Cloven was nestled beside Astoria during journey, how he found himself there wasn’t much of a mystery. He was pondering her secrets earlier, the way her singsong voice had been unusually heavy that bright day. Aimless as he normally was, he probably just latched on to her thoughtlessly.
During the ride he had pulled his cloak tightly around his body, shielding himself from the cutting chill. His mind ruminated on what could be awaiting them. Though not for long. That well of dread was back and his hardened eyes shifted towards that small leaf ahead of them all. A piece of him, a very small piece, wanted to face her; get it over with but the rest of him was nailing that piece down in a dank cellar. Hoping it would come to its senses with enough time of isolation. So he looked hard at her toned back for a long second before snapping his stare back to the lush greenery beneath him.
The rest of the guild was… well the guild. Mostly smart individuals who were wondering how they’d survive. Cloven was of the mindset that they couldn’t lose. It just seemed impossible, especially since he was around, and officially it was his mission to kill the thing.
A few minutes had passed when the plant-wizard’s leaf zoomed ahead suddenly. Some impacts were felt seconds afterwards, thrumming throughout the sky, and a mighty roar and shock-wave shook them baring heat within its eddies. For the first time since his arrival in Crocus, Cloven felt an urge to be near the plant-wizard, though it was alien when paired with the dread that hovered inside. Then the gale came, fierce and terrible.
With a boom, he landed on his feet, magic dulling the fall. He started forward, not yet sure he wanted to join the fray like the old guy. “Bad move gardener,” he chastised indifferent. “Should’ve let 'em die.” Cloven tightened the clip of his cloak around his neck, sure the distracting material would come in handy during the fight.
His arms oozed a gentle-black aura, long globs floating up until they faded. “It's big, don't get distracted with the details,” was his only suggestion. All he could think after that was to react to the fertilized salamander as quickly as possible.
Astoria approached him with a sandwich, her lithe voice a reminder of the song he heard on his first day in Crocus. A reminder of that river his carriage passed on that first serene day, of the cheerful notes that floated on seemingly sad currents. He often wondered why she kept herself so busy with guildwork, cause her endless movement was just that, busywork. It was meant to distract herself from… something.
He was quick and watchful about grabbing the sandwich; old habits and all, the older men used to smack the Little Jokes for giggles during food handouts. Cloven wondered what could be lurking beneath her surface, was it sad depths? or turbulent guilt? maybe even thrashing rage; probably better not to pry, people were more complicated than oxygen and life.
He held the elaborate sandwich, “Guess you’re right. I was feeling a bit famish. Thanks, on both ends.”
Deeply, almost incessantly, he felt the grim pull towards the plant-wizard gnawing away at him still. So he hunkered down on his spot, unmoving as he stole a bite from the sandwich in his hand. It was toasty, near hot.
Swallowing his food, he said, “I’ll join you and the others later.”
And that was just fine because not a moment later, Felix was boasting or maybe complaining about being a strong-kid. Teamwork was important, Cloven thought, but so was knowing one’s limits. He bit into his sandwich once more, turning his gaze away.
He was on high alert. The contemplation between oxygen and life; lost. What was that dooming sensation; like heat on his neck, like jaws around his throat, like a chorus of warnings in his ears. He had been afraid to look around at first and when his courage had found him, he hadn’t seen anything out of the ordinary but that sense of danger was unmistakable. Where it spawned; it was from that same unease and well of gravity that drove him to the table in the first place. He shot the striking woman a brief glance.
The plant-wizard, he muttered. He swept aside his raven locks before returning to the dull wall, distracted. Barring the ominous feeling behind his numbness was easy, the hard part was overthinking that he would be tortured by it for a long time to come. If it was torture that was.
His thoughts had traveled from his worries, to The Son’s intentions, to his own willingness to comply several times over. That was until a deafening command ripped him away, a booming order from the head-honcho of the guild. The relief that filled him was a refreshing gale.
“Good,” was his too quiet response. “Back into the fire.”
He straightened his weathered cloak out with his gloved hands and cut his way through the mess of guildmates assembling near the gates. Teams were made without him included but he felt confident that even without one, he’d somehow be okay. The Son had trained him well; martial-wise, he was tip-top, and mentally, he felt shaky but still forged from something unbreakable.
Absently, he said, “We have Slayers. Should be easy enough if they do their job.”
Cloven was in the dim shadow of one Fenixtears’ many columns of wood. He was close to the satirical chaos, the lighthearted conversations both loud and quiet that distinguished what he knew so well and what he found both terrifying and awe inspiring.
He crossed his arms over his chest and without the distraction of a mission started to wonder of his goal… again. The Son sent me here and I didn’t question it then but now, now I’m wondering why. What could be here? I'm aimless here, without direction. Its frustrating.
His attention started to be pulled once more, tugged towards that plant wizard. There was something about her, he knew, but he stayed his focus on himself, on his reasons. He refused to chase that bait, it was foreboding and swelling in his chest, it made him gleam with sweat.
So he shot it away. He shot his golden eyes open and was startled by the racing of his heart.“Calm down, Cloven, don’t get restless.” He lifted himself from the column coolly and found a secluded spot away from the majority of people. He needed a space of respite.
Might be better to just get away, take a walk, he considered briefly but he thought a mission could pop up at anytime and thought otherwise.
Another exhale left him at a displaced table, then he folded his arms on the surface and laid his head down. Lost for actual words, he fabricated a puzzle of the intricacies between oxygen and life. It was point-blank he knew, it didn't need to be more complicated, but if he dove deeper. Truths could be found; he searched for those truths, dove and swam in that great ethereal ocean.
Nice to be approved. I'll get a post out before the end of the night. If Cloven catches anyone eye and a particular relationship is desired, let me know and we'll see if we can work something out.
"I complete my missions by any means possible. Bite that onion and swallow."
Name: Cloven Brevis Age: 15 Guild Mark Location: Left Hand | Dark Blue
Magic Type |
True Black Magic is a caster-type magic based in the darkness element. True Black Magic was the name told to him by his one-time mentor. Like most elemental magic it can be shaped into both offensive and defensive spells, typically in the mold of the user's creativity. The difference between True Black Magic and the others of its ilk, is its ability to absorb an opponent's strength as it own. And its special interaction in concerns with White or Holy magic as whole (has yet to be discovered by Cloven).
Spells |
True Black - Mold Break is a spell that fills minuscule spaces with his magic. Cloven typically uses this spell to escape from non-wizard proof jails or during exceptionally creative or situational instances a spell or two. One good example of such is filling out the breaks or crevices of walls or barricades and forcing them apart or to shatter in a controlled manner.
True Black - Gentle Intentions a spell that coats any given body part with a thin coat of his dark magic. This enhancement strengthens his mortal blows with magic and adds the effect of absorbing some of his opponent's magic with every physical contact. The drain is judged by how prolonged the contact is.
True Black - Great Black Void is a defensive spell in the shape of a dome twelve meters around the user. The spell's true genius comes in its ability to take a mighty mighty punch, for it drains spells' as well as takes the blunt of its metaphysical strength.
True Black - No More was devised with Cloven in mind by his one-time mentor. Its a boon to all his faculties; strength, speed, defense, and his senses. There is however a secret restriction; an emotional response coupled with more positive intentions and a mortal fear must be present. As with all great boons, for now at least, it can only be relied upon for about ten minutes and exhausts him for most of the next day notwithstanding exceptional healing magic.
Magic Rank: B-Rank Equipment: N/A.
Strengths |
Creative - Cloven is a deep-thinker and when luck is on his side, this often manifests in peerless solutions to impossible problems. On the outside, in a casual-sense, this shows itself in the dreamy way he observes the people and environments around him.
Sustainable Magic - Sometimes his magic has adverse, if not wholly surreal effects on his surroundings. Typically it can warp inanimate objects, unbidden like gravity, but not even Cloven can explain the lackluster effect most magics tend to have on him.
Fighter to the Core - Cloven is a fighter, trained in the martial arts by The Son and Syra, he is most confident in this aspect of himself. He bends with his opponents assault, looking for opportunities to strike a decisive blow.
Weaknesses |
Pathfinder (Helpful to Fault) - His greatness weakness is perhaps those few beings of a genuine sort. Even if their choices would later present a cataclysmic result for him later, he would rather them follow their own path. In fact, he's likely to pave that path for them.
Aimless - Without orders or someone driving him towards a goal, Cloven is usually inert. Of course this can be a issue in a more nuanced manner. Large-scale missions might have unforeseen problems, problems that could cut Cloven from his superiors. Leaving him more or less to his unprepared devices.
Thinker - Cloven is analytical powerhouse. But this backfires on him half the time. His brain attempts to solve issues that hardly exist and because of this he can be stumped or bogged down by too many choices. This is often shown by a glazed-over look and a potent lack of movement.
Personality: Cloven has always held a core numbness in him. Since his childhood to the present day. It manifests in the hardness of his golden eyes or the silent dismissal of others, pushing them away unbidden. That's not to say he wants to push people away or despises people, he simply reacts in the way he knows how. That solitary-like disposition gives him plenty of time to observe and ponder. This in turn allows him to spot certain patterns in missions, people, and situations, that when successfully exploited boosts his confidence little by little. He gets his jobs done and usually is praised for such by his superiors, if not predictably, hated by his comrades. He's learned to ignore the sodden pain of being hated and more times than not, will simply bury his worries beneath the numbness, whether that be physical or mental. This in turn, has spawned a awkwardness in him. He has a casual mode with those he's handpicked, where attempts at humor and bare-naked naivety is flashed in full.
History/Bio: Born in a little hamlet village in Bosco, Cloven lived the majority of his youth as a farmhand. His lack of parents would spare him the sorrows of the other children, when the raid occurred. Raised within a band of mercenaries called the Black Jester, Cloven was a tight-lipped boy who sought only to stay alive. The band, headed by its enigmatic and supposedly merciless leader The Son usually replenished his forces by raiding villages off the radar of most authorities and governing forces. He migrated throughout the Earth Land and before long had collected an assortment of youngsters.
The tasks of the 'Little Jokes' were to steal and sow chaos within the unsuspecting villages they planned to raid a month or so in advance. They were pickpockets mostly but some of the more sadistic tykes were killers. Cloven in particular was a lousy pickpocket which explained his extended stays in various cells and dungeons. Before the deadly screams, fires, and rapturous laughter would inevitably erupt on raid night, he would come to enjoy familiarizing himself with the patterns and inconsequential ticks of the people watching him. On the dreaded raid night, he was usually found by The Son's right-hand--his daughter; Syra--and ceremoniously released and told to return to the pens (the Little Jokes holding tent).
It was a stale, golden leaf day when Syra called him away from the other Jokes. With melted-ice in her eyes, Syra recounted the near gloried hope that her father had for Cloven. That on the day they had whisked him from his decrepit home, there was a numbness in Cloven's eyes that her father found familiar. There was notes and journals that her father kept from his past. One of which he kept closer than the others. One that was foretold by a desert witch of his encounter with True Black . Syra, with the mute compassion she usually handled Cloven with, reassured him that he was that True Black.
And in her words that, "The dawn's dead 'Little Devil', you start training with The Son tomorrow."
Within a hour he was introduced formally to his one-time mentor, The Son. To his silent surprised, The Son was actually a women and all the secrecy behind her was warranted. Of course now all those velvet locks were unlocked, blown wide open by his supposed importance to her. The Son assumed she was a cursed wizard, a Demon of sorts. She was ageless and apparently, if not already obvious, deviously smart. The Black Jesters were an excuse at most, a shelter for her very existence. And everything she had done was tempered with patience and a keen eye. Syra was a fragment of her, splintered off using her own power. As for Cloven, he was apart of a fortune telling that happened a decades ago and made The Son feel a sensation upon glance, when she had believed sensations had left her all together. So on a whim she took him.
"You are little more than a trinket to me, Cloven. You are not chosen, you are not special, and lord knows you'll become less than feed for the animals at the end of your path. Even still... I cherish you. So I will help you live until the time of your death comes." That was the kind of teacher, The Son had turned out to be. She did her job and she did it well; teaching him the magic that came easiest to him, fortifying positive habits, and beating negative ones out of him. Randomly, The Son sent him off to Fiore to join a guild in Crocus. He obliged to her demands as usual, now softened with years of companionship from herself and Syra.
He joined Fenixtears a month ago, sliding into their daily lives in much the way a echo stalks sound. He has yet to make much of an impression on anyone but he feels an odd gravity towards one of S-Rank mages. The oddity has spooked him into an opposite reaction, resisting the urge to be around her and instead shying from her very presence.
"I complete my missions by any means possible. Bite that onion and swallow."
Name: Cloven Brevis Age: 15 Guild Mark Location: Left Hand | Dark Blue
Magic Type |
True Black Magic is a caster-type magic based in the darkness element. True Black Magic was the name told to him by his one-time mentor. Like most elemental magic it can be shaped into both offensive and defensive spells, typically in the mold of the user's creativity. The difference between True Black Magic and the others of its ilk, is its ability to absorb an opponent's strength as it own. And its special interaction in concerns with White or Holy magic as whole (has yet to be discovered by Cloven).
Spells |
True Black - Mold Break is a spell that fills minuscule spaces with his magic. Cloven typically uses this spell to escape from non-wizard proof jails or during exceptionally creative or situational instances a spell or two. One good example of such is filling out the breaks or crevices of walls or barricades and forcing them apart or to shatter in a controlled manner.
True Black - Gentle Intentions a spell that coats any given body part with a thin coat of his dark magic. This enhancement strengthens his mortal blows with magic and adds the effect of absorbing some of his opponent's magic with every physical contact. The drain is judged by how prolonged the contact is.
True Black - Great Black Void is a defensive spell in the shape of a dome twelve meters around the user. The spell's true genius comes in its ability to take a mighty mighty punch, for it drains spells' as well as takes the blunt of its metaphysical strength.
True Black - No More was devised with Cloven in mind by his one-time mentor. Its a boon to all his faculties; strength, speed, defense, and his senses. There is however a secret restriction; an emotional response coupled with more positive intentions and a mortal fear must be present. As with all great boons, for now at least, it can only be relied upon for about ten minutes and exhausts him for most of the next day notwithstanding exceptional healing magic.
Magic Rank: B-Rank Equipment: N/A.
Strengths |
Creative - Cloven is a deep-thinker and when luck is on his side, this often manifests in peerless solutions to impossible problems. On the outside, in a casual-sense, this shows itself in the dreamy way he observes the people and environments around him.
Sustainable Magic - Sometimes his magic has adverse, if not wholly surreal effects on his surroundings. Typically it can warp inanimate objects, unbidden like gravity, but not even Cloven can explain the lackluster effect most magics tend to have on him.
Fighter to the Core - Cloven is a fighter, trained in the martial arts by The Son and Syra, he is most confident in this aspect of himself. He bends with his opponents assault, looking for opportunities to strike a decisive blow.
Weaknesses |
Pathfinder (Helpful to Fault) - His greatness weakness is perhaps those few beings of a genuine sort. Even if their choices would later present a cataclysmic result for him later, he would rather them follow their own path. In fact, he's likely to pave that path for them.
Aimless - Without orders or someone driving him towards a goal, Cloven is usually inert. Of course this can be a issue in a more nuanced manner. Large-scale missions might have unforeseen problems, problems that could cut Cloven from his superiors. Leaving him more or less to his unprepared devices.
Thinker - Cloven is analytical powerhouse. But this backfires on him half the time. His brain attempts to solve issues that hardly exist and because of this he can be stumped or bogged down by too many choices. This is often shown by a glazed-over look and a potent lack of movement.
Personality: Cloven has always held a core numbness in him. Since his childhood to the present day. It manifests in the hardness of his golden eyes or the silent dismissal of others, pushing them away unbidden. That's not to say he wants to push people away or despises people, he simply reacts in the way he knows how. That solitary-like disposition gives him plenty of time to observe and ponder. This in turn allows him to spot certain patterns in missions, people, and situations, that when successfully exploited boosts his confidence little by little. He gets his jobs done and usually is praised for such by his superiors, if not predictably, hated by his comrades. He's learned to ignore the sodden pain of being hated and more times than not, will simply bury his worries beneath the numbness, whether that be physical or mental. This in turn, has spawned a awkwardness in him. He has a casual mode with those he's handpicked, where attempts at humor and bare-naked naivety is flashed in full.
History/Bio: Born in a little hamlet village in Bosco, Cloven lived the majority of his youth as a farmhand. His lack of parents would spare him the sorrows of the other children, when the raid occurred. Raised within a band of mercenaries called the Black Jester, Cloven was a tight-lipped boy who sought only to stay alive. The band, headed by its enigmatic and supposedly merciless leader The Son usually replenished his forces by raiding villages off the radar of most authorities and governing forces. He migrated throughout the Earth Land and before long had collected an assortment of youngsters.
The tasks of the 'Little Jokes' were to steal and sow chaos within the unsuspecting villages they planned to raid a month or so in advance. They were pickpockets mostly but some of the more sadistic tykes were killers. Cloven in particular was a lousy pickpocket which explained his extended stays in various cells and dungeons. Before the deadly screams, fires, and rapturous laughter would inevitably erupt on raid night, he would come to enjoy familiarizing himself with the patterns and inconsequential ticks of the people watching him. On the dreaded raid night, he was usually found by The Son's right-hand--his daughter; Syra--and ceremoniously released and told to return to the pens (the Little Jokes holding tent).
It was a stale, golden leaf day when Syra called him away from the other Jokes. With melted-ice in her eyes, Syra recounted the near gloried hope that her father had for Cloven. That on the day they had whisked him from his decrepit home, there was a numbness in Cloven's eyes that her father found familiar. There was notes and journals that her father kept from his past. One of which he kept closer than the others. One that was foretold by a desert witch of his encounter with True Black . Syra, with the mute compassion she usually handled Cloven with, reassured him that he was that True Black.
And in her words that, "The dawn's dead 'Little Devil', you start training with The Son tomorrow."
Within a hour he was introduced formally to his one-time mentor, The Son. To his silent surprised, The Son was actually a women and all the secrecy behind her was warranted. Of course now all those velvet locks were unlocked, blown wide open by his supposed importance to her. The Son assumed she was a cursed wizard, a Demon of sorts. She was ageless and apparently, if not already obvious, deviously smart. The Black Jesters were an excuse at most, a shelter for her very existence. And everything she had done was tempered with patience and a keen eye. Syra was a fragment of her, splintered off using her own power. As for Cloven, he was apart of a fortune telling that happened a decades ago and made The Son feel a sensation upon glance, when she had believed sensations had left her all together. So on a whim she took him.
"You are little more than a trinket to me, Cloven. You are not chosen, you are not special, and lord knows you'll become less than feed for the animals at the end of your path. Even still... I cherish you. So I will help you live until the time of your death comes." That was the kind of teacher, The Son had turned out to be. She did her job and she did it well; teaching him the magic that came easiest to him, fortifying positive habits, and beating negative ones out of him. Randomly, The Son sent him off to Fiore to join a guild in Crocus. He obliged to her demands as usual, now softened with years of companionship from herself and Syra.
He joined Fenixtears a month ago, sliding into their daily lives in much the way a echo stalks sound. He has yet to make much of an impression on anyone but he feels an odd gravity towards one of S-Rank mages. The oddity has spooked him into an opposite reaction, resisting the urge to be around her and instead shying from her very presence.
Byleth had started forward but stopped abruptly. There was a pulling in the Force. A kind, mesmerizing whisper. Where was it pulling him to and why? In this situation wrought with chaos, blaster fire, and a terrible, bone-numbing chill, could he afford to trust so completely in the Force? That was perhaps the first time he had ever asked himself such a obvious question.
This is crazy but if its the will of the Force... I'll seek it out.
He had been told to guide the younger Jedi deeper into The Temple yet the Force was tugging him back towards the battle. Towards something... no, someones. Byleth dashed to the corner of the hall, the three Troopers from before slain behind him. He peeked around it, seeing blue bolts stream, burst, and strafe far and further down. He reforged his confidence and ducked out of cover, avoiding the busy Clones before turning into a empty hall. Byleth had known the Temple pretty well, he hoped to use that and his skills to uncover the will of the Force during such a horrendous ordeal.
Member
Vec
