Redking0380

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

FAREED NASHALA ASIM

Name - Fareed Nashala Asim
Age - 26
Gender - Male

Appearance

Height: 7’2
Weight: 220
Eye Color: Amber
Hair Length/Texture: Middling, Mostly straight with curled edges.
Hair Color: Dark Brown
Skin Color: Olive
Facial details: A well maintained beard and mustache
Distinguishing features: Despite his young age, has a rather stand-out streak of Grey in the middle of his beard.
Clothing Preferences: Well fitted, but maneuverable clothes with little in the ways of excessive flares.

Psychology

Willingness toward friends(1-5): 3 (Not against friends, but one must first approach the stalwart man and break through the stoic demeanor.
Willingness toward romance(1-5): 1 (He loved, once. He would rather hold their hand once more than find another.)

Likes:

• Lamps
• Clockwork
• Swords
• His Siblings

Dislikes:

• Nobles
• Criminals
• Silence
• Pomegranate
• Orphanages

Sexuality: Straight

Hobbies: He has a rather eclectic set of things that he enjoys in his free time. Chief amongst them constructing watches. He also enjoys spars and other martial pursuits.

Main Ambition: Protection and prosperity of his siblings and family

Personality Summary: Soft spoken, and outwardly cold to many Fareed is a man who remains focused and distant. Even to his adoptive family, he tends to prefer being a step further away than needed, but it is from a desire to give them space and not smother them with his overprotective tendencies.

Background

What Kingdom are you from, and what town were you born in?:
Alidash, but left upon an orphanage step as a babe.

Current occupation: Janissary Of The Sultans Blood

Relatives:
Sultan Raif ( Adoptive Father)
Adoptive Sibling: Ranya (20) Layla (29), Amir (25), Nahir (25), Saiya (24; adopted), Mayet (22), Munir (20)
Cousins: Farim (24), Kalliope (24)

Skills:

• Swordsmanship
• Poison Testing (Both with Kits, and just eating it. He has a good bit of resistance due to…Paranioa)
• Disguise (A necessity to guard the various members of royal blood who tend to sneak around when they should not)
• Hand To Hand Combat
• Animal handling (Another necessity due to the many, Many animals around the family)
• Cosmetic Application (A few to many nights of people complaining about smudged makeup and a few to many times being used as a decorative doll for foul creatures with lipstick tubes)

History Summary: Fareed was a street urchin of no renown. One who wandered the slums and surrounding sands of Genasea and scrabbled for changes between the cobbles and spent the day being chased from the market. Days spent dirty and sweaty with gruel as the only meal at the orphanage. An obligation by the mean old crone that ran the place.

It must have just been a chance of cosmic proportions that led him to catch the Sultan's eye, still red from tears that came with the fresh death of his wife. Fareed stood in a crowd that stood in silence for a funerary procession. Still in ragged clothes, and frankly not wanting to be there but the crone made the entire household turn up for it. Perhaps, that was the only good thing she did, however incidental.

The Sultan looked stoically forward, holding a corner of the carriage that held his wife. Yet his gaze strayed just far enough left to catch the orphans. It was the only moment that the procession paused before its completion. He did nothing then, but after dark had fallen several of the royal Bostanji arrived and took Fareed to the palace. A small payment left to the crone.

He was brought before the Sultan's very chambers and allowed inside where the man sat with no opulent robes or jewels, but the most important thing held in his arms. Sultan Raif said no words but held the small Fareed in a watery gaze before, very hesitantly, he handed over the small bundle.

It was such an insignificant moment, to hold a child of no relation. To any other they might have found a sense of cuteness or disgust, but Fareed? Fareed was enraptured by a toothless smile and a giggle that would make him topple any kingdom.

The next morning the Sultan invited him to a table for breakfast and announced his adoption. That afternoon started his training to guard th… His, family. A task he took towards gratefully.

From that moment on he was the silent shadow to any member of the family. Whether it was the one that enraptured his heart, or the ones that tried to avoid him. He was always there, watching. To this date, there have been no successful attempts on anyone's life, no matter how much they seem to want to toss it away with foolish stunts.

Questionnaire

History

Did you grow up nurtured or neglected?:
I would not call myself nurtured nor neglected. The Sultan raised me as his own, but my duty took precedent over any such coddling he sought to give. I had a family, and all the training to protect them.

When you were upset, where was your sanctuary?: Within the shelter of my siblings, most often Ranya though she had little notice of it. It always puts the mind at ease to know those you are close to are safe.

What were you like in your teenage years?: Silent, almost bookwormish. My body had yet to fully gain its strength as it does now so I spent much time in the library and providing little lessons to my siblings. While many were of close age, I tend to have a sense of insight that eases their lessons on complex subjects.

How close are you to your parents?:
Father? I could hug him, or ask for gold or expensive clothes and weapons of unmatched steel. But I do not. He gives more than enough on his own, and his love of his adopted children is clear.

Do you have any trauma that haunts you?: The… loss of Kahrem. I was there that night, the night the palace burned. I focused so hard upon the outer defenses, so certain that threats can only come from the outside. A foolish mistake. If I had been by my post… may- no. I could have gotten them to safety, I could have prevented a failing that scars us all. Amir most visibly. To see such a mirror of the fallen… Perhaps, is too little of a punishment.

What advice would you give your younger self?: Focus upon your duty above all else, its better that way.

Were you an obedient child or defiant?: Rather defiant, but mostly only cause of my siblings. But in that same note, also obedient. One can only follow someone so far when they break rules and law before they must do so as well in order to keep their safety.

What is your biggest regret?: I hold no regrets, only sins and the punishment that comes after.

Romance

Have you ever been in love? : …Once. In a mansion upon a rainy hill. A rare visit from the Sultan to an influential family who could easily open up trade routes between Alidasht and Caesonia. It lasted several weeks of negotiations, and I found myself… charmed.

What is most important in a partner to you? Describe your dream partner.:
It would be that woman. That sharp wit, that lovely hair, the crinkly in her eye as she stifled a laugh behind a gloved hand.

How do you display affection? What is your love language?: I... touch I suppose. The gentle fingers entwined, a hug where we share warmth, the simple act of rubbing shoulders as we pass…

Have you had your first kiss? What was it like?: Surprising. Accidental more like. Almost something out of those romance novels. We both reached for something just out of reach and got entangled as we fell to the floor. I lost a tooth funnily enough, but the laughter and brush of lips afterwards numbed the pain. I did get it pushed back in and have not had further issue with it.

Do you believe in love at first sight? Why or why not?: It can happen, It happened to me once. But one should not let such a thing lead to unrequited love or to force it, it must still bloom as a flower does.

What does marriage mean to you?: To swear life, body, and soul to one another. Almost like I do to my dear siblings, just with a ring. And… things I would not do with them.

Are you currently crushing on anyone?: …Is it a crush to wish for a reunion with a woman you shall likely never meet again?

Do you ever consider having children in the future?: Of course, but it remains a consideration without a wife.

Personality

Describe your ideal Sunday morning: An overcast morning that starts with a cup of tea and stretches. Small talk with mine siblings, a discussion with father, and the knowledge that they are healthy and happy to start their own days.

What kind of person do you aspire to be?: The One I am, if perhaps with even more skills and watches.

What bad habits do you have?: I… do not focus on myself as I do others. I often go longs times with no rest or even eating so focused am I on making sure another is safe. It is not an uncommon occurrence for me to sleep in odd places just close enough to wake quickly and respond to crisis or for one of the family to make me sit and eat with them instead of acting as their shadow.

If you could go back in time and change anything in your past, what would it be?: I… I… I... would not have left that Manor behind. Not without…doing more. Beg my father to let me do more, put aside my own stoicism if for just a moment.

What is your greatest fear?: The loss of family of course. To fail in some way that is indubitably my fault, know that I have failed them all.

What are your pet peeves?: When a gear does not fit just right. Or when one of my siblings tries to pull another stunt or sneak out again without telling me first. By now they should know well enough I keep many of their secrets.

When you are in a sour mood, do you like to be alone or with others?: Others, certainly.

Are you more likely to fight with your fists or your tongue?: Fists, Blade, flintlock, shoes on one occasion. If I am to engage someone, it will likely be violent as they have threatened someone close. Or Someone close asked me to.

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

Fukushu Haru

---

A bell rings for lunch, and Fukushu is amongst the first out of the door. On one shoulder an old leather rucksack and the other her jacket, still mostly off.

The few lessons imparted little of note. History has fascinating beats, and it always intrigued her to see what waves come from the smallest things. Things that would take a thousand recollections and historians to put together the details of what led to some great event or another.

It's all just idle thoughts, easily disrupted by the heavy double doors opening to the outside. A lot more breathable out here, where the wind blows gently and the artificial heat of the school dissipates.

Fukushu prefers colder climates. A necessity of working on a boat in winter, but a detriment she came to enjoy. Many others would be shivering in this chill, she was still on the verge of sweat. That familiar itch at the back of her neck were moisture clusters with hair to irritate her to no end being proof of such.

Perhaps she should loosen her hair more often? She sets her items down on a shaded bench and examines a sample of hair. Its vibrant locks were done in a hodgepodge of ribbons and braids, one of the few indulgences she has. Hair decoration and care.

She sets it aside for the moment to sit and open up her sack, pulling out a metal tin with clasps that pop open easily. Showing off the portion of fish and rice within. Grandma's Recipe, easy to make and easy to use for any fish.

Simple, but still good food and a thing to look forward do as she bites into a piece.

"Hmm. Still chewy." Fukushu had not yet mastered the recipe completely.

Mythic Path

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?

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

Stenrester Stirs

---

“Bah, get me another ale!” Shouts out the King of the north. King of the Stone Dwarves of Stenrester, Dawi Lysterson. His stein slams harshly upon the stone table within their stone halls.

It was a rowdy affair, a dozen dozen short figures rumbling and drinking away the night in the feasting hall. The celebration? Well they hardly need a reason, but it was the birthday of their newly crowned king. His coronation being just a scant few months ago after the death of his father.

As such, it calls for a speech.

“My brethren of the mountain depths, hear me!” He steps onto the table, ale in hand and chest bare. “For too long have we stayed in our holds! Too long have we been locked in the north fighting beasties and each other!” A rumbling noise of agreement comes from the assembly.

“It is time for us to reexplore the world, reintroduce them to the cut of our gib and the beauty of our beards, ay?” A much louder sound of laughter and nodded heads comes.

“We bring them ale, we bring them stones, we bring them Fights!” His fist raises. “There is a good scrap and a good chance to prove ourselves to our ancestors! This is our chance to reassert our place into the world, for its foundations were built upon our sturdy back!” Loud cheers echo.

“We shall leave from our mountain homes, we shall retake once was lost, and we shall prove to whatever out there that the Stone Dwarf People of Sternester still exist as the power that once eclipsed the world! My father spent decades repairing our nation, prepping us for this moment. He was Lyster the Scholar, Lyster the Rebuilder, Lyster the Weak!” The King looks around with a stoney gaze.

“Call him what you will, he fixed our nation in ways no King since Drak had. And I, who am proud to be his son, I who look out to the distant horizon will be known as the Reclaimer. The Conqueror. The Diplomat. The one who led us out from the dark we hid within and back into the light.” Dawi steps off of the Grey table, his footsteps echoing in the reverent silence. His eyes meet every person. From smiths, to clan leaders, to bakers and warriors.

He walks, slowly, to the throne of his realm. One of the two last relics of the old empire, covered in cracks and scratches that show its age and prove it is as resilient as the Dwarven spirit. Above it rests an equally old axe. It is the second relic, the only recovered from Drak Gnorrisons skeleton in the far north, the last remnants of the great empire they once were.

Dawi grabs it, slowly lifting the heavy steel war tool from its resting place. A stunned gasp ripples through all the attendees as he turns and presents it.

“This axe is my promise, upon its runes and history do I solemnly swear.” It lights up, blowing out the flames in the room and leaving only the dying embers of runic glow. “Upon the last dregs of magic within it, upon the dying light of our ancestors that once held this and built and protected our empire, I SWEAR!” Another pulse lights up the room. “We shall prove that just cause the old has died does not mean the new are weak.”

The but of the weapon slams, and with it disputes the last marks of the old empire. But with it do the many torches of the room reignite into a blue flame, lighting the future that lays before them.

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.