Tracyarmav

Animal Army

We can do the conversation in PMs and post a summary if you like... up to you really, I'm done for whatever. (can do a collab if you want)

Knighthood: Of Gods and Titans (season 2)

CS: Calder Dylan

Name: Calder Dylan

Rank: Knight Captain

Alias/Nickname: Maelstrom, The Cauldron

Appearance:
He wears a pair crude leather shorts, that look like they might have been made from a blacksmith's apron, due the numerous pockets and general quality of the cloth. Standing at just under 8 ft tall, and weighing nearly 600 lbs, of scaled hide, thick bones, and hard muscle, he's no light weight and can take quite a punch.

Age: 576

Race: Troll

Personality: Usually an agreeable fellow, he tends to give what he gets, his attitude reflecting a tooth-for-tooth pattern with those around him. If he receives kindness, he returns it; if he receives cruelty he return that instead. He doesn't seem to harbor any driving emotions himself, preferring always to flow with the tide of emotions around him. How ever his eyes bely his cunning, and he often seeks to achieve his goals as indirectly as possible, or at the least at someone else's request. This isn't laziness, but a lifetime of being manipulated into serving others often at great personal cost.

Biography/history: Born long ago, to a fae mother and a water elemental father, he was born out of contract not love, which some would say his mother couldn't feel if she were drowned in it. Calder knows better, but he also knows better than to correct the poor fools. Knowledge is power, no matter how insignificant it may seem at the time, so you never, ever give information or knowledge to someone else with out receiving something of kindred value. He has spent a lot of time, serving and giving of himself, so that he might receive knowledge and power of equal value to his services. He's been an enforcer, a guard, even a professional soldier, of sorts, for various fae lords and ladies. Few people know his heritage, few understand his beginnings, but Calder knows, and he isn't likely to share it. He is most comfortable fighting in melee, with mace and shield, bashing and pushing opponents into submission or oblivion as his orders dictated. He rarely makes a move himself, preferring to follow the lead of others. Partly so to absolve himself of blame, and partly to mask his true abilities and capabilities with arrogance and presumption of his commanding officers. Much of his pay was in the form of knowledge, knowledge of water and it's many forms and properties and knowledge of magic, mostly related to doing his job better. He has learned many things in his five and three quarters centuries of life. And his eyes show it, but if you let his manner deceive you, as many do, he's little more than a dangerous boy. Easily manipulated, and distracted, he seems to wander about from place to place, job to job, looking or nothing more than another good time of smashing beings someone is paying him to smash, for no other reason than that it pays the bills, apparently. Few pry any deeper, though one of the few who've tried is currently employed by the Stygian Blade Guild, and he's made a mistake, Calder is hunting in his own special, very patient way.

Calder seem's to be the embodiment, even the physical avatar, of the term passive-aggressive. He is well known in the fae circles for his work as a mid level enforcer for the fall court during his first three centuries of existence. He hasn't distinguished himself in any particular way, though he's never failed a job because he underestimated an opponent. The jobs he's failed were due to his having been poorly informed of the situation, or the unexpected involvement of third parties. Like all fae, his word is binding. He's never broken his word before, a mildly impressive feat at his age, and he's not about to throw that power away.

Reason for recruitment: Looking for friends again, it's been close to a century since he had any, but he remembers them and want to make new friends. At least, that's what he told the recruiter...

Strength of Will: Greater Will

Magic: Abjuration & Force.

God relations: He worships no God, instead he gives each their due, recognizing all but adhering to none.

Tech: {Boron nitride mace/Blasting rod(as per Harry's, boosts attack spells efficiency).}

{Magic shield, made of boron nitride with silver and iron embellishments. The shield itself is highly resistant to force magic, repelling it like magnets of like poles. It doesn't negate it, and strong enough blasts will still connect, but the little stuff, and a small part of the bigger stuff, will be repelled away from the shield face to hit something else. The shield is big enough that Calder won't get hit by any of the little stuff, but his allies might get hit instead. If he cares, a big if, he may try to repel the attack in a particular direction by angling the face of his shield, but that's no guarantee of the force reaction.}

{GreavesBoron nitrate plates, cold steel spikes. Enchanted to store kinetic energy as mana. Calder uses it to heal himself and allies after a fight.}

Possessions/items/property: Cargo shorts with extra dimensional pockets, delve at your own risk.

Skills: Calder Crush! A master of close quarters combat, he's learned most of what he knows on the job, not in some regulated arena, much less a peaceful dojo. His greatest skill is pattern recognition, in behavior, in thought, or in action, if a pattern exists he will find it, eventually. Natural regeneration, trolls don't die easy, never have never will, poisons are largely ineffective, wounds heal quickly, even up to full limb replacement, though that takes decades.

CS: Skanda Kulkarni

Name: Skanda Kulkarni

Alias/Nickname: Dark Ember

Appearance:

Age: 1322

Race: Hellknight

Personality: Imposing and grasping at the same time. Simply standing in his presence is enough to convince most that anything he wants is his, it's just easier that way. And this way you don't have to hear his hideous laughter as he delights in your suffering. He is utterly ruthless, willing to pay any cost to achieve his goals. Nothing stands before him long on or off the field of battle, but his pleasure is on the field of slaughter, the sounds of agony caressing his ears and often prompting his own hideous laughter. Mercy, Grace, Honor, and Tact are all dead to him, the servant of his God's hellish desires.

Biography/history: To few have survived long enough to piece together anything more than rumors of horror in regards to this creature. Though how much is true and how much is embellishment is anyone's guess. Despite this, his brutality and cruelty are considered unmatched by most who survive his passing.

Reason for recruitment: N/A

Strength of Will: Greater Will

Magic: Highly proficient in Earth and Illusion magic, Master of Necromancy, due largely to patron deity.

God relations: Cleric of the Blackened Flame.

Tech: Stygian armor and weapons. Armour enchanted to collect the souls of those slain nearby for his later use.

Possessions/items/property: Everything you once held dear.

Skills: Highly skilled with most melee weapons, though he favors pole-arms and massive two handed affairs, he can just as skillfully wield a short sword and tower shield should he desire to do so.

Misc: Dastardly fellow, he puts the laughter in slaughter.

Fates of Fighters

@Chicogal Well I'm glad we could co-ordinate our hiatuses to happen at the same time, :) Your up again.

Fates of Fighters

Sigurd blinked again, as she tapped his cheek, rousing him. But it was difficult to focus on her words through the fog enveloping his mind. They sounded as if they came from so far away. She wanted him to stay awake? And her name was... Amelie? Sigurd fought to get his thoughts in order and respond, but it seemed futile. Nothing changed, and he muttered a response, not realizing he spoke aloud.

"What's the use? I'll be dead soon any way..."

He stared at his broken leg, knowing he'd never get to fly again. It was almost enough to make him wish he was dead. The joy of the skies would no longer be his as it once was; from now on it would only be a haunting memory. What was the point of going forward if tomorrow would always be clouded by what he'd never have again. Every day he'd look up and the air he used to fly through, but would never get to fly in again. Besides, if his leg didn't kill him, the French soldiers would. Sigurd couldn't see anyway out of his current position, even with the young woman's help, it would only be a matter of time before someone found him and killed him. But she wanted his name... and had given him hers. He reached up and pulled his name from his uniform, printed in blocky letters, "Fähnrich Sigurd" though it was soiled so badly it would likely be hard to make out. He tried to get his words together again... and failed to produce anything worth saying. At last he decided to say what he could and blame shock if should prove to offensive.

"You have very lovely eyes frau Amelie."

Sigurd stumbled over her name, and it wasn't quite right, though it was vaguely discernible through the thick German accent. Yep this was getting blamed on shock, what his mother would say if she were here. That brought the ghost of a smile to his face before he realized that he'd likely never see his mother again, and he turned his face to the wall to hide the tears threatening to spill from his eyes. He felt terrible, he wanted rest, why couldn't he rest? Amelie said not to, but would it really be so bad? Blinking rapidly to chase away the last of the water, he looked back to Amelie weary and wondering when he could rest. What came next anyway?

Side Quest - Sword Art Online

@DestinyStar I understand, just finished that routine myself, I think... I hope I'm done anyway. My point being to take your time and get well soon! Till then, take it as easy as you can. I can wait, even if the old geezers can't.

Fates of Fighters

@Chicogal tag... Sorry for the delay, it's.... nvm, I'm back now, hopefully for a good while.

Fates of Fighters

Sigurd blinked in mild surprise, noticing the beauty before him for the first time. He felt color rise in his cheeks as his clumsy, stiff hand brushed hers as he accepted the water and drank it greedily, choking on the last of it. The coughing didn't help anything, but he was mostly able to keep the pain of his wounds at bay. He set the empty flask down, and wolfed the food down. It was not the hearty breakfast he was used to, but he understood she wasn't exactly in a position to make him a feast without others noticing. Taking stock of what he had, and didn't have physically, now that his brain had some nourishment to work with. His pistol was gone, that would raise questions if found by the wrong people, but it was probably to late to retrieve it now. Not that he could have done so in his state. He belatedly realized his rudeness and scrambled to find the right phrase, the pilots had all been required to learn several simple phrases in French, just in case they were shot down, but Sigurd had been a poor student, like most of his peers, being shot down was thing old men talked about, it never happened to the Fuer's brightest young new aces in the making. Yet it had happened... and now he could not remember the phrase he needed. In frustration, he slapped his leg, an old habit that he immediately regretted.

He clenched his teeth, grinding them, and sucked air through them and then shoving it back out with a low groan, his eyes squeezed shut against the fresh wave of agony. He almost repeated the gesture, in his compounded frustration, but he just managed to catch himself in time. Letting out another hissing breath, he finally remembered the phrase, and spat it out rather roughly in a heavy german accent.

"Merci Madame!"

Immediately regretting his harsh tone, and how poorly he handled the foreign tongue, he shook his head and calmed himself with no small amount of effort, before uttering the same phrase more softly, and with a hint of gratitude peeking through the pain. Though this time it remained in german.

"Danke Frau..."

He looked back at the woman who had taken such good care of him despite the war, and having every reason to hate him. Didn't she understand they were enemies? Why hadn't she killed him already, or turned him over to the authorities? Surely they'd reward her handsomely for a german pilot, even one as injured as he was. Was she a german sympathizer? If so where was his pistol? None of it made sense... Weariness and pain washed through him again, and he winced as he shifted slightly, trying to relieve pressure on his leg, before drifting towards unconsciousness again.

Knighthood- Closed

Two of the characters in the RP. Big time BA's the both of them, in their own ways. They sort of run the guild/merc group everyone is in.

Animal Army

Post is up, sorry it took so long everyone. :(

Animal Army

Isa : Anisim Misolav

Isa thanked the officers for their time and wished them an uneventful day. He moved on towards the club itself, he wondered how he'd take this one. Best check for other points of access, just in case. He moved to a nearby building, and found an alley with a fire escape. climbing the fire escape, which was in surprisingly good shape. He went all the way up to the roof, and looked around, enjoying the view, and the distinctly less crowded and quieter area. It looked like the club had a roof access, but it looked like it locked from the inside. Still, Isa didn't really need to get in, just to see his target come and go. Isa wanted stay where he was, but an old woman came up to hang her laundry and chased him off the roof with a raucous noise. He ambled down the street, wondering how he could get this situation to tilt in his favor even a little bit. He considered seeking part time employment with the club owner... or less scrupulous crowds. Isa decided to have a chat with the owner if he could, though he doubted the man would have time for him. He took the alley to the club's business entrance and asked to speak with the owner or manager if they had time in their schedule for him.

@KatherinWinter