Tortoise

Torn Realms (High-Fantasy) (Mid-High Casual) [ALWAYS OPEN]

Gonna make a second character (with a shorter C.S. ) who will probably be less on a personal mission like Shertul, and more closely involved with the Nephilim/Revenant conflict. Because I love Shertul, but he's largely doing something of his own, and I kinda want a character who will be directly in the turf war.

But what I can't decide is whether they should be an ex-soldier centaur, an friendly half-elf that acts more like a fae, an orc (assuming that's allowed), or Rayu.

Torn Realms (High-Fantasy) (Mid-High Casual) [ALWAYS OPEN]

@Jeyma Sybil is offended you called her a birdbrain. And no, Daewyn I couldn't call the genius. He aspires to his uncle Nero's genius but hasn't achieved it yet. He would just rather spend his time reading and learning than that more brutish fighting stuff. Not that he can't, he just.... doesn't want to. Usually his excuse for everything. And brutish is my word, not his, he wants to make it clear he doesn't "play for the other team" so to speak.

@SanaChan

It t'was only my perception of those characters. That's why I tagged you: I wanted to insure you had the right to speak up if I misunderstood them. Thanks. :D

Torn Realms (High-Fantasy) (Mid-High Casual) [ALWAYS OPEN]

Sorry wrong rp

@Shmektheshmuck

Too late. I was tagged. I must reply.

I think I may just write up a background and setting opening post cause cbf doing characters rn.

Also I'm stuck on the side of the road cause car broke down so I'll start on it when I get... somewhere where my phone will have power and my laptop will have internet xD

@Emuxe

...what does C.B.F. mean?

Torn Realms (High-Fantasy) (Mid-High Casual) [ALWAYS OPEN]

Neigh neigh, motherfuckers.

Windleaf

Basic Information

Full Name:
Sutagara Windleaf

Sutagara is only a given name. Windleaf is the name of her tribe, which she has adopted as a surname for dealing with the more city-dweller peoples. Often, she even prefers being called Windleaf.

Age:
30. Over middle-aged for a centaur.

Gender:
Female.

Birth Date:
Summer Solstice.

Race:
Nomadic Centaur.

Not all centaurs live a nomadic life, but many of the more traditional groups still swear by a restless lifestyle. They graze like a herd, until all the grass is eaten up so they can wander off again.

Alignment:
Neutral, leaning Nephilim. Windleaf hasn't yet fully decided, but she's gradually heading towards the Institute.

She would always side with Raziel over Alithe, but she might just as well declare war on them both.

Appearance

Hair Colour:
Shining white, both on the head and the body.

Eye Colour:
Deep maroon.

Face Shape:
Rough and angular as a mountain.

Skin Tone:
Tan, with a hint of red.

Height:
Centaurs ride like giants. A solid eight-and-a-half feet, or 260 centimeters.

Weight:
1100 pounds.

Body Type:
A war-horse with an attached warrior.

Natural Markings:
Nil.

Scar(s):
A deep horizontal gash along her back, and a disgusting scar on her face.

Tattoo(s):
She has but one tattoo, hidden away on the back of her muscular neck: a leaf blowing in the wind.

Personality

3 Words:
Impulsively, loudly unpreditable.

Like(s):

She loves the forests, the task of surviving on your own and the conjoining with the natural things.

She also has a great exhilaration in combat, and an admiration for lycans- the only humani to ever be one with the wilds.

Dislike(s):

Her tribe followed an odd tradition regarding race. They believed that all the thinking creatures of the forest- elves, centaurs, fae, treants, and elementals- represented a part of nature itself. The elves are the plant-eaters, graceful and fleeting. The centaurs are predators, proud and fierce. The fae, finally, are the omnivores, sharp yet not malevolent. The treants are plants, of course, and the elementals represent the substances of nature itself.

So, who doesn't fit in?

She looks down on the dwarves, humani and corvi who live in the forests. They are intruders in nature's realm, taking from it but never adding. They clear out the plants and extinct the animals. Even the destruction of a fire elemental serves some purpose: they clear the way for regrowth. But when a humani or a dwarf makes their structures, nothing may ever recover again.

She has nothing against them if they stick to the clearings and the Wastelands and the mountains, where they clearly belong.

Want(s):
Her only want is the forests, the freedom of exploration, and the rush of combat.

Fear(s):

Windleaf only has three fears in this world: one for herself, one for her faith, one for her people.

For herself, Windleaf fears that she may never be able to cease wandering, but she is equally terrified of being held down by obligations. She fears that she won't always be the leaf blowing in the wind, and she fears that she will be.

For her faith, Windleaf fears that the Gods she has always worshiped are only deluded myths spread by bored centaurs. What if Raziel and Alithe are all there is to the world? A desolate truth.

For her people, Windleaf fears that the centaurs truly are just a magical conjoining of man and beast. Her entire people: a simple wizard's experiment gone wrong. No grand creation story, no oneness with nature. Just a spell going too far.

Favourite...

Colour(s):

Red.

Time of Day:

The morning times, when golden sunlight first streams through the trees.

Food:

Grass soup.

Animal:

Horse. How could it be anything other than horse? When half an animal is growing out of your rear, you learn to like that animal.

She also likes boars. And wolves. And boars. And dogs. And boars. And did I mention that she likes boars?

Because she likes boars.

Place in Terra:

Those clearings that occasionally run along the forests.

Skills and Attributes

Skills

Special ablilty/ies:

None, outside of astounding athletics.

Good at...:

Skilled with spears, blades and bows, Windleaf is a terror in the charge or from afar. Her speed and strength are renowned, even among the nomadic centaurs.

When it comes to more practical skills, years of wilderness survivor has taught all the basic skills for living in the forests: foraging, fire-starting and cooking, hunting (for pelts, not for food- the body is wasted on a herbivore) and subsequently skinning, wood-working... and so on.

Bad at...:

Admitting failure. She's as stubborn as an old mule, and about as patient as one.

Traits

Good Habit(s):
Quick to befriend, quick to forgive.

She can never hold a grudge. Before the offender can apologize, she's already forgotten the offense.

Bad Habit(s):
Quick to anger, quick to kill.

She can never settle down. Before she can adapt to a new home, her hooves grow restless and her eyes turn towards the horizon.

History

The Past

Centaur birth is a painful and complicated ordeal. Especially when the baby is born hooves-first.

Sutagara split her mother's stomach in half. Their tribe's shaman tried to heal her, but these centaurs were warriors and gatherers, not spell-casters. Nothing could be done. It was bittersweet: a girl born and a woman dead on the same day.

From there, her childhood was nothing worth note. She was raised in a nomad's life. They grazed all the grass in sight, than moved on.

She tried many things as a foal. Hunting, gathering, cooking, building. She had a little skill for all of them, but as the little Sutagara grew, the tribe discovered her real talent. Even as a filly, she was eager to rush into a fight with the adults. But while she could shoot it like any of her kind, she often shied from the bow in favor of a sword or a spear. This marked her place.

She was a protector: her task was to defend the nomads from raiders, mercenaries, dwarves and humans- all were a little too common in a few of the countries her people wandered through. All the healthy centaurs could wield bows, to be sure, but a protector's role was unique as a swordswoman or spear-wielder. She would run with the other protectors, forming an impenetrable circle around the tribe. They galloped at full speed, round and round, so that no intruder could pierce into the tribe without facing their whirling blades. From within the defensive circle, the herd would fire arrows with lightening speed. By some miracle, they never hit their protectors.

Her life changed on the day a particularly vicious attacker managed to gash her along the back. It hurt, and it bled, but it wasn't a real threat, nor was it the first time she'd been injured. It would heal in time, maybe leaving a scar, and her life would continue the same way it always does.

Then it struck her: she'd suffered a dozen injuries just like this one in a dozen battles just like this one. Her life was stale and predictable. The only peaks of excitement, defending her herd, had become a routine event.

Centaurs live only fifty years. Sutagara was already nearing twenty. She had no time to waste.

Without stopping to consider, she suddenly knew what to do. The idea hadn't once occurred to her before but she was without doubt: it was her time to become a soldier.

She joined up with a fortress of nature's defenders. Mainly centaurs, but a fair few elves and elementals stood with them. They brought the fight right to the intruders: any dwarven or humani civilization which caused harm to the forests was first warned, then warned again, then destroyed.

These centaurs were nothing like the peaceful grazers that brought her into this world. They were proud soldiers in gleaming armor, each one a cavalry all their own. They rode into battle like thunder. If the her tribe was a herd, her army was a pride.

Windleaf, which she was now calling herself, rose quickly in respect. She was soon a commanding officer in the fortress's "cavalry" (read: centaurs) division. It was here that she learned the finer points of combat, and it was here that a deft little elf gave her the tattoo of a leaf blowing in the wind.

Her life changed on the day a particularly well-trained defender managed to gash her along the face. It burned, and it gushed, but it wasn't a real threat, nor was it the first time or the hundredth time she'd been injured. It might heal in time, definitely leaving a scar, and her life would continue the same way it always does.

It struck her: she'd suffered a hundred injuries just like this one in a hundred battles just like this one. Her life was stale and predictable. The only peaks of excitement, attacking the invaders, had become a routine event.

Centaurs live only fifty years. Windleaf was already nearing thirty. She had no time to waste.

Without stopping to consider, she suddenly knew what to do. The idea hadn't once occurred to her before but she was without doubt: it was her time to become an explorer.

And so without hesitation, she said her goodbyes, and left to explore the world... heading subtly to the Institute, all the way.

The Present

Windleaf may be traveling to the Institute, but she isn't a friend to Raziel. On the one hand, Alithe destroys nature wherever she goes, leaving only the disgusting Waste. On the other, Raziel's law often spawns civilization, which will ruin the forests if left unchecked. A balance is needed, but who can find one? Certainly not the "angels".

But.

The Institute is a place of great knowledge. Windleaf is far from a scholar, but her travels have still given her many questions. She's seen unexplainable things, and met people of many faiths. All of it has left her wondering: are the Gods her tribe believed in true? And if so, did they create centaurs, or is her whole existence the spawn of some twisted magic? These unanswered questions burn in her mind. She has to find the truth, and she fears that the Institute may be the only place such knowledge can be found.

So for now, the traveling centaur heads slowly for the Raziel's realm, but only because the knowledge he wields may answer her. When she knows all she needs to know, perhaps she can chose a side, or perhaps she will leave the balance of chaos and order in the hands of her Gods.

Memories

Her whole life has been somewhat of a blur, traveling from place to place and waging battle after battle. Only a few memories stay firmly in her conscious.

The most persistent memory is of her grandmother, telling her the stories of their tribal pantheon. There were nine gods, each residing over different elements and concepts.

She respects and loves all her deities, but her favorite was and is Espeeria, God of the Wind, Travelers, and the Restless. He is the God said to have created centaurs from his great breath. She still carries a small wooden symbol of Him around her neck.

---

This new character is a pacifist, so you either read this fucking CS or he'll kick your ass hug you firmly.

Bratty little art student

Basic Information

Full name:
Lumao Suulaliva

Age:
27

Birth Date:
3/7

Race:
Corvi

Alignment:
There can be no true law without exception. There can be no permanent freedoms without law. The key is when people have learned to do the right thing without needing to be pushed by Raziel, when people can be kind without motivation.

The Revenants are among the purest evil in this world, but the Nephilim can only create goodness through force. What is peace, if it was made with violence?

Appearance

Feather Colour:
His mother always said he looked like a checker board.

He is covered primarily in endlessly black feathers from head to toe, with the exception of his face. Thick, bright stripes of white run completely across his chest and his neck. Thinner strips of a matching shade also dangle on his wrists and ankles, as if they were bracelets.

Eye Colour:
Bright, piercing yellow. Other's eyes are immediately drawn to his.

Face Shape:
Angled, coming to a pointed knife of a chin. His cheekbones are high and proud, his eyebrows are raised and structured, his lips are long and black. His nose is masculine, rugged. Clearly it broke at one point, then failed to ever heal correctly. It is a structured, sharp face.

Skin Tone:
Pale under the feathers.

Height:
4'5" / 135

Weight:
Corvi are incredibly light; lighter than any healthy human could be. For a creature as large as a humanoid to fly, the bones must be hollow and the frame must be thin.

60 pounds / 25 KG

Body Type:
Petite in the extreme. Bird-like.

Natural Markings:
None, other than the white feathers.

Scar(s):
Many, many, many scars.

Three deep gashes strike through his face, two on the nose and one across his left eye. Dozens trace his wings.

Speaking of wings, they're shattered. Patches of leathery skin are revealed on both, interspersed between rotten feathers. The left wing is bent out of shape, literally being forced at a crooked angle, yet it never heals.

A long, featherless, rubbery stretch of scar tissue worms along the front of his neck.

Tattoo(s):
None.

Personality

Lumao is incredibly considerate. He attempts to put others first. It is his honest belief that, if everyone were kind and if everyone thought of others before themselves, there would be no need for war or violence. The world could be at peace, so easily.

3 Words:
Artistic, hippie, merciful.

Like(s):
He loves to listen to others, to be in company without having to interact, to simply appreciate the presence of another.

He loves to create, to collaborate, to show off even his non-magic art.

He loves those silent relationships, where you do not need to remind eachother that love is there: you both already know.

Most of all, he loves when others love righteousness without needing to be forced.

Dislike(s):
Revenants and the militarism of the Nephilim.

To Lumao, anything aligned with Alithe is rarely better than a Revenant. Yet while he respects the Nephilim, they are too cruel; too unforgiving.

The Revenants are black, yet the Nephilim are not white. They are only a pale gray: an attempt at goodness that falls short.

Want(s):
To see a world without violence, without hate, and without murder, where he can travel to sell his art without being attacked by robbers who can't pass up attacking a flightless Corvi sitting on a walking pile of rubies.

Fear(s):
When his journey begin, this idealistic artist promised himself he would never harm anyone. The world is too beautiful for that, he told himself. However, it is just as dangerous. In time, his promise decayed into only harming those who would end his life, and in time that decayed into only harming those who end his life or the life of an innocent. What if it continues to decay? He fears that he may soon be no better than the Nephilim, claiming love but acting in hate.

Favourite...

Colour(s):
White, black

Time of Day:
Midnight: peaceful and beautiful.

Food:
Trail mix, with chocolate and berries.

Animal:
All of them! Especially the one he built himself.

Place in Terra:
The public art-station in Wellborough. It's a wide, open centre where all artists can create. It looks almost like a town square, but it is caked in clay tables and painting supplies.

Skills and Attributes

Skills

Special Ablilties:

Lumao is a wizard to the core: he is drawn to knowledge and bound by curiosity. His knowledge of the world's lore is impressive for his age, as is his myriad forms of magic. But you know what they say about someone who knows a bit of everything. "Jack of all trades, master of none." He knows many magics, yet he has only become an expert of Mystic Art.

Like all mystically-inclined Corvi, Lumao was born with a modicum of talent for bending shadows. But as he grew,
he realized that darkness is not a substance in-and-of itself: it is simply a lack of light. To control the shadows is to control the light. He has since practiced creating blinding lights or concealing darknesses. Within magical circles, this is known as "phantasm", and is widely regarded as the only useful magic Corvi may learn.

The true masters of phantasm have learned to bend light to such a degree that they can even bend it around them to become entirely invisible. Lumao is only an apprentice by comparison.

Also, he does have command over a good bit of healing magic: enough to cure himself or others of simple wounds and sicknesses. But like his phantasm powers, it is limited in comparison to true healers. He is still a Corvi- this entire field of learning is a massive challenged for him.

And last but far from least, he has discovered the uncommon mystical art of Mystic Art: the power of creating paintings, statues or figurines and animating them to life. This ranges from the simple, such as moving paintings or dancing clay, to the truly amazing, such as living statues and voodoo dolls. This is the only supernatural power he has even begin to fully understand.

Lumao has made a good deal of money by selling paintings that move: drawings of sultry women who *ahem* get more sultry on command, watercolours of children that can be seen dancing in blowing fields, or so on. Peasants are initially frightened, but the nobleman... they're more expectant of such things. The Mystic Artist has no shame in admitting that he is overpaid.

Yet, even knowing that he could live a wealthy and long life this way, Lumao still finds more joy in the art of golems: creating living statues. Most, he sells as personal body guards to kings and nobles. Dwarves especially: they love nothing more than being protected by a stone soldier that fights for them.

It should be noted: none of his creations will ever kill or maim without express command. He builds that right into them.

Sounds useful, right? It's rarity primarily stems from the unusual materials required: a golem needs several precious gems to focus it's magical energies. Diamonds, rubies, emeralds, gold, silver... the list goes on.

But despite their obvious warfare applications, Lumao did not create his personal golem for combat, or even in the figure of a warrior. It is a...

...drumroll please...

...turtle! He built a turtle! A gigantic stone turtle, to be exact, about the size of two grown humans. His name is Shell and he's Lumao's best friend. Its eyes are crafted of emerald, its body is the blackest stone but its plated shell and claws are fiery ruby.

It's primary purpose is for the sake of companionship during travel: it is not as fast as a horse, not even close, yet it never tires. The middle of its shell has a built-in dip that Lumao fits right into. He can sleep on its back with relative comfort. Not only that, but it can be used to channel magic.

Though it is not for harming anything seriously, he has used Shell to defend himself. When it stomps, the ground shakes. When it glares, light blinds threats. It can act independently of Lumao, so that it is a constant company in peace or in conflict. It has some simple, animalistic intelligence.

Essentially, Shell is a pet/bed/magic-conduit/defender.

It should be said, as a final note: Lumao has never and never intends to use voodoo dolls, though they are a part of Mystic Art. They are powerful, but a peaceful man has no use for them.

Good at...:
Well, not flying, that's for damn sure.

He's a skilled sculptor, painter and all-around artist.

Bad at...:
Flying. And speaking. And killing things.

Traits

Good Habit(s):
He is always on time, he always tries to consider another person's needs, he always tries to comfort the mourning and sad. He has mercy even on his enemies.

Bad Habit(s):
He taps his feet along with flaps of his wings when impatient. He also tends to pick at the leathery patches of exposed skin barricading his scars.

On a sadder note, he still tries to fly when nobody is around. He always falls.

History

The Past

He was born into the "ruling" family of a village which didn't have a ruling family. It was there he learned the beginnings of shadow magic. It was there he learned violence. His family was a flock of semi-mystic criminals who ran the town as a mob of gangs.

It was an all-corvi village that they reigned over, where being 4'5 was being intimidating. His father cherished Lumao's strength. If a mark stopped paying up, it was up to him to beat the gold out of them. Few Corvi are skilled mages, but he did have that natural ability for cloaking himself in shadow, which he found amazingly useful in the life of a thug.

Growing up, he never questioned his place. The strong take from the weak, and isn't that natural?

It all changed the day a group of dark mages finally noticed their lawless little settlement. It was such an easy target. No defenses, no connection to the crown, no protectors. Just a few scattered "tough guys", and Lumao.

They came to find sacrifices to Alithe. He tried to defend his home, when tribute was demanded. At first they laughed. Then they made an example of him.

He was thrown to the ground like a ragdoll, tossed around. He tried to fly away, but the leader only had to put the very tip of his boot down on Lumao's wing. He tried to vanish into the darkness, but the mages saw right through it like daylight. He was a toy to them.

Then the real agony begin. They swarmed on him like crows on a corpse. His wings were torn to shreds. His throat was ripped open. He saw a flap of skin hanging from his face and had to wonder how much they had already cut off.

This is what violence is, he realized. This is what pain means. This is what it is to be crushed, this is what it is to become nothing.

Even there, under those cruel knives chopping for his wings, Lumao knew that he could never inflict this on another living soul again. Even for his father.

At that repentance, something miraculous happened. The burning pain in his wounds was pacified in a numbing cold. Gushing blood congealed to hide his open throat. Fractals of ice cracked their way across the ground beneath him.

Blood stained over his eyes, blurring his vision in red. But even through that he could still see that the dark mages had collapsed to the street floor.

He crawled over, slowly, to the limp bodies of his attackers, only he found they weren't so limp. They were stiff. Dead statues.

He touched one cautiously. That was a mistake. It was as if all the heat had been sucked right from their bodies, so much that it hurt

He wiped the blood clear with one weakened arm, so that his sight could now show where the ice was coming from: a figure in deep blue. It was wearing hooded robes and a cold face.

One gloved hand outstretched to lift him up. "I am Kaezira of the North."

----
------
------
----

After that day, Lumao swore never to do that to another thinking being.

Over the years, his promise eroded. The world is a beautiful place, but full of violence and evil. Seeking out magic is a rough path to walk- he's been forced to defend himself more than once. At first, he would never harm anyone, but that decayed into only harming those if he must to defend himself, and that decayed into only harming others if he must defend himself or someone innocent.

But he still won't kill, and he still won't injure anyone more than he has to. He is gentle even to his attackers.

Inspired in part by his natural "gift" (by Corvi standards), and in part by Kaezira, Lumao further advanced his magic over the following years. Instead of building his power up, however, he spread it out: he began to learn many forms of spellcasting, as opposed to focusing on one genre until it is all you know. Like a certain ice mage.

His first drive for magic was purely born from fear. Remembering how easily conquered he was by the dark mages terrified him to his core, but seeing how easily Kaezira disposed of them rejuvenated his hope. He became determined to learn that power. Corvi may be weak magically, yet he would not give up. He has learned what he knows over years of endless determination and pure motivation.

As he grew, though, his need for magic diminished into a desire. He realized that his fear was misplaced. It was not being weak that was to be avoided, it was violence itself. He began to take on a pacifistic view of the world, which has held (mostly) intact to the day.

Even still, he traveled all across the globe to study his magics, visiting temples and colleges alike. He considers even traveling to the Monastery of Flesh so that he may learn of fleshspinning, or the Institute to learn of runes. Afterall, it would be pleasing to see Kaezira again: to show him how much he's learned.

The Present

His wings and his throat are still torn. Dark magic is fused into the wounds; they shall never heal. The scar at his throat stole his speech, the tear at his wings stole his flight. He will never again soar or sing. He can speak only quietly and with extreme difficulty.

Now, speechless and flightless, he refuses to pity himself. He received only what he deserved. Many of his victims cried out for retribution. Though Lumao is not a religious person, maybe this was a God's way of answering them.

He has been there many times before, but he travels to Wellborough again. It is the very best place for maps and news.

---

Sorry for the length.

Shertul

Note: if you're wondering what a "Fleshspinner" is, the information is found under "Special ability/ies" in unnecessary levels of detail.

Basic Information

Full Name:

Shertul the Unnatural. He outlived his family long ago. No more reason to keep his tribal name, outside of useless sentiment.

Age:
81, though it is impossible to detect his age by appearance. No wrinkles, no damage, no aging. Most Fleshspinners live well into their hundreds, or even their thousands.

Gender:
"He" was once a man. No more. His reproductive organs are now dead and useless- furthermore, it's impossible to title any of his features as male or female.

Birth Date:
The eleventh day of the tenth month.

Race:
Born humani, but now he is no more a human than he is a male. Race, gender, sex, age- it is all irrelevant to a Fleshspinner. They are only terms used to describe minuscule physical differences, which become vestigial as soon as one learns to change their makeup.

Alignment:
Neutral, but leaning strongly towards Revenant. At the least, you will never see him become a Nephlim.

Appearance

Hair Colour:
No hair needed.

Eye Colour:
The art of Transcendent Flesh is as of yet far beyond Shertul, but he has learned to shift coloration at will. The shade of his eyes are unpredictable. That being said, he tends to gravitate towards pink and grey.

Face Shape:
Shertul prefers to wear a grossly over-sized black cloak in public, to hide his extraneous limbs, but it isn't so easy to cover a face without drawing the very attention one seeks to ignore. His skull, therefore, looks to be almost elfish, riddled with sharp features, angular dives and dagger ears, topped off by an up-pointed knife of a nose. It is a cruel face, a dangerous face.

When asked, he likes to tell people he is only half humani. Most assume the other half is elf. He doesn't bother to correct them.

Though he has a third eye, for seeing magically, he has shaped it so that it blends-in when closed. And though his Fleshspinner symbol is proudly exposed, few outside of magical circles can identify it. The red crown is usually assumed to simply be a complex tattoo.

Skin Tone:
A very pale, off-white shade covers most of Shertul's body, while an intricate and interwoven crown of red stripes adorns his forehead like a tattoo. At the center of the sanguine "crown", staring out above his middle eye, is the symbol of the Fleshspinners:

Height:
5'2 feet tall, or roughly 155 centimeters. But he prefers to dip down on all six limbs when not in public.

Weight:
100 pounds / 45 kilograms

Body Type:
Slender but toned: the body of a predator, for running after prey in short bursts like a lion, or long hunts as a wolf.

Natural Markings:
None. All birthmarks and blemishes were long ago removed, in par with Fleshspinner tradition: "Let your body be immaculate, and without blemish, to show for all your perfection in flesh."

Scar(s):
None. As with natural marks, scars are quickly healed over to hide any evidence of flaw.

Tattoo(s):
None. Noticing a pattern? Fleshspinners simply change coloration, if they desire to mark themselves, as Shertul has done with the symbol upon his forehead.

Personality:

3 Words:
Guilt-ridden, introspective, moody.

Like(s):

Shertul loves all magic. To him, it is the true source of power in this world. It would not surprise him at all to discover that Alithe and Raziel are simply embodiments of magical energy.

Outside of the mystical, he holds a deep respect for the dwarves and their crafts. They, along with humani, are the only race he truly holds as equals.

Dislike(s):

The whole idea of nature. Fleshspinners are often titled "unnatural" by those who consider themselves upright, and so it's no surprise that many of Shertul's kind have simply abandoned that entire bloated concept. This spreads into his views on the treants and elves, plus fuels his abhorrence of those who foolishly believe that forests and jungles should be protected as any more than a resource. There is nothing spiritual or special about a forest: it's simply a collection of plants trying to survive, the same as any living creature.
It can also be fairly said that he is not too fond of centaurs, fae and elementals.

He also doesn't like pets. The only animals you shouldn't eat are children.

Want(s):
To escape his past, to convince himself that Rayu was wrong- that the Monastery is simply a place of magical study, and that it is no abomination to be what he is.

Deep down, though, there is another ambition which he will not admit to any except himself: to finally abandon his concerns and his search to return to the Monastery, to the only place on this world that has ever been called home.

Fear(s):
That Rayu wasn't wrong, that he's already sold his soul to the Revenants. If his life must lead him to that path, he can imagine a world where he does willingly swear himself to Alithe, but he must know that it was willingly. He cannot bear the idea of those years at the Monastery having been all for his recruitment. The thought makes him shudder. But it also sparks an idea.

He is near to mastery of Flesh: he lacks only the most advanced of the most advanced techniques. He's certain he could teach others the art as his masters taught him; he could create his own Monastery, further from the wastelands and un-plagued by the foul shade demons. He may even gather together with other out-cast wizards and wanderers of different magical schools, to add further knowledge. A true, unaligned institute for true, unaligned magic. Such places have existed before and certainly some continue to exist now, but none teach Fleshspinning outside the Monastery.

Favourite...

Colour(s):
Pink, white, gray, black.

Time of Day:
The nighttime hours most in-between dusk and dawn. He has a habit of watching the stars, and the cool weather is nice in the frequent humidity of a land like Terra.

Food:
Everything! Maintaining the extra limbs, magical eyes and ears, poison and disease immunity, blatantly ignoring all the laws of biology... it's a lot of energy. He needs unholy amounts of food to keep up. Starvation is a very real threat.

Animal:
The one he is eating.

Place in Terra:
The wastelands around the Monastery. The emptiness lends a strange peace, especially on quiet nights.

Skills and Attributes

Skills

Special ablilty/ies:

Shertul is what most call a "Fleshspinner": wizards who have forsaken spell-casting, instead focusing their magic on twisting the shape of their own bodies.

Fleshspinning

Important note: Anyone can play as a Fleshspinner, or have a character which becomes a Fleshspinner- just let @Jeyma know you are doing it, so that I may insure it matches what I've already written.

Fleshspinning (fleshspinners) is otherwise known as flesh magic (flesh mages), carnality or carnalism (carnalists) and, among scholarly circles, "magical auto-alteration". It is sometimes inaccurately titled "dead necromancy" by those who spread the myths that 'spinners are corpses which have risen themselves from the dead through sheer evil will, then become hideous monsters to eat the bad little children who weren't scared by the boogeymen stories.

General Summary:

((For those who do not have time to read the full description))

"We learn sin by sin, we grow limb by limb."
- Death-weaver proverb

Fleshspinners are mages who control their flesh through hidden mysticism: wizards forsaking spell-throwing, instead focusing their power inward, on twisting the shape of their own bodies. They use dark sorcery to distort themselves into monstrous creatures. Spawning mystical eyes, developing strong limbs and nurturing ungodly organs are their way of life. Some are giants- sporting massive, crushing fists and bones that never crack under pressure; others are imps- with eagle's eyes, cunning brains and sickly organs of flight; a few are sirens- beautiful and alluring, hinting but never showing what they truly are.

Regardless of appearance, they tend to share an almost unhealthy obsession in discovering the myriad of transformations they can force their bodies to undergo. In most cases, this leads to unimaginable strength and speed, greater than that of any mundane mortal, yet a sort of withdrawn cowardice in real danger. Their body is their art, they fear to let it come to harm.

It is rare, however, to find any skill that requires more devotion, more concentration, or more time than the path of a carnalist. It is an endlessly patient art. Months or years are demanded to fully develop an organ of sufficient quality, and it is an agonizingly painful process all the while. Furthermore, 'spinners must eat absurd troves of food to satisfy the magic trapped in their veins. And they can never use healing magic, for the light will attempt to "cure" their extra limbs or organs, slowly reverting the would-be patient back to their true body and age. Needless to say, this is deadly for those many who have slowly stretched their lives into centuries.

Yet ironically, if they can avoid "healing", immortality is a simple thing for them. They learn to rid themselves of age a few years into their training. And when you can control your physical self down to even a cellular level, it is no challenge to remove wrinkles and cure aging-induced disease. The greatest sign of years is the wisdom that comes with eons.

If one is brave or desperate enough to seek it out, this is taught in only a single sacred structure in all of Terra: the Monastery of Flesh, rooted right within the border to the Wastelands. It is a fortress of dark-purple bricks held with rough wood, spires standing proudly over the dust and bridges spanning it all. Over two-thousand eternally living and eternally growing carnalists reside in this microcosm of a city, yet somehow every single tower is connected by tunnels or bridges or doors.

It is closed off from the rest of the world to the extent that the Monastery monks have developed a strange culture of their own within those locked gates- a quasi-religious lifestyle bonded so strongly to Alithe that it is sometimes believed this entire doctrine began simply as a magical branch of the Revenants. The original founder of the Monastery still lives, in fact, but it rarely deigns to answer questions.

More Detail

Rituals

"Ashes to ashes, waste to the Wastes. The weak vessel dies, a strong flesh rise."
- Death-weaver mantra

Power over flesh does not come naturally: it must be granted through dark dances and shadowy spells. There are dozens of these rituals, but three primary: Rebirth, Awakening, and Transcendence.

Rebirth is the beginning of a Fleshspinner's life, Carnal Awakening is their mark of maturity, Transcendence is the twilight of old age- an everlasting twilight, for the immortals.

The Rituals

"Void of vacant soul, one final power to be told"
- Death-weaver mantra.

There is much that any carnalist could tell you about fleshspinning. There is much they could explain, and describe, and inform to you. There is much they could say. But there is little they could teach. It is a skill you must be born with. It is also a skill nobody in history has ever been born with. Or at least, nobody is born with it the first time. Instead, the student must undergo the ritual of Rebirth: to be born again. The student must die. Then they will be risen from beyond the reaper's reach, immortal. Those few outsiders who know of the undergoing believe it is proof of the Fleshspinner's existence as twisted undead. Practitioners themselves vehemently deny this. The argument is that their death lasts but a few moments- more akin to a short stop of the heart.

The second grand ritual is the Carnal Awakening. The 'spinner enters a deep meditation- deeper than any occurring without magic. No warning is given to those who undergo until the very morning it happens, before the sun has even risen over the Wastes, when guards in black cloaks came to drag them from their beds and enter them into a featureless, dark, empty room without any food or even a change of clothes. Then the door is locked, and they do not leave for years. They are kept alive only by the magics of the tower. And there they meditate, for years on end, locked in thought. When their eye(s) open, decades later, they cannot recognize themselves: new limbs, new organs, different bodies. This is typically done in close-knit groups- friends, mates, family- so that they may feed of eachother's mystic energy.

Finally, there is Transcendence. At the completion of this last ritual, all boundaries fall. Sustenance is drawn directly from pure magic, removing any need for food or any limitations to their physical power. They can grow and change organs and limbs with no delay or pain, shifting from one form to another in flashing speed. It should come as no shock: this gift is offered only to those who are hundreds or thousands of years old. One must prove themselves with the eons. The controversy runs deep, but even a few practitioners swear that Transcendence rids the target of the soul- tears the spirit right out of their waiting body, to finally free the flesh.

In the many thousand year history of the Monastery, but a handful of practitioners have ever completed all three rituals- all seven of them still live today, buried somewhere deep in those halls.

Only a select few are chosen to grant the rituals, in darkened under-chambers during the all-consuming nightfalls of the Wasteland. These are death-weavers- those blessed, blessed, endlessly blessed few carnalists who can still channel magic out of their bodies. They are the weavers to the spinners.

Body spells are a macabre art. Learning of them before you have died is forbidden. Only the flesh-spinners and the death-weavers know their true nature, and none have ever convinced one to tell either by coercion or by torture or by threat of death.

Advantages/Disadvantages

"Harder than bone, faster than flesh; the double-edged sword means life and death."
- Death-weaver proverb

Strengths of Fleshspinners

-Fleshspinners are stronger and faster than even a warrior of any race. They can match a centaur's sprint, they can stand unbroken against a treant's blow; swords do not pierce their skin, hammers shatter before their bones. They are the masters of melee.

-These creatures heal with unnatural quickness. Fatal wounds are gone in an hour or two. Those who have achieved transcendence have been known to heal so quickly that they simply cannot be killed by anything short of the most potent archmages.

-Their senses reach a capacity unseen in mortal creatures. Most of this art see, hear, smell and feel the world around them in ways others can't begin to understand. There's no such thing as surprising a 'spinner.

-It should be assumed that, if there is a physical function which might be useful, the mages of the Monastery have already mastered it. Turning their heads around like an owl, unhinging the jaw like a snake, running on all fours like an animal, howling like a wolf...

-There has rarely been a poison brewed or a disease discovered that will kill one. The only substances which a carnalist's body allows are those made by masterful alchemists. Their body rejects typical herbs and chemicals as soon as any effect is felt. Of course, this also means that most medicines are useless to them as well. They cannot even get drunk- they will urinate the alcohol right back out.

Weaknesses of Fleshspinners

-Fleshspinners must eat constantly. Half a day without food drives them mad. One day withers them into a coma. Two days ends them. The longer without food, the weaker their bodies and their minds.

-Without powerful medication or the easing magics of the Monastery, the agony of slow bone growth becomes overwhelming. They must gather these painkiller potions from special alchemists who have learned to brew substances that will not be rejected by a carnalist's body.

-They can never use healing magic or have it applied to them, as the healing energies will attempt to "heal" their extra limbs and organs, slowly reverting the would-be patient back to their true body and age. Some claim this lends more credibility to the argument that fleshspinners are simply an advanced form of undead.

-To add insult to injury, they're as sterile as a hospital. The Rebirth ritual rids the beneficiary/victim of any potential for children. Most carnalists, luckily contrary to that title, are more concerned with improving their own flesh than breeding with another's. Worse still, those who become a 'spinner before puberty never hit it at all. No sex drive.

-There has rarely been a poison brewed or a disease discovered that will kill one. The only substances which a carnalist's body allows are those made by masterful alchemists. Their body rejects typical herbs and chemicals as soon as any effect is felt. Of course, this also means that most medicines are useless to them as well. They cannot even get drunk- the alcohol will urinate right back out.

-Magic is incredibly potent on beings such as these, who are essentially made of magic. Spells interact explosively with the dark energy of their existence. That is literal: a Fleshspinner may burst into flame at the will of a skilled wizard. When magic is in the air, the monks are running.

-Being dark mages themselves and vulnerable to spellcraft, Raziel's anti-magic runes are particularly vicious for them. A carnalist can rarely enter Wellborough without death or trauma: they are almost made of magic.

-It is such an intensely personal experience, relying on such intimate knowledge of one's individual biology, that they cannot transfer their powers to any others. This includes the dead. Many a necromancer has discovered Fleshspinning in joy, only to have it turn into bitter disappointment.

-Finally, none can use any magic outside of Fleshspinning. Only the mysterious death-weavers can sew both together- they are an enigma even to others of their kind.

Shertul spent decades in meditation, slowly changing his body. His bones have gotten both harder and lighter, his skin smoothed out, his hair fell out, his senses became attuned to the flow of magic throughout the world so that he can literally hear and see it, he grew a working pair of gills, he developed clawed and webbed fingers, and perhaps most surprising, he sprouted a full set of extra arms. He could suddenly move with lightening speed and strength.

The only organs he could not develop were wings. Most small Fleshspinners create wings for themselves at some point, but Shertul never could. He earnestly tried, for years upon years, yet flight never came. He still looks on Corvi and Air Elementals with a bitter jealousy.

Unfortunately, the lifetime of devotion spent creating his flesh as it is now equally means that he cannot easily change it again. While he heals with indomitable speed, truly growing new limbs or changing the chemical makeup of his body would still take months or years for every change. Fleshspinning is an endlessly patient process.

And, of course, all this comes at a cost: the slow change is also a painful one. Without herbal medication (read: potions), the pain becomes overwhelming. Furthermore, Shertul can never use healing magic or have it applied to him, as the healing energies will attempt to "heal" his extra limbs and organs, slowly reverting him back to a normal humani. An eighty-one years old normal humani.

Adding insult to injury, he must eat constantly. While Shertul has always been thin and short, all that he has added to his body by magical needs forces him to consume even more food than a "natural" being would. In a sense, he's feeding the magic as much as he's feeding himself. Starvation is a constant, all-encompassing threat whenever he takes the risk of leaving civilization. Even a day without food would be incapacitating, and two would mean certain death.

On the bright side, if he doesn't starve to death or allow himself to be "healed", he'll live forever.

Good at...:

The Monastery has a bad habit of only teaching magic, and only flesh-magic at that. Very few practical skills were learnt in Shertul's eight decades of life. His only true skill is an incredible gift both hunting and fighting, though this comes not from skill but from biology. He is unfairly strong and fast, so much so that it covers his lack of practical experience.

Bad at...:

Everything. He can't cook, he can't build, he can't sew or clean or manage time. It's a wonder he can walk. When it comes to day-to-day abilities, Shertul is lost.

Traits

Good Habit(s):()

Perhaps it was those years of meditation, but Shertul has more patience than any humani you'll ever meet.

Bad Habit(s):

He has a habit of taking everything too seriously. His only humor is an occasional jest about his fleshly abilities, usually followed with a tell-tale wink. Serious, moody, and dramatic till the end.

Another habit: he tends to be wordy. Everything he said is explained and re-explained using the most verbose terms he can think up.

Also, he constantly steals food off of other people's plate. No meal is safe! He'll point in another direction and, before you know what's happening, the flesh-mage has swallowed up your whole meal.

In his defense, he'll die if he doesn't.

On a lighter note, he tends to click his claws together when he's nervous.

History

The Past

Shertul's origin may sound odd to those who spawn from the lush forests and gentle streams of Raziel's land, but for the few who take residence in the Wastes, it is a common story.

He was born to a tribe of wandering nomads. No destination. No origin that anyone can remember. They traveled in path with the few prey animals that survived in the desolation of Alithe's lands, living out of animal-skin tents and simple spears.

It was a rough life. Nobody grew fat, nobody grew old; some didn't grow up. Shertul was small. They all knew he would not survive.

The day his fate changed was the day he saw it on the horizon: a fortress of dark spires, rising proudly over the wastes. It was surrounded by shadow demons, even more than normal for the Wastelands, and a strange, totally indescribable aura was felt from it. His young eyes, only a decade old, had never see anything like it. So powerful, so frightening. He's hands latched to his mother. She saw his fear and tried to comfort him, but she didn't hide the truth.

It was at that young age he learned of the Monastery of Flesh, a institution altogether glorious and terrifying. His tribe explained to him that it was a city of magical "abominations", thousands of them, living unnatural lives that could lead only to destruction.

The more she said, though, the less Shertul heard. He was already entranced. Before the spires were even out of site, he was begging to join. His child's mind couldn't understand their objections. It sounded like a warm place, with food to spare and beds to rest and magic to entrance.

Most parents won't understand what his mother did next.

She let him go. Not because he was ready, and certainly not because she changed her mind about the Monastery, but because she knew it was the only real chance he had at a life. Not a normal life, to be sure, but a life better than feeding on scraps out in the waste.

When he arrived, two monks were already waiting on him. Their mutated eyes had seen him coming a mile away. They introduced him to the masters of the Monastery, who explained to him what this place truly was. The people there, the "monks", learned a macabre magic forbidden in other realms: Fleshspinning. The name alone almost made Shertul vomit, but he stomached it and listened.

It was a very old order, a very strange one, that taught to keep magic wholly contained within yourself. Fleshspinner's bodies literally traps the mystic energies like a cage, soaking them up to infuse it right into their own flesh. In this manner, they can forcibly alter their bodies in a myriad of ways. They can grow new limbs, wings, gills, and more. They can harden or soften their skin, and learn to perceive with senses lost on all others.

It frightened the young Shertul, but it was already far too late to catch up with his tribe. He had to stay, like it or not.

Before he could become a wizard, however, he had to become a scholar. He had to learn.

Reading and writing were lost arts on his people, but the Monastery educated him. They showed him what civilization meant. How could he not be loyal? So when the day came that he was offered the choice- either become a Fleshspinner or leave the Monastery forever, alone- he threw away his tribe's warnings and accepted without a thought.

From then, the years flew by. Shertul discovered that time moves differently for an immortal. Months were the blink of an eye. Years meant nothing.

But even in the blur of immortal life, he met a companion who's nature complimented his own: Rayu. She was, like him, raised in a life nothing like the Monastery. The similarities ended there, but sometimes opposites attract.

Fleshspinners rarely reproduce. Their relationship was not sexual. But it was emotionally intense, in a way that can only be related to by those who have endured those friendships that last decades. Shertul honestly believed that he could never betray her.

But he could.

On one night like any other, Rayu and Shertul were looking out a window when a light appeared on the horizon. White. Blinding. It was growing brighter. Screams sounded off. Shadow demons flocked to it like sparrows. What could have only been a few seconds (but felt like hours) went past before Shertul could see clearly. A Nephilim had found itself surrounded in the Wastelands, and it was hardly a shock that that the Shades were feeding.

It was a shock when one of the Monastery masters, named Erison, leaped from the window to join in on the fight. There was no warning. The master simply ran to the Nephlim and began tearing into it like a beast. The shades held it to the ground while the Fleshspinner ripped it apart.

When the melee cleared enough for Rayu and Shertul to finally tear their eyes away, he was surprised to find her angry. It took him hours to get the answer out of her, but apparently, Rayu was infuriated that a master Fleshspinner would get involved with the Nephilim/Revenant war.

"It wouldn't be a problem," she said, "except... remember Vona?"

Shertul nodded. Vona was a high-ranking Fleshspinner who, a few years prior, had been banished from the . The reason cited was "It is improper for a flesh-mage to enter into a religious war." But if that's the case, why was the Monastery overlooking Erison's unprovoked attack on a Nephilim? Why was he not banished?

He tried to calm her down, but Rayu just went on and on about it, and the more she ranted the angrier she made herself. She told the Fleshspinner leaders, but nothing was done. Even Shertul didn't seem to care (and he didn't- what a Spinner does on his own time is nobody else's business).

It came to a head two weeks later. Consumed with conviction that the Fleshspinners were just a magical arm of the Revenants, and the entire student-body was secretly being recruited, Rayu stole away dozens of irreplaceable scrolls and books from the library. She told Shertul in a hushed whisper that she would flee to the forests of Terra, or perhaps the home of the Corva. There, with no Revenants or Fleshspinners or master Erisons to stop them, him and her could build a new place of flesh-magic: a true, unaligned institute for true, unaligned learning.

Her eyes were so bright with hope, but Shertul's stayed as cold as stone.

He only said one word, "No", and her heart was broken. Still, it wouldn't be enough. He couldn't let her betray the Monastery of Flesh. He couldn't let throw everything they had away.

And so, with a heart full of guilt and hands shaking with trepidation, he betrayed out his only friend. He told the Monastery masters. Shertul was assured by them many times: something would be done, he had nothing to worry about, just go to sleep and let the masters speak to Ruya themselves.

When he awoke, the morning sun was streaming peacefully through the narrow windows, and his closest love's blood was splattered on the walls. She was gone. Rips of the stolen scrolls littered across the floor.

Ask as he might, many times, the masters would never tell him what happened. Did she live? Did she die? Did she fight them first, or was she attacked in cold blood? He could feel his dear masters growing in hostility with each question. He had only two choices left: live in peace, never knowing what became of Ruya and if she's even alive, or flee and search for her alone.

The Monastery was everything to him, but he couldn't stay there, haunted by the ghost of Rayu. If she was wrong about the Monastery, he could forgive himself. But if she wasn't? If she survived the attack, he could forgive himself. But if she didn't?

He had to know. He left his home, in search of the lands he knew she would move to if her flesh was still moving.

The Present

Shertul hasn't forgotten what happened at the Monastery, nor can he, until he discovers the truth. Either he'll find Rayu out in the world, or his journeys will finally teach him the wisdom to forgive himself. Until then, he's cursed by guilt to keep looking for a friend he may never find.

He has been in the forest for a long time now. Longer than he can remember. Longer than he wants to remember. Occasionally, he comes across a fae or elven or centaurian habitat, and they'll allow him to stay for a day or two. But he can never linger- they will eventually find out what he is, why he's there.

So he keeps his feet moving and his ears open.

Memories

Awakening

It is rare to find any lifestyle that requires more devotion, more concentration, or more time than the path of a Fleshspinner. This has been especially true for Shertul.

Shertul, accompanied all the while by his dearest friend Rayu, once performed a rite known as the Carnal Awakening. No warning was given to them until the very morning it happened, before the sun had even risen over the Wastes, when guards in black cloaks came to drag them from their beds and enter them into a featureless, dark, empty room without any food or even a change of clothes.

Then the door was locked, and they would not leave for years.

They were kept alive only by the magics of the tower. And there they meditated, for years on end, locked in thought. While they sat in a trance, the seasons changed, people were born and buried, buildings were built and crumbled.

Twenty years later, when the rusted old door finally creaked open again, they lifted their eyes and couldn't recognize themselves. They found that they could now see and hear magic, not just sense it vaguely, and that they were aware of their surroundings in ways that they couldn't fathom before. Life was full of things that they felt had always been there, but they were noticing for the first time. Shertul had grown gills and arms and even a third eye. Rayu sat admiring her leathery, bat-like wings.

They had awoken to a new world.

Torn Realms (High-Fantasy) (Mid-High Casual) [ALWAYS OPEN]

I love him and your CS.

@Emuxe

I was honestly worried everyone would hate it. It's so far out from what I usually do.

Your everything-eater is accepted!

@Emuxe

Hungry, guilty, mood drama-queen is more like it

Torn Realms (High-Fantasy) (Mid-High Casual) [ALWAYS OPEN]

Behold, my C.S.!



@Emuxe

Sorry for the length. I like to go all out on character sheets, loaded with details and too much drama. But don't worry, my posts will probably be short, plain and simple by comparison. :)

Shertul

Shertul

Note: if you're wondering what a "Fleshspinner" is, the information is found under "Special ability/ies" in unnecessary levels of detail.

Basic Information

Full Name:

Shertul the Unnatural. He outlived his family long ago. No more reason to keep his tribal name, outside of useless sentiment.

Age:
81, though it is impossible to detect his age by appearance. No wrinkles, no damage, no aging. Most Fleshspinners live well into their hundreds, or even their thousands.

Gender:
"He" was once a man. No more. His reproductive organs are now dead and useless- furthermore, it's impossible to title any of his features as male or female.

Birth Date:
The eleventh day of the tenth month.

Race:
Born humani, but now he is no more a human than he is a male. Race, gender, sex, age- it is all irrelevant to a Fleshspinner. They are only terms used to describe minuscule physical differences, which become vestigial as soon as one learns to change their makeup.

Alignment:
Neutral, but leaning strongly towards Revenant. At the least, you will never see him become a Nephlim.

Appearance

Hair Colour:
No hair needed.

Eye Colour:
The art of Transcendent Flesh is as of yet far beyond Shertul, but he has learned to shift coloration at will. The shade of his eyes are unpredictable. That being said, he tends to gravitate towards pink and grey.

Face Shape:
Shertul prefers to wear a grossly over-sized black cloak in public, to hide his extraneous limbs, but it isn't so easy to cover a face without drawing the very attention one seeks to ignore. His skull, therefore, looks to be almost elfish, riddled with sharp features, angular dives and dagger ears, topped off by an up-pointed knife of a nose. It is a cruel face, a dangerous face.

When asked, he likes to tell people he is only half humani. Most assume the other half is elf. He doesn't bother to correct them.

Though he has a third eye, for seeing magically, he has shaped it so that it blends-in when closed. And though his Fleshspinner symbol is proudly exposed, few outside of magical circles can identify it. The red crown is usually assumed to simply be a complex tattoo.

Skin Tone:
A very pale, off-white shade covers most of Shertul's body, while an intricate and interwoven crown of red stripes adorns his forehead like a tattoo. At the center of the sanguine "crown", staring out above his middle eye, is the symbol of the Fleshspinners:

Height:
5'2 feet tall, or roughly 155 centimeters. But he prefers to dip down on all six limbs when not in public.

Weight:
100 pounds / 45 kilograms

Body Type:
Slender but toned: the body of a predator, for running after prey in short bursts like a lion, or long hunts as a wolf.

Natural Markings:
None. All birthmarks and blemishes were long ago removed, in par with Fleshspinner tradition: "Let your body be immaculate, and without blemish, to show for all your perfection in flesh."

Scar(s):
None. As with natural marks, scars are quickly healed over to hide any evidence of flaw.

Tattoo(s):
None. Noticing a pattern? Fleshspinners simply change coloration, if they desire to mark themselves, as Shertul has done with the symbol upon his forehead.

Personality:

3 Words:
Guilt-ridden, introspective, moody.

Like(s):

Shertul loves all magic. To him, it is the true source of power in this world. It would not surprise him at all to discover that Alithe and Raziel are simply embodiments of magical energy.

Outside of the mystical, he holds a deep respect for the dwarves and their crafts. They, along with humani, are the only race he truly holds as equals.

Dislike(s):

The whole idea of nature. Fleshspinners are often titled "unnatural" by those who consider themselves upright, and so it's no surprise that many of Shertul's kind have simply abandoned that entire bloated concept. This spreads into his views on the treants and elves, plus fuels his abhorrence of those who foolishly believe that forests and jungles should be protected as any more than a resource. There is nothing spiritual or special about a forest: it's simply a collection of plants trying to survive, the same as any living creature.
It can also be fairly said that he is not too fond of centaurs, fae and elementals.

He also doesn't like pets. The only animals you shouldn't eat are children.

Want(s):
To escape his past, to convince himself that Rayu was wrong- that the Monastery is simply a place of magical study, and that it is no abomination to be what he is.

Deep down, though, there is another ambition which he will not admit to any except himself: to finally abandon his concerns and his search to return to the Monastery, to the only place on this world that has ever been called home.

Fear(s):
That Rayu wasn't wrong, that he's already sold his soul to the Revenants. If his life must lead him to that path, he can imagine a world where he does willingly swear himself to Alithe, but he must know that it was willingly. He cannot bear the idea of those years at the Monastery having been all for his recruitment. The thought makes him shudder. But it also sparks an idea.

He is near to mastery of Flesh: he lacks only the most advanced of the most advanced techniques. He's certain he could teach others the art as his masters taught him; he could create his own Monastery, further from the wastelands and un-plagued by the foul shade demons. He may even gather together with other out-cast wizards and wanderers of different magical schools, to add further knowledge. A true, unaligned institute for true, unaligned magic. Such places have existed before and certainly some continue to exist now, but none teach Fleshspinning outside the Monastery.

Favourite...

Colour(s):
Pink, white, gray, black.

Time of Day:
The nighttime hours most in-between dusk and dawn. He has a habit of watching the stars, and the cool weather is nice in the frequent humidity of a land like Terra.

Food:
Everything! Maintaining the extra limbs, magical eyes and ears, poison and disease immunity, blatantly ignoring all the laws of biology... it's a lot of energy. He needs unholy amounts of food to keep up. Starvation is a very real threat.

Animal:
The one he is eating.

Place in Terra:
The wastelands around the Monastery. The emptiness lends a strange peace, especially on quiet nights.

Skills and Attributes

Skills

Special ablilty/ies:

Shertul is what most call a "Fleshspinner": wizards who have forsaken spell-casting, instead focusing their magic on twisting the shape of their own bodies.

Details on Fleshspinning (Optional Reading)

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Note: This is really long and poorly written, so don't feel obligated to read it all. This is basically what happens when I shit on my keyboard

Unlike other wizards, Fleshspinners keep their magic wholly contained within themselves. Their body literally traps the mystic energies like a cage, soaking them up to infuse it right into their own flesh. In this manner, a flesh-mage can forcibly alter their bodies in a myriad of ways. They can grow new limbs, wings, gills, and more. They can harden or soften their skin, and learn to perceive with senses lost on all others.

It is rare, however, to find any lifestyle that requires more devotion, more concentration, or more time than the path of a Fleshspinner. It takes months or years to fully develop new parts, and it is an agonizingly painful process all the while. Furthermore, Fleshspinners must eat absurd amounts of food to satisfy the magic trapped in their veins. To make matters worse, they can never use healing magic, for it will "heal" them of the flesh-magic and revert them back to their native state.

On the bright side, immortality is a simple thing for them. A few years into their training, they learn to heal themselves of the aging process. And when you can control your physical form down to even a cellular level, it's not a challenge to remove wrinkles and cure ageing-induced disease. For a Fleshspinner, the only sign of aging is the wisdom that comes only with centuries.

Of course, it's no small task to teach such complex magic, so it is no wonder that the typical mage/wizard has no knowledge of Fleshspinning whatsoever. Most commoners are not aware that it exists at all.

But, if one is willing to seek it out, there is a place which teaches this macabre power, out over the very edge of the Wasteland. It is called the Monastery of Flesh. Inside it's walls, you'll find people creatures thousands of years old, some walking about like men, but others growing like fleshy plants or clinging to the walls like a moss of human skin.. They were all once people, but most aren't even recognizable as humanoids anymore.

Of course, those are only the oldest of the old, the ones who have achieved "Transcendent Flesh": the power of instant transformation.

The younger ones, the students, are more akin to monsters out of a fairy tail. Wings and sharp teeth, eyes in places they shouldn't be and as many limbs as spiders. With practice, anyone with a touch of magic (perhaps even dwarves) can learn to become like these creatures, immortal and in full command of their flesh.

Unsurprisingly, flesh magic requires an intimate knowledge of biology, so that the aspiring practitioner will not accidentally destroy a kidney or two. It shouldn't come as a shock that a full half of the Monastery is devoted to a massive library, largely regarding the anatomy of the different races and sexes, so any mage knows exactly what they're working with when they begin to twist the shape of their bodies.

As one final note, it should be said: because each Fleshspinner must learn their own bodies in painstaking detail, it is rare for them to work with the physiology of those originating in different races or genders. A Fleshspinner who was once a female elf will have difficulty applying their magic on any subject who is not also a female elf. Shertul may no longer be identifiable as a human or a man, but the fact remains that all his biology originates as such, and so he has only ever studied male humani anatomy in enough detail to control it.

This limitation is only compounded by the nature of flesh-magic. It is so intensely personal that it cannot be efficiently transferred to anyone other than the caster. This includes the dead. Many a necromancer has discovered Fleshspinning with glee, only to have it followed with disappointment.

Shertul spent decades in meditation, slowly changing his body. His bones have gotten both harder and lighter, his skin smoothed out, his hair fell out, his senses became attuned to the flow of magic throughout the world so that he can literally hear and see it, he grew a working pair of gills, he developed clawed and webbed fingers, and perhaps most surprising, he sprouted a full set of extra arms. He could suddenly move with lightening speed and strength.

The only organs he could not develop were wings. Most Fleshspinners create wings for themselves at some point, but Shertul never could. He earnestly tried, for years upon years, yet flight never came. He still looks on Corva and Air Elementals with a bitter jealousy.

Unfortunately, the lifetime of devotion spent creating his flesh as it is now equally means that he cannot easily change it again. While he heals with indomitable speed, truly growing new limbs or changing the chemical makeup of his body would still take months or years for every change. Fleshspinning is an endlessly patient process.

And, of course, all this comes at a cost: the slow change is also a painful one. Without herbal medication (read: potions), the pain becomes overwhelming. Furthermore, Shertul can never use healing magic or have it applied to him, as the healing energies will attempt to "heal" his extra limbs and organs, slowly reverting him back to a normal humani. An eighty-one years old normal humani.

Adding insult to injury, he must eat constantly. While Shertul has always been thin and short, all that he has added to his body by magical needs forces him to consume even more food than a "natural" being would. In a sense, he's feeding the magic as much as he's feeding himself. Starvation is a constant, all-encompassing threat whenever he takes the risk of leaving civilization. Even a day without food would be incapacitating, and two would mean certain death.

On the bright side, if he doesn't starve to death or allow himself to be "healed", he'll live forever.

Good at...:

The Monastery has a bad habit of only teaching magic, and only flesh-magic at that. Very few practical skills were learnt in Shertul's eight decades of life. His only true skill is an incredible gift both hunting and fighting, though this comes not from skill but from biology. He is unfairly strong and fast, so much so that it covers his lack of practical experience.

Bad at...:

Everything. He can't cook, he can't build, he can't sew or clean or manage time. It's a wonder he can walk. When it comes to day-to-day abilities, Shertul is lost.

Traits

Good Habit(s):()

Perhaps it was those years of meditation, but Shertul has more patience than any humani you'll ever meet.

Bad Habit(s):

He has a habit of taking everything too seriously. He has never had a sense of humor, and he isn't going to start now. Serious, moody, and dramatic till the end.

Also, he constantly steals food off of other people's plate. No meal is safe! He'll point in another direction and, before you know what's happening, the flesh-mage has swallowed up your whole meal.

In his defense, he'll die if he doesn't.

On a lighter note, he tends to click his claws together when he's nervous.

History

The Past

Shertul's origin may sound odd to those who spawn from the lush forests and gentle streams of Raziel's land, but for the few who take residence in the Wastes, it is a common story.

He was born to a tribe of wandering nomads. No destination. No origin that anyone can remember. They traveled in path with the few prey animals that survived in the desolation of Alithe's lands, living out of animal-skin tents and simple spears.

It was a rough life. Nobody grew fat, nobody grew old; some didn't grow up. Shertul was small. They all knew he would not survive.

The day his fate changed was the day he saw it on the horizon: a fortress of dark spires, rising proudly over the wastes. It was surrounded by shadow demons, even more than normal for the Wastelands, and a strange, totally indescribable aura was felt from it. His young eyes, only a decade old, had never see anything like it. So powerful, so frightening. He's hands latched to his mother. She saw his fear and tried to comfort him, but she didn't hide the truth.

It was at that young age he learned of the Monastery of Flesh, a institution altogether glorious and terrifying. His tribe explained to him that it was a city of magical "abominations", thousands of them, living unnatural lives that could lead only to destruction.

The more she said, though, the less Shertul heard. He was already entranced. Before the spires were even out of site, he was begging to join. His child's mind couldn't understand their objections. It sounded like a warm place, with food to spare and beds to rest and magic to entrance.

Most parents won't understand what his mother did next.

She let him go. Not because he was ready, and certainly not because she changed her mind about the Monastery, but because she knew it was the only real chance he had at a life. Not a normal life, to be sure, but a life better than feeding on scraps out in the waste.

When he arrived, two monks were already waiting on him. Their mutated eyes had seen him coming a mile away. They introduced him to the masters of the Monastery, who explained to him what this place truly was. The people there, the "monks", learned a macabre magic forbidden in other realms: Fleshspinning. The name alone almost made Shertul vomit, but he stomached it and listened.

It was a very old order, a very strange one, that taught to keep magic wholly contained within yourself. Fleshspinner's bodies literally traps the mystic energies like a cage, soaking them up to infuse it right into their own flesh. In this manner, they can forcibly alter their bodies in a myriad of ways. They can grow new limbs, wings, gills, and more. They can harden or soften their skin, and learn to perceive with senses lost on all others.

It frightened the young Shertul, but it was already far too late to catch up with his tribe. He had to stay, like it or not.

Before he could become a wizard, however, he had to become a scholar. He had to learn.

Reading and writing were lost arts on his people, but the Monastery educated him. They showed him what civilization meant. How could he not be loyal? So when the day came that he was offered the choice- either become a Fleshspinner or leave the Monastery forever, alone- he threw away his tribe's warnings and accepted without a thought.

From then, the years flew by. Shertul discovered that time moves differently for an immortal. Months were the blink of an eye. Years meant nothing.

But even in the blur of immortal life, he met a companion who's nature complimented his own: Rayu. She was, like him, raised in a life nothing like the Monastery. The similarities ended there, but sometimes opposites attract.

Fleshspinners rarely reproduce. Their relationship was not sexual. But it was emotionally intense, in a way that can only be related to by those who have endured those friendships that last decades. Shertul honestly believed that he could never betray her.

But he could.

On one night like any other, Rayu and Shertul were looking out a window when a light appeared on the horizon. White. Blinding. It was growing brighter. Screams sounded off. Shadow demons flocked to it like sparrows. What could have only been a few seconds (but felt like hours) went past before Shertul could see clearly. A Nephilim had found itself surrounded in the Wastelands, and it was hardly a shock that that the Shades were feeding.

It was a shock when one of the Monastery masters, named Erison, leaped from the window to join in on the fight. There was no warning. The master simply ran to the Nephlim and began tearing into it like a beast. The shades held it to the ground while the Fleshspinner ripped it apart.

When the melee cleared enough for Rayu and Shertul to finally tear their eyes away, he was surprised to find her angry. It took him hours to get the answer out of her, but apparently, Rayu was infuriated that a master Fleshspinner would get involved with the Nephilim/Revenant war.

"It wouldn't be a problem," she said, "except... remember Vona?"

Shertul nodded. Vona was a high-ranking Fleshspinner who, a few years prior, had been banished from the . The reason cited was "It is improper for a flesh-mage to enter into a religious war." But if that's the case, why was the Monastery overlooking Erison's unprovoked attack on a Nephilim? Why was he not banished?

He tried to calm her down, but Rayu just went on and on about it, and the more she ranted the angrier she made herself. She told the Fleshspinner leaders, but nothing was done. Even Shertul didn't seem to care (and he didn't- what a Spinner does on his own time is nobody else's business).

It came to a head two weeks later. Consumed with conviction that the Fleshspinners were just a magical arm of the Revenants, and the entire student-body was secretly being recruited, Rayu stole away dozens of irreplaceable scrolls and books from the library. She told Shertul in a hushed whisper that she would flee to the forests of Terra, or perhaps the home of the Corva. There, with no Revenants or Fleshspinners or master Erisons to stop them, him and her could build a new place of flesh-magic: a true, unaligned institute for true, unaligned learning.

Her eyes were so bright with hope, but Shertul's stayed as cold as stone.

He only said one word, "No", and her heart was broken. Still, it wouldn't be enough. He couldn't let her betray the Monastery of Flesh. He couldn't let throw everything they had away.

And so, with a heart full of guilt and hands shaking with trepidation, he betrayed out his only friend. He told the Monastery masters. Shertul was assured by them many times: something would be done, he had nothing to worry about, just go to sleep and let the masters speak to Ruya themselves.

When he awoke, the morning sun was streaming peacefully through the narrow windows, and his closest love's blood was splattered on the walls. She was gone. Rips of the stolen scrolls littered across the floor.

Ask as he might, many times, the masters would never tell him what happened. Did she live? Did she die? Did she fight them first, or was she attacked in cold blood? He could feel his dear masters growing in hostility with each question. He had only two choices left: live in peace, never knowing what became of Ruya and if she's even alive, or flee and search for her alone.

The Monastery was everything to him, but he couldn't stay there, haunted by the ghost of Rayu. If she was wrong about the Monastery, he could forgive himself. But if she wasn't? If she survived the attack, he could forgive himself. But if she didn't?

He had to know. He left his home, in search of the lands he knew she would move to if her flesh was still moving.

The Present

Shertul hasn't forgotten what happened at the Monastery, nor can he, until he discovers the truth. Either he'll find Rayu out in the world, or his journeys will finally teach him the wisdom to forgive himself. Until then, he's cursed by guilt to keep looking for a friend he may never find.

He has been in the forest for a long time now. Longer than he can remember. Longer than he wants to remember. Occasionally, he comes across a fae or elven or centaurian habitat, and they'll allow him to stay for a day or two. But he can never linger- they will eventually find out what he is, why he's there.

So he keeps his feet moving and his ears open.

Memories

Awakening

It is rare to find any lifestyle that requires more devotion, more concentration, or more time than the path of a Fleshspinner. This has been especially true for Shertul.

Shertul, accompanied all the while by his dearest friend Rayu, once performed a rite known as the Carnal Awakening. No warning was given to them until the very morning it happened, before the sun had even risen over the Wastes, when guards in black cloaks came to drag them from their beds and enter them into a featureless, dark, empty room without any food or even a change of clothes.

Then the door was locked, and they would not leave for years.

They were kept alive only by the magics of the tower. And there they meditated, for years on end, locked in thought. While they sat in a trance, the seasons changed, people were born and buried, buildings were built and crumbled.

Twenty years later, when the rusted old door finally creaked open again, they lifted their eyes and couldn't recognize themselves. They found that they could now see and hear magic, not just sense it vaguely, and that they were aware of their surroundings in ways that they couldn't fathom before. Life was full of things that they felt had always been there, but they were noticing for the first time. Shertul had grown gills and arms and even a third eye. Rayu sat admiring her leathery, bat-like wings.

They had awoken to a new world.

(I never really post more than 3 paragraphs- I just happen to like making a 25,000 character C.S.)

So what do y'all think? Criticisms and opinions are welcome, but be gentle

Torn Realms (High-Fantasy) (Mid-High Casual) [ALWAYS OPEN]

@Jeyma So in other words, he's an overly melodramatic diva?
Anyway, on a more serious note... He sounds fantastic! I anticipate a deep and tragic past?

@Cat

Yes, exactly, only he's sorta the antagonist in his own past: it wasn't something anyone else did that's tragic, it's what HE did that can't be escaped. Guilt is more powerful than grief.

But I don't know... it'll make sense when you read it.

I'm debating on whether my Corvi should be a fickle and quietly intellectual creature, or literal birdbrain who would follow you to the end of the Earth if you had so much as a scrap of food.

@Cat

I think we already have a resident "birdbrain who would follow you to the end of the Earth if you had so much as a scrap of food." @SanaChan's Sybil Nightwind acts like that towards her companion: super loyal, afraid to disappoint, kind of innocent, etc.

I don't believe we have any fickle intellectuals, though.
Well, Sybil's companion Daewyn is an intellectual but I didn't get the "flip-flop genius" feel off of him.

Torn Realms (High-Fantasy) (Mid-High Casual) [ALWAYS OPEN]

@Jeyma I couldn't resist creating a Corvi.
Now I'm interested to see what your character is going to be like!

@Cat

Bitter, guilt-ridden, kinda gross. Asshole through and through.

He's not evil or an antagonist: he's just a plain, old-fashioned drama queen. Every RP needs one.

Torn Realms (High-Fantasy) (Mid-High Casual) [ALWAYS OPEN]

@Cat
So glad we have a Corvi. My character might need a Corvi.

Torn Realms (High-Fantasy) (Mid-High Casual) [ALWAYS OPEN]

I had to update Alithe's appearance.



Now she's hot af.

@Emuxe

Hot af, and also more appropriate for a fantasy. The first one seemed too Victorian Gothic-y for me. Glad you changed it. <3

But daaaaamn, has she got some rockin' abs!