"I would recommend any of the Kingdom's commanders, they are all quite impressive people." A dark-haired man sat next to Cypher, his thick glasses layered with what appered to be iron dust. He was an unremarkable individual amongst the nigh legendary heroes and villains. He seemed rather nervous as he proffered his hand.
"I'm, ah... Gideon. Gideon..." He waved his hand absently, his brain working overtime as the mage's blue eyes darted around the room. "...Falreach. I work with metal. Nice to meet you."
Name: Gideon Falreach Age: 27 Gender: Male Appearance: A thin young man of average height with a shock of dark hair. His eyes a brilliant blue color, and stare out from behind heavy lenses. He's obviously a mage, down to strangely dirty nature of his clothes to the constant aura of iron powder settles in his hair if he stands still for too long.
Kingdom: Sky Persona: A harried young man who stresses over the well-being and mental health of his teammates. Despite this, he’s secretive when it comes to his own issues, feeling that he doesn't want to bother anyone. He's also a miser, and quite adept at dodging around paperwork.
"One staff with assorted enchantments, one battle-fitted golem with assorted enchantments, one golem-sized halberd with assorted enchantments, five hundred pounds of iron, silver, and other assorted metals, twenty pounds of assorted footstuffs, and a golem-drawn wagon." The gate guard looked up from the scrawling parchment in front of him to observe the man who had just declared his cargo. He was tall and thin, with blue eyes set behind a fringe of black hair and a pair of black-framed glasses. He was obviously a mage, an oddity in these parts. If the bladed staff set with the large amber gem wasn't a giveaway, he wore dark, flowing clothes plated with various rare metals. The guard kept his thoughts about the usefulness of such garb in a battle to himself as he continued: "Anything else to declare, Mr.... Falreach?"
The man known as Gideon Falreach was currently debating his options. He smiled nervously, trying desperatly to hide the fact that his palms had suddenly broken out in a cold sweat. Behind the thick lenses of his glasses, blue eyes darted around, looking desperately for an escape route at he sound of the guard's inquiry. He held up both hands, attempting to show his lack of armaments. "Well, see, I can't exactly... pay the tax right now."
The guard stopped his scribbling on the parchment, his eyes barely angling upwards as he glared over at the iron-reinforced cart that the massive golem was hauling. "You can't... pay. Really."
Gideon nodded, completely missing the disbelief in the other man's voice. He rocked back and forth on his heels, the nervous smile still plastered across his features. "Yeah."
The guard sighed, put down his quill, and reached for his sword, not paying attention as Gideon stepped back and the golem straightened up to its full height. "Look, sir, I'm going to need you to-grnk" Whatever the guard was going to say was cut off as the golem reached out one massive finger and tapped the man on the skull.
Still nodding nervously, Gideon awkwardly patted the unconscious man on the head. He reached over to the parchment, picked up the quill and wrote a messy 'I owe you money' on the bottom of the page. The magi stepped over the prone form and nodded to the nearest flabbergasted bystander, before breaking into a trot that took him away from the city limits, the hulking form of his golem rumbling after him.
Equipment: A staff, made of pure iron and set with an amber colored focus near the end. Two dozen knives of the same metal, along with six silver rings carried in his pockets.
Steel and Silver, taller than an elephant when standing straight up and several times as heavy. It's a masterwork of enchantments and craftmanship, only able to stand up under its immense weight due to the sheer number of spells in its potently magical frame.
Soul-Bound Weapon 'Clamour': A literal ton of silver metal, complete with an amber sphere the size of a smile child. It is capable of metamorphosing into a variety of forms without Gideon's direct intervention, and when under his direct control it can contort itself into a huge number of fantastic shapes.
Ability/Magic/Technology:
Ferrokinesis: His most basic and consistently utilized spell is the absolute control over metals with his range. Within several limitations that include: He cannot control alloys, he cannot control objects enchanted by someone other than himself, and that upon reaching a set range or weight limit, the power required grows exponentially to the point of exhaustion or death. This power is the basis for which nearly all of his other spells are based on.
His most complex and complete spell is the one pertaining to the 'Rook'. A series of unfortunate happenstances ended up with him transmuting half of his soul in the gigantic puppet. The seventeen foot avatar of hulking metal that is known as the Rook is the key to the young Drake’s offensive talent. Made entirely of folded steel shot through with silver veins(Making it the sole violation to his 'no alloys' limit), the massive frame operates like a battering ram, its joints worked by Gideon's magic. Spells that a multitude of masters have placed make the giant surprisingly agile, along with a series of arcane foci located inside of the head for a nasty surprise. Despite the seeming advantage this iron giant gives him in long-range engagements, the limits of his accidental sacrifice show as the Rook moves away from him. Gideon suffers immensely as the Rook passes more than seventy feet from him, with any larger ranges usually resulting in a rapid and exponential increase in damage followed swiftly by death. Addtionaly, at these ranges, the Rook becomes sluggish and predictable, often halting movement entirely as Gideon is forced to move closer.
Arcane Ray: A rather simple spell, direct in both its function and power. Out of a properly attuned focus, it launches a bolt of raw mana at high speed at the target
Scale: A spell that Gideon is particularly proud of, and one that doesn't utlize his mastery of metal. It allows him to take matter, organic and inorganic, and use it to create a real-time diorama of a set area of terrain. If he's looking to create an organic model, he needs a sample of their DNA(Skin, hair, fur, scales, bark, etc) to act as a stand in.
Jonathan was awoken from his blood-loss induced slumber by a pair of arguing voices. Making certain to keep completely still, the fighter listened with uncharacteristic care in hopes that he'd find out at least one reason as to why he was now on a course bedspread with cold metal shackles around his wrists. The first voice was a deep, growling drawl that was insisting that the latter voice, a smooth and controlled female, carefully tried to explain about aftercare of prisoners. They had evidently been at the same point in the argument for several minutes, noted by the constant raising of the deeper voice as the man seemed to be struggling to contain his temper. After yet another round of the same few words being exchanged, the man seemed to have enough of the healer's explanations. The deeper voice, a guard by the sound of his chainmail clinking as heavy footfalls paced back and forth, growled out an order to follow as his patience snapped. The door creaked open, and after another complaint about the irresponsibility of leaving a patient, lighter footfalls and the smooth voice retreated out of the room. Moments later, another angry snort of derision came from the deep-voiced male and the door slammed shut. Jonathan quietly sat up, gripping the chains around his wrist close to prevent the telltale clank of metal on metal. After a quick scan of the room to confirm that he was alone(Revealing a room with a row of beds, all of them empty save for his), he swung his legs over the side of the bed and looked down to check his own status.
The alcoholic fighter bit back a curse as he realized that sometime during his half-conscious stumbling and eventual collapse he'd been stripped. That was bad. He had no armor, no weapons, no tricks, and his worn undergarments were doing nothing to keep out the chill of the stone room from soaking into his bones. He'd been taken prisoner without knowing who or what had nearly killed him outright and that only spoke badly of his chances. Ylisse wasn't Plegia, or Naga-forbid, Regna Ferox, but such prisoners had a funny way of being executed no matter what country they were captured by. On the bright side, the healer had sealed the dangerously large wound that removed most of Jonathan's skin on his left leg. Dying by blood loss would have been a bitter way to go out.
Dismissing thoughts of his imminent demise, Jonathan stood up quickly and darted forward across the well-lit room, making his way past the leftover beds to a door on the opposite side of the room from where the healer and guardsman had left. He pressed against the doorframe, unsure of what his next move should be.
The night prior, the archer had been confronted by Kel to ask about supplying his wyvern's food, and she'd accepted after the young man had inadvertently worded it as a challenge. She split off from the company half an hour into their march toward the nearest battlefield, and returned as the Bravuran camp came into sight. She carried the carcasses of three rabbits and her bow, nearly skipping with the elation of a challenge completed. The spring in her step vanished as she caught sight of what the group was approaching.
Kuur stalked the among the tents, keeping to the center of the Reclaimer's formation. She was obviously Panoplian, from her stark blonde hair and heavily tanned skin to her light and flowing clothes. While she would usually be proud of her height and heritage, the current state of affairs in the camp suggested that she remain scarce and out of sight.
The tall woman spoke up as she caught Jeanne's statement. "That would be... war." While her voice was as level and emotionless as ever, Kuur's lips had twisted into a barely perceptible frown. She gestured over to the other side of the field. "The Panoplians... are probably... in a similar... state. No one...wins."
Nickolas Reinbach - Bloodstained Field
The dark mage's leg had excused him from walking with the rest of the group, and had instead joined the two youngest Reclaimers on the back of the wagon. He kept watch over both of them with a kind word or two as he pulled out a quill and inkpot and set about writing in one of his massive stacks of paper. Despite the bumpy ride, he made good progress throughout the hour of travel.
Nickolas looked up from his writing as the group pulled into camp, his face an unreadable mix of emotions at the sound of pain and suffering. He set down his quill and made some excuse about looking to see where he could help, before hauling himself up on the crutch and vanishing into the row of tents with the promise of returning as the battle started.
Well, what about using it for flavor text after the walk? Like 'hey this happened off camera, and now this other stuff is happening'? That wouldn't interfere much with the story flow.
Jonathan would have health, strength, and defense as his primary stats, with his really big downside being luck. As a fighter, he'd also have rather shite magic as well. As for his secondary class, hero seems applicable, if just for the irony of the class name.
@Prince of Seraphs I have an idea for Nick and Marcus' support. You want to set up the pad or should I? As for @ToadRopes, I'm unsure of what to do for Habeen and Kuur's, but I'm sure they have some middle ground.
