Multiple Settings Feather's Fantastic Long-term Partner Search (New) | Lit./Adv. Lit | Original

[Featherstone]

YOU CAN FIND MY CURRENT SEARCH HERE.​

Spoiler

• Welcome & Rules
• i. Whisperer
• ii. The Winter King
• iii. Courtesy of der Silberfuchs
• Other Characters & Lore

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  ❝All that is gold does not glitter,
  Not all those who wander are lost;
  The old that is strong does not wither,
  Deep roots are not reached by the frost.❞​

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  Hello and welcome! My name is Feather, but feel free to call me Fea (he/him). I'm a roleplayer of 10+ years lookin' to get a couple more in-depth, long-term roleplays! I dig slow-burn, tension, and characters who are both flawed and have their good sides--just like real people. Plots can be found in the next tabs; if none of these catch your eye, still feel free to PM me with some ideas! I have a few half-baked ones of my own that aren't up here (yet). Here's what you can expect from me:
  
  * 2-5 paragraph replies on average, but I tend to mirror and am quite capable of 2k+ words in a post
  * Posts usually on the daily, but it depends on length and muse; no less than once a week. I love rapid-fire!
  * Occasional smatters of BBCode
  * OOC chatter, preferably on Discord
  * Dark and mature themes. Sex, drugs, rock 'n roll. I don't write anything gratuitous and I avoid really graphic violence unless there's some reason that makes it purposeful or necessary. No NSFW, either.
  * LGBTQ+
  * Any pairing (including nonbinary), but currently having a hankering for MxM
  * Platonic roleplays
  * Characters of any gender, but most of my muses right now are male
  * Main and side characters of various genders, sexualities, religions, species, etc.
  * Modern fantasy, medieval-era high fantasy, crime, realistic (depends on what the plot is), stuff in that realm. I once had my style described to me as "fantasy mafia noir," which...isn't far off, haha!
  
  And here's what I'm looking for from you:
  
  * 2 solid paragraphs at an absolute minimum, being able to write more is preferable
  * Able to post at least every few days/multiple times a week (on average, not necessarily all the time; I understand that life happens)
  * Be LGBTQ friendly, please.
  * OOC discussion, planning, and plotting.
  * Okay with dark themes
  * Please inquire through PM only, send a writing sample, and tell me which plot/character you're interested in.
  
  

  Writing Sample (Low Fantasy, Modern, Crime)

  
  

  Spoiler: outfit reference

  

  

  

  
  Smoke wove in serpentine tendrils, swallowed by the darkness above. The place was painted in monotones, the only color coming in the glimmering titian of the cigarette's tip, illuminating the sharp angles of its bearer's face. Owlish, gaunt features on a narrow face with a Roman nose and wide, dark eyes shimmering in the black. Gold contrasting against the cool blue of his tie, the onyx button-up, the grey waistcoat and jacket. A few stray locks framing the edges of his heart-shaped countenance. The look in his eyes one that was deadly as the handgun hanging from his long, pale fingers, gaze trained on the figure who now stood before the king.
  
  Ajax was his name, or it was what they called him. The regal figure who bore the name of a soldier from centuries past, who fought in Troy and for the victory of Greece, all power and valor and blood, who sat upon a throne resting upon the bodies of men below him and who bore a crown of thorns that few would dare seek. The man to whom the shadow-veiled smoker gave his obedience, the obedience of a hound to its master, a loyalty as sightless as the cold black in the distant ceilings of the warehouse to which the smoke ascended. The patter of rain thrummed upon the corrugated sheets far above, punctuated in time by the metronome of the steady drip-drip-drip of outside eaves and the tick-tick-tick of the watch in his pocket.
  
  Drip. Tick. Drip. Tock. Drip. Again.
  
  Fire shimmering at his fingertips, gaze acute and hawklike, trained on the man who was now speaking. His voice echoed dimly in the vaults of the place. His tone, low, dangerous, almost sweet. They were alone in the place. Cement-grounded, metal-roofed, empty except for skittering rats and a ghost-white owl that had disappeared upon their entrance. Once, owls were an omen of death in the West; to Rome, an omen of victory. Both were due today by the end of this. By the end of the monologue that droned on to the rhythm of the watch and the water that fell upon the city in some terrible baptism. There was no ark in this flood, however, only the blood of the damned.
  
  "I don't appreciate our goods going missing," Ajax was saying. He was short, in comparison to the man leaning against the wall some distance behind him, with Hispanic features and a lilt that matched the street cant all the people here spoke, though his grammar was hardly so vulgar. "I warned you. Twice, I warned you; twice, I gave you a chance; twice, you've failed. And it leads me to rather wonder whether or not it is deliberate or if you are merely incompetent. But here you are. No money. Gone, again. You see my predicament, don't you?"
  
  Smoke, searing the owlish figure lungs, light playing over his face, then receding into darkness once more. Incompetence or betrayal. Neither was good. This wasn't going to end well for the fellow on the ground, and as he watched, his mind flickered back. Flickered back to another man on the ground. Another man, begging him to see the light, begging him to turn all this away and see the good and the pure and the righteous. Another man, whose blood had sunk into the cracks of the earth, another mortal felled by the hands that now held temporary fire.
  
  "Pl-please, it was just an accident." Trembling. Wavering. Unsteady. Tainted by not fear, but terror, the terror of the rat to the cat, the cat to the hound, the hound to Man.
  
  Drip. Tick. Drip. Tock. Drip. Again.
  
  "You know my thoughts on accidents. That's over three million dollars' worth of 'accidents.' And, now, someone who thinks they can take from us. That doesn't sound very good to me, does it to you?"
  
  "One more chance. I won't fail again, I promise. I promise. Please."
  
  "Cain," the voice said, and the light brightened when the cigarette was burned to its filter. The flicker of brightness receded as quickly as it came and the tall figure stepped out of the shadows. Thumb in his pocket, gun hanging from his fingers, cigarette striking the ground and left. Smoke pouring out of his nostrils like that of the dragon spoken of in Revelation, cast into the lake of fire for tempting mankind into sin, turning them against God. But this one, he'd eaten of the forbidden fruit himself. Everyone in the room knew that. "You've a good memory for things, you were here before. What was it I said to Isaiah here when he asked me for this job to prove himself to us?"
  
  

  

  "'Once a mistake, twice a folly, thrice a choice,' " he replied. There was the slightest hint of a country drawl to his words but his grammar, like Ajax's, was impeccable. His tone, cool and even. Eyes, neither on his master nor the man shrinking before them, but cast somewhat to the side, almost to the ground. Yet, somehow, it didn't take from the power inherent in his posture.
  
  "Yes." He nodded, then looked down at Isaiah, brown gaze turned black in the shadowed space. "And what do you generally find me to be a man who makes bad choices?"
  
  "No, sir."
  
  "Mmm. Then you see my predicament."
  
  Drip. Tick. Drip. Tock. Drip. Again.
  
  "Cain." The king spoke again, and the younger figure's gaze flickered towards him, landing on his shoes. "Remind him what I meant by that."
  
  Silence. Drip. Tick.
  
  The footsteps echoing, wingtip shoes on the dampened ground, thumb coming out of his pocket. The air around them turning frigid. Breath, clouding white in the air, no smoke required to send the wisps into the darkness above.
  
  Drip. Tock. Bang.
  
  A scream reverberated in the place and Isaiah fell, leg buckling beneath him. The bullet impacting his knee. The stench of blood in the air. He pressed his hand beneath him, trying to push himself back up, and the footsteps came nearer to his still-moving body as he struggled. Patient, even footsteps of Ajax's second.
  
  "Once, a mistake," Cain murmured, coming to stand before him. He hooked his foot beneath the man's abdomen, kicking him over onto his back, then rammed his foot onto his chest. The gun hung from his loose wrist and his forearm came to rest on his knee as he knelt over his target. Still no eye contact. He lifted his arm, barely glancing back to double-check his aim, rotating the gun so the muzzle pointed behind him.
  
  Tock. Bang. Agonized cry.
  
  "Twice, folly."
  
  He leaned forward, closing his fingers around the bleeding, beaten man's throat. Frost webbed over the metal, silver threading through Cain's dark irises, cold seeping through his bones. Every heartbeat sending ice through his veins from his chest to his fingers. Every breath, slicing, stabbing, sending the clouds into the air in exhalation. White coming across his target's skin. Lips turned blue. Fingers clawing at his killer's sleeve.
  
  Drip. Tick. Silence.

  
  
  

  

  
  

  

  Elijah Edwards. Twenty-one years old. Having stolen over two million dollars in a briefcase that was supposed to have been carried by Isaiah. Where that had gone wrong, none quite knew, and none quite cared. Cain's work was simple: find him, scare him, and tell him to give the money over. Set a time limit if he didn't already have it. Return at the end of given time and bring him back to the King of the Blackthorns if it didn't work out properly.
  
  His gun was settled in a holster beneath his jacket, dark hair slicked and pulled into a tight ponytail at the base of his skull, pace steady and even and purposeful. Through the backstreets, through this alleyway and that one until he came upon the brick complex where Elijah lived. The walls were worn to a dull brown from their once-red hue. Wings clapped when he opened the unlocked door to the place. Pigeons, scattering, taking to the air, a single one of pure white amongst them. He paused in his stride, watching as they took to the sky and alighted upon the rooftops, cooing amongst themselves. Such pretty things.
  
  

  He padded up the stairs, climbing to the second story, ignoring the look cast his way by the old lady in the hall. She shirked away upon his passing--as well she should have--and he pressed on until he reached the door he sought. Apartment 212. He glanced about, then knelt before it, withdrawing a pick from his pocket and inserting it into the door, followed by the sawed-off tip of a screwdriver. Wait. Shuffle. Click. Listen. Click. Listen. Click. Turn. Rotate. Kuh-chk.
  
  The door creaked open. Satisfied, Cain stepped inside, closing it behind him and turning the lock. The man wouldn't know anything was amiss until he came inside and saw the gun on his table and the bearer gazing at him with an icy gaze. It was a pretty place, obviously kept by a man who had a sense of aesthetic, with maps framed on the walls and a vinyl records stacked neatly beside a player. A small piano in the corner, wooden, pretty enough. He knelt, thumbing through the vinyls. Indie, mostly; not his style. But then, in the back, one that caught his interest much more quickly. Johann Sebastian Bach. He flipped it over. There it was: Sonata No. 1 in G Minor. Presto. How fitting. He hummed softly to himself, sliding it into its proper place, setting the needle. Turning the volume down so that it added atmosphere but didn't make his words in any way inaudible. Satisfied, the man briefly wandered through the rest of the place. A bedroom. A kitchen. A bathroom. Nothing terribly notable.
  
  This done, he returned to the main room, walking over to the table. Pulling out a chair that was facing the door and sitting down. His gun, set before him, quite within his reach, jacket hung on the chair next to him. He slid his long legs out and crossed them in idle relaxation but the luxurious posture was little more than a display of his power. Intention lined his muscles, was visible in the look of his eye, and then he waited. Waited for Eli to get home. Waited to get down to proper business.

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  High Fantasy | MxM Preferred
  

  

  Spoiler: Tunes

  [media]

  
  

  The Story​

  On Earth, they would call him a demon, and his world Hell, but they would be incorrect to do so: Sukur is a world just like any other, with its own sun and stars and ways. Once, his ancestors lived on Earth, but they were cast away thanks to the actions of old gods that once ruled his land, Sukur. There are many species in Sukur, and he is one of the most human-seeming, a member of one of Sukur's most prominent clans, the Hundklan. His people--like most peoples in Sukur--worshipped the dragons that once roamed and made his world habitable as gods, revering them as the most sacred of all beings. Plagued by geological disasters, an unstable sun, war with Edin (Heaven), and unable to safely escape to Earth lest they be hunted by mankind, they turned to these creatures of the elements to act as their saviours. For millennia, they did; then they began to die off, hunted and persecuted, and as their populations declined, so, too, did life become more challenging on Sukur. The dragons' final gift was the Vaal ("heart") of Sukur, a magical barrier around six of its circles that protects it from the impossibly high winds and desolate lands that overtake most of Sukur.
  
  Ten years ago, a dragon came to Sukur. He was still young, a mere hatchling. He'd been hidden away on Earth by one of the last dragons. Within two years he'd forcefully taken the throne of Sukur from his uncle and father, uniting all six inhabitable circles for the first time under a singular ruler, and thus began Sukur's golden age beneath the Winter King. Nine years later and they'd won the war with Edin, allowing them to have nearly uninterrupted passage between Sukur and Earth. For the first time in history, Sukur was more than something to be spat upon and spoken of in fear and disdain: it was the most powerful nation of all, and its people were learning how to live in something other than fear, even as the snow fell around them.
  
  That was where it should've ended.
  
  The Winter King's victory over Edin wasn't his last, nor did he intend on it being. The rebellion brewing in Edin and the edges of Sukur was quickly and mercilessly crushed beneath his iron fist and he turned his sights on yet another world. Another world that wasn't necessary, where lives would be cost, because his powerlust could not be sated by two worlds alone. His closest advisor--the Beastmaster, master of the cavalry and militaristic hellhounds that gave Sukur's legions such a supernatural edge over others--disappeared, no longer willing to support his rule, and fled to another world altogether, where he meets Y/C...
  
  
  

  The Man
  Playlist | Bad Sketch​

  
  Name: Jabril Ach'lya of the Hundklan
  Age: 31 years old (in human years)
  Species: Demon, Hundar
  Appearance: 5' 11" tall, Jabril is a figure who doesn't appear particularly notable at first sight. He's dark-skinned for a demon, with tan skin and golden eyes. He, unlike most species of demon, appears quite human: the only hints of his Sukurian heritage are the small horns jutting out from his umber curls and the reddish, prehensile tail that hangs at his back. Aside from this, his teeth are slightly more pointed than a human's would be, and he overall has a heavier jaw more suited to biting things. His attire is usually very casual--a leather jerkin, a long-sleeved shirt under that, and knee-high boots, with a cloak or jacket as the weather dictates. Still, his people are a desert tribe, having originated in warmer climates, and he is anything but bashful when it comes to stripping--he'd be perfectly comfortable in nothing but a loincloth, were it warm enough. Finally, Jabril is a very muscular and lithe figure. He's not particularly large but is incredibly strong and athletic.
  
  Personality: One could not hope to find a person more down-to-earth than Jabril. He's typically very calm and damn near unshakable, taking everything as it is or as he sees it to be. He tends towards the quiet and soft-spoken end but is quite capable of raising his voice if he must. Still, he prefers to avoid social conflict, and spends most of his time with his hellhounds, the monstrous semi-felid creatures that he's dedicated his life to training and husbanding. Furthermore, he's a man of deep faith, the pagan religion of his clan running deep within him. In fact, before leaving the Winter King, he was one of the Hundklan's religious leaders, and respected in those ranks. He's unobtrusive, skilled at reading nonverbals, and believes in holding respect for all things--even if it's a creature or person he's intending on subjugating or killing.
  Brief Bio: Sukur is a brutal and dangerous place that only the strongest can survive and, although inability to survive does not equate to unworthiness, it does mean that one doesn't have the capability one must to persist. It is upon this philosophy that Jabril's culture is built upon, and it's shaped him since his youth. His father was Sukur's royal Beastmaster, running the cavalry and militaristic hellhounds of the legions, and his mother was a soldier. She died when giving birth to himself and his twin sister, Nox, leaving them to be raised by their father alone.
  
  Their upbringing was a tough one, as it is for all Hundaran children. They struggled, they persisted, and when they were eleven, both survived their blooding ceremonies to earn their names--the blooding being a rite of passage that die in the course of, cast out into the wilds to survive and told to return with a 'conquering,' usually a monster that the child has killed. Upon their return, they are given their own name (having until that point gone by their family name with a suffix denoting which number they are, in birth order) and go through a ritual linking them to their guardian soul-animal. Jabril and Nox both made a splash with theirs: instead of returning with a felled body, Jabril returned with a gargantuan young hellhound that had become his ally and injuries rent in his flesh as the price he'd paid for it. Nox slew a shadow-serpent alone, a feat that most adults could not succeed in, and from that day forward, both climbed in the ranks of their tribe.
  
  Jabril is what is known as a 'whisperer': a shamanistic mage whose abilities are centered around animal magic, including shapeshifting, communing with animals, increasing their friendly dispositions towards him, seeing through their eyes, summoning them, buffing them, controlling them, and, ultimately, shifting their shapes. Kur became his familiar and Jabril sided with the Winter King to enact the coup'd'etat that brought him to power. Jabril killed his father in the combat, then proceeded to become the next Beastmaster.
  
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  High Fantasy | MxM Preferred
  

  

  Spoiler: Tunes

  
  

  The Story​

  For millennia, Sukur--the world that Earth called everything from Hell to Diyu to Tartarus--was ruled over by the seven fell Anuri, some of the first beings to come into existence. Christianity called these beings Princes; the people of Sukur called them demigods. One at a time, these beings and their so-called 'angelic' counterparts were slain, by forces of their own and ones far beyond either faction's control. The Circles of Sukur were divided, their foothold on Earth slipping and condemning them to the limits of their barren and hardly-habitable world. The dragons, the true gods of the Sukurians, were extinct thanks to mankind and ascended Anuri ('Archangels')--or so they thought. Then came forth the man they now know as king: then, he was but a hatchling, twenty years old and the son of Sath, only known heir to the thrones of Sukur, who slew the last two fell Anuri and an ascended to take his power; now, for the first time in history, all seven circles bend the knee to the same monarch and stand with united purpose.
  
  They say he has a heart of snow; that he is more frigid than the winter he commands, and that it was due to his seizure of the throne that caused the great cold to come over Sukur. Nine years of war with Edin resulted in it becoming a part of his empire. Now, his sights turn to another world: this could be Earth, an Earth-like world, a high fantasy world, or whatever other world we so desire. His people live in terror as much as they do reverence. This is the golden age of Sukur, yet none dare defy him, for those that have are short-lived thereafter. A rebellion, too, rises in the depths of Edin and the outskirts of Sukur, calling itself the Last Circle and standing in opposition of his subjugation of Edin and his tyrannic methods of rule. And, in spite of everything he's sacrificed to reach his throne--and what he still is willing to do to increase his power--things are not as simple as they should be. The farther he rises, the farther he falls: the more he gains, the more he loses to get there, and the more he closes in upon himself to turn his world a numb and frozen white. Yet he continues to tell himself that, if he just climbs high enough, far enough, fast enough, the emptiness will be filled and his worth will be proven to everyone--including himself.
  
  
  

  The Man Beneath the Crown
  Playlist | Realistic Faceclaim | Bad Sketch​

  
  Name: Cornyx Blackthorne
  Age: 31 years old (in human years)
  Species: Dragon, Nyxus (ice); demonic subtype
  Appearance: 6' 8" tall, Cornyx's figure is imposing in height alone. He is an extremely gaunt and long figure with proportions more akin to a stork's than a man's, with skin nearly the same color as the snow he's so known for and eyes mirroring a raven's wing. His ebon hair is always in a neat, low ponytail, and his attire consists of a suit and nothing short of it. Usually, this suit is either grey or white, but black happens every now and again. He wears mainly neutral colors with a few hints of violet or blue here or there. No matter what his style, however, he always wears sleeves and is never seen without his silver pocket watch.
  Personality: What he has in guile and intelligence, Cornyx makes up for in social anxiety and ineptitude, inability to cope with his childhood trauma, and occasional panic attacks, all of which he does a rather fine job of hiding beneath the persona of the apathetic and cunning Winter King. Those close to him know him to be exceptionally antisocial and quiet, avoiding most contact or long conversations aside from business, which he always conducts with an extreme formality and constant plays for power and control in even the smallest and subtlest of fashions. Still, he allows one of his advisors into his space more than anyone else, one known by the name of Jabril. His mask portrays that of a man who is draconian, ruthless, and ruled by ambition and avarice; behind that is a figure whose insecurity drives him to incredible lengths and whose intelligence is the sole reason for his success and ability to hide his weakness by day.
  Brief Bio: A changeling child, Cornyx was born and raised on Earth, believing himself to be human. His life there was turbulent, to say the least: he had no steady parents and he isn't wired to live among humans. A dragon in the body of a man is not, in fact, a man, as much as it may look like one, and he struggled to find himself and fit in amongst people that were not his own. He was a predator designed for a barren, arctic environment, and being placed into the midst of civilization was as overwhelming as it was challenging. His coping mechanisms for trauma and difficulty throughout his youth were substance abuse and acting out in self-sabotaging and destructive ways, things that only worsened when a predatory instinct triggered in the worst of times landed him repeatedly behind bars. Then, when he was nineteen, while on probation, he encountered the eldest of the ascended Anuri: Madu, known to him through Christianity as Mikael.
  
  One year later, having learned of his heritage, he was serving Edin as a double-agent in Sukur. Two years later and he betrayed both parties, killing Madu, Leluin, and Sath with the assistance of those almost as power-hungry as he was. This struck up a political game between himself and his temporary allies that he won within six months by slaying his primary adversary and subjugating his closest enemy through the use of trickery and black magic. Soon enough, he began his war with Edin, and that brings us to today.
  
  

  
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  Modern Fantasy | Crime
  

  

  Spoiler: Tunes

  [media]

  
  

  The Story​

  It wasn't the first of the killings. The body was left with a single card beneath his tongue, inscribed in a fine cursive print written in the dark ink of a fountain pen, calligraphy spelling three, simple words: Courtesy of der Silberfuchs. They deemed him a copycat killer, mirroring the signature mark of one of Nazi Germany's assassins of the Second World War, and YC picked up the trail as a vigilante, law enforcement, a monster hunter (he is a vampire, and perhaps YC figured this out), or even a journalist. Hunted, searched with a dogged intensity--and then the trail went dead. Alternatively, perhaps they merely researched, or knew someone familiar (or none of these things; very flexible). The killings simply stopped. For years, there wasn't a single similar case anywhere in the world.
  
  It's been three years, and the a third missing person has shown up in the course of six months. This wouldn't generally be a cause for concern. YC, however, has a hunch or catches a hint and when they poke their nose in, they discover something else: these people aren't being kidnapped or sold. They're being killed and, worst of all, it follows a pattern. Most others don't notice it without the calling card but YC does--how could they not, after the time they've spent hunting this criminal?--and a simple fact becomes clear: Silberfuchs is back, no longer as a hitman but as a serial killer.
  
  Meanwhile, YC has met, in one fashion or another, this fine fellow who goes by the name of Kratzer. Maybe they saw him fighting in the illegal cages in the city's underbelly, or perhaps it was at a club where he came as a performer. Maybe it was simply in the store or on the street or anywhere else. Regardless of the nature of their meeting, or their developing relationship, they've become increasingly fond of each other (romantic or otherwise). In fact, they could almost call each other friends. There's endless possibilities: maybe YC is a monster hunter who's after him and knows he's undead, but doesn't know that he's the killer they've been tracking, while Kratzer recognizes that he's the very murderer YC pursues without knowing YC knows he's a monster; perhaps YC is an investigative journalist who picked up this trail on the side; maybe YC's in law enforcement and their mentor was on his case before getting killed by him, and then it went cold, and ever since, YC has been seeking the killer.
  
  
  

  The Man Behind the Mask
  Playlist | i. | ii. | iii. | iv. ​

  
  Name: Kratzer|aka "der Silberfuchs"
  Age: 170 years as of 2019, born in 1847
  Nationality: Prussian, tells people he's German
  Languages: German, Russian, Spanish, French, English, Mandarin Chinese
  Race: Vampiric human (Greater Vampire)
  Religion: Roman Catholic in practice, 70% atheist in belief
  Details on his vampirism mechanics for those of you acutely interested
  
  Frank Sinatra? Check. Sexy, exotic accent? Also covered, if German is sexy and not just...angry. Scars that he's only 90% sure chicks dig? He's got those to, not to mention a charming, roguish grin and the persona of a performer in all the best ways. He's the gayest straight(ish) man you'll ever meet. He's got a fine sense of humor, an unshakable confidence and willingness to wear anything in public (yes, including that neon pink shirt with no fewer than three holes in it), and inner workings comprised of contradictions.
  
  How many things has he done over the years? The terrible things, the good ones? He served as a soldier for his country, fought with the allies in the First World War, and as the years passed, made his way from a street rat to a mercenary and monster hunter. At some point he went from the monster hunted to the monster. Was it because he had to choose between the lesser of two evils too many times, or is that only the excuse he offers himself as justification when he contends with his guilt? Kratzer himself isn't quite sure. What he does know is that he loves the son who he's estranged from, he'll play accordion until the day he dies (again), and that he's one of the world's foremost hitmen in the supernatural and the human world alike.
  
  All he wanted was a normal life. A wife. A child. Something nice, something kind, outside of all the abuse and bloodshed he's been caught in his whole life through. He had it, for a while, and then there was World War II and he got sucked into fighting for the Nazis against his will, and the world was never the same after that. Then his employer died, the one who'd kept him trapped in the killing game, and then, with the rising of the modern age, he had a chance. A chance to have that again.
  
  He tried to fix things with his son. They were irreparable. He spent years living the normal life, pressing back those habits of violence until they came out in the ring. He told himself he wouldn't kill. He'd feed as much as he had to, he'd fight in the cages, and then that was all. But the days passed and they turned into weeks, months, years, and he couldn't keep it down.
  
  Perhaps the simple truth is that he's not a killer because he was a hitman, but was a hitman because he's a killer, and he can't keep that buried forever--no matter how much he'd like to.
  
  Appearance
  5' 6.5" (1.68 meters), about 140 lb (63.5 kg). He's neither lithe nor stocky, though he is quite muscular as the years of combat have afforded him. He moves with a dancer's grace and constant awareness and control of his body that only comes through decades of training. His demeanor is, more often than not, one of light humor, roguish charm, and a wry sense of humor, but there are moments--fleeting moments--wherein this is replaced by something far more genuine and less of a persona. He's surprisingly grounded for someone so casual, and when he is on the stage or stands alone his performer's mask falls away, replaced by sobriety and a deep, careful contemplation. He has an acute awareness of the world and it's darkness, stared into that abyss and met its eyes when it stared back, and he lives with that constant conflict between a conscience that he possesses and that insatiable need to kill.
  
  As though the scars weren't enough, Kratzer also bears a significant amount of ink that isn't shown in his drawing. His left arm and part of his back is covered shoulder-to-mid-forearm with intricate designs in pale hues. There is a woodland with road weaving through it, and along the path and within the woodland are creatures and figures from the old fairy tales: the wolf prowls near his shoulder, the leg of a lamb in its jaws and a silver fox standing some distance away, watching as it feeds and a human silhouette comes up behind it; the Pied Piper, followed by the children, walks down the pathway, rats scurrying away before him; Snow White and Rose Red with standing beneath the protective bear; and, at the bottom, a candle is sliced in two, fire flickering as it falls, the rising form of Death behind it, with an enscription in German below it: "Du hast einmal nach dem Schönsten gesucht...aber im Bett des Todes hast du es verraten und nach dem Leben eines anderen gegriffen. Schlaf jetzt." Translation: "You once searched for the most beautiful...but in the bed of death you betrayed it and reached for someone else's life. Sleep now."

  
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  Lore​

  Lore: it's flexible stuff. I have quite a bit of it (and am always working on making more), but if you're interested in seeing my ideas/already-made worlds, you can find all that stuff here. It's a constant work-in-progress (you'll see huge empty spaces) but it's slowly being made one bit at a time. That being said, I have more in my head than what's written down, as well as a partially-built medieval-era high-fantasy world, among other things.
  
  

  Characters​

  -To Come-
  

  
  
  
  

 

[Featherstone]

Bop!

 

[Featherstone]

Badoop!