Voltus_Ventus

Pitch of the Night

@Notorious Guy I suppose you just gotta plonk down a CS for review and see what's happens! :)

Pitch of the Night

@NuttsnBolts Ayyyy, thank you very much, Nutts!

Pitch of the Night

_{Name: Dave Davies}

_{Age: 32}

_{Gender: Male}

_{Profession:"I sell computers."}

◈ ◈ ◈ ◈ ◈

_{P H Y S I C A L A P P E A R A N C E}

Davey is a tall, barrel-chested man, perhaps not what one might think of when they imagine a computer salesman. He lumbers around quite literally, in a slow, deliberate, long strided manner, always transporting a case of pamphlets and brochures of his available merchandise. He wears a face of earnest, innocence, usually looking as if something somewhat concerning is on his mind, his voice and his posture reflect this in turn.

Davies is never caught out in the cold, always wearing something warm, ranging from sweaters to large winter jackets, and never anything but a shirt and tie underneath. Though he keeps his hair tidy, he isn't as keen when it comes to grooming his beard, keeping it trimmed but not necessarily tidy.

_{I N H E R I T E D C U R S E}

Morbid Dreams

_{C H A R A C T E R T R A I T S}

» Well-Rested: Every night Dave is visited by dreams of his death in sharp detail, the thing is, they're not just dreams. They are precise predictions, telling him how he will die the next day. As a result, like wanting to get home to catch your favourite show, he takes steps to not be caught awake after midnight even if it means having to sleep in his car. Because his dreams don't have reruns, and if he can't have them, he can't prepare.
» Just In Case: Dave is never seen without his case, a leather affair something similar to what doctors-on-call might have used back when that was popular. Quick to open and innocuous, it's filled with his sales materials, along with whatever else he may need to survive the day. But tucked at the bottom is a small, .22 pistol, as a travelling salesman life is fraught with danger, coupled with his dreams, they necessitate packing heat.
» Moment's Notice: However, his dreams do have their benefits, they also reveal to him the minutes leading up to and proceeding his death, which functions as a small glimpse into the future. Sometimes it means he has to wake up earlier or later, or pack more bullets than he usually does, but it has resulted in gains as well, as seeing the future usually does.

_{D A R K H U N G E R S ( P E R S O N A L C H A L L E N G E S )}

» Lost in Thought: At various times of day, under various circumstances, Davies isn't always quite there. He stares off into space, eyes expressing the whirring of the cogs in his mind as he plans around that day's possible death. Dave understands that he lives on a knife's edge, and that he needs to plan carefully, because he only has one shot at getting it right.
» Collateral Damage: Sometimes the sites of fate aren't so accurate, and whatever it may have to through at him might hit the world around his as well. Car crashes, gas leaks, liquor store robberies, stray bullets and stray animals. If he doesn't disarm the situation others might be hurt, or by surviving, others might not. This has to lead him to live a life of imposed solitude, and to be ever vigilant. Culminating in a few moments of erratic behaviour and paranoia, only to lapse once the danger is past.

_{A S P I R A T I O N S / P E R S O N A L M O T I V A T I O N S}

He hopes that one day fate will decide to leave him be, understanding that it cannot best this mortal. Or perhaps to come face-to-face with the power that sends death his way and makes it stop. Ultimately though, he dreams of being an average Joe, remarkable in the little ways, and of course to outlive the curse right on his heels.

Pitch of the Night

To whom it may concern,

Submitted for your approval: (1) character sheet, of decent quality, and readily altered. Sent by (1) Voltus_Ventus.

Dave Davies

_{Name: Dave Davies}

_{Age: 32}

_{Gender: Male}

_{Profession:"I sell computers."}

◈ ◈ ◈ ◈ ◈

_{P H Y S I C A L A P P E A R A N C E}

Davey is a tall, barrel-chested man, perhaps not what one might think of when they imagine a computer salesman. He lumbers around quite literally, in a slow, deliberate, long strided manner, always transporting a case of pamphlets and brochures of his available merchandise. He wears a face of earnest, innocence, usually looking as if something somewhat concerning is on his mind, his voice and his posture reflect this in turn.

Davies is never caught out in the cold, always wearing something warm, ranging from sweaters to large winter jackets, and never anything but a shirt and tie underneath. Though he keeps his hair tidy, he isn't as keen when it comes to grooming his beard, keeping it trimmed but not necessarily tidy.

_{I N H E R I T E D C U R S E}

Morbid Dreams

_{C H A R A C T E R T R A I T S}

» Well-Rested: Every night Dave is visited by dreams of his death in sharp detail, the thing is, they're not just dreams. They are precise predictions, telling him how he will die the next day. As a result, like wanting to get home to catch your favourite show, he takes steps to not be caught awake after midnight even if it means having to sleep in his car. Because his dreams don't have reruns, and if he can't have them, he can't prepare.
» Just In Case: Dave is never seen without his case, a leather affair something similar to what doctors-on-call might have used back when that was popular. Quick to open and innocuous, it's filled with his sales materials, along with whatever else he may need to survive the day. But tucked at the bottom is a small, .22 pistol, as a travelling salesman life is fraught with danger, coupled with his dreams, they necessitate packing heat.
» Moment's Notice: However, his dreams do have their benefits, they also reveal to him the minutes leading up to and proceeding his death, which functions as a small glimpse into the future. Sometimes it means he has to wake up earlier or later, or pack more bullets than he usually does, but it has resulted in gains as well, as seeing the future usually does.

_{D A R K H U N G E R S ( P E R S O N A L C H A L L E N G E S )}

» Lost in Thought: At various times of day, under various circumstances, Davies isn't always quite there. He stares off into space, eyes expressing the whirring of the cogs in his mind as he plans around that day's possible death. Dave understands that he lives on a knife's edge, and that he needs to plan carefully, because he only has one shot at getting it right.
» Collateral Damage: Sometimes the sites of fate aren't so accurate, and whatever it may have to through at him might hit the world around his as well. Car crashes, gas leaks, liquor store robberies, stray bullets and stray animals. If he doesn't disarm the situation others might be hurt, or by surviving, others might not. This has to lead him to live a life of imposed solitude, and to be ever vigilant. Culminating in a few moments of erratic behaviour and paranoia, only to lapse once the danger is past.

_{A S P I R A T I O N S / P E R S O N A L M O T I V A T I O N S}

He hopes that one day fate will decide to leave him be, understanding that it cannot best this mortal. Or perhaps to come face-to-face with the power that sends death his way and makes it stop. Ultimately though, he dreams of being an average Joe, remarkable in the little ways, and of course to outlive the curse right on his heels.

_{**Delivered By: Royal Mail PLC, London, England**}

Age of Glory - a Pseudo-Earth, 1800s NRP

Hey I claimed the Belearic Islands already lol, only said it twice.

@Bluetommy

Apologies, I'll fix it!

Age of Glory - a Pseudo-Earth, 1800s NRP

My tentative claim in the aquamarine, for Y’etat Pricipae ac Vercor (The Princely State of Vercor)

Age of Glory

goo.gl/images/DLP4uW

This map is always a good one, good old Kerbin.

The Skies of Elysia: Airships, Aliens, and Adventure (Closed)

...The Massen Company, or in full: "Rekyl-Gevayr-Skindikat af Hynwuld Massen og Sonner", is considered by military scholars to be one of the oldest weapon's manufactories in Outer Elysia, if not the oldest. Additionally, Massen forms one of the principal members of "The Guild of Barrel Makers and Lock Filers", a Cartel that controls the vast majority of the ballistic firearms market in Elysia. The company was founded as an arms repair and refurbishing shop on the crossroads between Sigasmaranda and the Core Worlds, but as more settlers began to migrate to the Outer Systems, the company reinvented itself as a quality arms producer in an attempt to gain a slice of the market before the larger corporations arrived. With the advent of rapid colonisation, however, so came the proliferation of cheap, crude and more often than not, unsafe weapons, as a result, Massen and various other enterprises formed the previously mentioned guild. The Guild of Barrel Makers and Lock Filers was created to protect legitimate firearms concerns from the influx of cheap weapons, and with the approval of many state actors, weapons that bore their proof (and only weapons that bore these proof marks) could legally be sold in the Guild's jurisdiction. In recent decades the influence of the Guild has been waining, with the advent of more powerful and easier to produce energy weapons, the traditional arms manufacturers are on the backfoot. With the exception of Rekyl-Gevayr-Skindikat af Hynwuld Massen og Sonner, which still maintains primacy in the Sigasmarandi arms market...

"Fuck this thing is heavy," Mira puffed, heaving her end of the tangled mass of tubes and solenoids. Midshipman Mirrandra Snevlicks wasn't used to danger of this calibre, she had joined Cerberus Gate as part of the security attaché, and that meant the most action she saw was tasering drunk sailors when they got too close for comfort. Maybe that was why the sent her to retrieve the cooling coil, she was expendable. Flas lifted his end with far less effort, one hand gripping on to his end of a frozen over pipe, as he scanned around with his machine gun at a low ready. "When I said find us a cooling coil I didn't mean this jury-rigged anvil.

"Your whining isn't making it lighter kid, just fucking move it." Flas' eyes roamed around the darkness of the factory for a few moments before turning around, the pair headed towards the gaping hole that they had blown in the back of the factory, where their utility buggy awaited them. As their feet shuffled noisily through the debris from the blast, a high pitched sound hissed in the background, growing sharper as they approached their makeshift exit. The hiss was shattered by a deafening screech, as they flew forwards the cooling coil simply fell to the ground by virtue of its mass. Flas rolled, came to a halt on his knees with his gun shouldered in the direction of the forceful blast. In the reticle of his sight, clouded by the billow of dust from the stirring shove, a darker figure was etched out against the darkness of the factory interior.

Jornwuld levelled her Pyroclasts at the Ziharin, silver front sites gleaming where his small head 'ought to have been.

"'Right, Clunch. Drop the piece or ee'll 'ave yer gizzies for supper, follow?" Flas was struck dumb by what his translator was feeding his ear, truly whatever the brigand was speaking it must have been the most colloquial language in Elysia. He pulled the trigger on his gun but was met by a faster response from Jornwuld, before he could depress the second stage of the seer his gun exploded in a shower of sparks and cartwheeled out of his hand. "Aye, ye reck'n'd ye could tug me lids o'er me eyes? I'll 'ave yer skivvies we'hen ee'm done with ya, tha's fer cert'n!" She racked the finger leaver of her pistol and crouched down by the hulk of metal that was the cooling coil, resting the pommel of her other pistol on it. "Now, wha's te idea'er with pinchin' tha' codger's doodah?"

As the sentence left her countryside lips, the Midshipman stirred from her trauma-induced slumber. Watching through blurred vision and hearing through ringing ears as Flas broke down the situation to the armed blackguard. Mira reached for her service revolver, the one she had not touched since her training with it, which was buried under months tasers and truncheons. Flipping the latch, she reached into her holster with dazed fingers, before a posh voice rang out in the din.

"And what have we here? Your dithering compatriot has awoken from her lullaby slumber? I'm afraid you won't be needing that, my dear." Jornwuld spoke, gesturing with the muzzle of her other pistol for Mira to discard her gun, "[color=696969]In the dust, that's a good girl." Mira scowled at the clad figure and did as was told, tossing her pistol and watching it skitter away under a pile of loose rubble. "Now that we are all chummy, and the situation is crystal clear, I purpose a solution to our mutual catastrophes." Jorn turned her attention to Flas, and smirked under her wraps, "Ee'll bring ye the fellah oo dun fiddl'd this contraption inta being, and ye'll tell me wha's te way to yer floaty, follow?"

Flas considered it, as haphazard and junky the coil was, it would probably take him and the mechanics onboard the Cerberus Gate time to decipher the pipes and wire. Time they precious, little had. Perhaps siding with the Rogue would do them some good, and if he didn't come through, they probably head enough flak-shells to hold out for a bit.

"Tell me your name and I'll tell you where the ship is." Flas said as he rose from the dust, met by mimicked motions from Jornwuld, guns still held at the ready.

"Barbell, Tamzerwuld, at yer service."

"Northwest for about ten metric miles, you'll see it waving the tricolour."

_______________________________________________________________

"Fuck!" Jornwuld retreated her head around the corner of a sandstone hovel, clutching at a smouldering wound on her arm and hissing with frustration. She had battled through the winding alleys of the desert metropolis for what had felt like hours, but what must have been only minutes. Flas had described the invaders in a way that had made her quietly confident, and despite their crude tactics, their potent weapons and greater numbers were proving a challenge. She fingered the lever of her pistol forward a sliver, seeing if she had a round chambered before she progressed, in Jorn's mind she counted the shots she had fired and guessed that there were likely three rounds left in the tube. The unspent one in the chamber making it four before she would have to reload.

Jornwuld brought her hand away from the burn and wiped the miasmic tar off on her trousers, leaving a black, hand shaped smear.

In a fury of fluttering blackness, the exile launched herself out from around the corner, nearly catching a chestful of plasma. Slipping on loose gravel and sand, Jorn slid forwards, crossing the street at a diagonal as the Reaver charged up its next shot. She arrived at the wall of the cramped alley at speed, and let the speed carry her up it, until friction couldn't support her any longer. She launched herself off of the wall in the direction of the assailant, hand curled up into a fist and arm extended towards the creature's dome-like face. The punch connected and hairline cracks spider-webbed out across the bulbous, glass surface. Just as the Reaver began to recoil, Jorn opened her mouth and let out a piercing shriek, had she been back home it would have probably torn the creature to tatters. But there, on that curseless desert planet, where the sun drove off most Vapour, the scream served to send the creature piling into the ground under its own weight.

The opposing force of her Wuld sent Jorn carting backwards, head over heels in an elaborate, wheeling arc. She landed on one knee, sliding back against the gravel and her own residual momentum before an outstretched foot stopped her against the wall. The Reaver stirred, steam hissing out of the glass bowl that covered its face.

An echo of a gunshot rang out from the alley, followed promptly by a dashing, dark figure. Jornwuld rolled under a market stall and vaulted over another, heading for the open maw of the squat ship that stood in the middle of town. Around her, a battle raged for control of the city centre, Reavers and Terersgis firing at each other in large volumes. Sprinting towards the clearing between the market and the airship, the huntress scooped up a loose metal panel and used it for cover as she traversed the space. Gripping on to it, she grit her teeth as bolts of plasma slammed into the plate, shunting her into a stumble. She discarded the searing metal panel and careened into the monumental airship, followed hotly at the heel by bolts of plasma, leaving behind clumps of molten glass.

Jornwuld was met by the bristling muzzles of Seeg rifles, pointy, glinting bayonets hovering just in front of her face.

"I'm looking for Jeet."

Jeet screeched loudly, jostled about as Jorn bolted and vaulted across the crossfire outside the ship, accompanies by the screeching of the other Seeg, who were willing to abandon the holy ship to save their own skins. They clung on to Jorwuld's clothing as she barrelled into an alley and down its length, navigating towards the outskirts of the city using intuition and a little luck. Breaking into the sunlight, she was faced by the bone-dry wastes ahead of her, and with her suit leaking at an alarming rate she was sure she wouldn't make the treck to Cerberus. Standing there in the sand, Jorwuld cupped her hands around where her mouth was under her scarf, and chirped loudly. It was quiet, apart from the muffled sounds of battle in Terersg and the panting of the Seeg on her back. Her eyes scanned around flightily, squinting into the sky despite the relief from the vaporous veil about her eyes.

From the alley that she had just emerged from, the sound of a pair of heavy footfalls rattled towards them, most likely alerted by the sound of her high-pitched cries. She passed an empty pistol to one of the creatures that clung to her back and drew her other one, three shots remaining in it.

"Load it, and be quick about it," Jorn commanded, to the quick response of the Seeg, passing around bullets from her belt and loading the gun behind her back. She extended her weapon forwards and stood sidelong, aiming down the length of her arm at the alley where the reavers would no doubt emerge. As the first one came around a corner and into view, a massive, dark shadow sailed across the ground and then promptly disappeared into her periphery. A few moments later, after she had fired a round into the beast, sending it back around the corner, the shadow returned crossing her field of view.

Before she could take the next shot, as a reaver came around the corner, followed quickly by the other, the dark mass descended and landed its talon ended wings on the houses that flanked the alley. Thrusting its head downwards, and crunched against the chitinous exterior of the Reaver, thrashing it about with shakes of its head before throwing the body against the now retreating alien. Flashes of green Plasma glowed from the next street over, but the winged creature traversed the rooftops and once again darted its head into the street. Rearing its head up, it took off with a mighty flap and tossed the Reaver into the air with a backwards flick of its neck, send it carting into the air and off some considerable distance.

"Top Man!" Jorn called as Tarkarus circled down to land. She panted as she rushed towards him, the Seeg dismounting her so as to climb aboard their latest mode of transportation. Chattering about it curiously as they climbed on to it, inspecting it and worried as to the lack of wires and pipes. Jorn scratched the mottled, matted fur of her mount rewardingly much to the amusement of the Seeg. After that she didn't spare a moment, mounting and sitting high on Tarkarus' neck, snatching her machine gun from the little gremlins before they could take it apart.

Tarkarus flapped and lifted off the ground, inducing a plume of dust beneath him before spiralling upwards and away in the direction his reins tugged him.

Now Jornwuld just had to find the crew of the Cerberus, and get everyone back there safely.

"What a treat..."

The Skies of Elysia: Airships, Aliens, and Adventure (Closed)

...The Old Marakhan Demigodaite was the Outbound Tykassian League's primary competitor for edgeward expansion. Ruled by a ruthless Exalt, Khan Hashkaband, they proliferated the edge of Elysia with vassal, slave states, in an aggressive push to claim the resources of the outer-systems. The Empires raced each other towards the unknown... And eventually, War. Khan Haskaband grew envious of the successful nature of the Tykassian League's Colonies, while his slave states dissolved into chaos and barbarism. Perceiving this is an imminent threat to his power, he ordered his armies and fleets to seize the League's colonial possessions, to the horror of his advisors, who pleaded him to rein in Marakhan's own wayward dominions. The War was short, and went badly for the Demigodaite, while the League maintained a professional army the invaders sent out waves of poorly armed conscripts. So was Hashkaband's hubris, thinking there was no force in Elysia that could overcome him. But as the war raged on, and The Outbound Tykassian League claimed victory after victory (see the battles for Sunndanke, Thrall's Sprawl and Tyko'Bata), more amoung their ranks became exalted through battle. This greatly accelerated the fall of the fall of the Demigodaite. The conflict culminated in the collapse of Hashkaband's Empire, though from found records and transcripts of interrogations of enemy officers, the tyrant fled into hiding months before his kingdom crumbled. With the close of The War, the newly Exalted of the Tykassian Army returned to their homes with a thirst for more than provincial life. The seeds were sewn for the next bloody chapter of The League's history, "The Civil War in The Core Realms" and "The Colonial Wars of Succession"...

Jornwuld Ritaynur

"Utinni... This is much a peculiar garment," Jeet said aloud, holding it up and inspecting it with childlike curiosity before nodding quickly, "Mmmm, good. We make the trade, Yes?" Jeet was the owner of a squat brick warehouse, situated several hundred cubits from the downed airship that dominated the centre of town. In his youth, he used to be part of a group of specialists that looked after the water collector and life support cooling systems, now he was the fourth largest purveyor of ice and ice related products in all of the city. His competitors being the other Weegee brothers. Jornwuld snorted, shaking her head.

It was by luck, or lack thereof, that Jornwuld had arrived on Terersg. It was meant to be a routine stop, to give Tarkarus time to recuperate from another stretch of hard riding. But life had never made anything routine for Sigasmarandi. Upon dismounting the giant bat and sinking her boots into the sand, Jorn realised the mistake she had just made, as the peldmaus flapped its wings and took off the oppressive heat began to sink in.

And every time she tried to call Tarkarus back to her from that moment on, was met by silence.

Jornwuld spent what felt like forty years wandering the desert, stopping in the day, taking cover in the shade of hills and caves and moving at night when the fridged temperature suited her best. It was during this melancholic cycle of walking and sleeping that her cooling suit began to fail, unable to keep up with the heat of the day and regular sips of coolant water Jorn took. The days dragged on and the suit did less and less to assuage the lacerating heat. It was during the fourth night of marching that the thought of dying turned from hypothetical to possible, as when she brought her cracked lips to the filling tube for a drink, she discovered that the suit was dry.

Had day come and her suit was empty she would have most certainly been buzzard-food by noon. But it seemed that fate would throw her bone, just this once.

In the hazy distance Jorn spotted the amber-white glow of electric illumination, and wordlessly shambled towards it at a hurried pace. It was a town, no, a city! Her first instinct was to find food, fill a belly that had been empty for four days prior, striking gold at a traveller's temple that offered free oil and bread for the wayward wanderer. The oil was of the hyper-corn variety, and the bread was stale and tasted of milled oat chaff, but as she wolfed it down in a secluded corner it was the most delicious thing in Elysia. When the sun came up, and the heat in the alley where she had made sleep became unbearable, she sought out a place where she could have her cooling rig repaired. And after almost causing a riot when she asked around for who the best "cooler-fixer-upper" was, found her way to Jeets.

From where she sat atop a massive block of ice, Jornwuld replied in backhanded fashion. "Sure, give me your liver and the suit is yours." The Seeg squinted, unsure whether the statement was a joke or a legitimate offer.

"Seeq has not a liver." As he spoke, a gaggle of his kind moved through the alley that the Ice Factory exited out to. Checking the ludicrously large timepiece that Jeet had hanging from his neck, he made a small noise of surprise, "Oh! Speech start soon! You stay, Barbell, Jeet come back after speech and fix liver suit!" From behind her face wraps, Jornwuld opened her mouth to protest, but was silenced by the continued babbling of the little creature as he toddled towards the door. "I come back one hour tops! You stay!" As he passed the threshold into the street, he called back behind him. "This not mean discount!" Jeet disappeared around the corner, absorbed into the stream of small, hairy rodents.

Jornwuld sighed in frustration.

"Perfect..."

The Skies of Elysia: Airships, Aliens, and Adventure (Closed)

Jornwuld Ritaynur

___Name:___

Jornwuld Ritaynur

___Age:___

1A (22 in base 10)

___Gender___

You'd be lucky to find out

___Race:___

Hominus Margo Sigasmarandum (Sigasmarandi Rim Dweller); colloquially: "Sig-Mar(s)"

___Racial Features:___

"Hominus Margo Sigasmarandum" is a species of Old Rim Human, found originally in an area of the southern hemisphere of the Elysian Mega-Cluster, in a region of low light reception from the inner worlds called Sigasmarand. As such the species has had to adapt to the effects of stellar darkness as a result of Cosmic Fog, evolving eyes capable of high degrees of low light vision and slight ability to detect heat signatures. And due to the colds of their extreme climate, the species has adapted an internal metabolic rate running at approximately double the median temperature of Human species originating from the more habitable Old Worlds (not only does this mean they need to eat far more, but it means that narcotics and alcohol have a weaker effect). However, as a closely derived successor species, they share almost complete genetic parity with the 'typical' human, though no offspring of the pair is known to have survived the third trimester of pregnancy. Notable physical differences that can be made from a cursory surface glance include: The inclusion of a sixth, fully functional finger on both hands (leading to maths being done primarily in base 12); noses that vary in length and pointiness, having a range of anywhere from two inches of extension past the nostrils to one foot, allowing for similar olfactory levels as 'typical' humans with the added thermosensory properties; similarly, longer ears are present across the species as a means of heat radiation and audiosensory increase. All this meaning, they've grown to have more reliance on their other senses, each adaptation allowing them better functionality in their homeworlds.

___Culture:___

The Sigasmarandis are scattered across a system of stellar debris of varying sizes, on the very edge of Elysia. They are the successors to an original group of colonists who settled the area long before the race had evolved/engineered its defining characteristics. Sometime during the collapse of the Outbound Tykassian League, the colonists took advantage of the situation and declared independence, not expecting the Senate Loyalists to retake control of the unruly Retainer States as soon as they had. After a succession of successful defensive battles, Sigasmarandi sovereignty was won, despite them having had to face off against a numerically and materially superior force. As such Sigasmarand earned a reputation for being the home of stalwart fighters, of excellent skill and unyielding nature, to an extent that the coming centuries saw the proliferation of mercenaries to far-flung systems.

However, as the loose confederacy invaded and defended against its neighbours, a deep resentment grew towards their cold isolated territory, away from the Elysian centre and on the edge of nothing. The cold forced them to bundle up, rarely ever showing skin (except in the presence of family, friends and loved ones), and eventually, this evolved into a culture of suspicion and mistrust; day to day meetings happenings happening from behind veils and masks and scarves; to an extent that parts of the body that did show despite the layers were painted or tattooed black. The almost sacred nature of identity plays into gender in some societies, from a young age, children get used to dressing androgynously, behaving androgynously, shaving all hair and doing everything in their power to appear sexless. Once hitting puberty, it is customary for females to bind their chests and men to tuck, or for both to wear padded clothing to obscure body shape (in more liberal families), and once voices start to break Sigasmarandis are often trained by their parents to speak in one tone and pitch. This voice, common to all of Sigasmaranda, is called Tonsloslillt and is used in day to day communication basically ensuring everyone sounds the same if not similar. The only time Tonsloslillt is not observed is when Wuld (which will be discussed later on) are being given, and only then.

Another result of being so close to the cosmic edge was the presence of a constant, corrupting fog, that manifested itself as grey, sooty mist, that made vision difficult to long distances. The Fog, however, has water like properties, in the sense that it exhibits systems of currents and tides; meaning there are times of more and less dense fog, and areas where the concentration and thus effects of the fog are more powerful. As well as this, the strength of the fog is also dependant on the distance from the cosmic void, with the Elysian center being completely devoid of its effects; despite this, the fog has inroads and tendrils in the dark places of Elysia and a weaker ambient fog permeates in most places farther from the center. The properties of the Cosmic Fog (though typically having minor manifestations in Sigasmarandi) have a powerful mutative effect on the flora and fauna of the outer system, spawning and melding beasts into increasingly more terrifying beasts. That being said, just as the fog has the capability to produce flesh-rending monsters, it has equal capacity to make creatures of little notability or even beings of awe-inspiring beauty.

Due to the ever-present gloomy darkness of the Cosmic Fog, song is the major form of art and follows a complex system of belief, identity and utility. In their culture, songs are called Wuld, and Wuld varies in style from planetoid to planetoid, with families having their own tones and rhythmic variations of the regional Wuld, and with everyone having a unique fingerprint to their own. Wuld are not typically lyrical (though some Wuld are worded), and vary from melodic tones to simple screaming, acting as an alternate form of communication that could cut through the fog and cloud mired terrain. Wuld are also deeply engrained in Sigasmarandi mythology; they are believed to be the borrowed voices of the Lost Good (positive spirits trapped in the cosmic fog), and as such lore dictates that Wuld outlive their Wuldors, so that they may make the journey back to their Lost Good.

With every death, families hold on to the Wuld of their loved ones by incorporating it into their own in some way. This is the reason as to why there is such a huge variation in Wuld, which can be heard on a daily basis, with brief Wuld being presented as greetings; longer ones being performed at weddings-births-and-funerals; and full ballads being passed between friends and loved ones in lieu of conversation, as an expression of affection.

Wuld forms such a core part of people's lives, that some Sigasmarandi believes that one dies when their Wuld leaves them, and not that the Wuld leaves them when they die. This has resulted in a tradition of yearly festivals, conducted when the tide of the Cosmic Fog is at its weakest, and culminating with ships setting off into the void - crewed by those who believe that if they can get permission from the Lost Good of their Wuld, that they will be able to hold on to their Wuld forever.

Wuld also has a more sinister side, various intonations, harmonies and incantations allowing the Wuldor to manipulate the properties of the cosmic fog and the beings corrupted by it. Aeyterwuldoree is the forbidden art of using those Wuld, though its basics are simply learned and sometimes practical (though usually useless and typically frowned upon for the connotations of using it). However, more advanced Aeyterwuldoree is considered a heinous crime, as its seen as cooperation with the cosmic fog, due to the process allowing mutations to happen more readily in the Wuldor's body. To an extent that people can be horribly disfigured/misshapen by its misuse, these individuals (Aeyterwuldor) are considered highly dangerous and traditionally have been hunted down and killed, or locked away and unstrung (the process of making someone mute), a punishment some consider worse than death.

___Appearance___

Jornwuld stands at four cubits tall and is rarely ever seen not dressed in their Hunter Garb. Rarer still are the people who have seen their face, or much of any skin really, with the exception of their nose which extends like the beak of a hummingbird a few inches passed their scarf. Floating in front of their face, between where the scarf ends and the brim of the hat begins, is a thin yet dense veil of shadowy mist, two small, luminous gold dots the only visible thing from the other side.

IF you want to know whats under all those clothes and cursed veils (Warning: Graphic Descriptions)

***Note, couldn't find a character with the desired nose length but you can use your imagination right?***

Though her face and neck are relatively unaffected, underneath all the clothes, Jornwuld is wrapped up tightly in stained, yellowed and blackened bandages. And underneath that still, is large splotches of cracked, blackened flesh, the dark, bone-deep crevasses slick with a tar-like puss that slowly drips, emitting the faintest smell of burnt matches. The painful effects of Aetyerwuldoree. She needs to change bandages and bathe on occasion, in an acrid, chemical, sickly sweet solution, rendering her "healthy" skin dry, flaky and hairless. Much of this equipment she stows in her Rucksack.

___Occupation/Concept___

Beast Hunter

___Training:___

• Aeyterwuldoree - At an Advanced Level
• Piloting Light Vehicles Through Treacherous Terrain - Single Occupant Speeders, Sloops and Small Frigates
• Small Arms Proficiency - Specialised in Manually Repeating Firearms
• Wuldoree - The Study of Wuld Heraldry and Mimicking
• Tracking - Using Environmental Ques to Find Animals, People or Vessels

___Powers:___

• Fymlercaal (summon familiar) - A Brief, pulsing chirp at an inhumanly high pitch similar to that of a congregation of many birds, followed by a ringing echo. This call summons Jornwuld's familiar and secondary transportation, a giant Peldmaus (bat) with a wingspan of twenty long paces, affectionately named Tarkarus. Though giant and intimidating, Tarkarus is still flesh and blood, meaning that if summoned in the heat of battle it can die and making the Wuld unusable for a period of time depending on the severity of the death.
• Mahenschrye (splitting cry) - A sharper, shriekier version of Fymlercaal, this Wuld rapidly concentrates ambient Cosmic Vapours in front of the Wulder, gouging out a trench ahead of devastation in a cone ahead of them, obliterating most things in their path. The distance and severity of the effect depending on the prevalence of Cosmic Fog/Vapours and the effort put into the Wuld.
• Demklverff (cast darkness) - Breathy, deep lulling followed by sultry whispers, growing in volume before reaching a crashing, loud crescendo. By drawing in the Cosmic Fog from the area surrounding the Wuldor and suddenly releasing it, the concentration can reach a level that can match the worst fog storms from Sigasmaranda, with the same flashes of lightning and roiling winds manifesting in the black cloud.

___Equipment:___

• A Pair of Heirloom Pyroclastic Repeating Pistol - These pistols were passed down from first born to first born, with a lineage of generations behind them. To say however that they are the same guns that came from the manufactory when they were first made wouldn't be correct, as over the decades parts have been replaced and calibres swapped. The only parts on both guns are the silver, front sight beads.
• Mother's Canary Dagger - This Knife, which is eighteen inches in length, was presented to Jornwuld's mother on her eighteenth birthday, It was shiny and new when she had first received it but over years of hard use it has weathered and tarnished but still retains a sharp edge. When made to leave, she gave it to Jornwuld as a parting gift.
• Rusty Grappling-hook Adapter For Pyroclastic - A simple, spring loaded, grappling hook. The stem can be slid down the barrel of one of the Pyroclasts and fired out into most surfaces, sheet metal, light body panels, rock faces, wood, etc. A memento from a mission that involved a lot of repelling canyons.
• Weathered Telling Stones - Are the equivalent of Data Loggers and PDAs in Sigasmaranda, smoothed down quartz pieces with runes scribed on them. Each one can perform a certain function, compass, audio recording and playing, data storage, image projection, communication, etc. They function by frequency oscillation of the quartz (and crafted substructures), the energy needed usually provided by a low drone from the user.
• Condensed Bottles of Cosmic Vapour - These bottles contained distilled Cosmic Vapour, condensed down into an oily liquid. Though the Cosmic Fog is a sooty black when uncontained, it shifts to a more harmless transparent solution when bottled up, in an effort to deceive people into opening the bottle. The farther away from the Void it is, the less viscous and more waterlike it becomes.
• Burlap Rucksack - Standard Issue of the Ritaynur Band, Jornwuld toated this pack from one end of Sigasmaranda to the other, each stain, scuff and mark tells a story of a time something memorable happened. Jornwuld uses it to carry ammo mostly, though it does contain other personal effects.
• Looted Water Cooled Undergarmants - Early in Jornwuld's travels, leaving an area remotely distant from the cosmic edge was dangerous, as they were at risk of dangerous overheating, as was the nature of the hot-blooded species. However coming across a beaten husk of a ship, covered in a strange flecked symbol, Jornwuld managed to scrounge a usable set of cooling apparatus.

___Airship:___

Tarkarus is a horrifying mutation of a Waldosian Peldmaus, giant and muscular, an apex predator in Sigasmaranda but somewhere in the middle compared to some of the things that Jornwuld had seen since leaving Sigasmaranda. Tarkarus has a wingspan of an impressive 44 cubits, in the upper band for what is usual of his species. Though he is capable of combat with brutal effectiveness against humans, at the end of the day Tarkarus is still mortal-ish, and sustaining enough injuries will kill him. Once dead, it will take Jornwuld time before she can re-summon him, leaving her without a ride or anywhere to deposit her backpack. Though not the fastest transportation in the sky, the creature is nimble and reliable, going off to feed when not being flown. Despite this, hard riding will mean Tarkarus will need longer to recuperate, and will be more sluggish if summoned and not fully rested. In the air, his talons and the combined shrieking of him and his rider are the primary weapons, however, if more firepower is necessary then Jornwuld shoulders Tarkarus' Saddle Gun, a Massaen MischeenenGevayr to provide longer ranged, hard-hitting shots.

___Motivation:___

Jornwuld left Sigasmaranda by force and so wishing to return must find a cure for the effects of Aeyterwuldore, that means wandering aimlessly around Elysia, being told by shamans and doctors alike that the afflictions caused by the void are uncurable. Jornwuld is losing hope, and finding a cure has fallen down the list of priorities, replaced by more immediate things like money and comfort. And a longer-term goal of finding a place where the Cosmic Fog has no influence.

___Personality:___

Jornwuld doesn't talk much, not because they want to avoid social interaction but simply by choice, not at all objecting a trip to the pub or in some instances the nightclub, just not talkative due to a speech impediment. Having been raised in a society with a major aim of deceiving each other, Jornwuld suffers from extreme trust issues, often being very sceptical of other people and their intentions. As well as this, they suffer from a deep identity problem, linked with their untrusting nature this makes them prone to lying, and appearing shiftier than they should be given the situation. Otherwise, they're a sociable person, good at making talk but not quite as good at talking sincerely. This causes them significant frustration and troubles, as they'd like to shed some of the mistrust of their culture. Despite this, they're making progress, recently sticking to just one fake name as opposed to many.

___Flaws:___

• Knisterlunge (crackling lungs) - A side effect of Aeyturwuldoree, resulting in a crackly voice and pain when breathing. Other than hacking up tarry mucus every morning, the pain is manageable, as Jornwuld has lived with it for a while.
• Lischtanghst (hyper light sensitivity) - Sigasmarandis are naturally equipped to handle the heat and the intensity of suns in general. The light that reaches the outer systems is cold and faint so they adapted as a race to that. Blistering occurs in hours with a temperate sun, minutes in a desert sun.
• Mutschayor (mutant) - Mutations, refer to appearance for more clarification.
• Heiligendemk (dark halo) - A dark mask of Cosmic Vapour that surrounds Jornwuld's head, concentrated around the exposed parts of the face. Making them a clear mark for any sort of witch hunter or magic ludite, as well as making vision difficult at random moments.

___Bio:___

Jornwuld was born on a farming rock, to farming parents, their mother, Jalaena, a runaway serf from the fiefdom of some Petty King, and their father, Hapferwuld, the son of one of the most powerful hunter clans in Outer Sigasmaranda, the Ritaynurs. The life of a Beast Hunter wasn't one Hapferwuld was willing to bare, so he gave it up and left his family in shame. Life in the little rock cluster was otherwise uneventful, Jornwuld spent most days as a child in the care of the Sisters at the Abbey, as most children did while their parents eeked out an existence on the bleak accretion cloud, learning to read and count and Wuld. At night Jorn would return to the commune to tend to the mushrooms and the Aurochs, while the parents kept their eyes trained on the skies. And life carried on like this, when Jornwuld was good enough at reading and arithmetic that she didn't stutter or hesitate, days spent at the abbey would be curbed to once a week, when high-tide came and everyone in the area would spend the day at the Abbey. Giving their Wuld together and taking aim from every window and arrow slit.

It was on one of those communal evenings, when the children were still too young to be expected to cover their faces, that Jornwuld saw someone die for the first time. A lullaby night, Wuld echoing softly in the din of the nave, tensions were low and guards were down. Then, sometime after midnight, the quiet was broken by a blood-curdling scream. The moment was unfolding mere cubits away from Jornwuld, a man (it could be discerned by the screaming) thrashed wildly, pinned up against a wall, something on the other side of the arrow slit pulling at him and making a ghastly noise. People jumped up, knives ready, there was no prying him away from the wall, they were going to have to separate him from his arm. The gaggle of people with drawn blades didn't get to the man. Fleshy, mucusy, tendrily tongues crowded through the arrowslit and wrapped around the man. He was pulled through the space, not much wider than the thickness of a fist, leaving a sickening crunch echoing behind him and the smeared remains of skin and flesh from where his body was smashed through the narrow gap.

From that day on, the parents would tell Jornwuld to follow instructions, or else she'd get pulled through an arrow slit too. The years went on, Jornwuld grew taller and stronger, but the fear from that day never went away.

Jornwuld was 17 when they came, a band of warriors clad in various pieces of rough armour, and toating enough weapons and rations to go for months without encountering a single stop to rest and resupply. They were hunters, travelling around and offering their services to those who needed larger beasts put down. However, this was not just any band of merry hunters. They were Ritaynurs, or at least a large proportion of them were, towering men and women with weapons carved with familiar runes. They came for Jornwuld's father, who had refused to join when he was a young man. One of their own had fallen in battle, and being a Ritaynur only another Ritaynur could take their place. Hapferwuld was vehemently against joining, arguing that he had a family and that he couldn't and wouldn't leave them. It was during this heated negotiation that it was suggested Jornwuld take up the mantle of her father. At first, Father denied them fervently, but reluctantly started to agree that it made sense, Jornwuld was old enough to fight and Hapferwuld had other, younger children to mind. Of course, Jornwuld was itching to see the world outside of her rock, but never thought it would be with a Band of Beast Hunters.

The next few years of Jornwuld's life would be under the tutelage of the Ritaynur Band, learning the art of combat and anatomy of beasts. Jorn showed aptitude for the trade, and quickly moved into studying the more perverse abominations that they might face in their travels, learning about the corrupting effects of Wuld misuse, and the subsequent mutations caused by it. However, instead of repulsion Jornwuld felt curiosity and began to experiment with the forbidden arts. At first, it was in the night, practising the Aeyterwuld that were common knowledge, shifting around dust, fraying the edges of shadows. Soon Jorn had graduated to putting out candles at the end of rooms, and making shadows disappear entirely, that's when the slightest tickle in her throat began to develop. It was in the thorn grove that what might have been termed more sinister Wuld were practised, this time with a larger focus on manipulating the fog, which in a way was easier. The fog called to those who tried to skirt around it, at least that was what Jornwuld was taught. The lessons seemed to hold true.

In combat, when sent out alone and sure that she was alone, Jornwuld would practice new Aeyterwuld on the pests that she was sent to deal with. It was simply knocking the little mutants around at first, before finally dispatching them with a pistol, but quickly Jorn grew bolder, doing the killing with the use of Wuld and making it look like it was the bullet that did the job afterwards. The damage was easy to cover up... Until one day it wasn't. Jorn was locked in a melee with what had once been a pet dog turned sour, out of bullets and resorting to swinging at it with a club. The dog dodged deftly, before digging its teeth into her side. As she opened her mouth to scream, she felt something seize at her throat, and the splitting shriek that came out of her was not her's. The dog was gone, disintegrated into tatters of flayed flesh and crunched up bones, a pile she couldn't possibly bring back as proof she killed the dog, lest they become suspicious of her abilities. Jornwuld instead buried the remains hastily and returned to camp, to stitches and a flogging for not completing an order.

That night she noticed a black mark beneath her diaphragm.

It was during a particularly fogless summer, when the sky was the lightest grey, just verging on a pale blue, that Jornwuld trusted someone enough to show what she was capable. Kaleb was a friend, or more aptly the person she'd sneak out to meet and be intimate with in the scrubs outside camp. One cool summer night, Jorn demonstrated a weak version of what was to become Demklverff with more practice, swirling her fingers in the dirt and trailing darkness around it as she gave her Wuld. That was her biggest mistake. The next day she was confronted by some of the trainers about what had happened, and it seemed for all she loved Kaleb, Kaleb didn't love her back enough to stay quiet. Kaleb got a pat on the back, Jornwuld, on the other hand, got a rigged trial and 2 days to leave Sigasmaranda, they weren't going to kill her, she proved she was innocent enough, but laws were laws and the least they could do was exile her.

Jornwuld returned home, for one last time, to bid her family farewell. She left as the tide rose, carrying with her a mother's disappointed gaze, and leaving behind whatever ability she had to trust another person.

___Extra Info:___
^{Dragon Blooded}
https://open.spotify.com/track/58UkAqR3wY9pQi2jbemnwF?si=VVkkrC8MSAGB5rE3eaKthA

Jornwuld's Theme