[PF-1e] Way of the Wicked

[Seekr34]

Hopefully, you saw mine as well.

[triedtherest]

Originally Posted by mightymconeshot

If you have time, I am nearly done with my character. I still need to do the RP sample, but the rest is all cleaned up and ready for review. I do want to point out/giving a warning that I plan on recruiting a bunch of followers and minions to lead via the warleader and leadership spheres.

I also intend on recruiting a whole bunch of Cohorts and Followers as well. Assuming we are both successful, perhaps we could co-ordinate between ourselves which Followers we need to recruit, in order to maximise effectiveness and prevent overlap.
This goes out to anyone else who wants to invest in the Leadership Sphere too.

[Squeak]

Sorry to say, but I need to withdraw. I love the idea of WOTW, but i just don’t have the time for it.

Sorry Leo!

[mightymconeshot]

If you had time for feedback and to let me know if any glaring problems with the character.

[Oghain]

Rurik Name | Rurik Race | Drow Class (S1) | Incanter Class (S2) | Blacksmith (Spellforge) Intended Role | Primary - Leader ; Secondary - Alignment | Lawful Evil Crime | Sedition Height - 5'10" | Weight - 155lbs | Age - 261 | Skin - Dull Hematite | Hair - White | Eyes - Brown Appearance | Whether one knows him as the modest trinket merchant or as the oddly serene gang leader, many are surprised by the lack of softness in Rurik's appearance. Despite his relatively small stature, he carries himself with the self-assurance of someone who has had to work to get what they have and certainly isn't afraid to fight to keep it. Constantly labour and hard work has left its mark upon him in both scars and a corded leanness. When seen manning his shop, he maintains a much tidier appearance. Keeping his his hair combed or slicked back and tucked behind his ears; favouring robes or cloth garb. Before those who encounter him otherwise, he most frequently favours the supple leathers of a more pragmatic, workman's, sensibilities. As his scars and weathered physique hint at, his clandestine associates are far more accustomed to him being covered in mud, soaking wet, reeking of sewage or failing anything else, sweat. Personality | Possessing an infectious optimism and gregariousness, occasionally crossing into haughtiness, Rurik has an enthusiasm and gusto towards his occupation that many find almost disconcerting to observe in a Drow. Focused and diligent, he applies himself adroitly to what is asked of him and solves problems when they arise. In the eyes of many it is only in his hedonism that he is most like a true Drow. However, though a lifetime on the surface has tempered many of his innate tendencies, he remains fundamentally Drow at heart. Power is the only moral. The 'House' remains paramount, with him as Patriarch. His fealty and loyalty are reserved for those few he views as equals, and all others are lesser. This sense of superiority is embodied more in doing better and achieving more than others than an unfounded domineering attitude. Underneath it all is a peculiar sanguineness towards the haplessness and frailty of his lessers.   Arrival Should any yet live who truly remember Rurik's arrival in Ghastenhall then they are surely well hidden or else have one foot already in the next life. For its part, however, the Red Quarter at large retains a number of tavern ballards which seem to refer to the arrival perhaps its most unique denizen. Greatly exaggerated in parts, and where not exaggerated thenlacking in detail, these tales place his first appearance roughly a century ago; with recollections raging from 80 to 120 years past. It is in fact the years surrounding his arrival that have been subjected to the greatest, drunken, creative license. Many boast that the once well known fixture of his shop was opened shortly after his arrival, when in truth it was closer to two decades later. Rurik arrived by sea, upon one of the many trading ships seeking the comfort of Ghastenhall's voluptuous Red Quarter. Even back then he travelled more or less openly, disembarking in the daylight and making little attempt to conceal the nature of himself. His reasons for doing so remain a mystery to all but himself, and despite the inaccuracies in the ballards of this part of his life there is one thing they get right. He was, even then, well accustomed to the surface environment and displayed little to no discomfort with sunlight. Likewise, he fit into the life of the Red Quarter like an eel to the Wellspring river. Were it not for these advantages, the hardships of his early years may well have been his end. For there was nonetheless little love lost for a Drow. Long before Rurik ever established the shop that, together with himself, would become something of a fixture in the Red Quarter he spent nigh a full score years as little more than a vagabond. At times he starved and was left to the tender mercies of the weather, at times he had rude shelther and meagre food in his belly. Those who knew him in those early days were never certain whether his early poverty was deliberate or not. Though many were certain that at least some of the years before Rurik opened his shop were purposefully difficult, as he accrued the wealth to open it. During this twenty year period, much of the foundation of Rurik's later renown was laid as he laboured for any who would pay him, regardless of the work. Gradually, he developed a name as fixer and odd-job problem solver. Thanks to, in no small part, the goodwill he earned by doing so his carved a place for himself in Ghasten society and soon came to be seen as Ghasten as any other. So much so that when he opened his Longshot Lane store, Leviathan's Trove, many turned up in celebration. A quick fixture of the Red Quarter, many patronised Leviathan's Trove as much for Rurik's ability to stock a unusual array of goods as for the option to trade or barter in place of using hard currency. With every transaction hinging upon Rurik's assent, an assent that seemed to almost deliberately defy conventional valuation, a mystique quickly grew around the Trove that only further spread its renown. Hand in hand with that mystique, Rurik's own 'aura' also grew as he continued as he had started. The Leviathan of Longscar Decades hence, the growth and spread of Rurik's reputation was often greatly trivialized and misprized by the figure himself. Nonetheless he now served a crucial, albeit subtle, role within the functionings of the Red Quarter. His inscrutable approach to trading, and quixotic amiableness that held no bars for who he was prepared to socialize with, had seen him shift from merely helpful to to eminently useful. True to its denizens' nature there was little in the harbour district that lacked two faces: one for Mitra and one for the Murk, as the local expression went. Rurik, and the Trove, were certainly no exception to this and only avoided committing outright criminal acts by deftly adhering to the liminal niche he had adapted to exceedingly naturally. While his individual renown maintained the hands on, odd-jobs air that he had first developed, his reputation as 'the Leviathan' saw him viewed as a negotiator, middle-man and go-between for many figures of myriad repute. Only Rurik himself could recount with any accuracy exactly what passed through the Trove, how much was truly illicit and how much wasn't; nor the numbers saved, sold or slain by the nocturnal audiences hosted by the ever discerning Rurik; credit and debt flowed through the Trove like wine. Truly, it seemed that redeption and damnation themselves could be found with equal frequency within the Leviathan's Trove. Thusly, like great unseen rivers, did gold, shadow and eventually blood flow to and from the Trove. The delicate balance between Duke Hadrian and Cardinal Arestes has, even before their time, ever been mollified by a disquiet poise. With the pall of greater powers hanging over the quarter like a miasma, those with sufficient influence functionally worked to keep the balance intact. Genuine threats to the balance were rare and often came from within the Quarter itself, and unusually in the form of internecine conflict: smuggler gangs fighting over territory, thief clans staking claims, cut-throats running unchecked, even brothel madames vying for the best clients.

RP Sample   "For the crime of sedition... life of hard labour..." The words echoed in his mind, still. Even days after the sentence was handed down. He hadn't stopped turning the portent of those words over, and over inhis mind. In the moment, it had seemed a good judgement. Now, looking up at the walls of Branderscar Prison, with darkness enveloping him, the voice that once was quiet and at the back of his mind now screamed in his ear. Shivering against his own unease, the hooded figure knocked on the guardhouse door with the prearranged signal... Hunched over, back against the bars of his cell, Rurik looked over the other figures huddled in the small space with him. His eyes followed the chains binding them together, tracing every loop and serpentine twist in their lengths. Some of the figures were silent. Others sobbed quietly. A few rubbed, almost obssessively, at their forearms. Rurik himself remained calm. Breath gentle, and measured, despite the cylinder of iron plugging his mouth. Initially the muzzle had been uncomfortable, but now it felt almost as familiar to him as his own teeth. His tongue even traced along the rough surface to alleviate the boredom of waiting. Listening. He exhaled shallowly when he at last heard the shuffling of feet coming down the hallway. Standing up slowly, he turned to look through the bars. "I suppose you're not surprised to see me then?" asked the hooded figure dryly. Rurik's eyes glanced to the other prisoners he was chained to, then back to the hooded figure and tapped a finger on his muzzle with a finger. 'Well...' he seemed to be saying. "Yes... I suppose that would give it away." The figure made a circular motion with his hand and the solitary guard behind him turned around, facing away from the cell. Pulling his hood back, Judge Sellick looked Rurik in the eyes and sighed. "Truth be told, I didn't expect to see you again, either."" His eyes flicked momentarily to the chain gang behind Rurik. "That said, I wasn't about to risk your usual fellows knowing this is happening." Rurik shrugged slightly, splaying his fingers. 'Understandable.' Both knew, one way or another, that the other figures in the cell would all be executed in a few days. Only three people would live to know this meeting was happening. 'So?' Rurik tilted his head and rested his hands between the bars, fingers interlaced. "Hmn?" The judge was disturbed out of a reverie he didn't realise he'd entered. "Oh, yes." His face darkened as he refocused his gaze on Rurik. "I've never doubted before. Not any of the... decisions. That I've made. Not a single one of them. Until you." Sellick was choosing his words carefully, too conscious that even the precuations he'd made might not be enough. "Your condition has led to some people questioning my choice. They claim it's crueller than the alternative." Caught between standing by his principles and the stark reality of his judgement right before him, the judge couldn't help but wet his lips nervously. "To some extent, I'm inclined to agree. However, I had to consider the consquences of the alternative. I can't claim either was particularly. Palatable." Ruril tilted his head and shifted on the spot, expressionless but attentive. Whether he meant anything by his movement was unclear to Sellick. "You understandly, surely, that you had become too dangerous?" A low, huffing snort escaped Rurik's nose. At last, why you're here. He turned more face on with the judge. He leaned close, eyes bright and watchful, and slowly pushed his manacled hands through the bars almost as far as they would allow. 'I'm listening.' "I don't... From what I understand of you, you make deals - and honour them. Is that true?" It took a moment, but one of Rurik's hands turned over and extended the remaining length allowed him. Silently, cautiously, the judge looked at the hand before clasping it with his own. Where the judge's grip was firm, Rurik's remained tentative. Rurik inclined his head slightly. 'Your deal?' Closing his eyes as he second guessed himself for only a moment, the judge sighed and made his offer. "I want to ask you some questions." His eyes flicked to the muzzle in Rurik's mouth. "Simple, yes or no, questions. In return for your complete honesty, if I am right then..." His voice wavered, and he looked over his shoulder. He paused, clearing his throat quietly as he thought of the best phrasing. "If I am right then, should we meet again our conversation will be as simple as sharing wine together. I swear it." For a long moment the two men shared a deep look while Rurik tested the man's resolve. When it became clear it wasn't going to falter, Rurik stood ever so slightly more erect and his hand firmly gripped the judge's. 'Deal.' With neither letting go, and some invisible weight seeming to have been lifted from Sellick's shoulders, he sighed and asked his first question. "I made the wrong choice, didn't I? You are where you ought to be, and where you will return to is not." Even Rurik couldn't help but narrow his eyes slightly. Realizing that, much to his mild surprise, Sellick was either more perceptive than he first seemed or else had pieced things together quite quickly after the fact. Whichever it was, the judge's standing rose in Rurik's eyes and he very solemnly gave the judge a single nod. 'Yes.' The judge was correct. He should have handed down a death sentence, rather than life. Sellick sighed and straightened, almost like he'd been compressed by the fear of knowing he was right. "Which means. Once you're back where you don't belong you'll, eventually, find your way somewhere... Familiar?" Sellick's grip remained as firm as ever, his resolve strengthened by the certainty with which he knew this would end. It was difficult for Rurik to not to feel flattered. He tilted his head, first to the left and then to the right, before nodding again quite solemnly. 'Eventually. Yes.' Sellick himself nodded slightly. He hadn't really been asking, only seeking confirmation of what he'd concluded. "It seems to me then that it would only be natural then for you to revisit old friends. Acquaintences." Technically it wasn't strictly a question, but Sellick had touched something in Rurik and he allowed it nonetheless. He snorted softly and inclined his head forward, eyes crinkled at the corners as though smirking. 'Obviously.' "Yes, yes of course..." Sellick hung his head slightly before bringing his gaze back up to Rurik's and smiling wanly. "Thank you. Your honesty is..." He couldn't bring himself to say it, but trusted his meaning was understood. He had asked what he had come to ask. His eyes held Rurik's gaze for a long moment. "...how do you know I'll keep my word? From within there, what power of yours could possibly..." The judge's words fell off as he felt Rurik's fingers loosen until his hand was slack. Both gazes fell down to their hands, and watched silently. Neither did anything as one minute bled into a second and then a third. Sellick looked up, defeated, and let out a breath he hadn't realised he was holding. Rurik shrugged gently, his point made, and gently took his grip of Sellick's hand again. 'Not me. You. That was your chance. There was nothing left for Sellick to say. Part of himself felt as though he'd betrayed himself, while another took comfort in the dignity of his honour. Unburdened, albeit now deeply conflicted, Sellick made to leave and tried pulling his hand away from Rurik, but felt cold panic run through him as his hand didn't come away as expected. His face flicked up to Rurik's, already inhaling to protest. 'Wait!' Rurik squeezed on Sellick's hand, and pulled ever so slightly. 'Closer.' He locked eyes with Sellick, almost pleading, and brought his face against the bars. Nervousness and long held off fear washed over Sellick like warm wine. He considered fleeing; ripping his hand away, abandoning the guard and running until Branderscar was a distant memory then further still until his feet bled. He knew, though. He'd given his word and worse yet, held to it even when offered clemency. Shaking, shivering, he stepped closer and closer until his face was resting against the bars of the cell. Grip relaxing, Rurik gently tilted his head forward until both foreheads touched and their eyes locked once more. 'You have my respect.' The acknowledgement was too much for the judge and a quiet, shuddering sob escaped him, his free hand coming up to clutch at their clasped hands for some kind of solace. Both of Rurik's hands cradled the judge's, thumbs gently stroking the man's in a peculiarly intimate gesture. 'When the time comes... It will be gentle.'

[mightymconeshot]

Originally Posted by triedtherest

I also intend on recruiting a whole bunch of Cohorts and Followers as well. Assuming we are both successful, perhaps we could co-ordinate between ourselves which Followers we need to recruit, in order to maximise effectiveness and prevent overlap.
This goes out to anyone else who wants to invest in the Leadership Sphere too.

We can look at coordinating, but I will be mostly looking at melee combatants.

[Odyssey]

Feedback is welcomed!

Application: Ready for Review

Haldis Damukaer Name: Haldis Damukaer Race: BloodmarkedSkinwalker Class (side one): Crimson Dancer Class (side two): Nocturnal PredatorShifter Intended Role: Vanguard, ambush predator, mobile attacker Alignment: LE Height: 6'0" | Weight: 175 pounds | Age: Unknown | Skin: Fair, scarred | Hair: Black | Eyes: Yellow, unnatural Music Crime: Serial murderer disguised as a 'Contract Killer' for hireMurder Physical Description: Haldis is a reasonably tall and lean man with a severe, haunting demeanor. Often mistaken for half-elf descent due to his slightly pointed ears, the physical attribute belies a more ominous explanation. Likewise, the unnatural color and carnaptious gaze further aid the uneasy air. The most common expression beneath the threadbare, earth-toned scarves is predaceous, bordering on feral. The rest of his clothing follows the simple, rugged style that appears more at home in the wilderness than in city life. Personality: A cold, torrential current flows through a dulled, outward veneer, ready for unparalleled brutality at a whim. While anger evokes fiery imagery, Haldis is silent, chilly, and unpredictable, devoid of readable emotion at first glance. Despite his unpredictability, he is fiercely loyal and values the chain of command within his group. Once directed, Haldis will stop at nothing to unleash his savage bloodthirst. Stalking his prey from the shadows or striking heavy and hard, whatever method gets the job done, Haldis is the one to do it or die trying, appearing to throw aside self-preservation and donning fierce, staunch commitment to a singular goal. Background:   Mystery of the Vra’kala | Blood of the ForestDamu ya msitu To murder is immoral, or so say some. Permissible within the right religion and the correct god. With enough conviction, anyone can believe themselves honorable. The killing can be seen as necessary with proper people endorsing it—even praised as good if the right things were to die: people, culture, and even gods can fall into obscurity and eventual, symbolic death. Long ago, before the Darians overshadowed Talingarde, there was once an entire pantheon spread across the land. Among those who worshiped the diverse plethora was the nomadic forest tribe, the Vra'kala. Deep within the Caer Bryr greenwood, the Vra'kala revered the spirit of nature一the brutal and cruel side of nature. The Vra'kala revered something primal to life and death: blood. Their adherence to strict hierarchical customs only outmatched their predilection for blood. Despite their bestial ways to outsiders and while rigid with their traditions, it served as a foundation of support and protection the Vra'kala grew to depend on fiercely. While nature is not a kind mistress, outsiders are no different. Spoken in apprehensive, hushed stories from outlanders, the Vra'kala was rumored to harbor the uncanny skinwalkers and participate in elaborate social ceremonies. These ceremonies often involved drinking blood and sacrificing those unwitting enough to encounter the shadowy phantoms of the Caer Bryr. The ability to harness blood and wield it as extensions of themselves sparked wild imaginations far beyond Caer Bryr's borders. Some believed that the Vra'kala were evil, bloodletting ghouls and that Asmodeus had corrupted once benevolent forest spirits into doing his bidding. At the same time, others thought the forest of Caer Bryr cursed lost travelers for wandering too far into its depths, condemning their minds to insanity. Like most stories, while wildly inaccurate to a fault, it holds some light on the truth. The skinwalkers, or Wogen as the Vra'kala call them, for the way their transformation overtakes them in waves or surges, have long integrated within the tribe. Some say that the first Vra'kala were Wogen cast out from their societies, far away from forces that wished their destruction. Their numbers grew as castaways, criminals, and the fringe sought shelter among the Vra'kala. Some remained, while others were merely transient, only seeking temporary sanctuary一if you were lucky or unlucky enough to find them. Not all outsiders were welcomed. Many became at the receiving end of vicious, often cannibalistic rituals if their hearts were deceitful or if the Vra'kala slightly believed imminent betrayal upon the Vra'kala. The Wogen of the Vra'kala acted as shaman-warriors with deep wellsprings of knowledge, rituals, blood magics, and medicines (now seen as witchcraft). Once, ceremonial sites were filled with painted polychrome history that the Vra'kala shamans displayed on stone pillars. Desperate outlanders sometimes sought out these shamanic Wogen. However, the frequency of this occurrence dwindled rapidly with the Darians spread and the god, Mitra, overcame all others. Fear of the esoteric Vra'kala, the dangerous trek into the Caer Bryr, and potentially incurring the wrath of the Church of Mitra and the Knights of Alerion were all excellent reasons to keep at a distance. The Inquisition | Snakes in Thorns of CaerNyoka kwenye miiba ya Kaer Around the time that King Markadian I dominated Talingarde, the official warrant was issued for hunting Vra'kala. It was permitted for inquisitors and witch hunters to murder the dark clan if one came across the chance. Particularly prized were the Wogen, whose body parts were kept and boastfully displayed as trophies as triumphs over their evil. While The Caer Bryr remained rugged and unknown, this did not stop zealots from attempting to seek bragging rights. In the eyes of the newly conquered lands and in the name of Mitra, having slain a Vra'kala Woden could earn respect or even promotional attributes. The end of the Vra'kala was a long time coming, slowly wearing away at their borders until they now lay slaughtered and forgotten. It's no small wonder, against the backdrop of monarchical-sanctioned genocide, that the Vra'kala culture became extinct. The rituals, language, and history that had been transmitted faithfully for hundreds, died out, slowly falling into silence. A barren panorama of the stories painted upon broken pillars now left mute. Years ago, a heinous morning rose with the cold sun. A man filled with Mitran devotion, A Knight of Alerion, Sir Reinhart Castillon, set out to make history and wipe out the Vra'kala influence for good. The uprooting of evil became known as a legendary deed once thought impossible, a trek so dangerous into the wildland that none thought he and his band would survive. Survive, Sir Reinhart did, though only five of his party made it through the skirmish alive against the irredeemable evil. But the death of the Vra'kala, the sacrifice was a noble one. What had once seeped from the Caer Bryr was stopped. Only a boy then, Haldis witnessed a page of history smeared from existence in a single day. The trees turned to pillars of flame, and ash rained from the sky, covering the ground like snow in mid-winter. The sickly sweet stench of blood from men, women, and children formed mud in the soot. None were spared the wrath of the Church. Haldis fled, eluding Reinhart Castillon's best efforts to catch every fleeing rat, and escaped the Caer Bryr. The pillars of smoke could be seen for miles and did not stop burning for days as Haldis traveled far from the greenwood. Since that day, he has not returned to Caer Bryr and vowed never to set foot within the forest again until he dealt with Reinhart and his four companions. Ghastenhall: The Red Quarter Haldis was not known to be a particularly clean executioner. Collateral was of no concern, and he caused it often. As a matter of fact, if someone hired him, it was to send a specific kind of message. Brutal, bloody, and with prejudice. Haldis had become known for his particular brand of savagery that many didn't have the stomach for. Almost literally. With his thirstful craving, a sack full of gold, and a drow someone wanted dead, Haldis's quiet wait was the garnish before the main course, unfortunately for the prey. From across the street from his perch, he watched the shop through the drizzle of rain that had not let up since that morning, the setting sun casting long shadows through overcast skies. The dampness had wormed its way through his clothes onto his skin, but if he minded at all, he gave no indication. Finding a target wasn't about the hunt or the chase for Haldis; he saw no thrill in it, as some might expect from a hired killer. No, the zenith was in the heartbeats before the strike, the surge of adrenaline during the senseless, bestial violence and inevitable demise at his pleasure. The suspense of life or death. It was the struggle, and the ultimate reward promised at the end. The bonus was not gold. The prize was the feast itself that would inevitably exist once the contract was met following the murder of the drow. Whispers, primarily, but Haldis had heard tales about the dangers of this man and the extensive exploits done behind closed doors. The consequences were far-reaching at his soon-to-be demise. However, this target was only one of the influential types Haldis had his teeth in. The Red Quarter was not for the weak and naive; even so, the solid and bright could fall just as well. Despite knowing the perils, there was no indication of care or fear by the facts. Those long-euthanized feelings didn't hold weight on the circumstances either way. A job needed to be done, and he was hungry... RP Example:   There Will Be Blood | To Shed BloodKumwaga damu It was hard to breathe. Air felt veiled behind a thick cloth, and the expectation of every breath felt strained. Haldis was no stranger to pain, though the dose was not one he'd felt in a long while. His bones radiated fire, and his flesh spasmed with lightning. Welts burned, cuts stung, and bruises throbbed violently under his skin. "I wish I had the pleasure of killing you myself. But, this…This is compensation enough, I think. A quick beheading would be much too merciful. Too good for the likes of your kind." Another blow knocked the little air Haldis was able to gather. The voice was reedy, almost nasally. It dripped with contempt and self-appointed arrogance. His torturers had his wrists manacled and lofted above him, the rope disappearing somewhere in the room's gloomy stone ceiling. The one who spoke was a weasel-like man, thin with a long face. His nose hooked unpleasantly over slender lips. The other man in the room was substantially larger. He was well-built with a full beard, his stomach protruding under thick, crossed arms. He took after the appearance of a boar than a bear, though just as hairy as both. The boar-like man had not spoken much with words but talked enough with bouts of violence. The boar left his weasel companion to do most of the talking. "I've heard about your kind. The Vra'kala. Disgusting filth. It took the Knights long enough to root out your vile dark arts." A smile laced his next words. "You. At my mercy, a Vra'kala rat. Making you bleed for a change…" His chin to his chest, Haldis only half listened to the man's zealous ramblings. He reserved energy. And quite simply, he held little interest in the weasel's opulent opinions. Haldis was far more interested in reflecting how these 'outsiders' had, once again, come for his newfound tribe and endangered them. It had enraged him. He shifted, his animalistic ways flaring to untamable heights. Those who had come for what was his to protect paid dearly. One he mauled to death in his fury, and it must've been glorious, judging by the reactions of the man's companions. Terror. Shock. One had sickened at the gruesome sight. Haldis's inaction at the verbal prodding struck a nerve in the small man. His weasel-faced torturer gripped his chin with one hand, squeezing hard. The man's lips twisted in disgust and in motion to form words, words that would end up never spoken. Haldis's half-closed eyes were deceptive as they sprang open, frenzied. Teeth caught two boney fingers with just enough flesh for a vice-like hold. Like an over-ripe grape, hot, viscous blood exploded in Haldis's mouth and down his chin. Frantic yanks followed, screaming swears and scratching to attempt to free his hand. The screams were a horrible sound that resounded off the walls. The fingers tight in his maw curled and struggled, digging into his tongue—more blood. The boar-like man, the weasel's partner, had reached the scrabble and tried to release the weasel. During that same time, Haldis lifted his foot and kicked the wiggling, small man squarely in the gut. The sudden jerk swiftly degloved the two digits clamped in his mouth, and the man staggered away and bled copiously down his forearm. Haldis swallowed the meat torn from the bone. The effect was immediate. Not satiated, but alleviated. The fresh blood thrummed in his ears as the vitae rejuvenated parts of his broken body. "He ate me!" the weasel-faced man screeched, his unmarred hand clutching the freshly stripped one at the wrist. Heaving and shuddering, he stumbled erect, his face red and eyes bloodshot with agonized tears. "He f*uck*ng ate me! He ate my god d*mn fingers!" A hollow, bloodstained smile, if one could call the thin line a smile, crossed Haldis's otherwise devoid face. Weasels taste good.

[triedtherest]

Originally Posted by mightymconeshot

We can look at coordinating, but I will be mostly looking at melee combatants.

You said that you'd be recruiting Followers as well, or did you just mean Cohorts?

[Tydorei]

Hmm... I have an old way of the wicked character that i always wanted to get into a successful game...

[mightymconeshot]

Both. Sergeant martial tradition gives me a cohort squad and I get the expanded leadership from commander.

[Eviltedzies]

Originally Posted by Tydorei

Hmm... I have an old way of the wicked character that i always wanted to get into a successful game...

Bring back Aeneas Delacroix, the Infernal Siren Tydorei! I miss that original Way of the Wicked game. Our players were amazing.

[JonnyGulliver]

Nearly done. Just need an in-character RP sample.

Much... too... tired...

Mwah!

(Faints dramatically)



One more day, homie-G

[Rylus]

Alister is complete save for the RP sample, i will get to that within the next few days.

[LeoByron]

I might close this to new applicants next Monday the 21st. I'll still only start deciding on the 25th as planned but I may not consider applicants who show up after the 21st.

If you are lurking and plan to apply, toss your hat in with a placeholder and you can still be considered and have until the 25th to finish your app.

This is not final, but I am giving a heads up that I might do this Monday if a few more finish. If no one else finishes by Monday, I'll leave it wide open to all comers until the original deadline.

[Grouchy]

Gunther Bontrielle is finally complete. This was a labor of love, I am heavily invested in him now.