SillyGoy — Roleplayer Guild

The chair creaked, its plastic bent taut as a large man in a rather old-fashioned greatcoat folded his wide arms and leaned against the backrest. Scars ran down his face in grooves like branching rivers down a mountain, with a stark line cutting his upper lip as it veered towards the left. His eyes, relatively small to the wideness of his face, were of a light blue, and gazed at Lex unwaveringly, analytically, as he judged his new commanding officer in solemn silence. A moment hung still in the air, before his chest heaved and his lips parted to a moderate, but rough baritone, one that, perhaps, could have been polished into something musical had its owner's calling in life been different, peaceful. "Lieutenant Jorman Pask," he said simply, opting for a short but workable introduction with a shallow nod out of pleasantry. "Had been piloting starfighters for nearly two decades in the Navy. I'm here because I have no other choice." Having said that, he allowed his eyes to wander about, taking in the faces and figures of his new team, both human and xeno, before returning his gaze to Lex. He was honestly surprised to find aliens being part of this whole sorry gig , given that the person who offered him a place in it was from the ESA. Sitting next to Ro'Essel, he found her species' superficial similarities to the human master race to be uncomfortable, ironically. Though the Ko'Secti did not stray overmuch from the human form, they did have a few minor physicalities that, in Pask's eyes, simply did not belong: for example, a flash of a second eyelid whenever Ro'Essel blinked. At least he wasn't sitting next to the abomination across and towards the right of the table. It was horrid to look at, an intelligence that looked inhuman beyond pardon. And so he didn't, simply; he made a blind spot of where the creature was, taking care not to glance upon it.

No longer accepting? Well, it was a good writing exercise, at least. ----------------------------------- Appearance: A metallic rustling heralds the arrival of a black, metallic boot. Swishing into place inside its immediate wake is a velvet cape, embroidered lovingly with golden thread and hemmed with the fur of a white tiger. Travel upwards, along the shin and the thigh, and there is lovely ornamentation onto the armor, excepts from the holy scriptures presented in storytelling golden filigree. At the armored hip, still fully plated, hangs an arming sword's scabbard clutched by a gauntleted hand, upon whose proximal phalanxes are inscribed in micro-scripture several prayers of redemption. And upon the breastplate is a magnificent relief sculpture of the Mother, who is depicted as crying for her wayward children and surrounded by comforting angels. While the gold of this art piece contrasts well with the black steel, it is obscured partly by the parchment of purity seals secured cascadingly with wax icons over where the wearer's heart would be. Upon the left vambrace is the story of Creation, and its counterpart at the right depicts the Mother guiding her children to victory at the conclusion of the failed Great Rebellion. Large parchment pages are secured by tight chains to the pauldrons, expounding at length the wisdom of the Mother, and warning against evil sins and temptation, in addition to the standard prayers that make up most of the inscription that blackened them. The neckguard is a swept-up beak that begins at the farther side of the clavicle and reaches its zenith over the sternum. Above this is the unreadable face of a crusader helm, with light failing to reach the innards of its slits and holes, painting them an ominous black. The ornamental tracery that began at the toes ends at the foot of a tall miter that crowns the helm, which is grabbed by gauntleted hands, and taken off slowly. A stern-looking man with a bald head and chiseled, boxy features gazes unwaveringly with bright eyes of jade as he puts his hands against his kite shield, upon which was emblazoned proudly the icon of the Church. Logan Grimnar's voice is mild as he assures, "Fear not, child, for I am a merciful man." Name: Logan Grimnar, Prince-bishop of Tvere Status: Alive and well Age: 35 Race: Lesser Man History: Born the fourth son of a minor noble, Logan never had a realistic shot at the throne to begin with, and so, even from childhood, he turned his thoughts away from the blue-blooded life and instead engaged himself in holy scripture and clerical wisdom. Enrolling at the university at age sixteen, he went through the other side after five years a priest, at first sharing a parish with a priestess before her promotion to bishop, at which point he inherited her church. Though young, he spoke with fire and vigor, and through the written Word of the Mother, he gave comfort to the sad and healed the sick. And with local church artifacts, he performed minor miracles that awed his flock and strengthened their faith in the Mother. He preached and preached as years went by, smiled and made smile a great many children, and headed the wedding for his one of his elder brothers. When he was thirty years old, he lead the rites during his father's funeral, and during his appointed brother's coronation as Baron of Aettlond. His unexpected appointment as Prince-Bishop of Tvere by the Archbishop after the former title holder's death brought about responsibilities not entirely welcome to Logan. For one, amongst others, he had to learn how to use a sword, for it was the symbol of authority for lay rulers. As prince-bishop, he was not only this, but also an ecclesiastical official, though one quite disconnected with the parish he used to minister himself, since his office now was quite far away from it. Regardless, nothing else of much magnitude happened, and for several years he ruled competently in both the matters of the temporal and the spirit. Perhaps it was because of this above-average performance that he was hand-picked to escort the Maiden to the Northern Wastelands. As unforeseeable as his rise to the office of prince-bishop, his new mission is, again, not entirely welcome, but one that Logan is willing put himself into and see through. About Them: Logan's boxy features are more fitting to a sea-raider brute than a man of the cloth, but they strangely fit his jolliness with how easily they transform into warm smiles and happy grins. An energetic man who somehow does not like surprises, Logan is proactive in his role as a leader of the spiritual flock. Friendly, trustworthy and generous, he is popular amongst the children and seen as an angel by the poor. Devoting himself to the Love of the Mother, he is amongst one of Her finest instruments in the mortal realm. Unfortunately, he cannot stomach the death of his fellow mortals. Finally finding use for his rather baroque full-plate armor, he would rather see his appointment as a Maiden escort to be a peaceful one. Killing is a sin, and to draw one's sword and harm another is something that is anathema to him. But he is not a fool: he will defend himself, no doubt; just that he would simply hold himself back during the affair, and would be reluctant to deliver a decisive strike if fatal. This is, of course, assuming that the foe is spiritually innocent, or guilty but redemption for them is possible. To the enemies of the Mother, however, he can be merciless. The Mother gifted love to the world, and Astorias would dare replace it with greed and hate. Ending the lives of such monsters if fine, for it is as the ancient saints say: there is nothing wrong with killing the wicked. Sure, those particular saints may have been lesser men, but there is wisdom in their words.

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Goius Sillius

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