Regicidal's House of Horrors

[Regicidal]

Player:Regicidal

Name: Girard Arluin

Age: 25

Appearance: Girard stands at a healthy five feet, ten inches tall with an amazingly broad-shouldered build. Broad enough that he was told that during birth, he had to be cut from his mothers womb for his shoulders were too wide. That aspect was one that never left him. Below his shoulders he maintained that stature, building muscle over years of grunt-work and less than favorable jobs. Often stringy, jet black hair fall down to his shoulders on all sides, forcing him to brush the loose strands behind his ears whenever they become a nuisance. It is a shame, really, that his hair falls in front of his face so often, for his eyes are a brilliant blue (a rarity for the region) that shine like the shallow waters of the Caribbean on a cloudless day.

As for clothing, he is usually in keeping with a dark-colored tunic and trousers. Whatever he can afford at the time, and a dark brown leather traveling cloak, complete with a deep hood that almost completely conceals his face when he doesn't need to be easily noticed. Cheap, but well worn leather boots protect his feet through his travels. He carries two blades, the first being a Scottish broad sword hanging from his hip via a thick leather belt, and a dagger sheathed horizontally at the small of his back by the same belt.

Personality: Despite his history and previous occupations, Girard is an all too friendly being. He isn't too shy to step up and attempt to make friends in a tavern, or pay the right maiden just the attention she needs at the end of a rough day. After all, how is one to find odd-jobs if they are not charismatic enough to be approachable in the dark corners of the taverns?

Biography: In short, the memory of his life started at age five. All he knew of his parents was that they traveled a lot, and that his mother had died during childbirth, and his father had supposedly taken his own life shortly thereafter in a fit of grief over the loss of his beloved. So, he was raised a peasant far from Acantha by an elderly couple that were supposedly very good friends of his parents. Once he came of age to work, he did just that. At around eleven he was performing the physical labor that most late teenagers were struggling with. "Built like an Ox," they said when he hauled buckets of water that a grown man would have had trouble with.

During what little spare time he had, Girard found himself pulled towards the Town-guards, yearning for knowledge of the sword. Now, they weren't going to let him practice with one of the swords from the armory, so he was given an old rusted thing from a different region. Unlike their weapons, it's blade was slightly broader, with a brass cage that surrounded his fist. He could see inside the cage where it had once been lined with some form of fabric. At the time it seemed pointless to pay attention too, so he proceeded to practice day in and day out with the guards on everything from footwork to swordplay. However because of the difference in his sword (mainly due to the fact that the cage around the hilt didn't allow for rolling motions that spun the blade) he adapted the lessons to his own usage.

It was around his fifteenth year that he was giving the guards a run for their money, a feat that was quickly recognized by passing nobles. It doesn't take a sharp mind to realize that a well honed blade without any affiliations is a valuable commodity among nobles. Girard never remembered the Noble's name, only that he wore a long, silken white tunic that spoke of money. Money that he willingly took for the simple task of making sure that shipments of miscellaneous merchandise made it across the town to the inner keep of the overlooking castle without a fuss. Time and time again Girard's worth was proven against thieves. By nineteen, he was being approached by travelers for jobs. The choice to accept those was the choice that drove him from his 'home town' for the rest of his life. For you see, when word travels that you have slain a noble for money, the guards of towns don't openly accept you. So, Girard was forced to accept jobs as a traveler himself, still raking in a fair amount of coin, only he no longer had a home to call his own.

With that weight on his shoulders, he let his travels lead him far away from his place of birth. And over the course of many years he found himself in an out of jobs of all degrees, mostly ones having to do with the blade, but there was the occasional odd job that didn't. It wasn't long before he had completely refurbished the blade of his sword, and lined the cage of its hilt with a soft animal hide that was much more comfortable. Though he was never able to find the darkened red fabric that had originally been, as evidenced by the frayed remains around the edges of the cage. Eventually Girard's travels brought him to Acantha, where our story begins.

Other: If his history doesn't make it clear, he has a rather strong attachment to the sword he was given as a youngster. He has no clue why he is so attached, but he has killed for the weapon before, and would not hesitate to do so again.

[Regicidal]

Ezekiel Warren's the name.



Era: 1800's
Age: 26
Race: Lycanthrope.

[Regicidal]

Descendant: The Interpreter

Name: Isaak Tolsen

Age: 25

Gender: Male

Weapons: Isaak carries a six inch Italian Stiletto in his pocket most of the time. Though, he is a licensed gun owner and never leaves the house without his Xd Compact concealed in a slim holster just inside his pants line.

Personality: Isaak can be easily described as an analytical prick (at least as far as his ex-girlfriends go). However like most people, there is much more than just what other people say.

For instance, he trusts nearly no one out of experience. Everyone he has ever trusted has stabbed him in the back after the third or fourth time he let something important fall into their -what he thought to be- capable arms; only to stand by and watch the most delicate things in his life shatter on the hard concrete floor. Because of these experiences, he questions everything, and spent many years of his life perfecting the ability to 'read people.' Mostly through body language, but in doing so he also found himself in tune with other senses that are difficult to describe beyond 'other energies.'

As for his ex-girlfriends, they all call him analytical because of the simple fact that he is just that. Isaak prefers to stand back and take an objective approach to anything presented before him. This fact almost makes him seem devoid of passion of any kind. His objective look at almost everything has been enough to disturb neighbors and friends that have tried to show him items or accomplishments they thought to be amazing, which they were, but in the long run in Isaak's eyes they were ultimately pointless and meager attempts at appeasing a short term yearning for something. Which leads to his temper...

His temper, anger threshold, whatever it needs to be called, is very large. Isaak was gifted with an impossibly long fuse after the age of twelve. However rather than just shouldering off everything that comes his way, his temper operates on a kind of bottle. Things go in, and don't come out. The bottle just slowly rises to the cap before the next poor bastard to add something to the collection bursts the seal. Only two people have ever seen that temper, and only one has the mental capacity to tell of it.

Physical Description: Isaak is by no means an exceptionally tall person, standing at a meager five feet, ten inches; six with shoes on, he carries himself on a lithe yet sinewy body just barely thick enough to keep him from looking lanky. His face is soft, with a strong chin and moderately sized nose. His hair is a true, almost white, wispy blond that hangs down to his shoulders, with bangs cut off at his chin and usually tucked behind his ears.

As for clothing, he dresses comfortably, not bothering with the newest and hippest fashions. He usually sticks with a multitude of colored cargo pants with loose legs but a fitted waistline, though he always wears a black leather belt on which his pistol holds. Black t-shirts cover his torso, occasionally changed out with white, whatever works with the short-sleeved unbuttoned shirt he wears over it. Thick black shoes that almost look like boots with the way the hems of his pants hang over them complete the ensemble.

Background: Foster parents, dozens of them. Those were the only people he knew to be caretakers from the time he was old enough to remember the person putting plates of food in front of him and providing a bed. Of course, his foster homes darted all across the States, meaning he never really got to attain a group of friends or a reputation with anyone until he was at least nine. That was when he found himself in what he was sure was someone's version of hell.

The Mother of the household, Jean, was the nicest woman he had ever met. She cared for Isaak and the three other children in the household. Her husband, however, was quite the opposite. It was as if fostering children was Jean's task, and it was Calvin's goal in life to constantly punish her for that choice. He never helped around the house, but was more than comfortable with treating the children of the house like maids to do his bidding. Calvin would holler and bark orders for the children to find the television remote when it was clearly sitting on the table across the room from Calvin's prized suede armchair. More than often, Isaak remembered clenching his fists in anger as he heard Jean's screams of pain when she was beaten for standing up to him. But no matter what the man said, she always treated the children of the house like her gifts from god.

For months after Isaak seemingly found his voice at age eleven, he argued constantly, getting into Calvin's face when he was yelled at and refusing to do his bidding. Isaak was often punched so hard he found himself rolling across the living room floor and staying still until he had recuperated or woken up after the blow. Calvin would hit any person who tried to help Isaak up. Things went one like this until Isaak turned twelve, and after what felt like a talk with Jean that seemed to take up the entire night, he had a new take on his temper. That getting under Calvin's skin was as simple as ignoring him rather than trying to get into a pissing contest with the biggest bladder in the region. After that, the years passed by without too much issue. Isaak simply took to taking a step back from the situation and looking over things in the long run with a knowing smirk that drove Calvin insane. A reaction most pleasing to Isaak. During this time, Isaak took to making sure he could handle the beatings Calvin so loved to give out. While in high school he used the gym excessively, toning and strengthening his muscles.

The first time his 'bottle' released, it was on the one person that deserved it. Isaak was sixteen, and had just seen Calvin hit Jean for absolutely no reason. He blocked the following scene of brutality from his mind forever, the only images of it coming from flashes in dreams. All he truly remembers is the resulting three years in juvenile detention, and that Calvin had been beaten into a coma with a golf club until the metal had wrapped around the man's skull. Isaak made sure to continue his work-out routine throughout his time behind bars.

After being released from prison (they transferred him at eighteen) at age twenty, he was no longer welcomed in his home, but took to living with roommates farther in L.A. while attending college. Four years later he left with a Masters in Psychology, and no friends. He took to being a referred psychologist for court cases, and was largely favored by Lawyers for his objective outlook on life. One thing that never changed was the satisfaction he received from knowing that he was in shape, and not becoming one of those slobs of psychologists that melted in their chairs. For the five years once he was out of prison, he trained in the arts of Jujitsu at a local dojo.

[Regicidal]

NAME: Alexander Njeri
AGE: 754
GENDER: Male
RACE: Alchemist
BORN IN: Albany (Currently named)

(humans only)
Class: ---
Profession: ---

(alchemists only)
Vigilante Name: Verin
Bike Name: Imp
Bike Attribute: Capable of impossible speeds.
Bike Appearance: The Imp

Personality: Verin is just like the origin of his name, which is the namesake of the demon of impatience. He is the runner, the speed demon that launches himself into almost any situation with little to no regard for his own safety. Imp can handle the damage it receives, so he's not worried about that. However he often overestimates his own physical strength. Even if his powers as an alchemist are incredible.

(opt.)
Brief Bio: ---

Weapons:
Pistol: Specifically a classic Colt 1911, .45 caliber for those situations where the ‘less understanding’ folks of DC wouldn’t take to well to open use of alchemy.

Sling Baton: This is a little bit of a work of art. Part typical collapsible 16” steel baton, partially infused with steel-slinging alchemy. Slinging ‘bolts’ of spiked, molten steel on command, making for a nice spark-filled shower when the bolts hit metal surfaces. However the bolts themselves literally burn straight through their targets. Of course, there are many other uses for such an ability for a weapon. But Verin really likes the flesh-melting part.
Other: As stated before, he’s a bit of a speed-freak. Fast bikes, fast everything. From women to battles.

Appearance: Alexander “Verin” Njeri

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