Name
Vaynce the Slayer; surname unknown.
Occupation
Companion/Mercenary
Race
Nord/Werewolf
Class
Slayer
One-handed/Two-handed, skill, grit, and strength.
His 'class' is basically using his hard-earned skill, strength, and athleticism to just eviscerate the opponent. His weapon depends on his mood for the week, but generally you can see him wielding a large two-handed axe, or two long, jagged, and razor sharp swords. His defense is his offense, and the enemy is generally gutted and decapitated before he even knows what happened.
Gender
Male
Age
28
Personality
Vaynce has lived on the edge for quite a while, and thusly, he is experienced in many matters. For one, he is a distant man. Not in an 'edgy, going through puberty' way, but he's just, in general, a man that has outlived all of his family and friends, and thusly, not interested in making anymore. If someone would walk up to him in a tavern, he'd give them an acknowledging nod or a grunt, depending on his mood, before returning to whatever he had been doing beforehand; when you meet him, don't expect him to bow down and tell you the tales of his past; his past isn't fun, and he'll probably punch you in the face if you ask. That brings the topic to another stance; he's not passive-aggressive, but enough bothering, and you're asking for a gutting. Vaynce is a distant, powerful man that prefers the term 'actions speak louder than words', so if you try to talk him into a frenzy, he'll ignore the pre-battle banter and just decapitate you where you stand. He isn't one for joking, even though he himself has a rather vulgar plethora of jokes from past friends, and will probably ignore you. He enjoys cleaning his weapons, taking care of troublesome bandits and scum across the land, and generally his nomadic, mercenary lifestyle. A tough, but solitary and rewarding living, that keeps his battle senses sharp, and his sword and axe arm sharper.
General Appearance
Being a Nord, Vaynce is already rather large, standing at 6'3 or so, with a ripped, muscular build that boasts extreme strength, agility, and stamina, what with his long legs and defined calves. His skin is rather calloused, although it still holds the pale effect that most Nords have from their time in the cold, where the sun doesn't shine as much as in Cyrodiil. His hair is thick and long as well, like most of his Nord brethren, being dark and tied back into a few war-braids where the long, thick locks doesn't just go backwards down his shoulder-blades. His body is littered with scars, both from war and from battles with Giants, wolves, Frost-bite spiders, trolls...the list goes on and on. The most noticeable ones are the scars that litters his upper torso, and a lightning-bolt-like scar that is a livid red, going from his left pectoral, all the way to his right hip bone. His clothing consists of armor he crafted himself - Thick, durable armor made of the bones of his different enemies - and he has fought possibly every beast out there, and wrapped with the scaly hide of frost trolls, along with Nordic-Carved boots. He doesn't wear a helmet, preferring to keep his long hair free - a wolfish trait. His armor leaves not a skin uncovered, other than his muscular arms - for more agility and strength with his swings.
Weapons
A walking weaponry, Vaynce has two swords that has since served their purpose; an ebony, razor-sharp blade that he found poking around a vampire's lair; blessed with Fire enchants, along with an Orcish sword, also blessed with Fire enchants; a reward for beating an Orismer war chief in fair battle. A Skyforge-steel, lightning-enchanted battle axe is strapped to his back, the weight absolutely not bothering him - a gift from the companions. On the pouches on his legs, he keeps a few other necessities, like lock-picks, throwing darts, the likes.
Bio
Ah...the Bio...something Vaynce hates to remember. Born to a wandering bandit group, life on the cold, harsh roads were not very...safe for a little Vaynce. His father was a harsh Nordic warrior, and so was his mother, and thusly, he had to cope to growing up young. Life back then wasn't as lawful as it is now. He learned how to wield a sword at the age of three, and how to swing a battle-axe at the age of six. At the age of seven he was running with the wolves after elk, and at the age of ten he was already pillaging caravans and small village encampments. When he was merely a wee lad - around the age of twelve, he was already known by some caravans as the 'Little Slayer'.
Of course, at that age he was no longer little. Already face-to-face with most eighteen year olds, and with the strength to toss a battle-axe and the speed to catch a dashing buck, no one messed with him. His parents were proud of the Slayer they created, and as if life was made to make them all animals, they abandoned Vaynce at the age of thirteen, so that he could learn and thrive on his own. He did. He continued to ambush and destroy caravans, using the Septims to buy him armor, food, water, and weaponry for more raiding. Life continued like this until the age of sixteen, where caravans were now wary of the teenager, and he had to settle for a more...fair and lawful trade. Mercenary work. He traveled the world, taking contracts from Jarls and shady business-men. Take out the Giant ravaging their crops? Easy enough. Chop off the hamstring, when they fall jump of their shoulder, and decapitation with the axe.
His prodigal skill in slaying began to be known, and more contracts flew in, almost becoming over-encumbering. Eventually he became stressed with the work, and whilst taking out an entire cave of trolls and spiders, he slipped up, and death was upon him - what seemed like nine trolls tearing apart his steel armor and slamming into his chest, his ribs...Death was close, until he heard it. A wolfish roar. A large, furry...thing came charging from the cave's entrance, and even as the trolls fled, it leapt after them with beast-like grace. A werewolf. It made quick work, and it changed back, becoming a nude woman in only her breeches. Vaynce was enamored, and that night, was a night of passion. When he awoken, the female had invited him back to her home - The Companions. They had heard of him, and he was welcomed with open arms, eventually moving up in ranks to become their new Harbinger, at the age of twenty. He became a Werewolf, but rejected the invitation for Harbinger, not wanting the ties it would bring him. Life continued on, and eventually, battle happened, people died.
It was his wife; the same one that saved his life two years ago. She had been attacked by Forsworn, and killed in cold blood. That night, he snapped, throwing away the condolences and ravaging the country side - unstoppable. He dashed into that place, and tore...shit...up. More then fifty deaths happened that night, the nighttime darkness and surprise allowing him to kill swaths of the bastards before they even knew a beast was upon them. Even as he changed back into his human form, he smoothly unsheathed his two blades and was upon them like a cyclone of snarls and roars, steel whistling as he decapitated, eviscerated, and dominated. This was the marking of his solitary life, and he never loved again, becoming a distant, powerful ally to the Companions; he no longer stayed there.
They were still loyal, and he to them, but he lived in the cold, unforgiving mountains of Skyrim, no one seeing his face in any towns, only if he went in for a resupply of necessities; smithing, cooking, alchemy - he did it all on the road. Mercenary life became his life for the next six years; he was like a mystery, appearing in different locations to take out threats that no one else had the gall to. Giants, dragons, bandit encampments, Forsworn, Vampires...they all fell to his blade. Life stayed the same for him. He never took sides in the plenty wars that happened, only cutting people down when they acted aggressive with him, or innocent folks. The Slayer remained, and still is, a staple in today's history, being a previous villain, to a rather intimidating and scary mercenary that enjoys his meat raw.
Other
Cheese is not complete without milk.
He has a pet wolf-bear; Yes, a wolf-bear. A bear bred with a wolf, creating a creature that has the large, bulky, and muscular body of a bear, but with a wolf's sharpness and head. It's called 'Fang'.
Ves
Member
d a n k
- Last Seen: 8 yrs ago
- Joined: 12 yrs ago
- Posts: 541 (0.12 / day)
- VMs: 0
-
Username history
- Ves 12 yrs ago
Status
User has no status, yet
Bio
Ayyy, I'm an 18 year old American teen getting ready for college. I like reading stories, gaming, and RPing. How are ya?
Most Recent Posts
Name
Vaynce the Slayer; surname unknown.
Occupation
Companion/Mercenary
Race
Nord/Werewolf
Class
Slayer
One-handed/Two-handed, skill, grit, and strength.
His 'class' is basically using his hard-earned skill, strength, and athleticism to just eviscerate the opponent. His weapon depends on his mood for the week, but generally you can see him wielding a large two-handed axe, or two long, jagged, and razor sharp swords. His defense is his offense, and the enemy is generally gutted and decapitated before he even knows what happened.
Gender
Male
Age
28
Personality
Vaynce has lived on the edge for quite a while, and thusly, he is experienced in many matters. For one, he is a distant man. Not in an 'edgy, going through puberty' way, but he's just, in general, a man that has outlived all of his family and friends, and thusly, not interested in making anymore. If someone would walk up to him in a tavern, he'd give them an acknowledging nod or a grunt, depending on his mood, before returning to whatever he had been doing beforehand; when you meet him, don't expect him to bow down and tell you the tales of his past; his past isn't fun, and he'll probably punch you in the face if you ask. That brings the topic to another stance; he's not passive-aggressive, but enough bothering, and you're asking for a gutting. Vaynce is a distant, powerful man that prefers the term 'actions speak louder than words', so if you try to talk him into a frenzy, he'll ignore the pre-battle banter and just decapitate you where you stand. He isn't one for joking, even though he himself has a rather vulgar plethora of jokes from past friends, and will probably ignore you. He enjoys cleaning his weapons, taking care of troublesome bandits and scum across the land, and generally his nomadic, mercenary lifestyle. A tough, but solitary and rewarding living, that keeps his battle senses sharp, and his sword and axe arm sharper.
General Appearance
Being a Nord, Vaynce is already rather large, standing at 6'3 or so, with a ripped, muscular build that boasts extreme strength, agility, and stamina, what with his long legs and defined calves. His skin is rather calloused, although it still holds the pale effect that most Nords have from their time in the cold, where the sun doesn't shine as much as in Cyrodiil. His hair is thick and long as well, like most of his Nord brethren, being dark and tied back into a few war-braids where the long, thick locks doesn't just go backwards down his shoulder-blades. His body is littered with scars, both from war and from battles with Giants, wolves, Frost-bite spiders, trolls...the list goes on and on. The most noticeable ones are the scars that litters his upper torso, and a lightning-bolt-like scar that is a livid red, going from his left pectoral, all the way to his right hip bone. His clothing consists of armor he crafted himself - Thick, durable armor made of the bones of his different enemies - and he has fought possibly every beast out there, and wrapped with the scaly hide of frost trolls, along with Nordic-Carved boots. He doesn't wear a helmet, preferring to keep his long hair free - a wolfish trait. His armor leaves not a skin uncovered, other than his muscular arms - for more agility and strength with his swings.
Weapons
A walking weaponry, Vaynce has two swords that has since served their purpose; an ebony, razor-sharp blade that he found poking around a vampire's lair; blessed with Fire enchants, along with an Orcish sword, also blessed with Fire enchants; a reward for beating an Orismer war chief in fair battle. A Skyforge-steel, lightning-enchanted battle axe is strapped to his back, the weight absolutely not bothering him - a gift from the companions. On the pouches on his legs, he keeps a few other necessities, like lock-picks, throwing darts, the likes.
Bio
Ah...the Bio...something Vaynce hates to remember. Born to a wandering bandit group, life on the cold, harsh roads were not very...safe for a little Vaynce. His father was a harsh Nordic warrior, and so was his mother, and thusly, he had to cope to growing up young. Life back then wasn't as lawful as it is now. He learned how to wield a sword at the age of three, and how to swing a battle-axe at the age of six. At the age of seven he was running with the wolves after elk, and at the age of ten he was already pillaging caravans and small village encampments. When he was merely a wee lad - around the age of twelve, he was already known by some caravans as the 'Little Slayer'.
Of course, at that age he was no longer little. Already face-to-face with most eighteen year olds, and with the strength to toss a battle-axe and the speed to catch a dashing buck, no one messed with him. His parents were proud of the Slayer they created, and as if life was made to make them all animals, they abandoned Vaynce at the age of thirteen, so that he could learn and thrive on his own. He did. He continued to ambush and destroy caravans, using the Septims to buy him armor, food, water, and weaponry for more raiding. Life continued like this until the age of sixteen, where caravans were now wary of the teenager, and he had to settle for a more...fair and lawful trade. Mercenary work. He traveled the world, taking contracts from Jarls and shady business-men. Take out the Giant ravaging their crops? Easy enough. Chop off the hamstring, when they fall jump of their shoulder, and decapitation with the axe.
His prodigal skill in slaying began to be known, and more contracts flew in, almost becoming over-encumbering. Eventually he became stressed with the work, and whilst taking out an entire cave of trolls and spiders, he slipped up, and death was upon him - what seemed like nine trolls tearing apart his steel armor and slamming into his chest, his ribs...Death was close, until he heard it. A wolfish roar. A large, furry...thing came charging from the cave's entrance, and even as the trolls fled, it leapt after them with beast-like grace. A werewolf. It made quick work, and it changed back, becoming a nude woman in only her breeches. Vaynce was enamored, and that night, was a night of passion. When he awoken, the female had invited him back to her home - The Companions. They had heard of him, and he was welcomed with open arms, eventually moving up in ranks to become their new Harbinger, at the age of twenty. He became a Werewolf, but rejected the invitation for Harbinger, not wanting the ties it would bring him. Life continued on, and eventually, battle happened, people died.
It was his wife; the same one that saved his life two years ago. She had been attacked by Forsworn, and killed in cold blood. That night, he snapped, throwing away the condolences and ravaging the country side - unstoppable. He dashed into that place, and tore...shit...up. More then fifty deaths happened that night, the nighttime darkness and surprise allowing him to kill swaths of the bastards before they even knew a beast was upon them. Even as he changed back into his human form, he smoothly unsheathed his two blades and was upon them like a cyclone of snarls and roars, steel whistling as he decapitated, eviscerated, and dominated. This was the marking of his solitary life, and he never loved again, becoming a distant, powerful ally to the Companions; he no longer stayed there.
They were still loyal, and he to them, but he lived in the cold, unforgiving mountains of Skyrim, no one seeing his face in any towns, only if he went in for a resupply of necessities; smithing, cooking, alchemy - he did it all on the road. Mercenary life became his life for the next six years; he was like a mystery, appearing in different locations to take out threats that no one else had the gall to. Giants, dragons, bandit encampments, Forsworn, Vampires...they all fell to his blade. Life stayed the same for him. He never took sides in the plenty wars that happened, only cutting people down when they acted aggressive with him, or innocent folks. The Slayer remained, and still is, a staple in today's history, being a previous villain, to a rather intimidating and scary mercenary that enjoys his meat raw.
Other
Cheese is not complete without milk.
He has a pet wolf-bear; Yes, a wolf-bear. A bear bred with a wolf, creating a creature that has the large, bulky, and muscular body of a bear, but with a wolf's sharpness and head. It's called 'Fang'.Making a long-time Companion/Werewolf; hope that's not a problemo? :o
I'm in.
The voice caused him to glance up. Jason rose an eyebrow, his hood thankfully hiding any rude facial expressions he could make. "Yeah," He began, glancing back down at the menu, which he had placed flat on the table. Getting something would hopefully hide any suspicion while he waited for the delivery. "Just a water." It wasn't that much money. With a shrug, he took out a few bucks and laid it on the table, while leaning back and giving the female a half-lidded smirk. Water wouldn't make him sleepy, sluggish, or anything - especially if he had to get in a fight, which happened quite a lot in these jobs. His hands fingered the hilt of his scarred switch-blade, located deep in the pocket of his leather jacket.
wot
Quick question; Do you want actual real images of real people, or something video-game-like, like the actual Dead island?
Reserving an immune.
A tall, anonymous figure stood only a distance away from the Church, having watched, but not actively participated in the proceedings that happened only a few dozen feet away from him. The figure was something that you wouldn't pay much attention to, and for good reason. He was tall, yes, but that's all that you could notice. His form was completely shrouded in an all-consuming black, blank cloak that fell to the dirt ground, complete with a tall, high black collar that hid everything up to the bridge of his nose. On top of this, a large straw hat rested meekly on his head, the complete outfit successfully making it so that not an inch of clothing, flesh, or skin could be seen on the man. Only glowing, completely bluish white eyes were evident to show that someone was even inside of the outfit. His sleeves were long and billowing, completely going past his fists. Over-all, a nonassuming figure that would blend in with the crowd. A useful disguise.
"'Mother'..." His voice was quiet, almost too quiet to be heard. It was young - lacking the grovelling, wavering voice of a middle-aged or older man -, yet it was deep and low, holding a smoky tone that would both pacify and caution anyone within earshot. "Foolishness." It wasn't that he didn't believe in her; it was just that...he blatantly didn't care. He didn't specifically ask to be created on this universe, so why would he praise a being that forcefully put him here without him having any prior knowledge to requesting such an act? It was all just complete foolishness. Without even moving his head from the Church, the figure spoke once more - this time to the similarly dressed female beside him. "...What is your thoughts, Adira?" There was honest curiosity in his apathetic tone.
I'm cool with that. He mostly only uses his lightning/electricity magic to paralyze things.
© 2007-2026