ColourDeaf

Greatest anime of all time...? Choices, choices The [I]funniest[/I] anime I have ever seen is probably one called Jungle wa Itsumo Hale Nochi Guu (roughly translated as "The jungle was always nice for halle, and then came Guu, but corect me if I'm wrong), as it's the most off the wall, bizzarre thing I have ever seen, with the exception of my choice for best anime... Fooly Kooly Alright, it's funny, the animation's great, the music original (and lacks a supremely cheesy opening theme, which turns me off many anime), and the art is quite frankly stonking (that's good if you're not from north England). It's wacky, funny and a good time, and doesn't require a great deal of thinking without being too much of a no brainer...well, anyway, that's my two cents.

With the idea of Future History (a full length comic, hopefully going to be around 20 or so issues. There's a thread of it somewhere here, under "Comic Idea(s)"), I feel that I need some more comic experience, and so I have an idea for this. Ladies, gentlemen and unidentified others, I present to you an anthology of comic short stories. [CENTER][SIZE=3][B]Extraordinary![/B][/SIZE] [B]The Gifted through the Ages[/B][/CENTER] The main idea of this comic is to show people with supernatural abilities (Superhero equivalents, henceforth known as the Gifed) through several stages of human history. The eras I was thinking of making the stories about were: [list] [*]The Spanish Inqisistion (focusing on the plight of Gifted "witch" and a Gifted Inquisitor) [*]The Edwardian Period (A tale of murder and intrigue in the courts of England) [*]The Victorian period (A Gifted policeman on the hunt for Jack the Ripper in the dirty streets of East London) [*]World War II (The tale of a Gifted Gestapo enforcer) [*]The Vietnam war (A Gifted American soldier and his struggle wth the spirits of dead comrades and enemies) [*]Mordern Day (The story of a hithchiker and a woman who met him 10 years earlier, the man claiming to be an angel) [/list] I'll post more information later (I need to take my dogs on a walk now, so we'll all be knackered when we get back). I was planning to do this anthology solo, but if anyone wanted to make suggestions or add their own stories to the list, I'd be more than happy to look over it. Anyway, cheers.

Richard flicked through the small black notebook he kept around with him, going through the names of his contacts in New York. [I]Harry Yung, Tommy Deseralli, Candy....that's for later.... who the bloody hell's Alex? Ah, Dimitri, he normally has his finger on the pulse of this damn city[/I]. He took a final drag on his cigarette and flick the stub away distractedly. He didn't like big cities. He always felt that there was somebody watching him... His gaze flitted back for a second and saw a young girl, not much older than 15 watching him intently, green eyes fixed on him. He turned back and carried on, putting the little book back in his pocket. [I]Antoher admirer...it's a curse being this handsome...[/I] he smiled to himself, chuckling slightly. [I]Now where's Dimitri hanging out these days?[/I] His mind started to wander. Old memories, old faces and old haunts forming into a cocktail of nostalgia tinted with longing. "BOO!" The memories shattered like glass, and he fell back with a start, a small explosion sounding in front of him. His hand shot inside his jacket and he drew the battered Derringer he carried around with him and aimed it squarely at... The chest of a 16 year old girl, decked out in a school uniform, fox ears and a tail. The gren eyes girl who was staring at him before. [I]Smooth, Richard.[/I] He ran a hand through his hair and shoved his gun back in his jacket. "What the bloody hell did you do that for? Damn near gave me a heart attack, you did!" [I]She's cute, though...[/I] [I]Oh shut up, She just came out of the ground and you're thinking how cute she is?[/I] [I]Just saying.[/I]

((Bored...)) Tune reminds me of my first E Still back then, still 16, still free Still chilled in my paranoia Still floating with zero G?s Totally sci-fi The force is with me People pushing into my shoulders All moving with the same beat Same rhythm Lose the anomalies We?re all riding the same wavelength One free flowing happy family All smiling All singing All free Losing yourself in the music Taking the time to listen to the heart Of the others whizzing on Charlie Feel the rumble under your feet Pounding like the dance of gods It?s truly biblical So many epiphanies Know thyself Lose thyself Absent thyself So little memory Talk **** to guys you don?t know What?s your poison? Where you from? What?s your story? It?s alright to know We?re all family Joined by our blood Pounding with the same chemical cocktails Closer than fathers Sons And Holy Ghosts Amen Blind yourself with theology Mainstream the philosophy We?re the final frontier The toxic generation Masters of escapism The newest crop of Houdini?s Dropping the bomb in A flower power revolution Each acid hit The tiniest tear in the sea Dealt by the new age messiahs Not murderers Taking the hit with us Preaching the word like Ghandi Modern alchemists Urban shamans and sorcerers Husbandry of chemicals Finding the perfect pedigree God bless you Safe as **** All kushty What was I saying? Words slur Heart purrs Things get blurry Time to pull a Bermuda I?m with friends See you in the club Damn skippy World crashes back around my ears Back to lazy Mondays Cramped apartments Pear shaped reality Still drab concrete Still dead beats Still synthetic inspiration Cloned similarity And forced harmonies Still back here Still on my morning break Still drawing on my ciggy Still free.

Alright, here's my character, tell me if I need to change anything. Also, if noone wants to be the "B*st*rd antagonist," I suppose I could make a new character to fit that :rolleyes:. Name: "Big" Drak Grotsnik Sex: Male Age: 29 Race: Mutant (Mutancy decribed in Description) Hair: Black, in a buzzcut, with a thick, dirty black beard. Eyes: Brown Skin: Dark grey Build: Heavy Description: Drak carries himself slightly hunched, as if burdened with a weight that cannot be shifted, and lumbers as he walks. His face is rough and craggy, as weather as the terrain he traverses on a daily basis. His body sems normal, but his skin is a dark grey, which protects him from a good degree of the sun's glare, and two great horns curl from his forehead. His normal attire is a heavy tan T-shirt under a battered beige fatigue jacket, with boots and canvas trousers that have been crudely hack off at the knees. His fatigue jacket carries the legend "Born to Burn" in bright red letters. On his head is a red cap, with two holes torn into them, to allow his horns to curl out (although there is some discussion on whether or not he can take the cap off anymore). Weapon of Choice: Drak prefers the good, solid kick of heavy-bore slug throwers rather than the stylishness of blasters, and carries his self-designed "slugga," a heavy duty, drum fed automatic rifle. Vehicle: Truck "The Heavy Duty Queen;" Speed: Average Maneuverability: Poor Armour: Excellent Vehicular Weaponry: A belt-fed machine gun mounted on a pintle on the roof of the cab. Bio: Drak started his life in the run down town known simply as "Second Best," named after the cheap whisky they produced. His parents were hard workers in the factory, and he worked from a young age as a courier between the local towns, using an old, disused dirtbike. As he grew older he discovered a knack for mechanical devices, and fixed up the truck he and his family were using as a house. With a terminal case of wonderlust, he took the truck as soon as it was able to move and left his parents in the care of the Mutants for Better Lives. He is now the sole permament worker in "Big Drak's Hauling Company," moving supplies, materials and quite often people from town to town, and has gotten a reputation as a good smuggler. Political Alignment: Mutants for Better Lives Reputation: Anti-Mechanoid League: Mutually Distrusted Domo Faction: Heavily Distrusted Robotica: Despised Mutants For a Better Life: Loved Prospectors/Merchants: Good terms Vigilantes: Distrusted Righteous Lightning: Indifferent This good?

Alright, the RP's started, so feel free to post.

There is a wall between realities. Some call this wall Shadow. Most of the time, Shadow keeps each reality from intruding on the others. But on occasion the wall weakens, the barrier between worlds frays, and things from one universe slide into another. Welcome to a world of swords, sorcery and cell phones. Welcome to a world where you can dodge bullets and sling fireballs, where the impossible is possible and appearances decieve. Welcome to a world where your neighbour, your workmate, your spouse, can be a creature from your wildest dreams, or you worst nightmare. Welcome to the world of Urban Arcana. ***** [b]Days Earlier[/b] The sun beat down heavily on the head of the traveller, hot and merciless. Thumb raised, arm stiff, walking slowly backwards, he scanned the highway behind him, peering for the tell-tale shine of a distant car. [I]Three hundred and six bloody five days of the year and I have to pck the slow traffic day. Well, this is what you get for taking the back roads.[/I] He sighed and dropped his arm, shoving it into his pocket and fishing around for his elusive pack of cigarettes. Locating them, he flicked one out and lit it casually, taking a long, grateful drag. He let he smoke out slowly and scanned the road again, and caught the sight of a tiny flash, just the barest hint of light on the long, empty road. His arm shot out reflexively, and he gesticulated wildly as the truck came into focus, a huge, 18 wheeled deal, bright red and dust-worn. As it approached him it started to slow down and came to a gentle stop. The driver opened the door, and the traveller looked up at him, huge, black and attired in all his stereotypical glory. "You heading to New York, boy?" "Yep. You offering a ride?" "Would I be stopping otherwise?" The traveller chuckled slightly and climbed in, "Thanks." He pulled the door closed behind him, and the truck sped off. "So...what brings you to New York?" the trucker asked "Just chasing a few of my daemons." The trucker nodded wisely "You got a name?" "Richard. Richard Constantinople." "That's a bit fancy." "They told me that when I picked it." the traveller replied, smiling slightly and lounging back in his chair, letting his sunglasses slip down to the edge of his nose. He looked around the cab of the truck, all empty fast-fod cups and empty wrappers. But hanging from the rear view mirror was something that caught his eye. A small medallion of stone, carved with the simple design of an empty road and a moon crescent. "Fharlangh?" The trucker started, and looked at the traveller with one eyebrow raised slightly. "How do you..." Richard reached inside his shirt and drew out an almost identical medallion, and grinned widely. "On my way to NY on a mission." "You karma police?" "Yeah, bunch of Shadowfolks been disappearing." "Damn..." "Yeah." "So when you said you were chasing a few daemons..." "Meant it literally...well, hopefully not. but you never know, these days." "Too true..." ***** [b]Today[/b] Richard hopped out of the cab, saluting the trucker in mock respect. Bubba grinned and saluted back. "'Be seeing you around, then. Dweller watch you, Richard. If you ever need help, I'll be in town for the next few days. Just ask around." "And you, Bubba, I'll keep that in mind. Thanks." The truck sped off, and bubba started to walk into the city proper. Now the mission was truly beginning...

Sorry if it's too late, but you PM'd me if I was interested, and I've only just had now to reply, so if you don't mind, here's my character... Name: Malleus Rend Age: 31 Race: Human Height: 6'1" Weight: 139 lbs Weapon: 4 [i]Psinoic Sinews[/i] Class: Monk/ Reaping Mauler Appearance: He stands as a fierce predator, slightly huncghed and looking at the world through thin, hooded eyes. He wears a long cloak of thick, black linen, under which he wears a simple tunic of dark red and black trousers, and bare feet, although they are wrapped in bandages. His skin is covered in intricate tattoos, all save his forearms and calves, each of which have a long external muscles which beats and pulses slightly with each of his heartbeats. His face is rough and battle-hardened, with numerous scars of long-forgotten conflicts. Bio: Noone is quite sure where Malles is originally from, and he likes it this way, but there is one thing that is certain. He is running away from something. The law, retribution, the Inevitables? He appeared in the Mercenary circles nearly a decade ago, with the sybiotic daemonic parasites he calls the Sinews, and carved a bloody name out for himself. In truth, he was an orphan that was brought up in one of the fighting monestaries to the far east, and left when he was unable to bow to the discipline and order of the brotherhood anymore. As they tried to stop him from leaving, he killed two of his fellow Brothers, and then fled. He has been hired by some of the higher movers and shakers to investigate why the dragons have been congregating, and although he took this job at face value (with the up front payment, of course), he seems to have another agenda on his mind...

[quote name='SilverCyclone']Wow...pretty in depth...sorry to say, its not really my kind of reading, but I know several people who would like it. So I cannot really post criticism. Meaning I just wasted your time.......*takes own life with sword*[/quote] As you should, time waster ;) . Well, anyway, here's the first idea for a comic, set in Old America. Oh, and I also want to say that this is a "comic" not a "manga," as I don't feel my style's quite anime (some might argue that it doesn't really matter or whatever, but I just want to say...sorry for being facetious) [B]Templar[/B] [I]Religion is the opiate of the masses? Nah, I'd say it's more like a bad acid trip..."[/I] Alexi Redgrave, squad leader of the "Necropolis Peacekeeper's," is a jaded young fighter who spends much of her day in the depths of the Voidheight quelling an would-be Religious crusade. One day, her and her squad is beset by the followers of the god Nhetfas, an apparent plague daemon. Their numbers are slowly pulled down one by one as the pox-ridden wretches claw at them, until only Alexi is left. She hears a cry, and the sounds of blade hitting flesh, and a man erupts from the ranks of the plague-zealots, wielding a rusted, notched sword and wearing archaic and battered armour. Upon his chest is a crudely painted cross, the symbol of Christianity, the dead religion. He screams prayers in the name of Jahweh, and goes about the brutal buisness of dispatching the zealots with grim efficiency. As the remmants of the Crusade flee, the stranger coughs wildly and hoarsely, before stumbling off into the darkness of the Voidheight. The is the story of Gregory Charles, the last of the Templars. In this comic I'm going to have Alexi Redgrave try to unravel the past of the heroic, insane figure, from his terrible fall, to his penitence and to the modern day, all the while showing Gregory's struggle with the plague-deamon Nhetfas. Anyway, that's just one idea. Comments?

Ladys and gentlemen, there is one thing I have to say on the subject, and it will make me MILLIONS... Ready? Richard Gere Solid. Bam.

I've wanted to do a comic for Cthulhu knows how long, and I feel that it's about time that I started one...or two...or three.... Anyway, I've made a futuristic world (based on our own), and what I might do is make three mini-comics based on the three main areas, Europe, Japan and Old America. Firstly, here's the world (I'll post the comic Ideas when and if I have time) without much further ado... [b]Future History[/b] 2003 New whale species found in Japan Japan contemplates sending troops to help US "Peacekeeping" in Iraq 25 killed and 400 injured in a bombing on the British consulate in Istanbul 2004 Korean suicide bombers destroy US embassies in Korea, the UK, France, Italy and Japan George W Bush authorises nuclear attack on Korea. UN is ignored Private groups in Iraq begin work on AI routines, instructed by a man calling himself Blaze Japan decides against sending troops to Iraq, provoking US enmity 2005 Terrorist attacks globally increase in regularity and severity. Nuclear attack on Korea prompts talks in Helsinki between the leaders of most eastern countries. 2 assassination attempts made, both fail. Talks last one week, videoconferencing continues for two months. Helsinki pact becomes first international agreement to be signed electronically. Copies sent to all countries. The pact states that the participating countries will pool all research regarding technological progress for the betterment of all member nations. Church of New Zion founded, founders claim to have referenced all major religions in history and have amalgamated the results into a structured communal belief system. 2006 First official retaliatory strike against the US. Highly organised strategic assault on occupying US forces in Iraq wipes them out to a man. Other "Coalition" forces left unharmed, but warned to leave immediately Coalition withdraws; America begins moves for all-out war on Iraq Tony Blair assassinated. UK withdraws support for US action War Declared. US denied passage through airspace of European countries. US Launches long-range attack on Iraq, despite certainty of horrendous civilian casualties. World War Three officially declared 2010 British navy seals succeed in infiltrating American military installations. several weapons research facilities destroyed. US forces firmly entrenched in mainland Europe. US navy carriers begin massing armoured vehicles in Portugal for coming offensive "Blaze's" AI routines compiled and sent to Russia. US starts work on the Trinity Macro nuclear weapon US launches conventional nuclear attack on Russia. Missile intercepted by unknown means Church of New Zion bases itself in India, and is welcomed as the second official religion 2020 US forces charge across Germany, entering Russian soil. Russians test latest weapons system: the OGRE, and reveals that the prototype was what intercepted the US nuclear attack 10 years earlier. US Attacks repelled US Launches Trinity missile Trinity Macro nuclear missile impacts in Australia. Impact crater throws up millions of tons of dust that are vaporised in the macro nuclear explosion. Australia scoured of life World War three ends with a stalemate. no official ceasefire is declared, and all sides begin amassing weapons and continuing weapons research. 2021 Funds poured into the Trinity program force US government to declare bankruptcy. Several high-interest auctions take place to balance the economy by selling off the US infrastructure. Private buyers purchase chunks of the government and found new companies using their technology. These corporations, with a haphazard mix of governmental power and corporate financing, are the first "Megacorps" Asimov robotics buys NASA and purchases a 51% share in Microsoft, ousting Bill Gates as head and voting in someone sympathetic to them Infomaster systems purchases most major American ISPs, and quickly buys up the smaller ones - as well as buying almost all governmental records - Monopoly and competition laws waived in favour of the US government getting money. a large portion of the internet goes down for three months as major restructuring is done. Metazyne systems and Darwin Biotech try to outbid each other on the contents of military facility Delta-17, a.k.a. Area 51. They reach an agreement whereby Metazyne and Darwin biotech each have access to relevant technologies. This technology is commonly referred to as "Warehouse 23 technology" The US Military is bought out by various Megacorps as private armies. Private investors who start up mercenary organisations buy other parts. Military blueprints are bought by various individuals and companies, some of which sell them to the USSR US Nuclear arsenal deemed to be part of the Military, and is quickly bought up by mercenary corporations Church of New Zion priests buy various undisclosed items from facility Delta-17 and take them to India Japan puts the samurai class back into the social structure of the country. Man protest, and civil war erupts, the new founded "Clans" (many owned by one megacorps or another) start a small war against the rebels, now known as the Yellow Scarf Rebellion. 2022 50% of American states are bought up by several Megacorps, and become official, independent countries in their own rights. Catholicism is officially declared a dead religion. Africa bands into the "Nubian Republic." It is now the world's biggest economic power. 2025 The United States is officially disbanded, becoming many Megacorps owned private countries. The last of the International records is ended the 1st July 2025. No one knows what the year is anymore? [b]The state of the system[/b] All right, for this comic I have split the world into three possible locations, and I'll give a small synopsis of the state of each one. [b]Old America[/b]: The Megacorps have completely assimilated the remnants of the former world superpower. They have covered almost all the landmass of the continent, with cities such as New York and Washington having to build up to get more room. Hackers plague the new information superhighway, with computers that plug straight into their brains. Organised crime syndicates own private armies, and a few of the former Midwest states are embroiled in a small war. Crime is at an all time high, the police force has turned to an almost fascist regime, owned by Smith and Wesson they are one of the few non-profit international organisation left on the planet. Let's take a look at an average city, New York, now owned by Babylon Electronics. The rooftops, miles above sea level, the world is bathed in heavy sunlight, a permanent high noon. From all the pollution from the great Age of construction, the ozone layer above America has disintegrated, to a point that to go an hour in the direct sunlight will have a 85% chance of getting skin cancer. This is known as the Noonhieght, the place where the movers and shakers rest their heads. Going further down, the space between buildings is a canopy of walkways and looping roads, where cars speed in great herds and young pups swing from cable to cable in death defying games of tag. This layer blocks most light from reaching the bottom of the city, while itself has little to love on. This is the Duskheight, where the middle class, the well off but not quite well off enough live out their grey little lives. And lastly, there is the bottom of the barrel, the Voidheight, where the masses live out their lives is perpetual darkness, almost never seeing the sun. The lighting is completely artificial, and numerous drones scurry or roll around, calling out to "Eat Recycled Food" or "Conserve Heat, Group Together." Gangs are a common sight, but these aren't your father's gangs. These are gang followers of dead Gods, street cults. Many of the broken down, rejected members of society turn towards a common goal, something that they can live for, and I mean really live for. They turn to the old books, those that survived the Great Fall, the bombing of Europe, the selling of the USA. They find the names of the Elder Gods, such creatures as Tzenttch, the Wyrmgod, Aslaan, the Grandfather, and Cthulhu. They take these archaic, barbaric idols as their new parents, and forsake he rest of humanity. Some of these zealots go to an even more extreme length to show their faith, and go to Chopdocs and illegal Biotech practitioners to change their appearance to that of their masters. This bottom is a living hell of dead Deities and their twisted followers. [b]Japan[/b]: Geographically, very little has changed in the Land of the Rising Sun, but socially, it has made a step backwards, returning to the days before the West changed it, to a time where honour and one's family was the most important thing. The Samurai rule supreme, from the highest Daimyo to the lowest of the Ronin, they are held in equal respect and fear of not only their political and social power, but of the secret Arts they hold. The Gun Karta, the New Bushido, the Bullet Fist. The Martial arts have lost their grace, but gained an incredible amount of sheer brutal efficiency, turning them into pure killing arts. The main clans, The Crane, Rat, Tiger, Dragon and Wolf have the best weapons, training and even housing. They are masters of all they see. Except the hearts of those in the Yellow Scarf rebellion. These individuals, many even from the minor Samurai clans, despise the supreme power the Major Clans hold, and fight them tooth and nail. They hold the secrets to the old Martial arts, and the secrets that only the working class know, the secret back alleys, the sewer systems, and the safe houses. They strike the Clans with the precision and sharpness of a scalpel, slowly but surely trying to bleed the Samurai dry. But where the Samurai lack the ability of being able to launch guerrilla strikes upon the Rebellion, they have small armies willing to give their lives to the Clans, elite guard who specialise in catching those that try to sneak in the shadows, and the deadly and mysterious threat of the Ninja, an organisation rumoured to be brought back. Bombings followed by brutal city block assaults, harsh interrogations of entire apartment buildings retaliated by swift strikes to the power plants. These are common activities, and have brought the Rebellion to a grinding but always present stalemate. All either side need is a small push to throw the entire war off this knife's edge, and in their favour... [b]Europe[/b]: More specifically, France, but it's moot point. It all looks the same, grey and lifeless. No one in Europe is too sure when it happened, but sometime in the year 2043 American launched the second Trinity Missile. The huge explosion, centred in Germany, and the ensuing huge cloud of dust that was thrown into the air, choked all of the life out of the entire continents, except those few humans that managed to escape it by going underground for months. When they emerged, the only thing they saw was a huge sea of grey dust, dotted by the skeletal remains of cities. The Europeans were quick to adjust to this new lifestyle, and now survive on a type of grain that is grown in vast underground fields. Many of them scour the lands for any sort of scrap that can be turned into something useful by the Junkmen, a group of individuals that have a great knowledge of engineering using bare resources, in return for a hot meal, a bottle of Second Best, an alcoholic drink made using the multipurpose grain, or even a chance to get a ticket off the continent, to England, which had the least bad effects of the Blast, and last few existing planes in London. There are only 2 types of people that live in Europe, those that have no choice, and those running from something. People who go to Europe for a certain amount of time are declared legally dead, and for good reason; Again no one is quite sure of the exact date, or even the year, but at some point Russia decided that they were going to use Europe as a type of testing ground for a new type of warrior, a drone. These come is innumerable shapes and sizes, but all have one program, search and destroy. Although the Russian's experiment in the drones is long since abandoned, the drones still roam the "countryside" killing all they see indiscriminately. It is for this reason that most travel is restricted to either going on land trains the size of oil tankers, or by the few vehicles that remain. But there are those that travel by foot, and they become living legends, the Wanderers. People such as the Musicman, the Undertaker, and Dronerunner are myths, things that may or not exist, but are living proof of the tenacity of the human spirit, and that nothing can defeat a determined man with a gun. Comments? Opinions? Cheers anywy

Alright, people, I think that's enough, I'll allow people who have asked to have a spot held for them, and there's one guy who has just PM'd me, and they can join, but i think as of this moment.... .... Wait for it... .... Sign up's are closed. Anyone else wishing to join will have to PM me, alright? The characters are good, but I would like to ask Undefeated to tone his character down just a tad. 40 times the size of a wolf is roughly the size of an Juggernaut truck, and having that level of physical prowess, along with the funds and equipment of a huge mega-corporation is a teensy bit unbalancing. Also, Deamon, could ou be a bit more specific when you say you're character's is "impervous to most kinds of mundane attacks" Anyway, I'll make the RP soo, so hang on a few seconds, ok? Anyone with any questions just PM me and I'll get back when I can. Cheers, ColourDeaf

Though my mother was already two years dead Dad kept her slippers warming by the gas, put hot water bottles her side of the bed and still went to renew her transport pass. You couldn?t just drop in. You had to phone. He?d put you off an hour to give him time to clear away her things and look alone as though his still raw love were such a crime. He couldn?t risk my blight of disbelief though sure that very soon he?d hear her key scrape in the rusted lock and end his grief . He knew she?d just popped out to get the tea. I believe life ends with death, and that is all. You haven?t both gone shopping; just the same, in my new black leather phone book there?s your name and the disconnected number I still call.

[I]There were five or six other passengers when he got on the B-train at 34th Street, but most of them got off at Rockefeller Centre, and the rest at Columbus Circle. As the train sat in the station, its doors open. Brandon became acutely aware of the fact that no one else was in the car. In fact, no one else was on the train at all, at least as far as he could see. Certainly this was no cause for panic. He'd been on a subway before, and he usually found it quite refreshing (that much privacy was rare in the Big Apple). But talk about the lunch room today had been about the four tourists found murdered on the subway - this very line of the subway - just the night before. Just then the express hurtled by on the middle track. Brandon flinched as its speed brought noise and a violent rocking to the stationary train. He raised his hand as if to ward off the sound and fury, even though he was perfectly safe. "What's the matter, mister?" said an unexpected voice. "Scared of the express train?" Brandon jumped again. A group of six teenagers had come onto the train so quietly that he hadn't even noticed them. "You scared, mister?" another of the teens taunted. "Don't worry, we'll protect ya!" At least they seemed to be teenagers. The tallest one was about 4 feet tall, and they skipped and hopped as the moved down the aisle toward Brandon. They weren't dressed as teens, however. They wore matching leather jackets with the collars turned up, and each had a cap pulled low over his eyes. Their voices had a menacing, predatory tones. Gangers. The youngest, smallest gangers Brandon had ever heard of, but gangers none the less. "We'll keep ya safe, mister," said the first kid, obviously the leader. "But it'll cost ya. That's a nice ring on yer finger. Gimme here, ya tourist." Brandon was no tourist. He knew how to take car of himself. And he knew what these things were. He pointed at the leader and muttered a word of power that was found in no modern dictionary. A bolt of mystic energy coalesced at his fingertips and exploded into the leader's face, knocking him back. His cap slipped from his head to reveal an inhuman visage with fanglike teeth, pointed ears and leathery skin. Goblins. The other goblins were already reaching for their knives. Brandon raised his hands, swirling them in sweeping motions while whispering unearthly words of power. Lightning crackled to life along his outstretched hands and flashed into the midst of the goblins. In an instant half their number was down. The remaining two looked from their fading companions, their bodies already reclaimed by Shadow, to the mage standing before them. "I hate magic-users." one of the goblins spat. "That makes us even," Brandon said. "I hate murderers, no matter what their species." The two goblins looked at each other, and Brandon noticed the slight nod they exchanged. "Another time, mage" the other goblin shouted as he tossed his knife at Brandon. Then the two turned and ran from the train. Brandon easily dodged the knife. "They always make me chase them," he sighed. Then he was running after them, hoping to catch them before ther slipped into the tunnel beyond the light of the deserted platform. If they got into the tunnel, it was going to be a long night...[/I] There is a wall between realities. Some call this wall Shadow. Most of the time, Shadow keeps each reality from intruding on the others. But on occasion the wall weakens, the barrier between worlds frays, and things from one universe slide into another. Passageways through Shadow are fleeting and can appear anywhere without any warning, a rising tide that cannot be predicted. The borders of Shadow seem to permeate our own plane. There are reports of portals taking the for of great pools of tar, abnormally dense fog, or even waves of intense darkness. When these effects recede they leave items or creatures marooned in our world. Shadow often manifests itself in remote, desolate locations, and these creatures enter our world confused and alone. The new arrivals only dimly recall the world from which they came. The passage through Shadow robs them of all but the most superficial of memories. They have reached this mundane world with whatever they carry on their backs and a few remembrances. They are collectively known as Creatures of Shadow, and the various humanoid species among them are called the Shadowkind. shadow portals are temperamental, and the same type of portal might admit only a wave of vermin in one manifestation, a group of monstrous humanoids in another, and a single great beast in the third. There are times when no creatures are left at all, but items are washed up on these mundane shores. This could be anything from a shoe, to a single glass vial filled with a colourful liquid, to a sword that glows pale blue in moonlight. There are even occasional reports of whole buildings (a keep, a tower, an entire castle), appearing out of thin air. Now, our world has its fair share of all-too-humans monsters. But is you look at the world outside your window it is not awash with beast from legends and magical weapons. So a pivotal question arises: If fantastic creatures are coming from the other side of shadow, they must live in out cities and walk our streets - so why don't we see them? The answer is as simple as it is insidious: We do see them - we just don't notice them. And that has more to do with the nature of the human mind than the nature of the universe. To most people, the world is a mundane place; ordinary, predictable, easily divided into categories. People generally walk around in a state that can accurately be described as "autopilot." they do not pay close attention to the people or things around them. After all, why should they? Fashion is ubiquitous, opinions are guided by mass media, people are people. This is perfectly natural. If you had lunch in a restaurant yesterday, you could probably remember what you ate. But could you describe your server? If you parked your car this morning, you could almost certainly remember where you parked. But can you describe the car next to yours? Unless something odd or strange happens, most people interpret the world as a series of ordinary, explainable events and pay little or no attention to the details. But what about when something odd or strange does happen? Say, for example, a person sees a gang of goblins on the rampage, or a dragon committing arson by breathing on an apartment building. Surely that person would notice that something odd was happening. Absolutely. But the minute the bizarre stimulus disappears, human nature takes over. We are assured as children that monsters don't exist. So even when someone sees a monster, he still doesn?t remember seeing a monster. In his mind's eye he sees a "big dog" or a "large man" or a "blur at the edge of his vision" - anything except a creature he "knows" does not exist. A magic fireball is remembered as a gas leak. A werewolf becomes a howling drunkard. The easy answer completely papers over what really happened, and the world continues on, blissfully ordinary. Some individuals, however, can see all the oddities around them. They are aware. They perceive the fireball as a fireball, the werewolf as a werewolf. They are more alert, more observant and more in tune with their surroundings. In some people this is a natural state of being, in others it is a result of having seen so much weirdness that they begin looking for it. In any case, people who are aware have a difficult choice to make - to accept these odd things that no one else seems to see, or to believe that they have gone insane. Those that are emotionally strong enough to handle the truth find an amazing new world opening up before them - dozens of new races and cultures, new belief systems, and the power of magic become real. Of course, if they tell their friends, neighbours, or even their families, they might wind up ruining their lives, perhaps even being institutionalised. Such is the irony of living in the world where "reality" is decided by consensus. [CENTER]----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------[/CENTER] New York, the big apple, the city with the highest concentration of Shadowkind in the world, is where our little saga is set. Most of the Shadowkind in New York is content simply to live their lives in the blissful monotony of the native human population, but there are always troublemakers in every society. Louis Crousone, an elusive and dangerous Mindflayer gangster, Maxwell Draco, the multi millionaire and corporate shark, the Black Flower revolution, a group of elves who wish to see nothing more than the complete collapse of technology in this new world, and will do anything to achieve it. There are those who wish to stop them. The Church of St. Cuthbert, a powerful and wrathful god, the Shadow walkers, a strange Japanese group wielding ancient katana, and who hunt down shadowkind for the "good of the native people of our world," Department 7....well, noone knows too much about them, really. Our characters are stuck in the middle of an invisible war, a war of gangsters and assassins, of government agents and werewolves, of cops and ogres. They all want something. Power. Do you join sides with them, and simply ride the waves, or do you struggle against it, and carve your own empire in the divided world? Alright, characters Name: Age: Race: (Go nuts here, whatever you want, but try to keep the number of dragon or really angelic/demonic creatures to a minimum, and I have final say as to what is acceptable. Thanks) Race Information: (only if needed) Description (Mundane): Description (True): Occupation: Bizarre/Supernatural powers: (Optional... and please keep it reasonable) Weapons/Possessions: Background: Misc. Information: Here's my character Name: Richard Constantinople Age: 25 Race: Aasamir Race Information: Tobias can trace back his ancestory to a celestial creature from nearly a hundred generations back. While this angelic blood has been diluted through human breeding, it still has lingering affects on him. Description (Mundane): A man of average height and build, with a mess of blonde hair, high cheekbones and a small beard, but no moustache. He wears a battered brown duster coat, a worn cream shirt, baggy jeans, black army boots and a huge, thick red tartan scarf wrapped around his neck. He has two earrings in his left ear and a thick blue line tattooed below his left eye. He wears a simple stone medallion around his neck, the symbol of a crescent moon above an empty road, and carries a huge backpack, bulging with numerous items to the point of spilling over. Description (True): His skin is marble-white, and his eyes are twin pools of amber set into his face, and his hair is like fluffy snow. Occupation: Hitch-hiker/ Deacon of Fharlaghn, the Dweller on the Horizon Bizarre/Supernatural powers: Richard has the strange ability to glow slightly at will, and can see in the dark perfectly. Weapons/Possessions: An acoustic guitar, an old, battered Derringer, various miscellaneous items in his backpack, and the [i]Synchronicity Watch[/i]. Background: Even though his memory of his former world is dodgy at best, he fondly remembers the god he worshipped, the god that had helped him and his nomadic family through thick and thin, the Dweller on the Horizon, Fharlangh, the God of Travellers. He soon found fellow worshippers of the True Travelling companion, and was initiated quickly into the priesthood as a Deacon, one who tried to keep the balance and neutrality of the world from the barbed grip oif Chaos (he likes to refer to himself as the the "Karma Police"). He has currentlybeen sent to New York to investigate the reports of several Shadowkind creatures disappearing. ((Apologies, just being kicked off of the computer, will finish this in a few hours, feel free to post our characters))

Name: Tobias Morgans Arena Name: Maul Gender: Male Age: 21 Appearance: His face is long and angular, sharp featured and bearing a distinct likeness to a serpent's. He wears his dark brown hair in a short, functional ponytail, which he keeps slick and well-kept, and his thin eyes are an incredibly dark brown. His regular attire is a buisness suit for normal occassions, or for more casual affairs, a dress shirt with half the buttons undone and a pair of tight jeans. Arena appearance: In the Arena his outfit is a rot of colour, piecemeal, with some parts made of tight leather, others made of seemingly rags. It's hard to describe the outfit, as it seems to change slightly before each of the matches, the only bit staying definitie is the legend "Hurt Me" embossed on his right sleeve, although the material it is printed on changes regularly. His hair is long and bright red, black ribbons running haphazardly through it, and a black cap is stuck on his head. His hands are wrapped in bandages, his eyes stare out bright green, eyes that seem to bore into a person's very soul, and his face is twisted into a permament sneer. He carries himself low to the ground despite his tall, lanky body, his back slightly hunched, as if he's about to pounch at any moment. Abilities and/or weapons: Maul is the worst nightmare to of a fighter who depends on weapon skills to win. Anyone who dares wield a weapon against him better make use of it quickly, because the oppurtunity won't last long. Maul is the best back-breaker, limb-twister and neck-snapper the Arena has to offer. A grappler of the highest order, he wears no armour so he can maximise his fighting ability, and he uses no weapons to achieve his gruesome victories. He seems to be blessed with near cockroach-like longevity, and opponents should fear his extreme hardiness. Personality: Maul seems to carry himself with an air of invulnerability. When it comes to the simple pleasures in life, he beleieves that the world exists for his convenience. If something can be taken by force, he feels that it must naturally belong to him, and rarely does anyone openly oppose this concept. In battle, he wants to be close enough to his opponent to taunt them with whispers as he crushes the life out of them, to smell their fear, and to watch the despair creep over their face as they realise how useless their weapons are in a grapple. Bio: Tobias grew up in a loving household, his family stuck close together, his parents loved himself and he had many, many friends. He, however, hated it. He hated the suburban prison he lived in, he hated the buckled-down Christian household, and he loathed the Brady-Bunch attitude his parents seemed to carry around with them like a stench. In public, he was the epitome of charm and politeness, but in his mind he seethed with the idea of pain and misery, and tried to escape the world the choked him like a cloying mist. As he discovered VCA, he grew almost obsessed with it, taking out all the frustration and anger he felt on his opponents. He had no formal training, and his attacks were simple instinct. He simply knew how to hurt people, and he was good at it.

May I be the first one from England to reach out across the Pond and say "Happy New Year, may your soul be merry and your heart glad." (well, at keast it's 2004 here) Hope the next year goes well, guys.

2003 New whale species found in Japan Japan contemplates sending troops to help US "Peacekeeping" in Iraq 25 killed and 400 injured in a bombing on the British consulate in Istanbul 2004 Korean suicide bombers destroy US embassies in Korea, the UK, France, Italy and Japan George W Bush authorises nuclear attack on Korea. UN is ignored Private groups in Iraq begin work on AI routines, instructed by a man calling himself Blaze Japan decides against sending troops to Iraq, provoking US emnity 2005 Terrorist attacks globally increase in regularity and severity. Nuclear attack on Korea prompts talks in Helsinki between the leaders of most eastern countries. 2 assassination attempts made, both fail. talks last one week, videoconferencing continues for two months. Helsinki pact becomes first international agreement to be signed electronically. copies sent to all countries. the pact states that the participating countries will pool all research regarding technological progress for the betterment of all member nations. Church of New Zion founded, founders claim to have referenced all major religions in history and have amalgamated the results into a structured communal belief system. 2006 First official retaliatory strike against the US. highly organised strategic assault on occupying US forces in iraq wipes them out to a man. other "Coalition" forces left unharmed, but warned to leave immediately Coalition withdraws, America begins moves for all-out war on Iraq Tony Blair assassinated. UK withdraws support for US action War Declared. US denied passage through airspace of european countries. US Launches long-range attack on Iraq, despite certainty of horrendous civilian casualties. World War Three officially declared 2010 British navy seals succeed in infiltrating American military installations. several weapons research facilities destroyed. US forces firmly entrenched in mainland Europe. US navy carriers begin massing armoured vehicles in Portugal for coming offensive "Blaze's" AI routines compiled and sent to Russia. US starts work on the Trinity Macronuclear weapon US launches conventional nuclear attack on Russia. missile intercepted by unknown means Church of New Zion bases itself in India, and is welcomed as the second official religion 2020 US forces charge across germany, entering russian soil. Russians test latest weapons system: the OGRE, and reveals that the prototype was what intercepted the US nuclear attack 10 years earlier. US Attacks repelled US Launches Trinity missile Trinity Macronuclear missile impacts in Australia. Impact crater throws up millions of tons of dust that are vapourised in the macronuclear explosion. Australia scoured of life World War three ends with a stalemate. no official ceasefire is declared, and all sides begin amassing weapons and continuing weapons research. 2021 Funds poured into the Trinity program force US government to declare bancruptcy. several high-interest auctions take place to balance the economy by selling off the US infrastructure. Private buyers purchase chunks of the government and found new companies using their technology. these corporations, with a haphazard mix of governmental power and corporate financing, are the first "Megacorps" Asimov robotics buys NASA and purchaces a 51% share in Microsoft, ousting Bill Gates as head and voting in someone sympathetic to them Infomaster systems purchaces most major american ISPs, and quickly buys up the smaller ones - as well as buying almost all governmental records - Monopoly and competition laws waived in favour of the US government getting money. a large portion of the internet goes down for three months as major restructuring is done. Metazyne systems and Darwin Biotech try to outbid each other on the contents of military facility Delta-17, aka Area 51. they reach an agreement whereby Metazyne and Darwin biotech each have access to relevant technologies. this technology is commonly referred to as "Warehouse 23 technology" The US Military is bought out by various megacorps as private armies. other parts are bought by private investors who start up mercenary organisations. Military blueprints are bought by various individuals and companies, some of which sell them to the USSR US Nuclear arsenal deemed to be part of the Military, and is quickly bought up by mercenary corporations Church of New Zion priests buy various undesclosed items from facility Delta-17 and take them to India Japan puts the samurai class back into the social structure of the country. Man protest, and civil war erupts, the new founded "Clans" (many owned by one megacorps or another) start a small war against the rebels, now known as the Yellow Scarf Rebellion. 2022 50% of American states are bought up by several Megacorps, and become offical, independant countries in their own rights. Catholocism is offically declared a dead religion. Africa bands into the "Nubian Republic." It is now the world's biggest economic power. 2025 The United States is offically disbanded, becoming many Megacorps owned private countries. The last of the International records is ended the 1st July, 2025. the year is now 2078 The state of the system. Alright, for this RP I have split the world into three possible locations, and I'll give a small synopsis of the state of each one. [B]Old America[/B]: The Megacorps have completely assimilated the remnants of the former world superpower. They have covered almost all the landmass of the continent, with cities such as New York and Washington having to build up to get more room. Hackers plauge the new information superhighway, with computers that plug straight into their brains. Organised crime syndicates own private armies, and a few of the former midwest states are embroiled in a small war. Crime is at an all time high, the police force has turned to an almost facist regime, owned by Smith and Wesson they are one of the few non-profit international organisation left on the planet. Let's take a look at an average city, New York, now owned by Babyon Electronics. The rooftops, miles above sea level, the world is bathed in heavy sunlight, a permanent high noon. From all the pollution from the great Age of construction, the ozone layer above America has desintegrated, to a point that to go an hour in the direct sunlight will have a 85% chance of getting skin cancer. This is known as the Noonhieght, the place where the movers and shakers rest their heads. Going further down, the space between buildings is a canopy of walkways and looping roads, where cars speed in great heards and young pups swing from cable to cable in death defying games of tag. This layer blocks most light from reaching the bottom of the city, while itself has little to love on. This is the Duskheight, where the middle class, the well off but not [i]quite[/i] well off enough live out their grey little lives. And lastly, their is the bottom of the barrel, the Voidheight, where the masses liv out their lives is perpetual dakness, almost never seeing the sun. The lighting is completely electrc, and numerous drones scurry or roll around, calling out to "Eat Recycled Food" or "Conserve Heat, Group Together." Gangs are a common sight, but these aren't your father's gangs. These are gang followers of dead Gods, street cults. Many of the broken down, rejected members of society turn towards a common goal, somthing that they can live for, and I mean really live for. They turn to the old books, those that survived the Great Fall, the bombing of Europe, the selling of the USA. They find the names of the Elder Gods, such creatures as Tzenttch, the Wyrmgod, Aslaan, the Grandfather, and Cthulhu. They take these archaic, barbaric idols as their new parents, and forsake he rest of humanity. Some of these zealots go to an even more extreme length to show their faith, and go to Chopdocs and illegal Biotech practitioners to change their appearance to that of their masters. This bottom is a living hell of dead Deities and their twisted followers. [b]Japan[/b]: Geographically, very little has changed in the Land of the Rising Sun, but socially, it has made a step backwards, returning to the days before the West changed it, to a time where honour and one's family was the most important thing. The Samurai rule supreme, from the highest Daimyo to the lowest of the Ronin, they are held in equal respect and fear of not only their political and social power, but of the secret Arts they hold. The Gun Karta, the New Bushido, the Bullet Fist. The Martial arts have lost their grace, but gained an incredible amout of sheer brutal efficency, turning them into pure killing arts. The main clans, The Crane, Rat, Tiger, Dragon and Wolf have the best weapons, training and even housing. They are masters of all they see. Except the hearts of those in the Yellow Scarf rebellion. These indiiduals, many even from the minor Samurai clans, despise the supreme power the Major Clans hold, and fight them tooth and nail. They hold the secrets to the old Martial arts, and the secrets that only the working class know, the secret back alleys, the sewer systems, the safehouses. The strike the Clans with the precision and sharpness of a scalpel, slowly but surely trying to bleed the Samurai dry. But where the Samurai lack the ability of being able to launch guerilla strikes upon the Rebellion, they have small armies willing to give their lives to the Clans, elite guard who specialise in catching those that try to sneak in the shadows, and th deadly and mysterious threat of the Ninja, an organisation rumoured to be brought back. Bombings followed by brutal city block assaults, harsh interrogations of entire apartment buildings retalliated by swift strikes to the power plants. These are common acivities, and hae brought the Rebellin to a grinding but always present stalemate. All either side need is a small push to throw the entire war off this knife's edge, and in their favour... [b]Europe[/b]: More specfically, France, but it's moot point. It all looks the same, grey and lifeless. Noone in Europe is too sure when it happened, but sometime in the year 2043 American launched the second Trinity Missile. The huge explosion, centered in Germany, and the ensuing huge cloud of dust that was thrown into the air, choked all of the life out of the entire continents, except those few humans that managed to escape it by going underground for months. When they emeged, the only thing they saw was a huge sea of grey dust, dotted by the skeletal remains of cities. The Europeans were quick to adjust to this new lifestyle, and now survive on a type of grain that is grown in vast underground fields. Many of them scour the lands for any sort of scrap that can be turned into something useful by the Junkmen, a group of indivuals that have a great knowledge of engineering using bare resources, in return for a hot meal, a bottle of Second Best, an alchoholic drink made using the multipurpose grain, or even a chance to get a ticket off the continent, to England, which had the least bad effects of the Blast, and last few existing planes in London. Their are only 2 types of people that live in Europe. Those that have no choice, and those running from something. People who go to england for a certain amount of time are declard legally dead, and for good reason;. Again noone is quite sure of the exact date, or even the year, but at some point Russia decided that they were going to use Europe as a type of testing ground for a new type of warrior, a drone. These come is innumerable shapes and sizes, but all have one program, search and dstroy.m Although the Russian's experiment in the drones is long since abandoned, the dronesm still roam the "countryside" killing all they see indescriminately. It is for this reason that most travel is restricted to either going on land trains the size of oil tankers, or by the few vehicles that remain. But there are those that travel by foot, and they become living legends, the Wanderers. People such as the Musicman, the Undertaker, and Dronerunner are myths, things that may or not exist, but are living proof of the tenacity of the human spirit, and that nothing can defeat a deterimend man with a gun. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Right, now onto the juicy but, the characters. I'm fairly easy going, so try and test some boundries where you would like. Remember that this is a futuristic world, with Biotechnology and Bionics aplenty, so try and live ouside the box, make a twist of current occupations and ideals, to make them iteresting, and bear in mind that you don't have to be an uber warrior or something such, I will find a way to pull you into the RP. Speaking of which, you might be asking yourself "so, where's the mission, Colourdeaf?" well, that all depends on you, the player. I've got a mission in mind for each of the locations, and so I'll ask you to vote on which location you would like to start off in, purely based on "wow, that'll be an interesting place to RP in." Onto th Character Sheet Character Concept: (A new thing to this board, and completely optional. I find this helps people focus a bit more on their characer if they describe their character in maybe two or three words.) Name: Age: Gender: Height: Weight: Eye Colour: Hair Colour and Style: Physical Description: (Pics are alright, if not try to be detailed) Attire: (Clothes, if you don't understand) Equipment: (Try to keep it to 1 or 2 weapons, but any other equipment is alright, just keep it low key and justified) Personality: Current Occupation: Bio: (Background, obviously) Character Quote/Theme Tune: (very, [i]very[/i] optional, and just for flavour) Preferred starting location: Here's mine Character Concept: Truth Seeker Name: Clef Maxwell Age: 28 Gender: Male Height: 6' Weight: 143lbs Eye Colour: Green Hair Colour and Style: Light Brown in loose spikes Physical Description: (see Attachment) Attire: Normally wears a black shirt under a heavy grey jacket with a large hood, along with baggy grey jeans and heavy brown boots. Equipment: Cell phone, Desert Fox .33 Pistol, Remote Camera drone with an implanted remote, basic hackers tool. Personality: Quietly curious, he exudes an aura of calm professionalism wherever he goes, he is not too quick to laugh, but is not quick to anger either. A master if empathy, he sems to see other's emotions before even they do. Current Occupation: Reporter/Cameraman for SFN (Starbucks Federation News) Bio: Born to an average Duskheight family in New York as a son of a journalist and a philosipher, Clef gained a large fascination with the abstract idea of the Truth, reading many books on the subject. His friends (and indeed, his father to an extent) pushed him gently into the arms of the hacking community, finding friends amongst the Netrunners and Mindcoders of the duskheight. While his friends had great dellusions of grandeur, of bringing down the Megacorps from inside the Net, Clef merely allowed himself to roam it, of finding little Truths and secrets that noone knew, and exposing them on forums under the name "Inquisitor." As he grew older, the Truths he uncovered and the skill of his hacking grew, although he never had a real talent for it, and could never be the be as good as a decent Netrunner. He preferred to go into Voidheight and gain contacts among the lowest of the low, go into the seedy Brawlbars and drugdens and find Truths that only those that hear [i]everything[/i] would know. He gained a small web of contacts and informants, and still posted as "Inquisitor." But soon his exploits were discoered by an agent of the Starbucks Federation, and he was quickly snatched up as a reporter. He now goes where no reporter will go to get a Truth, and he reports under the guise of a personal static field when he broadcasts. He is the Inquisitor, a reporter who's camera ses all. Yet, he seems to have a dark secret, something he seems to hold deep within his soul, for none to see... Character Quote/Theme Tune: "I am not the answer, I am only the Question." "Fiction: Dreams in Digital" by Orgy Preferred starting location: Old America

Seems interesting Name: Ryoga Daisuke Gender: Male Age: 26 Appearance: He is a fairly tall man by any standards, with wide shoulders but a narrow chest. His arms and shoulder muscles are toned and well defined from years of farm working, and he has the tan of someone who spends his whole day in the sun. He usually wears a simple brown kimono made of a heavy fibre, over a light undershirt and baggy beige trousers, a red belt, wooden sandals and a necklace of large beads around his neck. His hairis pulled back into a short, functional ponytail, and his face is thick set, with a strong jaw and soft eyes. He carries a pair of large kama (hafts of wood with a sickle blade placed at a perpendicular angle at the top of it), and a large bottle of sake slung over one shoulder. Clan: Akiyoji Bio: He was raised in a fairly normal peasant family, the family trade being rice farmers. Ryoga enjoyed his childhood, relishing in the long, lazy days where nothing too exciting happened outside of the occassional festival or one of the animals being sick. His family was comfortable, have relatively few bad crops and a number of good ones. his father taught him he basics of self defence with the family weapon, the kama. However, his family fell on hard times and requested money from the leading clan of the area, the Akiyoji. They agreed, but when the time came for the debt to be repaid, Ryoga's family had no money. Ryoga offered himself as payment for the debt, offering his life as a servant and faithful warrior in place of the money. To this day he has trained with the use of the kama and offers his services as a mercanary to those who wish it, although he still wishes to return to his old farm one day, and live the rest of his life in those lazy days. Pet: None

[COLOR=indigo]Name: Lucius Crowe Age: 16 Sphere: Corrupted Static Powers: Main ability is, unsuprisingly, the ability to create and control storms with the devasting potency. He can cause lighting strike from an apparently blue sky, dark mclouds to gather at a moments notice and so on. He has impressive teleportational powers, being able to flit from place to place in a flurry of lightning, and mild flight powers. The Static orb also grants him increased speed and he can channel electricity through his body. Weapon: Why, haven't you people mastered your powers yet? Description: Stands at an impressive 6'4", but is all arms and legs, as they seem much too long even for his height. He has a narrow chest and slight shoulders, but seems to possess a kind of wiry, cat-like strength. His hair is below shoulder length and stark white, while his eyes are a frighteningly bright shade of blue. His clothes, more often than not, are a torn formal white shirt over black trousers and heavy, steel capped boots. Has a hideous electircal burn running across his left hand cheek and jaw. Bio: Lucius is, to put it lightly, nucking futz. He treasures a small orange glass sphere he found when he was a child, and he is prone to extreme outbursts, follwed by hours in angsty, sullen behaviour. He has been mentally unstable since his mother killed herself when he was merely 5 years old, although he never speaks of it. He shuns the rest of humanity, instead he looks deeper and deeper into the small glass sphere as if it was his only friend. Which it quite probably is. It tells him secrets, seductive whispers of powers in his ear, and gives him dreams of brighter goals. Onlky once has he tried to get rid of the sphere, and that was met with swift retribution. He carries the scar to this day. One night, a great storm swept over his home town, and the sphere seemed to scream in his mind, berrating his nightmares, until he threw on his clothes and ran outside, the sphere clutched to his chest. He raised it to the sky, the storm seeming to grow larger and larger with each passing second, and saw a bolt of lightning schreech towards him. Blackness. He woke up, face down in the midst of a pile of rocks, the glass sphere still in his hands. He looked around him, seeing everything he knew, everything he had ever cared about, was gone. He smiled, a wisted upturning of the mouth, as he felt a new, greater power welling up inside him. the strom was just beginning. I'll not be ablke to join the RP properly until thrusday, because I don;t have the internet at my house (I'm at my dad's house right now, but we're getting it on thursday.) [/COLOR]

Be warned. Looooooong bio ahead. Name: Sueldan Age: 18 Species: Human (bog-standard, nothing special) Calling: Bodyguard Physical Characteristics/Bio: The noble yawned as his carriage rolled on past the a local manor, lulled into lethargy by the gentle rocking of the cab and the soft pattering of rain on it's roof. He turned to his Servant, who was sitting quietly opposite him. "When are we going to get there?" "We should arrive there before tomorrow sunset, sir." the servant, a pretty young woman with blonde hair replied, bowing her head at the word "sir." The noble sighed and looked out of the window, propping himself on his elbow. A traveller was walking down the street, not so uncommon, but there was something strange about him... He wore the cloak of one of the local militia, but it hung loose - overly loose, rather - on him, and was clearly meant to be someone else's. He did not stagger like any other Militia-man would do, coming home at this time of night he was more likely to be drunk than anything else, but rather carried himself with a certain grace and dignity, although he still huddle slightly to stave off the wind and cold from the rain, which was understandable. As the coach drew nearer, the man became more intriguing, and the noble struggle to make out details of him. His cloak was that of a militiaman, but underneath he wore incredibly simple, bordering of crude clothes. His shirt was a grey-black tunic of coarse wool, and his trousers were brown and frayed at the bottom, his feet wore heavy boots of black leather, though they were caked with mud. The unmistakable shape of a scabbard hung from his hip, the leaf shape synonymous with Gladiatorial combat. At last the carriage drew next to the man and the noble could see his face. It was young, though fully into his manhood, and heavily scarred on his right hand cheek. His jaw was thick set and held firm. His nose was thin and angular, and his cheekbones jutted out only even so slightly. His eyes... His eyes were as crystals, translucent like a rainbow caught in a teardrop, flashes of colours ever shifting like oil on water, cold and emotionless. Emotionless...all but the slightest edge of fear. Not the sort of fear of a man walking to his death, but of a child, lost and alone without a parent's guiding hand. The eyes turned on the noble and seemed to tear a scar into his soul. They were not disturbing because of the colour, the lack of emotion or anything like that, but they were clear...by God they were clear. The man was completely lacking in deception, he had never lied in his life, or so it seemed. His entire life seemed to be set out in front of him, clear and without guilt. Around his neck was a fine gold chain of Estillian design, all loops and twirls, holding a tiny silver lock just below his throat. The man was a slave. The Noble's wagon rolled past the traveller, and the noble turned away from the window, his eyes only slightly wide, his face the barest touch paler. "Is something wrong, my lord?" the servant asked, her voice seeming far away. "No...no it's fine." he sighed He could still feel the man's eyes boring a hole into his back. ****** The traveller still looked at the carriage as it rolled on past him, walking backwards a few paces before turning once more to the road in front of him. They all reacted the same, every one of them. They all stared at him, as if gawping at a corpse, disgusted yet unable to tear their eyes away from the sight. The traveller, Sueldan, drew the thin cloak around his shoulders tighter, shivering with the damp and cold of the night. His back felt as if it was on fire, it always did in the cold. The scars felt as if they had been made today. He could still feel the scourge tearing across his back, the whip lifting into the air before it- He shook his head as if to dislodge the memories. He plodded on down the road like a tired mule, willing himself to make each step and hold the monotonous pattern, left, right, left, right. He had no food, no water and no money, hunger gnawed at his stomach but his throat was not parched, his thirst slacked by mouthfuls of rain water. Hungry and tired, he carried on down the road, his mind wandering to escape the drudgery and cold of the night. ****** The sounds of the crowds and the smell of blood thundered through his senses. The boy watched as the two fighters slashed and parried and circled, looking at each other for the faintest glimmer of an opening, the slightest edge that could win them the fight. The boy was captivated as he watched the two men twist and dodge their opponent's blows, the way they risked their lives just to gain another second of life, oh, the blessed irony! The two fighters dealt blows that would have left a normal man dead, only to have their sword blocked by a shield lifted at the last second. They were like wrathful gods, the only gods the boy knew or could ever believe in. "Ysp!" a voice shouted from behind him, the thick accent drawing the word out to sound like "Eersp". That name, how he hated it! It was an insult, plain and simple, it was almost literally translated as "living miscarriage, freak of nature." The insult was one you only gave to your worst enemy, or the most heinous of traitors. It was the only name the boy had. His eyes made him a freak of nature, something that should never have existed. They made him Ysp. The boy quelled his anger and turned to the caller, a stocky man with a missing arm and a scar that covered half his face. His name was Nish, and he was the fighting pit's Quartermaster, the man in charge of the fighters and the fights. He was obsessed with his work, working the combatants to the bone in training, punishing them severely for the most petty of misdemeanours, but pampering them lavishly at a job well done, especially when it increased his own standing. The boy stared at the man for a few moments, his breath caught in his throat. Nish only saw any of the slaves for one reason. "We need fodder for the pits, boy." ------------- the boy, no more than 14, stood in the middle of the fighting pit, other slaves, many of them older than him, huddling together for meagre protection. One of them, a man that had been serving the fighting pit dutifully for his entire life, had burst into tears, and had curled up into a ball on the sand, his sword forgotten. The boy's hand gripped around his own sylca, a leaf bladed stabbing sword that felt as if it weighed a ton in his hands, until his knuckles turned white and threatened to break. The crowd cheered, the doors open and the Gladiators, number 5 in total against the 15 slaves, marched in. Their swords, finely crafted rather than the rejects the slaves were given, glinted in the sunlight. The pit champion, a mountain of a man name Kahjar the Fearless, marched in front of them, his huge physique and air of menace making him seem like a God calling his wrath upon them. It was a massacre. Many of the slaves didn?t know how to use a weapon, most of them never having held a sword in their life except for cleaning them. The ones who did know how to use their weapons were cut down first, as a matter of principal. Before their bodies even hit the floor the Gladiators were upon the helpless slaves. The crowds screamed in delight, there was nothing like a good bloodletting to get their spirits up. Kahjar the Fearless, the God-made-man of the fighting pit, loomed over the boy, having knocked him over with a casual backhand. His sword was raised to the sky, the boy holding up his sword horizontally in a futile effort to ward off the attack. Kahjar looke down on him, a smirk slapped across his face - And saw his eyes. For the first time in his life, Kahjar the Fearless hesitated. The boy reacted on pure instinct, his sword seeming to be held by someone else. Before he had even registered what had happened, the Point of his Sylca was embedded the Gladiator's chest, the blade torn through his heart. The boy was numb as the crowd screamed, some in delight, some in rage, some just in shock, and the guards rushed in, dragging him off... ------------- The lash came down in a streaking arc, already crimson with the boy's blood. Ysp was screaming in agony that bordered on agony, but would not slip into merciful unconsciousness. "You BASTARD, you WHORESON, you YSP. Kahjar was the best man I had! He could have made me the richest man this side of Cathay! YOU betrayed me, YSP!" It seemed for hours the lash came down upon his back, the insults were shouted into his ears, but when it finished, the last words that came from Nish's mouth terrified him the most.. "You are going to pay for him." ------------- Two and a Half Years Later Ysp sat hunched on the pallet that served as his bed, his back throbbing dully. It was going to rain, he could feel it. his back always got worse before it rained. The skin covering his spine no longer seemed human, but the scales of some monstrous lizard from the far South, the lash scars deep and thick, crisscrossing each other until they terminated at his lower back. The boy was now a young man, his body hard and toned from the constant practicing, the fights leaving a myriad of scars across his entire body. He was a Gladiator. Moreover, he was the Pit Champion, the nameless fighter that never lost. He rubbed his hands, now manacled and tethered by a chain that led to a loop in the wall. Nish said that someone important was visiting, and it was a precaution. The door knocked, and he heard voices outside, one unmistakably Nish. "Yes, yes, he's just through here, my Lord." "Are you sure he's your best fighter, he looked a bit young on the sands." "Ah, his youthful vigour makes him the most eligible candidate for this job, sir!" The door creaked open, and Nish scuttled in, followed by an man who was undeniably an Aristocrat. The Aristo looked over the young man a moment, and turned back to the door, gesturing for someone to come in. A girl walked in, most probably the same age as Ysp, but maybe a year younger. She was beautiful, not pretty that the free Gladiators, the ones who fought for themselves, not for the pit, often bedded, taking them from the local taverns and brothels, but actually beautiful. Her skin was as white as porcelain, clear and unblemished by even the slightest mark. A dress of pale gree hugged her figure nicely, loose enough to be free flowing and light, but tight enough to exaggerate the swing of her hips as she walked. Her eyes were a steely grey, and her face had sharp, elfin features, steel disguising velvet. Ysp's mouth went dry and he struggled not to stare. The man walked over to Ysp and put his hand under the boy's chin, lifting it and turning it left and right, examining his face. "What's the matter with his eyes?" "Oh, nothing, sir! Merely a little birth defect." Ysp was shocked, distracted by the girl, he had never noticed how the man had stared unflinchingly into his eyes. "How long has he been fighting?" "Two and a bit years." "That little?" "He has already proved himself to be the Pit Champion." "Rather..." the man said distractedly, studying the boy like a corpse at a butchery. "Alright, I'll take him. "Father, I really don't see the need for this." the girl said, her voice was sweet to Ysp's ears, if somewhat pert. "IT is a precaution, my dear. There are so many dangers in this world for a young girl like you it is necessary - nay, imperative - that you have a bodyguard." Bodyguard? "What about one of the guards at the house? They have always been loyal, and I know Nath has been looking for a job like this." "I would rather prefer if he was someone with actual combat skill, and drunken brawls don't qualify." through the entire debate, the man hnadn't turned to look at his daughter once. She sniffed disdainfully and folded his arms over her chest. "Do you at least know his name?" she asked, and the old man looked at Nish. "He was never named. It is a formality that is not normally given to pit slaves. I thought the title Pit Champion was enough!" Nish said, hcuckling nervously. "Quite...he shall be called...Monach" she said, using the old Estalian word for "Servant" Nish turned to the man, eager to get the deal sorted "Alright, sir, if you will just follow me we can finalise the payments for lovely Tiaan's new servant..." ------------- Ysp had been at Tiaan's house for a couple of months now, and he had settled in as well as possibly could. Few of the people there spent any amount of prolounged time with him, due to his eyes, save Tiaan and her father, and even Tiaan spent as little time as possible with him, normally retreating to her bed chambers, the one place Ysp couldn't follow her (he still thought of himself as Ysp, it had been his name for years, and old habits were hard to break). She was cold and aloof to him, despising the idea of a stranger being in charge of her wellbeing. He didn;t blame her, but he preformed his duty nonetheless, standing outside her door until one of the night watch came to relieve him, following her around when she ventured into the town, wary of any sort of disturbance. And so it went, for three months. Soon after that Tiaan began to settle into the idea of a bodyguard more, and Ysp saw a new side to her, one she normally hid from all but friends and family. She was a passionate girl, with a interest bordering on obsession with the Gypsies, that exiled race of beautiful, murderous people (or so he had been told). She grew closer to Ysp, a rock of loyalty, and often seemed to watch over him more than he did over her. She had had his bed moved into the room adjacent hers, a small cloakroom that was not so different than his other room in the Servant's quarters, they were both cell-like, but at least this one had a window. After a years since he moved into the house, she bestowed upon him the name Sueldan, an ancient Gypsy term meaning "favourite pet," although she never told him, with mock pomp and ceremony. The newly renamed Sueldan had smiled at this, taking pleasure in the knowledge that she was maybe a bit more than his mistress, that maybe Tiaan was his friend. He was still, however, in lover with her. ------------- Sueldan rubbed absentmindedly at the gold necklace around his throat, a sign of slavery, but more importantly of Tiaan's affection. The room was dark, the moon clouded over that night and no lantern to light it. The door creaked open and he turned to it, expecting one of the night watch to stand there, telling him about his new watch rota, but it was still closed. The one that was open was the one that connected his and Tiaan's room, which had been installed six months prior. Her face was covered in tears and she trembled slightly with silent sobs. Silently she walked over to Sueldan, who was sitting on his bed, his back against the wall, and wrapped her arms around him, burying her face into his chest, which was bare, though he still had his trousers and shoes on. He started, not sure what to do, but then lay his arms around her shoulders, hugging her gently. "W-...what's wrong." he asked, hesitantly "I feel so trapped here." she mumbled into his chest, pressing her body a little more into his. "But, you're a free woman, Tiaan." "It never feels like it. Everywhere I go it's like there's a collar around my neck tethering me to the house, this aristocracy. I could never leave to do what I want to do. I could never be truly free." "Tiaan, you..." "What would you know about freedom?! You?re just a-" she spat out the words, but choked off the last one, looking up at him apologetically. "A slave." he finished for her, wanting to pull away and just go. He felt as if he couldn't breathe, like he had just found Tiaan's true feelings for him for the first time. "Sueldan, I-I'm sorry." "Why?" he whispered, "It's not like I'm anything else. I just thought that..." "But I don't..." "Don't what?" "I don't see you as just a slave." she said, the apology rushed and slightly flustered "I don't see you as a slave at all! You're possibly the best friend I have!" "Mistress, you don't have to" "Don't call me mistress! It makes me..." she trailed off "What?" "Feel like an old, perverted woman." she said meekly. They both let out a half-hearted chuckle, then lapsed into silence, their arms still around each other. Tiaan hadn't seen Sueldan without his shirt on, he normally had a tunic on even in the hottest of weather, and was shocked at the sheer number of scars that adorned his body. He hands felt a strange texture around his spine. "What's wrong with your back?" "It's nothing, Tiaan..." he started, but she would not listen "Lie down." she commanded, going back to her room and bring a small portable lantern that lit up the whole room. he was lying on his stomach as she examined his back, gasping at the scars. "Who did this?" "Nish." "Who?" "The man you bought me from. He was a severe quartermaster to me." "I see...does it hurt?" "Only when it's wet, or about to rain." He lied, there was always a dull throb. Before he had finished the sentence, he felt cool hand touch his back just below his shoulder blades, wonderfully gentle. Tiaan worked on massaging the ruined skin, the damaged muscle, until it felt loose and malleable. The throbbing was gone, but he knew it would return in a while, he turned over and looked at her, seeing her as he had seen her when they first met, unblemished, pure, beautiful. She looked into his eyes unflinchingly, just staring at them, and leaned down, pressing her lips into his. She kissed him passionately, and he returned it with all the strength of his soul. They drew back, and looked at each other. It could never be. Never be. They wept. "My Sueldan..." ---------------- A month had gone by since then, and they had hardly said a word to each other, with Sueldan pending most of his time simply doing his duty loyally. They were in town now on one of Tiaan's shopping excursions, when she pulled into a back alley and leant close to him, whispering in his ear. "You have to go." A group of young girls giggled behind them, seeing them as two lovers muzzling. "What?" "We can't be together anymore." "Why not?" "I'm arranged to be married." His eyes widen ever so slightly and he grew a tiny shade paler. "It's a social marriage to help my family." "But why?" "My betrothed is rich, he can get me the best protection there is." She pulled a small bag out of his winter coat. "What will happen to me?" "My father's going to sell you back to the Pits. I won't let that happen." She pressed the bag into his chest "Inside here there's a militia cloak and some money. It should last you a short month. Let no one know you're an escaped slave" he went to say something, but she pressed a finger against his lips. "Goodbye, my Sueldan." She swept away from him, around the corner. He leant back against the wall, sliding down it until he was in a sitting position. He pulled the bag closer to him, resting his forehead against it. His life was in tatters and he had lost the woman he loved. He had no idea about the world and he was alone. He wanted to die. Random Fact: Can't read, write or count ((Sorry, got bored and carried away))

Birth Name: Unspecified - Known as Chand in "social" circumstances Subject name: GenoEsp-984-12 Age: 24 Appearance before: Fairly average in every way possibly, brown hair, brown eyes and a slim build. Appearnce after: He has grown quite tall and is now much thinner, verging on emaciated. His eyes have turned amber with a slight glowing "aura" to them, and some cables run from the back of his head to a large collar-like machine around his neck (an Aegis Hood). Bio: Chand was all but bought from the orphanage he had spent his life when he was 8, as part of a "revolutionary new educational system." he protested but the owners of the orphange could do nothing about it, and he was shortly taken away. He was subkected to a huge array of tests and injections, most notably the inplantation of a machine known as an Aegis Hood. He spent years doing these tests, building his mental strength and unlocking his absolutely astoundin telepathic and empathic abilities. The Aegis Hood is a machine that is used to keep these powers from burning out his mind, but also acts as a kind of "mage staff," focusing his powers for more powerful and varied forms. He only now wishes to be free, and to return to the orphange that raised him...

Name: "Lord" Elthior Maxwell Age: 21 Weapon: A sabre with a hilt shaped to be a crane with wings spread out, the blade extending from the bird's open mouth, as well as a curved main-gauche. He is known to use his cloak in more "formal" duels as a type of buckler. Appearance: He is fairly tall (around 5'10") with the wide-shoulders of a typical westerner. His body is well-kepy from the trainig he goes through, although his arms are quite a bit too long to be in proportion and his fighting style has left him with a near-permament slouch, with sandy blone hair and a light bit of stubble. His body holds three main scars, although there are some more faded ones. They are deep, ragged wounds that trace almost a triangle on his chest and abdomen. His eyes are a deep green, large and beatutiful and all-too out of place on his angular face. They hold something more terrible than sorrow or the greatest anger, they hold nothing, no will to live, but a fear they must go on. Bio: Elthior was raised in a well-off merchant family from the West. He grew up in a large house, and had many servants. He loved to practice a style of fighting that his family had mastered over all their generations, the style of Glavian fencing, which his father was a master. When he reached the age of 13 troops fighting the war against the Five marched through and claimed all the cattle and land his father owned to "Feed the troops protecting the country." His father fell into despair at losing all he had gained in his life, and shortly after both his parents killed themselves to spare themselves the shame of it. Elthior cried for days straight, curled up into a ball in the old main hall, long since looted of it's former finery. One day he simply got up and walked out, his face as emotional as a flat piece of granite. He has grown in skill with his sabre and now seeks one thing, through all the shame of not being able to help his parents. He seeks to forget. The only way to forget is to die. And there is only one task that will surely let you die. He seeks to destroy the Five.

Name: Raet "Fleshwound" Reisuke Age: 15 or 17 (haven't decided yet) Gender: Male Posistion: Reject Soldier Personality Traits: A quiet, calculating young man. He sees everything and most people as a soldier would, even at times of "peace". Has the tendency to carrry a weapon of some type or another at alll times, his preference being a large calibre revolver named "From Raet with Love" which was jokingly inscribed by some other people.The most important thing, however, is his ability to carry on despite near mortal wounds, his willpower and fortitude is incredible. People often see him as cold...and he is. Apart from that he has a large inferiority complex and hears voices mocking him ocassionally. Physical appearance: He always wears a long sleeved grey shirt, baggy so not to restrict his movement, even when in bed. His body underneath the shirt is a battlefield of scars, old burns and metal plates inserted into his flesh where the right side of his chest has collasped. These are from the special training he recieved, where live ammo was used (if it's alright). He also wears a pair of black trousers and a long white trenchcoat, with three large brass buckles. The little hair he has is prematurely grey.

A group of men sat captivated as a young adult of 19 spun a tale like none they had ever heard. A tale of strength, heroism and love all rolled into one epic saga. The young man talked with the voice of experience, the voice of one who knew it so well he might as well have been there, and his voice carried through the entire dining hall. He brought his patchwork cloak around in a huge swirl of colours as the men sat there like children at their grandfather's war stories. The young man only paused when his throat was too dry and hoarse to carry on, then he took a large swig of the mug in front of him and carried on, the tale seeming to shine in his eyes that were all-too real. "As the bell sounded, the warrior lookedup, his sword heavy with the blood of the Ch-kai, and proclaimed that he would wait for the rose to bloom on that land before he would ever fight again. The Gods heard this and pitied him, taking that land and turning it to desert, where no flowers, weds or especially roses grew again." He took a deep breath and bpwed, his cloak falling about him, and the men and several serving wenches who were eavesdropping burst into applause. The young man reached into his cloak and with a flourish brought a small felt bag out. "Friends! Would you not give a poor, starving yarnspinner some alms for his supper? Have I not pleased you with my tale, oh most generous of lords and ladies?" as he looked upon them, his eyes seemed to be more sincere than humanly possible, and they all seemed inclined to give him a more....generous some than fair. His purse heavy with new coppers, silver pieces and the flashes of gold, the young man hopped off the table he had been standing at and walked to the bar. He ordered a small glass of Chalmet, an overly-sweet drink developed in the richer lands of the West. As he brought it to his lips he glanced around the room, giving the more shadier looking characters a mental nudge to seee if they were really dangerous. His gaze fell on a figure in a white cape, a young female elf staring out of the window. Llian blinked twice and walked over to her, his footsteps absoltely silent. "A burdened mind cannot swim in a sea of thoughts." he said, his voice making her start "Excuse me?" she said, not understanding what he meant. He didn't mind that, few people did undertsand him. He turned and sat down on the table, swinging his legs as he sipped his drink. He reached into his purse and produced a shiny new copper. "Let's try something a bit simpler, shall we? Copper for your thoughts?" he placed the large coin on the table. She looked up at him and raised an eyebrow. "If you think that I'm going to-" He sighed over-dramatically. He hated when he had to dumb it down. "What I mean by that is 'You seemed troubled, I'm someone who is willing to listen, should you care to share.'" he turned to her and his eyess shone with real sincerity, even though illusion covered their true nature...

Cool Name: Llian Montairl Tyskiria Thamitol Joshtich (every name was made up by himself) Age: Unknown, around 19 Race: Human Bio: Llian has had almost no luck with his life. He was born and abandoned, with no knowledge of any parents. He was raised in a monestary, but was sent to a madhouse as he grew to the age of 5, when several strange things happpened. Firstly, he showed knowledge of innate magic, and that was banned by the doctrine of the monk's religion. Secondly, the monks had always been apprehensive of his strange eyes, which are transparent and are like diamonds stuck into his face. Lastly, he had gone half-mad, claiming to see gods as he walked around the buldings, and speaking in riddles more often than not. He spent the next 10 or so years living in a madhouse, before escaping with what he calls "divine intervention". Nobody is too sure of how he did it. He has spent the next few years travelling, taking in the world through "insane" eyes. He has a great knack for story telling, and has almost every night sang and told for his supper. Earlier this year, he had come across a small braclet, supposedly given to him by a God themself. He was told to take it to Sho-Gaea, and is now searching for that legendary place, a place that was there before the start of time. Apprearance: He is a tall, handsome young man, with crystalline eyes that make him look more mad than he is. He has loose locks of dark brown hair cut short by himself. He wears a long claok made entirely of patches over a beige tunic and loose fitting cream trousers, and a pair of well-worn boots. Equipment: The Braclet named Euyalin'mal, a foot long knife he uses for everythinbg, and his own sparkling wit. He is also formidable in a magical deul, using a mixture of illusions, teleportation and telepathic suggestion to efeat opponents. Reason for being at the Post: He is searching for the mystical place Sho-Gaea, and is looking for someone who can tell him the way. He does, however, have a slightly bit of prophetic powers, and feels that being at the Post will help him immensely...