Engel

[SIZE="1"]Sorry bout my lack of activity lately. Things have been going on. Am I still alive? Hah.[/SIZE]

[size=1]I'm trying to decide if you mean that in a good or a bad way. D:[/size]

[size=1]I hope no one finds my latest post too disturbing or anything. I enjoyed writing it. Heh. Yeah. I look like a psychopath now And I love it. .[/size]

[color=#E32636][size=1]Upon awaking, Thom made with his usual morning routine. Absinthe mixed with a spot of Dr. Pepper was a good wake up call. It cleared his head right up like a kick to the face, a punch in the gut, being told your mother was just torn into beautiful little pieces by a couple of disgruntled Spanish men who were tired of the tricks she was turning. Things like that. Grabbing his guitar and clearing his throat, he pulled the lyrics out that he had wrote last night, digging in his pocket to find a guitar pick. The first few strings were plucked roughly, and the rest came smoother, a flurry of notes that filled his hotel room with music that rang so sweetly through fake plastic trees. Feeling like he was warmed up enough to face the day, Thom set the guitar down and stripped out of yesterday's clothes, scratching a scar on his stomach absently. Blue jeans clung easily to his legs, a Red Hot Chili Peppers shirt displaying the album art for "The Zephyr Song" on it. On a whim, Thom found a spot of styling wax for his hair, bothering to put it up just a bit. Some days it was nice to look half decent, even if it was your job to slay supernatural creatures that threatened the fate of humanity. And other things. Strapping his Lugers onto him and throwing on a denim jacket, Thom stepped downstairs and headed for the doorway while he began to send a text to Manjusra, reading [i]Hey, feel like doing something tonight, Ghostie? This town is so fucking boring.[/i] He had barely sent it when a hand on his chest snapped him from the reprieve. Tucking his cell phone into his pocket, he looked up at who had stopped him. It was a police officer. "Excuse me, Mr..." "Yorkton." Thom lied with the most absolute confidence. "Mr. Yorkton. You're not allowed to carry firearms in this building unless you're one of the police officers stationed here, or security. Why don't I take you back to the security office and we'll deal with this there?" "Sure, whatev, man." Thom shrugged, tracing the five o'clock shadow that was starting to come in with his palm thoughtfully. With a gentle hand on his shoulder, the officer directed him away. Taking a look at the cop, Thom studied him with a semi-interested eye. The others around here weren't that observant. This cop was kinda portly, and smelled like freshly powdered doughnuts. What a pig. As soon as they were out of sight by the normal hotel staff, the officer shoved him into a small room, filled with officers. They all seemed to be just like this one. Large and pot bellied and buldging at the seams, like they were trapped in their skins. Piggies. As if they could hear the thought, or notice the change in Thom's demeanor, they squealed like rats in a cage. Thom leapt to his feet, standing in front of the only way out. The door. Their horrible shrieks wracked his head, and he only had his trusty Lugers and his fists. With a smile, Thom looked at the one that had brought him here. "Can't we talk this out?" He was met with an enraged, terrified squeal and a charge meant to gore him with the horns rapidly protruding from the Piggy's head. Thom was quicker, and he drew the Luger on his left side out with his right hand, sticking it into the nostrils of the beast and pulling the trigger twice. It squealed and twitched, it's faces screaming at him in a mortified death rattle. God, it sounded so [i]sweet.[/i] Imbuing himself in it's death, Thom took the rest by surprise as he threw his hand up to catch one on the back of the head, slamming it's snout down on the table in the middle of the room, it's fragile skull shattering easily underneath his crushing force. Thom realized he was lucky in taking such bold leaps - they were terrified of actual combat, when their true natures were shown. The five or six left were huddled up in corners, squealing freakishly and afraid for their runty little lives. One jumped for him, making as if to snap at him with it's enormous molars. Thom caught that one with a round in the kneecaps and it fell, and just for then, he left it there to suffer. What happened next, no one could expect. Thom started singing as he danced his dance of brutality. "Have you seen the little piggies, Crawling in the dirt, And for all the little piggies, Life is getting worse-" He paused to put a round through the Piggy who's kneecaps he'd shot out, the bullet passing through his engorged belly and causing no real lasting damage besides excruciating pain. "Always having dirt to play around in." He ended the writhing creature. Four more were alive. "Have you seen the bigger piggies, in their starched white shirts? You'll find the bigger piggies, stirring up the dirt, always having clean shirts to play around in." Adding his second pistol to the mix, Thom lazily shot two rounds at the two Piggies, clipping one in the skull and killing it, the other being shot int he neck and stuttering for breath. "In their cities with all their backing, they don't care what goes on around, in their eyes there's something lacking What they need is..." Thom tucked the pistols away and took the last Piggy remanding in his hands, almost gently. The other one had passed out at the sight of blood. He smiled into it's eyes, so sweetly, before he brought his fist to it's face again and again. "A damn good whacking." Stepping on and crushing the throat of the one passed out, Thom took his lighter out and grabbed the papers that had been sitting on the desk, now scattered and harried. Deconstructing his lighter and pouring the fluid on the papers, he tucked one into each body and lit the paper on fire, sending the Piggies up in smoke. Checking his phone for a reply from Manjusra, he realized something. Bacon sounded really fucking good.[/color][/size]

[size=1][color=#E32636]Watching Manjusra turn heel, Thom scratched the back of his head with a long finger, and traced over his cheek where the scar - and her touch - had been. He huffed slightly, pushing his hair out of his eyes and deciding to take a quick search around the area. Sometimes, vampires horded treasures - like his Lugers, which he had looted from an earlier experience. There was no harm in looking. Searching through their pockets and clothing, he found nothing but crumpled dollar bills and change, false ID's and other such things. They could kill for what they wanted, but they seemed to like creating a high place in society to their fancy. It annoyed Thom greatly - the world wasn't their plaything. It was his. As he made his way through the rest of the place, he would occasionally mutter to himself, writing it down in his metal notebook to use for later. Hunts always inspired songs of his. Among other things. When he was satisfied - or rather, dissatisfied with what he found, Thom left with the odd 19 dollars and 92 cents collected, along with two fake ID's and a locket that held a picture of the male within it. "Stupid fuckin' vamps. Shoulda kept it skin on skin, mebbe then she wouldn'a looked so surprised when I chopped down her cherry tree." A miryad of small thoughts, like fleeting creatures, ran through his head, but he dismissed them by pocketing the locket. Maybe he could melt it down and sell it or something. It seemed to be made of gold. Going outside, Thom climbed into his car, turning on the radio and finding a suitable song. It was that Dragula one. By whatever band. The one that people always cracked jokes on. Thom found it suiting and shrugged as he drove home, mouthing along to the words. Pulling to the side of the street and exiting his car, Thom made his way into the hotel room, the cigarette between his lips now a smoldering cherry that he put out in a faucet, guaranteeing the taste of ash - also known as diet cola - for the next few people to drink out of. With that, he retired to his room, taking his guitar and begging work on a new song. "The Blood is Love."[/size][/color]

[quote name='Darren']Posted. Just thought I would apologize to Zephyr for stealing your internet format type thing at the beginning. I liked it! So kudos to you ^_^ Anyway, Talon, if there's anything wrong with the post, (simply because I mentioned the black substance) let me know and I'll change it. Also, Engel, if I happened to falsely describe the Weilands, let me know and I'll take care of that as well.[/QUOTE] [size=1]The Weiland you described is fine. =] Just in case anyone was wondering, their name is a reference to Scott Weiland. 'Cause that guy did heroin like candy. I thought about the most humorous thing to do when Thom runs into some Piggies...[/size]

[color=#E32636][size=1]The female had evaded the length of Manjusra's whip, which left her open for an attack. Seeing this, Thom put a dash into his step, smashing the vampire head on with his all-encompassing shield to keep Manjursa relatively safe. Of course, this was little to the bitch who he had blocked, using her immortal strength to grasp a spike on the shield and wrench it from his hand, throwing it aside. With a scowl and a slight bit of a grin, Thom clipped her in the joint of the arm with his blade, her arm overextended from removing one of his defenses. Peeling backwards from the vampire, he deliberated using an Edge to hopefully end it quickly. However, this would be unwise - there could be others lurking around in the dark, and that most definitely would not be good. Best to forget such abilities for now, he decided. Hand to hand it was. Thinking fast, his left hand dipped into the holster on his side that held one of the Luger pistols, whipping it out as he brought his blade up with his right to block the monstrous and lightning-paced blows from the female. As she rose her left foot to make a low kick at his shin, Thom titled the pistol down and fired two shots off into her kneecap, stifling her kicks and movements, but not doing any real fatal damage. Raising his sword to make a mortal strike, Thom noticed the male vampire cutting in out of the darkness with a cruel hand outstretched for his neck, to choke and break. Thom grit his teeth, ready for the impact of the blow, when he realized the male had stopped short, one of Manjusra's whips around his neck, choking the life out of him with every second he tried to struggle close to Thom. Using the momentary distraction caused by her partner, the female's hand slid across his cheek, creating a tear on his cheek, from his ear to his lips. It wasn't deep, but it stung like blood and toxins. That's most likely what it was, Thom thought passingly. Spinning on his heel, Thom's blade removed the male's head, and he hacked at it again, separating skull and brain matter and all sorts of joyous fluids. The female seemed stunned at the action, and her stunned silence allowed Manjusra to slide both whips around her neck, breaking and crumbling the bones easily, allowing a blade to be placed between her eyes, and her head to be severed. Cracking his neck and forgetting the cut on his face, Thom chuckled a little. "Star-cross'd lovers come to my mind, a bit, y'know?" He asked, withdrawing two cigarettes from his pack and lighting both up, his lips more intent around the one he then passed to Manjusra. "We should probably burn the bodies and heads or something."[/color][/size]

[size=1]Gonna go ahead and put my [b]current signature[/b] as a contestant.[/size]

[color=#E32636][size=1]Thom smiled his trademark one sided grin. He had a few nicknames for Manjusra, from Snowflake to other things regarding her unique complexion. She never minded, either, which made it a little more fun to make new ones. If he listed his pastimes, making up more nicknames would be under the list. He moved to the closet, stripping out of his shirt. A brownish stain on the chest told him that he had a brief conjugal burn there, probably from an earlier fight. [i]Great...gotta replace this one. Excellent.[/i] He couldn't stand blemishes on his clothes - it was most likely some form of OCD he didn't know he had, but at the same time suspected it a great deal. Withdrawing a t-shirt that read "The Mars Volta" - detailed with the album art and bizzare, but wonderful images - and slipping it on, he strapped his tower shield to his back and withdrawing Myxoma from the closet. Mumbling under his breath, Thom cast his carefree stare out the window, observing the milling ants below. Crawling around in the dirt. Unbeknown of what fate held in store for them. It made him sick, and it made him smile. With passing thoughts on whether or not he was a horrible, sick and twisted person for thinking that, Thom whistled to the tune of his own drum - and guitar and synths and lyrics, as he played all the parts for the song - as he opened the window he had been glaring out of and used the length of high-tensile rope that led down to the bottom to rappel himself quietly and quickly to the bottom. The sun was setting. They'd be out soon. A sigh coloured his somewhat cold lips, a key withdrawn from his front pocket used to unlock the door to a car that was by no means bad and by no means extremely fancy. It was a Dodge Magnum, tinted a dark greyish-black, and for all intents and purposes, served Thom's needs. Shifting from park to drive, he made his way into the downtown, past shady areas filled with drug cartels and homeless beggars who wanted your money for more liquor or to lord it over the even more desolate that inhabited the area. Parking on the side of the street, Thom's nimble fingers plucked the phone from his pocket and hit the first number on speed dial. "I'm here, now's the time I say somethin' clever and you walk outta a door and into my car." [/color][/size]

[size=1][color=#E32636]The traffic filtered through the pre-determined pathways, all red stop, yellow slow and green go. It unnerved Thom. He hated cars. Wheeled death traps. Contraptions that facilitated explosions and loss of life. Tore holes in the ozone. Killed us all, slowly but surely. He [i]really[/i] hated cars. Turning away from the street to the building behind him, Thom lit up a cigarette, squinting one eye and looking up at the sun. It smiled, even though it was dulled by the city smog. It seemed so hypocritical. The force of nature that gave them all life, so bright and burning, so smiling, while we crawled around in the mud lost to our God. With a deep drag of the Camel Frost in his fingertips, he exhaled and entered the building. It was a hotel, moderately high-range. Thom wandered where his music and the Hunter-net took him. He had a few safe houses, permanently owned, utilities kept up to date, but he mostly stayed in hotels and if applicable, a fellow Hunter's house. The deskkeeper made to stop him from smoking the cigarette, but an unamused glare from Thom silenced him. He made his way upstairs, feeling the familiar weight of the twin Lugers snuggled up against his side, little bullet maritime lovers drawn to his warmth like a moth to the flame. They were a comfort, along with cigarettes and guitar riffs in an unsure world. With a grunt, he reached into his back pocket and withdrew the card key, severing the magnetic lock on his room. Inside, besides the default furniture, the decor was rather plain. A laptop sat on the desk, an external keyboard and mouse laying next to it. A half eaten sandwich was in the fridge, along with a selection of wonderful, intoxicating liquors. His guitar was propped up against the wall, perfectly tuned to Thom's standards. A new e-mail message was on the screen, about 18 minutes old. With a slight rise of his eyebrow, he opened it and peered across the message. It was sent by Manjusra. With a one-sided grin, Thom punched her number into the phone, and as he drawled upon the cigarette, spoke to her when she picked up. "Gonna be able ta handle those big nasty creatures all by yer littl' self, now, snowflake?"[/color][/size]

[size=1][b]Darren:[/b] First thing that came into my head was The Collector by Nine Inch Nails. [i]I am the plague, I am the swarm...[/i] Hmmm. Wonder when the thread is going up. Any word, Talon?[/size]

[size=1]Too lazy to remember the code for my color. Thom stays mostly around Europe, anywhere from the top to the bottom of Europe though. He's been around the Americas though. He likes it in states more in the New England area of the US. So if you wanted a character history, which I'm open with, it'd have to be any place in Europe or somewhere in New England area US.[/size]

[color=#E32636][size=1]As long as it's not too obvious - they are [i]somewhat[/i] intelligent. [b]Weilands[/b] Humanoid looking at first, these creatures have sunken eyes that are hollow, and gaunt cheeks that display cheekbones that appear to click and move - like some sort of chitineous mandible. Their arms are riddled with pockmarks, track wounds, torn veins. The works of a heroin addict, and their legs the same. Their bodies are walking messes, and yet they move with frightening speed. Their hands are probably the worst part - their fingers have been replaced with hypodermic syringes, and their fingernails slope into needlepoints, that carries a deadly venom within. They, however, are quite frail. They've even killed themselves from time to time upon accidents - moving too fast and hitting something at high speeds.[/color][/size]

[color=#E32636][size=1]Time for an original creation. [b]Piggies:[/b] These little bastards are some of the worst. They look like normal policemen, upstanding individuals. They even have wives, and families. However, when revealed for what they are, their bodies become massive and grotesque, and their features splay into many multifaceted pig faces, snarling and whimpering and blankly staring. From each of their hands, their fingers each split into tiny hooves, and the same happens with their feet. These are used as effective rending tools, but it makes wielding their batons and munitions difficult at times. They most often adhere to police stereotypes, and go after mostly innocent people, hiding behind supernatural walls and bending their status and distrustful human natures to their own whims. If revealed, most Piggies attempt to run, and their greatest weapon is their ability to blend in with society.[/color][/size]

[color=#893F45][size=1][b]Name:[/b] Thomas "Thom" Viaquez. [b]Hunter-Net Name.:[/b] Eraser 96. [b]Age:[/b] Age 31. [b]Hair:[/b] Ashen-black with a tint of red. [b]Eyes:[/b] A greyish-green. [b]Height:[/b] Around 5'10 [b]Weight:[/b] Thom hesitated, looked down at himself, and tacked on a few pounds to the number. 138 lbs. [b]Creed:[/b] Judge. Writing this down made Thom look back up at his earlier answer, and sighed inwardly. [i]I'm judgin' those stupid bastards, not myself.[/i] [b]Weapons:[/b] An ornately designed longsword, befitting a person with the creed of a Judge. [i]At least I thin' so, dunno 'bout these guys...[/i] P90 machine gun with anti-armor rounds. [i]Not everything has to be quick and quiet, eh?[/i] Two antique Luger pistols, ransacked from a group of vampires. [i]God, I love those guns.[/i] A large tower shield, as ornate as the longsword it matches. Usually strapped to his back when used. Also a capable hand to hand fighter, but dislikes actually dirtying his hands. [b]Edges:[/b] [i][u]Discern[/i][/u]: Usually, just mumbles something under his breath, like a nonchalant joke or phrase, with the keyword "Lucky." [i]I don't make shitty jokes much, see...[/i] [i][u]Pierce.[/i][/u]: Concentrates with mild attention on a target, and then whispers with a little grin, "Knives out." [i]Then I start lying...luckily...every kid think's a your mum's joke is funny, so I wouldn't have to do anything...it'd be dyin' from just hearing the failure contain'd wit'in that joke.[/i] [i][u]Burden:[/i][/u] Settles a gaze on the target, and then says planly, "Stop whispering." like an accusation. They go dead in their tracks. [i][u]Smolder:[/i][/u] Declares happily, "How'm I drivin'?" and a thick black smog rolls out, like the scene of a bad car crash. [i][u]Blaze:[/i][/u] Simply snaps his finger and with concentrated willpower, the light turns up on the freaks majorly. [i][u]Delve:[/i][/u] What kind of Judge wouldn't have this skill? Another thought produced one, allows him to "experience" the previous event. [i][u]Expose:[/i][/u] With a little concentration and the words "Meeting people is easy," the shrouds are ripped down. [b]Appearance:[/b] For a Judge, I'm not the most regal person You'd ever meet. I wear acid-washed blue jeans and a white button up shirt with a black vest, most days. I have several sets of this. I look like some sort of fusion between casual and caustic, and that works well for me. I've got a bit of stubble on my face, usually, and I don't much care to shave it. My hair is a light greyish black, with a tint of red, and lays kinda jutted and spiky and short on my head. It's pretty soft, actually. Dunno how. I've got green eyes, and my hands are pretty calloused. Other than that, I've got a scar on my left eyebrow that looks quite strange, as no hair ever grows back over it. And a nice one on my leg, when some little bastard yapped at my leg and I had to cleave it off. Always a fun time. I've got it in for more of quickness approach, and I ain't gonna clunk around town in a suit of goddamn armor. My shield's enough. I kinda laugh at the hunters who name their weapons, but if I ever admitted I named my sword "Myxoma", they'd laugh right back. [b]Biography:[/b] I was born and raised in a little cutaway section of London where lots of Spanish people had made residence. Hence my last name. My mum was knocked up by a righ' and proper English gent who refused to pay alimony or take me to the park after Sunday's services. I was raised christian, but I never really believed in that religion stuff. Righ' and proper for those do. Went to public school with a bunch of Spanish kids and poor English gents. I didn't much mind it, I got involved with the musical program. It was at that point, when I picked up a guitar, I realized, everyone could play guitar. If the dips tried hard enough. Most people lack the perseverance to actually go through with anything. It's a shittin' shame. When I got to high school, I made my own little band. Didn't ever catch on though. I think about trying it again from time to time, but that wouldn't really work. All my old friends are off in other places, and I might as well not exist. Oh well. My life was never exciting, never out of the ordinary, never special, never something to write about. It still isn't, really, knowing that there's a bunch of people [i][b]just like me[/i][/b] doing the same thing. [b]Imbuing:[/b] I was hangin' out at The Basement, a local night club, around the age of what, 15? They never let me drink, but they'd let me get up there and do my singin' and guitar playin' thing. No one knew I never learned how to really play music, I'd always just picked up on what everyone else was playin' at the time. I bet that's how everyone really did it. Music doesn't make sense on paper. I was up on the stage, and right in the middle of the lyric, "My thoughts are misguided and a little naive," the room went dark. Like someone put out the lights. And everyone started to slow down, and then this weird musical tone, light and mysterious, kinda hit me like some sort of realization. And then time sped up like fast little arpeggi and around me were things I thought were pulled out of some weird cartoon. Misshapen shambles of grins and limbs, grasping and tearing. I wrenched the guitar to the right, the body of it slamming into the nearest's face - I think it was it's face, bloody damn can't tell with them - and screaming, "Knives out, lights out!" for some reason, that little musical tune building to a fever pitch inside my head told me two things. [i]Don't be afraid. They're guilty. Guilty sinners.[/i] And I swung with all the righteous fury of a man devoted to his cause, the thick twanging of discordant guitar notes and the thick-pitch body colliding with sinew and skulls. They lay dead on the stage and I stood above them all, a whacked out, tweaked piece of wood and metal strings in my hands. I plucked loosely at the notes. That was kinda cool.[/color][/size]

[color=#CC3333][size=1][b]My otakuboards username:[/b] Engel. [b]Nickname:[/b] Spence, Spencer, Sych. [b]Age:[/b] 17. [b]Gender:[/b] Male. [b]Why I'm better?:[/b] You're the one implying that I have a reason to be better. If someone implies it, then it gives me influence from outside sources to boost my ego, elevating myself, in my eyes, above the petty rabble. Therefore, the reason I'm better is you and everyone else who doesn't feverently contest this.[/color][/size]

[SIZE="1"]Name: Yarrick Lemartes. Age: 34. Race: Kalogri Homeworld: Cadian - A war torn hive world, consisting of many cities inhabited by several races within the Alliance. Crime seems to run rampant in the streets of the common districts, untouched by the local police, C-Sec, who are in the politician's pockets. An extremely toxic environment to be raised in, for sure. Physical Description: Yarrick stands nearly seven feet tall, possessing a lithe, muscular, and slender build. His cheekbones are deeply sunken, and have been patched through with cybernetic reinforcements and metallic plating, often patched over with false skin. Several sections of his flesh are missing altogether on his face, a blue electronic pulse visible among the framework of steel rods. His eyes sparkle with a certain blue light, much like the circuitry seen within his face, and while the sparkle is biological, the argumentations done to his eyes are not. From his eyes, two long ear like protrusions extend to the back of his head, terminating at the end of his cranium extensions, a trait shared with all Kalogri. His face is adorned with several black lines, known as his "colony markings." A black cowl trimmed white is lain over his head, a symbol of his ex-Commissar status. Yarrick's usual wear is a white and black combat issue suit with shoulder guards and other protection. On his left arm, however, a slightly oversized black shoulderguard obscures a framework of black, white and blue pipes that lead into his suit. From there, his arm is wrapped in a black bio-steel formulation. From the shoulder guard extend numerous more pipes that lead to his chest and stomach area. The same blue glow can be seen around the pipes, and through the exposed sections of the combat suit, near Yarrick's left arm. Tips, Tricks, and Sleek Maneuvers: Yarrick Lemartes is an ex-Commissar with the Alliance military force. He lead soldiers into combat, often being the first one into the fight and the last one out. As such, he has excellent leadership skills, as repressed as they are under Shepard's command. His family was a long line of Engineers (and other professions, such as hacking and safe-cracking, which are not held to the light of day.) and that was his profession before the required military service. Such technical services came in handy in the 252nd Regimental Guard Battle of Ignaeus Five, breaking into an enemy tank and turning the Basilisk artillery fire back on the enemies' supply lines. How You Became Part of Saklaus: After the Civil War, Yarrick committed himself to engineering jobs around several worlds, owning a small freighter made for one or two people to get him between destinations. Taking a break from a job repairing a frigate destined for Cadian, his homeworld in a small bar, he was approached by Shepard. A few war stories and some technical schematics later, Yarrick was asked to join the crew of Saklaus. [/SIZE]

[color=cornflowerblue][size=1][b]Name:[/b] Garviel E. Loken. [b]Age:[/b] 27. [b]Gender:[/b] Male. [b]Appearance:[/b] [url=http://img66.imageshack.us/img66/15/edrolandma9.jpg]Garviel.[/url] A lithe and tall man, Garviel's body is a bundle of muscles packed into a 6'2 package. He wears a blackened leather vest tattered and torn in places and stained with blood and other human fluids in other places. His legs are clad in the same dark leather, with a white sash tied around his waist to give him a place to store various weapons and necessities. His fingertips are covered by thick, but fingerless plate gauntlets and his feet in plate boots with curled up toes, like a jester's attire. His facial expression is almost always dark, and the corners of his lips have scars that stretch up to his ears, like someone tried to cut a smile into his face. [b]Sample:[/b] The streets were covered in a dense, early morning fog. It rolled in from the east that night, draping the city in some preternatural blanket. Garviel walked through the catacombs of the streets, his hand tracing over the white sash draped around his thin waist idly. Gently, he withdrew a silver pistol from the silk sash, jamming a clip of ammunition in the magazine and creeping onwards, the smile cut into his face smiling forever even as his lips remained placid. A large sword was thrust through the sash as well, the blade surrounded with cutting teeth that were on a rotary track. The hilt held two surprises. One, was a hollow compartment within the grip that stored a roll of bandages and antibiotics, and the other was...an engine. The teeth of the "chainsword" were stained a dark maroon with the drying blood of battles fought. Garviel swore softly as he spun around, firing two shots into the misty morning darkness. Someone was stalking him. No matter. He wouldn't make it easy. He dipped the pistol back into his sash, tightening it around the weapon as he withdrew two small daggers, making a running leap at a brick wall, jamming the knives into the weakened mortar to hold himself up on the wall. From there, it was a simple matter of getting to the top of the building, and fleeing from there. Surely, his followers wouldn't expect that. Or if they did, the fog provided some cover for Garviel. It wasn't long before he stood on top of the building, and was in even less time tha the threw himself to the ground as a shadow swept over the wall, aiming to knock him down. In a fluid motion, his chainsword was out and roaring to life, the blades rotating and spinning fast enough to appear stationary. He was garbed in white vestments of cloth, like some sort of holy man. However, very untrue to holy origins, he held a gun aimed for Garviel's head. He barely had enough time to jerk the blade up to deflect the bullet, charging forward and cutting down his attacker with a messy and fatal stroke that sent the spatter of human entrails along his body and the ceiling. Powering down the chainsword, he carefully positioned it into his sash, as to not rip the fabric. Kneeling down, he searched the clothes of his attacker for some sort of identification. He pulled a shining metal cross from the corpse, examining it with a careful eye. "Looks like they've caught up to me."[/color][/size]

[color=#40826D][size=1][b]Name:[/b] Dieter Ergheiz Rosenburg [b]Age:[/b] 29. [b]Country of Origin:[/b] Germany. [b]Personality:[/b] Silent and subservient, listening to his superiors and following their directions to the point would be accurate for Dieter. That doesn't mean that he doesn't resent such treatment, but he stills his tongue when necessary. Out of the workplace, Dieter is not much different. He keeps to himself most of the time, and though it might be said that he is a sycophant, the reverse is actually quite true. He has a strong hate for the way things are going in Germany, and would be outspoken about it if his few friends weren't completely in love with the way things were. Dieter often feels himself to be unheard, and has started his decline into acceptance of the lifestyle forced up on him. He is often in a bad mood due to chronic migraines. [b]Apperance:[/b] [url=http://img112.imageshack.us/img112/254/1188629451431no0.jpg]Click.[/url] A frequent smoker, Dieter is often seen as a somewhat brooding man. His thin lips seem to be twisted into a scowl nearly all of the time, and his face is often left unshaven for days, acquiring a fine layer of stubble. He stands around five foot nine, with a slender body type and a light to medium complexion. Dieter's eyes are colored like those of a rainy day - somewhat blue, but overshadowed with tones of grey that belie the true nature of his thoughts. He hands are often riddled with cuts and bruises, and a scar traces the left corner of his lip up to his left ear. [b]Family History:[/b] Dieter was born into a wealthy family in the city of Berlin. They had prospered there, being one of the first families to be founded within present-day Germany. As such, they hold political sway over many forces, and are quite influential to the Queen of Germany. However, Dieter decided, after an assassination attempt committed on his father's life by foreign powers, that such a high risk way of living wasn't for him. His family was reluctant in letting him go, after all, Dieter was a bright scholar and spent many years reading and writing, along with countless hours wracked up in combat training. However, his father understood and turned Dieter out onto the streets by the time he was seventeen. From there, Dieter made his way to a manufacturing job for a large company, finding something of a solitude in the command structure that was forced upon him. He lacks a formal university education, but scrapes by on his street smarts and his former pursuits in the Rosenburg's library. [b]Occupation:[/b] Dieter is a middle to low class worker, currently employed at a factory that produces armaments and goods for military and police applications. [b]Social Standing:[/b] Never quite able to get over leaving his family behind, Dieter is ashamed to go out in public. He is often times tolerated instead of welcomed, and ranks fairly low on the social ladder. Though, Deiter could return to his former wealth and status if he ever chose to return to the Rosenburg manor. [b]Have you ever had Revolutionary Thoughts?:[/b] A myriad of thoughts like these have drifted through Mister Rosenburg's often unentertained and sore skull, but he pushes them away, thinking such thoughts to be futile. After all, who would oppose [i]Germany?[/i][/color][/size]

[color=cornflowerblue][size=1]As the family told Mathias where he was, Garviel came down the stairs wearing not his half of a shirt, but instead a long sleeved cotton shirt that was colored black. It was rolled up over his forearms. He wore a sarcastic look upon his icy features, and responded to what he had heard coming down the stairs. [b]"No, I'm not queer, barkeep. dispel your hopes."[/b] Garviel taunted, electing a laugh from Maru and a smile from Relm. Slowly, he took a seat besides Mathias, regarding him with a short nod. Almost without hesitation, he ordered an entire bottle of spiced rum to chase away the headache that bit at his thoughts. As it was handed to him, he took a slow drink, and then turned to Mathias. [b]"Thank you, sir, for the help back there. I hope that you shall find the room I've put you up in adequate. I, however, plan to leave by the morning. Something in the distance awaits me."[/b] He said, answering the unheard question with a slight edge to his voice. Stashing the spiced rum in a bag, he wrapped the entrance to it shut and began to stalk up the stairs before running back down and nabbing a bowl of fruit. He stalked back up the stairs, eventually entering his room and closing the door with a silent latch. As Garviel set the bowl down and made sure Anathema was propped up against the wall in a position where it wouldn't fall, he turned around and looked at the door. He almost expected Copernicus to come through the door. Realizing that he wouldn't was the first real pain that the young Summoner felt since the entire incident. A pang resonated through his being as he sat down with an apple from the bowl and bit at it gently, staring at the bottom of the door expectantly. [b]'That stupid damned Arcane Tower. If it didn't exist, Copernicus would be here. Who's to say what I'm looking for is there anyway?"[/b] Garvi nursed the bottle of rum once more before he shook his head. [b]"Can't think like that...gotta keep going on. Copernicus would reprimand me to push ups and study if he saw me like this."[/b] As he composed himself to leave by tomorrow morning, he smiled at the ring on his right middle finger. The mark of the Summoner shone on it brilliantly before fading to a dim ruby red.[/color][/size] [b]OOC:[/b] It's a short and sucky post, but Matt asked me to post something. :D

[color=cornflowerblue][size=1]The world phased in quickly and painfully, rushing back to him with terrible speed. Garviel's eyes snapped open and he gripped Anathema in his fingertips, his lips locked in a grimace as he prepared to face whatever horrible end had pushed him this far. Be it that Caine man, who gave him the quickest sneer from behind his metallic second face. Or his nameless foot soldiers who killed in Dugolma's name. Or perhaps other forces that were at work, unseen and unheard, placing their fingers on chess pieces and moving them towards one end, determined to take the checkmate. Garviel relaxed. The world was still once again, but felt [i]wrong.[/i] It was then when he realized that his master, Copernicus had been rent down so horribly. Torn down as Garviel could do nothing but flee. His face relaxed into a straight complexion before he frowned and spat on the ground. It was only then did he realize that gore lay across the once viridant green grass that was now stained a vermilion shade. He looked around, using his perceptions to conceive how the fight must of went. [i]I must of collapsed...against that stupid tree, or was thrown against it. And then someone came by...and stopped them. Stopped them so suddenly. So suddenly and without mercy. It must of been one skilled with a blade to make this much of a mess.[/i] Garviel suddenly felt quite inadequate as he searched the grass for his pen, which had fallen out of his pocket as he'd run. The Summoner's pride was healed significantly by the virtue that his feet's movements had not been his own. Oblivious of the man passed out in front of him, Garviel laced Anathema to his back and began to walk forward, straight over the passed out body. It wasn't until he turned around to see if he had dropped his notebook did he notice the it. A man lay in the grass, blood speckled across his cloak. Curiously, Garviel reached a hand out and tapped his shoulder, before rolling him over. The man appeared perhaps a little older than himself, and wore simple but effective clothing. In his right hand lay a rather ornate and dazzling blade, drenched with the blood of killers and lapdogs. Garviel stood up straight, sighing and placing a hand on his hip, speaking in a rather misanthropic manner. [b]"I could leave him here to rot...but he did save my life. I might as well bring him with me. He might be useful later. If not, I can threaten to kill him and take his money. Which is still useful, more useful than I'd been to Copernicus."[/b] Garviel spat bitterly, as he reached down and easily pulled the stranger to his feet, then draped him across his back. He wasn't the type that would steal from others, but Garviel was in need of utmost haste. He had to reach that damnable Tower. For his Master at the most and himself at the least. Slowly, Garviel began to walk to the clearing, and from there, to the road. The stench of death and stale air was left behind in the thicket trees as a city rose from the gently sloping hills and curves of the land. It had the sweet smell of civilization and people about it, luring Garviel with the passed out savior on his back to the city gates. He was let in without a word or a check, much to his surprise. After a few moments of rest at the front gate, Garviel brought himself to find an Inn to place the man and himself, as much as the city allured him. Reaching into the man's cloak, he picked out enough for two rooms, There was barely any money left after that, and Garviel made a mental note to repay the man before leaving for the Arcane Tower. Dragging the body into a seat to rest, he sat down on a barstool and ordered a light drink, jangling the money he'd taken with slight interest, watching for any signs of Malphris stirring back to consciousness.[/color][/size]

[color=#6495ED][size=1][b]OOC: Matt asked if I'd like to take the part of the Summoner, so I said yes, so hello and here is my signup =p[/b] --- [b]Name:[/b] Garviel Angron, often just goes by Garvi. [b]Age:[/b] 24. [b]Archetype:[/b] The Summoner. [b]Weapon:[/b] [i]Anathema:[/i] [url=http://i.thottbot.com/ss/o/6190.jpg]Here.[/url] The weapon, like Garviel, is enrapturing and damning. The three spearpoints at the end of the staff show it's intent - to kill. However, a mystical green light emanates from the emerald that holds itself in place in the middle of the spearpoints, wrapping around the user and permeating them in a dark viridian glow when in combat. Anathema is the focal point for Garviel's summoning magic, and is a powerful weapon in it's own right. [b]Physical Description:[/b] [url=http://img250.imageshack.us/img250/2411/zekekw0.jpg]Click.[/url] [Credits to Heise at Deviantart.] Garviel is as cold as his appearance makes him out to be. His shirt covers half of his body, leaving his middrift exposed. On his lower left side, a tattoo is inked in, showing his status as the Summoner. On the other side is an [url=http://pcmedia.gamespy.com/pc/image/article/747/747222/iwarhammer-age-of-reckoningi-the-hordes-of-chaos-20061121045649316.jpg]eight pointed star[/url], embossed to his flesh parallel to the other tattoo. Garvi doesn't tell anyone what this tattoo means, however, and often replies shortly when asked what it's about. A crimson signet lies on his right middle finger, showing his connections to his now deceased master. As his last piece of jewelery, a reddish mahogany crystal hangs from his left ear, but seems to only be for decorative purposes. Keeping his armor light, his legs are only covered by a pair of pants that seem to be traced with runic symbols, supposedly acting as part of a focus for his summoning powers. His face could be described as handsome and almost feminine, with soft pink lips that seem to always be curled into a scowl. Garviel's eyes are often a source of intimidation, and they look as if they've been carved out of nevermelting ice. With semi-medium, choppy ink-blot black hair that almost looks drizzled with an ice blue shade at the ends, his face is both handsome and terrible. A single scar runs along his left cheek to his lips and back across, to his right cheek, like someone tried to carve a smile into his features. Often, a black book with a viridian green pen will be seen dangling out of his pocket, but no one knows what it's for. [b]Combat Tactics:[/b] Garviel, in hand to hand, is almost more of a dancer. He moves with fluid grace, blocking and sweeping blows away from his enemies and returning with graceful and deadly arcs and slashes and stabs. However, his true strength lies in his Summoning powers; the ability to call a creature from the Nether and bind it to his will until dismissed. Currently, Garvi can only call upon a small but mischievous imp named Nero for now, which can get into extremely small and tight spaces to retrieve items, or confuse and confound enemies with illusions generated from the topaz embedded in his forehead. [b]Personality:[/b] Garviel comes off as cold and unforgiving from the start, due to his scowl and chilled features. He speaks shortly and quickly to those he doesn't know, and will often give only his name and a short goodbye if someone asks for it. The only person he's been sociable with is his master, who is now dead, and that seems to of forced himself into a deeper hole, retracting upon himself. Word goes around that Garviel isn't all human due to his lack of emotions, which only serve to annoy and agitate the young Summoner. [b]How does your character view the way Dugolma treats Iaesel?[/b] Garviel despises the fighting, as he saw many of his childhood friends die of starvation and plague due to the poor conditions. He suspects that his family was killed by Dugolma, which only furthers his wishes to meet his late tutor's goals of reaching the Arcane Tower.[/color][/size]

[color=crimson][size=1]No, Matt, it's perfectly fine. I can sit an RP out. :D[/color][/size]

[color=#40826D][size=1]So is it too late for me to sign up as a free spot? If so, I'm sorely disappointed, as this would be my return to RPing on OB. >_

[quote name='Malkav']so engel? I'm somewhat confused. Silla's attacking Matsya?[/QUOTE] I just did what Retri told me to over MSN. We talked and I said, "okay" and he gave me permission of his character and told me to do that. Ask him, he's the strategical mastermind behind this! =O NOTE: Editing your post to erase an "i" that isn't there makes you feel stupid. =[ Stupid speck of dust.