[PF-1e] Assault on Origin

[Battlechaser]

This is so tempting, Leo.

[Lamppost]

Yuri Kozlov Name: Yuri Kozlov Race: Athalonian Classes (Side 1): Technician (Mad Scientist) Classes (Side 2): Reaper (Machine Cultist/Magekiller) Intended Role: Ranged support, skill support, out-of-combat healing, crafting Alignment: Good, but understands the harsh nature of the world, especially deep in the dark as the Athalonians are. Yuri knows the hard choices one may have to make outside of philosophical debate and rhetoric. Recent events have made him much more morally flexible. Traits: Gift of Magic, Pragmatic Activator, Student of Philosophy Campaign Trait: Gith's Favored (+1 Will) Flaws: Attached (Locket with Natasha's Portrait), Individualist, Vulnerable   Height: 6'5" | Weight: 170 lbs Skin: Pale white, covered in scars Hair: Bald Eyes: White, bloodshot Usual Attire: Yuri usually wears comfortable clothing with several pockets. Brown trousers, a long coat and an oft-stained undershirt with a vest, with various tools and spare parts poking out of the pockets. He usually has some sort of cigarette analog dangling out of his mouth and goggles hanging around his neck. Before his weeks-long torture and mutilation at the hands of an insane lich whose idea of hobbies was the strip off his flesh, regrow it, and then do it again, Yuri was a plain man with an easy smile, with shorter bright white hair and grease-smudged skin. As of now, Yuri is covered head to toe in bandages beneath his clothes, with enough gap around his eyes and mouth to see and speak respectively. He is a tall, lanky man with stark white eyes that are wild and bloodshot, always watching and expecting a shadow to leap out and attack him. He mutters quietly to himself most times and often clutches at a gold ring dangling from a chain wrapped around his wrist like a set of prayer beads.   Yuri, in his more lucid moments, is a kindly man whose brilliant mind, inquisitiveness and love of discovery is evident to anyone speaking to him. He has a generous heart and would often share his successes with his colleagues, knowing that their future depended on understanding and creating rather than simply repairing and reusing old technology. He would speak endlessly about how his people are resilient and that their world works because of their strong sense of community and civic responsibility. In his moments of disassociation, he can be heard narrating his actions and speaking to someone who is clearly not around. He can go from moments of profound melancholy to manic creativity in moments. Cruelty that was once abhorred can now be sometimes seen as simply life and natural, even if he is not the one performing it. Yuri is himself, still, and part of his frustration stems from his inability to control the moments where his torment takes over completely. He seems desperate to atone for something that he refuses to speak about, and his drive for creation and research has become more of an obsession.   Even at a young age Yuri was a promising student, finding his first love in the old Athalonian archives and technology. Being able to spark life into the old machines and combine it with new ideas became a fascination of his, as did medicine and alchemy. There was little he found boring, and it was clear that he was meant for great things, but it was during a prolonged skirmish with duergar raiders that he found a way to energize their weapons to fire without using precious gunpowder that he was put firmly into the fast-track of technological development to the chagrin of a few older researchers. It was here he also met a colleague who would later become his wife, Natasha. At first, she was the sole person who could keep up with his ideas, and then she became the one who loved to hear his endless rambling about how to tweak this, or adjust that even long after work hours. She joked that the work was Yuri's real wife, and Natasha was his mistress and therefore too busy for anyone else's attention. They shared a passion for the advancement of their people, pushing one another to greater heights of invention and discovery. There was talk of the two of them being favored by Nikholai himself, who in secret tasked them with discovering the cause of, stopping and perhaps even reversing the effects of the de-evolution into True Morlocks some Athalonians faced. Years went into this development, but Yuri never forgot his love of Athalonian technology, feeling that it would have to be a blend of the medical, magical as well as technological. In this he developed a suite of tools, seeing the eventuality of having to expand their area of knowledge. He crafted a vehicle, made to travel above ground as well as below, extra mechanical arms to steady his hands in fine work and a collection of magic items crafted by him and his wife. Having exhausted the resources available to them, they and a small group of researchers and guards began an expedition out into the caves despite the danger posed by the Lich Razraël. They hoped to find clues to new, undiscovered technology, or perhaps even an unknown Athalonian settlement. Part of Yuri wondered if Razraël himself had some sort of clue. There was little way to know that one of the expedition members had made a deal with the mad Lich. Fresh test subjects for his own immortality, as well as having a professional rival in Yuri removed.   Yuri slowly turned the charging crank on his rifle, peering out from his cover to see the cluster of duergar sitting around the campfire. Patience, he tried to remind himself. It was a difficult thought to obey as the madness crept in, demanding vengeance to be extracted from their hides as violently as possible. These poor sods, though deserving death, had nothing to do with his own tragedy. He reached up to his mouth and kissed the ring dangling from his hand before replacing it on the trigger, following the path of one of the dwarves that stood to detach from the group and unknowingly picking himself as the first target. Poor bastard. Or lucky one. With a muted thud, the metal rod in the chamber shot forward, breaking the air in a deafening crack a split second later before it found its mark. The sound alerted the camp, of course, but the lone dwarf’s screams and separated leg flying back into their view certainly gave them a clearer view of the sort of danger that found them. A sleek metal arm offered a different type of gun to Yuri, and he accepted it with a rapid aim and fire at the cave’s ceiling above the dwarves, followed by a second shot right above his own head with a strange womp sound. An image swirled above him, like a window from the position above his targets. A second robotic arm hurled a wrapped bundle toward the window, slowing until it breached the image where gravity took over 200 feet away above the dwarves. A flick of a switch caused the swirling window to blink away just as the bundle erupted in fire above the heads of his quarry. Yuri sighed and pushed himself to his feet, goggles clicking as he peered at the rapidly dying flames. Maybe a little too much. He handed the smaller gun to the nimble robotic arm and it fired a third strange ball of energy beneath Yuri’s feet, causing him to fall through the hole above the burning camp. He landed on his feet and found his target quickly, trying to crawl away sans a leg. “Hey. Stop.” Another womp of a shot landed beneath the duergar, opening it for a fall through the same hole with a shriek of surprise, then pain as the man landed hard on the stone floor next to Yuri. The spindly man squatted down and he rested the barrel of his rifle against the back of the dwarf’s head, where the flexible metal arm from his back took over holding the trigger. “I just want an answer. I have my blood already, friend.” He grinned beneath the mess of bandages that covered his face, bringing no comfort to the dour dwarf who froze at the cold metal against his head. “Yer no frie-” The dwarf’s words were turned into a scream as a second arm shot out from Yuri’s back, clutching the handle of the screwdriver that now protruded from the bloody stump where the dwarf’s leg used to be. “Tsk. I said answer and I didn’t give you a question. This isn’t a chicken-egg situation, friend. How you can you answer a question I didn’t ask?” He slowly bent down nearly unnaturally as he let out a gasp, laying his head on the cave floor next to his victim, looking at him from wild gray eyes beneath the gauze. “Unless you can read miiinds. Which would be rude. I didn’t say you could do that.” The screwdriver twisted as Yuri unfolded and stretched out to lay next to the trapped man as pain brought out another loud scream. “Now then, I just wanna know where I can find Sergei. I'd like to talk to him. He's not a nice man, you know. He is in fact a man who needs to die.” He nodded with a smile of twisted congeniality. “Okay, now you can answer.”   Yuri has a large rifle of obvious value, with intricate baroque carvings twisting up and down the metal and wood. It almost seems to hum with energy and he can often be found petting it like it were a comforting object. He and his wife, Natasha, made it their project, a way to give them both protection in their expedition as well as something for them to remember their commitment to protect and defend their people.

[Squeak]

Name: Nyxara.
Race: Githyanki
Class 1: Unchained Monk
Class 2: Unchained Rogue
Intended Role: Tank, Skulker of Shadows, Warrior who fights best from behind.
Alignment: Neutral Evil
Traits:
Inspired
Indomitable Faith
Honored Fist of Society
Campaign Trait: Freedom's Edge
Flaws: Condescending

 

Height: 6'3' | Weight: 140 lbs
Skin: Grey
Hair: Black
Eyes: Black

Nyxara moves like a shadow, her every step a whisper against the fabric of reality. Tall and slender, her wiry frame honed through relentless discipline, every motion refined for speed, precision, and lethal grace. She moves with the grace of a wild animal, although at times it seems as if she is a wild animal trapped in a cage too small for it.

Scars cover her dusky grey skin, each one of them earned, stretching over high cheekbones and a hawkish nose. Eyes like liquid silver gleam with quiet intensity, betraying a mind sharpened to a razor’s edge. Long, jet-black hair flows behind her as she moves, often braided or tied back in a warrior’s knot, a stark contrast against her muted tones.

She wears simple yet elegant robes, designed for absolute freedom of movement, their loose folds concealing the power coiled beneath. She carries no visible weapons, nor does she need them—her body is a weapon, tempered by years of relentless training, honed sharper than any blade.

 

Nyxara seldom speaks, not wanting to bring attention to herself - but when she does, it is with unwavering certainty, precision and the expectation she will be heard. She does not tolerate ignorance, nor does she suffer fools.

Confidence without care is weakness, so recklessness has no place in Nyxara's life. Every decision she makes is weighed, every action executed with purpose. She does not charge blindly into battles she does not believe she will win, nor does she waste movement on needless flair. She is patient, watchful, waiting for the precise moment to strike, to move, to act.

She worships Gith, but only because it is expected. It is tradition, and tradition is power. To reject Gith would be foolish—unnecessary. Faith is a weapon she wears like a cloak, a shield against scrutiny, but her true loyalty is to herself. She bends her knee in ritual, recites the words with practiced ease, but in her heart, she remains unbound.

 

Nyxara was born aboard a Githyanki warship, a child of discipline and expectation. From the moment she could walk, she was trained to fight, to serve, to wield the silver swords that defined her people. Yet, no matter how many drills she endured, no matter how fiercely she trained, the blade never felt right in her hands.

While her arms were weak, her body was not. Her movements were swift, her mind sharper than any edge—but the silver swords were long and heavy, meant for warriors who relied on power as much as precision. When she tried to wield one, it felt like an anchor dragging her down, each swing slow and awkward. Others mocked her struggle. But she refused to let their barbs affect her. If the silver swords would not serve her, she would forge a different path.

While the others drilled with their blades, she honed her body. She studied movement, balance, and speed. She learned to strike without needing steel, to flow like water between her opponents, to turn their own strength against them. The others called her foolish. She had proven them wrong more times than she could count.

Among the warband was an elder monk, a warrior who had long since set aside the silver blade in favor of perfecting his own form. He had seen Nyxara’s path before she even knew she walked it. One day, after watching her dismantle an opponent with nothing but her hands, he called her to him.

"A weapon can be shattered. A mind can be broken. A body can falter. But something must endure. Take these, Nyxara. They will serve you when nothing else will."

From a pouch of worn black leather, he produced three objects—two thin silver bracelets and a single obsidian ring. The bracelets were unadorned, their surfaces smooth but impossibly strong. The ring, dark as the void between stars, seemed to drink in the light.

"These bracelets will protect you when your own strength is not enough," the master said. "They will steady your mind, sharpen your reflexes. They are a promise—to yourself, to your path."

He placed the ring in her palm. It was unnaturally cool. "The ring is for your darkest moments. When you have nothing left, when you are beaten and alone, it will remind you: you are never without power."

Nyxara did not ask what enchantments lay upon them. It did not matter. She did not rely on magic, only on herself. But she accepted the gifts, fastening the bracelets to her wrists, sliding the ring onto her finger. Not as a crutch, not as something to depend on, but as tools.

The silver swords had never been meant for her. She did not need them. She had become something greater. She had become herself.

 

Nyxara moves like a shadow through the ruins, her steps silent, her breath controlled. Confidence settles over her in the solitude, knowing that the louder members of her sarth were not there to betray her presence with their loud footfalls and heavy breathing. She had complete confidence that while alone, she would remain hidden at the edge of darkness, beyond the sight of mortal creatures for as long as she saw fit.

The city had been dead for untold centuries, its stone towers worn by time, its streets filled with whispers of a forgotten age. She had only encountered a single group of squalid Athalnians, undoubtedly seeking treasure beyond what such beasts could manufacture themselves. They were disgusting mongrels, more beast than humanoid.

Nyxara was so preoccupied by her own task of finding her sarth that she didn't even squash the Athalnians like vermin she believed them to be. Let the ruins do their own work. she says to herself as she puts the matter behind her.

The memory of the brutish beasts doesn't last long, because there was something about this place, something... wrong. Nyxara had been in ruins like this before—grave markers of lesser civilizations—but this was different. Something was there, she could feel it. Watching. Waiting.

The attack came without warning.

A flicker of movement, then a blur of metal and shadow. A machine, unlike any she has seen before, moves with unnatural speed and grace. It strikes without hesitation—silent, precise. She has no time to react before tentacles encircle her, a crushing force wrapping around her limbs. She fights with all she has, twisting, striking, but the machine does not falter.

Then the world disappears.
_______________________

Pain greets her upon waking, like an old friend.

Nyxara’s wrists are bound, pulled above her head by cold metal restraints. Her feet barely touch the ground. Her body aches, not from wounds, but from the forced stillness. The room around her is dimly lit, walls lined with alien machinery that pulses and hums with eerie energy.

Her breathing remains steady. She has been trained for pain, for endurance, for survival. Panic is for the weak. She studies her surroundings, sharp eyes cataloging every detail. Several other beds are nearby, each filled with creatures of different races in varying states of suffering. Some cry out in full-throated screams, others in weak, broken whimpers. The machine that took her stands nearby as well, still and waiting, its eyes—if they can be called that—glowing with dull, mechanical light.

She tests her bonds. Unyielding.

Her breathing remains steady. She has been trained for pain, for endurance, for survival. Panic is for the weak. Now was the time to focus.

Then, a voice.

"Fascinating. The Githyanki do not break easily."

From the shadows, a figure emerges. A filthy Athalonian mongrel—though somehow different from the brutish beasts she has encountered before. A name rises unbidden in her mind, though in her pain-induced haze, she cannot recall how she knew it. Razraëlan.

Something—whether time, artifice, or the relentless pull of magic—had reshaped Razraëlan into something beyond his kin. His pallid skin was withered to an ashen grey, stretched taut over a wiry frame, his veins coursing with something colder than blood.

His milky eyes regard her impassively, as one might a rare specimen, something to be studied, dissected.

Nyxara returned his gaze without fear. "You made a mistake bringing me here."

The creature tilts its head. "Ah, the arrogance of your kind. But I wonder—will your body endure as long as your pride?" he asks as he pushes a button on one of the nearby contraptions.

Electricity courses through her limbs, searing through muscle and bone. Her body arches involuntarily as pain shoots through her, but she refuses to scream. Instead she clenches her jaw, exhaling sharply through her nose as the shock ends, the artificer calmly writing notes in his book as he examines her reactions.

Staring at the unnatural mongrel with dagger-like eyes, she silently vows that this will not be her end. She will be patient, enduring the torture for a time. Let him think I am I helpless, let him think I am afraid. But when the opportunity comes - and it WILL come, I will be ready.

And Razraëlan will beg for death before the end.

 

+5 bracers of armor (25K)
Ring of Ki Mastery (10K)
Tentatively, her items can be found on her character sheet, but these may change.

Also considering Oath of Poverty or Oath of Offerings

[droobles]

should we have a complete sheet ready this time?

[LeoByron]

Originally Posted by droobles

should we have a complete sheet ready this time?

No, just the classes and basic role is fine. You'll need a working sheet fairly quickly after deadline, but you will not have to commit to anything initially. You'll be joining in media res.

Level 10 Gestalt is a tall order to ask for a single spot in just a week, so you don't need anything finished by any means.

[bcool999]

Application Name: Gish Sul’Tak Race: Githyanki (Male) Class 1: Slayer [Bounty Hunter][Time Stalker] Class 2: Legendary Kineticist [Kinetic Duelist] Intended Role: Single Target Damage Dealer (Melee), Single Target Controller/Debuffer (Dirty Trick), Scout, Light Healing. Alignment: Lawful Evil Traits: Practiced Maneuver (Combat) Focused Mind (Magic) Campaign Trait: Gith’s Favored (Will) Flaws: None   Height: 5’ 10”| Weight: 135 lbs Skin: Yellow Hair: Black Top Knot Eyes: Green With a shorter and leaner build than the typical Githyanki, Sul’Tak has trained his body into a swimmer’s build with lean muscle and high flexibility. His sunken cheeks and deep set eyes give his mien an intimidating and dark cast. He also carries many traces of ritual scarification from daily rituals showing his obedience to Gith and their ruler Vlaakith.   Sul’Tak is an intense individual even among other Gith. Focused, uncompromising, and unyielding he follows orders doggedly. Such fervor and obedience is favored among the Gish. Sul’Tak believes in following the Githyanki hierarchy above all else starting from the precepts of Gith, refined by the orders of Vlaakith, and disseminated through the commanders to Kith’raks and then to individual Sarths. This is how Githyanki society is meant to run. Soon, Sul’Tak believes, this shall be how all of Origin is run.   Like all Githyanki whelps, Sul’Tak began his combat training in his hatchery with the rest of his broodmates. Sul’Tak’s talents with a weapon were considered ‘acceptable’ which was high praise from their trainer. It wasn’t until Sul’Tak slew a broodmate in a spar with a broken weapon that he was selected for alternative training. They honed his Psychic abilities. Encouraged the growth of his talent for telekinetically strengthening any object into a killing weapon in his hand. They punished Sul’Tak brutally for any failure, because failure is not an option when carrying out the will of Gith and the orders of Vlakith. Indoctrinated in the teachings of Gith, Sul’Tak learned to hate weakness, crave order and hierarchy, and burn with the pride of Gith supremacy. Where most Gith would be trained in squad drills and knights would learn honorable combat, Sul’Tak learned that self-reliance and the fulfillment of his orders is the highest honor obtainable while failure was the gravest sin. To that end, any means necessary were allowed and encouraged. Blinding a foe with a handful of dust, targeting a strap holding their armor to hinder movement. All methods of weakening and killing an enemy were open to Sul’Tak. The most glorious day in Sul’Tak’s life was when he passed his rite of passage and gained the title of Gish. To do so, Sul’Tak had to infiltrate an Illithid colony his Cre’che had discovered alone and return with an Illithid’s head to present to Vlaakith. At the seat of Vlaakith’s throne in Tu'narath, Sul’Tak took his oath to Gith to remain ever loyal to their commands and will. He then ritually removed his own tongue so that his oath could never be given to another. Thus he earned his title of Gish. As a reward for his accomplishment and commitment, Gish Sul’Tak was given a pair of powerful magical equipment to aid his future tasks. A crown, designed to focus his somewhat unruly energies into fulfilling his deadly purpose, and a robe, humble in design and aiding in keeping him protected and unseen from his quarry. These powerful items have served Gish Sul’Tak well in the fulfillment of his duties and he wears them with appropriate pride at the sacrifices he has made to earn them. After numerous assignments hunting down traitors and heretics alike. Sul’Tak sought out a greater challenge and hoped to find it on the Prime. Sul’Tak ended up sorely disappointed as he spent much of his time guarding creches and spying on lowly humans. A waste of his talents if ever one existed. That is when he heard the call to join a Va’Dok’Thra Sarth to enhance war efforts in conquering Origin. Hearing of a chance to do more than guard whelps, Sul’Tak applied for transfer hoping to be of pivotal importance to Gith and Vlaakith.   Sul’Tak sat quietly amidst the rafters of the human war room draped in Aetheric Threads to hide from the human’s pathetic sight. Part of Sul’Tak doubts the necessity of this mission, but his training and honor quashes the treasonous thought. His duty is not to question the will of his superiors but to be an instrument of their will upon this world. The humans had been exploring the wilderness near their territory. Unfortunately, a creche lies hidden in that area and lies at risk of discovery. In normal circumstances the creche could just move, but the hatchery is at the cusp of spewing forth a fresh brood. So Sul’Tak sits and waits for… voices approach the room. Sul’Tak strains his ears as a group of humans entered the war room and gather around the map table. Three males, two warriors and… a weakling called a lord. Typical human foolishness to let the strong languish under the rule of the weak. They move their pieces across the map, scouting expeditions it sounds like, and that one is going to head directly to where the creche is. Though, only if the order is given. A smile stretches across Sul’Tak’s face as he focuses on the men below, planning his attacks and gathering his power. Without hesitation, he strikes. Between one moment and the next Sul’Tak appears before them his blade already wetted on the throat of the lord. Before the shock of their lord’s body slumping to the floor wears off, Sul’Tak looses a series of blows at the pair of warriors. Rather than go directly for fatal blows, Sul’Tak slashes at their eyes, blinding them. After that they fall quickly, a boring fight against weak opponents. Staring wistfully at his ‘blade’ Sul’Tak lets the bloodied feather drop from his fingers to the floor. No longer telekinetically strengthened to a razor’s edge. After moving the offending unit on a map table to another area away from the creche, Sul’Tak rewraps his obscuring threads and makes his way back. An assassinated lord tends to distract humans sufficiently for the creche to remain secure.   These two if acceptable. Crown of Focused Power (Greater) 20k Slayer’s Robe 15K

Hello! Placing my App here while I work on it!

[namo]

Kana Furoth Name: Kana Furoth Race: Githyanki Classes (Side 1): Theorist 1 / Incanter 9 Classes (Side 2): Armorist (Living Weapon, Void Wielder) 10 Intended Role: She has strong save debuffs, and can inflict conditions like shaken and sickened fairly easily. She can grant some allies DR 7/- and a momentum-based (War) small damage sponge.Debuffing & damage mitigation, She won't have the highest damage, but she is very accurate.melee striker, Fast Healing and some condition removal from Lifeout-of-combat healing Alignment: Lawful Evil Traits: Grief-Filled (Social), Sharp Reflexes (Combat), Transcendent Intuition: Arcana (Magic) Drawback: Tainted Spirit Campaign Trait: Your unwavering dedication to the arcane has led you down the path of specialized magical study. Under the tutelage of Vlaakith's teachings, you have honed your skills within a particular magical discipline. Focused Arcana: Select one Magic Sphere. You gain a +1 Caster Level when casting spells from your chosen area of expertise. This bonus represents the depth of your specialized magical knowledge and training.Student of Vlaakith: Fallen Fey Flaws: Frail, Vulnerable   A proud chin held high. Sad, wary eyes that dart around, and a subservient slump of her shoulders. Kana's contradictions are writ large on her body, and are they not a wondrous enigma? What stands out the most are the talons on the two little fingers of each hand: her nails, grown for years, covered with alchemical resins, polished lovingly and sharpened regularly; they allow her to deploy her unarmed strikes against a wider variety of opponents. Due to the caring ministrations of Razrael, she now finds herself emaciated, bruised and at times delirious, with one finger less, but one who knows her would hopefully still recognize the soulfulness behind her eyes. Height: 5'9" | Weight: 140 lbs Skin: Dark green, with purplish stains Hair: Long and dark, generally braided Eyes: Golden Usual Attire: She favours large robes that cover her body extensively, both because they're comfortable and because in combat they allow her to dissimulate her movements to baffle her opponents. They range from dun to a red so dark it reads like black in all but the brightest sunlight. Her braids are bound with golden hoops, polished to perfection. Her pointed ears are pierced and adorned with more gold. The less obvious ornament is the weapon on the back, real yet a decoy, because she knows to leave false trails for her opponents to wander down and lose themselves: they might rob her of it and think her powerless, when nothing is further from the truth.   She believes in soul, not strength. The true mettle of a creature is not apparent to the eyes; it is not raw muscular power nor command of mind-blowing magics. It might start to show in how they carry themselves, and how they treat others - how they use the power they wield. She's not looking for kindness, for the world is brutal, but for consistency; not for grandeur of vision, for entropy gnaws all, but for strength of will. She has learned haughtiness at the tit of her noble family's arrogance, and she had learned meekness by getting crushed repeatedly by her pitiless betters - at court or in a training ring. She thinks she can make use these postures to play others, but sometimes she's just at their mercy. She likes to connect with others: she believes that once a bond is forged, it is one of the strongest forces in the universe. She is generous with her close associates - yes, she includes the companions from her (former) sarth in that circle, despite all their shortcomings - and she was generally appreciated for the boons she provided, weakening foes and keeping allies alive; her magic works by sharing pieces of her soul, that then regenerates over time, or by weakening the hostile souls around her. Soul-giver, and Soul-smotherer, they called her. Her sarth tried to curb her bouts of manic over-confidence, without much success, but thankfully they learned to anticipate them. She is at her most intense when she becomes truly interested in someone's soul: it can take the shape of an obsession she calls love, or of a deep desire to study the person. Or, lastly, she can decide to add them to her "collection", which to her short-lived grief requires killing them first, that she might take them into her, make them hers.   She is the product of a strong and proud dynasty, one who seeks to foster harmony between warring Githyanki factions and to develop their civilization, lest they destroy themselves by ever-reliving past hurts, and the self-perpetuating feuds that bloomed from them. Behind the benign facade, the family also has a history of scholarship and experimentation in forbidden matters, revolving around soul manipulation especially. Inspired by fiendish techniques, they have developed various rituals and spells around the extraction of portions of souls and their subsequent stapling to other souls, to increase one's power or acquire an imperfect imitation of the original creature's powers. The Furoth have made use of unwilling test subjects - destitute slaves - but have also practiced on their progeny: Kana herself was experimented on as a child, with a slice of fey soul stapled to her own, which explains her affinity to some fey magics. She in turn took part in this secret family business: she has learned to use her soul as fuel for beneficial magic, and perfected the nefarious art of produce soul-smothering energies to hinder her enemies. She has even unlocked the power to capture pieces of other souls in herself, to be called upon at a later time. Nonetheless, she like most of her family do not take part in the trade of souls, and they draw the line at trapping a full soul. The family saw their fortunes turn with the return of Gith - their supporters going over to the goddess while they balance on a knife's edge, maintaining neutrality to wait and see what happens between Vlaa'kith and the miracle goddess. Kana would be hard-pressed to explain where she started to diverge, but she did: she suddenly couldn't bear the stuffiness of her ancestral home, the hypocrisy of her father nor the weight of her duties as a noble - shallow one and all. She veered away from scholarly pursuits and towards the thrill of the fight: no more theory, however, she wanted to feel it in her flesh. She, a barely trained fighter, went down into the fighting pits; it was a good, if brutal, education. She recognized after a short while that she was better off stepping back and relying more on her magical strengths, but she was now blooded: violence, blood, spit and defeat did not hold as much fear for her. The next logical step was to enroll in Va'Dok'thra training. She excelled at many aspects of it: though she was not the fastest, the smartest, the strongest, she was well-rounded enough to overcome many obstacles. But she quickly learned to underperform in some areas, lest she attract jealousy and with it, hazing and getting shunned. She was prouder than ever when she succeeded in the training and joined a sarth: this was the first achievement that was all hers, not her family's. It even led her to contact them again: the relationship is still frail, but there is again a bridge between them.   Ascension Another day, another gauntlet of endless sparring for the Va'Dok'thra trainees. A sudden burst of motion from the previously languid Kana: she doesn't not wear any armour save her spell-wrought layers of protection, and that lets move freely. What looks like a somersault at first turns out to be Kana taking flight, her armour granting her aerial buyoancy. She lands behind her opponent, muscular Del'cor, and rams two fingers straight into the side of his neck. He stumbles away from her. Before she can correct her stance, a whip scythes through the air, coming at her, but she deflects it with a talon. She vanishes to reappear behind Surka, the frenzied whip user, but her foe expected it and suddenly Kana's left arm is burning from the hellish caress of the lash. Oh, but there is the most delightful look of bewilderment on Surka's face as her teammate Del'cor rams into her from behind - for a brief moment, he is Kana's to command. As Surka tries to extricate herself from Del'cor's grasp, Kana punches her in the small of the back: one, two, three, four. Surka grunts, then folds into a heap. From there, it gets easy: with a few seconds to breathe, Kana can free her own companion, Triss'echab, from the binding Surka got on him, and they gang up on Del'cor, who has managed to throw off Kana's enchantment; the issue is not in doubt. It is a team victory, but it's also clear who the key player was. Kana's star keeps on rising: she is confident she will get selected for the Va'Dok'thra, and not wash out like so many hopefuls. Descension What slithers in, slithers out The odd thought echoes in Kana's head over and over, like a misaimed spell bouncing off the walls of a cave. Her mind feels sluggish, and as she probes the edge of consciousness and attempts to reconnect with her body, she realizes she's still there. Or back there. Tied to a slab, far from all succor, at the mercy of a madman. The expedition had started full of promise: an exploration of uncharted places, the thrill of danger, a chance at glory. They had encountered writings from eons ago, from a people that was supposed to be a legend: Athalonians. Then, in that huge cavern with the odd reflections and the sibilant wind, she had offered to scout; she was capable at it, though she was not officially part of the Scout corps. She progressed cautiously, yet before she knew it she had become prey. They must have all heard that whirring, that grinding, and her shouts, but they were far away, her sarth, when the machine took her. It knew to bind her, and to pummel her lightly at all times to disorient her, and oh, such crushing strength it possessed! She was ashamed of being caught at first, then angry, then worried about the rest of the sarth. Uncaring, relentless and endowed with delicate, inhuman strength, the machine brought her back to its master, who had welcomed her as warmly as a long-lost daughter, then promptly poisoned her and vivisected pieces of her. Now she worried about herself, and only herself. She felt the air was redolent with souls, including Athalonian ones, but it was probably just the onset of her imminent madness. She would welcome it, for anything was preferable to sanity and clarity in this place. Still, Razrael must have killed lots of people over his unlife, so perhaps some ghosts truly lingered. She dreamt of killing him, in a thousand possible ways, yet she could barely lift her little finger; he had rendered her impotent. And so, as time scuttled by slowly on its countless chitinous feet - no, that was a bug - her fears slithered in and out of her brain, painting her imaginary vistas in lurid colours. She thought she heard Githyanki, spoken by new voices, but it couldn't be...

[LeoByron]

I have updated the table.

Don't forget to let me know when your application is complete or if I missed anything.

[Squeak]

You can put me down as complete.

[bcool999]

Gish Sul’Tak is complete on application. Sheet is still being worked on and itemization is mostly in flux considering we start strapped to a table.

[LeoByron]

I'm going to close this early. You can drop a wip by 23h59 EST tonight, but I'm not considering applications submitted after. If you're in the wings waiting, drop a work in progress now.

If you have a WIP now, you still have until deadline to finish

[droobles]

BIG WIP

Razz Ahl'Guhll Name: Razz Ahl'Guhll Race: Githyanki Male Classes (Side 1): Conscript 10 Classes (Side 2): Fighter (Runesinger) 10 Intended Role: Tank, Melee DPS, Crowd Control Alignment: LE Traits: Highland Clansman, Cautious Warrior, Honorable Sarth Member Drawbacks: ?????????? Flaws: ?????????, ????????????

 

Height: 5' 11" | Weight: 183 lbs
Age: 41 (341) | Skin: Yellow
Hair: Black
Eyes: Black
Usual Attire: The perpetual angry demeanor, an ever so rare menacing grin, Razz is a very typical gith, one more face among hundreds. He is not taller than the average gith, but he seems quite built for a gith without a slender frame.

A strict soldier, Razz is never seen without his dark green Full-Plate.

His black hair was braided and neatly kept, the same with the scant facial hair available. Black tattoos covered his arms and face with ritualistic patterns, his ink has more meaning than pure aesthetics however.

 

On the surface level, Razz is very much the archetypal gith. Bleeding loyalty to the Queen, raging hatred against the mind flayers, disdainful of all other races. ????

?????

In battle Razz seems to be another person, instead of being introspective and with measured movments, he seems like chaos incarnate. He advances wildy and feints as if dancing, he does all that as if he was on a play. Observers might believe that everything is part of a show whenever Las fights, even enemies become captivated by his antics, although fights usually don’t last long enough to make sense of what happened. After all is over Razz is standing and that is all that matters.

 

?????

 

Roleplay Sample ????????

 

?????

[LeoByron]

Alright, closed to new applicants. I don't want too many for a single spot and we have some promising ones already!

Those with WIP apps have until the original deadline to finish.

[LeoByron]

Namo and Droobles have until tomorrow night, 23h59 EST, to finish their app to be considered.

No new applicants will be considered. I repeat this in case newcomers missed the memo.

[namo]

My app is complete.