Hotsuma
08-20-11, 10:09 AM
Name: Griever
Age: Unknown (His appearance is that of a man in his mid-twenties.)
Race: Unknown
Hair Color: Coal Black
Eye Color: Grey shot through with scarlet
Height: 6’
Weight: 185lbs
*Occupation: Mercenary
*Personality:
His strength of will is all that has kept him going for so many years without giving into death. He sees the world through a veil of shadow, knowing that despite anyone’s belief, anyone’s hopes, there is nothing that deserves to live and be called good. He has acted for the benefit of others for so long that he can slide a mask of any emotion over his face at any time, sometimes convincing even himself that he truly feels what he is telling others. Despite this, he knows, without a doubt, that his is a soul blackened with pain, unable to feel what he truly desires.
There are times when words pour from his mouth easily, his voice - warm and welcoming. Though, were one to look into his eyes, they would see a hollow pain, a driving darkness. Other times, he pulls far into himself, speaking to others as though from far away, a blasted land of his own making, and again, the same eyes. He lives apart, striving moment by moment to resist falling wholly into the madness that always lurks at the edge of his mind, waiting with eternal patience.
Appearance:
Griever wears a black cloak that radiates an aura of darkness. It’s edges flare off into wisps of shadow that look eerily like flames. His skin is a shade of dark crimson, almost black. The entirety of his body including his face is covered with a language foreign to himself and anyone he has ever met, the words inscribed with what looks like a grey ink. He has long black hair that reaches down just beyond his shoulders. Behind the constant veil of hair he has in front of his face he hides surprisingly handsome features. Though if one were to ask him about them, he would only say that it one was his greatest curses. He wears light leather and supple boots, all black. On his back he straps a katana and a wakizashi.
Skills:
-Dual-Blade Swordsman
-Tactician- served as a passable strategist in the various armies he has been involved with.
-Woodcraft- served as a scout in the beginning of his years in the military.
Abilities: The runes on Griever’s body are prayers. He knows three of these prayers.
Rha’an- His facial runes. Calling upon them grants his mind new limits, lending above-human speed to his thoughts, actions and reactions. 1.5 human reflexes.
Delrei- The runes over his eyelids. Calling upon them grants him the ability to see a second into the future. This continues until the drain of using this ability exhausts him, usually sustainable for a 1 minute interval every few hours.
Lok’ial- The runes coating his back. Calling upon them creates an aura of dread that can be radiated to about 60 ft. in a circle around him, knocking the weak willed to their knees and marginally slowing even the strongest of heart.
Equipment: -One steel katana.
-One steel wakizashi
-Light, black leather armor.
-Fade Cloak, an item with magical properties he has not yet uncovered.
History:
Griever was born under the hand of a god, with a wager placed on his soul. Two gods watch his life intently, each as sure as the other in their belief of the outcome of this one’s fate. The dark one was given the first 20 years of Griever’s life to do with what he would, provided he did not bring him to vital physical harm or death. The one of light accepted this, believing in his heart that this soul was meant for a life greater than most, and its path would find its way to true understanding eventually.
Griever’s first conscious memories were when he was just beginning the stage of change between boy and man. At that time a slave, he was going by the name Tristan, and was bound under the services of a master mage that saw in the young boy some potential to survive his experiments. The mage was intrigued by his strange skin, obviously a race that had yet to become well known. More than that the mage was at a complete loss as to the runes that covered the boy from head to foot. Being well versed in languages commonly used and many more dead to the world should have given him some clue as to the origin of the words inscribed upon the child’s skin and yet they did not. The mage’s life was ending rapidly due to a disease that was spreading its way throughout his body. A disease unknown to the world at that time, one without a cure. He was desperate to create a vessel for himself, a body which he could take as his own and so live on. After failing with countless other specimens, he saw in Tristan a hope he had thought lost to him.
Despite the influence of potential agony should he fail, Tristan was not able to take the vile magic into himself. The mage, enraged at the years lost the time wasted, forwent precaution concerning Tristan’s safety and shoved his spells down the boy’s throat while he screamed in agony. Forcing his magic upon the young boy led to a mutation that unleashed some alien talent within Tristan that resulted in unpredictable chaos; much of it led to horrific outcomes. One such event brought forth a tidal wave of unbridled power from within Tristan that set a blaze of molten flame to life, a disaster that burned with such fury that it razed everything around his master’s home to the ground. No one was ever able to discover the source of this disaster, and eventually blamed it on the most likely source they could find.
In the midst of the chaos, Tristan was able to flee. Eventually, with nowhere to go, he was picked up into the slave trade again.
His next master, a weapon smith, was kind to Tristan for three long years, treating him better than any owner had before, even going so far as to give him a seat at his family table. This table was small, for the smith had no family, his wife and children’s deaths brought about by a terrible error if his own. He carried a monstrous guilt on his shoulders, and Tristan had come into his life, the with so much pain, not unlike himself, and a hard worker.
The trust and love the weapon smith had for Tristan was alien to what the young man had previously experienced, he did not know how to respond. Over time Tristan grew close to the old man, understanding on some level that this one man, as opposed to the countless other he had met in the world, was not his enemy. In turn, Tristan’s presence had patched the gash in his old smith’s soul, earning him an eternal place in his heart.
After some careful thought and planning, he asked the master, bargained with him, for his freedom. The smith agreed that Tristan had indeed worked long enough to earn his freedom, and that he should be free to choose his own path, especially now that he was becoming a man. To show the young man how much he had grown into his heart, he crafted him a katana with meticulous care, pouring the adoration and love he had for the boy into the making of the weapon. Tristan looked at the blade, saw how much delicate workmanship it held, how much love; he saw a man that had done what no other person had attempted, to love a broken boy. He saw a father, and he felt his heart split open.
Tristan fell to his knees and unleashed the torrent of sorrow that he had held dammed inside himself for so long. He told his master, the only man, only person, to show him love, of everything in his past; all the torture, all the pain, everything he had ever been through. He told him of the disaster his old master had forced upon him, of the hungry flames and the screams that still haunted his dreams…
It was then Tristan felt the old man’s comforting hand grow still as death upon his head. Looking up, the young man saw horrified confusion sink slowly into a darkening rage that blanketed the smith’s eyes as all the facts began to click in place...
It was not the fault of his own, the fault of an old man and his old ways growing careless with the burning furnace he had in his shop; not his fault, that his family had burned along with dozens of others in a raging flame. It was this boy, this boy who had come to mean so much to the man. The patch on the smith’s heart tore with bloody mercilessness, wrenching a wail of despair from the man’s lips.
In pure terror, Tristan drew forward the Katana his master had given to him, putting the only thing he could between himself and the raging soul before him. In a rush, the smith flew at Tristan, his lips curled in a feral snarl, his hands turned to claws, reaching for the boy’s neck. He stopped short though, and looked down to see that his own blade, a sword made for love, had stopped him from finishing his vengeance. He fell there without a word, his face a mask of pain, the torment of his soul etched all too clearly.
Tristan felt himself fall into a well of pain he had thought utterly impossible. He retched on the ground, his nails digging furrows of blood into his palms. The pain grew and grew, the suffering that Tristan had borne for so long had finally overflowed, twisting his soul into a wretched thing of blackness as it swept through his body. He was drowning, the misery his soul has borne was crushing him, smothering him until he wanted nothing but death. He screamed in his darkness, struggling for freedom, and in a brief moment of clarity, he cried out, calling for a savior, someone to reach through the storm of pain and bring him peace.
He was answered. A young woman’s voice spoke in his hear, speaking words of promise and words of hope. He could not comprehend what she said at first, reveling in the painless blessing of rest her voice had immediately brought forth. Eventually he heard her; a gentle voice that soothed him. She was promising him a gift, a small gift from her, but it’s power was great. She would take his pain away, take it all away, all he had to do was follow her master, give him his heart, become his, body and soul.
Tristan, tears trailing down his face, looked hopefully up at her, saw her care, her sincerity, her love. He said yes.
She smile down at him and reached out, all his pain falling away like dried leaves. He fell slowly into blackness. She stood then, letting the mask slide from her face, and giggled softly, a innocent sound that bled evil.
Tristan lay next to his blade, and noticed a marking etched onto the sword near the hilt, a message, it seemed, from his old master.
It read, Aux Ivterium Es Ovta Agonas.
‘For you who took the pain away.’
Age: Unknown (His appearance is that of a man in his mid-twenties.)
Race: Unknown
Hair Color: Coal Black
Eye Color: Grey shot through with scarlet
Height: 6’
Weight: 185lbs
*Occupation: Mercenary
*Personality:
His strength of will is all that has kept him going for so many years without giving into death. He sees the world through a veil of shadow, knowing that despite anyone’s belief, anyone’s hopes, there is nothing that deserves to live and be called good. He has acted for the benefit of others for so long that he can slide a mask of any emotion over his face at any time, sometimes convincing even himself that he truly feels what he is telling others. Despite this, he knows, without a doubt, that his is a soul blackened with pain, unable to feel what he truly desires.
There are times when words pour from his mouth easily, his voice - warm and welcoming. Though, were one to look into his eyes, they would see a hollow pain, a driving darkness. Other times, he pulls far into himself, speaking to others as though from far away, a blasted land of his own making, and again, the same eyes. He lives apart, striving moment by moment to resist falling wholly into the madness that always lurks at the edge of his mind, waiting with eternal patience.
Appearance:
Griever wears a black cloak that radiates an aura of darkness. It’s edges flare off into wisps of shadow that look eerily like flames. His skin is a shade of dark crimson, almost black. The entirety of his body including his face is covered with a language foreign to himself and anyone he has ever met, the words inscribed with what looks like a grey ink. He has long black hair that reaches down just beyond his shoulders. Behind the constant veil of hair he has in front of his face he hides surprisingly handsome features. Though if one were to ask him about them, he would only say that it one was his greatest curses. He wears light leather and supple boots, all black. On his back he straps a katana and a wakizashi.
Skills:
-Dual-Blade Swordsman
-Tactician- served as a passable strategist in the various armies he has been involved with.
-Woodcraft- served as a scout in the beginning of his years in the military.
Abilities: The runes on Griever’s body are prayers. He knows three of these prayers.
Rha’an- His facial runes. Calling upon them grants his mind new limits, lending above-human speed to his thoughts, actions and reactions. 1.5 human reflexes.
Delrei- The runes over his eyelids. Calling upon them grants him the ability to see a second into the future. This continues until the drain of using this ability exhausts him, usually sustainable for a 1 minute interval every few hours.
Lok’ial- The runes coating his back. Calling upon them creates an aura of dread that can be radiated to about 60 ft. in a circle around him, knocking the weak willed to their knees and marginally slowing even the strongest of heart.
Equipment: -One steel katana.
-One steel wakizashi
-Light, black leather armor.
-Fade Cloak, an item with magical properties he has not yet uncovered.
History:
Griever was born under the hand of a god, with a wager placed on his soul. Two gods watch his life intently, each as sure as the other in their belief of the outcome of this one’s fate. The dark one was given the first 20 years of Griever’s life to do with what he would, provided he did not bring him to vital physical harm or death. The one of light accepted this, believing in his heart that this soul was meant for a life greater than most, and its path would find its way to true understanding eventually.
Griever’s first conscious memories were when he was just beginning the stage of change between boy and man. At that time a slave, he was going by the name Tristan, and was bound under the services of a master mage that saw in the young boy some potential to survive his experiments. The mage was intrigued by his strange skin, obviously a race that had yet to become well known. More than that the mage was at a complete loss as to the runes that covered the boy from head to foot. Being well versed in languages commonly used and many more dead to the world should have given him some clue as to the origin of the words inscribed upon the child’s skin and yet they did not. The mage’s life was ending rapidly due to a disease that was spreading its way throughout his body. A disease unknown to the world at that time, one without a cure. He was desperate to create a vessel for himself, a body which he could take as his own and so live on. After failing with countless other specimens, he saw in Tristan a hope he had thought lost to him.
Despite the influence of potential agony should he fail, Tristan was not able to take the vile magic into himself. The mage, enraged at the years lost the time wasted, forwent precaution concerning Tristan’s safety and shoved his spells down the boy’s throat while he screamed in agony. Forcing his magic upon the young boy led to a mutation that unleashed some alien talent within Tristan that resulted in unpredictable chaos; much of it led to horrific outcomes. One such event brought forth a tidal wave of unbridled power from within Tristan that set a blaze of molten flame to life, a disaster that burned with such fury that it razed everything around his master’s home to the ground. No one was ever able to discover the source of this disaster, and eventually blamed it on the most likely source they could find.
In the midst of the chaos, Tristan was able to flee. Eventually, with nowhere to go, he was picked up into the slave trade again.
His next master, a weapon smith, was kind to Tristan for three long years, treating him better than any owner had before, even going so far as to give him a seat at his family table. This table was small, for the smith had no family, his wife and children’s deaths brought about by a terrible error if his own. He carried a monstrous guilt on his shoulders, and Tristan had come into his life, the with so much pain, not unlike himself, and a hard worker.
The trust and love the weapon smith had for Tristan was alien to what the young man had previously experienced, he did not know how to respond. Over time Tristan grew close to the old man, understanding on some level that this one man, as opposed to the countless other he had met in the world, was not his enemy. In turn, Tristan’s presence had patched the gash in his old smith’s soul, earning him an eternal place in his heart.
After some careful thought and planning, he asked the master, bargained with him, for his freedom. The smith agreed that Tristan had indeed worked long enough to earn his freedom, and that he should be free to choose his own path, especially now that he was becoming a man. To show the young man how much he had grown into his heart, he crafted him a katana with meticulous care, pouring the adoration and love he had for the boy into the making of the weapon. Tristan looked at the blade, saw how much delicate workmanship it held, how much love; he saw a man that had done what no other person had attempted, to love a broken boy. He saw a father, and he felt his heart split open.
Tristan fell to his knees and unleashed the torrent of sorrow that he had held dammed inside himself for so long. He told his master, the only man, only person, to show him love, of everything in his past; all the torture, all the pain, everything he had ever been through. He told him of the disaster his old master had forced upon him, of the hungry flames and the screams that still haunted his dreams…
It was then Tristan felt the old man’s comforting hand grow still as death upon his head. Looking up, the young man saw horrified confusion sink slowly into a darkening rage that blanketed the smith’s eyes as all the facts began to click in place...
It was not the fault of his own, the fault of an old man and his old ways growing careless with the burning furnace he had in his shop; not his fault, that his family had burned along with dozens of others in a raging flame. It was this boy, this boy who had come to mean so much to the man. The patch on the smith’s heart tore with bloody mercilessness, wrenching a wail of despair from the man’s lips.
In pure terror, Tristan drew forward the Katana his master had given to him, putting the only thing he could between himself and the raging soul before him. In a rush, the smith flew at Tristan, his lips curled in a feral snarl, his hands turned to claws, reaching for the boy’s neck. He stopped short though, and looked down to see that his own blade, a sword made for love, had stopped him from finishing his vengeance. He fell there without a word, his face a mask of pain, the torment of his soul etched all too clearly.
Tristan felt himself fall into a well of pain he had thought utterly impossible. He retched on the ground, his nails digging furrows of blood into his palms. The pain grew and grew, the suffering that Tristan had borne for so long had finally overflowed, twisting his soul into a wretched thing of blackness as it swept through his body. He was drowning, the misery his soul has borne was crushing him, smothering him until he wanted nothing but death. He screamed in his darkness, struggling for freedom, and in a brief moment of clarity, he cried out, calling for a savior, someone to reach through the storm of pain and bring him peace.
He was answered. A young woman’s voice spoke in his hear, speaking words of promise and words of hope. He could not comprehend what she said at first, reveling in the painless blessing of rest her voice had immediately brought forth. Eventually he heard her; a gentle voice that soothed him. She was promising him a gift, a small gift from her, but it’s power was great. She would take his pain away, take it all away, all he had to do was follow her master, give him his heart, become his, body and soul.
Tristan, tears trailing down his face, looked hopefully up at her, saw her care, her sincerity, her love. He said yes.
She smile down at him and reached out, all his pain falling away like dried leaves. He fell slowly into blackness. She stood then, letting the mask slide from her face, and giggled softly, a innocent sound that bled evil.
Tristan lay next to his blade, and noticed a marking etched onto the sword near the hilt, a message, it seemed, from his old master.
It read, Aux Ivterium Es Ovta Agonas.
‘For you who took the pain away.’