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9 yrs ago
Current Really busy right now. Will probably not be able to post till next week.

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"The footsteps of that band. What awful tidings," Cadwal remarked.

Timothy did a double-take between the spill of twins at his feet and the nervous crowd coming in hot behind him. Thinking fast, he crouched, and offered a helping hand to the beleaguered siblings.

"Hey, get up," he said, in a mild, cautionary manner, concern evident in his voice. "Louise is coming, and you don't want to be anywhere near her."

He wasn't new to St. Dymphna's, having been there as a freshman and boldly working through the sophomore year as everyone else did. Now at the sweet age of sixteen and a junior, he had always detached himself from the strange power-politics that ran about the student body, and always turned down solicitations into any of the parties that wanted him as a member for some reason or another. Having taken a lonesome route, Timothy typically spent most of his time alone, either poring through a good read or contemplating silently in the campus chapel.
Alright. Posted. Would have done so earlier, I think, if the opening post were more substantial in content.

Yeah, I'm a sort of rut this week.
In a relatively lonesome corner of the campus lay a youth slumped relaxedly on a bench, in a manner most carefree as he put an elbow over the back rest. Utterly still, such that he was just as part of the scenery as the walkway, the nearby tree, and the bird that sang within its branches, he appeared to be absorbed in a small book that he expertly held with just one hand. The only perceptible movement he made was the unconscious traveling of his bright green eyes, and when they had exhausted one, the flick to another page would reset them to the northwesterly position they had grown familiar to.

"You haven't eaten lunch yet," came the thought, powerful and stark to the native processes of his mind. "Does this literature truly warrant such fixation?"

And at that, the youth stirred for the first time in many minutes, moving his feet and arms and letting the blood circulate to refresh them. He blinked once, and removed a stray lock of his short brown hair away from his face with a perfunctory swipe of his hand. Noticing a sudden blurriness to his vision, he also adjusted his glasses up the bridge of his nose. But all the while, he never took his eyes off of the book, and by the time he returned his elbow to the back rest, he was flicking another page.

"It's interesting, Cadwal," Timothy answered simply, within his mind.

"More interesting than lunch?" the ghostly knight pointed out. "This cannot be healthy."

Timothy then took the can of Nescafé sitting happily next to him and took a sip, though he was genuinely surprised that the liquid was lukewarm when it met his lips.

"Coffee is not a substitute for lunch," further admonished Cadwal.

"And what do you know about coffee, ser knight?"

"That it isn't pottage or pork cutlets, that's for sure."

The youth did not reply immediately to his ghostly companion, although this was characteristic of him and no cause for concern. Cadwal had learned to become patient with this trait, although the fallen crusader was mildly surprised when his charge actually closed the book, decisively so with a clap from the meeting stacks of pages.

"I appreciate your concern for my health," concluded Timothy. "Fine, I'll go to the cafeteria."

"That's a good lad."

And with that, he stood up, stretching languidly before walking to the building and tossing his empty can of Nescafé somewhere along the way.
Must I deliver the first post?

Edit: Nevermind.
Right, so.
It won't be hard, not for someone cute like you. ;)
Alright, boss. I think that everyone's writing skills have improved in the time we've been apart. Can't wait to get to showing it off. Let's get this ball rolling ASAP.
Timothy “Tim” Aquinas



Description:



An unassuming youth with pale skin, brown hair and emerald eyes, Timothy is lean and rather thin. Thin-framed eyeglasses sit upon the bridge of his nose, windows to eyes that brighten up in a charming, childlike way when he smiles. He stands at a good 6’0” tall, and prefers simple clothing: many of his shirts are black or grey and without print, and the ones that do have only minimalistic designs. His pants and other apparel are equally unassuming. But never is he seen without his only apparent accessory: a small pendant in the shape of an elaborate Celtic crucifix of silver, hanging from his neck by a chain.

Described by Cadwal as having a "cherub's melody," Timothy has a deceptively effeminate voice in manner and less so in inflection.


Age: 16

Gender: Male


Personality:

“Not to us, O Lord, not to us, but to Your Name give glory.”

The foremost thing one might notice about Timothy is his zeal. A devout Catholic, he is well-read in the Bible and zealous. And unlike some others, Timothy has taken the teachings of the Scripture to heart, making him a genuinely friendly and caring person. Love his neighbor, love his enemy? Timothy most certainly does. Honest and loyal, his care for the well-being of others extends to the spiritual: he is convinced that those of heathen faiths – especially the People of the Book But Do Not Believe – and true unbelievers must be enlightened sooner or later. Then there are the Ones Who Come in His Name but Twist His Words, like Westboro, which he finds especially despicable.

Timothy is especially fond of literature, especially medieval history. He knows full well how Duke Enrique of Savoy invaded Monferatto from the Duke of Mantua as he had run out of patience with waiting for Emperor Rudolf of the Holy Roman Empire to answer his petition to have the mentioned territory transferred to the custody of his daughter, Margherita, as she was kicked out of the Mantuan Duke’s court for not having sired a child for her husband, the Duke’s late brother, before he died. Always hungry for more knowledge, his learning of this subject which he most adores is supplemented by the Holy Ghosts whom he summons and who are more than willing to answer his many, many questions. They may also be the reason why his favorite video game is Medieval II: Total War.

Quite softspoken, the mildness of his words is such that people are often left cynically wondering whether or not Timothy is mocking them. The sincerity with which he prays before eating his meals is viewed by some as merely an exaggeration: a mockery of those who practice Christianity. However, Timothy does not practice deceit. What he does is honest.

He believes his unique ability to summon fallen Crusaders is given to him by God.


Talent:

Esoteric Knowledge: Timothy is well-read in obscure history books, and can regurgitate most of what he has learned, knowledge extracted from the literary works of people Like E.B Sledge, Sir Arthur Lloyd, and Peter H. Wilson. But, ever humble, Timothy only shares what he knows when the situation calls for it.



Ability:

Tongue of Fallen Martyrs: Timothy can communicate with summoned Holy Ghosts telepathically, surmounting any distance and time and in pure thought, eliminating the language barrier. Cadwal is a special case, and is an exception to the rule.

Legiones Ecclesiae: At his command, Timothy can call forth Holy Ghosts of the most proactive members of the Church-Militant, namely, Crusaders. Having had this unique gift since early childhood, he has improved the ability in that he can keep indefinitely one Holy Ghost and dispel them at his whim. With a whispered plea and holding a holy symbol of Christianity (like a cross, or his pendant), Timothy beckons the departed souls of those who killed and died in the name of Christ from the ether and into the worldly earth. Fading into existence, they are then at the summoner's beck and call. However, the summoned are picked at random: Timothy does not yet have the ability to call specific people.

Holy Ghosts are the summoned spirits of Christian martyrs. These can be an unknown Crusader or even someone famous like Joan of Arc. Partly transparent, hued an otherworldly blue, and possessed of bright, glowing eyes, these entities are twice as strong and fast as a man and immune to pain – but not harm. While they are ghosts in a sense, they are still shackled to following the laws of physics. However, they do not need their spectral organs to live as they are already dead. Therefore, a bullet is most effective at tearing a Holy Ghost's tendons than holing their heart.

Maintaining a Holy Ghost is done automatically by the soul but at the expense of the body. Timothy is completely alright with one summoned, but is easily winded when he has summoned two. At three and four, he is forced to sit down, with him being pale at the latter. Having five summoned simultaneously will knock him to deathly unconsciousness and will take heavy tolls on his health. While Timothy can keep one Holy Ghost indefinitely, having two or more will strain Timothy's soul so much that after fifteen minutes, they will be forcibly dispelled.

Holy Ghosts are summoned with what they had on their person the moment of their death. While her visit could potentially be a very enlightening experience, Joan of Arc would not fight at her fullest since she wore a dress during her death at the pyre. Crusaders who died in battle are more valuable in that they are usually in full gear when summoned. However, all are prized and valuable relics of the past, and some of them possess ancient knowledge no longer available in the present.

It would appear that Holy Ghosts have lost much of their personality during their centuries in limbo. What they haven't lost, however, is hatred of the heathen, the unbeliever, and the heretic.

Holy Ghosts, being soul-bound to their summoner, are able to communicate with Tim telepathically in pure thoughts, defeating language barriers.

Holy Ghosts can be seen, heard and touched by other people. However, they don't feel much due to their slightly incorporeal properties. They mimic the natural body temperature of a human being, but have got no odor of their own.

Cadwal of Godwyn is a deceased English knight who perished in the First Crusade, struck down by an arrow to his thigh, knocking him off his horse, and delivering a wound that subsequently became gangrenous and from which he did not recover. Acting as a sort of guardian angel, even he himself is not sure what is exactly at work as he shares his mind and soul with Timothy, acting as the boy's second conscience and trying to steer him towards the right path.

Cadwal "sleeps," becoming completely inactive for four hours each day. This is to relieve some of the stress of Timothy's soul from having to maintain another thought-form. Cadwal does his best to time this with Timothy's regular sleeping hours.




Bio:

Born to two middle-class parents as the middle child of a litter of two boys and one girl, there isn't much to say about Timothy, considering his overall and overwhelming averageness which is offset only by his unique and (as he believes) God-given ability. While he was baptized, going to Church was never something routine for his family. Therefore, he sees his powers as a gift from God when they emerged when he was six years old.

Like many children, he thought up an imaginary friend. It was a knight, and his young mind could only describe it as "blue" and "like glass." When he was alone, he would play with the knight, and started a little game with his older brother and younger sister when he introduced the knight to them, and they made their own imaginary friends. Little did Timothy know, however, that his siblings' imagined creations were far different to what he had, for as time went on, the knight's responses became purely his own, and Timothy slowly lost the need to parrot them. Like another person living in his head, the knight would comment on day-to-day life, and when the young Timothy eyed upon a Bible, the knight energetically pleaded the boy to read it.

As little Tim read, his young mind was full of questions even from the starting book of Genesis. He would ask the knight in his head, who formally introduced himself as Cadwal of Godwyn, to explain it all for him, and he spent so many sleepless nights doing this sort of cooperative storytelling that his mother became worried at his lack of sleep and consulted a physician. On his third grade of elementary school, his family had to move elsewhere, and he was saddened by the sudden loss of friends; but Cadwal was always there and would never leave his mind. Upon his insistence, his father took him to Church one day, and was deeply happy at finally worshiping at a proper place.

As he became older and thus more aware of the sheer unnaturality of his unique ability, Tim wondered if he could do more with it. Praying to God, and after consulting Cadwal, he tried to call out an angel to advise him on what to do when his parents were divorcing. However, the only being that faded into existence was not a magnificent scion of Heaven, but a short-lasting, flickering blue ghost of a woman in armor. Timothy could not but gasp "Who are you?" at the figure, who replied with a sagely "Who I am is not important. But your faith in God is," before fading back into nothingness.

Encouraged by Cadwal, Timothy was henceforth convinced of his being blessed. Ever since then, he has been practicing and perfecting this unique ability of his by prayer and meditation.

Speaking with wizened words, Timothy prevented his parents' divorce by driving them to tears as he preached about the sanctity and inviolability of the oaths a couple takes in their marriage ceremony, with the help of his two beloved siblings.


Other:

Drowning in early adolescent male hormones, Timothy wanted to masturbate once (just to try it) but was halted by Cadwal (whom he thought was sleeping), who lectured him fiercely of the value of the "seed" and how it must not be wasted.
It has begun. Let's do it.

Edit: foggen zog m8, the flower prose confused me for a bit. Post edited in accordance to the GM's requests over Skype.
A still silence dominated the underground expanse, with only the sounds of dripping water from overhead stalactites and the flow of a small stream being audible, though no-one was there to hear it. Ubiquitous darkness shrouded everything in shadow, the lumen globes already drained of mana and the torches burnt to uselessness. Chests had already been looted, and scientific apparati shattered into shards and bent metal; and from the temple entrance to the farthest wall, there was a trail of broken limbs and mutilated bodies, the rusting iron of weapons carelessly strewn about, and torn, heavy banners hanging from the ceiling, swaying to and fro as they peddled their now meaningless symbols to the mild breeze. Of course, in the oppressive shadow, he couldn't see any of this as he awoke.

"Urgh," he groaned, as his nostrils flared, hungrily sucking up the dank air and the life the came with it. Lying face-down on the floor, a small pain was incessant in his chest from a pebble he had been laying on, and he found his arms incredibly weary as he moved them from their place near his hip, winning the battle against rigor mortis.

He moved his hands further along, at the sides of his head, and pressed his palms against the damp cavern floor as hard as it was possible. Still weak, the effort it took to even sit on his knees was almost insufferable with its intensity, and Vaul succeeded only barely. A flash of instinct told him then that something important lay just towards his right, and he followed it, fingers alert, to feel a solid, deathly cold rod. His hand clenched with force, and he hefted the staff up by the rearward portions of its shaft, then steadied the pommel on the ground and grabbed it with his other hand to finally wrench himself away from the floor. And yet, no matter how many times he blinked, it was still dark where he was at.

And so he gestured thoughtlessly, his arm going from right to left in an aimless wave, and at that very instance glittered the underground stream as light, for the first time in forever, greeted its waters, coming from lumen globes held in sconces along the walls of the cavern. Vaul looked around, examining his new surroundings, unsure of what to make of it all, as after he swiveled his eyes horizontally, taking it all in, and looked down at his feet, there was the grinning face of a disembodied skull.

Mildly startled, he kicked it without a thought, the sudden effort jolting his muscles to spasm protectively as the calcium husk rolled away. A dull, but very noticeable pain was welling up in his left calf, as the gravitas of many dozens of armed corpses and opened, desecrated coffins extracted from their places within the walls began to sink in.

He found a smooth enough piece of rock towards the side, one that he made his way to and sat upon. He was surprised to feel something poking his hide, so he shifted a bit on his impromptu seat to get comfortable. He continued to breathe, his lungs admirably remembering how to, but his respiration lessened in vigor as his need for air decreased with time. Then he figured out the cause for the shadow hanging overhead, and pulled back his hood, and reached further back to feel the long tresses of his hair. Tiredly did he sigh.

"A Necromancer," he half-whispered, his voice not quite there, but the characteristic, moderate inflections that indicated a male were definitely noticeable. He cleared his throat, and tested his vocal cords again. "A Necromancer..."

Such was the breadth of the underground temple that wherever he looked, he could see the messy aftermath of whatever battle had occurred here. Though the air was putrid, he could find no more flesh on what had once been thralls to whoever once owned this body. It had all rotted away, and a dozen skulls grimaced silently his way as he just sat there, finding hints of pain as he experimentally flexed his limbs. He brought his hands to his eyes and rubbed away the earthly crust that had formed on them, as he began to think on the road ahead.

And when he took his hands away, he finally noticed the statue of the goddess, and other other, peculiar figures rising from the floor far away, in the center of the expanse.
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