Hmm, I'd prefer you were one of the races, Necromancers tend to reanimate the dead not use dragons. So, please can ya stick to the 4 species prefer it if ya did.
You poor take courage You rich take care This earth was made a common treasury For everyone to share All things in common All people one We come in peace The orders came to cut them down
full name- Zathikel (Kel for short, his name means 'death's wings') gender- male age- 19 (physically) birthplace- Red's Dungeon father's name- Tyrak mother's name- Lyra race- Avariel (winged elves) eye color- silver, with a ring of black around the edge hair color- grey height- 5'10, 5'11
personality- Aloof and independent, Kel goes his own way, and knows no law but his own. Incredibly competive and reckless, he's a hot head. Since most of his life was spent alone, he doesn't do well with crowds of people. Cynical with a slightly morbid sense of humor. Also because of his isolated up bringing Kel lacks a true concept of right and wrong, basically he is like a small child when it comes to his moral compass.
occupation- Enforcer clothing- All black, black leather pants, black shirt, black boots. The necklace he wears is made of interlocking black diamonds, the sign of his pact with Red.
weapons- A pair of jagged short swords, and assorted knives and daggers, also black. special skills- Arial combat, reconnaiscance, stealth. natural abilities- Kel comes from a long line of elemental mages, so he can manipulate the elements, most commonly Wind/Lightning. Also since he is technicaly a Revenent he can see spirits. classification- Assasin/Enforcer
brief history- Kel was born in Red's dungeon, or more accurately created. He was stillborn, and Red resureccted him using necromancer arts, forcing him into a master/servant contract, before disposing of his parents. Growing up the only one Kel ever saw was Red, so he never developed a real concept of right and wrong.
Lately though he has been having doubts about the way his life is going, so he spends more and more time away from the castle. The problem is that he doesn't know how to break the Contract. His wings which were snow white when he was born, turned black, as he shifts sides, they will slowly return to their original color.
alignment- currently Neutral/Evil, but natturaly more inclined towards a Chaotic/Good, Chaotic/Neutral variant.
Please note that Kel will switch sides at some point in the storybook. Let me know if I need to change anything.
DANCE- Like no-one is watching LOVE- Like you've never been hurt SING- Like no-one is listening LIVE- Like it's heaven on earth.
Please read and review my novel. The title is Fireborn. Here's the link.
Full Name: Gurren Light Foot( has no proper last name)
Gender: Female
Age: 80 (Elvish equivalent 24)
Birthplace: Talon Village
Father's Name: Unknown
Mother's Name: Marinea
Race: Elf
Eye Color: Purple
Hair colour: Purple tied into a ponytail.
Height: 5.9
Personality: She is an intelligent and witty woman. Although relatively calm and mature when a situation calls for it, she is quite laid-back and playful, often teasing. She likes teasing people younger than them and makes them feel uncomfortable.
Occupation: Theif
Clothing: Her standard attire consists of a backless, black sleeveless shirt and black pants. She wears a white sash that wraps around her waist.
Weapon(s): She owns a pair of metal gloves and boots. A short blade can extend from the gloves.
Special Skills: She is known amongst the elves as light foot, for she can move so fast that she becomes a blur that even blinking will miss. This coupled with her strong reflexes makes her neatly impossible to catch. She also is able to make fairy lighting which she produces in the palm of her hand. Using all these abilities she has become a skilled thief.
Natural Abilities: Fast reflexes
Classification: Thief, fighter
Brief History: Gurren was born to a pleasant peasant family. She was kidnapped at the age of six and trained to be a thief as her mother a skilled thief was becoming too old to do it successfully anymore. The two female thieves were hunted down and Gurrens mother was killed. Gurren unlike her mother was able to save her stealing and eventually retired from the profession.
This is one little planet in one tiny solar system in a galaxy that’s barely out of its diapers. I’m old, Dean. Very old. So I invite you to contemplate how insignificant I find you.
Personality: Soft spoken, a man of few words, Wulfram can come across as gentle but a ferocity lurks behind his quiet demeanor. Wulfram usually does his job and keeps out of people's business.
Occupation: Mercenary. Won't take dubious or criminal jobs.
Clothing: Lightweight armor.
Weapon(s): Sword, cross-bow, boot-knife.
Special Skills: Excellent swordsman, nearly flawless marksman. Because of his elvish descent, Wolfram can sense magic, whether its enchantments or people who are able to use magic, though he possesses little or no magic himself. However, he has extremely good instincts, being a talented forester, huntsman and tracker. His name, Drowkiller, was given to him by his father, after helping to successfully thwart an ambush the drow had made on his tribe.
Natural Abilities: Magic sense, low-light vision
Classification: Mercenary, warrior
Brief History: Wulfram has spent many years fighting in the tribal wars of the north. He has worked as a sell-sword in various places, helped as a guide through various lands, and served as a body-guard and assassin. He will not take job offers he sees as immoral, and is not afraid to quit a job if he thinks its become too dangerous or unprofitable. He is good at surviving, as much as for knowing his weaknesses as his strengths. He also doesn't care a whole lot about social norms, and will do what he perceives as right no matter who it upsets.
Age: Duergar (Gray Dwarf) don't normally celebrate birthdays but she is a full grown adult.
Birthplace: [Empty for now I need a city name]
Father's Name: Fredrick Crinttag
Mother's Name: Olga Crinttag
Clan Name: Crinttag
Race: Duergar (Gray Dwarf)
Eye Color: Black
Hair colour: Bald
Height: 4' 3"
Personality: Quiet, due to her tendency of offending other because of her interest in the glory days of her clan, and their slave massive armies.
Occupation: Owner and master potter of Crinttag's Indestructible Pots. She has also partaken in some of her clans mercenary ventures as a forward scout.
Clothing: Drab gray and brown loose fitting breeches and shirt.
Weapon(s): A weighted war axe and a heavy crossbow (standard issue for all Crinttag Clan mambers)
Special Skills: night-vision, stonecunning, master potter, basic stealth and weapons training
Natural Abilities: Night-vision, immunity to paralysis/poison/phantasms
Classification: Scout
Brief History: Wars against the Drow, Illithid, and Gith in the Underdark caused her clan to seek the surface for better trade and relative safety. Local nobility have noted their courage and commonly hire the Crinttag clan as auxiliaries to their army. When she isn't scouting for her clan she retires to her shop, producing some of the sturdiest, although dull, pots and urns in the land.
Personality: Outgoing. Can be serious when he needs to be, but he usually doesn't take everyday things too seriously. Easily irritated and very loud and outspoken.
Occupation: Apprentice to his father, a blacksmith.
Clothing: Simple brown pants, a green tunic-like shirt, and sturdy boots.
Weapon(s): Dwarven war axe.
Special Skills: Dark-vision, knowledge of weapon usage and repair
Natural Abilities: Dark-vision, stonecunning, stability, slight resistance to poison and spells.
Classification: Fighter
Brief History: His father has a business in blacksmithing just inside the city, so they have lived there for a while--he was born there. Originally his parents moved there to start the business, because of the sheer volume of people living there, they figured it would be their best chance at success. He spent his recent life apprenticing in the shop and learning to use the weapons. He's never seen battle, but wants some sort of adventure.
Alignment: Lawful neutral.
We've got deep-fried water bears and horse wigs!
If you're slapped in Guam, you're slapped in real life. --chibibo
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Will this start soon? We already have 11 characters
Elizabeth: "There will come a moment when you will have a chance to show it. To do the right thing." Jack: "I love those moments. I like to wave at them as they pass by."
"Smart?? That's an insult! I am a Stupid,Smart,Talented,Unique person in demand." For The RolePlayers and The Storybookers,The Twilight lovers, The HON obsessies, and The VD Swooners Go Here---->http://nyxsentgoodness.niceboards.org/forum
The time for action for now, she told herself, halting her harp playing, she stood up, her long white hair, swaying. It had been five moons since the alliance had been formed between the four most unlikely races, she still resented the Drow. They oozed evil, and people don’t unlearn this. But as leader of the Elfen council she had to endure.
Looking from the balcony she looked over the beautiful land, it was neutral territory touching on the borders of the human land, the Elfs, the Dwarves and finally the drow.
How she resented working with them, but with reports coming from everywhere of the spread the evil.
It had been said it was now touching on the Dwarven caverns and of course they were nervous. The whole idea of black/dark magic was said to be dead, but a Necromancer had risen and after last meeting with the council she had to act.
“Jho!”
A slim built man walked in and bowed, “Yes mam?”
“Get the fastest horse and deliver this message to all the remaining kingdoms, it’s time to do something.”
This had to be done, without this, the alliance would fall and with it the kingdom. She just hoped now people would answer the call.
You poor take courage You rich take care This earth was made a common treasury For everyone to share All things in common All people one We come in peace The orders came to cut them down
Alarith is busy placing the finishing touches on a rather gloomy pot that she is quite proud of, as her father walks into the shop. The store is alive the the scurrying of illegal gnome migrant workers. The clear glazed ceramics gleamed off the dusty light that shone through the windows.
"I have work for you" announces Fredrick.
"How is the pay?" she replies.
"An exact sum isn't specified but considering who the job is from it should be very lucrative. The clan doesn't want to send anyone too well known to handle this. The mission could go very sour, and I know you are more than capable of getting out if it does."
Fredrick shows her the letter. Alarith's eyes scan over the paper. "I understand," she says with a nod.
"Don't worry, the shop will be looked over till you return" Fredrick assures as he walks out the door.
She walks over to her room in the back and opens her ceder trunk. The smell of mink oil on her leather armor permeates her nostrils. The axe is still ready from its last wet stone sharpening. She carefully packs them along with her crossbow and 6 days rations into her rucksack.
The sun is dimming, which is fine with Alarith. Duergar preferred the dark, the old companion of her race. And tonight, she will be traveling with that companion.
Last edited by lessershoe on Tue Jun 01, 2010 10:16 pm, edited 3 times in total.
He wasn't the brightest of dwarves, which is why, when the message came, Skartsmaðr took him aside and said, "Son, you haven't weathered enough winters, let alone fights, to answer this call."
"But I'm older than some of those who have," Saeti countered, indignantly smashing his fist down on the dinner table. Gipta, his mother, shot him a disapproving glare and adjusted the plate of herb-scented chicken which had shifted a few inches to the right. "And I'm skilled with an axe."
"Aye, that you are, Saeti, but you're not exactly skilled with your brain," Skartsmaðr said, shaking his graying head.
The young dwarf fumed. His father had basically called him stupid, and that didn't sit well with him. He wasn't stupid, just young, but to his father...well, in his mind, there wasn't much of a difference.
"I don't see why you can't let him go, Skartsmaðr," Gipta shrugged. "He's plenty old enough, and I'm not going to hear the end of it if you don't let him."
"Gipta..."
"And really, you know business better than he does. That forge has been our lifestyle for many years, and quite a good one it's been. I'd hate to see that go under. All your hard work...Gone? Come on. I'm sure our Saeti will be a fine warrior. I would be quite proud of him."
Skartsmaðr's hands went to his temples in thought. "You have a point, Dearest..."
"I always do," the plump dwarven woman smiled.
"All right, Saeti. You can go. But please be sure to prepare well, and don't get yourself hurt." He handed his son a letter, hastily-written by the sounds of it, which he read a few times over. "Oh, and take my armor," Skartsmaðr added. "And make sure you have a helm; your head is thick, but not thick enough to take an arrow."
After Saeti put a few days' supplies in a pack and gathered up his father's worn but well-kept armor and a war axe he'd made himself, he said goodbye to his parents and set off, the letter still clutched tightly in his hand.
We've got deep-fried water bears and horse wigs!
If you're slapped in Guam, you're slapped in real life. --chibibo
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Eira, wake up. It's time for you to take up arms again. Here, take this. And save the ones who stand a chance of defeating Red, Eira. Please.
Eira - Feast of Heroes, 8.39 PM, Little Village
The flames flickered before her, dancing in her eyes. It was halfway through devouring the entire hall before she descended, lightly, ever so lightly, on the hall.
Then time stopped, and the fires froze mid-leap. The men's screams were cut short and they paused mid-roll. The tables quit crackling, basking instead in an orange light. Quiet, so quiet. Not even a bird chirped. And everything was peaceful once again.
Eira's eyes scanned the men in the inferno. Her eyes lingered on the noble ones, softening, then glistening with what appeared to be tears. Yet not a single drop rolled down her cheek.
None of these men would become einherjar, and it hurt her so. She would have been honored to serve some of the men here. Noble to their cores, but burnt to a crisp while drunk. They shouldn't have come to this festival anyway. It was obviously a trap from the beginning. Did they think Red would be as noble as they were?
Only a handful of people here would survive. Even she couldn't work miracles. She would need to take the ones she could heal far, far away from here. Somewhere safe, away from Red's clutches while they recovered. Red would never know they survived, of course. But she couldn't risk it.
The gods were banking on her to set this right.
Eira flinched when her skin touched a man's wrist. He was by no means incompetent, but she could see his past, and he was far from the kind of hero who would move on to Asgard. But she had no choice. She grit her teeth and dragged him to a part of the hall that wasn't on fire.
And after him, another, and another, and another. She picked up whoever she could salvage from the mess, and when she was finally done a tear rolled down her cheek. She lifted her eyes to the heavens, even though she knew her prayers would fall on deaf ears.
These men deserved to become Einherjar. The ones she gathered with her, however, were a different story.
But she did what she had to do, and pulled out one of her own feathers, as Odin had told her to. It was the sign.
Then, the group vanished, and the mead hall was once more drowned in screams and flames and the stench of burning flesh.
------- Eira - Unknown location far away from Red's fort, 9.58 PM
Eira finished bandaging the last one of the heroes. For now the humans would survive on fruit, but eventually these so-called heroes would crave for human luxuries. Luxuries they needed money for. And she had a disgusting notion of what some of them would do to attain these luxuries.
"Gods, why me?" She squeezed her eyes shut. Why couldn't it be some other Valkyrie? This bunch was not a good lot, and yet she was being forced to watch over them until they could go and find Red. The gods even implied she ought to help them in the final battle.
She drew her knees to the chest and watched the fire in front of her crackle. Then, she leaned her head against the tree trunk, searching past the starry skies for her home. She would go home soon. Go home and never have to deal with these ignoble people ever again.
And she shut her eyes, willing the lullaby of nature to smother her in a deep sleep. She would wait, wait until they healed and woke up. Until they realized just what happened...and then watch as they went about avenging themselves.
"The moral of this story, is that if I cause a stranger to choke to death for my amusement, what do you think I’ll do to you if you don’t tell me who ordered you to kill Colosimo?“
“And how shall I think of you?' He considered a moment and then laughed. 'Think of me with my nose in a book!” — Susanna Clarke, Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell
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