The Mime
01-11-07, 08:00 PM
Name: Mime
Age: Unknown (guessed to have been alive for over 20 years)
Race: Homonculus
Hair Color: Black
Eye Color: Unknown (can`t truly be seen wether eyes are behind that mask or not)
Height: 6'6"
Weight: Deceptive
*Occupation: Traveller (though judged as a Phariah)
*Personality: For being entirely mute the Mime is sincere, polite and worryingly always knows what to say, even if he can’t, while expressionless due to the mask his feelings are very apparent by some passive psychic impulse, its so defined a regular being can even work out if he is smirking or smiling and what lay behind that expression…due to that, he has a harder time keeping a poker face since his emotions are so open, a lucky thing he was raised honest or he would face even more trouble in life. The Mime enjoys many facets of life though they seem a bit dull to most, in that he loves stories, literary works and the words of a bard are priceless to him, the more legendary or fanciful they become the more he enjoys, almost like a child that never got enough fairy tales, romances also place quite highly in that though he would rarely coax someone to kiss and tell, best to stay with fiction until he can find someone to attempt an auto-biographical piece.
Appearance: Tall, thin, lanky and somewhat imposing were it not for his thin frame. The Mime is not a natural looking creature and instead seems some perversion of a performers mind, on his face or even possibly his actual face is a white mask, no mouth or nose slits, all that there is upon it are two eye holes that point upwards at the outer edges with a pair of triangles pointing up and down above and below both. A thick mane of black, smooth hair almost feeling like some fine silk pours out around the edges of the mask, obscuring the rest of his head, neck of pure white past that and then into his clothing. Covering his torso is a horizontally striped black and white shirt, extremely baggy and vacuous though it seems to come in at his waist due to a simple leather belt with a pouch for his harmonica, the sleeves falling well past where his hands are though visible at the frayed edges are his claws, three on each hand and disturbingly dextrous for something so lethal. On top of that is often a faded and frayed red scarf of finely woven cotton, normally wrapped up to cover his neck with excess material running along his back when there is no wind. Covering his lower half is a simple, worn out pair of white pants, the seems common but feels unusually soft for something with such rough rises and edges on its surface, the legs barely covering the huge claws protruding from his feet.
History: Felonus Carthan Haun…that was the name of father and he made me recall all three names with perfect clarity or he would let the Weevils have at me…My home was a ruined keep on…I believe the books told me it was a coast but that mattered little for my chains did not stretch far enough for me to reach the grass beyond the ruins walls, I’m sure father didn’t mean to be harsh he was just being careful, homunculi…my…well A kind I suppose I do not resemble any recorded have been known to be deceitful and untrustworthy, perhaps my lack of a voice was intentional so father would have less to struggle against… it also meant I could not scream when I required, perhaps to ease guilt. For seven of my years father put me through every test he could dream up, even repeating many to ascertain what I was, why I was and if I should be…he gave me a puppy once, after teaching me to write I named it Spriggan after a hero in one of the folk-lore tales father had me read. When the tests were finished he released the chain and made me take his hand in mine, he was crying but, smiling…I have seen him cry before but never smile as well, I took it to be a good sign and he told me from then I was his son, to choose a name for myself and be his equal. To be honest I preferred to be his student for father had so much to teach me and nothing seemed to escape my grasp, writing and reading were my most important gifts I believe but father thought otherwise, at nights when the sun was lowering beyond my vision he asked me to play, telling me that he believed I was fully trustworthy when I had conjured up a song by myself, I did so love music, it felt good to write even before I truly understood what notes and chords blended with each other, apparently to be able to create art that is original is a sign that I was a success…I had never felt pride until then.
Father was a hermit but by no means a bad man, nor did he detest the company of people, I think he just…realized his work could only be done without those to question why surrounding him, he told me great stories of the wide-world, of gods and legends in this land and I could not hide my enthusiasm at one day being a part of them and he didn’t oppose that idea, years were escaping him apparently I had cost him much but he had no regrets and on my nineteenth year told me as such during his dieing hours. It was no disease nor blade steeped in hatred. Merely a time running out and after burying him at our home…alongside Spriggan…we had often wondered why such wonderful creatures were not given the same time as humans, but no answer could be made…I left my world to go forth into the much wider one. I had no goal nor higher calling… but father told me to learn and experience, but to do it justly and I intend to, I have left this page wedged within Spriggans victory against the Blackthorne Ent because, well it is a good tale and someone may wonder what happened in this dusty ruin.
~ Diary of the Mime
Skills:
Un-natural – As The Mime wasn’t born his lack of a true creation disturbs most forms of life on an unconscious level, those around him will have some form of apprehension towards him, even the bravest of warriors feeling the need to be wary or just dislike this creature, the more magically or psychically sensitive the person the greater the feeling becomes, from a simple wariness to utter revulsion and even nausea…as it stands even those unreceptive to the winds of magic can still sense him slightly and hence make it impossible for the silent Mime to properly sneak up on those aware and awake.
True Mime – Due to his creation and intent the Mime is…in a way cursed in that he is utterly incapable of making any form of sound with the exception of his two instruments, not a foot-step, not a crashing through a roof, his every touch causes no sound, however it does not stop those objects from making further sounds, so that while knocking against a table will cause no sound, the cups and glasses on it that fall will. His unusualness can also manifest itself in an almost… magical way, when a wall is sheer he can find foot-holds, if no wind is blowing he can still be seen caught in a breeze, this talent was told to expand as he grew in age but so far the Mimes abilities have stayed at this miniscule level of merely hinting at an alternate set of rules effecting him.
Inhuman – A homonculous the Mime does not require many of the things needed for a persons continued existence, nor is he effected in the same way. To begin with he requires no food or water, indeed the lack of a mouth on the mask would make such feeding unlikely instead he feeds off ‘intent’ or depending on the persons viewpoint, spirit…those he is surrounded by or at least near sustain him without feeling any part of them siphoned off, he doesn’t leech off a life-force or compromise his food-source what he needs is miniscule, often times a small school of fish pushing through the currents, driven by instinct it sustains him for a week or two but only when not exerting himself. After heavy activity or at the limits of the Mimes endurance his passive draining on people and animals can become apparent, causing a dulling of the senses, to some slight headaches but so long as he is not alone with someone the effects are very minor…to restore his energy from a single person they would temporarily enter a dulled state, unable to feel much of anything, colours and sounds falling flat to the senses but it does pass relatively quickly, contact can speed up the process but the Mime is loathe to touch people simply because it amplifies the unease people have of his presence.
Wether he has organs or even a bone structure is a mystery, his joints capable of rotating in any direction, only limited by the placing of the joint itself and this lends itself to the Mimes high agility since he seems for all intents and purposes… near weightless, able to be hefted into the air by children like some oversized feather, though when in combat or when its required he seems capable of overexerting gravity upon himself and cause more pressure and strength than that frail body should be capable of but not to a huge extent…it merely keeps him equal with a man of a more bulked build. When cut the Mime leaks a black ichor that flickers and streaks with magical power, in this form it is useless for any spells or enhancements however such a liquid is by no means common and the simple power of life inside it has been sought out by a few more deranged alchemists.
This strange biology also backfires in that healing spells have absolutely no effect on him, the fact he cannot be touched by them is often a frustration as rather unfair inbalance in his life…the monks at the Citadel however seem to have the power to break through this resistance and still makes it a safe place to train.
Equipment: Has a small black nap-sack in which he keeps some small survival aids, such as flint and rope, but also carries with him a sturdily built anthology of poems, a collection of ghost stories and a book containing the first quest of a Carpenter and Jester for vengeance, each book carefully stored in their own sleeves to protect them as best he can. Along with them is a Violin case in which is kept the remarkably mundane Cerinth, one of the only two ways he can produce a sound, a mahogany finish violin of high quality but seems to have no unusualness to it apart from being a well made Violin. The same goes for his Harmonica unnamed for now but it does have the engraving of Mime upon it.
Age: Unknown (guessed to have been alive for over 20 years)
Race: Homonculus
Hair Color: Black
Eye Color: Unknown (can`t truly be seen wether eyes are behind that mask or not)
Height: 6'6"
Weight: Deceptive
*Occupation: Traveller (though judged as a Phariah)
*Personality: For being entirely mute the Mime is sincere, polite and worryingly always knows what to say, even if he can’t, while expressionless due to the mask his feelings are very apparent by some passive psychic impulse, its so defined a regular being can even work out if he is smirking or smiling and what lay behind that expression…due to that, he has a harder time keeping a poker face since his emotions are so open, a lucky thing he was raised honest or he would face even more trouble in life. The Mime enjoys many facets of life though they seem a bit dull to most, in that he loves stories, literary works and the words of a bard are priceless to him, the more legendary or fanciful they become the more he enjoys, almost like a child that never got enough fairy tales, romances also place quite highly in that though he would rarely coax someone to kiss and tell, best to stay with fiction until he can find someone to attempt an auto-biographical piece.
Appearance: Tall, thin, lanky and somewhat imposing were it not for his thin frame. The Mime is not a natural looking creature and instead seems some perversion of a performers mind, on his face or even possibly his actual face is a white mask, no mouth or nose slits, all that there is upon it are two eye holes that point upwards at the outer edges with a pair of triangles pointing up and down above and below both. A thick mane of black, smooth hair almost feeling like some fine silk pours out around the edges of the mask, obscuring the rest of his head, neck of pure white past that and then into his clothing. Covering his torso is a horizontally striped black and white shirt, extremely baggy and vacuous though it seems to come in at his waist due to a simple leather belt with a pouch for his harmonica, the sleeves falling well past where his hands are though visible at the frayed edges are his claws, three on each hand and disturbingly dextrous for something so lethal. On top of that is often a faded and frayed red scarf of finely woven cotton, normally wrapped up to cover his neck with excess material running along his back when there is no wind. Covering his lower half is a simple, worn out pair of white pants, the seems common but feels unusually soft for something with such rough rises and edges on its surface, the legs barely covering the huge claws protruding from his feet.
History: Felonus Carthan Haun…that was the name of father and he made me recall all three names with perfect clarity or he would let the Weevils have at me…My home was a ruined keep on…I believe the books told me it was a coast but that mattered little for my chains did not stretch far enough for me to reach the grass beyond the ruins walls, I’m sure father didn’t mean to be harsh he was just being careful, homunculi…my…well A kind I suppose I do not resemble any recorded have been known to be deceitful and untrustworthy, perhaps my lack of a voice was intentional so father would have less to struggle against… it also meant I could not scream when I required, perhaps to ease guilt. For seven of my years father put me through every test he could dream up, even repeating many to ascertain what I was, why I was and if I should be…he gave me a puppy once, after teaching me to write I named it Spriggan after a hero in one of the folk-lore tales father had me read. When the tests were finished he released the chain and made me take his hand in mine, he was crying but, smiling…I have seen him cry before but never smile as well, I took it to be a good sign and he told me from then I was his son, to choose a name for myself and be his equal. To be honest I preferred to be his student for father had so much to teach me and nothing seemed to escape my grasp, writing and reading were my most important gifts I believe but father thought otherwise, at nights when the sun was lowering beyond my vision he asked me to play, telling me that he believed I was fully trustworthy when I had conjured up a song by myself, I did so love music, it felt good to write even before I truly understood what notes and chords blended with each other, apparently to be able to create art that is original is a sign that I was a success…I had never felt pride until then.
Father was a hermit but by no means a bad man, nor did he detest the company of people, I think he just…realized his work could only be done without those to question why surrounding him, he told me great stories of the wide-world, of gods and legends in this land and I could not hide my enthusiasm at one day being a part of them and he didn’t oppose that idea, years were escaping him apparently I had cost him much but he had no regrets and on my nineteenth year told me as such during his dieing hours. It was no disease nor blade steeped in hatred. Merely a time running out and after burying him at our home…alongside Spriggan…we had often wondered why such wonderful creatures were not given the same time as humans, but no answer could be made…I left my world to go forth into the much wider one. I had no goal nor higher calling… but father told me to learn and experience, but to do it justly and I intend to, I have left this page wedged within Spriggans victory against the Blackthorne Ent because, well it is a good tale and someone may wonder what happened in this dusty ruin.
~ Diary of the Mime
Skills:
Un-natural – As The Mime wasn’t born his lack of a true creation disturbs most forms of life on an unconscious level, those around him will have some form of apprehension towards him, even the bravest of warriors feeling the need to be wary or just dislike this creature, the more magically or psychically sensitive the person the greater the feeling becomes, from a simple wariness to utter revulsion and even nausea…as it stands even those unreceptive to the winds of magic can still sense him slightly and hence make it impossible for the silent Mime to properly sneak up on those aware and awake.
True Mime – Due to his creation and intent the Mime is…in a way cursed in that he is utterly incapable of making any form of sound with the exception of his two instruments, not a foot-step, not a crashing through a roof, his every touch causes no sound, however it does not stop those objects from making further sounds, so that while knocking against a table will cause no sound, the cups and glasses on it that fall will. His unusualness can also manifest itself in an almost… magical way, when a wall is sheer he can find foot-holds, if no wind is blowing he can still be seen caught in a breeze, this talent was told to expand as he grew in age but so far the Mimes abilities have stayed at this miniscule level of merely hinting at an alternate set of rules effecting him.
Inhuman – A homonculous the Mime does not require many of the things needed for a persons continued existence, nor is he effected in the same way. To begin with he requires no food or water, indeed the lack of a mouth on the mask would make such feeding unlikely instead he feeds off ‘intent’ or depending on the persons viewpoint, spirit…those he is surrounded by or at least near sustain him without feeling any part of them siphoned off, he doesn’t leech off a life-force or compromise his food-source what he needs is miniscule, often times a small school of fish pushing through the currents, driven by instinct it sustains him for a week or two but only when not exerting himself. After heavy activity or at the limits of the Mimes endurance his passive draining on people and animals can become apparent, causing a dulling of the senses, to some slight headaches but so long as he is not alone with someone the effects are very minor…to restore his energy from a single person they would temporarily enter a dulled state, unable to feel much of anything, colours and sounds falling flat to the senses but it does pass relatively quickly, contact can speed up the process but the Mime is loathe to touch people simply because it amplifies the unease people have of his presence.
Wether he has organs or even a bone structure is a mystery, his joints capable of rotating in any direction, only limited by the placing of the joint itself and this lends itself to the Mimes high agility since he seems for all intents and purposes… near weightless, able to be hefted into the air by children like some oversized feather, though when in combat or when its required he seems capable of overexerting gravity upon himself and cause more pressure and strength than that frail body should be capable of but not to a huge extent…it merely keeps him equal with a man of a more bulked build. When cut the Mime leaks a black ichor that flickers and streaks with magical power, in this form it is useless for any spells or enhancements however such a liquid is by no means common and the simple power of life inside it has been sought out by a few more deranged alchemists.
This strange biology also backfires in that healing spells have absolutely no effect on him, the fact he cannot be touched by them is often a frustration as rather unfair inbalance in his life…the monks at the Citadel however seem to have the power to break through this resistance and still makes it a safe place to train.
Equipment: Has a small black nap-sack in which he keeps some small survival aids, such as flint and rope, but also carries with him a sturdily built anthology of poems, a collection of ghost stories and a book containing the first quest of a Carpenter and Jester for vengeance, each book carefully stored in their own sleeves to protect them as best he can. Along with them is a Violin case in which is kept the remarkably mundane Cerinth, one of the only two ways he can produce a sound, a mahogany finish violin of high quality but seems to have no unusualness to it apart from being a well made Violin. The same goes for his Harmonica unnamed for now but it does have the engraving of Mime upon it.