Saber

Forged in Gold

Ruarc motherfucking Hinn. You know how it is. ;)

AND WE'RE ON TWO PAGES HOW BALLIN' IS THAT LOL

Forged in Gold

"For a moment and more, cousin," Ruarc replied almost sleepily, tilting his head to one side and scratching at the stubble of his beard. He held a tankard loosely in the slight curl of his left hand and his eyes belied his stupor. The bastard Loroughe was melancholic by nature, to be sure, but there was a steel behind it. This steel was imparted by Gorin Hinn, a hard working farmer and strict father; he had taught Ruarc long ago that all men were snakes. Ruarc, through his time, had learned that snakes were often beheaded and left to wriggle.

Is my cousin a snake, he wondered, hissing in time with his mother?

It was a bizarre thought and one quickly shirked. He forced a smile, for the sake of himself and the Stolen; bringing the tankard to his lips briefly. Certainly what he had heard was out of the ordinary, but he was uncertain as to the nature of the second voice; it was quiet and labored, as though the speaker were unaccustomed to their own words. Perhaps it was a maid, or some lass Grey kept as his own, came the niggling doubts, but these, too were pushed behind the steel in him. He hated the northmen and their bloody ways and the thought of his half-sister living amongst them was atrocious.

No, Ruarc corrected, she will live as one of them...not merely among them. She will be a mother to northern children that will some day inherit the throne. Yet, here I stand...natural son of Piervue Loroughe, bearing a different name and no claim.

"I've seen more of the feast than I can stand," he said lazily, as his cousin was accustomed to, perhaps a bit more thickly than he had intended, so slighty slurred had his speech become, "and the fucking northerners at that." Ruarc moved the tankard as though he were conducting an unseen orchestra, for a moment, before allowing himself another drink. Then, he relaxed, finally, seeking how best to hint to his cousin that he had heard at least a little of what was said.

"It is good to know your mother still eats, despite her condition," he cast his eyes to the door, for a moment, "I pray for her as often as I pray for you. Gods be good, she may yet recover." His smile was purely Hinn, then, all tooth and cheek, as he lifted his tankard to his cousin. "And with her," he whispered, "perhaps Warrhon can recover."

Ruarc Hinn knew what he wanted, then...and he had an idea of how to get it.

The Dead Cairn

babbysama said
Thank goodness, I was beginning to worry about this RP :/ Also, may I make a suggestion? I was thinking that when the IC goes up, we could make a Chatzy to communicate with each other a bit more easily. And since we can't possibly ask you all the questions we have about the setting, you could make a PiratePad to put some info about the setting to inform our RP'ing. Just a suggestion ^_^

Oh, please don't worry. Sicarius and I are still working to get everything in motion. It's just that the last three weeks have been intense for me and it seems that this activity isn't going to disperse or even slow until sometime in June.

I like these ideas, we'll talk about it more when the IC goes up.

As to Zeropathic. Sicarius is going to reply to your questions rather soon. At his request (requests, actually, I just keep forgetting) I've changed Western Vallake to its true name. Worsenth. I'll shoot you some stuff on the Yildeanic Faith (unless Sicarius covers this, as well) when I get some time. This information will be directly relative to your character's knighthood status and perhaps history.

EDIT: Rushed Morben's CS to completion (omitting a HUGE section of his history, but that'll be explained IC at some point) and I've decided to leave Endaran incomplete, due to the fact that he's more of a plot device than a character (well, so far as you guys are concerned). This frees me up to work solely on the IC. I am much better (and I daresay much faster) at doing in-character stuff than writing out information. Hahahah.

The Dead Cairn

You may certainly join. Welcome.

The IC goes up tomorrow or, barring that, Wednesday. Apparently every time I set a date to get something done...well, something else happens. So, you'll have time to get a character up.

Gotta run,
Saber.

The Dead Cairn

Should have Morben's CS done before the weekend. I'm shooting to have the IC up this Saturday, when I'll have some free time. Sorry for all the delays, thanks for all your patience.

Forged in Gold

"To send" she queried as if the idea were somehow unfamiliar to her, "No, dear brother, merely a letter to deliver." She offered to him gingerly, stepping away from the door and more into the realm of birds. She heard the quiet ruffling of their feathers in the distance and an occasional chortle or, perhaps, a muffled squawk. Pyrra adjusted her stance and slid around her brother, casting eyes about the room with an intense curiosity. It seemed that things within the Aviary switched their positions frequently, making it something of a game to her to attempt to imagine the scene as she had last seen it.

"To you, particularly," she said over her shoulder, casting pale eyes at her brother for a moment before going back to making notes, "from Father. He sends his regards, as well as this letter. Beyond that," Pyrra offered with a muted chortle of her own, "I suppose it's between the two of you." Her hands slid onto her hips as she made quiet notice of a loose stone on the floor, at the foot of the wall, and a clean square on the dusty table where a stack of papers had been on her last visit.

"I bore the letter for love of you and lack of want for the night's feast. Seems most things have become bitter, in recent days."

She was loathe to speak to her brother of the troubles of the kingdom, but there were few ears she could trust; and much to be said on the subject.

- - - - - --
"Yes, that was during my first year in the capitol. The wine was exquisite, but the times were hard..."

Forthel Quinn narrowed his eyes, seemingly seeking a distant memory. To those who would watch, he seemed to be the victim of a drunken reverie; to hear his mouth tell the tale. In truth, he was searching the crowd for a familiar face. Those who served the Quinn family from the shadows were many, their faces unknown to those of the court; but there was one who was sure to be noticed. That was, if he had dared to show his true face. Forthel knew that Friar Cayn was a man of subtlety and obfuscation and would rarely dare to show his face at a royal event; at least not his true face.

That was what occupied Forthel Quinn, searching for the unfamiliar in a room all too knowable. The others around him had turned away, believing his story to be finished as he stared, mouth slightly agape, into the distance. He watched the feast, the nobles, the king, the princess, the northern princes, their guards. All was in place at the high table. Yet they did not concern him, not yet. The room was tumultuous, plates and cups and people shifting and changing places like entropic clockwork. He watched them move, some gears and some pins, searching for the rat in the machine.

Finally, he spied the disguised assassin. Cayn sat with his arms crossed, a bemused smile spread across his false face. He sat and broke bread and ate his fill. Forthel Quinn watched him for a long while, until the man turned toward him. Slowly, the assassin stood and said farewell to those at his table. For a time, he waited, before bidding farewell to the table, begging pardon and slipping out of the door.

"Where's my money," came the whisper from the shadows, as he passed by the first arched hallway.

"You'll get your money when I have proof of your success."

The assassin grunted and pulled a roll of papers from his clothing, offering it forward with a stabbing motion.

The Dead Cairn

Heyheyhey!

I have a fair amount of time left in the day! Finished and posted up the first two of the Living schools of magic! Up next will be Cibest.

They should all be going up today, barring any terrible happenstance.

Just thought I'd drop the line and let you all know.

Gonna get back to work,
Saber.

P.S:

EDIT: Magic schools are up.

Forged in Gold

Nah, I'm just hella busy. Sorry it took so long, man. I'll be quicker on the post this time. For now, m'gonna go work on things for my RP. You should check it out; it might just be your cup of tea.

See ya when I see ya.

The Dead Cairn

Posted up the 'Dead Schools' of magic. They're the ones you can't use. I'll get the important ones up as soon as I can. The second set will be a little more detailed, I promise.

babbysama: I've got no problem tossing around ideas with you. Shoot me a PM and I'll get to you in a couple of hours.

PrinceOfQuills: Accepted. Looks fine.

EDIT:

Morben

Name; Morben Risaac

Age; Thirty one

Nationality; Lerayissian

Birthplace; Aldph, Euphius.

Affiliation; Vigil's Council and the Yildeanic Faith

Occupation; Mage Slayer

Favored God; Lady Yildeane

Weight; 209 lbs

Height; 6'1

Build; Bulky

Hair Style; Shaved.

Hair Color; Blonde.

Eye Color; Hazel

Facial Features; Foremost are the unsightly scars that cover most of Morben's face; varying from deep shades of mottled purple to night obsidian scabs. His nose is deformed and nearly flat, missing chunks from the bottom of each nostril. Morben's lips are thin and cracked, much of them seemingly burned away with the finer details of his face. While his cheeks are low set and his brow is broad, there is a certain intelligent gleam to the man's eyes. His jaw is expectedly broad, to match the bulk of his head. The scars continue down his neck and stretch across half of his body.

Personality; There are those who would call Morben Risaac a vengeful and bitter man. They would be correct, for the most part. It is undeniable that Morben speaks with a caustic edge to those who surround him. It is also undeniable that he bears a heavy hatred for mages. To his comrades, the burned man is surprisingly amicable and helpful; offering his strength to those who have need of it...so long as they can stomach the sight of him. To others, he is a bloodthirsty psychopath with a disturbing ritualistic tendency to gaze into the eyes of those he slays.

He is behelden to a rather dark sense of humor and is quite crass in casual conversation. Through his faults, though, Morben is a loyal man and takes his duty (and faith) very seriously.

Clothing; Morben wears no cloak or cape and bears no adornment on his scarred visage. He favors sturdy, functional clothing that can withstand the punishment of his occupation. As such, he is often seen wearing a battered set simple of plated chainmail; underneath which lies brown (usually brown) or red clothing.

Weapon; "The Pig Sticker"

A cruel blade that first appears as a simple, albeit very wide, dagger. When stabbed into a foe, pressing on the hilt of the dagger will cause small spines to erupt above and below the sharpness of the blade; effectively hooking the blade into the foe, causing them greater harm when it is removed. After a time, the mechanism unlocks and allows for retrieval. Morben tends to abuse this weapon by using it while the barbs are active; causing it to inflict more damage, but placing greater structural strain on the weapon. This is the blade that Morben has owned, of this design. The other two had equally creative titles.

Clockwork Rifle; Standard issue for Mage Slayers. While it is not something that Morben prefers to use, he understands how valuable it can be against certain opponents. It is nicked and worn, though well maintained.

Miscellaneous Items; Traveling bag, whetstone, oil, hooded lantern, bullets

Magically Talented; No

Magical Attunement: None

Skills; Murder.

Biography; Aldph was a small, quiet town at the time Morben Risaac was born. A beauty to the eyes of his parents, Morben inherited much of the Euphian idea of being handsome. Able bodied and eager to tag along with his father, wherever he went. He had not been living long, perhaps eight at this time, when a group of men came passing through the small hamlet. They were garbed in brown cloaks, bearing the Hawk-crest of Vigil on their tabards. These men were Mage Slayers and the first of their kind that Morben had ever seen. The boy became enthralled with the idea, with the glory and stories that surrounded these elite soldiers. His father, Radulf, began to tell the boy stories of the Mage Slayers; stories that had been passed on to him by his father.

These stories told of Yildeane and her band of holy warriors, sweeping across the land...using the very weapon of the Gods against them. Of how she preached that no mortal should be a slave to the whims of the divine, that nothing in all of shining eternity could compare to the power of a united humanity. They told of her sacrifice, to lay low the brutal Gods of old. Of how, through her work, Lady Yildeane secured a bright future for humanity. There were parables and fables told, of the Immortal Mumazi, to demonstrate how the Gods would force their supposed lessers through countless deaths and infinite suffering for their own whims. The thoughts disgusted Morben, the idea of a mage becoming an embodiment of all that was wrong in the world; that they were Lady Yildeane's ancient foes, corrupting and misleading humanity through their very existence.

Morben grew with these stories in his heart and strove to strengthen himself. He spent much of his time tilling the fields with his father and offering his strength to his neighbors in exchange for paltry coins. Time passed slowly in the small village as the Risaac boy grew into his awkward years. His voice cracked and his body grew, though his goal never once slipped from his mind. Then, the time came when his father told him different stories; tales that were not entirely tales, of the horror he had witnessed during his time in the Euphian Guard Corp, serving in Merrifort. He spoke of the groups of Mage Slayers that never returned, of the distant abyssal howls that resounded through the Godwastes...of the Dead Cairn's dread, acidic glow in the distance; of Dead Gods and Lady Yildeane. Perhaps it was that his father saw in him the potential for greatness, or perhaps it was that his father wished for his son to achieved the dream he never could. So, Radulf told his tales and took what coins the boy had earned during his four years of menial labor.
To Delryn, his mother, the gift was a shocking displeasure. Gleaming and sharp, the steel sword glinted wildly in the hearth's light. The cloak flowed over his broad shoulders as he stood, in tears, thanking his father. Though, despite her protests the boy had made his decision long ago. He was to join the Euphian Guard Corps and then, he swore, before his father and mother, that he would be chosen to be a Mage Slayer. He remained, for a year thereafter, performing his usual labors to save enough money to survive in Merrifort during his training. At age fifteen Morben Risaac took his first steps on what would be a long and harrowing road.

Arriving at Merrifort, Morben immediately set out to prove himself. Though he was barely old enough to join the military, he proved himself to be strong, if wildly untrained. He was taken in by the Euphian Guard Corps, after being rejected thrice, and began his training six months after stepping foot into the city. Lodging where he could and working whenever the chance arose; he soon knew many of the people that frequented the city's Merchant Square. During those six months, he worked in the city, helping to unload the zepplins that docked there periodically.
It was during that time he met the man that would become his dearest friend. Kyris Cardel, a quick-witted noble from Laurosa. The two were assigned to the same shifts on most days and would spend much fo their time bantering as they worked. Morben would speak of his family and the simple life he had lived on the farm, of his faith and ideas for the future. Kyris would tell tales of his rich, bizarre relatives, stories about his travels from Laurosa to Euphius and sometimes, would even indulge in Morben in his questions about the other regions of Lerayis.
The two of them would spend their free hours combing Merrifort's inns (failing that, brothels), choosing what lasses they fancied. Often, Morben and Kyris would play 'wingman' to one another. It happened to be that one night, Kyris set his eye upon a priestess of Yildeane; a woman screaming at drunkards with a voice of sweet fire. Morben, enthralled with her words and Kyris, enthralled with her beauty approached and set in motion a rather unpredictable chain of events. Atheri, the priestess, soon turned her back on the Yildeanic Faith; opting to join the Euphian Guard Corps. He wasn't sure at how it happened, truly, but he was glad for another friend.

The three were accepted into the Euphian Guard Corps, beginning their training immediately. While he saw them during training, Morben spent only a little time with Kyris and Atheri; earning him some mockery from the others. He spent much of his time obeying orders and performing whatever tasks were placed before him; he learned, to wield the blade he carried, along with guns and various instruments designed in Merrifort's defense. Morben strove to prove himself among his peers, attempting to wash away the stain of his previous failures. It seemed, when the time came for their admission into the Euphian Guard Corps, that the three of them were to be grouped together. Quietly thankful for the fact, Morben accepted his new station as a guard of Merrifort.

From inside the city, it was rare to hear or see any sign of mages. Atop the walls and towers, he could see their fires dancing in the night; he could hear their chanting in the distance. Always, Morben was alert on his patrols. Though he would chat with Atheri and Kyris, his ears were ever cast to the distance. Despite his constant expectations of an attack, it seemed the mages were content to sit in the Godwastes...where he preferred them to be. When not patrolling or being subjected to some kind of inspection or another, Morben spent his time working in Merrifort; doing much of the same he always had.

Then, one day, a year later, the question was posed to him. He stood atop the northern wall, overlooking the Godwastes. It was from the mouth of a masked man, clothed in robes of gold and white. Morben's breath froze in his chest to hear it and he simply stared for a long moment. Yes, was his slow but inevitable answer. He would join the Mage Slayers. His friends answered similarly, as they had promised him before. The next day, the trio were sent to Vigil to begin their training.

Learning to slay mages was unlike anything Morben had ever faced. Their training was far more strenuous than he had experienced in Merrifort. The masters of Vigil were ruthless and strict, punishing those who could not perform their tasks with haste and efficiency. Morben was punished, albeit rarely, for his inadequacies. He bore the scars of their lash on his back before he was even thrust into the Harrowing Room.
In Vigil, they often kept a stock of starved and weakened mages for their budding Slayers. His first was a bedraggled woman with a gaunt face, her hair brittle and gray, her eyes dulled and nearly vacant. She was chained and tethered, her binds biting into the flesh of her wrists and neck. This was his first step into the Harrowing Room, where the unblooded were tested against a captive mage. For a long while, he stood there, transfixed; uncertain as to what his commander sought from him. It was made clear when the woman's chains fell from her body and she came at him with a wail the likes of which still echo in his ears. The woman was afflicted with aberrant magics, her strength and speed far beyond that belied by her emaciated frame.

When the door was opened, two hours later, Morben was resting against it; the body of the woman spread in the center of the room, his sword jutting from her chest. He returned to the Harrowing Room five times and emerged successful on each trip. Though his commander praised his victories, there were stark warnings about the differences between the broken creatures kept in Vigil and the monstrosities that lurked in the cities of Lerayis...moreso between these husks and the aberrations of the Godwastes. The man learned his lessons well, over the next five years and honed himself into a weapon of murder. He learned the ways of the Slayers who had beaten the path and of their history, he delved deeper into the Yildeanic Faith and...with time, was sent, along with his companions, on their first mission.

From there, Morben will not speak of what happened in the presence of other Mage Slayers. He carries the weight of the last ten years with an embittered heart and a hard outlook on life. While Kyris perished, Morben and Atheri survived and it is sufficient to say that the two of them have become close; bound by secrets and pain.

wip2

Name; Endaran
Age; Ancient
Gender: Male
Nationality; Lerayissian
Birthplace; Redgate, Verinum
Affiliation; The Gods
Occupation; Immortal
Favored God; Vysold
Weight; Surprisingly light.
Height; Appears to be around six feet tall.
Build; Amorphous.
Hair Style; None
Hair Color; None
Eye Color; None
Facial Features; None. Endaran is a being composed of pure essence that conforms to humanoid proportions. His face is an amorphous, swirling mass of indigo energies with no discernible representation of features present.
Personality; Once a man, now a strange being hovering between the layers of reality; though he walks upon the soil of Lerayis, Endaran's mind is ever elsewhere. As such, he is quiet and reserved, his voice only reaches mortal ears when he deems it necessary. Pragmatic and duty-bound, Endaran is a creature of neccessity; favoring logical decisions over quick impulses. This extremism in his way of thinking was brought on by a failure that has brought him to this incarnation of Lerayis. Once, he was fiery and driven by passion...and once he failed his Gods. He is possessed of extreme patience and no temper, making him nearly impossible to rouse into anger.

Clothing; Wrapped in the ancient vestments of his former glory, Endaran presents himself in dirtied white mage-garb. Clasps fasten around the wrists and knees, rusted and bearing deep scars. A formerly pristine cloak flowers over the ragged and torn mantle he has adorned; which, too, bears clasps to hold it shut. Heavy white boots and equally thick gloves cover where his physical appendages would be.

Weapon; Immosi, The Dread Severance.



An ancient relic, forged of countless strands of magesilk. So intricate is its design that the longsword appears as one solid piece; cast in crimson, tapering into a porcelain white hilt. Immosi is a blade of terrible power and implementation, as it is capable of destroying the threads that bind a mage to the Gods. Being made of magesilk, the sword has a certain capacity for absorbing magic. Once it reaches saturation, the magic will be released as a random spell

Miscellaneous Items; None

Magically Talented; Yes

Magical Attunement: Vysold

Skills; Magic, Spatial Manipulation.

Biography;

Will finish these up in a little while.

The Dead Cairn

I don't recall how long, exactly. I believe we started work on it last year, some time during the summer. Late summer, I think.

Thanks! We worked hard on all that.

I'll check over your sheet tomorrow and let you know what I think. I will also make it a point to get the magic schools (and my other CS) up ASAP.. (Sooooorrrrrrrry~...again)

Got some homework to do, so I'm off. Have a good night, everyone.