DP's Library.
Page 1 of 1
DP's Library.
by Deadpan Sat Jun 06, 2009 9:21 pm
Lets get down to it, first off with fantasy.
Bad guys rock.
Name: Tabansi Frey'Lif
Age: 827
Race: North Elf
Gender: Male
Height: 6'4"
Weight: 254 lbs
Description: Tabansi is an impressive figure to behold. He rarely steps out of his armor, as he is constantly at war, sowing death and destruction everywhere he and his cavalry trod. Although he is not a very high-ranking officer due to his explosiveness and inability to follow orders due to his inhuman bloodlust, he rides at the head of a a small unit that is known for their brutality and terror-inspiring appearance. Tabansi himself is a monster to behold - covered head to toe in jet-black iron armor, a lance in one hand and a bloodstained, ash-covered, steel sword at his hip, C'thulhu. Although his armor is frightening enough, the few that manage to glimpse Tabansi's true visage are yet more terrified. His face is disfigured by the scars of battle and a terrible affliction (to be explained in the history) that has left no trace of the once young and handsome man that he was. His hard, green eyes are ringed with orange around the pupil, giving hint to the terrible presence within him. His dark, grimy hair is kept in tufts held together in bands which spike their way in a line from front to back. When is is not wearing his armor, which again, is very rare, he wears a chain mail shirt, tunic, and a cloak with a large cowl under which he hides his deformed features.
Weapons and Equipment/Powers: Armor, a lance, and his sword, C'thulhu. His sword imbues him with an immense amount of physical power, allowing him to wear his heavy, nigh-on impenetrable armor, ride for hours on end without rest, and sustain injuries that would fell most men. But this power, as all powers must, comes with a terrible cost. He feels the pain of his strikes against his foes, and although he suffers no other damage, even a demonically tainted warrior of his prowess can only endure so much. Luckily, when the injured foe is killed, this pain fades. At first the pain enrages Tabansi, but eventually it wears on him. He has grown somewhat accustomed to it, but it still taxes his body. There is also his warhorse, Quietus, who is clad in armor that has properties similar to his master's sword.
C'thulhu
Lance
History and Personality: Tabansi was once a servile cavalryman of the Northern elvish armies. He was good, excellent in fact, and so he rose to the rank of Sergeant in the cavalry. When the demons began their invasion and defiling of the land, the elvish armies, of course, rushed to battle this threat. Tabansi went with them, and for five days they rode. When they reached the demonic armies, they realized that they were heavily outnumbered and could not defeat such a foe. Nonetheless, their commander ordered the charge. Tabansi's courage failed him, and he turned and fled as his comrades rode to their doom. Even as he rode away, his commander cursed him and his family to die terrible and horrid deaths. Tabansi returned home in shame to his family. As families do, though, they took him back in, and loved him still. Until they started falling sick, one by one.
No one else in their village fell to the illness, it was just Tabansi's family. First there would be a fever, followed by vomiting of food, then, in it's second week, deafness and blindness set on the victims. Then vomiting blood began, along with the appearance of black boils all over the body, especially on the face. It ended about 48 hours after the black boils appeared, in utter agony. As the villagers saw this happening, they too cursed the family's suffering as an ill omen, and exiled them to the wilderness to die. Tabansi, who was just beginning to feel the affects of the illness, after seeing his father, mother, older brother, sister-in-law, their children, and his own wife die, now wandered the wilderness with his younger brother, who was in the final stages, and his two sons, who had begun to lose their hearing and eyesight.
His brother died a week later, and his two sons began to vomit blood. It was then that he came upon the demonic army that he had fled from not a month earlier. As the soldiers close in around him, Tabansi killed both his sons, fearing for their fates at the hands of the monsters. He then went into a bloody rage, slaughtering countless minions has they attempted to take his sons corpses from him. Their commander, marveling at his ferocity, ordered he be taken alive. Eventually, the madman was caught in a net, and forced to return to the capital, where Morian was. The commander presented his prize to Morian, still caged, although it washardly necessary, since Tabansi was now entering the final stages of his disease, and could barely stand, let alone swing a weapon. Morian approached him and asked, "What do you seek in this world?"
Tabansi, consumed by hatred for his own kin, who had cast him out, the demonic presence before him, and everything else in this world, answered the demon with eyes that burned with the fury of a man who's only wish now was to kill, decimate, and obliterate.
"Its destruction."
Morian smiled, content. He took the sword that Tabansi had used to slay so many of his own soldiers, still slick with the blood of his allies, and placed upon it an incantation that would grant it's wielder immense power, along with a terrible curse. It also lifted the affects of Tabansi's own cursed flesh.
"As long as you keep to your creed, and stay in my service, this blade shall not betray you, and you shall be an unstoppable force," said Morian as he handed Tabansi the blade. Tabansi did not bow, or show any respect for his still hated enemy. He merely took the blade, and walked out of the city. He found his armor and his horse a few weeks later. He now rides from hovel to hovel, town to town, spreading death, destruction, terror, and chaos with his small force of like-minded cavalry. When Morian gives him a direct order, he heeds it, but very few commanders can control his unchanneled hatred. He has a fiery temper that is always close to igniting, and is known for brutality and mercilessness, although not cruelty. He does not wish to torture the world, only to end it.
Mmm. Next.
Bad guys rock.
Name: Tabansi Frey'Lif
Age: 827
Race: North Elf
Gender: Male
Height: 6'4"
Weight: 254 lbs
Description: Tabansi is an impressive figure to behold. He rarely steps out of his armor, as he is constantly at war, sowing death and destruction everywhere he and his cavalry trod. Although he is not a very high-ranking officer due to his explosiveness and inability to follow orders due to his inhuman bloodlust, he rides at the head of a a small unit that is known for their brutality and terror-inspiring appearance. Tabansi himself is a monster to behold - covered head to toe in jet-black iron armor, a lance in one hand and a bloodstained, ash-covered, steel sword at his hip, C'thulhu. Although his armor is frightening enough, the few that manage to glimpse Tabansi's true visage are yet more terrified. His face is disfigured by the scars of battle and a terrible affliction (to be explained in the history) that has left no trace of the once young and handsome man that he was. His hard, green eyes are ringed with orange around the pupil, giving hint to the terrible presence within him. His dark, grimy hair is kept in tufts held together in bands which spike their way in a line from front to back. When is is not wearing his armor, which again, is very rare, he wears a chain mail shirt, tunic, and a cloak with a large cowl under which he hides his deformed features.
Weapons and Equipment/Powers: Armor, a lance, and his sword, C'thulhu. His sword imbues him with an immense amount of physical power, allowing him to wear his heavy, nigh-on impenetrable armor, ride for hours on end without rest, and sustain injuries that would fell most men. But this power, as all powers must, comes with a terrible cost. He feels the pain of his strikes against his foes, and although he suffers no other damage, even a demonically tainted warrior of his prowess can only endure so much. Luckily, when the injured foe is killed, this pain fades. At first the pain enrages Tabansi, but eventually it wears on him. He has grown somewhat accustomed to it, but it still taxes his body. There is also his warhorse, Quietus, who is clad in armor that has properties similar to his master's sword.
C'thulhu
Lance
History and Personality: Tabansi was once a servile cavalryman of the Northern elvish armies. He was good, excellent in fact, and so he rose to the rank of Sergeant in the cavalry. When the demons began their invasion and defiling of the land, the elvish armies, of course, rushed to battle this threat. Tabansi went with them, and for five days they rode. When they reached the demonic armies, they realized that they were heavily outnumbered and could not defeat such a foe. Nonetheless, their commander ordered the charge. Tabansi's courage failed him, and he turned and fled as his comrades rode to their doom. Even as he rode away, his commander cursed him and his family to die terrible and horrid deaths. Tabansi returned home in shame to his family. As families do, though, they took him back in, and loved him still. Until they started falling sick, one by one.
No one else in their village fell to the illness, it was just Tabansi's family. First there would be a fever, followed by vomiting of food, then, in it's second week, deafness and blindness set on the victims. Then vomiting blood began, along with the appearance of black boils all over the body, especially on the face. It ended about 48 hours after the black boils appeared, in utter agony. As the villagers saw this happening, they too cursed the family's suffering as an ill omen, and exiled them to the wilderness to die. Tabansi, who was just beginning to feel the affects of the illness, after seeing his father, mother, older brother, sister-in-law, their children, and his own wife die, now wandered the wilderness with his younger brother, who was in the final stages, and his two sons, who had begun to lose their hearing and eyesight.
His brother died a week later, and his two sons began to vomit blood. It was then that he came upon the demonic army that he had fled from not a month earlier. As the soldiers close in around him, Tabansi killed both his sons, fearing for their fates at the hands of the monsters. He then went into a bloody rage, slaughtering countless minions has they attempted to take his sons corpses from him. Their commander, marveling at his ferocity, ordered he be taken alive. Eventually, the madman was caught in a net, and forced to return to the capital, where Morian was. The commander presented his prize to Morian, still caged, although it washardly necessary, since Tabansi was now entering the final stages of his disease, and could barely stand, let alone swing a weapon. Morian approached him and asked, "What do you seek in this world?"
Tabansi, consumed by hatred for his own kin, who had cast him out, the demonic presence before him, and everything else in this world, answered the demon with eyes that burned with the fury of a man who's only wish now was to kill, decimate, and obliterate.
"Its destruction."
Morian smiled, content. He took the sword that Tabansi had used to slay so many of his own soldiers, still slick with the blood of his allies, and placed upon it an incantation that would grant it's wielder immense power, along with a terrible curse. It also lifted the affects of Tabansi's own cursed flesh.
"As long as you keep to your creed, and stay in my service, this blade shall not betray you, and you shall be an unstoppable force," said Morian as he handed Tabansi the blade. Tabansi did not bow, or show any respect for his still hated enemy. He merely took the blade, and walked out of the city. He found his armor and his horse a few weeks later. He now rides from hovel to hovel, town to town, spreading death, destruction, terror, and chaos with his small force of like-minded cavalry. When Morian gives him a direct order, he heeds it, but very few commanders can control his unchanneled hatred. He has a fiery temper that is always close to igniting, and is known for brutality and mercilessness, although not cruelty. He does not wish to torture the world, only to end it.
Mmm. Next.
Deadpan- Mist
- Join date : 2009-06-06
Posts : 51
Age : 34
Location : Its a JOY to SEE you.
Re: DP's Library.
by Deadpan Sat Jun 06, 2009 9:24 pm
Scifi? Huzzah.
Name: Norman Kelevra
Age: 28
Appearance: 6'6", lanky with long arms and legs, doesn't look particularly strong. He's got green eyes, but near the pupil they fade to a brownish-red. Despite this, his eyes are jubilant and kind, and his style is jaunty and carefree. He's got a scruffy face. He breaks the usual military code of dress with a buzzcut that's dyed like a checker board. Has a tattoo of a red devil on his arm that's shivering [See Hell Freezes Over by the Eagles to get the actual picture]
Rank: Master Sergeant
Callsign: Patches
Specialty: Close-Combat, Counter-Intelligence, and Urban Warfare
Homeworld: Oranos, the first human-colonized planet.
History: Born and raised on Oranos, Norman was raised by the school of hard-knocks. Oranos is a fairly prosperous planet, but its slums are some of the worst in the galaxy. His father was shot dead for gambling debts by the mobsters who ruled his part of town, and his mother was killed by stumbling drunkenly into the way of a car, although some say it was a hit because she had ratted out the mobsters to the police. Despite these challenges, Norman's need to look after his baby brother and sister have carried him on ever since. When his sister turned 18, and his little brother was still 13, Norman joined the army, the only really viable career choice for a person in his socioeconomic position, and sends half his salary back to them every year. This allowed him to send his little sister to Community College, and gives his little brother a chance at a full four year college education.
When Norman entered the army, the officers immediately noticed something different in him than from other recruits. He never flinched, not when drill sergeants screamed in his face, not when a rifle went off at random, not ever. When his officers gave him the most impossible orders during drills, he didn't question them or ask if they were crazy, he just did as he was told, and even is he failed, he shrugged his soldiers and told his officers he couldn't do it. They punished him for failure of course, but it didn't change his attitude all that much. He was still carefree and unafraid. The training officers marked him down as somewhat unique, and sent him into active duty.
Then Norman's first real action came. He was nothing more than a simple footsoldier, and was deployed to the front line. The job of his outfit was to cover the retreat of the withdrawing force, and heavy casualties were expected. Eventually, Norman's platoon was almost surrounded. When Norman saw this, he jumped into action, yelling at his incompetent officer that he needed to retreat. The officer was in a state of shock, and so Norman led the platoon in retreat. Norman got the remains of his unit out of the situation, and he himself was point during the entire withdrawal. At this point, he was awarded the Golden Star for bravery and taken to special ops to be training in close combat and counter-intel.
(Sorry, I know it's a bit long, but I like detail in my characters.)
Personal equipment: Dogtags, a picture of his little brother and sister, a dictionary, which he uses religiously to spew out random vocab words (for giggles), and a pair of brass knuckles with spiked tips.
Weapon preference: Shotguns, fists, decent with a knife. Uses grenades (Which he can throw in excess of 75 yards) as his long range weapon.
Equipment:
Shotgun - 30 loaded, 60 extra.
Medium Armor w/ helmet
Grenades
-7 Frag
-3 Flashbang
-1 EMP
Medikit
Additional info: Despite his difficult past, Patches has a great sense of humor. He was chosen for close-combat training because of a condition he has called aderexia. This condition frees him from fear, worry, and general preoccupation. This is what allows him to be so carefree and jaunty, and gives him an aura of invincibility and fearlessness in battle that others tend to be drawn to.
Name: Norman Kelevra
Age: 28
Appearance: 6'6", lanky with long arms and legs, doesn't look particularly strong. He's got green eyes, but near the pupil they fade to a brownish-red. Despite this, his eyes are jubilant and kind, and his style is jaunty and carefree. He's got a scruffy face. He breaks the usual military code of dress with a buzzcut that's dyed like a checker board. Has a tattoo of a red devil on his arm that's shivering [See Hell Freezes Over by the Eagles to get the actual picture]
Rank: Master Sergeant
Callsign: Patches
Specialty: Close-Combat, Counter-Intelligence, and Urban Warfare
Homeworld: Oranos, the first human-colonized planet.
History: Born and raised on Oranos, Norman was raised by the school of hard-knocks. Oranos is a fairly prosperous planet, but its slums are some of the worst in the galaxy. His father was shot dead for gambling debts by the mobsters who ruled his part of town, and his mother was killed by stumbling drunkenly into the way of a car, although some say it was a hit because she had ratted out the mobsters to the police. Despite these challenges, Norman's need to look after his baby brother and sister have carried him on ever since. When his sister turned 18, and his little brother was still 13, Norman joined the army, the only really viable career choice for a person in his socioeconomic position, and sends half his salary back to them every year. This allowed him to send his little sister to Community College, and gives his little brother a chance at a full four year college education.
When Norman entered the army, the officers immediately noticed something different in him than from other recruits. He never flinched, not when drill sergeants screamed in his face, not when a rifle went off at random, not ever. When his officers gave him the most impossible orders during drills, he didn't question them or ask if they were crazy, he just did as he was told, and even is he failed, he shrugged his soldiers and told his officers he couldn't do it. They punished him for failure of course, but it didn't change his attitude all that much. He was still carefree and unafraid. The training officers marked him down as somewhat unique, and sent him into active duty.
Then Norman's first real action came. He was nothing more than a simple footsoldier, and was deployed to the front line. The job of his outfit was to cover the retreat of the withdrawing force, and heavy casualties were expected. Eventually, Norman's platoon was almost surrounded. When Norman saw this, he jumped into action, yelling at his incompetent officer that he needed to retreat. The officer was in a state of shock, and so Norman led the platoon in retreat. Norman got the remains of his unit out of the situation, and he himself was point during the entire withdrawal. At this point, he was awarded the Golden Star for bravery and taken to special ops to be training in close combat and counter-intel.
(Sorry, I know it's a bit long, but I like detail in my characters.)
Personal equipment: Dogtags, a picture of his little brother and sister, a dictionary, which he uses religiously to spew out random vocab words (for giggles), and a pair of brass knuckles with spiked tips.
Weapon preference: Shotguns, fists, decent with a knife. Uses grenades (Which he can throw in excess of 75 yards) as his long range weapon.
Equipment:
Shotgun - 30 loaded, 60 extra.
Medium Armor w/ helmet
Grenades
-7 Frag
-3 Flashbang
-1 EMP
Medikit
Additional info: Despite his difficult past, Patches has a great sense of humor. He was chosen for close-combat training because of a condition he has called aderexia. This condition frees him from fear, worry, and general preoccupation. This is what allows him to be so carefree and jaunty, and gives him an aura of invincibility and fearlessness in battle that others tend to be drawn to.
Deadpan- Mist
- Join date : 2009-06-06
Posts : 51
Age : 34
Location : Its a JOY to SEE you.
Re: DP's Library.
by Deadpan Sat Jun 06, 2009 9:26 pm
Ace combat pilot? Cool.
Name: Norman Kelevra
Call-Sign: Crosscheck.
Age: 26
Rank: Lieutenant
Position: Pilot
Aircraft Preference: Attack. (A-10)
Appearance: Basically.
Stands at around 6'6".
Biography: Norman was a good kid who grew up on the wrong side of the tracks. His father was shot dead for gambling debts by the mobsters who ruled his part of town, and his mother was killed by stumbling drunkenly into the way of a car, although some say it was a hit because she had ratted out the mobsters to the police. Despite these challenges, Norman's need to look after his baby brother and sister have carried him on ever since. When his sister turned 18, and his little brother was still 13, Norman joined the army, the only really viable career choice for a person in his socioeconomic position, and sends half his salary back to them every year. This allowed him to send his little sister to Community College, and gives his little brother a chance at a full four year college education.
When Norman entered the army, the officers immediately noticed something different in him than from other recruits. He never flinched, not when drill sergeants screamed in his face, not when a rifle went off at random, not ever. When his officers gave him the most impossible orders during drills, he didn't question them or ask if they were crazy, he just did as he was told, and even is he failed, he shrugged his soldiers and told his officers he couldn't do it. They punished him for failure of course, but it didn't change his attitude all that much. He was still carefree and unafraid. The training officers marked him down as somewhat unique, and sent him to the Air Force for special training.
When Norman entered the Air force, he continued to perform well in high-stress environments; in fact, he seemed to show no signs of stress at all. Eventually he was diagnosed with aderexia, a condition that frees the mind from fear and preoccupation. This makes Norman an excellent pilot who has no fear doing things that would make most pilots shit themselves, and also gives him his renown happy-go-lucky attitude.
He got his callsign from his enthusiasm for hockey, and his favorite thing to do in said sport.
Name: Norman Kelevra
Call-Sign: Crosscheck.
Age: 26
Rank: Lieutenant
Position: Pilot
Aircraft Preference: Attack. (A-10)
Appearance: Basically.
Stands at around 6'6".
Biography: Norman was a good kid who grew up on the wrong side of the tracks. His father was shot dead for gambling debts by the mobsters who ruled his part of town, and his mother was killed by stumbling drunkenly into the way of a car, although some say it was a hit because she had ratted out the mobsters to the police. Despite these challenges, Norman's need to look after his baby brother and sister have carried him on ever since. When his sister turned 18, and his little brother was still 13, Norman joined the army, the only really viable career choice for a person in his socioeconomic position, and sends half his salary back to them every year. This allowed him to send his little sister to Community College, and gives his little brother a chance at a full four year college education.
When Norman entered the army, the officers immediately noticed something different in him than from other recruits. He never flinched, not when drill sergeants screamed in his face, not when a rifle went off at random, not ever. When his officers gave him the most impossible orders during drills, he didn't question them or ask if they were crazy, he just did as he was told, and even is he failed, he shrugged his soldiers and told his officers he couldn't do it. They punished him for failure of course, but it didn't change his attitude all that much. He was still carefree and unafraid. The training officers marked him down as somewhat unique, and sent him to the Air Force for special training.
When Norman entered the Air force, he continued to perform well in high-stress environments; in fact, he seemed to show no signs of stress at all. Eventually he was diagnosed with aderexia, a condition that frees the mind from fear and preoccupation. This makes Norman an excellent pilot who has no fear doing things that would make most pilots shit themselves, and also gives him his renown happy-go-lucky attitude.
He got his callsign from his enthusiasm for hockey, and his favorite thing to do in said sport.
Deadpan- Mist
- Join date : 2009-06-06
Posts : 51
Age : 34
Location : Its a JOY to SEE you.
Re: DP's Library.
by Deadpan Fri Jun 19, 2009 11:55 pm
Idea for a character, maybe an RP, typical medieval/fantasy setting.
Name: Shaw "Shade" Adeloyd
Age: Between 28 and 31
Race: Human
Occupation: Freelance Assassin
Appearance: Shaw stands at a relatively short 5'9", and weighs in at around 180 lbs. His body is lithe, but muscular. His face is tough and weather beaten, and it is plain that he does not spend many of his nights in warm beds. His eyes are a mysterious deep blue, and all of his facial hair is shaved clean. He shaves his head ritually every night, keep it smooth as glass, apart from some curious scars that no one has gotten the courage to ask him about. His clothes are simple; he constantly wears a cloak with a cowl to hide his face during the day, and warps the garment around himself, shielding all aspects of his visage from the daylight's world. If you do see him take off his heavy woolen cloak, then you will immediately notice a lack of a shirt, which is constant, mostly for improved movement. He wears a simple brown robe over his legs, with Roman sandles for footwear. If you see him on a job, he only wears his linen undergarments - not even with shoes. It gives him greater mobility and speed, and keeps his movements fluid as the wind and quick as lightening.
Weapon: Shaw's weapon is an unusual one, and unique as far as he can tell. It was given to his by a crazy old fortune teller, who claimed that he had been from the same nomadic tribe that Shaw was born into. He presented Shaw with a short, curved blade, almost like a small scimitar. It was peculiar in that the keen edge was on the inside of the curve, while the outside had a serrated edge. The blade itself was only about twenty inches long, making it a short of cross between a dirk and a short sword. Tribal designs of great snakes and birds were etched into the blade, making it a thing of beauty in the right light. No matter how many necks he cut with the thing, Shade had found, it never dulled. The old mystic had said it had some light magical properties, but Shaw knew that that probably meant it had been bathed in ox's piss for two days before being used to slay the same ox. The magic of it was the precision and design of it when it had been nothing but a hunk of metal. Unfortunately, the lunatic had told him, the old art of making blades such as the one Shaw now possessed had died with the genocide of his tribe. It is the only weapon that he carries.
[Hi[s]tory]: Shaw's first actual memory is being a street rat in a ghetto outside of a major city. He can not remember it's name, but he does remember that the winters were hard and long, and the summer swift and lukewarm at best. He killed his first man before he had hit puberty. The bastard had tried to steal his food, and then rape him when Shaw refused to surrender it without a fight. So Shaw had ripped his throat out. Literally. With his own two hands. Not bad for a kid under 14, eh?
Shaw began erning a name for himself through his teenage years. He began to do favors for people who would pay him with food, drink, women, and gold. By the time he was a man the authorities knew him well, but never did anything to stop him - they needed him too. To off both good and bad politicians, to kill rebel leaders and generals, Barons and Earls. Everyone needed the Shade, as he was largely known. Everyone fears him, because nobody knows who he is. No one has ever come forward with a description since he turned 20 or so, because he wised up. He started making patrons wear blindfolds to business meetings. No one knows what he looks like today; no one living.
Shaw's only connection to his heritage was an old, insane mystic who gave him his current weapon, when he was aged about 25. The old man claimed he and Shaw were the only survivors of a nomadic tribe of warriors and shamans. The tribe was allowed to roam across the lands of the Eastern Kingdom, provided that they give the Kingdom's traders exclusive rights to their animal pelt trade. The nomads accepted, but with time brought new, more corrupt and twisted rulers. Eventually the King grew suspicious of of a vicious coup that the relatively harmless nomads were hatching, and had them tracked down and butchered wholesale. He let none live, or so he thought. One mother managed to send her young son down a river on a piece of one of the charred huts before succumbing to her terrible wounds. The young boy clung to that piece of wood until the stream flowed into a city, where exhaustion overtook him and he passed out on the bank near the City Center.
The mystic said he believed that there may have been others who survived, hidden or otherwise. Since then, Shaw has become obsessed by the idea of unification, and has used his talents to pursue any evidence of his people's existence. As he travels throughout the world, he takes odd jobs here and there to keep himself fed and sheltered.
Personality: Although he may come off as cold and careless at first, Shaw contains a passion which is largely untapped by the outside world. The only thing he has even been truly passionate about it the pursuit of his people, and their freedom from hiding. While on a job, he is quick, calculated and ruthless. But when inspired, he becomes passionate and inflamed. He is generally a dangerous man to be around, no matter his mood.
Name: Shaw "Shade" Adeloyd
Age: Between 28 and 31
Race: Human
Occupation: Freelance Assassin
Appearance: Shaw stands at a relatively short 5'9", and weighs in at around 180 lbs. His body is lithe, but muscular. His face is tough and weather beaten, and it is plain that he does not spend many of his nights in warm beds. His eyes are a mysterious deep blue, and all of his facial hair is shaved clean. He shaves his head ritually every night, keep it smooth as glass, apart from some curious scars that no one has gotten the courage to ask him about. His clothes are simple; he constantly wears a cloak with a cowl to hide his face during the day, and warps the garment around himself, shielding all aspects of his visage from the daylight's world. If you do see him take off his heavy woolen cloak, then you will immediately notice a lack of a shirt, which is constant, mostly for improved movement. He wears a simple brown robe over his legs, with Roman sandles for footwear. If you see him on a job, he only wears his linen undergarments - not even with shoes. It gives him greater mobility and speed, and keeps his movements fluid as the wind and quick as lightening.
Weapon: Shaw's weapon is an unusual one, and unique as far as he can tell. It was given to his by a crazy old fortune teller, who claimed that he had been from the same nomadic tribe that Shaw was born into. He presented Shaw with a short, curved blade, almost like a small scimitar. It was peculiar in that the keen edge was on the inside of the curve, while the outside had a serrated edge. The blade itself was only about twenty inches long, making it a short of cross between a dirk and a short sword. Tribal designs of great snakes and birds were etched into the blade, making it a thing of beauty in the right light. No matter how many necks he cut with the thing, Shade had found, it never dulled. The old mystic had said it had some light magical properties, but Shaw knew that that probably meant it had been bathed in ox's piss for two days before being used to slay the same ox. The magic of it was the precision and design of it when it had been nothing but a hunk of metal. Unfortunately, the lunatic had told him, the old art of making blades such as the one Shaw now possessed had died with the genocide of his tribe. It is the only weapon that he carries.
[Hi[s]tory]: Shaw's first actual memory is being a street rat in a ghetto outside of a major city. He can not remember it's name, but he does remember that the winters were hard and long, and the summer swift and lukewarm at best. He killed his first man before he had hit puberty. The bastard had tried to steal his food, and then rape him when Shaw refused to surrender it without a fight. So Shaw had ripped his throat out. Literally. With his own two hands. Not bad for a kid under 14, eh?
Shaw began erning a name for himself through his teenage years. He began to do favors for people who would pay him with food, drink, women, and gold. By the time he was a man the authorities knew him well, but never did anything to stop him - they needed him too. To off both good and bad politicians, to kill rebel leaders and generals, Barons and Earls. Everyone needed the Shade, as he was largely known. Everyone fears him, because nobody knows who he is. No one has ever come forward with a description since he turned 20 or so, because he wised up. He started making patrons wear blindfolds to business meetings. No one knows what he looks like today; no one living.
Shaw's only connection to his heritage was an old, insane mystic who gave him his current weapon, when he was aged about 25. The old man claimed he and Shaw were the only survivors of a nomadic tribe of warriors and shamans. The tribe was allowed to roam across the lands of the Eastern Kingdom, provided that they give the Kingdom's traders exclusive rights to their animal pelt trade. The nomads accepted, but with time brought new, more corrupt and twisted rulers. Eventually the King grew suspicious of of a vicious coup that the relatively harmless nomads were hatching, and had them tracked down and butchered wholesale. He let none live, or so he thought. One mother managed to send her young son down a river on a piece of one of the charred huts before succumbing to her terrible wounds. The young boy clung to that piece of wood until the stream flowed into a city, where exhaustion overtook him and he passed out on the bank near the City Center.
The mystic said he believed that there may have been others who survived, hidden or otherwise. Since then, Shaw has become obsessed by the idea of unification, and has used his talents to pursue any evidence of his people's existence. As he travels throughout the world, he takes odd jobs here and there to keep himself fed and sheltered.
Personality: Although he may come off as cold and careless at first, Shaw contains a passion which is largely untapped by the outside world. The only thing he has even been truly passionate about it the pursuit of his people, and their freedom from hiding. While on a job, he is quick, calculated and ruthless. But when inspired, he becomes passionate and inflamed. He is generally a dangerous man to be around, no matter his mood.
Deadpan- Mist
- Join date : 2009-06-06
Posts : 51
Age : 34
Location : Its a JOY to SEE you.
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