, an imaginative, worldly, good-humored brawler who complimented Harold's stoic wit perfectly. Levi and Harold's family, who shared to lesser degrees his disgust for the Inquisition's ignorant violence, were his only lights.

Before long, Harold's mission of helping to reform the Inquisition from within led him on a nebulous path. Persecution of those who should by all accounts be innocent, though never absent, had surged in recent months. In particular, annihilation of forbidden female evokers was on the rise—more seeming to appear than ever before. More worryingly, inquisitors who spoke of corruption and conspiracy began to disappear, one by one, along with random male citizens across the entire spectrum of classes. Though security was doubled and redoubled, no bodies were ever found. In the course of one wretched week, during the bitter winter, both Florence and Leonard disappeared, leaving Harold the sole living male Valedine. Dread gnawed at Harold's mind as he found his search subtly obstructed by agents of High Inquisitor Derenguer, a cruel man whose rise in the ranks over recent years had been startling to behold. His gaze turned to Derenguer himself, and the utter lack of information about him prior to his appearance and subsequent ascent. Similarly shrouded in mystery was Derenguer's Relic, purported by furtive men in shadowed stairwells to be deadlier than any weapon.

Unable to progress with his investigation for fear of his own sudden disappearance, Harold turned his mind elsewhere. Less than a week later, something strange took place. During one of his visits to an oft-overlooked book store, Harold found himself accosted by a ragged woman with short, red-brown hair and terror in her eyes. While even in this state many would have thought her pretty, Harold realized that a bizarre, lingering feeling of familiarity prevented any kind of attraction. That sensation convinced him to hear what the woman had to say, and in hushed tones she gushed forth mad, seditious ravings. Harold went home amazed and disturbed, filled with doubts and apprehensions.

The next day, he turned his research once again toward ancient Relics. Poring over the records, he found -to his surprise- mention of a decadent lost civilization's bizarre, indulgence artifices, including a curved dagger alleged to swap the sex of its victims. Such a thing was an oddity in any other land, he realized, but an object of nightmarish potential in Kalnach, particularly where Relics were involved. Puzzle pieces began to fit into place, about his strange visitor, about the talks of corruption and many disappearances...about High Inquisitor Derenguer.

After arranging a meeting with the mysterious woman and his friend Levi, Harold made a plan. Letters were sent, their warnings and explanations read by certain authorities, and before long word came of an inquisitional raid on the home of Derenguer and his subsequent arrest. Little is known about what occurred in those trials, but Derenguer never reappeared, and instead Countess Marian appeared and was denounced to the public as an Evoker. The next day she was duly obliterated, just as Derenguer had so many others -whether guilty or not- in an ingenious pursuit of vengeance. However, her knife, meant for the same oblivion, disappeared.

Life for Harold, however, returned to normal—even a bit better. With the scare over and its toll taken, things were quiet in Kalnach. Murmurings of war brewing within Kheris, however, and the assumed death of inquisitors sent there, hinted of chaos and war in the near future that threatened Kalnach's status quo. Harold, known far more broadly as a historian rather than a fighter, was selected as one of a number of discreet men to go undercover and enter Kheris in order to find out just what was going on. Glad to get away from Kalnach, he did not object, but neither did he, as the mission stipulated, go alone.

Personality/motivation: While 'enigmatic, haughty genius' is the best summation of the impression Harold has left on others, and one that he does not try to dissuade, it does not tell the whole story. He's definitely intelligent, with a tongue as quick as his wit often put to use in cutting jokes, sarcastic observations, and general condescension. In addition, he is faster to be critical of women, though predominantly in psychological matters. That said, while he may make idle fun of others and put them down, any kind of malice more than teasing is only meant to be constructive, and anything more malicious than that does not exist.

Beneath the somewhat pompous exterior is a man who wants the best for himself and others, whether or not they realize it or want his help, this attitude even extending to those of lower class—which itself hints at his profound dissatisfaction with the stagnant state of Kalnach. It is one of life's imperatives, he believes, to continue growing and changing, becoming better every day. His behavior, characteristic or a slightly inconsiderate perfectionist, stems in part from his own self-loathing for not being able to be a better, more altruistic person, and for being a part of the system he has grown to despise. Though quick with words when he feels like it, he is more often quiet and reclusive, skirting around talk about himself at every opportunity. While he seems perfectly at place in a cathedral or a ball he's far happier in a library or the archives. Less prideful than others might expect of him, though not quite humble, he does not treat others with open scorn, and is genial with the friends he does earn. Learning is one of his great pursuits, with history and its incredible characters as his chief passion.

In terms of motivation Harold is not so driven by principle that he is not self-serving, desiring both to be respected as a warrior-scholar and to live a exciting, interesting life, but to that end he is also motivated by the preservation of his nation against possible chaos and war, even if he does not approve of its way of life.
Relations: Levi – a good friend. Stocky, black-bearded, and bald, his is a powerful and commanding presence, but his companionable good nature and military sensibility balance it out to make him an excellent companion. Nevertheless, he is quite the fighter, and sports a hot temper. In battle he wields a great cleaver capable of splitting into pieces along a central rope, making it into an enormous, deadly whip.
Flora – a steadfast accomplice. Not dissimilar from Harold in appearance, she is supposedly his half-sister, but even a little time spent around her gives the impression that she has lived a very different life, for she seems broken in some inexplicable way. If asked, she tells that she was enslaved at a point in her early adulthood and barely managed to escape alive. Though shy and untrusting, with an aversion to being out in the open, she is dependable, rational, and a capable fighter with an axe that, while clearly wielded with experience, is oddly ill-suited for her hand.
Humphrey Swallowtail - an inquisitor, and Harold's commander. Humphrey is a man who has suffered much, thanks to Kalnach life, Evokers, and even the inquisition itself, making his drropy, mustached face as grim as his deeds. Yet, one might get the idea by looking at him that he's tired of the excessive burning and bloodshed; of the strong crushing the weak just because they can. His judgment in cases is slightly less fanatical than the others, though he's more than willing to give the order to annihilate evildoers. Humphrey himself fights with extreme talent, using a rapier shaped like a needle, its pommel a ring with attached thread that winds around a retractable drum
Final Point - Secrets: Bright bluebird

The Crucible - Winner Take All

Knight Sylvestre vs the Cereal Killer – Round 4

The haze surrounding Cyril grew dark and gray—dust in the air. He let the force of his swing peter out, knowing it would hit nothing, then with a last, explosive burst of energy lashed out in a silver spin attack. Away from the whirling knight the dust peeled away, but it left behind a man who, after coming to a halt, could scarcely stand.

A short distance away, the bloodied pirate stood with the barrel of his flintlock trained on Cyril's unprotected skull. The pain on his face mixed with pity, for he knew as well as the vanguard that adrenaline cured fatigue as well as determination cured agony. Cyril's ruinous stance told Runch of the near-fulfillment of the prophecy in his journal; that after extended periods of berserk fighting that the knight would reach his limit. The act of carving that hideous gash into himself did not erect a mental barrier to keep back the exhaustion -induced by both his frenetic style and by the pirate's gaseous subterfuge- that plagued him, but instead revealed that after that last strain there remained no more adrenaline in reserve. “Uuuugh....”

On the sidelines, Juniper clenched her fist. While both combatants sported terrible wounds, only one stood fighting-fit. The other leaned on the shaft of his halberd with both hands, legs splayed, the potent cocktail of agony and fatigue that coursed through him clouding his mind almost as badly as it wracked his body. His bold declaration moments ago rung hollow now. Could he really be the man who beat her before? He looked so pitiful. Yet, for reasons she couldn't quite place, the shrine maiden felt like he could still win, like one more inch of strength remained in him, one inch of nobility in the face of defeat. “Hey! You're not looking so good. I better not get my soul taken again.”

The Cereal Killer said nothing, though his hesitation to fire upon Cyril suggested that his ultimatum from a moment ago still held, despite the dreadful injury he received. Cyril, glaring at him through beads of stinging sweat and strands of thick hair, thanked him for that in silence. He knew that he hated this man, and would never concede to him, but he knew also that this pirate harbored a strain of that chivalrous honor he once admired. His body, alive with spasms, felt close to numb. It wouldn't be long now before he could not fight, and the pirate would have his soul. The idea infuriated him, and for a moment his mind slipped, making him wonder if Juniper felt the same rage. To have a part one oneself owned by another...

”How do you do it?”

Taken aback, Cyril gave a coarse sputter. Runch could see the questioning in his foe's eyes, and elaborated. ”That determination. Pardon me for saying so, but you don't seem driven by heroism or honor, and you don't see the type to draw power from friendship and camaraderie. Even before we fought, you sounded weary of whatever war it is you're waging. What drives you on?”

More precious seconds to try in vain to rest suited Cyril, who decided to put his battle focus on hold and answer. In fact, he felt compelled to, for it stung him that after all this Runch didn't understand. “I keep fighting,” he uttered, voice guttural, “Because my life is worthless. One body...weak and momentary...dead, buried, forgotten. But an idea...to banish evil...to bring safety and freedom.” Breathing deeply, the vanguard fought to steady himself, and to stand a little higher. “Peace. It can't be broken, or killed. Peace is stronger, more important...than pride.” He brought his shield up. “Or pain.” He turned his glaive upside-down. “Or death!”

Silver overtook him, picking him up and yanking him, puppet-like, at an angle. Runch's shot whizzed by as he zigged to the left, and the next instant he zagged to the right, approaching in a path shaped like a lightning bolt. Then he blasted left again, and instead of a thrust to the shoulder as he expected, Runch took a solid kick to the hip and flew backward. “Rrrah!” Cyril hurled his shield like a disc after the retreating body that struck him in midair and bounced off. Sent spinning by the hit, Runch twisted about just in time to raise a Bori Bori Pillar to lift him up out of the way of his enemy's thrown polearm, and once inside the cereal tower the weapon caught fast.

Without waiting a moment Runch threw himself from his perch toward the vanguard, holding out his hand as he fell. ”Bori Bori Hellberry Blast!” A plume of fire exploded in front of the haggard knight as he snatched his shield, staggering him. Runch landed and rushed forward, striking with an upward Bori Bori Greave kick that carried him two feet into the air, which he followed with a second kick just like it. Bori Bori Cannon: Mush Mellow Recipe!” A giant white blob shot out of his palm and stuck to the ground where he expected Cyril to land.

Sure enough, the vanguard plopped square in the center and sunk in. ”Bori Bori Jet Insta-pop! The pirate's cereal greaves exploded off him, propelling him into position. He thrust his spoonsaber skyward and cried, ”Set sail! Bori Bori Emergency Oar!” A stream of water-resistant oats snaked out across his weapon, building up and extending until he gripped a giant version of the spoonsaber, barely balanced above his head. From there, the slightest effort sent the tremendous weapon on its way, and gravity did the rest.

WHAM

Marshmellow splattered in every direction. When Runch landed, he could see the damage. Curling up into the fetal position with legs held close and shield across upper body preserved the vanguard's upper half, but neither leg seemed quite right, and though Cyril stirred, he did not stand. Biting his lip through the pain, he hefted himself into a kneeling position atop his useless legs.

It is finished.

Runch began to walk forward, reloading his pistol with a new cereal bullet as he did. “I suppose I don't need to ask,” he said through a smile.

A gesture of respect, in this moment of all moments. In reply, Cyril yanked the throttle on his shield again, starting the saw. He then held his hands to his head, obscuring it with his shield.

One chance. Can't miss this

There came a clicking noise, and a flash of silver. Though he thought himself ready, Runch did not anticipate the shield thrown vertically at the cobblestone to bounce back up and slam into his bloody chest. ”Kuh! Not again!” The return angle of the shield sent it right back into Cyril's clutches, and like a gleaming comet he shot forward, sliding on his armored shins as he span. The blade whirled around, a cyclone of death, until its wielder came into striking distance of the Cereal Killer's calves.

Instead of tearing into cloth, flesh, and bone, however, the glittering sawblade met rock-hard cereal, and ground to a halt.

Cyril stared with wide eyes. Armor!? I saw his greaves blow off! He glanced up, jaw slack, just in time to see Runch swing the flat of the spoonsaber into the side of his head. Then, he saw nothing at all.

The Murder

Location: Street Mall
@Propro

The moment a dread aura began to stir, the corpulent merchant screwed his eyes shut. His grin, never pleasant, grew even more leering as Samuel's venom filled the air. Malevolence began to flood out from the nightmarish man, despite the lack of eye contact he aimed for, but if the vendor felt as much of an ounce of it he appeared frustratingly discreet about it. Moments passed, guilt and darkness undulating in a wretched miasma, but the ghoulish trinket seller did not react.

“Huh huh huh!” He chortled. “Wondering why I am not grovelling? Huh huh! Make no mistake, Mr. Raven, you are quite the terror among men. This Horror of yours is potent indeed. But there are deeper fears still, fears that seldom occur to man. Perhaps one day I will show you.”

When the merchant opened his mouth, there came a whiteness. Without a luster of its own, it did not seem to be light, but rather a simple, stark nothingness. It rippled across the Street Mall, wiping away every brick, every fiber, every mote of dust. For a second, there was nothing at all.

Then the scene remade itself, returning to the way it was before, albeit with two anomalies. Two puddles of dull whiteness lay on the pavement a short ways away, one next to the other. As Samuel watched, their surfaces stirred, and thin strands like roots or stripes of paper rose from them. Over a span of mere moments the two groups knit themselves into two identical shapes, which after a moment recolored themselves to make two pale women, cloaked in black and bearing three pairs of arms. Each held a sniper rifle, a pistol, and two knives, and as one they aimed at Samuel, spread apart, and started to back away.

Relics: Trials of Kheris

I have an idea in mind, and will post my character application in the near future.

Capes of Denver: A Worm RP

Before either of his visitors could respond to the Margrave's query, an interloper appeared with a deafening squeal. For a moment the antihero's face twisted into a furious snarl, but that expression evaporated when he saw who it belonged to. That yellow scarf, those black gloves, that black baseball cap, that murky green overcoat...could it be? Frozen like a statue with a visage of somewhat-alarmed wondered, he allowed himself to be seized in an enthusiastic embrace more akin to a flying tackle over the table, and to be battered by the young girl's bubbling. Even after she finished, with her feet on the ground and her mint-condition action figure outstretched toward him, he took a moment to recuperate. Something was irritating his eyes, causing a slight twitch and bizarre wateriness, but a hero overcame all challenges.

There appeared on his face a wider smile than any Ward had ever seen, and a truer smile than any Elliot had known for years. “Heheh. I like the cut of your jib, kid. You've got a serious eye for quality.” Reaching into a pocket, he produced a small, thin object scarcely bigger than a grain of rice: a pen meant for the hand of a Lego minifigure. The Margrave positioned it like a coin and flipped it up, and as it spun in midair it grew to a normal-sized pen. With deft fingers he snatched it and twirled it between them, until it fell into his grip in perfect writing position. All that time spent twirling pencils in school actually came in handy, huh? “Allow me.” He took the boxed figure and flourished a signature across a blank spot of the cardstock backing: 'Your biggest fan: the Margrave!'

With that done, he handed it back. “I trust you'll keep me safe. Of course, you are keenly aware of the extravagant value any imitation of me possesses, so I have utmost faith in you. And please, help yourself to any of these, if you are so inclined.” He gestured to the small though untouched stack of expensive photographs. “For being such a steadfast supporter, you may have as many as you wish. It is the least I can do in thanks!” He arrayed his arms diagonally parallel across his front, one reaching down toward the hip and the other toward its face, both hands inclined so as to be vertical with the fingers splayed.

His posing was, however, rudely and unforgivably cut off as a great rumble shook the convention center and from the floor burst an unruly mob atop an imposing goliath. Debris flew in every direction from the eruption point, and as if a burst of lightning shot through his veins, the Margrave jumped into action. Slamming his hands down on his desk and jumping, he vaulted over both it and his little fan, unzipping his jacket and flipping up his hood as he did so. He landed with his back facing the deadly spray, stumbled and fell down for a moment, but righted himself in time to spread his coat as a cloth shield to protect his new friend and merchandise from harm, though his overcoat did not absorb the worst of the fragments. When the dust cleared, he seized a toy baton from his side pocket and spun around, leveling a rapidly-expanding baseball bat at the unexpected enemies. Bruises ached and scratches stung, but he kept his face a mask of grim steel, pausing only to make sure the girl was behind him.

“Alright,” he snapped, moving his bat to his shoulder. “Who called in the loser brigade? Just when we might have had a nice day, these insipid nobodies stumble along.” Sure, a few of them looked tough, and that giant could do a lot of damage, but who in their right mind would attack almost every Cape in the city at once? Any one of the veterans here could probably handle the situation alone. Speaking of handling things, I could negate that golem in a single stroke if I got close enough. That'd make things pretty easy. The only conceivable rationale behind this attack would be to make a scene by threatening and hurting civilians, which they were admittedly accomplishing. If that was the case, the Margrave commended their bravery for putting an end to their futures and possibly their lives for the sake of an intimidation gambit.

Winning this fight was never in question. Winning while protecting the civilians would be where things got hairy. The Margrave, however, was nothing if not confident. Nearby, the other Wards -as well as a few visitors- were preparing for a scuffle as well, though one somewhat flirtatious exchange brought an incredulous look to the Margrave's face.