Automatic Acrimony
03-30-06, 03:43 AM
(The History and Abilities are completely unbetaed. Sorry if there’s a few mistakes. Oh, yeah... it's f*cking long too.)
Given Name: Mallory Gervase Devereux
Pseudonyms: Riptide the Soul Breaker, Riptide of the Black Legion, Riptide, Rip, Mal
Race: Engúrel
Gender: Male
Age: 18
Birthday: 22nd November
Height: 6’1”
Weight: Underweight
Hair Colour: Murky blue
Eye Colour: Various
Relatives:
• Mother – Mason Devereux/Mason the Widowmaker (34)
• Father – Crescent Rousseau/Sin the Desecrator (40)
• Brother (Elder) – Bellamy Rousseau/Tempest the Soul Seer (20)
• Soulbound Brother – Rex Del’Antara/Rex the Inferno (22)
• Grandfather (Mason’s Father) – Armand Devereux/Jack the King (62)
• Grandmother (Mason’s Mother) – Roslyn Devereux/Lyon the Starseeker (60)
Marital Status: Single
Birthplace: Arx Talon
Current Location: Unknown
Education: Schooled within Arx Talon in maths, language, science, combat and magic. Cheated his way through what he didn’t understand.
(Very) Detailed Physical Description: For a male human, especially one of such a young age, Riptide the Soul Breaker’s 6’1” height would be considered impressive in comparison to much of Althanas. However, against the rest of the Black Legion, Riptide is somewhat of a runt for whilst a tiny amount of his peers are of a similar stature, the vast majority are a fair bit taller, with his own brother, Tempest, reaching a perfect 6’7” average. It doesn’t help that the young shaman has a considerably high metabolism either as this makes it very difficult for him to gain substantial amounts of weight. At a rather understandable result of this, the young shaman weighs a fair bit lower than what would be considered ideal but don’t let that fool you, the youth is far more capable than his slender shape would suggest. Since the earliest possible point, Riptide has thrown himself into his training and unsurprisingly, his body has reaped the benefits of this, for every inch of Rip’s form is hard; his muscles wrapped firmly round the healthy bone supporting them. However, whilst these muscles are capable, they are by no means prominent and the strength of the young shaman remains subtle and somewhat delicate. Sure, the youth is definitely well-proportioned but this, his strength and his height all fail to save his body from looking decidedly androgynous; something which Riptide loathes to admit, taking great offence at comments regarding this fact.
Unlike his brother, his father, his mother and the long line of warriors that make up his ancestors, Riptide does not look physically intimidating or capable of destroying armies single-handedly but even so, the young shaman manages to look athletic in his own way, with a body more befitting of a dancer than any swordmaster of old. Riptide’s, hands, feet and nether regions are the only dramatically masculine elements of his form, all of which are slightly larger than average though not to the extent that they look oversized, or out of place against the rest of him. Rip’s strong feet provide ample support for the rest of his frame, ironically leading into the most feminine part of his appearance; his legs. Much to his chagrin, the shaman has legs that many women would kill for; long and slim, though carrying an understated power, Rip’s legs would suit the finest female warriors and this, the youth considers the smallest of mercies; at least they wouldn’t fit an anorexic twit-cum-supermodel. Thankfully, this strength doesn’t cease, evidenced as they curve upwards into a tight, high rear that’s all muscle and pleasing to the eye. The shaman’s hips are fairly narrow and though his shoulders are wider, the ‘V’ to Riptide’s frame is not something men of greater statures would envy. Nevertheless, Riptide’s abdomen does actually have a minor amount of definition to its credit and though he doesn’t exactly have the most evident of six-packs, the muscles are still there; clearly evident to the touch if not the sight. Rip’s pecs carry the same quality and the shaman’s back too, is undeniably firm; the latticework of muscle and sinew beneath just begging to be traced and memorised. Above, smooth shoulders that retain the dimensions set by the rest of his form with ease and beauty, gently arching over into exquisitely crafted arms, toughened by Riptide’s choice of weapon, though failing completely to match up to his too-damned-bloody-perfect brother’s. Naturally, the shaman prince wants a body more befitting of his social standings and is trying hard to improve his shape, not quite realising the strength it already holds and the fact that his metabolism would make ‘bulking up’ an extraordinarily difficult (and unnecessary) task to accomplish.
Considering how perfectly Riptide’s head and body match, it’s quite remarkable that Riptide’s distain for his slender shape hasn’t carried over in regards to his features. Quite the contrary in fact, though upon looking at the young prince’s handsome face, it’s not all too hard to see why Rip can’t bring himself to dislike it. The smoothly angular lines that form its composition and the makeup of its features are decidedly regal and undeniably attractive. From a clearly healthy hairline, Riptide’s forehead slopes slightly to meet his eyebrows and a smoothly angled jaw, with a firm, stubborn chin caps the ideal frame for his features. Providing a strong centrepiece for his face, is a long, straight and sharp nose that is a hereditary trait seen in almost all of the Deveroux line. To either side of this, devilishly high cheekbones hollow his cheeks dramatically, emphasising the exotic nature of the man’s appeal and leading back into well-formed, if sensitive, ears. Further down, lips of a tantalising rose shade form a beautiful mouth that is the most expressive of Riptide’s features; trembling when upset, the bottom lip nipped between teeth when nervous and naturally, curving into wry grins when amused. The Soul Breaker’s teeth are immaculately white and straight, though another trait of the Black Legionnaires, long sharpened canines, distract from other pleasantries and can easily look threatening, leading to many of the Black Legion, Riptide included, being mistaken for vampires on numerous occasions.
Sitting below a pair of high, deviously arched eyebrows are the most captivating eyes; Riptide’s personal favourite of his facial features. Dramatic and piercing, Rip’s eyes have the most oddly coloured iris. From a turquoise base, the colour moves into a deep seaweed green close the pupil and is outlined with a line of dark blue. If that wasn’t enough, flecks of violet and crimson are strewn into the mix though predictably, it is these, Rip’s favourites, that just have to be the only trait that he shares with his enviable peers. Everybody who has the blood of the Black Legion within their veins will have this, or a very similar colorant. Even stranger than the colours of his iris, is the fact that these shades can also be found within the long, thick eyelashes that beautifully frame the youth’s wide, bright eyes. Although predominantly black, the more vibrant colours are unmistakably there, contrasting sharply with the vicious darkness of the majority. To an extent, the Soul Breaker is as fond of this aspect as he is of the eyes themselves but say the word ‘mascara’ and suffer the consequences.
Against the outlandish allure of his eyes, Riptide’s hair has a lot to live up to and suffice to say, it really doesn’t. Unlike the colours of his iris, the shade of Rip’s hair is hardly glorious: it’s the dirtiest murky blue you ever saw; a depressing hue akin to a once magnificent lake now polluted into a mere shadow of its former glory. At the roots and the underlayers, the stands become a clearer, darker blue but this does nothing to redeem the more prominent colorant. Riptide hates it but considers dyes too much of an unnecessary hassle, having tried it once before with rather unfortunate results. However, that isn’t to say that everything about his hair is bad. It’s silky and wonderful to stroke, a true treat for the fingers and the Soul Breaker himself has a habit of toying with the longer locks, particularly when nervous, or in deep thought. Sadly, this is about all it offers for the style it has adopted is not exactly high fashion; it’s hardly a shimmering curtain of loveliness, streams of bouncy, shiny curls or even the sharper, more jagged cut that seems to be growing ever-more popular. Instead, Riptide’s hair falls to his shoulders in unruly wisps that, due to their thickness are a menace to tame. Not so long ago, the shaman believed that he could improve it with a better style; spending hours attempting to straighten it to decency. For a few weeks, this worked and Rip was even complimented on it a couple of times but this didn’t last. He quickly became sick of the whole, time-consuming process and unable to stick to the routine, he one more left it to do as it pleases which, truth-be-told is not that much of an unappealing look for him. The messy locks contort in completely random ways and enforce the edgy tone established by his angular facial features.
Due to the Black Legion’s current neutrality, the group hasn’t been to war in many years and for Riptide, this has meant that he hasn’t been subjected to horrors akin to those that brutally scared, maimed and even slaughtered his forefathers. Indeed, having recently outgrown the nasty complexion problems that plagued his early teenage years, the Soul Breaker’s skin is a near flawless expanse of smooth skin, tightly pulling over the beautiful, firm muscle beneath the surface. Its colour, a light, creamy hue, is maintained from a clear lack of sunlight but far from looking unhealthy, the colour gives Riptide the look of a fine, porcelain doll, though to a lesser extent of fragility. Naturally, there are a few defects, practice scars and accidents are unavoidable growing up and Rip certainly has he fair share but the lines here are faint and almost too pale to be noticeable, giving the shaman no trouble at all. The most prominent of these is unquestionably the lengthy line that runs near-parallel to his collarbone. This was a gift from Tempest, drawn on him during a volatile training session but as Riptide survived, neither Rip himself, nor his brother have any regrets.
In addition, the Black Legion’s affinity for tattoos, piercings, branding and even calving designs into the skin, is something that has had a strong influence over Riptide lately and as a result, most of the ‘blemishes’ upon his body aren’t exactly aesthetically displeasing. The first alteration to his body, were two tribal tattoos paid for by his father as a birthday gift; the first teases over his hips, ducking just below what would be considered decent and the other weaves complex patterns along the path of his spine. These are the simplest of Riptide’s tattoos and Riptide was quick to follow them up with a more individual (and painful) design which happened to come in the form of an extravagant compass star, positioned upon his left shoulder and enchanted to that it always points in the right direction but just like his tribal tattoos, these were glimpsed by few; all too often hidden beneath the Soul Breaker’s apparel. Riptide desired something a little more noticeable and chose a design that spanned most of his right arm to reflect this; the resulting barbs and razorwire that tangle from the very tips of the fingers all the way up to the middle of his bicep have been drawn in with the most astounding intricacy and care that it might be possible to think they were the real thing and this is indisputably best of the shaman’s tattoos. Well, at least in his opinion. However, these aren’t Riptide’s only ‘improvements’ to his body. The youth has several peircings to his name as well, the most obvious of being the eight that grace his ears. Five silver rings climb his right, decreasing in size as they travel upwards, upon his left sit two cartilage peircings (silver studs) and below lies a single lower piercing, from which a silver chain ending in a blue orb dangles almost to his shoulder. The others; the cross piecing of his right nipple, the hoop in his left and finally, the bar impaled through his navel tend to be unseen by the majority but Riptide is fond of them nevertheless and hopes to obtain more in the future.
From his bodily alterations, to his freakish eyes and wild hair, there is nothing at all that reflects Riptide’s personality as admirably as his movement. The young shaman moves with the grace of a wraith-like feline; a practiced, unfaltering and obvious steadiness that exudes elegance but carries a darker side, that wraith like quality, which lends to his step an unfavourable, ominous air. The Soul Breaker can’t help but have an odd ghostly manner in his motions, making it seem as if his grace isn’t quite earned and therefore, doesn’t rightly belong to him. This is likely a result of his shamanism, for thanks to this, Riptide has become a beacon for the dead and it’s quite possible that a good number will have taken to lurking around him. Riptide’s mannerisms seem to have become a compensation mechanism; his gestures wide to make him appear bigger and used often, ridding his aura of any stoicism it might have carried otherwise. Interestingly, his unearthly grace carried nicely over into the battlefield and gives him the oddest element to his attacks, making it appear as if the youth is continually pushing himself beyond what he is capable of and often, this proves a fairly intimidating trait.
The few that dare to doubt or ponder over Riptide’s gender are quickly and concisely silenced when the eighteen year old speaks. The deep, rich tones to his voice leave little room for the offending accusations concerning his sex for they could only belong to a man. Its tone extraordinarily low and the masculinity that oozes from his voice seems at odds with the androgyny captured within the rest of him. Just as with his motions, his voice doesn’t completely fit; seeming beyond what he should be capable of and making him sound positively chilling for much of the time. In truth, it would be so easy for him to slip into a monotonous drawl but gratifyingly this is not the case and the Soul Breaker’s vocals remain superbly in tune to his emotions. Unfortunately, this doesn’t always work out as whenever he’s happy, or particularly amused, he sounds threatening, like the torture-happy jailer ready to have some fun and when aiming to be seductive, he sounds downright predatory, as if he’d have his way with you no matter how much you protested or screamed against it. Curiously, Riptide’s diction is remarkably dissimilar from his peers for whilst he has a good vocabulary of common slang, for some reason he doesn’t slur his words, or speak as fast as those close to his age. Even with the simplest, slurred contractions, ‘dunno’ for example, it seems as if the shaman is forcing the word to leave his lips and this seems out of place, as if Riptide is parodying himself. He doesn’t swear much either, though he has nothing against those who do. Surprisingly, when the Soul Breaker sings, he can silence even the rowdiest bund of ingrates. He hits every note perfectly with control and power that even the most legendary vocalists would envy but my, Riptide sounds terrifying when he sings, easily instigating a powerful fear that grips a person right to the very marrow of their bones. Still, in certain rock or metal groups, such an element could be seen as a strong advantage, helping to shift many a record of the shelves, not that Rip would ever turn himself into a performer.
The final aspect of Riptide’s appearance, his attire, has little variation to its credit for when younger, the Soul Breaker found a style he liked and has stuck with it since. As indicated by the youth’s dark brown and well-worn hiking boots, Rip is clearly concerned with the more practical side of things. His pants too, reflect this attitude; dark (usually black) and of a soft, yet durable material, they are tight enough to be comfortable and easy to move in but loose enough so as they don’t show the irritating feminine shape of his legs. It’s rare to see the young shaman with a sleeved top, for some reason Riptide avoids them like the plague, preferring simpler designs made from natural fibres. The Soul Breaker’s preferred shirt is a light blue cotton top that used to be a fairly nice shirt but has had the sleeves and the high collar torn from it in an obviously amateurish way that has left the poor garment frayed at all edges. As for accessories, the youth is never seen without ‘The Glove of a Mother’s Love’ (detailed in items), a number of silver bracelets on either arm (more on the right) or a pair of tinted sunglasses to put an end to the annoying questions about his unusual eyes.
(Very) Detailed Personality: Initially, Riptide appears to be nothing short of arrogant. He never seems to be affected by anything around him and presents himself with the most off-putting air of impassiveness but this is merely a façade designed to mask his shortcomings because to let his oppressors know how effective they were would only be showing yet another weakness. The Soul Breaker hides so much, for after years of being ostracised for being smaller and unable to push his body to the heights reached by his peers, Riptide has come to view himself as his kinsfolk do: as the runt of the Black Legion; something that deserves to be ridiculed. This sad self-perception has left the youth deeply ashamed of the attractive, slender form the gods gifted him with, seeing only its physical deficiencies and wishing desperately that he could look, and be, more like his powerful elder brother. This inability to accept his faults has caused Riptide himself to become prejudiced against the weak, especially the happy weak, who do nothing to improve themselves yet remain undeservedly content all the same. These people, the Soul Breaker views as little more than a disease and he is convinced that they hinder Althanas’ very evolution; their mere existence stopping the world developing into a stronger place. Riptide honestly believes that the man maimed for his timepiece and the woman overpowered on her stairs have only their own feebleness to blame for their misfortunes for like the rest of the Black Legion, the spirit mage has faith in the survival of the fittest and has no time, or mercy, for the defeated.
Considering this, it’s understandable that the young shaman lusts to be able to prove himself worthy, to show those who segregated him that he is capable of great things. However, Riptide is all too aware that to achieve his ambitions, he can’t sit back and rely on Lady Luck’s good favour; he knows that he must earn his strength but fearing failure and the alienation he knows to come with it, Riptide has become focused completely on this desire to become more powerful and would willingly sacrifice another’s happiness for his own, personal gain. In the Soul Breaker’s opinion, anything is worth losing if it means that the people of his homeland will cease seeing him as something lesser than themselves. A person, a town, a country; none of it matters in the face of goals and this has led him to distort his beautiful magic: to take its innocence and rape it with a vivid maliciousness. For far from healing the soul and aiding the dead, Riptide seeks to harvest the spirits’ energies, to break the deceased to his whims and all to reach his own, selfish ends. Naturally, the dead show equal cruelty in return; haunting him, taunting him and generally trying to cause him pain and anguish and whilst the Soul Breaker’s power-hungry, turbulent aura is enough to drive away most of the gentle-natured spirits that might hope to aid him, it does nothing to deter his more malevolent stalkers and the shaman can but dream of being able to banish his ethereal tormenters, or act out his revenge.
As the words of the wicked dead bite at every corner of his mind, Riptide is only made more determined and travels Althanas with a potent fervour, looking for things to aid him on his quest of self improvement. However, Rip’s ambitions are made ever harder to reach by the fact that for eighteen years, the shaman’s life experience was limited to the war-inspired culture of his homeland and having spent only five months beyond the Black Legion’s territory, the Soul Breaker hasn’t had enough time to familiarise himself with every aspect of an entirely new, outlandish way of life. No matter how hard he tries to learn the ways of the masses, Rip continues to misunderstand the most basic interactions. For instance, the first time a pretty girl smiled at him, Riptide knocked her out; interpreting the baring of her teeth as a serious threat and reacting instinctively. Fortunately (and somewhat unfortunately too), Riptide has no hesitation in questioning the things he doesn’t understand but having never having heard of the word ‘subtle’ and lacking any semblance of shame or modesty, Riptide addresses every subject in the same crude and concise manner. This has led to some awful moments, as to a regular Althanian, Riptide’s demeanour is highly offensive and incredibly rude and often the young shaman’s queries will get him barred from public places, or sometimes even beaten as a result. Sadly, no one ever bothers to point out what it is that Riptide is doing wrong and the poor youth is left wondering why so many people act so hostile towards him.
However, this does not even begin to scrape the surface of the problem for there is just so much that the young shaman cannot fathom yet easily the most problematic of these troublesome areas is the way Althanians handle their emotions. You see, Riptide was brought up in a manner that narrowly channelled most feelings; pride pertaining only to victory, passion welcome only in battle and compassion and pity groomed out completely, for in warfare, there is no place for either. Sorrow too, is something Riptide feels, but sees in a different light; an impulsive reaction to the loss of an asset, such as a good sword, or a powerful ally and something that should pass quickly. Rip just doesn’t understand why people would grieve over their fallen relatives or friends, though in truth, the shaman has yet to feel such loss himself, having never had that powerful of an attachment to anyone. Such deep emotional bonds are not established within the Black Legion and family, friends and rivals are all judged based on how well they fight; kin or not, those with noticeable weakness, be it physical or emotional, are viewed as lesser for it. This aside, Riptide, like any creature is certainly capable of feeling most emotions yet he is far from being able to recognise them for what they. This provides him with his deepest conflict of all, for the Soul Breaker doesn’t know how to deal with most of what he feels and refusing to show his inability to cope, Riptide struggles internally with his emotions, particularly the feeling of regret. He suffers.
There is one emotion that comes across easily in the youth’s day-to-day interactions; his sheer impatience. If someone doesn’t answer his inquiry within a set amount of time, Riptide will presume them stupid and deem them unworthy of his presence, leaving them alone to ponder over just what kind of simple freak he is. In addition, Riptide can’t stand timewasters, his own directness conflicting too much with those who ramble and ramble about their day, the weather, or anything else superfluous and inconsequential to the Soul Breaker. These people, as well as those who try to sell him items he doesn’t need or want, Rip will growl at, and if they do not heed this warning, he will hit them. To say that Riptide doesn’t deal well with his temper would be the understatement of the millennia. His natural aggression, the fact that the Black Legion welcomes this volatile nature and the effects of his dear Glove of a Mother’s Love, all combine within him, creating a cocktail of vicious anger that lies in wait for those unfortunate enough to irritate the youth. Having never been taught the ways of verbally reconciling with someone, or how to avoid conflict, the young shaman sees violence as the only way to release his wrath, stress and vexation. If a casual comment hits too close to home, if someone insults him (as they often do) or simply if the Soul Breaker grows too impatient, it’s more than likely that he will attack. Riptide sees combat as the solution to all problems, even the smallest and stupidest of disputes (‘that glass is red’, ‘no it’s not, its orange’) and can’t help but fall into brawls left, right and centre.
In truth, Rip really needs someone to talk to, a therapist, or a friend but the young Shaman refuses to open up, possessing the typical Black Legion mentality that relying on others to give you solutions is a sign of weakness. As such, friendship is another concept lost on Riptide. In Arx Talon, there are few forms of relationships, most of which are centred on respect for those who excel in combat skills and to the shaman, ‘friendship’ translates quite curtly as ‘alliances’, meaning people that would stand beside you in battle. Nothing more, nothing less. Naturally, to make allies, a certain amount of courtesy is required, perhaps even a slight fondness (it’s a lot easier to defend someone you don’t dislike) but nothing more than that. To Riptide, a friend is essentially someone who agrees with you for the majority of the time and who will back you on your decisions, not someone to care for, or help in personal matters and certainly not someone you’d throw your life away for. Even so, Rip has difficulty forming these alliances, let alone a fully-fledged friendship, as having endured the cruelty of others for a good portion of his life, the shaman finds it hard to lay his trust in people. He is wary of almost everyone he meets and hates not knowing their real intentions towards him, again finding himself wishing for an element of his brother; his telepathy.
Nevertheless, this misconception of friendship is nothing when compared to Riptide’s total inability to comprehend romantic and sexual relationships. You see, the people of the Black Legion will only feel arousal towards one person during their entire lifetime and only after their souls are irreversibly linked together in a spirit union. Understandably, having never had an erection in his life and thus, having never even masturbated, let alone had actual intercourse, the eighteen year old has an incredibly limited knowledge of sex though in truth, most of this so-called-knowledge is incorrect anyway and would probably be humorous to those who heard it. Still, even without the capacity, or desire, for sexual relations, an outsider might think it possible for the shaman to at least engage in a purely romantic relationship but this is not the case. ‘Love’ and ‘romance’ aren’t even in the Black Legion’s vocabulary, replaced by concepts like pride, or respect and even in spirit unions, the most intimate of all bonds, participants choose their partners not for companionship, but based on how powerful they are and how well the couple can fight together. If Rip ever was to develop deep affections for a person, it’s likely that he would see it as a weakness in himself, something that lowered his defences and caused him to behave irrationally, and feel deeply ashamed as a result.
Perhaps Riptide’s most closely guarded secret and definitely something that the Soul Breaker would never admit aloud is the fact that he is totally illiterate. Having been dyslexic as a child, Rip was behind in languages from the offset and as those around him began to learn how to form readable handwriting, write their names and construct eloquent sentences, Riptide’s mental barrier grew stronger and the youth was left unable to differentiate between the letters, let along structure a continuous piece of prose. All the same, the youth managed to pass the class with flying colours by learning to form ‘RIP’ at the top of his page and discretely copying the bright boy who sat next to him. In the years since, the Soul Breaker has managed to craft himself a flourishing signature that is more of a pattern of squiggles than anything legible but he is proud all the same. Even so, the young shaman finds everyday life hard because of his disability. Rip can’t make sense of directions where place names are mentioned and if a shop has darkened windows, he finds it impossible to figure out whether they stock what he needs. Worst of all, the young shaman cannot read a book and this plagues his mind most of all as he is convinced that were he to spend half a day in a library, reading manuscripts and stories, he’d be able to relate to Althanas much better than he can. In addition, he worries about what his father might link of Rip’s unavoidable lack of response to his letters.
To compensate for this, a young Riptide turned his focus to drawing and through practice he gradually developed a certain skill with a pencil. At his current level, Rip’s drawings are nothing short of astounding; he is able to create the most detailed and accurate depictions of his surroundings and carries a small sketchpad with him on his travels. This, the shaman uses as a substitute for a written journal and every town, or interesting thing that catches his eye, Rip will sit and draw. However, the most elaborate and time consuming of his works show not the real world, but something else entirely; a fantasy of his own creation. Here, the Soul Breaker is a hero, a legend and the more revered person alive and this is the reason nobody every sees his art for whilst his pride begs for him to display his wonderful images, the fact that they are so personal causes the youth to hold back.
History: Deep in the subterranean city of Arx Talon, over eighteen years ago, the High General fell into her second labour. At twenty-two, most outsiders would have thought her a little young, at sixteen, they surely would have thought her mate far too young but in truth, Crescent Rousseau, Sin the Desecrator, just wanted to get her childbearing out of the way before she hit her prime. She had never really wanted children, they were an inconvenience and a hindrance to training but she understood that as the High General, it was her duty to produce heirs, so that her line could continue and the Black Legion’s leadership would remain undivided. Her first child, Bellamy, now just over a year, had already been sent off to be raised and already showed excellent potential but this second child was everything Sin had wanted to avoid. Here, held above the water of the shallow pool Sin lay in, was the tiniest baby boy she had ever seen. It was bad enough that he was a boy for she had one of them already and the number of men in Arx Talon was almost three times that of the women but to see this tiny, tiny thing that had come out of her… well, it just made her embarrassed. How could she and her mate, descended from legends, ever have had a mismatch of genes? God, how could she have ever given birth to such a runt?!
She called him ‘Mallory’ because it meant ‘ill-fated’ and if nothing else; the delicate being was certainly that.
Without even hesitating to hold the babe, Sin sent her newborn son away to join his brother Bellamy Rousseau in the deepest depths of their underground city; The Houses of Upbringing. For the first five years of his life, Mallory was raised by randomly selected men and women who would serve a year, or half, of raising the children before scurrying off back to full-time training. They didn’t want to waste their time on such fragile creatures and Mallory, like all the other children who lived with him, quickly learnt that getting attached was never good. Often, groups of fifty or more youths were lined up in cots in a single, small room and to stop them all becoming friends, the children were rotated around every other week. It was harsh and by the time Mallory was sent back to Sin and Mason, he was as cold as they were, if not more so. At only five years old, tiny Mallory Devereux meant nothing to anyone and no one meant anything to him. His parents least of all for they cared nothing for him. With the taller, stronger, superior Bellamy, already top of his class in well, everything, they had little use for Mallory who was probably the weakest legionnaire to be born in the past century.
Eager to be rid of such a burden, Sin and Mason enrolled Mallory into full-time training at the earliest possible opportunity yet with his small, slender body, Mal was barely able to hold the weapons they gave him, let alone use them with skill. Every element of his classes was designed for taller, stronger people and Mallory’s own frame just wasn’t capable of the manoeuvres his peers were beginning to learn. In the wider world, there’s no doubt that the skills and tricks Mal came to know so soon in his life, would have set him apart in a positive way yet in the cold tunnels of Arx Talon, they were nothing and were easily countered by those with more power and control. All too quickly, Mallory came to be seen as a weak link in an otherwise unstoppable army, or as something to be kept from battle and pitied. Surrounded by the mentality that only the those with power are worth anything, Mallory came to believe that everything said about him was true; that he was useless and unworthy. The final kick to any pride he might have taken in himself was when, Sin tore her child from training to save herself from further embarrassment, and dumped him on her younger brother; Gervase Rousseau; Fury the Malevolent.
Fury was a vicious man, unmerciful and brutal. He abused his own son and his soulmate when they didn’t comply with his wishes but he could do nothing to Mallory. Sin would never forgive him if he humiliated her child as such humiliation would only fall back on her; Fury was scared of Sin’s wrath and so, whilst he virtually maimed his mate and child, Mallory would sit in the corner and watch. The youth, by now only seven, now saw what happened to the weak yet neither Tella, nor Blaise were as weak as Mal himself. He began to wonder over his future; would this happen to him? God, he hoped not because deep in his heart, Mallory knew that if his uncle ever turned on him, there was no way he’d be able to get up from it like Tella and Blaise constantly managed too. His own body could never take it and soon, Mallory was doing everything he could to stay on his uncle’s good side. He learned to cook and clean and sew and do everything useful around the house but this only served to make Fury harsher on his own immediate family and he beat them harder for not being as useful as his ‘sister’s runt’.
Blaise soon gained a position within the main army, a prestigious honour and Mallory learnt that Blaise now outranked his father but the beatings still continued. Mallory couldn’t see why his cousin didn’t just deck Fury; it seemed like the best way to solve the problem and get the man off his back. Eventually, Mallory confronted Blaise on the matter and sure enough, the next time Fury tried to strike his son, Blaise fought back but after years of taking hit after hit from this man, Blaise’s thirst, his need for vengeance burned too strongly. Sydney Rousseau, Blaise the Ever Ready fought back with such ferocity that his father died from his wounds and consequently, his mother too was pulled into the afterlife. Blaise though, couldn’t bring himself to care and in that, Mallory saw true strength yet for some reason that Mallory couldn’t comprehend, his bright and powerful cousin felt indebted to him. When Mallory was out of the house, Blaise would fend off those who ridiculed him, around the house he would help out with the chores Mallory had become accustomed to doing and once he had even fought off Bellamy in Mal’s name. If Mallory had known the word, or what it meant, he might have said that he came to love his cousin but as it was, Mal just felt confused over why Blaise would ever want to protect his pathetic, little cousin.
Mallory was eight when it happened. They said it was an accident but wary and withdrawn Mallory could never take them at their word. He had been asleep though, when his cousin’s house had been stuck and thus, there was no proof either way. Accident or murder; Mal would never know. It was late in the night and both Blaise and Mallory had retired to sleep but something had knocked into the house, something invisible but forceful all the same and suddenly, the rock from which the house had been carved began to crack and the building began to collapse in on itself. Without wasting time, the awakened Mallory fled down the stairs and raced to the door, only to find that it was blocked off. Within a moment, Blaise was beside him and began to move the rubble that blocked their path. Mallory did what he could to help but soon, the hole Blaise had created was big enough for him to crawl through and Blaise shoved him to safety before he had even had recovered breath enough to protest. Blaise himself had never made it out and with great reluctance, Mallory’s birthparents had been forced to take him back into their home.
Now housed within the large and luxurious fortress-like home of the High General, Mal’s treatment returned to normality. That’s is to say, instead of serving his parents like a maid as he had with his uncle and cousin, Mallory was thrust back into training and once again, found himself the joke of the Black Legion. This time however, Mallory was determined to improve himself. No longer content to be seen as something lesser and with no one left to defend him, Mallory thrust himself into his training and spent all his spare time practicing and inquiring about styles better suited to his form. Slowly, Mallory raised himself from the bottom of the class yet not by much and although Sin was happy that her son wasn’t totally powerless, she was never proud; Mallory was still very close to the bottom after all. Instead, Sin and Mason focused on their better son, Bellamy who was already leading the field for his age group. Calculating and efficient, Bellamy had developed into the prefect child, a perfect little killer and Mallory couldn’t help but wish that he could be like his elder brother and that someone might see something of value within him.
For two years, nothing changed. Mallory was still weak, still idolising his brother whilst Sin and Mason declared how fantastic their beautiful Bellamy was. For Bellamy however, the most important event of his life up until that moment was about to take place and he was scared. Mal, having spent two years observing fear in the features of his aunt and cousin, knew the sight well but said nothing and let Bellamy deal with his emotions in his own way. This, however, was a mistake for when Bellamy Devereux’s latent power was awakened, he found himself unable to control it. Voices surrounded him, everywhere, every little thought, sunk within his own mind, for of all the powers Bellamy had prepared for, telepathy had not been one of them and poor Bellamy almost lost his own mind with the confusion induced by everyone else’s. Mallory watched him break down and something within him liked the idea that his precious brother wasn’t so perfect after all.
It took Bellamy the best part of a year to grow accustomed to his new power and for most of that year, he was isolated. He developed mental shields, probes and other mind-manipulation techniques yet with the ability to know everyone so deeply, Bellamy grew more distant, more stoic and was even crueller towards his opponents. He saw something in the legionnaires that he didn’t like and any mercy he might have had was erased from his system completely. Instead of happily finishing his adversaries quickly, Bellamy, or rather, Tempest the Soul Seer as he had now become, toyed with them. He ran rings around them for now he knew every assault they would make, the instant the thought appeared in their heads. Mallory watched with poorly hidden envy; his brother was now absolutely everything that Mal himself could ever dream of becoming yet even with the insane training regime that Mallory had set himself, he could do little. He lived in hope though, for Bellamy’s awakening had turned him into a demi-god; perhaps Mallory’s own would do the same for him?
Unfortunately, Mallory already knew his gift, Blaise had helped him to realise that those voices he heard were the dead and poor Mallory had no idea how this gift was supposed to be of any benefit. For five years, he had denied his cousin’s knowledge and prayed to Hromagh to give him the strength he so desperately wanted but Hromagh was known for his brutality and when the time of Mal’s own awakening dawned, the ceremony only confirmed what he had feared; his cousin was right all along. His parents were extremely disappointed, like Mallory, they saw no benefits in talking with the dead for how did that really help anyone kill? No child had ever been cursed as badly as Mallory; even those with little physical strength always seemed to get magic enough to balance themselves out but no, poor Mal had nothing but a new name; Riptide the Soul Breaker but he was far from living up to it. His fighting skill was mediocre at best, his magical ‘talents’ would gain him no favours and against the backdrop of the High General, General and their prodigal son, he was completely useless. People began to ridicule him further and due to the Black Legion’s idea that such mockery was beneficial, Riptide could do nothing but cry, alone in the shadows.
Then, everything changed. Unbeknownst to Rip, there had been an alliance between the Black Legion and the largest of the demonic tribes of the Anyon isles that had stood with fragility since the day it had been signed, fourteen years ago but now peace was over. A hunting accident had claimed the lives of two legionnaires and the only way to repay the gift of death, was with more death. Sin, violent and bloodthirsty had been waiting for this, like her mate, she lived for the thrill of battle and for the victory that would surely come afterwards. Riptide didn’t need his brother’s telepathy to see that she had been waiting for the demons to slip up. However, there was a problem, for peace fourteen years ago had come at a price. A female demon had been bound to a male legionnaire and two children, Rex, now fourteen and Regina, now eleven, had been produced from it. The Black Legionnaires were reluctant to killing those of their blood but Sin wouldn’t allow mercy and wanted only one prisoner from the entire group. She wanted Asmodeus Daeva, the greatest arms creator that she had ever heard of and someone whose talents would be highly beneficial to Arx Talon’s society. Briefly, Riptide had wondered, whether all of this was for the sake of getting Asmodeus. Tempest had glanced to him then, with a wary eye and warned him telepathically that the answers to those questions weren’t worth knowing.
Dawn broke and the Black Legion charged into Iscariot like a great plague, leaving unmerciful death and devastation in their wake. Unnatural, freezing fires swarmed the city, suffocated it in a blanket of smoke and ash and spread, spurred onwards by the will of a legionnaire whose kill count would undoubtedly be the highest of the night. Even Riptide, abandoned by his zealous, bloodthirsty parents had found that the smaller, cowering demons were pitifully easy to slay. Governed by fear, most ran and hid at the sight of his uniform and as the adrenaline rocketed through his bloodstream, Riptide found himself honestly relishing in the pandemonium. His mother was right; this was what they were made for and oh, were they ever good at it.
Grinning, Riptide launched himself onto the back of a fleeing demon and drove his dagger so deeply into the thing’s throat that it pierced right through and came to rest against the pale flesh of Rip’s own neck. An inch to the right and he’d have done himself in but Rip hadn’t the time to contemplate his luck. Another charged for him, swinging an eerily glowing sword in a diagonal arc that sent Riptide staggering to his right in a clumsy evasion. Damn. This beast was better than him. A gunner to his right swiftly blasted into action too and Riptide was barely given time to duck out of range before the first was upon him again. This time though, Rip simply wasn’t quick enough and the demon’s sword raked through his side, sending a shower of bright crimson arching through the air and robbing Riptide of his balance. He crashed to the floor.
At least, if he died like this, he’d have something to be proud of.
Casually, the gunner moved up to join his blood soaked companion and aimed the barrels of his weapon right between Rip’s eyes but Riptide didn’t react. He almost snorted at the look on the demon’s face; obviously, he’d expected Rip to beg for mercy and the young Soul Breaker rolled his eyes. They knew of the Black Legion’s ways and they didn’t expect the tutors there to teach their pupils how to die right? Idiots.
Suddenly, Riptide felt himself doused in a shower of warm, black blood. Both demons had been skewered through the neck simultaneously and as the Soul Breaker met his brother’s gaze he saw something there that he’d seen in Blaise, something he couldn’t place and then, as abruptly as he’d appeared, Tempest vanished.
Haphazardly, Riptide pushed himself to his feet. Dazed and confused but with enough sense to be wary, he glanced around. There was no one in the immediate vicinity and with a sigh, Rip bent and grabbed his second assailant’s gun. His mother had given orders to salvage these weapons; there was always the chance that Daeva would be killed in this madness and then where would they be? Nowhere without these things. Instinctively, Rip griped the thing’s handle, his index finger coiling so naturally around the trigger. It was so tempting… but no, his mother had ordered him not to and he wasn’t so stupid as to defy her.
A shrill scream pierced the air, louder than those he heard everywhere else. Whoever it was – or whoever it had been – had to be close and back in the mood to kill, Riptide abandoned stealth for speed and launched himself in the direction of the sound. A second scream, this time male and Riptide twisted to the right, unbalancing himself in his enthusiasm but recovering quickly. He vaulted past stacked corpses and paid them no heed, failing to notice their garb before it was too late.
Riptide the Soul Breaker violently skidded to a halt three feet from the most fearsome creature he’d seen all night. Here, stood proudly before him was a demon nigh on eight feet, a creature of porcelain skin and blackened veins that wrapped like lightning around his arms, over his heaving chest. Wild orange hair spewed from his head as if the mane of a wild lion and deep and glittering black eyes burned through the Soul Breakers wide, terrified gaze with a predatory precision. However, it was the flickering symbiotic blade, glowing with red demonic runes upon the creature’s right arm and the massive cannon that had been grafted upon his left that really drove dread into his heart. Sadistically, the thing grinned. Nearly all of his teeth were as sharp as a vampire’s and against this, the eleven-year-old Riptide knew for a fact that he’d never survive.
This was Asmodeus Daeva; his mother’s precious boon. Did she really know what she was asking for?
“You’re-“
“Yeah, kid.” Asmodeus interjected, grin still in place. His voice was a fragmented growl, his own panting interfering with his diction. Hmm, funny the things you noticed when you were about to die. “Yeah.” The demon repeated with a finality he hadn’t managed before.
There was a whirring sound and Riptide’s eyes practically jumped from his skull at the sight of the demon’s cannon readying itself. He watched as the pieces fell into place, the majority weighted on the creature’s lower arm. He watched as eight black metal talons shot from its underside and twitching, prepared to sink into Asmodeus’ veins. What for? Rip didn’t know, nor did he want to find out but he’d wasted the chance to run. Not that he’d have had much of a chance even then. Not against this thing. Daeva raised his arm, supported it with his right and aimed it square at the tiny engúrel.
“I almost pity you.” The Soul Breaker almost choked in surprise; the last thing he’d expected was a death speech. “You’re so fuckin’ young. Almost makes me sick to do this but there you are, drenched in the blood of my brothers and y’just don’t care. Every one of these gits here,” black eyes darted around their surroundings, indicating to the positively insane amount of engúrel corpses, “every one, I’m gonna remember, but you and your sick, murderous kin, you ain’t gonna remember a single face. Notta one. This isn’t for anything but pride-“
“It’s for you.” Riptide spoke. Asmodeus had weaknesses, emotional weaknesses all the same but Rip only had to look into his eyes for more than a second to see the pain. Daeva hadn’t yet decided whether or not to kill him. For that, Rip was glad but Daeva had not expected the youth to answer him at all- let alone say something so cutting. Something that could very well make the demon’s decision a whole lot easier on his conscience.
“What?!” Asmodeus seethed and the symbiotic metal that surrounded his supporting arm began to rewrite the runes upon itself. Rip was sure that if he could read them, he wouldn’t like what they were saying.
“I- Th-That is, my mother…” Rip trailed off and one of the cannon’s talons drew all to close to the demons flexing vein. “She wants your w-weaponry. She wants you to make things… like that,” Rip cautiously nodded towards the cannon attached to the creature’s arm.
Stunned, the redheaded devil drew back and lowered his arms to his sides but Rip didn’t run. He wasn’t going to take that risk, not when the odds were so heavily stacked against him.
“You’re telling me that all of this- that my parents, my lover, my fucking daughter and… everyone else… that they all died so that I’d make a few H.K.R.s for mommy dearest?!!” The demon was furious now; he could barely string a coherent sentence together from the intensity of it. Riptide was beginning to regret not running.
“She’s not dear to me.”
“Y’know what?” Asmodeus shot back with a bitterness: “I can really understand why.”
The redhead drew close to him, a gleam in his eyes that Rip had once seen in his cousin’s; when he finally beat his father bloody. Quietly, in a soft, almost purr of a growl, the demon muttered something that might have been ‘an eye for an eye’ but could have been something else entirely and then, he lunged. The symbiotic blade in his arm shifting as he did so, into something horrific, something that looked like twisted, broken glass and burned with such heat that Riptide could feel it before it even touched his skin. Had the swipe connected, Mallory Devereux, Riptide the Soul Breaker, would have been so dead that he might possibly have never been born. As it was, someone intervened. There was a clash of metal but when Riptide looked up, expecting to be staring back into his brother’s eyes for the second time that night, he found only blackness, as consuming and as overbearing as Asmodeus Daeva’s own eyes had been.
“Rex.”
Riptide knew the name. It was the name given to the half-breed, the final bargaining chip lain upon the table of peace but Rex Del’Antara was not built for peace. At fourteen, he stood almost seven feet and held in his hands a zweihandler that was covered in runes akin to Daeva’s. His hair was as black as his veins and absorbed more light than it reflected. Rex pressed his blade to the back of Asmodeus’ throat and with no choice but to surrender or die, Daeva dropped his stance and submitted. Something in Riptide believed that there was more to the action; Asmodeus was bigger and stronger after all and his weapons too, looked more advanced. There was just something about his surrender that didn’t quite fit with his rage.
“I don’t want to kill you, Azzy, I won’t and you know it. But him right there-” He stared at Rip, who quickly dropped his own gaze to the oh-so interesting floor. “-you ain’t killing him. He’s Tempest’s brother. You’ll leave him alone.”
With a swiftness Rip himself could never manage, Rex moved around Asmodeus and to defend him but Riptide couldn’t concentrate on anything but Rex’s words. Rex knew Tempest but more than that, Daeva seemed to as well. How? Why? What had Tempest ever done for Rex that gave the youth such a desire to defend anything related to him? And how did Tempest get away without angering the redhead so keen on killing? God, it was confusing… was his brother a traitor?
Whatever it was, it saved Rex’s life. Whilst his parents and sister were flayed alive, Rex stood on the sidelines, beside Tempest. He remained silent throughout the whole proceedings and he didn’t look away once; in that, he passed Sin’s test but she failed his and when he drew closer to Tempest, Rip could see the distain stamped all over her face. Whatever had saved Rex life, condemned his family and had given him the desire to protect Rip, his mother hated so much that it sickened her to the core and had given her the incentive to lower herself to spite and malice. It was a week before Riptide discovered his brother had bound himself to Rex in soul. By then, his mother had come to terms with it. She now saw in Rex a third son, better at fighting than even Tempest and with Rex around, training and healthy, Asmodeus was given an incentive to work for her. Yes, Sin soon saw that the positives far outweighed the negatives and yet she remained unhappy that her best son couldn’t pass on his genes. Naturally, that meant that it was Riptide’s duty to carry on his line for Sin would be furious if both the Rousseau and Devereux lines collapsed. It was far too much for a normal eleven year old to take on and almost instantly, Sin began to interview potential soulmates for her son with Riptide nervously waiting in the background, silently planning an escape.
At fourteen, Riptide was introduced to the girl named Sever. He’d almost laughed aloud; ‘Rip and Sever’, huh? Had his mother picked her just for her name? Riptide certainly wasn’t going to put it past her though it was more likely to be for her second name. His mother always had valued good blood. Still, Rip knew from the moment he set eyes on her, that Sever wasn’t for him. She was taller, stronger and faster but he’d expect that; it was the simple look of her, the way she looked at him, as if she’d just love to eat him alive. It was obvious she had her own reasons for joining with him and in the coldest, harshest voice that Riptide could manage, he told his mother ‘No’. Sever had smirked then, moved to behind him and out of sight. It made Rip nervous but he refused to show it and stared back at his mother with more defiance than he’d ever even dreamed of showing prior. She’d never forgive him. Riptide didn’t care. A talk with Tempest had set his mind at ease and he continued, telling his mother that he was leaving and that when he returned, she’d have something to be proud of. Sever asked him then, whether or not he’d join with her when he returned and Riptide responded that he honestly didn’t know.
His mother had told him one thing; one single, nonsensical thing; “In the ruined temple, head west.”
Inventory:
(Left) Glove of a Mother’s Love
Description – The Gloves of a Mother’s Love are crafted from a midnight blue silk, reach high up the arm, almost to the shoulder and have three silver buttons on the inner side above the elbow, for decoration more than ease or comfort. The wearer of the gloves finds that those they are upset with, or those that do them wrong, the gloves will refuse to touch. In addition, the more serious the offence against the wearer, the angrier the gloves will be. Effectively, this alters the thought pattern of those who don them, making them more bloodthirsty, emphasising their anger and rendering them more likely to follow their instincts than those without. The glove that Riptide wears, the left, is the more uncontrollable of the two, due to the damage that it has incurred. Currently, the fingertips are missing and the buttons have long since been lost. Riptide wears a long, simple black glove beneath it, for vanities sake.
Origin – Passed down through the Devereux family, these gloves were given to Riptide and Tempest when Tempest turned eight with Riptide getting the damaged one. The glove’s story however, goes far further back than one could imagine.
Link – N/A
Band of the Black Legion
Description – The Black Legion, to mark themselves apart from others wear a simple, thin silver ring with a single wisp of onyx inlaid through the centre of the band. This onyx glows a faint blue when identical bands are in close proximity (500ft). As the Black Legion’s existence has drifted into the realms of myth there are very few outsiders who would have a hope in hell of recognising the significance of the ring and thus, Riptide has no reservations in wearing it in plain view.
Origin – Given to Riptide at his awakening, as is traditional.
Link – N/A
Legends of the Heart and Soul
Description – Legends of the Heart and Soul, written by Asher Astley, is a book containing many of incantations and secrets pertaining to spirit magic and shamanism. It’s an old book and incredibly heavy too, with over a hundred chapters to it’s name. Its cover is black leather and its parchment is thick and bound together using an old, but tried method that has stood the test of time. Naturally, with Riptide being illiterate, the youth is unable to read even a single word and were it not for the incredibly leap in magical development that took place post his soulbound brother reading two-and-a-half-chapters to him, Riptide would have sold it by now. As it is, the youth has kept the book, aware of the knowledge he could be throwing away should he forsake it.
Origin – A gift to Riptide on his sixteenth birthday; Riptide’s parents hoped to make their physically inferior son into a magical prodigy. They have yet to be impressed by the results.
Link – N/A
Three Healing Potions
Description – Riptide carries three small glass bottles, containing a aqua coloured healing liquid. This liquid, has the power to heal quite serious wounds, though as it has to be poured onto the wound, it hasn’t the power to heal the more deadly, internal wounds. In addition, it works quite slowly, so there’s always the possibility of the injured party bleeding to death before the potion has a chance to take effect.
Origin – Before leaving Arx Talon, Riptide wisely chose to visit one of the more proficient potions masters of the Black Legion. The potions master, after hearing how Riptide was going to risk his neck in Althanas to improve his power, sympathised and gave Riptide three of his standard healing potions.
Link – N/A
Spare Clothes and a Bag for Them
Description – Riptide has a small, black bag which is large enough only to fit in his spare garments. His first outfit is almost identical to that of his main (listed in the ‘Detailed Appearance’ section of this application) but his second is a little more extravagant, being of a better quality material and having silver and gold threads woven along the seams in a strange, somewhat randomised pattern. Although Rip never really seems to wear this outfit, he does take care of it as these garments are the only items of value that Riptide took from his luxurious home back in Arx Talon.
Origin – Riptide new he’s need spare clothes, so he packed two sets and wore a third. Simple as.
Link – N/A
Abilities:
Although Riptide is swift to label himself a shaman, in truth, he has very little in common with the ancient healers who share this title. Unlike the famous spiritualists of old, Rip was quick to forsake his curative potential as the idea of being relegated to a supportive position didn’t sit well with his ego or his ambitions. In Riptide’s opinion, spells defend, to heal the spirit and to help the dead reach peace are a pointless, unnecessary waste of time and instead, the aptly named Soul Breaker seeks to subvert the gentle nature of spirit magic and twist his ‘gift’ into a terribly dangerous and offensive force. Like any shaman, Rip can commune with the dead but he does not like to assist them unrewarded, rather, the youth wants to harness their strength, to manipulate and use them, to break them to his will and unleash that power upon those who oppose him.
Grave Skills – Passive
A shaman is defined by their Grave Skills for it is these special talents that allow them to contact and communicate with the deceased. As with all abilities, there are many different levels to the Grave Arts ranging from being capable of sensing a spirit’s presence, to being able to drift from corporal to intangible with little effort. Naturally, many, if not most, shaman do not ever master all of these skills. In fact, those that do claim to have completely mastered the Grave Arts find themselves continually learning more abilities and thus, many doubt whether mastery of all Grave Skills is even possible. For Riptide, a shaman who shuns the natural order, the task of developing more aggressive skills has taken priority all else and as a result the youth has very basic Grave Skills, having neglected them far beyond what he should have.
Grave Sense
Description – With Grave Sense, Riptide is able to feel the presence of lingering dead spirits, though understandably, the feeling gets weaker the further away a spirit is from his person. Unfortunately for Riptide, this works both ways for the spirits too, can sense the nature of Riptide’s powers and aura and many of the more powerful, malevolent spirits will gravitate towards him, attacking him with spite an malice that they’ve been unable to use on a living soul in centuries. Having these constant ‘companions’ has pushed Riptide’s ability a little further than most and he is able to tell each spirit from the next, helping him to recognise who out of his company is new or if someone older has left. Riptide cannot feel the presence of living souls with this skill and thus, people can still catch him off-guard.
Origin – Riptide was born with this skill but he failed to recognise it for what it was, instead just brushing it off as a strong paranoia and ignoring it for most of his youth. However, at the age of six, Riptide’s elder cousin, Blaise, was quick to realise what Rip’s immediate family couldn’t and helped Riptide understand that these were the beginnings of a powerful gift (and that he wasn’t paranoid; dead people really were stalking him).
Link – N/A
Grave Conversations
Description – As the name suggests, Grave Conversations is a skill that allows Riptide to talk with the dead and in truth, this is a skill that has caused him more grief than any of the others. His wicked stalkers adore picking at the youth’s open wounds and vulnerabilities and are ever so quick to remind Rip of his shortcomings. Currently, the Soul Breaker cannot shield himself from these voices and has grown accustomed to ignoring them, though occasionally, something will be said that hits Riptide right in the heart, forcing a reaction from the youth that usually makes him appear totally insane.
Origin – At age eleven, Riptide took part in the customary rite of awakening. Having already developed one skill, the awakening was not expected to do anything but confirm the fact that Riptide’s talents lay in spirit magic and shamanism but as the Black Cleric chanted the young mage’s rites, other voices began to chime in and Riptide knew that the unearthly chorus could only be one thing; the voices of the dead.
Link – N/A
Spirit Arsenal – Active
Whilst the Spirit Arsenal skills are actually quite common in more experienced shaman, there are very few who would ever dare admit they know them and even less would use them on a regular basis. The skills of the Spirit Arsenal are centred on crafting weapons from the souls of the dead but each time a weapon is forged using this technique, some poor spirit in one of the ethereal worlds is sacrificed as a result. As such, the practice of these skills is severely frowned upon and even punishable by death in some shamanistic sects but Riptide, so isolated and so determined, has pushed himself into learning these skills far sooner than is usual and is always on the look out for ways to further them.
Spirit Shards
Description – By splaying his fingers wide and concentrating for around thirty seconds, Riptide is able to summon a soul to him and tear it into five pieces. These pieces appear in a sharp, pointed form at the tips of his fingers but Rip is usually unable to give them any more consistency than that. Unable to truly shape them, the pieces usually end up appearing akin to shards of luminous white, broken glass. Riptide can currently launch them at around thirty feet a second, making them a deadly tool in close combat, yet easy to defend against in a wider setting.
Origin – Upon reaching his sixteenth birthday, Rip was given a very heavy book on spirit magic from his parents. Of course, with Riptide unable to read, the youth could do nothing until his soulbound brother, the half-demon Rex, discovered his little secret. Instead of teasing him about it, as Rip so feared he would, Rex tried to help him learn and read him a few chapters from the middle of the book; the first few chapters dealing with Spirit Arsenals. Shortly thereafter, Riptide followed the read to him and was able to learn how to forge a spirit weapon.
Link – N/A
Remembrance – Active [LOCKED]
The skills of Remembrance are quite different from other spirit skills, allowing a shaman to summon a spirit in corporal form for a limited amount of time. These spirits can be turned upon the shaman’s enemies, though as each Remembered spirit is different from the next, their attacks/effects remain unique and thus, Remembrance skills cannot be as easily summarised as other spirit skills. To summon a spirit at his current level, the shaman needs to possess something of the deceased and also have convinced the spirit to tell them how they died and get them to agree to becoming ‘tied’ to the shaman. If all these conditions are met, the souls of both the spirit and the spirit mage will become tied together via the thinnest, strongest, ethereal thread (does not allow telepathy/empathy between the two) and will be given a ‘trigger phrase’ that once spoken, will summon the spirit to the field.
Non Spirit Skills – Active/Passive
Combat Proficiency – Passive
Description – Riptide has been trained in many forms of combat and trained exceedingly well. However, the styles he was taught do not suit his body’s form and Rip isn’t capable of pulling off the best manoeuvres, as such, Riptide has had to find a fighting style more suited to a man of his build and drawing from his theoretical knowledge of various forms of combat, Rip has developed a high-flying and extremely fast style that relies primarily on evasion and accuracy, having no blocks or straight up defensive moves to it’s credit. However, Rip is unable to temper himself, his skills, or his aggression and is considerably clumsy in battle, often making the most amateurish mistakes and always letting his emotions govern his assaults.
Origin – Various trainers and following that, years of self-training.
Link – N/A
Given Name: Mallory Gervase Devereux
Pseudonyms: Riptide the Soul Breaker, Riptide of the Black Legion, Riptide, Rip, Mal
Race: Engúrel
Gender: Male
Age: 18
Birthday: 22nd November
Height: 6’1”
Weight: Underweight
Hair Colour: Murky blue
Eye Colour: Various
Relatives:
• Mother – Mason Devereux/Mason the Widowmaker (34)
• Father – Crescent Rousseau/Sin the Desecrator (40)
• Brother (Elder) – Bellamy Rousseau/Tempest the Soul Seer (20)
• Soulbound Brother – Rex Del’Antara/Rex the Inferno (22)
• Grandfather (Mason’s Father) – Armand Devereux/Jack the King (62)
• Grandmother (Mason’s Mother) – Roslyn Devereux/Lyon the Starseeker (60)
Marital Status: Single
Birthplace: Arx Talon
Current Location: Unknown
Education: Schooled within Arx Talon in maths, language, science, combat and magic. Cheated his way through what he didn’t understand.
(Very) Detailed Physical Description: For a male human, especially one of such a young age, Riptide the Soul Breaker’s 6’1” height would be considered impressive in comparison to much of Althanas. However, against the rest of the Black Legion, Riptide is somewhat of a runt for whilst a tiny amount of his peers are of a similar stature, the vast majority are a fair bit taller, with his own brother, Tempest, reaching a perfect 6’7” average. It doesn’t help that the young shaman has a considerably high metabolism either as this makes it very difficult for him to gain substantial amounts of weight. At a rather understandable result of this, the young shaman weighs a fair bit lower than what would be considered ideal but don’t let that fool you, the youth is far more capable than his slender shape would suggest. Since the earliest possible point, Riptide has thrown himself into his training and unsurprisingly, his body has reaped the benefits of this, for every inch of Rip’s form is hard; his muscles wrapped firmly round the healthy bone supporting them. However, whilst these muscles are capable, they are by no means prominent and the strength of the young shaman remains subtle and somewhat delicate. Sure, the youth is definitely well-proportioned but this, his strength and his height all fail to save his body from looking decidedly androgynous; something which Riptide loathes to admit, taking great offence at comments regarding this fact.
Unlike his brother, his father, his mother and the long line of warriors that make up his ancestors, Riptide does not look physically intimidating or capable of destroying armies single-handedly but even so, the young shaman manages to look athletic in his own way, with a body more befitting of a dancer than any swordmaster of old. Riptide’s, hands, feet and nether regions are the only dramatically masculine elements of his form, all of which are slightly larger than average though not to the extent that they look oversized, or out of place against the rest of him. Rip’s strong feet provide ample support for the rest of his frame, ironically leading into the most feminine part of his appearance; his legs. Much to his chagrin, the shaman has legs that many women would kill for; long and slim, though carrying an understated power, Rip’s legs would suit the finest female warriors and this, the youth considers the smallest of mercies; at least they wouldn’t fit an anorexic twit-cum-supermodel. Thankfully, this strength doesn’t cease, evidenced as they curve upwards into a tight, high rear that’s all muscle and pleasing to the eye. The shaman’s hips are fairly narrow and though his shoulders are wider, the ‘V’ to Riptide’s frame is not something men of greater statures would envy. Nevertheless, Riptide’s abdomen does actually have a minor amount of definition to its credit and though he doesn’t exactly have the most evident of six-packs, the muscles are still there; clearly evident to the touch if not the sight. Rip’s pecs carry the same quality and the shaman’s back too, is undeniably firm; the latticework of muscle and sinew beneath just begging to be traced and memorised. Above, smooth shoulders that retain the dimensions set by the rest of his form with ease and beauty, gently arching over into exquisitely crafted arms, toughened by Riptide’s choice of weapon, though failing completely to match up to his too-damned-bloody-perfect brother’s. Naturally, the shaman prince wants a body more befitting of his social standings and is trying hard to improve his shape, not quite realising the strength it already holds and the fact that his metabolism would make ‘bulking up’ an extraordinarily difficult (and unnecessary) task to accomplish.
Considering how perfectly Riptide’s head and body match, it’s quite remarkable that Riptide’s distain for his slender shape hasn’t carried over in regards to his features. Quite the contrary in fact, though upon looking at the young prince’s handsome face, it’s not all too hard to see why Rip can’t bring himself to dislike it. The smoothly angular lines that form its composition and the makeup of its features are decidedly regal and undeniably attractive. From a clearly healthy hairline, Riptide’s forehead slopes slightly to meet his eyebrows and a smoothly angled jaw, with a firm, stubborn chin caps the ideal frame for his features. Providing a strong centrepiece for his face, is a long, straight and sharp nose that is a hereditary trait seen in almost all of the Deveroux line. To either side of this, devilishly high cheekbones hollow his cheeks dramatically, emphasising the exotic nature of the man’s appeal and leading back into well-formed, if sensitive, ears. Further down, lips of a tantalising rose shade form a beautiful mouth that is the most expressive of Riptide’s features; trembling when upset, the bottom lip nipped between teeth when nervous and naturally, curving into wry grins when amused. The Soul Breaker’s teeth are immaculately white and straight, though another trait of the Black Legionnaires, long sharpened canines, distract from other pleasantries and can easily look threatening, leading to many of the Black Legion, Riptide included, being mistaken for vampires on numerous occasions.
Sitting below a pair of high, deviously arched eyebrows are the most captivating eyes; Riptide’s personal favourite of his facial features. Dramatic and piercing, Rip’s eyes have the most oddly coloured iris. From a turquoise base, the colour moves into a deep seaweed green close the pupil and is outlined with a line of dark blue. If that wasn’t enough, flecks of violet and crimson are strewn into the mix though predictably, it is these, Rip’s favourites, that just have to be the only trait that he shares with his enviable peers. Everybody who has the blood of the Black Legion within their veins will have this, or a very similar colorant. Even stranger than the colours of his iris, is the fact that these shades can also be found within the long, thick eyelashes that beautifully frame the youth’s wide, bright eyes. Although predominantly black, the more vibrant colours are unmistakably there, contrasting sharply with the vicious darkness of the majority. To an extent, the Soul Breaker is as fond of this aspect as he is of the eyes themselves but say the word ‘mascara’ and suffer the consequences.
Against the outlandish allure of his eyes, Riptide’s hair has a lot to live up to and suffice to say, it really doesn’t. Unlike the colours of his iris, the shade of Rip’s hair is hardly glorious: it’s the dirtiest murky blue you ever saw; a depressing hue akin to a once magnificent lake now polluted into a mere shadow of its former glory. At the roots and the underlayers, the stands become a clearer, darker blue but this does nothing to redeem the more prominent colorant. Riptide hates it but considers dyes too much of an unnecessary hassle, having tried it once before with rather unfortunate results. However, that isn’t to say that everything about his hair is bad. It’s silky and wonderful to stroke, a true treat for the fingers and the Soul Breaker himself has a habit of toying with the longer locks, particularly when nervous, or in deep thought. Sadly, this is about all it offers for the style it has adopted is not exactly high fashion; it’s hardly a shimmering curtain of loveliness, streams of bouncy, shiny curls or even the sharper, more jagged cut that seems to be growing ever-more popular. Instead, Riptide’s hair falls to his shoulders in unruly wisps that, due to their thickness are a menace to tame. Not so long ago, the shaman believed that he could improve it with a better style; spending hours attempting to straighten it to decency. For a few weeks, this worked and Rip was even complimented on it a couple of times but this didn’t last. He quickly became sick of the whole, time-consuming process and unable to stick to the routine, he one more left it to do as it pleases which, truth-be-told is not that much of an unappealing look for him. The messy locks contort in completely random ways and enforce the edgy tone established by his angular facial features.
Due to the Black Legion’s current neutrality, the group hasn’t been to war in many years and for Riptide, this has meant that he hasn’t been subjected to horrors akin to those that brutally scared, maimed and even slaughtered his forefathers. Indeed, having recently outgrown the nasty complexion problems that plagued his early teenage years, the Soul Breaker’s skin is a near flawless expanse of smooth skin, tightly pulling over the beautiful, firm muscle beneath the surface. Its colour, a light, creamy hue, is maintained from a clear lack of sunlight but far from looking unhealthy, the colour gives Riptide the look of a fine, porcelain doll, though to a lesser extent of fragility. Naturally, there are a few defects, practice scars and accidents are unavoidable growing up and Rip certainly has he fair share but the lines here are faint and almost too pale to be noticeable, giving the shaman no trouble at all. The most prominent of these is unquestionably the lengthy line that runs near-parallel to his collarbone. This was a gift from Tempest, drawn on him during a volatile training session but as Riptide survived, neither Rip himself, nor his brother have any regrets.
In addition, the Black Legion’s affinity for tattoos, piercings, branding and even calving designs into the skin, is something that has had a strong influence over Riptide lately and as a result, most of the ‘blemishes’ upon his body aren’t exactly aesthetically displeasing. The first alteration to his body, were two tribal tattoos paid for by his father as a birthday gift; the first teases over his hips, ducking just below what would be considered decent and the other weaves complex patterns along the path of his spine. These are the simplest of Riptide’s tattoos and Riptide was quick to follow them up with a more individual (and painful) design which happened to come in the form of an extravagant compass star, positioned upon his left shoulder and enchanted to that it always points in the right direction but just like his tribal tattoos, these were glimpsed by few; all too often hidden beneath the Soul Breaker’s apparel. Riptide desired something a little more noticeable and chose a design that spanned most of his right arm to reflect this; the resulting barbs and razorwire that tangle from the very tips of the fingers all the way up to the middle of his bicep have been drawn in with the most astounding intricacy and care that it might be possible to think they were the real thing and this is indisputably best of the shaman’s tattoos. Well, at least in his opinion. However, these aren’t Riptide’s only ‘improvements’ to his body. The youth has several peircings to his name as well, the most obvious of being the eight that grace his ears. Five silver rings climb his right, decreasing in size as they travel upwards, upon his left sit two cartilage peircings (silver studs) and below lies a single lower piercing, from which a silver chain ending in a blue orb dangles almost to his shoulder. The others; the cross piecing of his right nipple, the hoop in his left and finally, the bar impaled through his navel tend to be unseen by the majority but Riptide is fond of them nevertheless and hopes to obtain more in the future.
From his bodily alterations, to his freakish eyes and wild hair, there is nothing at all that reflects Riptide’s personality as admirably as his movement. The young shaman moves with the grace of a wraith-like feline; a practiced, unfaltering and obvious steadiness that exudes elegance but carries a darker side, that wraith like quality, which lends to his step an unfavourable, ominous air. The Soul Breaker can’t help but have an odd ghostly manner in his motions, making it seem as if his grace isn’t quite earned and therefore, doesn’t rightly belong to him. This is likely a result of his shamanism, for thanks to this, Riptide has become a beacon for the dead and it’s quite possible that a good number will have taken to lurking around him. Riptide’s mannerisms seem to have become a compensation mechanism; his gestures wide to make him appear bigger and used often, ridding his aura of any stoicism it might have carried otherwise. Interestingly, his unearthly grace carried nicely over into the battlefield and gives him the oddest element to his attacks, making it appear as if the youth is continually pushing himself beyond what he is capable of and often, this proves a fairly intimidating trait.
The few that dare to doubt or ponder over Riptide’s gender are quickly and concisely silenced when the eighteen year old speaks. The deep, rich tones to his voice leave little room for the offending accusations concerning his sex for they could only belong to a man. Its tone extraordinarily low and the masculinity that oozes from his voice seems at odds with the androgyny captured within the rest of him. Just as with his motions, his voice doesn’t completely fit; seeming beyond what he should be capable of and making him sound positively chilling for much of the time. In truth, it would be so easy for him to slip into a monotonous drawl but gratifyingly this is not the case and the Soul Breaker’s vocals remain superbly in tune to his emotions. Unfortunately, this doesn’t always work out as whenever he’s happy, or particularly amused, he sounds threatening, like the torture-happy jailer ready to have some fun and when aiming to be seductive, he sounds downright predatory, as if he’d have his way with you no matter how much you protested or screamed against it. Curiously, Riptide’s diction is remarkably dissimilar from his peers for whilst he has a good vocabulary of common slang, for some reason he doesn’t slur his words, or speak as fast as those close to his age. Even with the simplest, slurred contractions, ‘dunno’ for example, it seems as if the shaman is forcing the word to leave his lips and this seems out of place, as if Riptide is parodying himself. He doesn’t swear much either, though he has nothing against those who do. Surprisingly, when the Soul Breaker sings, he can silence even the rowdiest bund of ingrates. He hits every note perfectly with control and power that even the most legendary vocalists would envy but my, Riptide sounds terrifying when he sings, easily instigating a powerful fear that grips a person right to the very marrow of their bones. Still, in certain rock or metal groups, such an element could be seen as a strong advantage, helping to shift many a record of the shelves, not that Rip would ever turn himself into a performer.
The final aspect of Riptide’s appearance, his attire, has little variation to its credit for when younger, the Soul Breaker found a style he liked and has stuck with it since. As indicated by the youth’s dark brown and well-worn hiking boots, Rip is clearly concerned with the more practical side of things. His pants too, reflect this attitude; dark (usually black) and of a soft, yet durable material, they are tight enough to be comfortable and easy to move in but loose enough so as they don’t show the irritating feminine shape of his legs. It’s rare to see the young shaman with a sleeved top, for some reason Riptide avoids them like the plague, preferring simpler designs made from natural fibres. The Soul Breaker’s preferred shirt is a light blue cotton top that used to be a fairly nice shirt but has had the sleeves and the high collar torn from it in an obviously amateurish way that has left the poor garment frayed at all edges. As for accessories, the youth is never seen without ‘The Glove of a Mother’s Love’ (detailed in items), a number of silver bracelets on either arm (more on the right) or a pair of tinted sunglasses to put an end to the annoying questions about his unusual eyes.
(Very) Detailed Personality: Initially, Riptide appears to be nothing short of arrogant. He never seems to be affected by anything around him and presents himself with the most off-putting air of impassiveness but this is merely a façade designed to mask his shortcomings because to let his oppressors know how effective they were would only be showing yet another weakness. The Soul Breaker hides so much, for after years of being ostracised for being smaller and unable to push his body to the heights reached by his peers, Riptide has come to view himself as his kinsfolk do: as the runt of the Black Legion; something that deserves to be ridiculed. This sad self-perception has left the youth deeply ashamed of the attractive, slender form the gods gifted him with, seeing only its physical deficiencies and wishing desperately that he could look, and be, more like his powerful elder brother. This inability to accept his faults has caused Riptide himself to become prejudiced against the weak, especially the happy weak, who do nothing to improve themselves yet remain undeservedly content all the same. These people, the Soul Breaker views as little more than a disease and he is convinced that they hinder Althanas’ very evolution; their mere existence stopping the world developing into a stronger place. Riptide honestly believes that the man maimed for his timepiece and the woman overpowered on her stairs have only their own feebleness to blame for their misfortunes for like the rest of the Black Legion, the spirit mage has faith in the survival of the fittest and has no time, or mercy, for the defeated.
Considering this, it’s understandable that the young shaman lusts to be able to prove himself worthy, to show those who segregated him that he is capable of great things. However, Riptide is all too aware that to achieve his ambitions, he can’t sit back and rely on Lady Luck’s good favour; he knows that he must earn his strength but fearing failure and the alienation he knows to come with it, Riptide has become focused completely on this desire to become more powerful and would willingly sacrifice another’s happiness for his own, personal gain. In the Soul Breaker’s opinion, anything is worth losing if it means that the people of his homeland will cease seeing him as something lesser than themselves. A person, a town, a country; none of it matters in the face of goals and this has led him to distort his beautiful magic: to take its innocence and rape it with a vivid maliciousness. For far from healing the soul and aiding the dead, Riptide seeks to harvest the spirits’ energies, to break the deceased to his whims and all to reach his own, selfish ends. Naturally, the dead show equal cruelty in return; haunting him, taunting him and generally trying to cause him pain and anguish and whilst the Soul Breaker’s power-hungry, turbulent aura is enough to drive away most of the gentle-natured spirits that might hope to aid him, it does nothing to deter his more malevolent stalkers and the shaman can but dream of being able to banish his ethereal tormenters, or act out his revenge.
As the words of the wicked dead bite at every corner of his mind, Riptide is only made more determined and travels Althanas with a potent fervour, looking for things to aid him on his quest of self improvement. However, Rip’s ambitions are made ever harder to reach by the fact that for eighteen years, the shaman’s life experience was limited to the war-inspired culture of his homeland and having spent only five months beyond the Black Legion’s territory, the Soul Breaker hasn’t had enough time to familiarise himself with every aspect of an entirely new, outlandish way of life. No matter how hard he tries to learn the ways of the masses, Rip continues to misunderstand the most basic interactions. For instance, the first time a pretty girl smiled at him, Riptide knocked her out; interpreting the baring of her teeth as a serious threat and reacting instinctively. Fortunately (and somewhat unfortunately too), Riptide has no hesitation in questioning the things he doesn’t understand but having never having heard of the word ‘subtle’ and lacking any semblance of shame or modesty, Riptide addresses every subject in the same crude and concise manner. This has led to some awful moments, as to a regular Althanian, Riptide’s demeanour is highly offensive and incredibly rude and often the young shaman’s queries will get him barred from public places, or sometimes even beaten as a result. Sadly, no one ever bothers to point out what it is that Riptide is doing wrong and the poor youth is left wondering why so many people act so hostile towards him.
However, this does not even begin to scrape the surface of the problem for there is just so much that the young shaman cannot fathom yet easily the most problematic of these troublesome areas is the way Althanians handle their emotions. You see, Riptide was brought up in a manner that narrowly channelled most feelings; pride pertaining only to victory, passion welcome only in battle and compassion and pity groomed out completely, for in warfare, there is no place for either. Sorrow too, is something Riptide feels, but sees in a different light; an impulsive reaction to the loss of an asset, such as a good sword, or a powerful ally and something that should pass quickly. Rip just doesn’t understand why people would grieve over their fallen relatives or friends, though in truth, the shaman has yet to feel such loss himself, having never had that powerful of an attachment to anyone. Such deep emotional bonds are not established within the Black Legion and family, friends and rivals are all judged based on how well they fight; kin or not, those with noticeable weakness, be it physical or emotional, are viewed as lesser for it. This aside, Riptide, like any creature is certainly capable of feeling most emotions yet he is far from being able to recognise them for what they. This provides him with his deepest conflict of all, for the Soul Breaker doesn’t know how to deal with most of what he feels and refusing to show his inability to cope, Riptide struggles internally with his emotions, particularly the feeling of regret. He suffers.
There is one emotion that comes across easily in the youth’s day-to-day interactions; his sheer impatience. If someone doesn’t answer his inquiry within a set amount of time, Riptide will presume them stupid and deem them unworthy of his presence, leaving them alone to ponder over just what kind of simple freak he is. In addition, Riptide can’t stand timewasters, his own directness conflicting too much with those who ramble and ramble about their day, the weather, or anything else superfluous and inconsequential to the Soul Breaker. These people, as well as those who try to sell him items he doesn’t need or want, Rip will growl at, and if they do not heed this warning, he will hit them. To say that Riptide doesn’t deal well with his temper would be the understatement of the millennia. His natural aggression, the fact that the Black Legion welcomes this volatile nature and the effects of his dear Glove of a Mother’s Love, all combine within him, creating a cocktail of vicious anger that lies in wait for those unfortunate enough to irritate the youth. Having never been taught the ways of verbally reconciling with someone, or how to avoid conflict, the young shaman sees violence as the only way to release his wrath, stress and vexation. If a casual comment hits too close to home, if someone insults him (as they often do) or simply if the Soul Breaker grows too impatient, it’s more than likely that he will attack. Riptide sees combat as the solution to all problems, even the smallest and stupidest of disputes (‘that glass is red’, ‘no it’s not, its orange’) and can’t help but fall into brawls left, right and centre.
In truth, Rip really needs someone to talk to, a therapist, or a friend but the young Shaman refuses to open up, possessing the typical Black Legion mentality that relying on others to give you solutions is a sign of weakness. As such, friendship is another concept lost on Riptide. In Arx Talon, there are few forms of relationships, most of which are centred on respect for those who excel in combat skills and to the shaman, ‘friendship’ translates quite curtly as ‘alliances’, meaning people that would stand beside you in battle. Nothing more, nothing less. Naturally, to make allies, a certain amount of courtesy is required, perhaps even a slight fondness (it’s a lot easier to defend someone you don’t dislike) but nothing more than that. To Riptide, a friend is essentially someone who agrees with you for the majority of the time and who will back you on your decisions, not someone to care for, or help in personal matters and certainly not someone you’d throw your life away for. Even so, Rip has difficulty forming these alliances, let alone a fully-fledged friendship, as having endured the cruelty of others for a good portion of his life, the shaman finds it hard to lay his trust in people. He is wary of almost everyone he meets and hates not knowing their real intentions towards him, again finding himself wishing for an element of his brother; his telepathy.
Nevertheless, this misconception of friendship is nothing when compared to Riptide’s total inability to comprehend romantic and sexual relationships. You see, the people of the Black Legion will only feel arousal towards one person during their entire lifetime and only after their souls are irreversibly linked together in a spirit union. Understandably, having never had an erection in his life and thus, having never even masturbated, let alone had actual intercourse, the eighteen year old has an incredibly limited knowledge of sex though in truth, most of this so-called-knowledge is incorrect anyway and would probably be humorous to those who heard it. Still, even without the capacity, or desire, for sexual relations, an outsider might think it possible for the shaman to at least engage in a purely romantic relationship but this is not the case. ‘Love’ and ‘romance’ aren’t even in the Black Legion’s vocabulary, replaced by concepts like pride, or respect and even in spirit unions, the most intimate of all bonds, participants choose their partners not for companionship, but based on how powerful they are and how well the couple can fight together. If Rip ever was to develop deep affections for a person, it’s likely that he would see it as a weakness in himself, something that lowered his defences and caused him to behave irrationally, and feel deeply ashamed as a result.
Perhaps Riptide’s most closely guarded secret and definitely something that the Soul Breaker would never admit aloud is the fact that he is totally illiterate. Having been dyslexic as a child, Rip was behind in languages from the offset and as those around him began to learn how to form readable handwriting, write their names and construct eloquent sentences, Riptide’s mental barrier grew stronger and the youth was left unable to differentiate between the letters, let along structure a continuous piece of prose. All the same, the youth managed to pass the class with flying colours by learning to form ‘RIP’ at the top of his page and discretely copying the bright boy who sat next to him. In the years since, the Soul Breaker has managed to craft himself a flourishing signature that is more of a pattern of squiggles than anything legible but he is proud all the same. Even so, the young shaman finds everyday life hard because of his disability. Rip can’t make sense of directions where place names are mentioned and if a shop has darkened windows, he finds it impossible to figure out whether they stock what he needs. Worst of all, the young shaman cannot read a book and this plagues his mind most of all as he is convinced that were he to spend half a day in a library, reading manuscripts and stories, he’d be able to relate to Althanas much better than he can. In addition, he worries about what his father might link of Rip’s unavoidable lack of response to his letters.
To compensate for this, a young Riptide turned his focus to drawing and through practice he gradually developed a certain skill with a pencil. At his current level, Rip’s drawings are nothing short of astounding; he is able to create the most detailed and accurate depictions of his surroundings and carries a small sketchpad with him on his travels. This, the shaman uses as a substitute for a written journal and every town, or interesting thing that catches his eye, Rip will sit and draw. However, the most elaborate and time consuming of his works show not the real world, but something else entirely; a fantasy of his own creation. Here, the Soul Breaker is a hero, a legend and the more revered person alive and this is the reason nobody every sees his art for whilst his pride begs for him to display his wonderful images, the fact that they are so personal causes the youth to hold back.
History: Deep in the subterranean city of Arx Talon, over eighteen years ago, the High General fell into her second labour. At twenty-two, most outsiders would have thought her a little young, at sixteen, they surely would have thought her mate far too young but in truth, Crescent Rousseau, Sin the Desecrator, just wanted to get her childbearing out of the way before she hit her prime. She had never really wanted children, they were an inconvenience and a hindrance to training but she understood that as the High General, it was her duty to produce heirs, so that her line could continue and the Black Legion’s leadership would remain undivided. Her first child, Bellamy, now just over a year, had already been sent off to be raised and already showed excellent potential but this second child was everything Sin had wanted to avoid. Here, held above the water of the shallow pool Sin lay in, was the tiniest baby boy she had ever seen. It was bad enough that he was a boy for she had one of them already and the number of men in Arx Talon was almost three times that of the women but to see this tiny, tiny thing that had come out of her… well, it just made her embarrassed. How could she and her mate, descended from legends, ever have had a mismatch of genes? God, how could she have ever given birth to such a runt?!
She called him ‘Mallory’ because it meant ‘ill-fated’ and if nothing else; the delicate being was certainly that.
Without even hesitating to hold the babe, Sin sent her newborn son away to join his brother Bellamy Rousseau in the deepest depths of their underground city; The Houses of Upbringing. For the first five years of his life, Mallory was raised by randomly selected men and women who would serve a year, or half, of raising the children before scurrying off back to full-time training. They didn’t want to waste their time on such fragile creatures and Mallory, like all the other children who lived with him, quickly learnt that getting attached was never good. Often, groups of fifty or more youths were lined up in cots in a single, small room and to stop them all becoming friends, the children were rotated around every other week. It was harsh and by the time Mallory was sent back to Sin and Mason, he was as cold as they were, if not more so. At only five years old, tiny Mallory Devereux meant nothing to anyone and no one meant anything to him. His parents least of all for they cared nothing for him. With the taller, stronger, superior Bellamy, already top of his class in well, everything, they had little use for Mallory who was probably the weakest legionnaire to be born in the past century.
Eager to be rid of such a burden, Sin and Mason enrolled Mallory into full-time training at the earliest possible opportunity yet with his small, slender body, Mal was barely able to hold the weapons they gave him, let alone use them with skill. Every element of his classes was designed for taller, stronger people and Mallory’s own frame just wasn’t capable of the manoeuvres his peers were beginning to learn. In the wider world, there’s no doubt that the skills and tricks Mal came to know so soon in his life, would have set him apart in a positive way yet in the cold tunnels of Arx Talon, they were nothing and were easily countered by those with more power and control. All too quickly, Mallory came to be seen as a weak link in an otherwise unstoppable army, or as something to be kept from battle and pitied. Surrounded by the mentality that only the those with power are worth anything, Mallory came to believe that everything said about him was true; that he was useless and unworthy. The final kick to any pride he might have taken in himself was when, Sin tore her child from training to save herself from further embarrassment, and dumped him on her younger brother; Gervase Rousseau; Fury the Malevolent.
Fury was a vicious man, unmerciful and brutal. He abused his own son and his soulmate when they didn’t comply with his wishes but he could do nothing to Mallory. Sin would never forgive him if he humiliated her child as such humiliation would only fall back on her; Fury was scared of Sin’s wrath and so, whilst he virtually maimed his mate and child, Mallory would sit in the corner and watch. The youth, by now only seven, now saw what happened to the weak yet neither Tella, nor Blaise were as weak as Mal himself. He began to wonder over his future; would this happen to him? God, he hoped not because deep in his heart, Mallory knew that if his uncle ever turned on him, there was no way he’d be able to get up from it like Tella and Blaise constantly managed too. His own body could never take it and soon, Mallory was doing everything he could to stay on his uncle’s good side. He learned to cook and clean and sew and do everything useful around the house but this only served to make Fury harsher on his own immediate family and he beat them harder for not being as useful as his ‘sister’s runt’.
Blaise soon gained a position within the main army, a prestigious honour and Mallory learnt that Blaise now outranked his father but the beatings still continued. Mallory couldn’t see why his cousin didn’t just deck Fury; it seemed like the best way to solve the problem and get the man off his back. Eventually, Mallory confronted Blaise on the matter and sure enough, the next time Fury tried to strike his son, Blaise fought back but after years of taking hit after hit from this man, Blaise’s thirst, his need for vengeance burned too strongly. Sydney Rousseau, Blaise the Ever Ready fought back with such ferocity that his father died from his wounds and consequently, his mother too was pulled into the afterlife. Blaise though, couldn’t bring himself to care and in that, Mallory saw true strength yet for some reason that Mallory couldn’t comprehend, his bright and powerful cousin felt indebted to him. When Mallory was out of the house, Blaise would fend off those who ridiculed him, around the house he would help out with the chores Mallory had become accustomed to doing and once he had even fought off Bellamy in Mal’s name. If Mallory had known the word, or what it meant, he might have said that he came to love his cousin but as it was, Mal just felt confused over why Blaise would ever want to protect his pathetic, little cousin.
Mallory was eight when it happened. They said it was an accident but wary and withdrawn Mallory could never take them at their word. He had been asleep though, when his cousin’s house had been stuck and thus, there was no proof either way. Accident or murder; Mal would never know. It was late in the night and both Blaise and Mallory had retired to sleep but something had knocked into the house, something invisible but forceful all the same and suddenly, the rock from which the house had been carved began to crack and the building began to collapse in on itself. Without wasting time, the awakened Mallory fled down the stairs and raced to the door, only to find that it was blocked off. Within a moment, Blaise was beside him and began to move the rubble that blocked their path. Mallory did what he could to help but soon, the hole Blaise had created was big enough for him to crawl through and Blaise shoved him to safety before he had even had recovered breath enough to protest. Blaise himself had never made it out and with great reluctance, Mallory’s birthparents had been forced to take him back into their home.
Now housed within the large and luxurious fortress-like home of the High General, Mal’s treatment returned to normality. That’s is to say, instead of serving his parents like a maid as he had with his uncle and cousin, Mallory was thrust back into training and once again, found himself the joke of the Black Legion. This time however, Mallory was determined to improve himself. No longer content to be seen as something lesser and with no one left to defend him, Mallory thrust himself into his training and spent all his spare time practicing and inquiring about styles better suited to his form. Slowly, Mallory raised himself from the bottom of the class yet not by much and although Sin was happy that her son wasn’t totally powerless, she was never proud; Mallory was still very close to the bottom after all. Instead, Sin and Mason focused on their better son, Bellamy who was already leading the field for his age group. Calculating and efficient, Bellamy had developed into the prefect child, a perfect little killer and Mallory couldn’t help but wish that he could be like his elder brother and that someone might see something of value within him.
For two years, nothing changed. Mallory was still weak, still idolising his brother whilst Sin and Mason declared how fantastic their beautiful Bellamy was. For Bellamy however, the most important event of his life up until that moment was about to take place and he was scared. Mal, having spent two years observing fear in the features of his aunt and cousin, knew the sight well but said nothing and let Bellamy deal with his emotions in his own way. This, however, was a mistake for when Bellamy Devereux’s latent power was awakened, he found himself unable to control it. Voices surrounded him, everywhere, every little thought, sunk within his own mind, for of all the powers Bellamy had prepared for, telepathy had not been one of them and poor Bellamy almost lost his own mind with the confusion induced by everyone else’s. Mallory watched him break down and something within him liked the idea that his precious brother wasn’t so perfect after all.
It took Bellamy the best part of a year to grow accustomed to his new power and for most of that year, he was isolated. He developed mental shields, probes and other mind-manipulation techniques yet with the ability to know everyone so deeply, Bellamy grew more distant, more stoic and was even crueller towards his opponents. He saw something in the legionnaires that he didn’t like and any mercy he might have had was erased from his system completely. Instead of happily finishing his adversaries quickly, Bellamy, or rather, Tempest the Soul Seer as he had now become, toyed with them. He ran rings around them for now he knew every assault they would make, the instant the thought appeared in their heads. Mallory watched with poorly hidden envy; his brother was now absolutely everything that Mal himself could ever dream of becoming yet even with the insane training regime that Mallory had set himself, he could do little. He lived in hope though, for Bellamy’s awakening had turned him into a demi-god; perhaps Mallory’s own would do the same for him?
Unfortunately, Mallory already knew his gift, Blaise had helped him to realise that those voices he heard were the dead and poor Mallory had no idea how this gift was supposed to be of any benefit. For five years, he had denied his cousin’s knowledge and prayed to Hromagh to give him the strength he so desperately wanted but Hromagh was known for his brutality and when the time of Mal’s own awakening dawned, the ceremony only confirmed what he had feared; his cousin was right all along. His parents were extremely disappointed, like Mallory, they saw no benefits in talking with the dead for how did that really help anyone kill? No child had ever been cursed as badly as Mallory; even those with little physical strength always seemed to get magic enough to balance themselves out but no, poor Mal had nothing but a new name; Riptide the Soul Breaker but he was far from living up to it. His fighting skill was mediocre at best, his magical ‘talents’ would gain him no favours and against the backdrop of the High General, General and their prodigal son, he was completely useless. People began to ridicule him further and due to the Black Legion’s idea that such mockery was beneficial, Riptide could do nothing but cry, alone in the shadows.
Then, everything changed. Unbeknownst to Rip, there had been an alliance between the Black Legion and the largest of the demonic tribes of the Anyon isles that had stood with fragility since the day it had been signed, fourteen years ago but now peace was over. A hunting accident had claimed the lives of two legionnaires and the only way to repay the gift of death, was with more death. Sin, violent and bloodthirsty had been waiting for this, like her mate, she lived for the thrill of battle and for the victory that would surely come afterwards. Riptide didn’t need his brother’s telepathy to see that she had been waiting for the demons to slip up. However, there was a problem, for peace fourteen years ago had come at a price. A female demon had been bound to a male legionnaire and two children, Rex, now fourteen and Regina, now eleven, had been produced from it. The Black Legionnaires were reluctant to killing those of their blood but Sin wouldn’t allow mercy and wanted only one prisoner from the entire group. She wanted Asmodeus Daeva, the greatest arms creator that she had ever heard of and someone whose talents would be highly beneficial to Arx Talon’s society. Briefly, Riptide had wondered, whether all of this was for the sake of getting Asmodeus. Tempest had glanced to him then, with a wary eye and warned him telepathically that the answers to those questions weren’t worth knowing.
Dawn broke and the Black Legion charged into Iscariot like a great plague, leaving unmerciful death and devastation in their wake. Unnatural, freezing fires swarmed the city, suffocated it in a blanket of smoke and ash and spread, spurred onwards by the will of a legionnaire whose kill count would undoubtedly be the highest of the night. Even Riptide, abandoned by his zealous, bloodthirsty parents had found that the smaller, cowering demons were pitifully easy to slay. Governed by fear, most ran and hid at the sight of his uniform and as the adrenaline rocketed through his bloodstream, Riptide found himself honestly relishing in the pandemonium. His mother was right; this was what they were made for and oh, were they ever good at it.
Grinning, Riptide launched himself onto the back of a fleeing demon and drove his dagger so deeply into the thing’s throat that it pierced right through and came to rest against the pale flesh of Rip’s own neck. An inch to the right and he’d have done himself in but Rip hadn’t the time to contemplate his luck. Another charged for him, swinging an eerily glowing sword in a diagonal arc that sent Riptide staggering to his right in a clumsy evasion. Damn. This beast was better than him. A gunner to his right swiftly blasted into action too and Riptide was barely given time to duck out of range before the first was upon him again. This time though, Rip simply wasn’t quick enough and the demon’s sword raked through his side, sending a shower of bright crimson arching through the air and robbing Riptide of his balance. He crashed to the floor.
At least, if he died like this, he’d have something to be proud of.
Casually, the gunner moved up to join his blood soaked companion and aimed the barrels of his weapon right between Rip’s eyes but Riptide didn’t react. He almost snorted at the look on the demon’s face; obviously, he’d expected Rip to beg for mercy and the young Soul Breaker rolled his eyes. They knew of the Black Legion’s ways and they didn’t expect the tutors there to teach their pupils how to die right? Idiots.
Suddenly, Riptide felt himself doused in a shower of warm, black blood. Both demons had been skewered through the neck simultaneously and as the Soul Breaker met his brother’s gaze he saw something there that he’d seen in Blaise, something he couldn’t place and then, as abruptly as he’d appeared, Tempest vanished.
Haphazardly, Riptide pushed himself to his feet. Dazed and confused but with enough sense to be wary, he glanced around. There was no one in the immediate vicinity and with a sigh, Rip bent and grabbed his second assailant’s gun. His mother had given orders to salvage these weapons; there was always the chance that Daeva would be killed in this madness and then where would they be? Nowhere without these things. Instinctively, Rip griped the thing’s handle, his index finger coiling so naturally around the trigger. It was so tempting… but no, his mother had ordered him not to and he wasn’t so stupid as to defy her.
A shrill scream pierced the air, louder than those he heard everywhere else. Whoever it was – or whoever it had been – had to be close and back in the mood to kill, Riptide abandoned stealth for speed and launched himself in the direction of the sound. A second scream, this time male and Riptide twisted to the right, unbalancing himself in his enthusiasm but recovering quickly. He vaulted past stacked corpses and paid them no heed, failing to notice their garb before it was too late.
Riptide the Soul Breaker violently skidded to a halt three feet from the most fearsome creature he’d seen all night. Here, stood proudly before him was a demon nigh on eight feet, a creature of porcelain skin and blackened veins that wrapped like lightning around his arms, over his heaving chest. Wild orange hair spewed from his head as if the mane of a wild lion and deep and glittering black eyes burned through the Soul Breakers wide, terrified gaze with a predatory precision. However, it was the flickering symbiotic blade, glowing with red demonic runes upon the creature’s right arm and the massive cannon that had been grafted upon his left that really drove dread into his heart. Sadistically, the thing grinned. Nearly all of his teeth were as sharp as a vampire’s and against this, the eleven-year-old Riptide knew for a fact that he’d never survive.
This was Asmodeus Daeva; his mother’s precious boon. Did she really know what she was asking for?
“You’re-“
“Yeah, kid.” Asmodeus interjected, grin still in place. His voice was a fragmented growl, his own panting interfering with his diction. Hmm, funny the things you noticed when you were about to die. “Yeah.” The demon repeated with a finality he hadn’t managed before.
There was a whirring sound and Riptide’s eyes practically jumped from his skull at the sight of the demon’s cannon readying itself. He watched as the pieces fell into place, the majority weighted on the creature’s lower arm. He watched as eight black metal talons shot from its underside and twitching, prepared to sink into Asmodeus’ veins. What for? Rip didn’t know, nor did he want to find out but he’d wasted the chance to run. Not that he’d have had much of a chance even then. Not against this thing. Daeva raised his arm, supported it with his right and aimed it square at the tiny engúrel.
“I almost pity you.” The Soul Breaker almost choked in surprise; the last thing he’d expected was a death speech. “You’re so fuckin’ young. Almost makes me sick to do this but there you are, drenched in the blood of my brothers and y’just don’t care. Every one of these gits here,” black eyes darted around their surroundings, indicating to the positively insane amount of engúrel corpses, “every one, I’m gonna remember, but you and your sick, murderous kin, you ain’t gonna remember a single face. Notta one. This isn’t for anything but pride-“
“It’s for you.” Riptide spoke. Asmodeus had weaknesses, emotional weaknesses all the same but Rip only had to look into his eyes for more than a second to see the pain. Daeva hadn’t yet decided whether or not to kill him. For that, Rip was glad but Daeva had not expected the youth to answer him at all- let alone say something so cutting. Something that could very well make the demon’s decision a whole lot easier on his conscience.
“What?!” Asmodeus seethed and the symbiotic metal that surrounded his supporting arm began to rewrite the runes upon itself. Rip was sure that if he could read them, he wouldn’t like what they were saying.
“I- Th-That is, my mother…” Rip trailed off and one of the cannon’s talons drew all to close to the demons flexing vein. “She wants your w-weaponry. She wants you to make things… like that,” Rip cautiously nodded towards the cannon attached to the creature’s arm.
Stunned, the redheaded devil drew back and lowered his arms to his sides but Rip didn’t run. He wasn’t going to take that risk, not when the odds were so heavily stacked against him.
“You’re telling me that all of this- that my parents, my lover, my fucking daughter and… everyone else… that they all died so that I’d make a few H.K.R.s for mommy dearest?!!” The demon was furious now; he could barely string a coherent sentence together from the intensity of it. Riptide was beginning to regret not running.
“She’s not dear to me.”
“Y’know what?” Asmodeus shot back with a bitterness: “I can really understand why.”
The redhead drew close to him, a gleam in his eyes that Rip had once seen in his cousin’s; when he finally beat his father bloody. Quietly, in a soft, almost purr of a growl, the demon muttered something that might have been ‘an eye for an eye’ but could have been something else entirely and then, he lunged. The symbiotic blade in his arm shifting as he did so, into something horrific, something that looked like twisted, broken glass and burned with such heat that Riptide could feel it before it even touched his skin. Had the swipe connected, Mallory Devereux, Riptide the Soul Breaker, would have been so dead that he might possibly have never been born. As it was, someone intervened. There was a clash of metal but when Riptide looked up, expecting to be staring back into his brother’s eyes for the second time that night, he found only blackness, as consuming and as overbearing as Asmodeus Daeva’s own eyes had been.
“Rex.”
Riptide knew the name. It was the name given to the half-breed, the final bargaining chip lain upon the table of peace but Rex Del’Antara was not built for peace. At fourteen, he stood almost seven feet and held in his hands a zweihandler that was covered in runes akin to Daeva’s. His hair was as black as his veins and absorbed more light than it reflected. Rex pressed his blade to the back of Asmodeus’ throat and with no choice but to surrender or die, Daeva dropped his stance and submitted. Something in Riptide believed that there was more to the action; Asmodeus was bigger and stronger after all and his weapons too, looked more advanced. There was just something about his surrender that didn’t quite fit with his rage.
“I don’t want to kill you, Azzy, I won’t and you know it. But him right there-” He stared at Rip, who quickly dropped his own gaze to the oh-so interesting floor. “-you ain’t killing him. He’s Tempest’s brother. You’ll leave him alone.”
With a swiftness Rip himself could never manage, Rex moved around Asmodeus and to defend him but Riptide couldn’t concentrate on anything but Rex’s words. Rex knew Tempest but more than that, Daeva seemed to as well. How? Why? What had Tempest ever done for Rex that gave the youth such a desire to defend anything related to him? And how did Tempest get away without angering the redhead so keen on killing? God, it was confusing… was his brother a traitor?
Whatever it was, it saved Rex’s life. Whilst his parents and sister were flayed alive, Rex stood on the sidelines, beside Tempest. He remained silent throughout the whole proceedings and he didn’t look away once; in that, he passed Sin’s test but she failed his and when he drew closer to Tempest, Rip could see the distain stamped all over her face. Whatever had saved Rex life, condemned his family and had given him the desire to protect Rip, his mother hated so much that it sickened her to the core and had given her the incentive to lower herself to spite and malice. It was a week before Riptide discovered his brother had bound himself to Rex in soul. By then, his mother had come to terms with it. She now saw in Rex a third son, better at fighting than even Tempest and with Rex around, training and healthy, Asmodeus was given an incentive to work for her. Yes, Sin soon saw that the positives far outweighed the negatives and yet she remained unhappy that her best son couldn’t pass on his genes. Naturally, that meant that it was Riptide’s duty to carry on his line for Sin would be furious if both the Rousseau and Devereux lines collapsed. It was far too much for a normal eleven year old to take on and almost instantly, Sin began to interview potential soulmates for her son with Riptide nervously waiting in the background, silently planning an escape.
At fourteen, Riptide was introduced to the girl named Sever. He’d almost laughed aloud; ‘Rip and Sever’, huh? Had his mother picked her just for her name? Riptide certainly wasn’t going to put it past her though it was more likely to be for her second name. His mother always had valued good blood. Still, Rip knew from the moment he set eyes on her, that Sever wasn’t for him. She was taller, stronger and faster but he’d expect that; it was the simple look of her, the way she looked at him, as if she’d just love to eat him alive. It was obvious she had her own reasons for joining with him and in the coldest, harshest voice that Riptide could manage, he told his mother ‘No’. Sever had smirked then, moved to behind him and out of sight. It made Rip nervous but he refused to show it and stared back at his mother with more defiance than he’d ever even dreamed of showing prior. She’d never forgive him. Riptide didn’t care. A talk with Tempest had set his mind at ease and he continued, telling his mother that he was leaving and that when he returned, she’d have something to be proud of. Sever asked him then, whether or not he’d join with her when he returned and Riptide responded that he honestly didn’t know.
His mother had told him one thing; one single, nonsensical thing; “In the ruined temple, head west.”
Inventory:
(Left) Glove of a Mother’s Love
Description – The Gloves of a Mother’s Love are crafted from a midnight blue silk, reach high up the arm, almost to the shoulder and have three silver buttons on the inner side above the elbow, for decoration more than ease or comfort. The wearer of the gloves finds that those they are upset with, or those that do them wrong, the gloves will refuse to touch. In addition, the more serious the offence against the wearer, the angrier the gloves will be. Effectively, this alters the thought pattern of those who don them, making them more bloodthirsty, emphasising their anger and rendering them more likely to follow their instincts than those without. The glove that Riptide wears, the left, is the more uncontrollable of the two, due to the damage that it has incurred. Currently, the fingertips are missing and the buttons have long since been lost. Riptide wears a long, simple black glove beneath it, for vanities sake.
Origin – Passed down through the Devereux family, these gloves were given to Riptide and Tempest when Tempest turned eight with Riptide getting the damaged one. The glove’s story however, goes far further back than one could imagine.
Link – N/A
Band of the Black Legion
Description – The Black Legion, to mark themselves apart from others wear a simple, thin silver ring with a single wisp of onyx inlaid through the centre of the band. This onyx glows a faint blue when identical bands are in close proximity (500ft). As the Black Legion’s existence has drifted into the realms of myth there are very few outsiders who would have a hope in hell of recognising the significance of the ring and thus, Riptide has no reservations in wearing it in plain view.
Origin – Given to Riptide at his awakening, as is traditional.
Link – N/A
Legends of the Heart and Soul
Description – Legends of the Heart and Soul, written by Asher Astley, is a book containing many of incantations and secrets pertaining to spirit magic and shamanism. It’s an old book and incredibly heavy too, with over a hundred chapters to it’s name. Its cover is black leather and its parchment is thick and bound together using an old, but tried method that has stood the test of time. Naturally, with Riptide being illiterate, the youth is unable to read even a single word and were it not for the incredibly leap in magical development that took place post his soulbound brother reading two-and-a-half-chapters to him, Riptide would have sold it by now. As it is, the youth has kept the book, aware of the knowledge he could be throwing away should he forsake it.
Origin – A gift to Riptide on his sixteenth birthday; Riptide’s parents hoped to make their physically inferior son into a magical prodigy. They have yet to be impressed by the results.
Link – N/A
Three Healing Potions
Description – Riptide carries three small glass bottles, containing a aqua coloured healing liquid. This liquid, has the power to heal quite serious wounds, though as it has to be poured onto the wound, it hasn’t the power to heal the more deadly, internal wounds. In addition, it works quite slowly, so there’s always the possibility of the injured party bleeding to death before the potion has a chance to take effect.
Origin – Before leaving Arx Talon, Riptide wisely chose to visit one of the more proficient potions masters of the Black Legion. The potions master, after hearing how Riptide was going to risk his neck in Althanas to improve his power, sympathised and gave Riptide three of his standard healing potions.
Link – N/A
Spare Clothes and a Bag for Them
Description – Riptide has a small, black bag which is large enough only to fit in his spare garments. His first outfit is almost identical to that of his main (listed in the ‘Detailed Appearance’ section of this application) but his second is a little more extravagant, being of a better quality material and having silver and gold threads woven along the seams in a strange, somewhat randomised pattern. Although Rip never really seems to wear this outfit, he does take care of it as these garments are the only items of value that Riptide took from his luxurious home back in Arx Talon.
Origin – Riptide new he’s need spare clothes, so he packed two sets and wore a third. Simple as.
Link – N/A
Abilities:
Although Riptide is swift to label himself a shaman, in truth, he has very little in common with the ancient healers who share this title. Unlike the famous spiritualists of old, Rip was quick to forsake his curative potential as the idea of being relegated to a supportive position didn’t sit well with his ego or his ambitions. In Riptide’s opinion, spells defend, to heal the spirit and to help the dead reach peace are a pointless, unnecessary waste of time and instead, the aptly named Soul Breaker seeks to subvert the gentle nature of spirit magic and twist his ‘gift’ into a terribly dangerous and offensive force. Like any shaman, Rip can commune with the dead but he does not like to assist them unrewarded, rather, the youth wants to harness their strength, to manipulate and use them, to break them to his will and unleash that power upon those who oppose him.
Grave Skills – Passive
A shaman is defined by their Grave Skills for it is these special talents that allow them to contact and communicate with the deceased. As with all abilities, there are many different levels to the Grave Arts ranging from being capable of sensing a spirit’s presence, to being able to drift from corporal to intangible with little effort. Naturally, many, if not most, shaman do not ever master all of these skills. In fact, those that do claim to have completely mastered the Grave Arts find themselves continually learning more abilities and thus, many doubt whether mastery of all Grave Skills is even possible. For Riptide, a shaman who shuns the natural order, the task of developing more aggressive skills has taken priority all else and as a result the youth has very basic Grave Skills, having neglected them far beyond what he should have.
Grave Sense
Description – With Grave Sense, Riptide is able to feel the presence of lingering dead spirits, though understandably, the feeling gets weaker the further away a spirit is from his person. Unfortunately for Riptide, this works both ways for the spirits too, can sense the nature of Riptide’s powers and aura and many of the more powerful, malevolent spirits will gravitate towards him, attacking him with spite an malice that they’ve been unable to use on a living soul in centuries. Having these constant ‘companions’ has pushed Riptide’s ability a little further than most and he is able to tell each spirit from the next, helping him to recognise who out of his company is new or if someone older has left. Riptide cannot feel the presence of living souls with this skill and thus, people can still catch him off-guard.
Origin – Riptide was born with this skill but he failed to recognise it for what it was, instead just brushing it off as a strong paranoia and ignoring it for most of his youth. However, at the age of six, Riptide’s elder cousin, Blaise, was quick to realise what Rip’s immediate family couldn’t and helped Riptide understand that these were the beginnings of a powerful gift (and that he wasn’t paranoid; dead people really were stalking him).
Link – N/A
Grave Conversations
Description – As the name suggests, Grave Conversations is a skill that allows Riptide to talk with the dead and in truth, this is a skill that has caused him more grief than any of the others. His wicked stalkers adore picking at the youth’s open wounds and vulnerabilities and are ever so quick to remind Rip of his shortcomings. Currently, the Soul Breaker cannot shield himself from these voices and has grown accustomed to ignoring them, though occasionally, something will be said that hits Riptide right in the heart, forcing a reaction from the youth that usually makes him appear totally insane.
Origin – At age eleven, Riptide took part in the customary rite of awakening. Having already developed one skill, the awakening was not expected to do anything but confirm the fact that Riptide’s talents lay in spirit magic and shamanism but as the Black Cleric chanted the young mage’s rites, other voices began to chime in and Riptide knew that the unearthly chorus could only be one thing; the voices of the dead.
Link – N/A
Spirit Arsenal – Active
Whilst the Spirit Arsenal skills are actually quite common in more experienced shaman, there are very few who would ever dare admit they know them and even less would use them on a regular basis. The skills of the Spirit Arsenal are centred on crafting weapons from the souls of the dead but each time a weapon is forged using this technique, some poor spirit in one of the ethereal worlds is sacrificed as a result. As such, the practice of these skills is severely frowned upon and even punishable by death in some shamanistic sects but Riptide, so isolated and so determined, has pushed himself into learning these skills far sooner than is usual and is always on the look out for ways to further them.
Spirit Shards
Description – By splaying his fingers wide and concentrating for around thirty seconds, Riptide is able to summon a soul to him and tear it into five pieces. These pieces appear in a sharp, pointed form at the tips of his fingers but Rip is usually unable to give them any more consistency than that. Unable to truly shape them, the pieces usually end up appearing akin to shards of luminous white, broken glass. Riptide can currently launch them at around thirty feet a second, making them a deadly tool in close combat, yet easy to defend against in a wider setting.
Origin – Upon reaching his sixteenth birthday, Rip was given a very heavy book on spirit magic from his parents. Of course, with Riptide unable to read, the youth could do nothing until his soulbound brother, the half-demon Rex, discovered his little secret. Instead of teasing him about it, as Rip so feared he would, Rex tried to help him learn and read him a few chapters from the middle of the book; the first few chapters dealing with Spirit Arsenals. Shortly thereafter, Riptide followed the read to him and was able to learn how to forge a spirit weapon.
Link – N/A
Remembrance – Active [LOCKED]
The skills of Remembrance are quite different from other spirit skills, allowing a shaman to summon a spirit in corporal form for a limited amount of time. These spirits can be turned upon the shaman’s enemies, though as each Remembered spirit is different from the next, their attacks/effects remain unique and thus, Remembrance skills cannot be as easily summarised as other spirit skills. To summon a spirit at his current level, the shaman needs to possess something of the deceased and also have convinced the spirit to tell them how they died and get them to agree to becoming ‘tied’ to the shaman. If all these conditions are met, the souls of both the spirit and the spirit mage will become tied together via the thinnest, strongest, ethereal thread (does not allow telepathy/empathy between the two) and will be given a ‘trigger phrase’ that once spoken, will summon the spirit to the field.
Non Spirit Skills – Active/Passive
Combat Proficiency – Passive
Description – Riptide has been trained in many forms of combat and trained exceedingly well. However, the styles he was taught do not suit his body’s form and Rip isn’t capable of pulling off the best manoeuvres, as such, Riptide has had to find a fighting style more suited to a man of his build and drawing from his theoretical knowledge of various forms of combat, Rip has developed a high-flying and extremely fast style that relies primarily on evasion and accuracy, having no blocks or straight up defensive moves to it’s credit. However, Rip is unable to temper himself, his skills, or his aggression and is considerably clumsy in battle, often making the most amateurish mistakes and always letting his emotions govern his assaults.
Origin – Various trainers and following that, years of self-training.
Link – N/A