Post by malus on Jun 12, 2012 17:14:35 GMT -5
Malus
Full Name: Malus Tiberius
Race: Human
Age: 24
Gender: Male
Sexual Orientation: Homosexual
Birthplace: Seheron, the unoccupied wastes
Residence: Itinerant
Affiliation: Mages
Occupation: Revolutionary
Religion: Old Gods
COMBAT
Class: Mage
Character Stats:
Strength: 2
Dexterity: --
Willpower: 1
Magic: 3
Cunning: --
Gear: Aside form his barbaric clothing, as yet Malus carries only a shortblade slung at his hip, and a leather belt of many pouches that serves as storage for herbs, salts, needles and other small items particular to the trade of herbalism. His staff, when he deems it safe to carry one, is of old Tevinter design and wrought of black metal, of four acute ridges and two leather handles along its length. It’s tip sports two small, razor sharp discs that can acts as slashing weapons, and from its base protrudes another blade that can be both swung and thrust.
CHARACTERISTICS
Appearance: Fair and otherworldly, Malus could almost pass for Elven on sole trust of his slight build and fine features; standing at 5’8’’ his frame is lean, wrought of the sinew and tough musculature of one accustomed to flight as well as fight. His complexion is deeply, darkly touched by the hot Seheron sun, his face aquiline and chiselled though lacking in any strong, prominent feature; his brow is pronounced, giving him a perpetual look of contemplation or wry amusement, overshadowing an intelligent and deeply set gaze. His almond eyes are almost feline in shape, perpetually inquisitive, and a clear woodland green. His hair, dirty blond in colour, hangs to mid-shoulder in thick ropy braids; they begin at his crown in thin cornrows and are plaited, twisted and tied with strips of torn cloth and thin golden hoops.
Of an incurably wild disposition, his appearance is inadvertently barbarous and unkempt. The thick of his hair hangs in a tangled mess, his clothing inelegant; he hasn’t a great care for vestments of status or beauty, but is comfortable in the garments of a barbarian. Most of his things are shabbily wrought from furs, leathers and inexpert stitching. He always carries a shortsword scabbard at his hip and a supple, weatherworn utility belt strung around his waist.
Personality: Desperately resentful of Qunari, Tevinter and Chantry alike, Malus believes only in the liberation of mages despite his apparent mistrust of any participating party. Deeply uncomfortable with settling for too long in one place and disinterested in forging any lasting relationships, with a voracious love of battle and bloodshed, he poses a jittery if brutally efficient figure and his true motives as yet remain unclear. (More to come as character interacts).
HISTORY
In the vast and shrouded jungles of far Seheron, a nation caught between the militant forces of Tevinter and the Qun, there lay deep valleys at the foot of the southerly highlands; the hot south under the jurisdiction of neither party, largely uninhabited wastes that once were ancient cities are now home only to herdsmen, bandits and Tal-Vashoth that lurk in the wilderness. A lush and verdant landscape dipping low into the belly of the earth and reaching high into the heavens, thickly forested and interspersed with the broad rising base of mountainous peaks it stands as the very paradigm of a perilous domain. It is within these craggy cliffs, and wooded plateaus, that once resided a danger by far more insidious than its murderous bandits: the ‘Bas Saarebas’ in the Qunari tongue, spirit guardians of the jungle and devourers of souls, fair apostate children of the trees and the mighty mountains who were once said to stand guard against the Qun.
In a land of myth and magic legend will rise around its many mysteries, and these barbarous figures, the ‘Soul Eaters of Seheron’, were no exception. Rumoured to be the children of beasts and perverse Tevinter Magisters, they had existed on the island since (or perhaps even before) the day Seheron first collapsed beneath Qunari might in 6:42 Steel. Despite the fall of their people a small group guarded the tropics from invasion, and proved staunch and deadly opponents to the Qun, until 7:84 Storm, after which time the Imperium had regained control as a result of declaring the Third Exalted March (also during which March, the apostates of the Seheron jungles became loosely documented by the Chantry). It did not appear that these clandestine figures were content to rejoin the Imperium though, if ever they were firstly a part of it, for their legend persists well into the next Qunari invasion of 8:55 and beyond, whereupon they resumed their reputation of repelling invasive forces that ventured too far into the jungle. By 9:35 Dragon the Soul Eaters of Seheron appeared to have finally fallen to the Kossith, and as of 9:40 the question of their return grows ever less plausible. Ironically it is not rumoured to be the Qunari that finally seized this victory, but those in most bitter opposition of them: the Tal-Vashoth themselves.
It was into this mysterious culture that Malus Tiberius was born, raised in a lifestyle that clung to old Tevinter traditions yet, over centuries, embraced the necessities of the wild jungle. United under one homestead, he and his kin survived by the law of the land and conducted savage raids on the more primitive groups of nomads and natives that made homes there.
One of many children of the coven, he was taught to navigate the complex annals of magic; not like the comfortable academia of the cities, his learning was a torturous and rural one combining the worst brutalities of the Imperium and the wilderness both. Weeks of rigid fasting, physical discomfort, sleep and even sensory deprivation were enforced to ensure he was properly focused, guarded against possession and capable of transcending consciousness to reach a place in which his gifts could be fully embraced. This arduous and excruciating path to attain mastery of magic may go far in explaining his savage character, and proclivity for the strife of war.
One of a large group undergoing the same training he did not excel or achieve in any exemplary way; in a sea of blond hair, tawny skin and acerbic attitude it was never Malus that stood out from the crowd, but he existed as one face identical to the next for the greater portion of his childhood and life - and so deliberating on his particular experiences would be pointless, dwelling on a childhood that was a shining example of typical in the world his coven had created. What is true to Malus is his love of conflict, and his participation in raids and deeds of wicked mischief visited on all those that ventured too far into the jungle. But not all races are happy to be at the whim of the wicked, and it was a backlash from the crafty Tal-Vashoth that saw the ultimate destruction of the coven and all her denizens.
Rumoured to be a tale of misery, bloodshed, vengeance and possession, wherein powerful magicks and brutal tactics tore apart the ranks of the mages and the mercenaries alike, the destruction of the Seheron apostates promises to be a story well worth the recital - one Malus alone survived, and yet refuses to tell.
He’s now a revolutionary of many small cells fighting to liberate mages from Chantry authority, fleeing from country to country and following the war as it escalates. Proving a valuable asset to the cause, his apparent anxiety to keep moving seems puzzling nevertheless, and some have wondered what exactly it is he’s running from.
BEHIND THE MASK
Player’s Pen Name: Malus
Contact: PM
Roleplay Experience: 5 years experience, a lot of original fantasy (high and low) and as a Marvel nerd a fair bit of X-Men.
Language(s): Angloromani, English.
How did you find us?: RPG-D
Roleplay Sample:
Roleplay Sample:
And so they descended into the turgid underbelly of the earth. The stairwell was narrow, its walls dry and cracked through with fleshy roots. The only light provided to them was that of Kerset’s torch; it was insufficient to penetrate the encroaching darkness any more than a few metres all around.
The stairwell delved deeper than any thought possible, or safe. Each step further was punctuated with a growth in their belief that there could not possibly be another, lurking afore them in the deep shadows. Without knowing it they’d huddled together, ever tighter in a fashion that assuaged primitive fears of the confined darkness yet heightened their discomfort in the muggy heat. Time was measured by each silent step, and there were many; what may have taken but a few minutes seemed an eternity.
They perspired, their very breath seeming to clog the air and steal from them precious space; yet the walls were as dry and crumbly as ever with thin tendrils reaching out as like hands to snag on their vestments.
The stairs finally broadened, to their collective relief. They grew longer and ever more even, prouder; chiselled with more art and skill, their edges acute and clearly defined. and seemed to push the walls outward with a mighty arrogance until finally they were no more, and the stairwell opened gradually into a strange cavern that was lit with a dim, flickering orange light.
It wasn’t like the caverns any had seen in their picture books, back in the comfort of the North. It was low, its ceiling and floors boasting an almost perfect parallel; no growths, stalagmites or stalactites. Smooth, an earthen colour like clay; the air within was not so hot. The far side of the room had no wall but opened up into a wide, flowing body of water than seeped through the shadows. A cool air rode its current, and all along the bank of the underground river there had been dotted small fires. Their smoke was snatched up and spirited away with the current to whatever lay beyond.
“This is more like a burial chamber than a throne room.” Muttered Lanar at the foot of the stairs, as he glanced around suspiciously.
“The savages of these west woods do no bury their dead as we do,” Imoten replied reverently, also taking in their surroundings while he took many steps from the group, “But I agree. Given what we’ve witnessed of their pomp and ceremony, I’m surprised not only that we were left to descend unescorted. But also that on arrival we do not find a trove of fancy particulars here in the womb of their culture.”
Kerset raised his head to the cool air and remained stoic at the stairs.
“These people are wildmen; We may have just found that their structure is as barbaric as their burial rites. I suggest caution,” he said reassuringly, taking a single step further into the cavern, “But not alarm.”
The stairwell delved deeper than any thought possible, or safe. Each step further was punctuated with a growth in their belief that there could not possibly be another, lurking afore them in the deep shadows. Without knowing it they’d huddled together, ever tighter in a fashion that assuaged primitive fears of the confined darkness yet heightened their discomfort in the muggy heat. Time was measured by each silent step, and there were many; what may have taken but a few minutes seemed an eternity.
They perspired, their very breath seeming to clog the air and steal from them precious space; yet the walls were as dry and crumbly as ever with thin tendrils reaching out as like hands to snag on their vestments.
The stairs finally broadened, to their collective relief. They grew longer and ever more even, prouder; chiselled with more art and skill, their edges acute and clearly defined. and seemed to push the walls outward with a mighty arrogance until finally they were no more, and the stairwell opened gradually into a strange cavern that was lit with a dim, flickering orange light.
It wasn’t like the caverns any had seen in their picture books, back in the comfort of the North. It was low, its ceiling and floors boasting an almost perfect parallel; no growths, stalagmites or stalactites. Smooth, an earthen colour like clay; the air within was not so hot. The far side of the room had no wall but opened up into a wide, flowing body of water than seeped through the shadows. A cool air rode its current, and all along the bank of the underground river there had been dotted small fires. Their smoke was snatched up and spirited away with the current to whatever lay beyond.
“This is more like a burial chamber than a throne room.” Muttered Lanar at the foot of the stairs, as he glanced around suspiciously.
“The savages of these west woods do no bury their dead as we do,” Imoten replied reverently, also taking in their surroundings while he took many steps from the group, “But I agree. Given what we’ve witnessed of their pomp and ceremony, I’m surprised not only that we were left to descend unescorted. But also that on arrival we do not find a trove of fancy particulars here in the womb of their culture.”
Kerset raised his head to the cool air and remained stoic at the stairs.
“These people are wildmen; We may have just found that their structure is as barbaric as their burial rites. I suggest caution,” he said reassuringly, taking a single step further into the cavern, “But not alarm.”
Password: Gray Warden
