[Characters] Dramatis Personae

[Cheaplaffs]

"He who fights with monsters might take care lest he thereby become a monster..." -Friedrich Nietzsche

Once you've determined what level your character will begin play as, you can start working on your character sheet. Use standard rules for generating attributes and hit points, as found in the player's guide. This just makes it easier for me to mediate them. My rule for re-rolls is that you must have at least two stats higher than 15 to begin play. I will also allow you to take a penalty on one attribute to add a point or two to another, as a tragic flaw.

Familiarize yourself with the game world as found in the thread 'Welcome to Nightmares'. I'll be periodically adding things to the world as issues arise, and hopefully the first bit of information found in there will be enough to help flesh out your character. Any questions can be adressed in the OOC thread, I want to keep this thread restricted to Character Profiles only. You should include a completed, refined version of your profile with the character sheet, just so others will get a feel for your character.

[Davey Bones]

okie dokie, here's Sharimel.

http://www.rpgcrossing.com/profiler/view.php?id=8343

For reference, character is linked via the drop-down menu you get when you click on my name. She's not the strongest or most dexterous, but that's why Clerics get buff spells. She's got a lot to use versus undead, and since she can spontaneously cast healing spells, she doesn't prepare them. Her domains are Healing and Protection. Average size, but is striking by her shaved head.

Background (prior to undead attack): Artisan. Sharimel was apprenticed to a local herbalist, from whom she learned her basic skills at herbalism and healing. She rarely dabbled in alchemy, fearing the church's stance on magic and the fact that alchemy was a bit too close to magic for her taste. She apprenticed until she was old enough to work on her own, but not long after that she was attacked and sent to the convent for healing, and eventually accepted as an apprentice cleric. The vampire attack left her with scars at her collarbone where the vamp attempted to rip her open, and the drain on her constitution took a great deal of time to recover from. Worst was the purification ritual. Vials of holy water were poured onto the wound to cleanse it of the impurities from the vampire's bite. The scars have never healed.

Personality: Crusader. Let's face it, we know why she's a crusader and what she's crusading against. Monsters, especially undead. 'Nuff said.

Character Advancement: Will pick up more combat-oriented Divine Feats like Divine Vigor and Sacred Vengeance from the Complete Warrior book, and may PrC into the Hunter of the Dead from the same book. I've already written a vamp attack into my background, so the required ability score drain needed for the class is already there. This would also make Sharimel a bit more combat-oriented, which is what you're looking for. May go with heavier armor (and even martial weapon proficiency) depending on how combat-heavy the game is, we shall see. Also guaranteed that she's going to get ghost-touch armor and weapons at the first possible chance. This is a woman who absolutely fears and loathes the forces of dankness and is sworn to never again be a victim herself, or let any of her friends and loved ones become victims. She will probably not play with firearms; she was trained to hunt dead in the classical sense, and tends to be a bit of a traditionalist in that regard. She much prefers her mace and a good crossbow to the unpredictability of gunpowder.

[TCSilvermane]

Every time you click this character sheet, Maeva seduces a party member

Name: Maeva Dionicia. For those of you interested in name meanings, this literally means "Intoxicating Vixen"
Class: Sorcerer with rouge levels.
Sex: Female
Race: Human, unless I can find a race that gives + charisma
Alignment: Chaotic Neutral
Age: 17
Profession/Level: Thief, sometimes assassin. Sorcerer 2, Rouge 1
General Attitude: Temptress/assassin. Uses seduction to get what she desires.
Fear/Phobia: Helplessness in herself, of any kind. Being bound, ect. Maeva likes to be in control.
Quirks:
-Maeva has a very peculiar way of casting her spells. When casting, she chants out a four line verse of poetry that she makes up on the spot.
-Voracious appetite. Will eat almost anything.
-Soft spot for bards/musicians

 

Maeva is, above all, a survivor. Her life on the streets taught her to take what you can, when you can, by whatever means it takes to get it. If you can get a few coins by... disposing of a nuisance to a local crime lord, then sharpen your dagger. If you have to get into his bed to get close to him, well, the coins feed you, right? And while your at it, better raid his travel pack. Might be something of value in there as well. Maeva has little sense of honor, and a knife in the back in such a situation is a common tactic with her. Even the use of poison does not turn her away. It is quite a useful tool to her in all actuality. Overall, she dislikes the direct approach, having neither the desire nor the strength to overpower most targets. In the times that she must battle, she prefers to use her natural magic from a safe distance to debilitate foes, then close in upon them to hit their weakest points. However, it must be reinforced that she is a survivor, and because of this, if the battle is going badly, she will not hesitate to retreat.
In the non-life threatening situation, Maeva is what would be called the life of the party, charming those around her with a quick wit and, to her male companions, teasing them unmercifully. She often causes intense embarrassment within those round her with the blunt and unashamed attitude she takes.

 

Maeva is on the tall side, for a female, around 5'7". Her general build is lithe, although she has been described as voluptuous by some. He hair is moderately long, passing her shoulder blades, and is a silverish-gray color, perhaps a side effect of her innate magic. Her eyes are a truly unique feature. The one of the right is a deep shade of violet, while the left one is a light green color. Her complexion is rather pale. There is often an innocent expression her face, but this is simply an elaborate facade that she has constructed to lure in victims with a heavy coin purse. When the weather allows, she prefers shorter and tighter clothing than one might be comfortable with, usually in a red or other warm and inviting color. She explains her choice with a phrase she loves to use: "If they are staring at my chest, they are not staring at my blade".

Overall, she tries to appear as exotic as possible in order to draw in possible fat pursed victims.

 

Maeve was born into a charmed life. Her family consisted of a politically connected couple who were able to advance high in the ranks of society due to their many connections. Her mother and father, a proper lady and the single largest trade of spice within a hundred miles respectively, were overjoyed at the birth of their daughter and sought to make her happy in whatever way possible. From birth to about the age of 10, she was a spoiled child, oft to temper tantrums over minute details. Her food wasn't cooked right, she wanted the doll with the blue dress, not the stupid pink one. Her parents were deluded, and ignored these troublesome signs simply taking the "She will grow out of it attitude." Unfortunately, she did not, and it became worse upon the onset of puberty. Shortly after her 11th birthday, she started to show signs of magical power. This terrified everyone. Not only did she have the temper of a raging bull, but it was now possible she could roast someone with but a thought if they displeased her. Fearful for their lives and their wordly possessions, her parents pulled some strings and managed to find another adept in the art of magic in order to train her in its use. She made little progress. Maeva thought training to be below her, that natural talent would give her power. She became an absolute terror with this small amount of power she had at her disposal. It did not last, however.

The power of the house waned. Her parents had come under scrutiny after it was found that they were involved in several social scandals. Coupled with their daughter, who had strange powers not fit for man, their influence was no longer enough to keep away the cut-throats seeking their position of prominence. Six months after the manifestation of Maeva's abilities, the manor was attacked in the dead of night by a small group of assassins and thugs. The job of the assassins was to take care of all family members. The job of the thugs was to loot, plunder, and in general, break things. It was these men who found the sleeping Maeva. It would have been more merciful to slit her throat then and there.

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

Maeva surely would have died that night. She was terribly hurt, with nothing to protect her from exposure in the night. Fortunately, within desperation there is power, and this alone saved her. She fell unconscious at the gates of her former home, and when she awoke, she found herself clothed. Her wounds, while not cured, had stopped bleeding and were showing signs of healing that would have taken at least a week to occur. The real wounds were psychological though. She had no food, no skills, no family left, nothing. Her manor and all of her possessions had been burned to the ground. She had endured a night of torture, not even understanding what had been done to her. What was she to do? Surely there was someone who would help her. She was the heir of a powerful family with a valuable estate! No matter what, she would not be reduced to the distasteful act of begging.

A few days later.

Her hunger had finally swept aside her pride. Maeva sat on the corner of a moderately busy street, watching the people walk by her. She saw fat purses hanging from their belts, along with sheathed weapons. Not a one would spare her a coin to buy something to eat. Having been driven to the edge by hunger that she had never known before, she attempted something that she would have never tried were she in a rational state of mind. There was a man, not 15 feet away who was saddling his horse. A small coinpurse hung from his belt and, most importantly, this man carried no weapon...

Quietly and unobtrusively, Maeva crept forward toward the man. Upon closer examination, it was obvious that he never missed a single one of his meals. His girth was over four times that of the small girl that was approaching him. His hands fumbled with the unfamiliar straps and buckles of the saddle while a stream of curses flew forth from his mouth. Maeva didn't really hear most of it, but she caught the words "good for nothing help". The fat man was the most occupied he was going to be, so it was now or never. Darting forward, Maeva deftly grabbed onto the small leather pouch, easily ripping it from the thin cord that attached it to the fat mans pants. This had a two fold effect. First, ripping the purse forth caused a part of his pants to rip. Second, the part that had ripped apparently helped to keep his pants up. They promptly fell down around his ankles, exposing the man to the world. He was too embarrassed to see what had caused this unfortunate incident to occur, allowing Maeva a clean getaway.

10 minutes later, Maeva was wolfing down the first meal she had eaten in days. It was simple bread and cheese, but it felt as if she had never tasted something so good in her life. There was still coin left, which would feed her for a small amount of time. However, it would run out. Maeva would be forced to obtain more eventually. With the lesson that she had learned though, this would not be a problem. She would rely on herself, and no one else, for her survival.

6 years later.

Not only had Maeva managed to survive in the harsh world she now lived in, she had managed to thrive. Over the years, she picked up skills from other street rats and criminals. How to open locks, how to turn that strange mushroom in the rubbish pile to act as a deadly poison, and talk her way out of a bad situation, to name a few. She had also learned from the horrifying experience of years gone by. Men were weak. Not physically, at least not usually, but weak of mind. A word here, a smile there, maybe a little more (in some cases, a lot more), and they would melt in her hands. They would become defenseless, and thus Maeve would have control over them that she would not normally possess. It became even easier when she used her sorceress powers to weaken their already feeble minds. A potential threat could be quickly neutralized, and forever rid of. Quite a few had actually hired her to get rid of certain undesirables because of this talent. If nothing else, she enjoyed the torture that she gave through such teasing and it kept her belly filled and pockets jingling.

[copatt]

Elizabeth "Liz" Strange

Elizabeth Strange was born to a liife of privilege. At birth, she inherited tremendous aracne power from both her mother and father, both of whom hailed from old sorcerous families. With that arcane power, came power of other varieties: land, wealth, political influence. With no male siblings, Elizabeth stood to inherit all of this as well.

Like their parents before them, Elizabeth's parents were not content for their daughter to rely solely on her innate ability. She studied subjects arcane and mundane under the finest tutors available, she was exposed to a rich cultural scene, and when she came of Age, Elizabeth was even sent to University in the city of Port Lenore.

In Port Lenore, Elizabeth continued her friendships with other scions of sorcerous families, many of whom she had met at lavish social functions earlier in life. In addition to pursuing the mundane classes offered by the university, Elizabeth and her friends would gather to study magic at meetings they dubbed the "hidden college."

Elizabeth's education, in fact her entire life, was interrupted when a zealous witchhunter managed to discover and raid one of the "hidden college" meetings. While her friends were able to escape, their identities intact, Elizabeth was captured by the witchhunter. Sadly for Elizabeth, the witchhunter counted amongst his retinue a surgeon pursuing the latest biological sciences, a man who rightfully believed that Elizabeth- and others like her- could be cured of their sorcerous lineages.

Elizabeth was bound in iron chains and taken to the witchhunter's base of operations. Over the course of weeks, the witchhunter and his surgeon henchman drained Elizabeth of the powerful blood which coursed through her body, the blood of dragons from an earlier age, and replaced it with the common blood of ordinary humans.

The process complete, Elizabeth found herself changed. Looking in the mirror, she seemed smaller, thinner, less beautiful. Worse, she could no longer feel the arcane power coursing through her body. She tried will forth the first magical effect that she was conciously able to prodce as a young child. Nothing. She tried to produce magical effecsts that she had thought learned, not innate. Nothing. Elizabeth slumped to the ground, a broken shadow of her former self.

Feeling the hand of the man who had tortured her for the last two weeks on her shoulder, though this time with a reassuring touch, Elizabeth looked up. Her face was met by a red hot iron in the witchhunter's other hand. Elizabeth released an insane shriek of pain and again buried her face in her hands. When she finally managed to look up again, the face in the mirror bore the brand of a reformed sorceror.

Shortly, Elizabeth, or simply Liz, as she now called herself, was turned over to a convent to continue her penance and to learn a trade that she might once again be integrated into modern, god-fearing society.

[omglolnub]

Name: Jared Demil
Sex: Male
Age: 31
Profession//Level: Freedom Fighter/Mercenary//Warblade 8

Weapons and Abilities: Claymore, Pistols, Crude Explosives

Description: Jared is tall and slightly bulky, so to those looking upon him, it is obvious he is strong, but he doesn't look like a brute. He is a tactical thinker, and quick to act, rarely caught of guard, and when he is, he's quick to get on it. He is a soldier through and through, and can be gruff at times, but he means well. He also has fairly bad smoking and drinking problems, and will go out of his way to find a drink or tobacco if he hasn't had his fix in a while, even if it means putting himself in slight (or great) danger, though he isn't suicidal.

He has green eyes, short cropped flame red hair, and appropriately as he has a very fiery personality. He was once just a normal soldier, following orders in fighting off the monsters that threatened society, but then he saw the true face of his superiors and has since been fighting for his peoples freedom from them, and selling his skills as a body guard and mercenary.

Background: Jared was born on a small island off the coast of another island of the coast of the mainland (read: in Earth Ireland). At a young age it was discovered that he was quite proficient with a blade, and was taken under the wing of a famous swordsman of no small skill when his parents were killed by monstrous creatures. Haren, his name was, taught him the way of the sword, and also how to use a pistol in times of true desperation. Jared trained for years, and when he came of age, he joined the militia, and quickly was appointed commander of an entire battalion. It was soon after that his life changed forever.

There was a massive attack on the town that him and his men were stationed at, and it looked like a hopeless battle, but there was a light in the darkness. A large portion of the army was about a days march away, and if they could only hold out for two days, they could win the battle.

They fought tooth and nail, holding back the onslaught for two days, many not sleeping for the entire duration of the battle, and on the dawn of the second day, they rejoiced. But the happiness did not last long, for the army never came. Instead their runner returned with despair on his face as he handed Jared a letter.

The government had decided that the battle was too risky, and that Jared's men could handle it, and if not, what was a few dozen dead soldiers to them? Outraged, and downtrodden, he threw himself into the fray, and his men, though their resolve broken, took up the fight beside him. They held the creatures off for another half a day before they were overrun, but miraculously, a few of them survived, including Jared.

They formed a freedom fighters organization under Jared, and they fought the government that cared not for its people with brutal efficiency. Though their goal seemed too large, they began chipping away at it, and slowly but surely they advance. They knew that they would most likely not see the fruits of their efforts, but they knew it was a cause worth fighting for. They also worked as mercenaries to fund their operations, and so they would always be training and getting ready for the next action, and so they would never forget that day.

RP Sample: Jared crouched low against the wall he was using for cover. He reached into his pouch and pulled out six bullets, his last six bullets. Quickly he loaded them into his revolver and spun the barrel. He was breathing heavily, for he was bloodied, with only hasty bandages on his more serious wounds, and fatigued, having not slept for two days. The man next to him, young, was obviously scared out of his mind, and Jared yelled over, Hold strong lad, in a any minuet now the army boys'll be here, and we'll make it through alive.

The boys response, if it was even intelligible, was lost amongst the sounds of guns going off and weapons clashing. Jared reached for the crucifix around his neck, before whipping around to a kneeling position looking over the wall and setting his sights on one of the hulking beasts. They weren't even sure what they were fighting, some said orcs, others were going as far as to say demons, but whatever they were, Jared didn't rightly care since they were attacking the town, and thus his reaction would be the same no-matter what manner of beast they were.

He quickly squeezed the trigger twice, the first shot catching the thing in the arm, but the second only grazing it. It turned towards him, and began charging, and Jared pulled the trigger four more times, unloading his last bullets into it, but the creature would not fall. He dropped his revolver, and quickly drew his sword before narrowly dodging the swing of the beast. He tucked into a roll, no small feat while holding a claymore, and whipped around with both hands on the blade, cutting deep into its abdomen, before reversing his grip and digging his sword into its throat.

The beast fell, and he breathed a quick sigh of relief, dreading the next combat for once. He chanced a glance to the gate which the army would be advancing through just in time to see Fran, the runner he had sent, dashing through the gates. He moment of joy was cut short as he saw the look on his face, and when he made it up to him he silently handed him a letter.

The Army of his majesties grace has decided that your men can handle the situation without the help of our men stationed in the country. The army has decided to pull back its men, and you are to hold them off for another day before retreating yourself, Captain Harmond.

He read the letter out loud, not quite believing it before someone spoke up in slight shock, Did the government just tell us to go f ourselves?

Stunned and betrayed, he gripped his sword and said, If we are to die here, then lets take as many of these goddamn bastards with us. With that he vaulted over the wall, and threw himself into the fray, slashing vigorously and angrily. He fought for a good twelve hours straight, before his wounds and exhaustion claimed him, and he sunk into what he thought to be deaths embrace.

How long he was out, he did not know, but when he awoke the beats were gone. Some of the structures still burned, but most had been razed to the ground already. He stumbled to his feet, and moved over to one of the buildings while removing the crucifix from his neck.

Oi! What, so this is it? You've abandoned us then? Turned against us, he shouted to the sky, I quite, you bastard, if you're up there. No more! He shouted with sadness and anger, and tossed the crucifix into the fire. He turned and saw that he was not the lone survivor, and at least a dozen of his men had survived. One by one, they each removed the crucifixes they carried around their necks and followed suit, tossing them into the fire.

After a long silence he said, Men, I think it's time we got some new orders. From now on, we're on a new assignment, to free our people from those corrupt, selfish wretches.

His men cheered, some raising swords in the air, and those who were too injured to do so simply shouted. Clutching his side as he felt blood begin to trickle out of a wound that he knew would soon be bleeding profusely, he said, First I think we should tend to our wounds.

Edit: How do you feel about Leadership? I'm more interested in it for fluff reasons then the mechanics, but the mechanics still exist, so it's worth asking.

[Cheaplaffs]

Username: Cheaplaffs
Character Name: Elliot Grim
Sex: Male
Age: 30
Profession//Level: Monster Hunter [Ranger]
Weapons and Abilities: Shotgun, Revolvers, Sword
Description: Forming a monster hunting duo alongside his older brother Jacob, Elliot is the muscle of the operation - skilled in fighting and marksmanship, it is usually left to him and his dog to track down their quarrey. While he is a seasoned hunter and fiercely brave, Elliot has a hard time dealing with other people, and can be quite anti-social. Usually leaving the talking to his brother, the tracker keeps his mind - and temper - focused on the task at hand.

Taller than his older brother by almost a foot and more muscular, Elliot most always wears a long duster concealing hardened leather armour criss-crossed with bullet belts and bandoleers. He also wears a hat that shades his eyes, keeps his long hair in a neat pony tail, and has a nasty scar that runs down the length of his chin and neck, normally complimenting his usual sneer.

[Sporatik]

Username: Sporatik
Character Name: Jacob Grim
Sex: Male
Age: 33
Profession//Level: Exorcist 5 [Cleric] - Monster Slayer 2 [Fighter]
Weapons and Abilities: Hunting Rifle, Sawed-off Shotgun, Revolver
Description: Working in a monster hunting duo with his younger brother, Jacob has taken on the role of the de facto leader, as Elliot isnt much of a talker or problem solver. Jacob represents the spiritual side of the partnership, merging divine favor and hot lead to take down abominations, whatever they are. Jacob is a formidable marksmen, and is more than capable of inflicting adequate damage from a distance.

Jacob isnt short, but he is almost dwarfed by his tremendous brother. Not one for fashion, Jacob is usually seen wearing whatever he can get his hands on. Currently, he wears a tattered suit complete with slacks and an overcoat concealing his chainmail shirt. Around his waist are a belt and two bandoleers, the belt to carry his revolver and shotgun, and the bandoleers for ammo. He keeps his hunting rifle slung over on shoulder. Jacob has short, dark hair and closely trimmed 5 o'clock shadow, usually complimented by a large, beat up leather hat the he can use to shield the sun from his eyes.

[Greaven]

Character Name: Elizabeth von Drachen
Sex: Female
Age: 23
Profession//Level: Luminarium ut expuli Obscurum (Light to banish Darkness), Knight of the First Order of Magdalen, Initiate of Vanguard Grim (Courting variant of Shadowbane Inquisitors) / approximately 5 (Rogue and Paladin mix)
Weapons and Abilities:Highly dependent on broad sword, with only a single dagger to back up melee, preferring more outdated weapons, she remains adamant about keeping her heavy crossbow, with a small stash of silver bolts, just for her father. Through a rigorous life defending humanity from the depravity within the dark wilds, she has obtained an immunity to taint, and an abnormally strong resistance to the negative drain felt by wounds inflicted by the horrors she defends against. A close encounter with werewolves left her on her death bed for many months, fighting off the infliction as a child, but due to the efforts of a healer, and her strong will to live, she not only made a full recovery, but found that their tainted touch could no longer reach her. (Meta Game: Font of Life, Pure Soul(assuming taint is present in game) Disease Immunity: Lychanthropy)

Description: Roughly average in height, and a bit thick in build, she was quite healthy, if not the picture of stoic, knightly might. Her curly crimson hair is kept somewhat short, to be kept manageable, and other than a few well healed scars, most notably the four claw marks running along her right cheek bone, she is fairly pretty, soft, pale skin with slightly plump cheeks giving her a simple, but warm appearance.

She detests unfruitful pursuits, forgoing cosmetics all together. What use was it to look pretty, if that was all a man was interested in, she would certainly not oblige. She keeps her weapons and armor serviceable, but anything to much more than that would simply be obsessive, and so, not productive, and not worth her time. Practical is the best descriptor, kind, warm and charitable were close seconds.

 

Background: Elizabeth is a young woman of great will, vowing at an early age to save many a people from the horrors that befell her, and her family. Her father came home one day, a pale and haunted look on his face, gripping tightly to a wound on his arm. Her mother complained that he must see a healer, but he adamantly refused, insisting that it was a scratch, that they could not afford a doctor, nor their advice that would undoubtedly put him out of work in the fields.

His wound would simply not heal, but neither did it fester, nor did it seem to bother him. He seemed to get better and better with each passing day, finding more than enough energy to finish his work early, play with his cherished daughter. All was fine in the world of this five year old, each day a perfect end to a perfect story, but as all fairy tales must end, so must this. A night came, when the moon was high, the pale glow of the luminous orb filling her room with soft, comforting light. There came a scratching noise, to her sweet little ears, slowly drawing her from her sweet slumber. The feeling of soft fur on her face comforted her, nudged her gently into the fitful space between sleep and awake. Her door opens slowly, the light of a candle filling her room as claws sink into her skin, tearing down her cheek in shallow drags, as the massive shadow above her bleary eyes vanishes through the door with such tremendous force, that it slams back off the wall and closes again, half unhinged.

A scream brings the now crying child out of the grasp the dream realm, the sound of something snapping as considerable weight crashes into the floor frightening her stiff, upright in her bed. A gurgled cry shakes her from her paralysis, the soft sound of bubbling air, and fitful weeping was all that she could hear, and then... silence. She draws herself from her bed, warmth of tears, and something thick that she couldn't place, covered her cheek. Pushing the door open slowly, she steps out, into the flickering light. Plik, plik plik, the sound of dripping fills the air, as an unknown warmth fills her feet, something wet, the thick smell of iron all about. Fire spreads from the candle, slowly catching a curtain, revealing the horror before her. Her mother lay on the ground, in an ever growing pool of blood, reaching blindly, and with fading strength to her daughter, mouthing something unheard, with tears in her eyes, and around her neck, was the maw of some... Monster. A horrible beast, akin a wolf, with fangs sank deeply, his cold and pitiless eyes locked on the girl. It pauses, only for a second, a look of remorse somehow shining through, before all is lost to the call of the beast, and what ever was left of him, had died. That very moment, she lost both her parents, as one tore out the throat of the other.

Blubbering as she slipped, falling to her rump, with a wild and unthinking look on her face. Slowly, he comes. She cannot even find the strength, nor will to live to retreat, as her arms, like rubber, flounder beneath her. Closer he draws. As the end was imminent, she could only manage a single, weak cry, "Pappa, mein pappa, where are you? Why? Why will you not save me?" But there was no more pappa, no more mamma, just a monster, and his prey.

As the monster sinks his fangs into her shoulder, she could not even manage a cry, a scream. A numbness simply took her, stealing her away from this unimaginable nightmare, and with two heaving breaths, she limply leaves the world behind.

The fire would spread, catching the house in a blaze in short order, only a minor distraction for the beast, but, however, the sounds of neighbors running to aid, that gave him cause for pause. He easily could finish this now, but the fire, and the humans coming, no, he will finish this. A sudden howl fills his lungs as a bolt juts from his back, the silver tipped weapon causing him such pain. In a fit of rage, he, no, It smashes through a wall, escaping into the forest to lick it's wounds.

The feverish dreams that would follow, did nothing for her fragile psyche as indeterminable time passes, each night, the vision of the monster becoming more and more deformed, earning horns and wings as it arose to the status of demon lord, if only in her mind. The fever pitched for months, leaving her near comatose for a quarter of a year before her body was finally free of the grievous hold of the clammy hand of death.

She found herself in the care of an old man, the doctor that her mother wished her father to see in fact. He had been keeping close watch over her the whole time, and frightfully with that crossbow in hand. "I assure you, it is for your fa... er monster, Not you little one. They tend to seek certain people you see, it is the first thing they do when so afflicted. Now hush, eat your broth... Slowly now, or you are likely to be ill." He slowly began to shake the gravel from his voice as he began to hum and sing in some strange tongue, so odd a man, with a bushy black beard... but... so... waaaarrrrrm-hmmm. Elizabeth would find herself many a time enchanted by the old man's voice, as he shuffled his way through some song she could never understand, and slowly drifting to sleep, the horrors slowly fading, closing the wounds left so viciously open that night.

Years pass in his care, and the old man Ivan schooled her in all his knowledge, edging her more and more curious mind, encouraging her to pursue all interests, demanding it in fact. Eventually, he decided that it was no good for her to be so sheltered, wishing her to go out into town and socialize, as seven years with only one old man for company was a bit sheltered. So it was, that she did his errands from then on, though she found it challenging, as she was always self conscious over her scars, hiding them behind a veil of hair, and shyly keeping mostly to her self. Few paid her any mind at all until a young boy hurt his arm in the road, and instinctively she went into action to help him, easing the pain as she scolded him as the old man had done to her after each accident. This caused quite a stir of laughter from the locals, and coaxed her own mirth to bloom.


Soon she was a town favorite, aiding others with chores, and bandaging simple wounds, but there was ever the threat of shadows lurking. She grew fond of the townspeople, and a desire formed deep within her, she wished to never let them down, to protect those she cared for, and do what ever she could to end the darkness that threatened the warm light she felt within. Soon the Ivan's health failed him, and their time together ended far to soon, leaving the girl with nowhere to really turn. She was forced to seek shelter in an orphanage, keeping what precious few memento's she could, fiercely protecting the bow that had saved her life that night so many, many moons ago.

She became a romantic, enamored by the moon, and starry nights, poetry, and words of inspiring beauty, but the fear that came on nights like this brought her dread dreams at times. She had developed a fear of canines, and an outright aversion to wolves and anything resembling one, knowing that out there, something far worse still hunted her.

She spent her spare time learning to defend herself, and others, the ways of the warrior, and the cunning mind of the street, mingling with the teachings of light. She was not stupid enough to think pacifism was possible, no matter what the priests might think, but grew to love their cause none the less, and they too joined the sweet circle she wished to protect, at any cost. She did not find much appealing in the ways of the scoundrel, but found that there was much to be said in their tactics when employed for noble causes.

She has been courting a more secretive sect within the church, or rather, just within the fringes of it, for some time, ever since learning of them one night in a tavern. Vanguard Grim were dedicated knights who swore that above everything, even law, that one day, they would banish the darkness everywhere they found it. Ever the romantic, she began making up silly little songs and oaths, imagining the glory of being in such a group. "Where shadows lurk within the night, the Vanguard Grim shall cast their light. Sanctus Lux lucis , servo is beatus orbis."

[Solitaire]

http://www.rpgcrossing.com/profiler/view.php?id=9543
Username: Solitaire
Character Name: Dorian Reed
Sex: Male
Age: 29
Profession//Level: Traveling Musician//Bard 6
Weapons and Abilities: Silvered rapier, revolver
Description:
Dorian stands about 5'10". His clean-shaven face is framed by dark hair, just slightly longer than is generally seen. He has been blessed with both good looks and a honeyed tongue, which he often uses to extricate himself from sticky situations. He dresses the shabby remnants of suit, supplemented with leather armor and a traveling cloak. He can seem superficial at times, quick with a smile and a quip; however, deeper down there is a passion and determination that few can match.

During his childhood and adolescence, this fire was directed towards mastering his instrument - a violin that he now carries with him in a battered black case on his back. He spent hours every day cooped up in the study of his middle-class family's home, bowing out scales and arpeggios, trying to master the works of the great composers. He soon grew frustrated with the music; the way he saw it, it was too bland, lacking the necessary edge to be truly beautiful. In his mind, beauty was boring when untempered by darkness.

When Dorian was 19, he decided he had had enough. Gathering his few possessions and meager savings, he struck out to see Europa. Growing up in Greystone, Dorian was well aware of the dangers that awaited him on the road. He was determined to take his life off the stifling track it was now on, and by this point he was absolutely determined to leave. But he knew he might be required to defend himself, and so stole his father's old army revolver from its place atop the mantle before leaving.

Dorian has spent the past 10 years traveling, thriving on conditions which would have destroyed many others. He has retained his passion for music, but his songs often leave listeners unsettled. They are beautiful, to be sure. More beautiful than most others, in their own way. But there is something about them, some discord that seems to be hiding in the deepest recesses of the music that reminds people far too easily of the thick forests of Europa and the terrors that they contain. Little do they know that this is intentional; Dorian has gradually become fascinated by the creatures of the wild, no matter how terrifying. His survival is in many ways miraculous; he can be daring and even reckless, disregarding his own safety and that of others. Over the years he has become an experienced survivalist, having survived many brushes with death on the roads. Where most others are content to lock their doors at night, Dorian is restless when he cannot feel the rush of danger. So it is that he continues to travel the roads and forests of Europa, swapping stories with those he meets and playing his mournful, beautiful music, searching for inspiration, adventure, and brushes with terror.