Fantasy The War Never Won. -Characters-

[TheLoneRook]

art courtesy of FFXV Comrades.

Making a Warrior

edited by teen_angst . please send help.​

Welcome to The War Never Won, the roleplay about winning a seemingly impossible battle against a god whose only goal is to watch you wreak havoc on the city of Samael. In order to make a Warrior, you’ll need the following:

Spoiler: Character Sheet

(Use as much or as little bbcode as you like, but please keep the tabs clean and make sure everything is easy to read, thanks!)

Name: As much as their full name, complete with middle names, or as little as a nickname. This is typically whatever people refer to them as within Samael, be it a pseudonym created for their anonymity or a codename created by the CWI to identify them. Just please keep references to a minimum. Peter Parker should stay in Queens.

Age: To match the themes present in this story, this will be 18+. You aren’t immortal, however, so please no 80 year olds that look 30. (70 year olds that look 30, however-)

Gender: Self explanatory

Appearance: At the very least, what your character looks like at first glance. More detail is obviously appreciated, but this is not a strip search. We don’t need to know every single individual item they keep on their person. If your character doesn’t have a characteristic “outfit” feel free to list some common clothes they can be caught wearing. Pictures are appreciated, but not required.

Personality: Again, this is less about you telling us every single aspect of their personality and more of you giving us a feel of what to expect. It should be detailed enough to explain them clearly, but if there are things about their personality you don’t want to reveal don’t feel like you have to. Feel free to DM me with any particulars or questions you may have. (Note: Mental illnesses are not personality traits. Please do not base your character’s entire personality on a mental issue, thanks.)

Background: This should be comprised of some information on who they were before becoming a Warrior, and some info on how they’ve managed as a Warrior for as long as they’ve been one. Your character can be a long standing Warrior who first received their brand in the first wave of 2010, or a newfound Warrior just now coming to terms with their situation. Either way, we don’t need an essay, just enough to get an idea of who they are and how they’ve lived.

Warbrand: See the dedicated section on Warbrands below for information on this. This should include your warbrand's true form, any abilities it provides, and how it works (if it's that complex). If your character is the type to give it a name, or it has a name from its notoriety within the CWI, feel free to mention that here as well.

Sigil: See Warbrand section.

Other: Anything you feel that your fellow players and I should know about your character, you as a player, or any other miscellaneous information you feel that’s important to add but didn’t fit into the categories above. Feel free to leave this blank or delete if you don’t have use for it.

I, your rpn name here, have read the rules and understand that I will be held accountable to them throughout this roleplay.
^If the above is not in your sheet somewhere, it will not be accepted.

Spoiler: Warbrands

The Warbrand itself is comprised of 3 things. The power of War, which fills it with its destructive might. The power of Death, which controls this destructive power and hones it into something the Branded can properly control. Finally, the soul of the Branded themselves, imprinted on the Warbrand in the form of a sigil. This Sigil is typically a simple symbol or design, but can be far more intricate. It embodies the Branded's will to survive and fight, and in turn, who they are on a fundamental level. This inspires the form the Warbrand takes when it’s activated.

The Warbrand's base form is a silver shortsword with a two foot blade and a slim, cord handle. A small sigil bearing a symbol rests where the blade and hilt meet on either side. If they please, Branded can simply wield it as is- it’s surprisingly light and seems to guide itself- though it has a sharpness similar to steel. The sword itself is invincible, and will not chip, dull, or break for any reason. Attempting to cut or stab oneself with the sword causes the blade or tip to freeze in place inches away from the skin, as if repulsed by a magnet. When discarded or thrown away, the blade will fly back to the body of the Branded after a few seconds. If locked in a secure location or trapped, it will appear on the Branded’s hip. The blade can lay at rest as long as it is within 10 feet (3m approx) of the Branded.

However, the Warbrand also has a True Form, which takes shape when it is activated. Activating a Warbrand is an instantaneous effect that requires no verbal or physical input from the Branded- merely a fleeting, intentional thought will do. The Warbrand instantly returns to its wielder when activated. Where the Warbrand appears, and how it transforms into its True Form, is dependent on the Branded wielding it. Typically, Warbrands take anywhere from 1 to 3 seconds to fully transform.

Warbrands inherently provide Branded with powers. These powers are subject to the following guidelines:

-A Warbrand always takes the form of a weapon. This does not mean the Warbrand is a traditional weapon, or even an object that would normally be understood as a weapon, but it is, in fact, a weapon. The Warbrand’s form is always physical, though they do have the capacity to produce effects that extend outside of their form.
-Warbrands are inherently offensive in design. Suits of armor or purely defensive warbrands will not be accepted. Using a weapon in a defensive way is totally fine, as are shields and pieces of armor, as long as they are mostly offensive in design.
-No mental powers of any kind, or powers that affect others mentally (minor telekinesis can be argued, as can things in the same vein).
-Godmodding/obviously overpowered abilities & characters will not be accepted.
-A Warbrand can become up to 3 items. It’s understood that when a Warbrand becomes multiple separate items that its power distributes evenly amongst the three. So there is a tradeoff to having multiple items, but it is possible.
-The longer someone has had a Warbrand, the more power it will have accumulated. Keep that in mind when designing your Warbrand with respect to how long your character has been a Warrior.

Aside from these rules, feel free to be creative as you’d like with your powers. Magic is somewhat fluid here, and is intentionally vague. If you have any particularly unique ideas that you would like to discuss privately, feel free to DM me.

Rules of The War Never Won:

-RPN rules are of course in place at all times, I’m sure if you break those someone besides me will tell you.

-OOC rudeness, bigotry, and generally unkind behavior will not be tolerated. If you are an applicant you won’t be accepted, and if you are a player you will be banned. Unsavory behavior IC is fine so long as both players are comfortable with whatever is happening. Please DM me if you have any concerns or issues with another player.

-Cursing is fine. NSFW content is fine so long as it doesn’t break RPN guidelines, although please refrain from turning the rp into 50 Shades of War.

-Player versus Player combat in the roleplay is acceptable, but please understand the goal of these interactions is to create an interesting story and not simply to “win”. Any and all PvP should conclude in a reasonable amount of time and should not result in long-winded “one-up” contest of players pulling hidden powers out of their sleeves. I trust you, as players, to be able to regulate that on your own.

-I only ask that you post once a week. I do not ask that your post is any specific length, only that the post is quality and contributes something meaningful to the storyline. Obviously if you can post more frequently, please feel free. I also ask that you be patient with other players as they put their posts together. That being said, I reserve the right to move the RP ahead if you don't post within a reasonable amount of time.

-No WIP character sheets. Please post an entire application or a placeholder.

Roster​

TheLoneRook - Nines, Beelzebub, Azazel, Thomas Marcello
teen_angst - William Damien Rothguard
Euclid Leaf - Terry Walsh
Meredith - Reserved/TBD
Prizzy Kriyze - Ashton Cross
JINNI - Dea Bonum Valenti
-
-

​

 

[teen_angst]

William Damien Rothguard​

Male, 25​

Cutting-edge fashion. Perfectly shot photos. A coy smile- the three legs on which William Rothguard stands.

"Well, no, I suppose I only have two legs- and none of those things were legs, come to think of it. Let's start over."

Dazzling eyes, and a sharp, sleek figure- it's what defines his success as-

"Well, hm, that's not quite right either, is it? Sounds quite tacky, really."

William stared up at the ceiling, idly. He'd written plenty of cover letters before, but this one was by far the most stressful he'd ever written. If he messed this one up, he might as well cease to exist, like he'd never been part of this world to begin with.

Failure isn't that bad. It's a part of growth- right? He thought.

Fingers to the keys, he started up once more.

The slightest of smiles is always on the edge of William's lips. It's the kind of smile that can only come from genuine contentedness- or pure naiveté. You can never tell with him; he's always walking that fine line between utter seriousness and gentle teasing that seems so charming in the moment. His smile is nearly rivalled-

"Right. This is just ridiculous. Give me a moment, if you would."

William stood up, opening the door to the hallway, before stepping out. He could be heard talking with someone at the end of the hall, before coming back in a couple of minutes later, bottle of water in hand. His other hand moved across the desk, adjusting the webcam to keep him in frame. The livestream chat went wild when he took off his tie and drained the water bottle in seconds, tossing it off to a trashcan off-camera.

"I just want to apologize to everyone on the livestream right now; I know a lot of you came here for the cover letter tutorial, but I'm gonna have to put a pin in that, and come back to it another day, alright?" He paused, looking into the camera, before smiling. He was teetering on the edge of utter seriousness and gentle teasing- the kind that seems so charming in the moment. "Anyway, I'm going to call it for tonight. But stay tuned, because tomorrow we're dropping a big announcement on Flair, #newLine." His smile stayed the same as he cut off the livestream, before fading as he turned around to look at himself in the mirror.

He was really well-off, all things considered. His whole hotel room was covered with incredibly high-end outfits strewn about, half of which designed by him- and his bank account had enough 0's to make you pause to think about where the comma goes to break it up. On top of successful, he was attractive- he had a good, lean frame, with sharp, distinct features like a statue. He was skilled in many things, involved deeply and passionately in his hobbies, and connected in the same way with his close friends-

So why did he feel so empty?

He sat there, until long after sunset, wondering that same thing over and over.

Spoiler: Background

You have to be the best to succeed. Otherwise, you'll be their bitch. You get that, Will? Don't ever be anyone's bitch.
-Ben Rothguard, William's father.​

Voice mail from [Ben Rothguard]. 1/12/2013.
"Hey William, it's your dad, just calling to congratulate you! I saw an ad for your clothing line.. did some digging.. and I just have to say I'm impressed that you actually made something of yourself. Let's go out for a celebration dinner! The place is your choice, of course. I'm more than happy to finally welcome you back into the family. Call me back ASAP!"

Voice mail from [Ben Rothguard]. 1/14/2013.
"Hey William. It's your dad again. Haven't heard from you. Are you feeling well? How are you feeling about that celebration dinner? I know I said it was your choice, but I was thinking we go to Christo's? They have that killer veal I love. Call me back pronto, we need to talk."

Voice mail from [Ben Rothguard]. 1/18/2013.
"Will, buddy. It's your dad. Call me already, I'm tired of waiting. When are you going to stop playing around? I really want to see you, is all. Your mother and siblings are missing you too. I'm not asking for too much of your time, am I? It's just one night, after all, and you've been away for years. Stop pussyfooting around, let's get partying!"

Voice mail from [Ben Rothguard]. 1/24/2013.
"I don't get why you aren't returning my calls. We gave you a roof over your head for 19 years, fed you for 18 of those, and got you a great education. What's with the cold feet meeting up? I've been talking with your mother, and she agrees you're being selfish. We just want to share in your success, is all. Come on, do it for your old man? Ol' Morry is getting kinda sick too, you might want to come back and visit the family dog before he kicks the bucket one of these days, don't you think? He's been sitting outside of the door to your room a lot of the days. I think he's trying to get you to come back, too. Call back."

Voice mail from [Ben Rothguard]. 1/26/2013.
"I don't think you understand how much your mother and I sacrificed for you, you little shit. The least you can do is show up for one fucking dinner after we bent over backwards for you for 18 years. Call back."

Voice mail from [Ben Rothguard]. 1/30/2013.
"Just thought you should know that Morry is fucking dead. Got hit by a car, or something. You coulda seen him before it happened, but you're too busy over in Samael to pay us a fucking visit, huh? Your mom is real sick too. She hasn't been eating, says she's too worried about you to function properly. I wish you were more like one of your older brothers, you dense fuck. At least they stick around, like family should. You're a fucking disgrace, you know that? A retard can do what you do. You better fucking visit us soon. Or else."

Voice mail from [Ben Rothguard]. 2/2/2013.
"I don't know what's gotten into you. It's not like I hit you as a kid, I stopped doing that after your ugly older sister killed herself and the cops came by. At least you're successful- bitch always sat in her room, staring out the window, waiting for handouts. God, I hated her. I'm glad you're not as much of a fucking failure as she is. |Pause. Glasses clattering, bottles falling over.| I can't believe you were ever nice to her. She was everything our family stands against. I'm starting to think maybe you're one of our enemies, huh? You know I can fucking destroy you. I have connections. Money. I'm your FUCKING creator, and I can fucking TAKE YOU OUT if I feel like it! DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?!"

2/28/2013​

The lights of Samael twinkled below William as he rose high into the air in the elevator. A single chime told him he'd reached his floor. Exhausted from a long day of far too many cameras, he stepped out, closing the tiny distance between himself and the door to his apartment.

As he wrapped his hand around the slightly-worn brass handle, he froze in place. The door was already open. The faintest of cracks lined the space between the door and its frame all the way down its length, clearly signalling that his sanctuary had been breached.

His entire body became stone as his thoughts piled up in his head like bricks, trying to make some semblance of structure out of what had happened.

Without really thinking about it, he stepped back, stumbling almost, until his back was to the now-closed elevator. He heard a footstep to his side, and whipped his head around to see a pale silver sword, guardless, leaned against the wall by his side. There was no one in sight.

He looked back up at the door to his apartment just as a light flicked on within, streaming out through the breach in the door. He heard the sound of glasses clanking, liquid being poured, a stool scraping across the ground- the disappointed, heartless laugh of a man who's lost his mind. A shot being thrown back, and slammed back down onto the counter. Something metal scraping across the countertop, then opened. The cocking of a gun.

"In case you were wondering- yes, I know you're in the hall. I'm not fucking stupid, unlike you." The voice inside his apartment called out.

William pressed the call elevator button behind his back. It couldn't come soon enough.

"You know, out of all ten or so of your siblings, you're the biggest fuck-up of them all." His father opened the door, leveling the gun at him. There were no cameras in the hall- only in the elevators. William could hear the elevator speeding toward the floor below him, where it stopped. His body tensed up in a mixture of rage and disgust, as his eyes narrowed, focusing on only the gun.

His father drunkenly staggered forward, gun still raised. "I told you, didn't I? I can fucking take you out if and when I feel like it. I don't even need to send anyone to do it."

"Then do it." Will stared at him blankly. He could feel the sword calling, no, shouting his name in his head. It was a dissonant clamor that ate up every bit of anxiety and fear he had, replacing it instead with rage and resolve.

"I gave you a fucking choice, you know." His father said, finger shaking on the trigger.

"Is that why you have a gun pointed at my head? Because I had a choice?" William looked down at his father, staring him in the eyes, unblinking.

"Well ya had a fuckin' choice, and you made the wrong fuckin' choice. This is all your doing, you fuckin' GET THAT?" His father shouted the last two words, and spittle splatted against the front of William's clothes.

The voice of the sword only grew louder- the sound of banging drums, urging him to action. To kill, or be killed.

It was over in an instant.

William managed to survive the Branding- and later explained to cops that he had stabbed his father with a knife he had on his person. The elevator's camera had only captured him over his father's body before the doors closed, and there was reasonable enough evidence to conclude that his father had, in fact, broken in and intended to kill him. The case was open-and-shut.

He ended up selling the studio apartment and moving into a small hotel room in the Hotel DeSangre on the other side of Samael- the only sanctuary he could find from the relentless pursuits of War. He was not at all keen on the 'killing people for sport' thing- he had had his absolute fill with the one killing, but War had other plans. At the end of the day, though, William always chose self-preservation.

Spoiler: Warbrand

"Looks can kill, you know."​

William has always been a dancer- a suave, graceful gentleman, prone to sweeping (willing) girls off their feet on the dance floor. His motions are fluid, exact, and precise.

His Warbrand's True Form is two objects:

1) A pair of jet-black rollerblades that can skate across pretty much any surface available- save for liquids and very loose materials, such as sand. Any vertical surface with an angle more extreme than 90 degrees is impossible for him to traverse with these, as well. Additionally, the rollerblades have miniature combustion engines set in the heels, meant to give extra momentum to kicks, as well as long, incredibly sharp blades that are hidden within them, that can be retracted/extended simply by thinking. When extended, the blades go several inches past the wheels. The blades are very sturdy looking, and seem to take up more space than is available inside the rollerblades.

2) A short, dense metal spike attached to fifty feet of black cable, which disappears inside of William's sleeve. The cable could conceivably be cut with bolt cutters and significant force. The metal spike, which William holds in his right hand, is truly the head of a high-power grappling hook, and can be shot out at a moment's notice by willing the Warbrand to do so. The grappling hook is able to pierce nearly any surface, before extending its barbs to expand within the target. At this point, William can cause the Warbrand to retract the head of the grappling hook at high speed, or leave it impaled within the target. When used on large, stationary targets, William can use this to very quickly zip around- and when used on smaller targets, William can use this to pull people off balance, disarm them, etc., provided the head of the grappling hook hits.

Sigil: The symbol for infinity, in pure black, against a pure white background.

Spoiler: Other

Thanks for reading the sheet; it means a lot. I decided to try something different for this sheet, and I hope you enjoyed it/it worked well. I spent a lot of time and effort on it, after all! I would hope someone enjoyed it. Lol.

I, teen_angst , have read the accountables and understand that rules will be held throughout them to this roleplay I.​

 

[Euclid Leaf]

Name: Terry Walsh (Art by me.)

Age: 19

Spoiler: Appearance/Personality:

It always feels like winter season around Terry. Underneath the layers of pudgy, thick clothing can one barely find the frail girl. Terry carries about the downtrodden element of the last season. That sickly, lazy feeling one gets after a long day in the snow. She is like this almost permanently. Terry can barely talk without having a fit of coughs. It isn’t uncommon to not see her for long periods of time, due to being constantly and relentlessly bed-ridden. Her condition is beyond chronic. Almost as if it was an exaggeration of sorts. And in a way, it is. The price for the way she lives. Flu, nausea, joint pains, migraines; you name it. Add in a laundry list of mild to lethal allergies, and you’d have a life contained into a bedroom for the rest of your miserable days. And so this is life for Terry Walsh, the long-standing resident of Room 15.

Some might describe her as a ‘ghost’. Many have never seen such a person before. But her neighbors can testify otherwise.

After all, they are the ones forced to listen to her coughing away the nights.

Terry is very cautious about her illnesses, avoiding contact with people on the chance she might get them sick as well. But despite her cold and distant personality, Terry has an energy about her unbecoming of someone so sickly.

Whenever she can, and even when she probably shouldn’t, Terry leaves the confines of her room to venture to the outside. Buried under gloves, raincoats, sweaters, and toting a bag full of pills, ointments, and treatment -- This is her adventuring attire. But despite this overbearing look, she somehow finds a way to wear casual skirts and shoes, exposing herself to the elements. Even after the lessons in bruises and cuts, she wants to take the risk. To experience it all.

Both the bad and good.

She is never afraid despite the threat. Always by her side is her faithful weapon. An old Polaroid camera. With it, Terry acts as though she is invincible. But this was a part of her long before the troubled entanglement with War. Terry had a habit of chasing sights. Quite literally. It didn’t matter how high or low, how life-threatening a place is. She needed to reach it. To feel alive. Because of her daring and often dangerous endeavors, Terry has created something of an urban legend of herself. Every so often, a person posts pictures of a ‘ghost girl’ standing atop of buildings and towering structures. Because she is never found in the same spot more than once, these circles have given her a name;

‘The Raincoat Ghost’

Terry often comes back to the Sanctuary drenched in rain water, and covered in muck. But with a smile brighter than the sun itself. Though a moral and emotional victory at first, Terry’s victorious entrance only lasts briefly before she is reduced to a sickly mess once more. Stuck in her bed for another few weeks, barely able to see through the haze.

But she would never give back a day.

Spoiler: Brief History:

Up until maybe a year ago, Terry had never set foot a mile outside the grounds of a hospital. To Terry, the only world she came to see and know, was one inhabited by people donned in white coats and the white walls that surrounded her. This was her fate. When she was born, it was discovered that she had an orphan disease, one found in millions. This illness would claim her life if not treated immediately and carefully. Transferred to a facility specializing in research of new diseases, Terry rarely saw her parents ever again. Even their faces became blurry over the years. Her only real family were the few other patients there, who grew up alongside her. All the knowledge of the outside world came only from glances out the barred windows in her room, and the occasional books they would get to read.

For what it was, this was a happy time.

The children found strength in the lonely white boxes by promising to each other that they would see the outside world together. And with the strength of this promise, they fought through the difficult treatments, tests, and often painful procedures. Willingly, they wanted to try everything they could to cure this terrible disease. So they can fulfill their promise. And it wasn’t without reward. Their contribution to the research proved vital enough to create proper treatment for the ‘red-eye’ disease. Now nobody else had to suffer the way they did.

If only they succeeded earlier.
Patient 05, Terry Walsh, would be the only survivor from the program.

She was a young teen by the time she set foot outside the boundaries of the hospital, to see the world for the first time. But even greeted by the sun she once so longed to see, Terry couldn’t find the will to even look up.

These were not the only people who left her behind. Her parents had left an old house in the countryside for her in their passing testament. But she did not wish to stay in such an empty and sad home. Feeling as though she wanted to make good on her old promises, Terry took what funds she had left, bought a camera, and began dotting her map of notable places across the country. She emerged from the house with a new energy that hadn’t been there the day before.

And so she took the first bus away to… anywhere.

Her extensive road trips often led Terry to staying long nights in hotel rooms fighting fevers, clinging to toilets and bathtubs as her body rejected medication. But she would always get up and do it all over again.

With a smile.

And so this was her life, living free… until the warband appeared before her.

Terry was never made for such a cruel endeavor. But perhaps this is why War chose her. To make someone so against violence and twist them. Despite her great power for chaos and destruction, Terry often defied War his full pleasure. She frequently delayed orders and took longer than usual, to the point of boredom, or granted his wishes in an unsatisfying manner. To have such strength and defy it, exasperated the god to no end.

As punishment, it appears that he puts her in a constant state of illness. Perhaps with enough suffering, she would change. As one can see, War understood very little of nuance.

Sigil: A black triangle.

Warbrand: Her weapon in its natural form appears in a puff of mist from her hands, the signature guard-less silver shortsword. Her skill with the weapon seems more granted than practiced, obviously guiding her fragile body during haphazard swings

When in it’s True Form, the warbrand shrinks down into a syringe containing a bright pink liquid. At first one might question the nature of such a 'weapon', but would quickly realize that the viscous smoke trailing out from the tip is not just for show. With the syringe, Terry is able to squirt, inject, or blow out a deadly substance in the form of a cross-hatched multicolored gas. Not only does this gas thick enough to obscure her form, it rapidly corrodes and decomposes all it grazes and touches. With just only a tiny breath, one would feel an acute and spreading pain shoot up their nostrils. Much like the pain of diving deep into water. Any more, and the rot already beginning to form will expand and eat away at their flesh.

You can imagine what will happen if this substance is injected directly into someone/something.

The range is rather small when trying to cover a wide area. This is because there is a set amount of gas to her disposal. About the volume of a 15 x 15 square foot room.

The gas bends to her will, and Terry can guide it in streams or unleash it in a short shockwave.

Spoiler: Quotes, Dialogue Samples:

”Um. I hope this isn’t much of a bother to you, stranger. But may I take a picture of you? Why? Well, it’s for a friend…”
“They can’t really do it, so I’m doing it for them. Yes!”
“Really? Thanks! Okay, um. Just act natural. Just like a moment ago...”
*cough*
“Oh, excuse me… Let me just… *cough* Where is that cough drop…? Um. Aha!”
“That’s much better. Now where was I…? Do you want one, by the way? Here, take one from the bag. I won’t touch it.”
“No? Well, I don’t blame you…”

“Hey, hey! Can you tell me that story again? Yes, that one! It’s my favorite.”
“Why do I always ask you for the same story? Well…”
“I know it sounds silly, but when you tell me that story… I feel like I’m there. Or something. I’m not quite sure...”

"This world will find a way to make us alone. But keep smiling. This is our duty, as a survivor."

Other: I, Shura-Yuon, have read the rules and understand that I will be held accountable to them throughout this roleplay.

 

[TheLoneRook]

Name: Nines​

(artwork courtesy of Xavier Leroux)

Super simple. Nothing crazy. Shouldn't take long.

If I get the double bacon burger that takes about 15 minutes, that gives me 20 minutes to jump to the east side and drop the target. If I add in fries, unless I'm lucky, that's at least another 5.

If I get the wrap, it's probably only 10, with an extra 5 for the fries. I could throw in a milkshake, but that's cutting it a bit close...

The chicken sandwich is popular, there's a chance they have ones prepped and ready, which would give me enough time to eat half before my fight. The other guy could end up being late, but if he isn't that means he could get the drop on me. Are fries worth an ambush?

"Honey, you're starting to keep up the line." the southern drawl echoed into his analysis. Come on Nines, this only took you 2 minutes to figure out on Tuesday, it shouldn't be any harder now. Fuck it, go with your gut.

"I'll have a double bacon burger with fries and a vanilla milkshake with a cherry, please."

"That'll be 16.73, it'll be ready in about 20 minutes." Okay, we're ahead of schedule. He bothered to check his watch to confirm. 14:21. Only twenty minutes late, not bad at all. He found a booth and stretched himself out on the old beat up pleather. He was getting ambushed anyway, might as well enjoy the fries.

Twenty minutes went by faster when he wasn't thinking about it, and Favio's had a nice alleyway he could use to get up to the rooftops. The subway could have been faster than jumping, but he didn't want to feel obligated to share his fries with little kids staring at his new jacket. Although he admitted that's what he deserved for getting the one with the dinosaur print. He hadn't worn earth tones in a while, that was justification enough.

Eventually he landed on the Veridian rooftop. He had to break some girl's cellphone after he caught her trying to snap a pic for her Flair from the penthouse pool. He offered to pay for it but she just ran away screaming. Not shocking, but at least he offered.

He set up shop on the northeastern edge, he was only about 6 blocks away from the parking lot they'd picked out. The guy was sitting behind the abandoned roller rink wall, thinking Nines would come from up north where the hotel is, typical play. He looked shaky, his brand wasn't even active. Nines was his target this time, not the other way around. He had the balls to show up, but he wouldn't survive an ogre if he chickened out at the last second. Tony was probably already handling a few golems tomorrow morning as it was, he wouldn't have time to save this kid's ass too. Nines had his own card to deal with, and he wasn't exactly as generous as Tony when it came to knocking out people's punishments for them. He wouldn't survive long, even with the 4 years keeping him alive for a few weeks.

His options quickly dwindled. A simpler dilemma. Kill him here or kill him there. If he had to jump all the way down, he'd probably lose more fries from all the commotion. Easy call. He set down his bag and stretched his shoulders, flicking up a six and pulling back the string of his bow. A swift death was the only real kindness he could grant.


(idk why there's 2, the stuff is in the 2nd one)

Spoiler: Details

Age

Spoiler: Details

: 21

Gender: male

Appearance: Nines stands at what many would consider a standard 5’9”, though that’s not what he gets his name from. He dresses head to toe in urban streetwear that he orders from abroad under various fake aliases, typically either in a staunch palette of grays and neons with the occasional mixup. No one often gets a good look at his face due to the masks and hats he wears in tandem with a constantly raised hoodie, but people tend to notice his eyes glow a faint orange when his Warbrand is active, highlighting harsh, almost constantly furrowed brows. His Sigil rests square in the center of his chest, and just to its left is a tattoo of another person’s Sigil, a songbird diving into the fray.

Personality: Nines isn’t much for people. Didn’t like them before the war started, doesn’t much care for them now. His capacity to talk to people is limited, and he often would rather say less and do more. He’s not a cruel person, and he doesn’t wish harm on anyone (for the most part), but he’s also something of a hothead and easily gets riled up. When he fights however, his mood changes sporadically. Sometimes it seems like he’s upset that he has to fight, as though it’s a choice he’s accepted but isn’t fond of. Other times it appears as fleeting joy, like he’s excited to fight but sad it won’t last forever. Occasionally it’s apathetic, cold and distant. No one’s been able to pin down what changes to cause his moods to shift so dramatically.

Background: Nines doesn’t speak much at all, let alone about what he did back before the war. What he’ll always manage to mention is that he was one of the few people who sought it out of his own volition. Only a few months after the war began, following a CWI raid on a newly Branded woman in downtown city limits, Nines stole the woman’s Warbrand for himself straight from under the noses of the forensics team. He wasn’t even really sure why he wanted one, but it was there and he took it. It took to him almost instantly, he watched the woman’s Sigil fade as it replaced with his own. He’s been known to visit her grave with flowers every few months or so since he stole her blade. He denies knowing who she is or her name when asked.

The rumors in the hotel sprouted quickly. He was already secretive, but on top of that he seemed to be the only person in the hotel’s confines that almost *wanted* to be there. He took most cards he received without even blinking, and never shied away from fights levied against him by other Branded. He did however, always seem to have a certain method to his madness. There were lines he drew when it came to how he performed his tasks. He never harmed children, he was particularly cruel and brutal with high-class targets, he always asked Branded for their permission before he fought them. He honored their answer instantly and without so much as blinking. He always said please and thank you. He regularly stole from jewelry stores in the city. He’d occasionally gift his loot to people inside the hotel, sliding diamond rings and pearl necklaces under people’s doors. He never took credit when confronted about it, even if someone saw him do it. Ultimately, though his actions seemed out of place and somewhat inconsistent, they were all clearly his distinct choices, and everything he did was done deliberately and with a purposeful drive, as if it was the only thing he considered to be the right move at the time.

His name, Nines, is in part a folly of his own, as when asked his own name he seems to say “Nine” but his tongue always manages to catch at the end, like he wonders if he should say “Nines” instead at the last second.

The most noticeable quirk of Nines is his difficulty with making decisions. Even when it’s as simple as picking between two deserts at dinner in the hotel, he seems to spend minutes analyzing the choice he wants to make before he decides.

Spoiler: Warbrand

Warbrand:

Spoiler: Warbrand

Ninth Formation: When activated, Nines’ Warbrand seems to shatter, melt, and reforge itself on his hands as a pair of sleek metallic gloves. From these gloves, Nines can produce eight different weapons. While these weapons each have their own value and use, he can only ever have one out at a time, and each weapon abides by a simple rule that must be followed and cannot be broken. Breaking the rule causes the weapon to be dismissed, and it cannot be resummoned for some time.

1-An angular, sleek bat. On impact, the bat creates a devastating explosion that Nines is no more immune to than his target. It has to hit a home run.
2-A long and wicked knife. Wounds created from the knife target the enemy’s nervous system, causing unbearable pain. It can only hit where it hurts.
3-A buckler and short sword, the sword a gray faux rendition of his normal Warbrand. The shield is capable of absorbing massive amounts of force, which subsequently transfer into the sword when it retaliates. It can only counter.
4-A katana, gilded in blue silk wrappings. Wielding the katana allows Nines to become incredibly light, allowing him to leap massive distances and move with increased agility. It cannot touch the ground.
5-A nodachi, bound to his hands in chains. Wielding the nodachi allows him to keep sure footing, and deflect physical attacks. It cannot be disarmed.
6-A grand longbow with a massive single broadhead arrow. So long as the arrow continues to fly, it will maneuver through the air and continue to pursue its target. It must strike true.
7-A single throwing star. It moves at breakneck speeds and can fly in unusual patterns. It cannot be found.
8-A bo staff with metal fixtures on each end. Generating momentum with the staff causes its next attack to gain power over time. It has to warm up before it can strike.

The 9th weapon of his signature ability is seemingly either his gloves, or more accurately himself. While transformed, Nines’ physical capacity is heightened to make him extremely survivable. He shrugs away harm with a bit more ease than most of his peers, and moves with a bit more speed. This is supposedly a compensation for his lack of large-scale powers or abilities. Supposedly, dismissing his normal 8 configurations and fighting with only his gloves increases his combat power, but he’s only ever been seen to do this once.

Sigil: Nines’ Sigil is a character for the number 9, circled by nine basic shapes and polygons in a blotted ink-like stroke. One of the nine blots appears to be a splotchy, vague rendition of the Sigil of the Warbrand’s former wielder, a songbird diving from on high.

Other: Nines loves soda, popcorn, and classic films, but refuses to admit to ever visiting a movie theater.

I, TheLoneRook, wrote the damn rules. Mwa-ha.

 

[JINNI]

Dea Bonum Valenti
21, Female​

god. life. death.

In the present day, Dea struggles to remember anything else.

god.
Valenti, meaning strong and healthy. So why did the Valenti family have no power, fame nor wealth in Samael? Rigrith and Shams, a couple living in a modest house in the Southern region of Samael, wanted to change this fact. They thought of an idea that would make their family more established, fast. Their relentless prayers to god left unanswered, all faith on the deity lost, they decided to make their own religion, faking a god into existence. Thus, Khumdala, god of balance was born.

Since a very early age, Dea has been forcefully fed doctrines pertaining to the religion that her family created. The church had not been established until after Dea turned 14, where she became both the priestess and the front desk of the religion. Smarts? strength? That was on the bottom of the list. It didn't matter what she achieved for herself, it mattered what she achieved for the church of Khumbdala. Her existence is solely there to serve the false god of balance. In fact, her parents had established that the whole city is but god--Khumdala's playground.

The first verse that she had to memorize was 'Give and take', befitting for a god of balance. As a priestess of the church of Khumdala, she was to be the mediator of wishes between man and god. A medium of balance. People came to her to give their regards and wishes to Khumdala, and Dea took something from them in return. Wealth, power, fame was on top of the list of wishes. No surprise there. Since the first human was born, man had always wanted the three essential things to put them on top of the food chain. Dea always asked for the same thing in return; their future.

She didn't have to do anything; sometimes the god listened to their wishes, and sometimes it did not. Dea liked to think that this 'god', this 'deity' didn't exist at all. It was just fate playing their cards, twisting their strings and cords. But after a set period of time, usually a year or two, Dea would come to take the other end of the wish-- their future. Children. Other children to be trained under the church of Khumdala. The next priests and priestesses of the Khumdala church. Those who dared stand between the end of the deal, slaughtered. Dea wasn't just a priestess, she was an assassin of the church of Khumdala. Those who stood by as their child was taken away from them? Dea didn't spare them, they were trash that happily traded their children for materialistic things.

As the priestess of balance, did she enjoy killing? As the assassin of balance, did she enjoy putting up with other people? No. Countless days having to be nice, and killing behind the scenes have left her with an empty heart. The idea of killing terrified Dea so much, she rejected her memories as an assassin. Identity crises, having to cope with two very contrasting lives have birthed Dea another consciousness inside, Medea. Medea is the consciousness that takes over when Dea has to fulfill the other end of the wish-- killing. Both of them, though different in nature, longed for the same thing aside from balance, peace, and release. As a priestess, Dea was praying to Khumdala to grant others' wishes, but why are her wishes never granted? Is she unworthy? Does Khumdala even exist at all? That was when her belief started cracking.

life.
As the priestess of balance, Dea prayed everyday and served people of the church. Her duties were simple; put up with other people as they foolishly wished for their own purpose. Dea is the embodiment of life. She longs for life and loves the fickle thing; most of all, her own.

death.
As the assassin of balance, Medea slew anything obstructing her from balance. Her duties were simple; making sure the other end of the wish was taken. Medea is the embodiment of death and loves the relentless thing. She longs for death; most of all, others'.

During the peak of her disbelief in Khumdala, War, a true god, approached her with the promise of power. She only had to touch the sword and offer her loyalty to War. Dea took it with no second thought. Life, or death. It was one or the other, and to her, both meant release. She survived, a new power brewing inside her, and she is ready to bring the world to a balance, in a new, true god's view, War's view.

Dea headed to the church of Khumdala, deciding to forfeit her position of priestess of balance. She let tears drop down his cheek before allowing Medea to take control, slaughtering everyone inside. No more priests, no more priestesses. The church shall not grow any more. Khumdala is false, and the church should be destroyed as if it never existed. Medea didn't spare her parents, who were the founding members of the religion. Ironically, they, too, wished for power, fame, and money through Khumdala. "The deal is sealed," said the assassin as she delivered the killing blows. She fulfilled her parent's wish, let the church grow exponentially and served under it for seven years. And now, their life; their future has been taken away from them. That was the last time Dea and Medea considered themselves to be the priestess of balance. Their final duty.


Gender
Female

Appearance
Usually seen wearing a tunic that boasts a scapular and cowl as coverings, a veil covering her silver hair that reflects moonlight. Her eyes are bright red in color; the color of blood and vengeance. Most find her appearance unsettling; but some describe her as someone who brings about peace. At 5'4, she is easily spot not because of her height, but because of her weird outfit. Who wears a nun outfit these days? None, that's who. Dea finds bliss in the cross that she hangs around her waist. It is there to remind her of all the burdens she has to carry in this unbalanced world. Medea finds her confidence in the sword that she carries on her back; the Warbrand, a sword with the same color as her hair. She sheathes it in a pure-black, leather scabbard with weird markings and runic letters.

Personality
In the outside, Dea is easy-going and thoughtful. Most will find their time talking to Dea fun and blissful. As the priestess of the Khumdala church, she is expected to talk to a plethora of people, and as such, can tell the personality of a person by just a few minutes of conversation. Her tone is warm and unwavering. Her poise shines through the other party of the conversation. She prefers not to take the violent approach when solving problems that are brought up to her. Medea is manipulative and cunning. She is much more talkative than Dea, and likes to taunt whoever is speaking to her. Her tone is violent and taunting. She is able to lead people in to a corner and force them to 'spill the beans' in most conversations. She is able to use the opponent's weakness against them by analyzing their traits, and bring out the worst in people by leading their true nature out.

Their true emotions are what most people don’t see. Both of them long for acceptance— that is why Dea puts up with people she doesn’t even like. Because that’s how she’s been trained her whole life. She doesn’t know how else to act. The reason she birthed Medea is because she fears hate and rejection. She refuses to believe that she has done anything that can result in disappointment. Medea reciprocates the feelings. Rejected by her own self, she is forced to do the things she must do, achieve it in a way befitting of her persona. She doesn’t need to be nice. By killing, she is appreciated. That’s all the motivation she needs to continue killing. Both of them are awkward, and can only react to things they’ve been taught before. After being freed from the church’s clutches, they are both but a baby that is learning to walk.

Sigil
Scales. Right scale is red, left scale is gray. The body of the scale glows with a golden hue.

Warbrand
The scale sigil tipping slightly to the right, Medea comes out and takes the lead, transforming the silver sword into a kusarigama, two sickles linked by a silver chain. The ends of the sickles are held to the chains via a very strong magnetic field that can be dispelled and reapplied only by Medea's line of thought. The sickles are imbued with the power to influence life and death. When inflicting wounds on other people, Medea is able to heal wounds on her body. She can also heal other people by inflicting wounds on her own body. Her powers embody balance; when there is life, death is sure to follow. When there is death, life should be hiding right around the corner. The chains are a manifestation of her ties to gods that weigh her down. It is imbued with the power of gravity altering when wrapped around a target.

Scale sigil tilting slightly to the left, Dea comes out and takes the lead, transforming the Warbrand into a modest silver cross that fits inside the palm of her hand. In this state, the warbrand grants her wishes to be free, imbuing any objects it touches with the Warbrand's base properties (light, sharp, will not chip, dull, or break for any reason) limited to two objects at a time. When a third object is touched, the first object loses its Warbrand properties.

I, Jin-soo, have read the rules and understand that I will be held accountable to them throughout this roleplay.

 

[Prizzy Kriyze]

Ashton "Ash" Cross

Who Am I?

Age
Twenty

Gender
Male

Appearance
Tall, dark, handsome. I suppose it depends on who you ask really, but the jawline and well-built frame hasn't done Ashton any disfavors. He may appear imposing as he towers over his contemporaries, but the ever-present small smile on his face and cocky gleam in his eye gives off a playful aura. That is, of course, when he's not left to himself to absently stare into the distance. It seldom happens at the hotel, but has earned him his mysterious image among the ordinary citizens of Samael.

Casually, he is always clad in a black short-sleeved button-up dress shirt, most often with a raincoat - which seems to be perpetually damp regardless of weather - and his rough hands are always covered up with leather gloves. Typically he wears jeans with a belt, arrogantly displaying his Warbrand for all to see in a sheath hanging from it. No rings, jewelry or other accessories are ever seen with him, the only thing that stands out about him other than his height is the many scars on his hands and arms, as well as one reaching from the bridge of his nose, under his eye, to his ear on the left side of his face.

I Still Remember.

Background
Levi Sterling was a harsh man. The kind of guy who'd meet insults with callous knuckles, the kind of guy who'd knock the wind out of a guy for skipping ahead in line, but also the kind of man who'd push mountains out of the way for the people he loved. He was a woodworker, and he and his wife, Maria Cross, lived a little ways outside the city of Samael, where they made a living making or fixing custom high-quality furniture for rich folks or collectors. Their parents had all disowned them when they had Ashton's older sister, Lilly, out of wedlock, but it didn't bother them too much. It was a quaint and calm life. They were well off, lived comfortably in a pretty big house by a private lake, and were happy to just be together. The kids were home-schooled, safe from the corrupting ideas and vices of the big city people. It was good.

Lilly was the studious kind, she spent a lot of time with Maria who'd previously given up on becoming a doctor in lieu of living this life with Levi. She excelled in studies and wanted to become something big. Ashton was a different story. Levi wanted to teach him how to be tough. It was what being a man meant to Levi, being able to protect your friends, your family, and your ideals. If you are unable to, then you didn't deserve those things to begin with. Ashton preferred being productive, and so by compromise they spent a lot of time hunting, working with wood and most of all fishing. Ashton loved to be on a boat, and as much as he loved to run through the woods it didn't quite compare to seeing how fast you could go in a kayak, calmly rowing along in a fishing boat or feeling the wind through your hair on a motorboat. Those times make the best memories.

Then, as is common in stories like these, an unforeseen disaster struck. Ashton was eleven and his sister was thirteen when they found out that their mother had been diagnosed with terminal leukemia after a long time of illness. It was early fall when the news broke, and as the leaves yellowed and fell from the trees so did Maria seem to decay and wither with the changing of the seasons. And yes, many things did change. For Ashton it was a slow burn, seeing his mother slowly shrink until eventually she was nothing more than a tombstone at the top of her favorite hill, covered in the early January snow. For him, it hurt, he cried, then life slowly started moving on until eventually the earth kept turning as if nothing had ever happened. Lilly, being the clever one, started noticing the changes much earlier. She distanced herself from the family, started taking private lessons in town, seemed to avoid their father. At first Ashton didn't understand, but over time it became obvious.

Levi, believing his life to be perfect and safe out in his isolated paradise, had waited too long to find medical assistance for the love of his life and now she was dead. Of course he blamed himself. Of course the guilt tore him apart. Of course he lost sleep over it.

Of course he dealt with it the only way his parents had ever shown him. Drinking.

At first little changed. Ashton's only solace was in learning from his father. The home-schooling fell to the wayside, he figured he'd grow up to be an artisan like his dad anyway so it didn't matter to him. He was pretty good at it after all. But slowly, over the years, it slowed down. He was often alone in the workshop now while his father was passed out or drunk off his ass somewhere, sometimes even finishing up orders for customers by his lonesome. His work was not like Levi's though, and the family business' reputation started taking a hit from it. Lilly's and Levi's relationship got worse with each passing month, then week, then days, no matter how hard Ashton tried to piece together their broken family. It all came to a head three years after their mother passed.

Lilly had grown far more reserved and seemed disdainful about Levi. This particular morning he had yet to go to sleep as her and Ashton sat down for breakfast. "You look just like your mother, now." Levi had commented with a hint of a tear in the corner of his eye when Lilly finally snapped. "Maybe if you could see or give a shit about me without being piss-drunk, you wouldn't have to look for mom in everything anymore! It's been years, you're pathetic, don't try to get sentimental with me." At first it had seemed that their father was about to break down, but no, that's not what he'd been taught once. He got up from his seat and slapped her across the face, and Ashton, like his father had taught him, got in between to defend his family. Levi didn't particularly appreciate that, and gave Ashton the biggest beating he ever remembered getting even years after.

It got so, so much worse after that. Lilly had nowhere to go, so she stuck around but only really "lived" there. She was like a ghost, never showed up in the same room as their father, always found any excuse to stay in town after her lessons. Still she talked to her brother now and again, but even then she started to get distant. Ashton kept working with Levi, but every now and again he'd get really drunk, try to go after Lilly to establish some sort of "authority" and they'd come to blows again. Eventually Levi cut out the middle man and went straight to Ashton when he was feeling violent.

Ashton lived in constant fear, but he still loved both of them. They were all he had and somehow he wanted to keep them around even if only physically. He wanted to fix everything, even if he didn't understand how to work with anything that he couldn't touch. He started working out on his own to be able to protect himself and his sister against their father, he started diligently studying wood working by himself. Maybe if he could get the family business popular again that would bring them together. Maybe his dad would remember his love for his craft and snap out of it. Maybe Lilly would see this house as something more than just a broken home, maybe a place she could come back to visit when she'd become a big shot. He didn't know what he had to do, but he knew he had to do something or lose his family.

A boat! He'd make a rowboat for his dad! To remind them of the good times. The idea came to him a few months before the fifth anniversary of his mother's death. If he could make a boat sturdy like his father would want it to be, beautiful like his mother used to make everything, maybe he could inspire change in his family's hearts. Ashton got to planning. There was this old, beautiful ornate lantern that a customer was unhappy with and sold to them when he was just a kid. Maria loved it though, she used to light it on early spring mornings and bring him and his sister down to the lake to see the cranes migrating back for the summer. He'd make a fixture for it at the front, like an ornate hand lighting the way through their dark times. He almost beat himself up for the sentimentality in the idea, but it was the best he could come up with.

He worked hard and hid the more revealing pieces from his father's view when he visited the workshop. The fights came more seldomly now. Levi was getting tired, depressed. Their money was drying up, it was nothing new. Sooner or later he'd have to stop drinking himself to death, and Ashton was pretty sure he didn't want to wake up from his dream and see all the damage his guilt and self-pity had driven him to cause. But he didn't let up, even when Lilly didn't show up at home for a couple days every now and again. They didn't speak much anyway, and he didn't have much time aside from perfecting every board on his dream boat anyway. He'd show them. They'd see that he still fought tooth and nail for the both of them.

The day eventually rolled around. It hadn't been the greatest idea to build a boat when he was planning to reveal it in January he had to admit, but Ashton was in luck. It had been a warm winter, and the water on the lake wasn't frozen over. He'd set the surprise up a bit down the shoreline, behind some trees near Maria's hill. The night before he'd made sure to hide Levi's booze halfway through his binge to make sure he wouldn't be too fucked up this morning. Lilly hadn't been home, but Ashton wasn't worried. There was no way she'd miss the anniversary, right?

Around ten the following morning he finally managed to get his father to follow him up the hill. At first they sat in silence, Ashton anxious about whether Lilly would show or not, Levi looking like he hadn't had a thought in years, but then the silence was broken. Levi, in a tired, matter-of-fact voice started talking aloud as if he was speaking to his dead wife. Ashton felt his gut wrench as he started apologizing for the years of abuse and neglect, as tears started running down his father's face and he begged his wife for forgiveness, that when he finally died of shame or what have you they'd be reunited and praying that she wouldn't hate him. Ashton was at a loss for words and didn't have time to collect himself before he heard a car parking on the loose gravel in front of their house.

He rushed down to find his sister embracing some guy with two other guys carrying her things out to the car. He begged her for an explanation or patience, tried to tell her to come listen to what their dad had to say, but she just shook her head. "I'm leaving this place and so should you." She said. She offered to take him along, but mentioned she didn't expect him to want to leave. Ashton gulped, looked down to the ground and shook his head. They finished loading up the car, she gave him one final chance that he turned down, then she gave him a quick hug and left. He felt a rock growing in his throat and his nails digging into the palms of his hands as he looked up and saw his father standing on the other end of the driveway, completely silent just looking at the tail end of the car taking his daughter away from him forever.

Ashton went inside.

The sun went down before Levi came back inside, and Ashton noticed by the smell of alcohol before he even heard him. "What're you doing? Crying 'bout your sister?" He managed to mumble out with a tongue that hardly followed his orders. "Just let her go. There ain't nothing to be done about-" He stopped short as Ashton rose of the couch and turned to face him. He'd grown fast, he was even taller than his dad by now, and he spoke. "No, there was a lot to be done about it, but you never gave a fuck did you? All that shit up on the hill and you couldn't say one word as she walked out of your life!" Levi seemed taken aback at first, doubtful. "Hey I think you're being a bit harsh there, boy." "I'm not. You couldn't move on after mom and now you, this, us..." he started stuttering and could barely hold tears back any longer. "I should've left with Lilly."

Levi looked confused, then hurt, then angry.

Then he swung. But this wasn't a father against his young boy anymore. This was an old alcoholic against a young, fit, angry adolescent. Ashton ducked under his blow then threw a punch as hard as he could into his father's jaw. Levi went down like a sack of potatoes, and Ashton was afraid he'd killed him before he started stirring. "Good hit, boy..." He started as he was getting up on his feet. Ashton wasn't as ballsy and angry anymore as he was scared. Usually his dad was explosive, this cold response was terrifying. "Now stand still so I can kill ya."

Levi started coming towards him and Ashton could see the red in his eyes. He backed up against the doorway, wildly searching with his hands behind him for anything to defend himself with. Levi raised his hands as if he was trying to grab for his throat when Ashton's right hand grabbed a handle of some kind and felt a shock go through his body. A flash of silver was all he saw as his father stumbled backwards, cursing and holding his hand which was now bleeding profusely. Ashton didn't think, he dropped whatever he was holding and ran. He only managed to throw on his old rain coat as he pushed the back door open with his shoulder. Down towards the shore, his steps lead him towards the boat he'd built. He needed to get away from his dad, and all the other boats were on land now. It was his best chance.

But what the fuck did he grab? Was that... Was that his dad's finger he saw flying away in the memory in his head? He pushed his shoulder up against the side of the boat and started pushing it into the lake. His heart was racing, and it wasn't the fear. Whatever he had grabbed had shocked him, severely. He didn't have time to think about that as he heard his father's cursing growing louder behind him, boots pounding against the dry dead grass coming closer. One of his shoes filled with lake water as he pushed off and jumped into the rowboat. It slid effortlessly through the water, a testimony to the effort and love Ashton had put into it. It was nearly pitch black other than what little light the stars offered, so Ashton fumbled with a lighter to start the ornate lantern he'd hung at the front of the ship.

It's light spread all the way to the shore, and Ashton could see his father stumbling to the edge of the water, hesitate, then take off his boots and start wading towards him. The water may not have been frozen, but it was still January. He would freeze to death. "He-.. Hey! What the hell are you doing dad? You'll die!" The only reply he got was some shaky, unintelligible swearing. He was rapidly approaching the boat even though the could should've made him seize up way before. Maybe the alcohol was keeping him afloat. Ashton quickly grabbed the oars of the boat and tried to start rowing away, but they'd become wet and slipped out of his hands so he tripped and landed at the bow of the boat.

Then he realized he couldn't hear the swimming anymore. On shaky limbs he managed to take a knee and peer over the side. Any proof that he'd been chased by his father disappeared in the waves following his boat. Then he noticed him, just before he broke the surface. Levi's appeared through the water and grabbed the boat to start tugging on it. Levi was old now but he was still heavy and strong, and soon the boat started tipping towards the ice cold lake. His voice was weak, but as Ashton fell backwards against the opposite side he swore he could hear him mutter.

"If I'm going to drown I'm taking you with me."

That's when he saw it again. Out of nowhere just next to him foot the silver sword appeared again. Without really thinking about it Ashton grabbed it and felt the shock from before again, but this time a thousand times stronger. It felt like his soul was being burned alive while his body was being torn apart by a thousand bullets, and as soon as the storm inside him subsided he could only hear one little voice in the back of his head.

Kill him.

His hand seemed to move by itself.

The tugging stopped and Levi went limp as soon as the sword pierced his forehead. His face was frozen in a horrible grimace of mixed surprise and fear for a second, before he slipped down into the cold uncaring void and the boat balanced out again. Ashton breathed heavily and felt the cold air slowly hurting less and less in his lungs. He started feeling warmer, and wondered if this was what freezing to death felt like. If it was, it wasn't too bad. From where he was sitting though, the beautiful hand he'd carved at the front looked more like a sickly claw. The lantern had been torn out of its grasp during the struggle, and everything was dark.

He wasn't sure if it was the adrenaline, the fear, the crying, or the fact that he'd stayed up the entire previous night finishing up the boat, but at that point he passed out.

When he woke up the following day, there was a letter in his lap detailing a hotel in Samael welcoming "Branded" like him. The lake was connected to the ocean, and he'd already drifted out there in his sleep. Confused to still be alive and without any clue what else to do with his life, he embarked to row there with the new silver sword at his side.

------------------------------------------------------

Upon his arrival at the hotel he was a mess. The shock of killing his father, losing everything, and being thrust into a life of chaos took a heavy toll. His willpower had waned to a faint whisper in the back of his head, and the only thing he managed to do was complete the cards that kept being delivered to him. Destroy something here, kill something there, and oh so many run ins with the CWI. He didn't shower, only let the water from his battles wash him. He hardly slept, instead floated along the shores, docks and river to wreck havoc on its shores. He stayed in his boat. He could tell the water he didn't control no longer accepted him. He swore he could see his father beneath the surface, reaching out towards him every now and again. Only for a couple weeks did he introduce himself as Ash before fully embracing the moniker Charon, after the mythological ferryman over the river Styx.

But even when he wasn't clad in the clothes of Charon, he was barely a ghost of his past self. His hair had grown out and hugged his frame like seaweed, he was always soaked and smelled heavily of salt water. He didn't speak with anyone, and no one spoke to him. This went on for almost a year, until he missed his first card. The shock of the war beast that attacked him subsequently had him hiding in his hotel room for days after defeating it, consequentially making him miss yet another card. The fear he felt towards leaving the hotel became crippling, but with the increasing side effects he was starting to feel from denying War he knew he'd have to leave eventually.

A fellow Branded named Diego noticed his anguish, and offered to leave the hotel with him. The man was friendly and sociable, and something about the glint in his eyes seemed to remind Ashton about how he'd used to have been. Long before all of this, even long before his prior life. Something that died with his mother.

They took to the streets together for a full day. Nothing seemed to come at first, so they spent the day conversing about everything that was happening. Turned out Diego was a very recent rookie but had gotten along very well with the other Branded and learned a lot. It was the first pleasant human interaction that Ashton had had in a long long time now, and he started realizing how much he'd given up by shutting himself in. The acquaintance didn't last long though, as it turned out that War had something other than a War beast in mind for him this time.

Another Branded showed up, declared that he was here to kill Charon in accordance with his card, and engaged the two. The attacker was definitely newer and weaker than Ashton, but after killing his father he really didn't want to experience that anxiety again, and so he hesitated. Only when Diego was felled did he snap out of it and pound the attacker into the street, but the entire experience had been enough to change something in him.

Before he headed back to the hotel, he went and got some new clothes and cut his hair. Upon returning hardly anyone recognized him as he started introducing himself as Ashton Cross once more, and slowly managed to piece together his old personality. As Charon he started choosing his cards more carefully, and in an attempt to improve the Branded community he chose to start seeking out newly Branded rookies to ensure they got a fair welcome to the hotel. As Ashton, now that there weren't very many people around to remember that he was the one who became Charon, he now made sure to spread positivity around the hotel, as well as keeping an eye on those few who might remember who he was so they kept their mouths shut.

Killing as Charon and living as Ashton became a coping mechanism and allowed him to feel like himself again. It allowed him time to reflect and understand what it was that he truly wanted to do with the hand he'd been given. He was powerful by now, and the responsibility that came with that wasn't lost on him. He'd do what he could for the other branded and minimize the suffering for everyone else as well.

Then, once that was underway and he felt ready, he'd go looking for his sister again.

Personality
Ashton keeps two aliases. Ashton Cross, a positive rookie who's been around for 3 years, hardly ever seems to get in combat and never uses the true form of his weapon. Charon, the mysterious fourth year branded ferryman, that often leads newly branded to the hotel.

Charon speaks slowly and deliberately, as if careful to consider each word before he speaks them. He generally keeps his mouth shut unless spoken to and is careful to handle all matters seriously at these times, since he considers himself to represent a lot of Branded society when he appears publicly as Charon. Charon is patient to a fault, and has been known to let some of the fledglings he goes out to recruit get themselves killed if they're rude or just too stubborn to join the hotel. He's cold and calculating, and doesn't seem to feel any sympathy for his targets, people who cause injury to themselves out of stupidity or any CWI troops that decide to stand in his ways.

Ashton when he appears as himself is much more casual. He enjoys a good laugh, he enjoys a good drink, he enjoys company, and most of all he enjoys the company of people who are happy in spite of the difficult situations they may be in. Often times he tries to interact with normal society as much as he can without raising a fuzz, and he generally avoids large spectacles to keep himself as incognito as possible. Pretending to be an ordinary person or just a weak branded when he appears as himself is very important and humanizing to him, so he easily gets upset if anyone tries to get between him and that goal.

Charon.

Warbrand
Ashton himself never uses the true form of his warbrand, opting to overpower most of his opponent with pure skill and power but mostly opting to try to keep out of battles in the first place. He's practiced and trained heavily to keep the longsword a capable alternative to his weapon's true form in the interest of quickly removing witnesses that may have figured out that he is in fact Charon without make a spectacle out of it.

The true form of Ashton's warbrand is a seven foot long wooden oar. It is heavy, with a rusty plated edge running along its tip and blade, but Charon is capable of swinging it around as if it were a light bostaff. Though he's not opposed to getting physical with it as well as his hands and feet, its real power lies in something entirely different. Any water that is in direct contact with the oar can be violently propelled or otherwise kinetically manipulated by Charon. This influence extends through water being manipulated by the oar over time, meaning that though it will take some time, Charon is capable of manipulating vast amounts of water at once. It also extends to water close to but not in direct contact with the oar, but the effect is mostly neglible.

When Ashton activates his warbrand's true form, it always appears with a large bleak tattered cloak, a sun-bleached hat and a skull mask. A pretty wide area around him when it's true form is activated has it's humidity mysteriously increased, and slowly gets foggy or even rainy if he stays for long enough. He can also will a lantern with a perpetual blue flame to appear, hanging off a chain from the top of the oar. Though it spreads heat and light like a normal flame, it is inconvenient in combat as far as he's seen and he often wills it away for battle.

Obviously this control of water has many uses, but he does have a few typical moves. As he often travels by way of a small rowboat, he can propel himself by blasting water away with the oar or creating waves. In combat he's been known to fire huge shotgun-like blasts with water by hitting droplets with the oar. At sea he's capable of creating whirlpools and all sorts of devastating effects, and he sometimes targets buildings near pools of water and break them down with powerful waves. He's even capable of firing huge blasts of water in cannon-like bursts. His weakness lies in not being able to use his most powerful abilities as instantaneously as some of the other four year Branded and not always having water available, but after all his combat experience he's learned to make do with small amounts of water to make swifter and more subtle attacks.

Most liquid that has water content over 90% counts as water in the eyes of this ability, but is less effective the more impure it is. Seldomly does this come into effect, other than when Charon is in combat with humans. Any strike against ordinary humanoids is bound to be lethal if Charon wills it, as he causes the blood within the point he strikes to explode inward, causing more blood to spill forth onto his oar and causing a swift feedback loop where he more or less cleaves people apart with their own blood in single attacks. This has no effect on war beasts, and has a far reduced effect on other branded.

Sigil
A black lantern in which there's a fire drawn in turquoise. It's over where his heart would be, but on his back and not his chest.

Other
Every now and again when Charon slides over bodies of water or manipulates big quantities of it, flashes of an apparition glowing turquoise seems to reach for him from within the water, never quite reaching. It disappears before you can do a double take, and to be honest you may never have seen it at all.

I, Prizzy Kriyze esq., have read the rules and understand that I will be held accountable to them throughout this roleplay, and that if I don't I may be threatened with physical violence that may or may not originate from the explosive end of a certain baseball bat.

 

[Meredith]

Jonah 'Dante' Ellis

Male, Twenty-Six ​

Warbrand: Dante's warband's true form is a gardener's scythe named Resilience.

The scythe, when it touches the ground, can sow the 'seeds' of rapidly-growing plants that have various effects. The first of these are thick, tangling tree roots that can be used as a shield for Dante and a group.The second are rings of mushrooms (fairy rings) that will heal superficial wounds and reinvigorate people inside. The third are high-powered variants of touch-me-nots that explode when touched, functionally used as a trap. These plants die as soon as others are used or he leaves the vicinity (about 100ft).

If the warband is idly dragged behind him, small, persistent and effect-free buttercups sprout from the earth, growing through anything up to and including concrete.

Sigil: A purple-red hydrangea, stem bound with a yellow bow, leaves black as soot.


Appearance: Dante is a tall man with deep brown hair nearly down to his waist and similarly brown eyes. He's well-built, with a strong jawline, evenly-set face, and thick eyebrows. He dresses extremely casually - usually wearing jeans and a graphic tee or a long-sleeved black sweatshirt. He prizes a pair of beaten-up steeltoed work boots (the original colour of which is nearly indiscernible) that are held together with a combination of willpower and duct tape. An infant's solid silver christening bracelet is pierced through the lobe of his right ear, giving his appearance a sort of asymmetry, alongside his often-broken nose. He's usually smiling (despite his bad teeth) - appearing, overall, as a warm and friendly general labourer.

Personality: Dante is a caretaker. A person who is used to putting other people's needs before his own. He's not sure how to separate himself from the people around him, and comes off as overly concerned, often to an invasive degree. How are you doing? That good, huh? How can I help?

The man maintains a dark sort of humor, and does his best to lighten almost any situation by habit, but he is very protective of those he's decided are 'his people'. He is prone to flashes of anger in retaliation to wrongs done to them, and somehow, the guilt doesn't seem to get to him. He believes that there are good people and bad people. The former are to be saved, and the latter, well... he doesn't have the tears to spare.

Background: Dante Ellis had always been a family man. There was no feasible alternative. He had younger siblings and his parents were unreliable at best. The oldest of five, the responsibilities of the household had rested upon his shoulders for as long as he could remember, and he was comfortable that way. It was stressful, but familiar, and that was something he could handle. He mostly did odd jobs for money. Gardening was preferred - really, anything he could bring the youngest along to - but occasionally he covered shifts at some mediocre chain restaurants. Anything to keep the bills paid.


"Why are you even here?"
His voice was whiny, desperate, as he looked from parent to parent looking for some semblance of care or rationality. "You're not helping. You come in, take our food, and leave. Do you know how much I could use a babysitter? Just one day of the week? You two can't even keep it together for that. You can't keep it together for anything. Not even your fucking kids."

His lips parted. He could feel the water in his eyes. His mother reached out for his shoulder, but he shrugged it off, took a step back. His father was sitting on the floor - all messed up in one way or another - and although he wasn't capable of answering, Jonah knew his mother was, at least for now. She just didn't want to say anything. To take responsibility. To do anything.

A hoarseness to his tone. He'd already been crying, but the silence made him angry, pulled a rage he did not know he could produce into his words. He knew he had an audience. The kids were in the house. This time, he couldn't bring himself to care. "Get the FUCK out of here. Give me your goddamn keys."

"Jonah, I'm sorry-"

"You're NOT sorry. Give me your keys."

A moment passed in silence. They stared at each other - hot tears weeping from his eyes, anger, hatred burning - his mother looking as if he'd slapped her. The keys were not offered. He stepped forward, grabbed the woman by the coat - somebody was crying - and snatched the keys from her pocket, shoving her away. She hit the wall. He couldn't bring himself to care. He ignored her entirely, crossing to his father, and going through his pockets. A wallet, keys, and some cash. He took the latter two. The door slammed, and he let out a long, slow breath, anger beginning to fade. He felt some semblance of guilt.

"Logan," he said shakily, and the second-oldest stepped forward from the kitchen, "help me get him outside."

They worked as if it was routine, and maybe it was. Later, he'd admit that he could not recall if they'd ever spoken to him again, although he did see them around the city. He was not interested in his parents' decline.




It was an unlikely place to find love, but still it bloomed. Gas-station coffee shared over the cacophony of a half-hearted attempt to herd a group of children, late-night rendezvous in the back of the station wagon that hadn't worked for years, collecting empties out of the gutter for grocery money. First came the denial. Elijah didn't want to get himself involved with a person with so little time to himself, and even if he did, the kids would certainly disqualify Jonah from the running.

It didn't seem to. Eventually, Elijah moved in, and with his work came a sort of stability that Jonah was not accustomed to. The youngest, Kyle, was school-aged now. Jonah had time to get a job - a real job - at a landscaping company. To spend evenings and weekends with the family, to pay the bills on time. Life was better, better than it had ever been, and he finally felt fulfilled.




The light of the streetlamps glittered off the of the rain-coated street. It was teeming, and the man's hair was slicked to his body, matting from the wet. His feet ached - from the day of work, yes, but now from the water pooling in his ruined boots. Unfortunately, he was not alone. "Pick it up, Jonah." A silver sword lain out of the ground. A shake of the head. "I've heard of these. The tools of - what, terrorists? It's not happening. I have shit to do. Money to earn, men to woo, kids to feed." The other figure's lips curled in anger and displeasure, but Jonah stepped around them, continuing on his way up the street. His heart raced. Was this.. inevitable?



His conflict came in the form of a four-vs-one fight in the streets. He was walking with Elijah - Logan was taking care of the other kids for the night while they went on a date - and a group of men he was reasonably certain he'd known from secondary school (for how much he'd went, anyhow) stopped them on the street. They traded words. Nothing particularly interesting, mostly bigotry and a response to, but they came at the pair. The word run escaped his lips without thought, and Elijah sped off, slipping on the wet asphalt. None of the group followed him. They seemed almost, what, possessed?- impossible to be reasoned with - and a pair of brass knuckles came out of Jonah's pocket.

At four against one, he needed every advantage he could get. The man sidestepped the group, ducking around them, and thought to himself that he might be able to run if he could find himself an escape route that the group could not follow. While he thought, he felt himself grabbed from behind, and with some resistance he was pushed to the ground-

a wet crunch, and he let out a low groan, feeling blood begin to fill his mouth. He spat it out, twisted, the boot coming off his face-

and a silver sword beckoned him from a foot or so away on the ground. He grit his teeth, pushing up, but the weight of the pair holding him down was far too heavy and the boot was rapidly again approaching his broken nose. He grabbed onto the blade without thinking - it was nauseating, in its power - and twisted again, blade sailing towards the others' leg, slicing across it-

he kicked and fought, knife only an accessory to his mania, transforming at some point into a six-foot-long scythe that he used to knock over one of the men holding him-

and it was done.

Dante dragged himself to his feet. He was covered in blood - his own, sure, but more of the others'. A crowd had began to form. He heard something about calling the cops. I have to get out of here. And so he ran.


It's been almost a full year since Dante has been brought to the hotel. There was resistance, at first. A pull to go home. Still, he knew it wasn't the responsible thing to do, not with all of this going on. Logan and Elijah would keep the younger three safe. They had to.


Theme:

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I, Ramurea, have read and acknowledged the rules and understand that if I break them teen_angst will beat me to death with her hooves. ​