Torack

The Guild

Name:

Kaito Fen

 

Age:

25

 

Race:

Elf

 

Gender:

Male

 

Class:

Samurai

 

Traits

Blade Dance:
Kaito’s fighting style is as artful as it is deadly. He mixes rhythm with efficiency, and his near mastery of the sword, as he’s dedicated his entire life to it, makes him even more deadly when he does any of his Blade Dances.

 

 

Dual Wielding:
Kaito has given up a shield and chose another sword in its place. This gives him superior offensive skills while his defensive skills leaves a lot to be desired. Against headlong, foolish enemies, he’s deadly and spectacular. However, he becomes hard pressed when facing a skilled enemy since having to fight with defense and offence at the same time isn’t really much of his strong suit.

 

 

War Ritual:
Before any mission, Kaito sits in a dark, candle-lit room meditating while polishing his mask and sharpening his blades. He believes it will calm him and give fortune to his mission, as he’s had a few occasions where time didn’t permit him to do the ritual and things went bad. Very bad. He’s obsessive about the ritual, and in truth, it gives him a, if not real then psychological, boost in his combat abilities while clearing his mind.

Picture Rereference:

 

Physical Description:

Kaito Ren is of average height for an elf with a tall, lithely muscled body. His characteristic elven ears are hidden underneath a large mane of black hair that’s tied up in a sort of strange pony-tailed style. And over his face there’s a white porcelain mask with two black markings on the top making something resembling an A. There are also several scars criss-crossing along his partially exposed chest and abdomen.

 

Personality:

At first, due to the mask of course, Kaito Ren can seem distant, aloof. Somewhat intimidating as well due to all of his scars and the fact he has four swords sheathed at his waist. And he may play on these assumptions at first – to new individuals to the guild. But, in reality, he’s a fun loving, laid back man with an easy laugh and has a tendency to go out of his way to make his guildmates laugh as well.

 

Extra Details:

No one, save for Artura Saorise, has seen what his face actually looks like behind the mask, and he does his best to keep this up mostly for jokes.

"The Guild"

Count me in, count me in! I definitely wanna be a part of this!

Ipseity - A New Made Up System to try and have fun with!

Oh, this looks like so much fun! I'm up for it!

Slayers

Aaron Forecrown

Name:
Aaron Forecrown

Age:
19

Gender:
Male

Appearance:
Aaron is a young man that isn't too tall, standing at 5'9" some would say he's a little short. He has an average build for someone who grew up hunting and training with the bow and cutting animals; that is to say his shoulders are wide, his arms are rather big, although his right is somewhat noticeably bigger than his left.

He has a bronze skin tone with a strong partially shaven jaw and a somewhat large ridge above his eyes. His hair is a small fro of light brown curls that reach the end of his neck.

Skills:
Hunting, tracking, gutting, use of the bow and arrow, use of a dagger or a small knife.

History:
Aaron grew up in one of the settlements close to the Everautumn forest, and most of his nights as a child were spent looking out the window into the infinitely dark abyss that was beyond its treeline. That was until his father started taking him out with him in his hunting trips.

Every boy had heard of the stories and the horrors that lay beyond, they knew that the dark creatures within would often come out and attack their settlements, killing dozens and scores despite the slayers' efforts. And although there was a sort of grim curiosity in a boy such as him, he recalls the day of his first trip into the Everautumn.

His friends, like all young boys, teased him, telling him that they would miss him and that no one would bother looking for his corpse. As one would imagine, it didn't help with his confidence at all. It was a summer morning, the grass smelled fresh, the day's warmth was enough to put a smile on anyone's face.

But not him. Aaron was pale and shivering like a pup brought out of freezing water. His father was having none of it, alas, and so he was taken by force into the woods albeit rather close to his father. It was also on that day that he learned not to fear the Everautumn.

An important lesson his father taught him on that first trip was to never go beyond the sight of the treeline. Game feared the lycans far more than men, which made hunting far less of a risk. Another lesson on that first day was to always be mindful of the woods' sound; once the birds stopped chirping and the leaves stopped rustling was the moment to make a run for it.

Several years passed after that first hunting trip, and as the years went by Aaron learned how to track, trap, and gut animals. Along with other skills with the bow to shoot larger game when they happened to come near the treeline. However, Aaron was folly and susceptible to the many of the traps of youth; one of them being an over bloated ego, partially flared by his own group of friends that saw him as a sort of fearless idol for going into the Everautumn so casually, and partially because he became comfortable in the woods, believing that the Slayers would keep the lycans away, and that should they stray too far towards him he had enough skill to take care of them alone.

Alas, it was on an unfortunate day that his friends goaded him into going deeper than his father allowed. Believing himself to be up to the challenge, he strode into the woods with a hunting bow and a score of arrows in his quiver, tied to his hip and strode deep and deeper still until he crested a low mound that sloped down into a bank of a fast running stream.

The world then fell into silence.

His own heart sounded like frantic drum beats in the silence, so fraught with a pressure of immense dread it threatened to crush his bones to sand. Then he ran.

Despite all his bravado, his egotistical remarks to his friends, and all his boasting, his fear of death and the unknown horrors that was the lycanthropes made him flee with sheer terror. Added to that was the sound of padded feat thumping into the earth behind him, the exaggerated huffing of a massive beast as it exerted itself into a run, enjoying the thrill of the chase. It was fortunate -- or not -- that Aaron ran into his father.

He would later wish that he had not been so careless, so childish. The regret he felt from that day was a wound ever-bleeding. He tried living in the settlement, but found the forest too painful a sight to look at and so moved further inland, hunting prairie game for meager profits.

But even that he soon gave up. Depressed and distraught, a friend suggested that he would serve his father's memory by joining the Slayers. It was an idea that struck fear into Aaron's heart, for he experienced a lycan attack, and was almost killed. But after several days of consideration, he decided that it was the best choice for him and journeyed to Roseview to attend the festival.

Other:
Aaron loves pecan pie with apple cider.

Slayers

Name:
Aaron Forecrown

Age:
19

Gender:
Male

Appearance:
Aaron is a young man that isn't too tall, standing at 5'9" some would say he's a little short. He has an average build for someone who grew up hunting and training with the bow and cutting animals; that is to say his shoulders are wide, his arms are rather big, although his right is somewhat noticeably bigger than his left.

He has a bronze skin tone with a strong partially shaven jaw and a somewhat large ridge above his eyes. His hair is a small fro of light brown curls that reach the end of his neck.

Skills:
Hunting, tracking, gutting, use of the bow and arrow, use of a dagger or a small knife.

History:
Aaron grew up in one of the settlements close to the Everautumn forest, and most of his nights as a child were spent looking out the window into the infinitely dark abyss that was beyond its treeline. That was until his father started taking him out with him in his hunting trips.

Every boy had heard of the stories and the horrors that lay beyond, they knew that the dark creatures within would often come out and attack their settlements, killing dozens and scores despite the slayers' efforts. And although there was a sort of grim curiosity in a boy such as him, he recalls the day of his first trip into the Everautumn.

His friends, like all young boys, teased him, telling him that they would miss him and that no one would bother looking for his corpse. As one would imagine, it didn't help with his confidence at all. It was a summer morning, the grass smelled fresh, the day's warmth was enough to put a smile on anyone's face.

But not him. Aaron was pale and shivering like a pup brought out of freezing water. His father was having none of it, alas, and so he was taken by force into the woods albeit rather close to his father. It was also on that day that he learned not to fear the Everautumn.

An important lesson his father taught him on that first trip was to never go beyond the sight of the treeline. Game feared the lycans far more than men, which made hunting far less of a risk. Another lesson on that first day was to always be mindful of the woods' sound; once the birds stopped chirping and the leaves stopped rustling was the moment to make a run for it.

Several years passed after that first hunting trip, and as the years went by Aaron learned how to track, trap, and gut animals. Along with other skills with the bow to shoot larger game when they happened to come near the treeline. However, Aaron was folly and susceptible to the many of the traps of youth; one of them being an over bloated ego, partially flared by his own group of friends that saw him as a sort of fearless idol for going into the Everautumn so casually, and partially because he became comfortable in the woods, believing that the Slayers would keep the lycans away, and that should they stray too far towards him he had enough skill to take care of them alone.

Alas, it was on an unfortunate day that his friends goaded him into going deeper than his father allowed. Believing himself to be up to the challenge, he strode into the woods with a hunting bow and a score of arrows in his quiver, tied to his hip and strode deep and deeper still until he crested a low mound that sloped down into a bank of a fast running stream.

The world then fell into silence.

His own heart sounded like frantic drum beats in the silence, so fraught with a pressure of immense dread it threatened to crush his bones to sand. Then he ran.

Despite all his bravado, his egotistical remarks to his friends, and all his boasting, his fear of death and the unknown horrors that was the lycanthropes made him flee with sheer terror. Added to that was the sound of padded feat thumping into the earth behind him, the exaggerated huffing of a massive beast as it exerted itself into a run, enjoying the thrill of the chase. It was fortunate -- or not -- that Aaron ran into his father.

He would later wish that he had not been so careless, so childish. The regret he felt from that day was a wound ever-bleeding. He tried living in the settlement, but found the forest too painful a sight to look at and so moved further inland, hunting prairie game for meager profits.

But even that he soon gave up. Depressed and distraught, a friend suggested that he would serve his father's memory by joining the Slayers. It was an idea that struck fear into Aaron's heart, for he experienced a lycan attack, and was almost killed. But after several days of consideration, he decided that it was the best choice for him and journeyed to Roseview to attend the festival.

Other:
Aaron loves pecan pie with apple cider.

Sum up your week in roleplaying in just 3 words

Is it up?

Starless - Unique Fantasy RP

so... What's the story behind @kingfisher and @Dead Cruiser having super similar icons? Is there like a clan thing..

Is that a thing here?

:o

@Dextkiller

Yoo! Real talk tho, let's make a clan thing and keep it on the down low and turn it into some sort of creepy conspiracy and creep people the hell out!

Starless - Unique Fantasy RP

@ravenDivinity Yo, I'm pretty positive I posted. Even made a post on the OOC that I posted. Or is it a reply to something else that you need?

Starless - Unique Fantasy RP

I took the liberty of starting with the POV of an NPC that I now decided will be kinda important to my character for the first portion of introducing my character. Wanted to spice things up a bit, innit!

Starless - Unique Fantasy RP

The Adventurous Historian

Strange things had been happening of late. The world grew colder despite the season, and at first, he assumed an early stream of eastern winds making their way west, but as things began getting colder and colder, he didn't think himself right. If anything, the northern winds should have overpowered the eastern, bringing in the heat from the deserts to warm their climate, not make it cold. And yet, there he sat, within his carriage, covered in a cloak tipped fur, shivering. He heard talk of the end of the world coming by the fervent religious few who took their religious matters far beyond the ordinary. That didn't mean they weren't religious, his people were extremely religious, yet they were sensible as well. Perhaps he was being sent out because he didn't quite share their view in religion. Oh, he definitely believed in the gods, but the tales of the many Heroes of old, that many took to be more than legend and myth, he couldn't believe. There was no sufficient proof for their existence.

He tried arguing this point with a colleague of his in the High College, but no good deed goes unpunished. If what he was doing could be considered a good deed at all. He remembered walking the marble halls of the college, its high ceiling interspersed with chandeliers of crystal and diamonds, its walls were nutmeg brown and high, tall windows that showed a view of the luscious gardens were set into them.

The historian recalled walking through the halls, his shoes snapping against the marble floor with every determined stride to show his papers. As a historian, he was allowed some strange views, and to pursue such things that could be classified as blasphemous, but he did it all sincerely out of enlightenment. His thirst for knowledge was strong, and it was that thirst that got him into trouble. He was to make a presentation on the subject of the Seven Vows philosophy, which in essence were a set of vows to live in peaceful coexistence with the world while using one's strength to protect those who could not protect themselves. He knew a modified version of the philosophy were used as a basis when the Federation was being founded. Curious about them, he searched the origins of the Vows and subsequently came to learn about Luther and the legend behind him.

The paper he took to his colleague was about that particular hero and his legend; years of research went into it, nearly a decade of traveling through Ivorine temple to Ivorine temple where he found the most volume of Luther's legend, and although he found a few documents, most of the information he had received was from word of mouth. In his papers, he wrote the legend of Luther was perhaps only a fictional tale to tell of the conception of the unique fighting style used by the ironically peaceful Ivorine monks. His colleague, although he agreed the paper was well written, took it to the deans of the college, who sent him off to the ruins of the Hirrlow kingdom to further study the legend.

And there he was now. It was on his journey west that the world slowly began to feel more and more queer. Two suns were visible in the sky, but they did little and less to overpower the cold, as if their own warmth drew back from the world. Two disks in the sky as useful in their warmth as nipples on men. He cursed silently and turned his head from the window in the carriage.

Several hours later, the carriage came to halt, and the historian stepped out into the cold, frigid air. To the east he saw the crags of the Giant's Maw Valley, and in front of him -- southward from what he could tell by the suns' descent -- he saw the ruins of the great Hirrlow kingdom. Pillars dotted the ground, half buried in mounds and burrows. Ancient stone structures were all but destroyed around, and the remnants of a great wall rose in the horizon. But the capital of the forgotten kingdom wasn't what he came for. He heard of a Grand Temple that rested here, forgotten to all save the monks, and it was to his right that he saw the anomaly in the ruined land.

Instead of a ruined temple, there stood a great temple, albeit empty, with grounds that were freshly cut, and stone walkways that looked to be meticulously tended to. What he and his hired help looked at was a cared for garden that outmatched the High College, with wooden canopies and fountains that all led to a main building that was both large and beautiful in a humble sort of way.

"Strange place, this," a mercenary hired by the college said, looking around, his hand resting easily on his pommel. The historian agreed, and walked forward into monastery and when he called out, no one answered. He called again, but again, no answer came. Deciding that whoever took care of the place was inside, he went into the building to find that unlike the garden, its insides were in ruin. As if the person who worked on the garden was too lazy, or too respectful of the place to care clean the inside of it.

The floor was made of hard stone that cracked and grew with weeds, and led to a great onyx and gold brazier upon a dais that was strangely without flame. An uneasy feeling came across the historian, but curiosity was stronger than his caution -- or his sense of self preservation for that matter -- and stepped up to the dais to see instead of embers, ashes. He put his hand inside and found the ashes cold. "Strange," he whispered to himself and stepped from the dais.

"I don't like the feeling of this place," the mercenary said, and the historian noticed he had a sudden rigid look about him, a honed sense of instinct from years on the road that told him something was amiss. "We should leave historian."

The historian looked around trying to see if there were any passages that led away from the dais. There. "Not yet," he said and approached what he appeared to be a set of descending stairs. "I think I'd like to study this ancient place a bit more."

"Not my place to say, but I wouldn't be going down there if I were you. I'll follow, but I bloody well won't like it."

"You have a sword, good friend. What use is it if you won't use it. Bring out the torch would you and handed it here." The historian took the torch and descended the stairs. It seemed to take ages, spiraling downward for long minutes, until such a point the historian thought it would go on forever. Then they reached the bottom and unlike what he had anticipated -- a dark, cold room filled with cobwebs and a suffocating atmosphere -- what he was met with was instead, a lush room with bright candles on either side with a high ceiling that had it's own candles to light the room. A miniature version of the garden above was inside and somehow the grass and flowers were kept alive without sunlight, and a feint glow emanated from them. In the center of the garden was a large stone tomb upon a white marble dais that gave the place a serene, but incredibly beautiful feel.

He approached the stone structure and found a square stone slab about a meter before the dais with an ancient language chiseled into the rock. He recognized it as Old Hymuris and knelt down before it so he could see the words clearer and read it aloud:

The Father of the Path of Heavenly Fists, the Sage of Peace, the Savior of Hirrlow, the Chosen of Ivorine. The Pathfinder. It was through great personal sacrifice that Luther saved our land, and allowed it to become the kingdom that it is now. I leave this garden as a gift for our savior, in hopes that he may enjoy it in the afterlife, or that those who come by may know of the great beauty that was within this man.
- King Teravor IV

The historian stayed in place without moving for a long moment. A silence hung in the air as he slowly came to realize that the legends might have actually been true. And excitement filled him. He had discovered proof that the most ancient hero, save for Ansur, did in fact exist and the paper he would publish would bring him such fame that he would be talked about for eons! He stood, elated, and took in a deep breath to speak of the wonder he had just discovered to his mercenary guard when a deafening thunder-like crack echoed around the room with such force it nearly drove him to his knees.

"Arete's tits! Get back, old man," the mercenary shouted as he moved forward and shoved the historian behind him. He fell onto the floor, face down, hitting his head on something hard. Although a little woozy, he distinctly heard a sword being unsheathed and the grunt of the mercenary. He then heard a very dull thud as a body fell to the ground.

Luther - The Pathfinder

Luther looked down at the strange man that had attacked him, on the floor and unconscious. It had been by instinct that Luther felled him, but he payed no mind to the man. His eyes were wide with shock as he took in deep breaths.

He was back.

Why? Who brought him back? A dark sorcerer perhaps? No, it couldn't be, his flesh was too whole, and he felt revitalized. He looked down at his body, and instead of seeing dozens upon dozens of bleeding wounds, he found skin that was complete and unblemished save for his tattoos. He looked ahead and found another man beginning to sit up, rubbing his head in a sort of garden, but they weren't outside. He looked around and realized he was in some sort of hall lit with strange glass that had fire burning within them.

He descended from the dais, confused and walked up to the man and crouched in front of him. The man seemed to look as amazed and confused as he did. "Y-you're alive," he stammered.

Luther noticed he wore strange clothes, and had a stranger hair style. And from the way he looked, he could see he had Nirlos blood in him. "Who are you?" Luther asked not unkindly.

The man blinked. "I can't believe it," he said rising to his feet. Luther followed suit. "I can't believe it! How? You're alive!"

"You have a fondness of repeating yourself, don't you?" Luther said, raising an eyebrow over the sash that covered his face.

"I-I'm sorry, it's just. I didn't... I wasn't expecting you to come to life."

"I can assure you that was the last thing I expected as well. Sadly, Fate has a way of bending the rules to amuse herself. Now, mind telling me who you are?"

"I can't believe it. Luther alive right in front of me. This has to be some sort of sorcery. It has to be! You can't be real, can you? Faerthus guide us, imagine the renown I will get when I walk back the College with you in Tow! Oh, but the scandal! How will they believe me? You hardly look like you do in the drawings, and the monks! I must --"

Luther placed a hand on the man's shoulder, calming him and cutting him short. "You are a strange man," he said with a smile. "The man who attacked me was your companion?"

"Him? Oh, he was my guard."

"No harm, then. I would have been just as shocked if I saw a dead man rise from the ground. A good guard. Now, if you will excuse me, strange man, I must meditate on how, and more importantly, why I am back."

"Of-of course. By all means."

Luther regarded the strange man a moment more before walking back to the dais and sat next to the unconscious guard and cleared his mind, the world around him going dark once more. He breathed in and out in slow measured breathes, and channeled into his Heavenly Magic by which he could feel the essence of life and nature around him. He sought answers and thought of why he would be brought back. Perhaps a powerful man resurrected him from his slumber, or perhaps it was the doing of the gods who disturbed his sleep. If it was, he would need to confirm with Ivorine. Although he was a Grand Monk he was never as close with the god as he could have been, he had a fierce independence about him and relying upon a god was somehow against that. But he tried now, if only for answers to a strange riddle, but when he did, he felt nothing.

Never before had he felt nothing, there was always a presence. Yet, that nothing was as loud as a scream, and it felt horribly, horribly wrong. Luther opened his eyes. The man sat patiently, albeit with an eager look on his face, before him. The mercenary began to stir and Luther stood. Curious, he asked. "How long was I dead, strange man?"

"Fifty thousand years."