[Characters] We who are about to die...

[Connor]

This is reserved for easy access. I will be posting all of the character applications that get accepted here.

[Fairman]

Name: Nike
Gender: Female
Age: 20
Race: Human
Class: Fighter (Phalanx Soldier)
Alignment: LN
Motto: 'How glorious fall the valiant, sword in hand, in front of battle for their native land!'

Description: Nike has the physique of a battle-hardened warrior; her muscular, well-built body is tempered by scars, and her skin is tanned from the long days battling under the sunlight. Her head is an unruly mess of brown hair, and her eyes are locked in a stern, intimidating gaze. Few have seen her smiling.

Personality: Born and raised as a defender of her tribe, Nike spent her youth honing her body and mind for the art of combat, something that is quickly noticed by those who first see her. Practical-minded and stoic, she rarely speaks unless spoken to first, but her words are always decisive and fierce when they do come. She is loyal to no one but her homeland, and is immensely proud of her origins; however, her sense of honor keeps her respectful of other strong fighters.

Background: Nike was born into a small, isolated tribe far, far away from the "civilized" world. Her tribe places great pride in their independence and their martial virtue, and from the day she became able to stand Nike was trained to join the other warriors and defend their land from the foreign threat. Most girls chosen for this duty die during their training, but Nike lived and grew to become a paragon of might for her people. She knew that her fate was to defend her tribe until she fell in battle, and so she went into every fray as fierce as ever, with no fear of death.

Little did she know that she was not meant to die in the battlefield. On a fated night, when she was in a small ambush party trying to infiltrate an enemy camp, her comrades and her were suddenly surrounded by the whole opposing army, who had secretly been expecting their raid. The odds had never been so stacked against Nike, but she was ready to fight to her death and bring down as many as she could with her. However, before the battle even began, a stray arrow bounced off her helmet, and the strength of the impact was enough to knock her out.

When Nike woke up a few minutes later, all her limbs were bound together, her weapons were nowhere to be seen and her brothers lay dead beside her on the ground. The fight was already over, and she had suffered the terrible shame of being captured alive. Her captors, recognizing the rarity of their catch, took her as a spoil of war and later sold her into slavery for a decent sum; she was then shipped to Tymon, where her buyer put her to fight in the arena.

RP Sample: Dressed in tatters and shackles, Nike walked along the dark corridor. Even in her current condition, she kept her chin up and fixed her gaze in front of her, not looking at the half-orc behind her who held her chains. She ached to turn around, knock him out and fight her way out of that place - however, she had learned from the past few tries and did not attempt it. Instead, she wondered what awaited her in the end of the corridor. What did fate have in store for her? It was mighty noisy outside...

At first, Nike was blinded by the sunlight as the gates opened. Then, as her eyes reaccustomed themselves to the harsh sun, she was greeted with an intimidating sight: an immense arena filled by fighters and beasts, all surrounded by an army of cheering onlookers. But her face remained impassive, merely frowning.

"I thought I was to serve as a slave," she said. "Has my master decided it is safer to send me to public execution, after all? He must be a wise man!" Her proud tone did not escape the half-orc's attention, who responded with a slam at her head. Nike reeled from the blow, but did not utter a sound. "Watch your mouth, dumb slave! This is not an execution, but a show!", he said while he freed her arms. "These are the people of Tymon, and you will fight for their entertainment until your legs give out! Now go!" He shoved a wooden baton into her hands and turned around, disappearing as the gate closed behind her.

Nike stood still for a moment; she looked at the wild audience, and at the poor mockery of a weapon that she now held. "Fight... for entertainment?" She frowned harder, and batted away a lion as it tried to pounce at her. "This is a DISGRACE to the art of war!"

[pianoman90]

Name: Shugaro Gender: Male Age: 65 Race: Oread Class: Monk (Monk of the four winds archetype) Motto: (Adapted from an old zen saying) Fighting in the arena is a phenomenon of gold and dung. Before you understand it, its like gold. After you understand, its like dung. Description: A tall, bald man, Shugaro is an enigmatic figure. He has several scars across his face, and two toes are missing, he says due to frostbite. This has led many to believe he was once a monk of some secret sect, high in the mountains, and he was banished for doing some unspeakable evil. Shugaro remains stoically silent about his previous life, but his battle-worn body belies many secrets. Personality: He is often seen wandering on his own around the arena before a fight, clearly lost in his own world. He does not work for money, or fame, but for the privilege to hone his skills, and to test his mettle against the best the arena can throw at him. While fighting, he appears a blur, almost always dodging blows, and never being where the opponent thinks. He prolongs fights seemingly out of pure enjoyment of the fight, and the crowd rise behind him with every dodge and strike he makes. Outside of the fight, he is withdrawn and almost seems to retreat within a shell. He meditates after every won fight, and draws great strength from each moment spent this way. He often views the others with a mixture of pity and contempt, often flicking schizophrenic-like between the two. He does not say much however, and his expressions are extremely subtle, so to read his face is as much challenge as facing him in the arena. Background: No-one knows why Shugaro came to the arena, nor where he may have come from. He simply turned up one day, volunteered his services to the arena, and never spoke of his past. His motives and reasons he keeps very close to his chest, although many have tried, both through force and coersion. RP Sample: Shugaro wandered aimlessly around the preparation area. He was lost in thought, remembering the time before time, his former life in the mountains. They knew not what I was capable of, what I could have been capable of. Now I must fight with the dregs of the world to better myself. If only they knew! If only I knew... He knew now many things that could have helped him in his former life. He knew balance, concentration and violence. Oh yes, these things he knew before. What the arena had taught him was pleasure, pain, humiliation, fear and above all else, enjoyment. Enjoyment for himself, enjoyment for the crowds looking on. Without that, it was as if the fight held no power, as if it were just another training session. With it, the world took on a whole other level-the fights became more intense, more competitive. Every strike was met by sounds from the crowd, approving or disapproving. Every dodge, every movement was examined and scrutinized under the tiniest microscope as the fate of your life, and the fate of your opponents seemed almost guided by the crowd itself. Everything rested on pleasing the crowd, and letting them enjoy your bloodsport. This particular fight saw Shugaro preparing to meet a creature unknown. He had not been given any information apart from its general size by a scared servant rushing past him "H-h-huge!!!!". The noises from where the beast was being kept spoke of devastation and destruction wreaked on those who attempted to keep it captive. And I have to kill it.. Shugaro knelt down and sat on the dusty floor that was the preparation room. From here, he could see the blood dripping down from the last fight, forming puddles all around him. He could smell the scent of fear and excitement that was ever-present in the arena, but nowhere more so than right here. Sitting cross-legged now, Shugaro began to meditate, seeking wisdom and council from those elder monks who had taught him so much.... ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~ The fight lasted 4 brief minutes. Shugaro's skills came to the fore once again as he fought with open palm agains the beast. Seeking to please the crowd, Shugaro had performed several daring acrobatic moves against the beast, using the Arena's natural ground to his full advantage. Running up walls, vaulting over the beast, ducking in and out of the huge claws that tried to rip his head off, Shugaro beat the crowd into a frenzy. By the time he began to rain blows on the creature, the crowd was already baying for blood. And Shugaro delivered in spectacular fashion. The huge beast, groggy from the blows Shugaro had already delivered, was on its last legs, but defiantly preparing its last charge. Standing up on its hind legs, the creature charged at Shugaro, only to again find him not where he was. The beast frantically looked behind, then felt a *THUMP!* on his head, where Shugaro had suddenly vaulted himself. Standing tall astride the beast, Shugaro bent down and with one swift movement, snapped the beasts neck. The creature flopped to the ground as Shugaro stepped off gracefully onto the bloody floor of the arena. Once again Shugaro had not a single blow on his body, nor had the best touched a hair on his head. Triumphant once more, Shugaro headed for the confines of the arena underground to await his next battle..

[Surgate]

Name: Sir Zemerith the Doomed Knight
Gender: Male
Age: 25
Race:Tiefling (Demon-Spawn, Soul Seer alternate racial trait)
Alignment: LG
Class: Paladin (Sword of Valor)
Traits: Born Damned, Blade of Mercy
Motto: "These shackles shall not hold my wrath, woe to the unrighteous who cross my path!"
Description:

 

Within the black helm stare a pair of crimson glowing eyes from the peak of his towering frame, 6'6'' and usually covered in black full plate armor. The demon blood tainting his veins bestowed an odd beauty to his androygnous face but warped his voice down to an inhumanly low, demonic tone. Neither capable of casting a shadow or reflection, Sir Zemerith stands somewhere between being more and less than mortal. Before his capture he wore waist-length abyss black hair, and since his forced servitude has elected to cutting it short for practical purposes.
Zemerith prefers a benign expression most of the time, relaxed and calm while denying the itch to let out the wrath building in his demon-tainted blood, knowing fully well the urge to scratch will never cease. Though it seems the paladin, despite all his best intentions, is doomed to a harsh existence with his protruding canines, fang-like, so that mistaking his genuine smile for an evil sneer, and a gentle gaze interpreted as a glowing glare is too easy. His striking similarity and resemblance to the aesthetic and reflectional conditions of vampires also leads to grievous misunderstandings. He is ill-received almost unanimously wherever he travels.


Personality: A testament to never judging by appearances alone, The doomed knight possesses a kind, compassionate heart and a disciplined, honor-bound mind. Given fully to the traditions of his order, he detests his foul curse and contends against the boiling rage in his blood; Lest his dedication to justice become perverted into vengeance. He retains a chivalric attitude and will not falter to aid a brother in battle. If life can be spared he will certainly do everything in his power to do so, and also tolerate berating and demeaning remarks about his heritage. However only for so long. The Tiefling is prone to holding grudges for long periods of time and will not forgive easily when his patience has been tested. Otherwise he has an unusually optimistic attitude about life and it takes quite an effort to sully the knight's mood; Feeding the dormant fury building in his veins like an awakened volcano.
And as peaceful as Zemerith pretends to be, the battlefield calls to him. He will justify his violence with religious fervor and blind idealism. All in a vain attempt to deny his dark nature by embracing the scolding light. Although he may be physically bound, his soul is bound to a much more sinister chain. More than anything he seeks freedom from these bonds, above all absolution. He is willing to make allies but won't hesitate to strike down those whom he views to be burdensome or evil.

Background:Cast out and adrift he wandered the wilderness with the heavy burdens of oath and damnation darkening his every step. Sir Zemerith visited vestiges of civilization on the outskirts of conquered lands, near frontiers better left unexplored without proper provisions. The danger of the wild often paled to the dangers posed by people the knight had sworn a lifelong oath to defend. Always he was ill-received and received little of the thanks he earned in service to them. More than once he was chased out of towns, almost strung up and his possessions stolen save for unlikely intervention from a rare kind soul among many terrified of the demon-blood dormant in him. And as the years passed it continued without fail. The treatment seemed to worsen. Unable to strike against innocents, regardless of how fearful and aggressive they were, he would retreat or suffer their wrath, all the while struggling not to lose composure and unleash the fury of his ancestry upon them.

One sea-faring village in particular presented themselves with uncharacteristic gratitude towards the doomed knight when he arrived and selflessly put himself between a raiding band of merfolk and the village proper, leaving their slain fish-like bodies along the shoreline for the crabs and vultures. Expecting another bout of ill-treatment he attempted to leave when the village elder ushered him to his hut and presented a poor man's banquet in gratitude. Unused to such kindness returned Sir Zemerith let loose his armor and partook of an amazing dish, only to realize within minutes of finishing the bowl that this act of kindness had been too good to be true. The village chief, a portly round faced bald man thanked him for his service but believed he was a cursed man and less worthy of life than the merfolk slain on the beach.

Zemerith awoke stripped of all his possessions and nestled neatly in a crude cage being carried to Tymon with an escort of some of the village fishermen turned slavers. The coin from his sale alone would fund the village's expenses and needs for quite some time. And Zemerith could not find it in his heart to blame them. Sold to lanista Velhoun for the gladiatorial games in the arena, Zemerith would spend the next year of his life, and likely the rest of his unnatural lifespan fighting in service to this man he barely knew anything about as a slave. But he holds onto hope, that Iomedea is testing him, and at worst, condemning him to a bloody short life due to his bloodline. One day he seeks to become Champion, to prove his devotion to the faith and demonstrate his worth as both a Paladin and a Free Man.

RP Sample: Sir Zemerith, too weak and tired to raise his head, shifted his glowing red eyes to the back corner of the small holding room, and recalled bitterly carving each and every single slash upon the wall, keeping a crude calendar of his stay within the ludus of lanista Velhoun. An entire year had passed since he first entered these walls, and the year had felt like ten or more already. His pale back was a collage of mix-matched lash marks from his failures at slave life. The ones marking his arms and legs were few in comparison. Cotton mouthed he tried to lick his chapped, crusted lips in vain, tasting blood and a busted lip. He spit more blood on the ground and coughed. He thought the way he was treated on the outside was bad up until becoming a true slave. A perspective changer unlike any other he dreamed of freedom like one does of far away, fanciful things without substance and tangibility.

I'm going to die here He thought in silence. The demonically low tone of his voice bothered him enough he rarely spoke his thoughts aloud, and preferred the silence such unspoken meditation brought. Having missed all of his Goddess's holidays from the past year, and without a shrine to attend to he repeated the Eleven Miraculous Acts Of Iomedae from memory over and over, soothing a sudden fit of violent rage building in his blood, demanding he fight against the chains binding him and render fit vengeance on the master of the House. All I have to do is endure, and one day… A small ray of light shone through the cracks into the room and illuminated the paladin's pale face, a gentle warm kiss against his skin and he smiled. I'll become the Champion. Still too weak to stand, he regarded a passing guard with gentle, kind eyes, though from the guard's perspective the expression did not match the intensity of the demon eyes, and he scoffed, spitting into the cell. "Need to be taught some more ya filthy daywalkin vampire?" He cringed at the word vampire, detesting constantly being mistaken for one but didn't dare flash the man a hateful glare for it. Zemerith shook his head and smiled. "Getting cheeky with me eh?" The guard unlocked the door and stepped over the malnourished slave on the ground and kicked him twice, once landing his boot square in Zemerith's gut, and then kicked the center of his face, splattering blood over the year-long tally slashes on the wall, knocking the paladin unconscious.

[Styphon]

Kyra