Redking0380

Mythic Path

My hatred, tossed into the ring. For all to see.

Alexander Aima, Bloody Blade

Character Sheet

Name: Alexander Aima
Age: 39
Appearance:


Background:

Life was peaceful, once.

Back on the farm he was born on. Raised by loving parents and spending days raising the animals, riding the horse, harvesting wheat and potatoes and all the other crops. Not a worry beyond when the next rain would come.

Even enrolling in the small school in the nearby town did nothing to overtly change things. He went to the same building and had the same teachers all the way up to graduation. He made friends, learned things practically and mundane, and when presented with an option to join a college he turned it down.

The only thing he had to worry about was the annual competition with the neighbor across the way to see who could harvest the most spuds.

Then they arrived, a set of well dressed men. Not a suit and tie, but nice clothes, tight shoes. The kind you do not see in a farming town, with some gilded tags to show off a name brand. They spoke with his father and left with many insults to their backs.

Life tensed, but carried on. Until they returned.

Alexander did not know how many came into the town to set it ablaze, he only knew once his house was lit. A cold night spent sleeping in the barn to keep an eye on a sick horse, warmed by the distant bonfire of wood and lit horizon of grain. By the time he arrived, nothing could be done.

All that could be seen were cars peeling off and a town that disappeared overnight.

Searching found few survivors, some of his friends. Together they pooled what information they had and set out on a journey to track down those who decimated their town.

First came criminals, the nearby gangs of a city and the mafia. Neither had answers no matter how many legs they broke. Moving onto cartels or other large syndicates proved just as worthless. Leaving them all battered and confused about who it was that they should direct revenge to.

Then, Alexander had a stroke of luck. Walking through crowded city streets, he spotted a generic car. It was newish, with a few scratches in the paint and a set of fuzzy dice on the rear-view mirror. But he saw the license plate, caked in dust but that dirt just let him remember it easier.

So he waited an hour, then two before a familiar face got in it. A simple effort led to him sliding into the passenger side and…persuading them into a more private area.

A day later and they had their information and a target. It was a surprise, but the government itself had moved against them. Further investigations proved this was hardly the first time, using their own secret forces and mercenaries to clear out towns for whatever reason they had at the moment. Money, or expansions, or just because some member wanted to.

It mattered little, they had crimes and they must pay. So Alexander's band of friends expanded out into a revolution. Turning a quest of vengeance into one of freedom for their small country. Creating a bloody civil war that led to a year of conflict that ended with the capital city consumed in explosions.

Soon, they stood upon a gallows of rubble and hung those who caused it all to start. It was a glorious day of fireworks and celebration, then…

His friends, those who he had fought and bled for try to reinstate that which caused all their problems. They spent so long fighting a government, why would they want to make another? Why would they betray him like that?

Perhaps he should have walked away, perhaps he should have seen the benefits of what they planned, but all he could see in the reflections of that celebratory bonfire were eyes that looked so similar to that Tyrant they overthrew.

Hindsight means nothing for what happened next. Alexander pooled his resources, called in his favors, and on the day that the new government building had been finished did the country once more see the fires of anarchy.

There was nothing left of that bright eyes revolution. Only dust and blood caked underneath the nails. So he left, traveling far north till he ended up in the vast regions of Siberia after years of wandering.

He built a cabin, a barn. Tended to what few animals could survive the cold and planted more potatoes. It was a peaceful life.

Until he got summoned.

Archtype and Mythic

Archetype - The Anarchists Blade

Those who have taken the title of ‘The Blade’ is a being who has become so proficient in the art of death that anything in their hand is as deadly as a Blade wielded by a master. They are not just mere warriors, they are those who have become a creature that has found some cause that they will do anything to win their battles for. They will scheme, they will shed their blood to leave an enemy on the ground, they will drive a pick through the teeth of those who dare try and obstruct them. They are presented as cunning, and simple minded folks who have been pushed beyond tilling the earth for potatoes and now seek to fertilize it with mountains of bodies.

The Anarchists Blade is marked by a singular obsession with freedom above all. Many call them Anarchists for many who become one have been under the thumb of an unjust government for far too long, but such reasons are not the only reasons one becomes a Blade. Some seek to free those from binds, others simply wish to see their family's wings free to soar the sky, others still just want the absolute freedom to be left alone in a cold cabin with their companions.

In the end, they fight for freedom. The only measure is how extreme the individual gets.

Mythic Path - Blood God

To those who have nothing left but the blood soaked fields they stand in. Those who have been abandoned by family, country, friends, traitors all. Those who have the thousand thousand voices of all those they have slain chanting in their minds and soul, BLOOD! BLOOD! BLOOD!

These are those who have hit the breaking point, the farmer turned butcher by those they sought to protect, gaining power from the viscera that soaks them and muddies the ground. From it, drawing forth weapons, constructs, beasts and magics that all cause more bloodletting to occur. Crafting a perfect feedback loop of violence unending.

They lay no claim to divine domains or power, but their title comes from the fearful tales spread of them. Of those who witness one man face a nation and leave a crimson ocean. Those who whisper in shaky breath, ‘Fear the Blood God, for nothing mortal remains that can be reasoned with if his eyes see you.’

Progression

Level 1
Fallen Hero
Gain access to blood magics both offensive and self-healing. Their effects scale with the amount of bloodshed in the area, but take a toll on the user faster than they can heal. They must incorporate their own lifeforce into each move.

Level 2
Blood-Soaked Warrior
Gain Access to blood weapon constructs. Inanimate objects made of hard, crystalline ichor that can match most mundane weapons construction.

Level 3
Bloodborne Power
Can imbue others with blood transfusion, giving them limited time healing factors. In return, can claim a tithe of blood from willing participants nearby to strengthen himself and powers for a duration.

Level 4
Bloodshot Eyes
Can now see blood through objects and effect it through Line-of-sight with magics and manipulation. Letting them draw it from great distances and see biological things that try to hide.

Level 5
Bloodrush
A large increase in power of all abilities, alongside increased control. The cost of abilities is reduced and physical attributes are enhanced.

Level 6
Life Blood
Able to now make Constructs of crystallized blood they have a life of their own. They can be self propagating or nearly rivaling the Blade in strength if built up enough. A side effect of this is the ability to teleport through constructs or through large enough pools of blood.

Level 7
Blood Chant
The mere presence of the Blade causes the weather to change, drawing the blood fresh and long dried from the earth to cause a storm of crimson lightning and Wuthering Gales of viscera. The blood magics gain more raw power, now in the realm of being able to tear the life straight from the body of an enemy to create a weapon to stab back in. The sheer scale of everything also receives an increase.

Level 8
Blood Toll
The self-sacrifice costs of all moves are now basically nonexistent, letting the Blade now become a truly unstoppable force that spews blizzards of crystallized blood shards and can heal or replace lost limbs in seconds.

Level 9
Final Bell Chime
The toll of the final bell rings across the battlefield. All who hear it feel their ears run with blood and cry tears of crimson. Their pores weep and their hearts beat in tune with every ring of that distance sound. Merely being around the Blade when they are in combat will cause all that perceive him as an enemy to profusely bleed and empower him. The only correct way to describe them is a juggernaut, and the land shakes with his steps.

Level 10
Blood God
There is no such thing as the divine for one so drenched in blood. There is no hell flame hot enough to dry his hands. He walks the earth alone, with only the countless Legions of blood made constructs around. Above roars the greatest creation, and below is an ever churning sea of faces that fell. Each voice an echo within their head as their life is used to drown the world in a biblical flood created from their bodies. How does one stop a man who bled the world dry and still wrung more out of it?

Roses and Daggers - Looking for new players!

Now I shall appear and express mine own intruige about seeing more into this

Closed - After The Storm - A Low-Fantasy / No Magic Roleplay

STONE DWARVES OF STENRESTER

Nation Name
Stenrester

Government
Monarch

Demographics
DWARVES

Population
400K

Claimed Territory: The Northern Mountain ranges of the continent once were a cohesive whole. Stretching to the tip of the south and ranging all the way to the staggering monoliths of the Stor Sten. Then the great dragons attacked and crumbled much of it, leaving the lush woodlands barren and infertile to all but hardy scrubs. Then the Storm hit, and its wuthering gales turned mountains that once eclipsed the world in their shadows to pebbles. Its once solid landmass drowned in endless rain, turning a country into a dozen dozen peninsulas and islands that scattered across the sea. These days the mountains that remain scrape the clouds, but have no claim to their former heights of glory, but the people who live within them still lay claim to their ancestral homelands. Even if they have to build a few more boats then they would like.

On the plus side, they like fishing. Strange.

History: It is said that the Northern Dwarves were the first to be hit by that cataclysmic storm eons ago. In the age of the last great king, DRAK GNORRISON, when he rallied the great armies of the underworld empire to march upon elder dragons that had long terrorised our people and the world at large. It is said when the King's last roar of defiance matched the deathknell screams of the wyrm Dödare did they both echo the first howling winds of the Storm.

So the records say, for the world has changed. Long has the empire fallen to ruin with knowledge to never be reclaimed. We who were born of stone have become entwined with it in body and soul, and there will no longer be a great king. Merely hollow shells that reverberate the last expulsion of rage. Baying for blood and vengeance from an enemy that has no form, spitting out grudges and oaths that cannot be fulfilled.

Once proud and noble, the Northern dwarves are more barbarians now. Tossing aside their grand histories of grand machines and powerful runic magics to embrace drink and axe, wading into battles unasked and slaughtering a grand toll before they fall or disappear. Always seeking a greater and greater foe.

The modern day dwarf has lost much of the rage of their ancestors, enough to look out at the great world and see others rise. Perhaps with an eye bloodshot with anger, or one that gleams with the old riches of their holds and the cataloged knowledge of how they once plundered the under earth's riches

Culture: Simple is the life of a Dwarf. One spent in battle, drinking, or some combination of the two or preparing for such. Respect is earned from the biggest things slain or the highest quality ales, and few in between. There are still builders, and cobblers and farmers and all the things that a society needs to function. They are not ostracized or outcast, but the type of folk that find solace in such tasks tend to not be the kind that prefer to reside with the wider society, and the wider society in kind are content to thank them for their work and let them go about their soft ways.

Governance and Politics: The average dwarf has little care for political
Concerns. The king handles mostly everything and all follow his order. Even the few scattered clan heads rarely do anything beyond voice the occasional concern of the people, concerns that are usually valid enough to be acted upon by the King.

Technology: If there is one facet of the Northern Dwarves that never quite faded, was their craftsmanship. Sure they lack the grand forges of yesteryear, but metal and stone are theirs to craft. And they prefer the more simple things now. No longer do they build golems that border on magic with only gears, or great war machines. Now they have a good axe and sturdy armor, for those who wear such things.

Though, they have not neglected such basic things like agriculture or medicine. No dwarf wants to be hungry or miss something over the sniffles. Even if their plantations tend to have a more unusual underground tint or food have a touch more gravel then the softer races might find acceptable.

Military Overview: In truth Stenrester has no properly organized military. Most dwarves like to fight, are well trained, and are in general tenacious bastards. They are quick to organize when called, and fight like brothers with a lifetime side by side.

That speaking, the average ‘soldier’ has but the strength of arm and a sturdy axe, hammer, pick, or some other weapon. They are barechested with towering hair and stylized beards. Yet this is not the pure detriment that would plague the softer races for a dwarf is literally harder. Skin like stone and bones like iron with breath that chills the air. They are hardly impervious, but many a blade and claw has found itself chipped with only scratches to tell of its wound.

On the other side, the few dwarves who go and wear things like plate are juggernauts on the battlefield. They are as close to a walking fortress as a footsoldier can be, slow, unstoppable, and with voices like avalanches. Few are those who wear such armor, many see it as cowardly and balk at the thought. After all, this is a people who had to have a kingly decree issued to wear pants to battle much less proper armor. No, outside of the Kings Mountainclad elites and the strange smith trying out their work or dwarves who are truly out to make sure something is killed, the most one would see is decorative bands of metal or leathers.

It would be a chore of great foolishness to truly rouse the dwarves of Stenrester to true war. To stoke the old flames to such a degree would be enough for them to prove once more why they were once lauded as the lords of war and machine, even if their old constructs are lost and the new ones are barely an ember. It is still an ember from a fire that once singed the world.

Additional: Deep within the northern wastes lies the frozen death, Dodar Kalla. The last spawn of Dödare, that terrible dragon whose breath froze the seas and mere presence caused the permafrost that, to this day, leaves much of the north a wasteland. She is vengeance, seeking blood in much the same way the Northern Dwarves do, only hers is focused. Year after year does she raid our border, generation after generation does the King head into the endless blizzards that surround her den and fight for days only to fall to her fury.

Dodar Kalla is the blight of the north, yet it has been an age since a king has fought her and an age since she attacked. For the last king fell ill at a young age and carried the marks for his whole life, ultimately becoming a scholar king that cooled the simmering heat of the dwarven soul instead of a warrior like his lineage. Now the realm is left in an uncertain limbo, for none can expect what she will do next but all know that our King will stand ready to repel it.

Closed - After The Storm - A Low-Fantasy / No Magic Roleplay

STONE DWARVES OF STENRESTER

Nation Name
Stenrester

Government
Monarch

Demographics
DWARVES

Population
400K

Claimed Territory: The Northern Mountain ranges of the continent once were a cohesive whole. Stretching to the tip of the south and ranging all the way to the staggering monoliths of the Stor Sten. Then the great dragons attacked and crumbled much of it, leaving the lush woodlands barren and infertile to all but hardy scrubs. Then the Storm hit, and its wuthering gales turned mountains that once eclipsed the world in their shadows to pebbles. Its once solid landmass drowned in endless rain, turning a country into a dozen dozen peninsulas and islands that scattered across the sea. These days the mountains that remain scrape the clouds, but have no claim to their former heights of glory, but the people who live within them still lay claim to their ancestral homelands. Even if they have to build a few more boats then they would like.

On the plus side, they like fishing. Strange.

History: It is said that the Northern Dwarves were the first to be hit by that cataclysmic storm eons ago. In the age of the last great king, DRAK GNORRISON, when he rallied the great armies of the underworld empire to march upon elder dragons that had long terrorised our people and the world at large. It is said when the King's last roar of defiance matched the deathknell screams of the wyrm Dödare did they both echo the first howling winds of the Storm.

So the records say, for the world has changed. Long has the empire fallen to ruin with knowledge to never be reclaimed. We who were born of stone have become entwined with it in body and soul, and there will no longer be a great king. Merely hollow shells that reverberate the last expulsion of rage. Baying for blood and vengeance from an enemy that has no form, spitting out grudges and oaths that cannot be fulfilled.

Once proud and noble, the Northern dwarves are more barbarians now. Tossing aside their grand histories of grand machines and powerful runic magics to embrace drink and axe, wading into battles unasked and slaughtering a grand toll before they fall or disappear. Always seeking a greater and greater foe.

The modern day dwarf has lost much of the rage of their ancestors, enough to look out at the great world and see others rise. Perhaps with an eye bloodshot with anger, or one that gleams with the old riches of their holds and the cataloged knowledge of how they once plundered the under earth's riches

Culture: Simple is the life of a Dwarf. One spent in battle, drinking, or some combination of the two or preparing for such. Respect is earned from the biggest things slain or the highest quality ales, and few in between. There are still builders, and cobblers and farmers and all the things that a society needs to function. They are not ostracized or outcast, but the type of folk that find solace in such tasks tend to not be the kind that prefer to reside with the wider society, and the wider society in kind are content to thank them for their work and let them go about their soft ways.

Governance and Politics: The average dwarf has little care for political
Concerns. The king handles mostly everything and all follow his order. Even the few scattered clan heads rarely do anything beyond voice the occasional concern of the people, concerns that are usually valid enough to be acted upon by the King.

Technology: If there is one facet of the Northern Dwarves that never quite faded, was their craftsmanship. Sure they lack the grand forges of yesteryear, but metal and stone are theirs to craft. And they prefer the more simple things now. No longer do they build golems that border on magic with only gears, or great war machines. Now they have a good axe and sturdy armor, for those who wear such things.

Though, they have not neglected such basic things like agriculture or medicine. No dwarf wants to be hungry or miss something over the sniffles. Even if their plantations tend to have a more unusual underground tint or food have a touch more gravel then the softer races might find acceptable.

Military Overview: In truth Stenrester has no properly organized military. Most dwarves like to fight, are well trained, and are in general tenacious bastards. They are quick to organize when called, and fight like brothers with a lifetime side by side.

That speaking, the average ‘soldier’ has but the strength of arm and a sturdy axe, hammer, pick, or some other weapon. They are barechested with towering hair and stylized beards. Yet this is not the pure detriment that would plague the softer races for a dwarf is literally harder. Skin like stone and bones like iron with breath that chills the air. They are hardly impervious, but many a blade and claw has found itself chipped with only scratches to tell of its wound.

On the other side, the few dwarves who go and wear things like plate are juggernauts on the battlefield. They are as close to a walking fortress as a footsoldier can be, slow, unstoppable, and with voices like avalanches. Few are those who wear such armor, many see it as cowardly and balk at the thought. After all, this is a people who had to have a kingly decree issued to wear pants to battle much less proper armor. No, outside of the Kings Mountainclad elites and the strange smith trying out their work or dwarves who are truly out to make sure something is killed, the most one would see is decorative bands of metal or leathers.

It would be a chore of great foolishness to truly rouse the dwarves of Stenrester to true war. To stoke the old flames to such a degree would be enough for them to prove once more why they were once lauded as the lords of war and machine, even if their old constructs are lost and the new ones are barely an ember. It is still an ember from a fire that once singed the world.

Additional: Deep within the northern wastes lies the frozen death, Dodar Kalla. The last spawn of Dödare, that terrible dragon whose breath froze the seas and mere presence caused the permafrost that, to this day, leaves much of the north a wasteland. She is vengeance, seeking blood in much the same way the Northern Dwarves do, only hers is focused. Year after year does she raid our border, generation after generation does the King head into the endless blizzards that surround her den and fight for days only to fall to her fury.

Dodar Kalla is the blight of the north, yet it has been an age since a king has fought her and an age since she attacked. For the last king fell ill at a young age and carried the marks for his whole life, ultimately becoming a scholar king that cooled the simmering heat of the dwarven soul instead of a warrior like his lineage. Now the realm is left in an uncertain limbo, for none can expect what she will do next but all know that our King will stand ready to repel it.

Seekers Beyond - Foreword

Hmm, this does indeed appear intriguing

After The Storm - A Low-Fantasy / No Magic Roleplay

I would be interested in tossing a hat into this.

Dreamer's Sea: A High School RP inspired by the Persona Series (Dead)

Fukushu Haru

---

Bright was the sun today. Such brightness brings out the deeper reds of her orange hair, the sort of day that invites bugs out of their holes to scurry around in warm dirt for all to see. Such was its vibrancy from the window she sat next to.

Fukushu wished she could be out there, to feel the breeze and smell freshly turned dirt. Or go further out to the distant shore and smell the salt and feel something pulling, fighting against her line as the water roars alongside a throat long turned raw in mimicry.

Grandmother would approve, but it was that same old bat that had her in this position. On paper. She was not nearly foolish enough to believe that spiteful old woman would ever let her go, her own version of overprotectiveness after…

Regardless, Grandmother would rather be available to help should something happen than in prison for something as little as ‘Neglect’ or ‘Child Endangerment’ or ‘44 Counts of Aggravated Assault and Battery’. She scoffs at the memory, Fukushu would not neglect education but sitting in a class with the dull murmur of those around feels…wasted. When there are things out there she could do, people she could find.

The pencil she had been idly twirling creaks in her clenched hand, a notice for a deep breath and to relax back into the chair. She tries to stretch, only for the uniform fabric to catch before any muscles, the small jacket being a size too small for any sort of movement. Another exhalation of breath marks her taking the dark thing off, it was too warm for it anyways.

Maybe is she is lucky the classes will be over quickly.

Isekai *Pathfinder inspired RP*

<Snipped quote by Redking0380>

Try to have things make sense. You can't be, for example, a Klingon D'har warrior, Jedi/Sith, or something like that. You can be good, evil, or something other than those, but don't be graphic and such in what you do if you're evil.

As far as base power level, everyone's very exceptional even at the start, but there is a loose power level, from level 1 to 10. Everyone starts at their base power level of 1.

@ActRaiserTheReturned

I am...Honestly uncertain what you mean by sense in that context.
Which is vaguely comedic, cause I suppose I have no sense.

Isekai *Pathfinder inspired RP*

This is, as stated, rather free form. But is there any limits or things that should be kept in mind? A limit on crossovers or base power or morality or such?
Otherwise I was expressing mine own interest.

Dreamer's Sea: A High School RP inspired by the Persona Series (Dead)

Fukushu Haru

Fukushu Haru

Age: 16



Important Items

Grandmothers fishing set

- Harpoon, net, wire, Rod, and hooks

- Mother's Sword

- Father's Entomology Journal

- Worn leather backpack

- Carving Knife

Bio

From inception the Haru family was odd. An etymologist from Germany who fell in love with the daughter of a Japanese whaler that had gone beyond her origins to become a kendo champion.

It could hardly be called a whirlwind romance or anything poetic. They met, and to all who weren't them seemed to be rather blasè about the other. But there was a connection, shared between a few too many shared cigarettes and moments held too long.

They never had a proper ceremony. They got the legal matters out of the way and went on with life with only one noticeable change to the public.

They changed their family name to Haru, to mark their marriage in spring. In truth, they spent more time apart than together. One could easily take it as a scheme to avoid taxes or some such. Until Fukushu came along.

She grew up in a warm home, well taken care of. She learned how to distinguish between her mothers inherent apathy and her fathers depression and traumas marked both mentally and by the loss of an arm. She was loved, even if others might have seen it as almost neglect. Fukushu was not. Her parents loved her, and her, them.

After all, even the most downcast day is a day you can build memories in.

But, like tears in rain, those days have long left with no trace but those Grey memories.

Some called it an accident, others a serial killer. The news had a different story every hour for the famed Kenshi and her dead husband.

Fukushu knows what happened that night, the night she turned eleven. A dozen hooded figures, half cut down by her mother and a few more beaten by her fathers sheer unwillingness to go down. Like a roach he endured and skittered till he laid down his life to save her.

Next was a blur, she was concussed and crying and confused and so much else. Yet she would not forget what it was she saw. Her mother, those symbols, the words that still echoed from long cold lungs…

No one believed her.

After that night she was shipped to the coast to be in her grandmother's care. An old woman saltier than the sea and with a peg leg that hated solid ground. She took the young lass underneath her wing and they went to see for over a year. Teaching her granddaughter the skills needed upon a ship and imparting vitriol over those who killed her blood.

There is something ironic that the only one who believed a child's insane sounding stories was a woman who was two steps off of the gangplank leading into the seas of madness.

Unfortunately, solely for her grandmother, the police did catch up and force her to enroll her into school again. Where Fukushu now had to play catch up with hands more used to roughspun ropes and wires then paper and lead.

Grandmother was an old fashioned sort. The kind who set aside her sea born soul to stay dry on land for as long as possible to ensure Fukushu lived life well. That she raised her as she did her own daughter years before.

It all culminated in Fukushu being a rather soft spoken and polite girl. Somehow lacking the apathetic disgust or her mother, the apathetic depression of her father, or the apathetic…well the screaming lack of care for anything not directly related to her Grandmother.

With good manners and good grades, she got offered a transfer to that island ever distinct on the horizon. New Amakusa city calls, and deep within her lies that burning ember that awaits fuel. A flickering flame barely restrained over years of patience to find what doctrine led to her parents death, what cult or organization insidiously lurks in the shadows killing indiscriminately. She will search, and she will find them. And when she does?

Grandmothers Harpoon had long since been whetted with blood.

Personality
Fukushu is a person that appears and acts soft spoken and polite, And she is. To most anyone she has to interact with she is just a nice, well raised lady with manners.

Yet beneath the surface of a calm sea lies the riptides to drag down all around.

She is deeply obsessed with trying to find anything about why her parents were killed, who orchestrated it, and where they are so she can kill them in turn. When agitated as such, she can appear one step away from madness as she rants at the heavens with such vitriol that would leave paradise as embers.

Skills

Fukushu has a rather eclectic set of skills. She is moderately skilled in the blade, has knowledge of bugs and German, was a rather stalwart academic in classes, and has many such skills useful to fishing and whaling. She can tie an unbreakable knot, weave a rope from twine or hair, and toss a harpoon with great accuracy. Her grandmother also passed down a large sum of fish based recipes that she can cook rather well.

Though she does lack many casual skills many might have, lacking in social manners that leave her sounding stilted or cold.