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An army to fell one man.
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Current Mood: It figures, ahaha~♪
FETO Profile

RP Data
My Content
18 Oct 2011
Name: Maynette
Title: The Rapture
Age: 23
Gender: Female
Place of Birth: Sacae
Nation/Group of Allegiance: Taifah None yet
Class: Brigand
Level: 10
Weapon Levels: Axe - C
Weapons: Click Here To Show/Hide This Text
New Moon - [Steel: Double Edged; Armourslayer]
"Knock-knock." - A broad-headed axe used in May's back hand.
Half Moon - [Steel: Killer; Spike]
"To sleep." - A swarthy, thinner axe used in May's forward hand.
Crescent Moon - [Steel: Manaslayer; Projectile]
"Shut up." - A hand axe often hidden just inside the back of May's bolero for surprise throws.

Height: 5'7" / 171cm.
Build: Somewhat slender, but toned.
Appearance: Relatively disinterested in much outside of fighting and her own study of axeplay, Maynette's appearance is, for better or worse, the product of Sacaen dress and her own opinions of what suited her as a plains warrior: whatever got in her way has either been ripped off or omitted. The young woman's medium-length, dark-reddish hair is tied into two neck-length braids that frame her rounded face on either side, with the rest tied back into a slightly high, billowing ponytail. Depending on her current disposition, May's nigh-golden amber eyes appear either bright and alert or fixed in an expression reminiscent of sleepiness. Likewise, her expression is often neutral although she will readily flash a smile or frown if it suits her better. A small, simple tattoo in dark red ink sits on May's left cheek, more decorative than anything else. Her skin has a copper tint as a result of extended time in the sun, and while she has a relatively slender physique in spite of training and combat, many tell-tale, toned muscles ripple visibly in her exposed arm and legs... as well as several faded battle scars criss-crossing arms and legs alike.

Characteristic of May's appearance is a deeply red, sleeveless bolero with a thick mane of soft, white wolf fur circling around the neck and down the lapels—the pelt was a trophy from one of the girl's early hunts. The same white fur circles the mouths of the small jacket's shoulders in an outward flare and also lines the inside. On the back, an embroidered, stylized symbol of a golden crescent moon is depicted as the primary symbol of May's extended (and now fallen) clan within the Taifah. May wears a slightly more traditional, vest-like Sacaen robe beneath this as a top, dyed a solid but faded black with gold patterning trailing down the lapels of each flap. The ragged, black ends of the robe's torn sleeves protrude visibly from her bolero's open arms.

Over her entire left arm, Maynette wears a full harness of light plate armor, slightly worn from battle but still quite sturdy, and a long, leather gauntlet beneath that. May's right arm, by contrast, is mostly bare from the shoulder down save for a red, mid-forearm, fingerless gauntlet that is strapped tightly to her arm; the gauntlet's open end is trimmed with the same white wolf fur as May's bolero. A similar tattoo of the moon, in the same dark red ink as the one on her cheek, adorns her bare right shoulder. Protective bandaging covers the young woman's forearms, wrists, and fingers on either hand, though the majority of it is visible only on her right.

May's short robe ends in a short, hanging piece of tattered cloth reminiscent of a tabard, tied off at her waist with a tightly wound sash and cross-belt. She wears a pair of red shorts whose cuffs end above the knees, fringed with the last of the white fur. From thigh to calf, the sides of both her legs bear a pair of long, stylized red tattoos of a message written in an arcane tongue: both are prayers to Father Sky and Mother Earth for protection and strength. The thick belt around May's waist has loops in the back and at either hip, into which she can slip the handles of her axes for easy retrieval; a small hunting knife for solely utilitarian purposes is sheathed at the back of her waist. Finally, May wears a pair of sturdy, mid-calf red boots on her feet, secured around her calves by their straps and bearing metal shinguards each—less to defend against imminent attacks and more to protect May's lower legs when she lashes out with a kick. Much of the young woman's outfit is the result of her mother's needlework, admirably enduring her quite active lifestyle.

Overview: By all appearances, Maynette is a slightly "off" young woman, ruled in large part by personal whim. She was born and raised in Sacae, so her brusque and sometimes tacit manner of speech and action mirrors that of the adults around whom she grew up—that much can easily be explained away. However, when filthy clothes and some freshly killed animal in hand is an acceptable end to what began as a simple outing to the greengrocer, when plain conversations are sometimes ended abruptly with the conversation partner being shooed away like an enemy, Maynette is more likely to come off as just a bit eccentric. Much of her behavior is prone to a certain, peculiar caprice that seems to bleed into everything that the young woman does... short of exercise, training, or fighting, at least.

Relatively dull and sedate in her bearing when unprovoked, May's outlook on life seems to be fairly simple and lackadaisical: fighting, eating, and sleeping every day is satisfying enough so long as the foremost of those three interests is met in abundance... which some could judge as ironic given her unpredictability at times. A sense of curiousity does draw May to explore new places and things outside of her routine often enough, but the pleasure of being free to do as she pleases just as often calls her back from most, if any, committed long-term efforts. The recent escape from her own tribe and homeland and the difficult circumstances thereof, if nothing else, have left May a bit torn on what loyalty and "belonging" mean to her, as a person and as a Sacaen. All that she remains certain of in that respect is her filial piety.

Maynette's foremost passion in life is fighting, without a doubt. Not even the prospect of a full-course breakfast wakes her in the early hours of the morning as readily as that of being able to start the day with her daily training exercises. To May, taverns are less for drinking and merriment and more for getting swept up into a good brawl... without having to pay entry fees like at the arena. Though her fervor in actually pursuing an exhilarating fight has been somewhat dampened by recent events, her appetite for fighting in general shows no signs of slowing, nor would she wish it to. May owes her strength and relative contentment in life to her dedication to the study of warfare, and she sees only positive consequences of her decided focus. Between that stance, her often daredevil mindset, and occasional disregard for personal safety that she upholds as a result, some think of the Sacaen woman as a bit touched in the head.

All the same, however, May's somehow stayed alive for this long... and not entirely by luck.

Biography: Maynette was born into the Taifah tribe beneath a rich new moon in late 1027. Hers was a highly-respected warrior family of the Taifah, a passionate clan known for worshipping the sun, the moon, the stars, and perhaps somewhat unfittingly with that list, the carnage of combat and warfare. May's family members swelled the warrior ranks of the Taifah's standing forces, small though the Taifah might have been in comparison to its brethren in the Kutolah and the Djute. An outwardly serene man, even May's father in particular had long born the moniker 'Ruthless Taipan' for not only his inclination to sudden, violent fury in a fight but also their swift and oft-fatal consequences. By the time his daughter was born, the Taipan was a premier warrior of both family and tribe, and both parties alike held the man to mounting expectations to produce new blood as fiery and warlike as he himself could be.

It was baffling and perhaps even just a bit galling to May's father, then, that his daughter's interests as a child had not the slightest thing to do with combat.

Even amidst the rising tensions between the tribes from 1027 to 1035, Maynette initially grew up as a whimsical, sunny, and slight-framed child who by 6, loved to sing, dance, play with the tamed animals kept in the camps, and gather flowers from the fields to adorn her head or those of others. The whispers of war, of Yul's ambition, and the uncertainty of Sacae's future that drifted unceasingly from the lips of the adults around May meant nothing to her; life meant having fun at that point. The demonstrations of weapon mastery that the tribe's warrior men and women often put on did little to pique the girl's curiousity. to her father's quiet chagrin. However, not even May's parents could truly find fault with the child for being a child, despite her father's newfound perplexity at what the girl's future would be like.

Regardless—and Maynette herself would later admit the strangeness of her introspection—the girl could not help but notice around this time that she was... somewhat bored in life. Unfulfilled. Lacking a certain spark of enthusiasm that her daily adventures of a child seemed to fall just short of giving her... a spark to which she could put no name, yet felt its lack all the same.

Within the same year of 1033, Maynette's father had finally made up his mind to attempt to groom his daughter to be a warrior befitting of their family, calling her to begin a years-long conditioning and training process that would culminate in her being recognized as a warrior within the tribe. Though the girl responded with encouraging sincerity and obedience, truthfully, the Taipan's expectations for May's future performance were somewhat low given his own assessments of his daughter's seemingly delicate character. For her part, though, May would soon prove to have inherited her parents' physical talents in spades,turning out to be surprisingly sturdy, agile, and possessed of a distinct tenacity reminscent of the Taipan's own. For the next few years, the girl would meet and readily vanquish every physical test and challenge posed by her father, even as 1035 slowly rolled around and, in the midst of Yul's bid to conquer and unify Sacae, the Taifah's self-governing freedom and thus their way of life were now placed in jeopardy.

Even as she shed the behaviorisms and mindset of a child to embrace those of a warrior-in-the-making, Maynette still found herself somewhat bored with life and her new personal training drills. Helping her mother with the cooking, needlework, and other chores at home, running laps around the camps with her father, playing on her on or with the other children, every day without fail—May's faint, anomalous sense of dissatisfaction lingered on, the relative predictability of her days becoming noticeably tedious without her quite understanding why.

Once the Taifah's military was mobilized to defend against Yul's inevitable advance, however, Maynette's warrior conditioning was expanded somewhat ahead of schedule, namely to include combat drills against dummies and live opponents, with wooden weapons and hand-to-hand, full-contact fighting. At her current rate of success, it was inevitable that May, too, could and would be called upon to fight for the tribe's interests. The Taipan had been pleasantly surprised to see that his family's blood ran strong in his daughter and, though with a bit of deliberation, chose to hold little back in his bid to realize her potential for combat. Even when the Taifah finally did clash directly with Yul, lost, and were subsumed albeit reluctantly into the warlord's working project of a united Sacae, the Taipan's purpose in guiding May's maturation as a Taifah warrior might have been redirected, but otherwise remained unchanged.

The impact of an earnest punch to the gut or the jaw by a sparring partner, to the point of her collapse, was an entirely new sensation to Maynette, who had hitherto never been struck by anyone short of her parents in her rare moments of unruly behavior as a child. Neither had May ever before beaten a person to the ground bareknuckled and in a fit of passion, seized by a sudden fury from within—it was not hate, nor pleasure, nor even entirely vengeance for the earlier blows. There was just something about trying one's mettle against another's, about foregoing most if not all restraint in an open fight, even unto injury or heavy exhaustion, that enthralled Maynette more than anything had at this point in life. Perhaps that was the simple truth: these new armed and unarmed sparring matches with her peer student warriors in the Taifah provided a place in their society where energy and passion ran nigh unfettered. The resulting exhilaration for Maynette was frankly... addictive. She saw no real reason not to indulge in it.

Perhaps that too was why the girl chose to wield the axe, apparently outlandish to the warriors of her family, tribe, and nation, rather than the blade or the bow. Heavy and focused in weight, dedicated axeplay seemed to demand the kind of wild, robust strength and energy that Maynette was now only too happy to draw out of herself in a fight, be it in the sparring pits or on the battlefield proper. By 1041, May was a well-trained warrior out of several commited by the Taifah to Yul's unification army, her father included, and within a few months, the Taipan heard with much pleasure of a certain young woman's growing, notorious reputation amongst her peers as an unpredictable she-hellion on the battlefields, one prone to, on occasion, discard her normally acute sensibility in combat and descend into an intense rapture. Leaping headlong into her foes with reckless abandon, an axe in either hand, and a mad light in her eyes... by strength, prowess, or devil's luck, Maynette always managed to survive what otherwise seemed to be a dead man's rush, which led some spectators to wonder whether or not the girl really ever lost her head when she charged blindly in...

May would go on to participate thusly in the unification war until its end in 1045, returning to her homelands a fairly experienced axewoman with her fair share of scars, stories, and kills: she had had more than enough time and opportunity to embrace the heritage of her warlike family, even through the flesh and blood of her fellow Sacaens. Such was war. And Maynette honestly had not had enough. She often wondered what would be enough to satisfy the hunger that her training had awoken in her; if only by her mother's example, the prospects of marriage and home life as someone's wife seemed unbearably boring after those four long years of dangerous excitement. The realities of peace almost seemed a burden to her. May would never breathe a word of her mind amongst her tribe, however. With her antipathy kept silent, the girl resolved to at least continue polishing her axe work; no one would dare make her concede that much.

For the next three years, Maynette battled boredom and suitors alike, not much surprised by the growing feeling of entrapment that the end of the unification war had left her with at its close. Responsibility to the tribe meant little to one who had found herself amidst the bedlam of an open, armed campaign across the nation. Even when bloodless, fighting was the most appealing aspect of living now. It almost came as a relief, then, even a welcome surprise, when the Taifah abruptly rose in armed revolt to Yul's dominion in 1049. Not that Maynette personally shared her tribe's apparent discontent with answering to the Kutolah chieftain, or even cared as much. In fact, May herself had neither heard nor seen anything of the well-made preparations that were clearly a crux of the organization behind the uprisings, but she initially thought little of that fact. None of that mattered. What was more important was that May now had a new reason—or at least a reasonable excuse—to take to the plains with her axe, find strong foes, and go wild... because Yul would not take the Taifah's revolt lightly in the presence of its freshly conquered neighbors and their yet-loose stitching as a unified nation. The reprisal was inevitable; she knew this well by the last war's end in 1045.

Long starved for the clamor of open warfare, Maynette sharpened her blades and went off to insert herself into the rebellion forces, either blinded by her hunger or simply indifferent to the very real prospect of death in facing the war-hardened forces that would surely come to crush the Taifah insurrection.

... Or so May would have, had not her mother, one who had quietly watched the girl like a hawk for years, not predicted her actions and routed the girl entirely before she could carry them out. Even when Maynette, her purpose discovered, chose to draw weapons on her mother to force her way past, the mother promptly and surprisingly put the daughter's axework to flying, abject shame with her own prowess. Beset with a vastly superior opponent, her realization of her own weakness, and perhaps a little more subsequent willingness to listen, May was reluctantly forced to yield. The girl could not help, however, but feel that her mother's adamacy to not fight begged the question: if not for the sake of her personal pleasure, then should May not fight for her tribe's sake?

As the girl's mother would then explain, not all the Taifah held Yul's unification efforts in as much contempt as the majority.

Least of all people would Maynette have expected that her father, the ever-belligerent Taipan, would be one of that small number that wanted nothing to do with the revolt. A recent falling-out between him and his fellows in family and tribe had been entirely due to his refusal to join the rebels while they were still undetected... which largely explained why she herself heard nothing of them prior to 1049, and even the party of sullen tribesmen that had come looking for him just a day or so ago. Her father had more or less vanished himself days in advance.

In fact, the Taipan's refusal was such a point of resentment that in retrospect, had Maynette successfully contacted and entered the rebellion movement, her presence would quite likely have been used, one way or another, as a means of goading her father into doing as the rebels desired. Both father and child would have been ruined or killed in their clansmen's zeal to throw off Yul's yoke. May's timely interception by her mother was thus manifold in purpose. Hardheaded as she was, even the daughter decided to truly relent after hearing all of this... but this meant that even home was no longer safe for the family. Attempting to contact Yul and submit was just as risky as no guarantee existed that any of them would not be considered and treated as rebels as well simply for being of the Taifah. Where would their family go, then?

Maynette hated to run away from anything or anyone that she could potentially split with an axe, but her enemy this time was an army on either flank. No path seemed viable other than to flee the plains. Otherwise, it seemed as though the whole of Sacae would open up and swallow her and her parents in the coming clash between the Taifah and Yul. May did not fear death itself, but being denied a future in which she could continue to fight and grow stronger, that was distasteful enough to force her to turn tail and escape the plains before either her rebelling tribespeople or Yul's now incoming forces identified or caught her or her mother.

In light of all the surrounding danger, where was her father, though, May wondered?

Quite aware of the position that he and his were placed in, the Taipan had quietly slipped across the Sacae-Bern border after vanishing from the Taifah camps, making preparations for a new life there. Unable to reason with his brethren to the last, he, too, had accepted that Sacae had, at least for the time being, no place for him. It was from this new home in Bern that this father, mother, and daughter of the Taifah escaped the crushing of the rebellion and of nearly the entire tribe, living in relative secrecy from Sacaen attention for one awful year of torn sentiments between tribal loyalty and an uncommon position as escapees from their same tribe into, ironically enough, the land of those who had decades ago laid waste to Bulgar.

A bit less impulsive now than in recent events, Maynette seemed to become a more thoughtful person following her near miss with her fallen tribe's now defunct rebels, but even in light of having dodged that and other arrows amidst that fiasco, the hunger for the frenzy of an out-and-out brawl still nipped at her. Living somewhat independently now as an on-again, off-again vagrant in Bern, she had taken up visiting nearby arenas and mercenary halls of late to take in pocket change and whittle away the urge for battle, but memories of the unification war always left May ultimately critical and unsatisfied with most of her fights. It was roughly then that the young woman began to wander a bit further out from Bern...

  • Maynette's father specialized in using bows and swords in combat. Rather than from him, Maynette learned how to fight with axes from her mother, whose preferred weapons were the axe and sword.
  • Maynette is functionally ambidextrous with axes but generally favors her right hand.
  • Maynette's mother is not Sacaen, and it was an openly known fact amongst the family and tribe. In fact, some months after her daughter's birth and her own recovery, the mother was occasionally absent from the Taifah camps, traveling out of Sacae without a word for weeks to months on end, up until Maynette was roughly three years old.
  • Maynette's name is even decidely non-Sacaen, one chosen by her mother. (Also intended as something of a deliberate corruption of another word)
13 Nov 2010
C-Level Support

Slight Background/Contextual Info: Click Here To Show/Hide This Text
this follows shortly after the events of the RPFF "Blood Money for a Betrayer" in which Mirta is still recovering from the effects of what i would assume was a neurotoxin, given the lethargy, numbness, moderate paralysis of limbs, etc. blah blah..

being that she is apparently a colleague with sensitive information, among several other reasons, midnight elects to remains with her until she recovers, aaaaaaand...

[In an Araducian marketplace, at an outside diner]

Midnight: *working steadily at a plate of pasta with a fork and knife*

Midnight: *finishes and lifts a forkful* ... Here.

Mirta: *accepts, swallows* Strong taste... you paid more than I would have expected for this. More.

Midnight: *cuts through something and lifts another forkful* The ill seem to rally faster with richer foods. The sooner you are in fit condition again, the better.

Mirta: *laughs weakly* You're all cold, hard, logic. *takes the spoonful, chews, caughs after a minute* ... what did you get for me?

Midnight: *idly cutting something again* Clam pasta.

Mirta: *caughing more* Clams are those things in -- *caugh* -- the shells?

Mirta: Hidi--*caugh* ing in the ocean?

Midnight: *stops mid-cut and glances at her sideways* ... Yes, in so many words.

Mirta: *caughing more, starts wheezing* All....er..gic...

Midnight: ...... *sighs deeply, casually swears something particularly vile*

Midnight: Up. To the apothecary.


[At an inn, in a room]

Mirta: *speaking slowly, and with some effort* Look who's finally back. What did you bring for me this time.

Midnight: *dryly eyeing the plate, then her* ... I trust you are not allergic to roasted chicken and vegetables.

Mirta: Not at all. Now feed me.

Midnight: *sits down and sets to work with a knife before lifting a forkful again*

Midnight: In worse condition yet than earlier...

Mirta: *eats gratefully* Clams live their lives hiding under the sea, along cliff faces and in all sorts of dangerous locations. Getting to them is harder than fish, and then you still have to get under their shell. Give me a good reason why the fuck we don't just eat pig and cow and call it a day.

Mirta: *takes another spoonful* At their worst, all we had to do was stick an arrow in them and lay them over a fire. Good eating, too. But now we put fences up and slaughter them when we want.

Mirta: But some people decide they want to jump into the ocean and dive for what looks like rocks, rip them open, only to get little more than a mouthful of meat.

Midnight: *thinks honestly for a moment* ... If for no other reason, because clams and other seafood are a different food from the common cattle and pigs, some people will want them. That difference creates a demand, however inconvenient and arbitrary it is, that demand creates a market, that market creates jobs to fulfill that demand...

Mirta: Worthless. One more spoonful. *eats* ...Alright, done. Good boy. *smiles*

Midnight: ...

Mirta: ... And what is it you demand? You ignore women -- I was insulted at first, really -- and treat everything as a chore. Surely, you want something.

Midnight: ... want? Want. *honestly thinks in silence again for several moments* ... Nothing. Yes, I want nothing ...... that is, aside from further assignments from the organization, of course.

Mirta: *laughs* What an obedient dog. Honest advice? Women are a better bet. Just don't marry one of us. A whole mess of trouble, there.

Midnight: *tilts his head slightly as he looks at her* Is that so...

Mirta: *tries her best smokey look* Quite.

Midnight: ...... I see. *looks conflicted, but begins gathering up the dishes*

Mirta: Hey, hey! *coughs*

Mirta: ... okay, maybe I need some rest.

Mirta: We'll go into... more detail on the matter once I've regained my energy. *grin*

Midnight: ... More... there is more?

Mirta: *laughs*

27 Aug 2010
Name: Midnight Seven... or whatever name serves him best at a given moment.
Age: 20
Homecountry: Born in Marcellus, of Teraskyrn heritage; currently an official citizen of Valhassa.
Gender: Male
Height: 5'10"
Build: Middling body frame, with moderately high muscle definition; retains a slight fat percentage

Class: Archer
(Current) Level: 7

Weapons: Steel Crossbow, Crosspistols, Recurve Bow, Bodkin Bow, Wrist Bolter
Weapon Levels: D 2/4

Summary: Unflinchingly patient, tenacious, and self-possessed to the point of tolerating most or all of his pain in silence, much of Midnight's strength, to say nothing of his survival to date, can be owed to his willingness and ability to wait. Plainly considering himself the human equivalent of a weapon, he is largely content to move and act not of his own volition but under the direction of his master as well as his employers, as a weapon to be wielded. Years of violent suffering, horror, and despair in the hands of humans and demons alike have taught this now solemn young man a rather clear lesson in the leagues of difference between the meanings of "weak" and "strong." As a result, Midnight merely intends to wait quietly as he crosses the gap between the two, convinced of how comparatively weak he currently is as both a soldier and a person in the world. Wary, distrustful, and a bit misanthropic at best, the bowman has made a habit of keeping fair distance between himself and those whom he encounters, taking refuge in the simplicity and safety of detachment; old memories and injuries alike have estranged him from trust, and thus Midnight never fully commits himself or his goals to others and avoids involving others in his matters. He can acknowledge and work alongside them, but he will not willingly extend himself beyond that limit.

Trained to survive and thrive in the kind of adversity and terrible conditions in which he'd grown, Midnight requires only sustained, actual field experience to give substance to his latent abilities and knowledge. Knowing and accepting this, he has become almost obsessively conscious of the consequences of his limitations, compulsively working to improve and quite unwilling to overstep himself unless following orders. Only when time and energy cannot be spared does the bowman avoid sinking back into exercise or study. Starkly realistic and pragmatic to the point of working and fighting dirty without remorse, Midnight finds the world too cruel and unforgiving a place for unnecessary daring or playing too deeply into abstract ideals. Virtually all that he believes in at present is the strength of his body and mind. However, for all of his perspective, he rarely brings any of it up even when severely provoked, and even in the midst of his worst work or grievous injuries, he most often remains mildly (but falsely) polite — Midnight commands himself to a sharp degree. The bowman's focus upon the present and the goals set before his eyes is formidable such that one might judge it to be avoidance of anything else.

Living only for the sake of self-imposed duty to a certain agreement, Midnight defends himself only to uphold his end and by extension, to succeed in every task put before him in consequence. That singular commitment to self-denial makes the bowman potentially a very dangerous person in that he is quite ready and willing to bleed, suffer, be maimed, and even die if necessary in order to complete assignments.

here guys have a horrible hand-drawn picture: Click Here To Show/Hide This Text

Work dictates his civilian dress and appearance over all else, so Midnight regularly goes about in a variety of clothes and hairstyles, putting on as many appropriate pretenses as he can manage. For less civilian matters and beyond, however, Midnight most often wears a lightweight, dark grey combat suit made with a mixture of flexible materials, some of demon origin, and light armor plating over vital organs. His left arm in particular is his bow arm, and it features a thick, full harness for protection when extended with bow in hand; the round shield attached to the forearm of Midnight's gauntlet is but a small defensive option for parrying glancing attacks or projectiles rather than squarely defending against full, direct blows. Currently, the shield also conceals beneath it the wristbolter mounted on the bowman's arm. While crossbows, especially larger ones, are often attached to a short strap for quick hip shooting and shouldering, other weapons and items are secured in Midnight's cross harness or on a utility belt, like the small utility knife sheathed at the upper left of his torso, the folding model bows and quiver secured to his legs, or the pair of crosspistols holstered, strapped, and hidden at the back of his waist and beneath his faulds.

Midnight takes great pains to secure his equipment to his suit such that all of it not only remains firmly attached in the midst of his wildest movements but proves virtually silent as well, eliminating much of the giveaway, normal rattling that might result from his mostly metallic weapons and tools. In sum, the suit is meant to accommodate Midnight's role as largely a swift distance fighter, compromising none of his own physical mobility while providing protection enough at least to keep most successful attacks from being completely disabling or otherwise fatal. Modelled after common forms of military combat dress, it bears little distinguishing features and generally incorporates only the necessary, meant for its wearer to at least resemble infantry. It also serves to conceal identity as Midnight's faceless and full helmet, its only distinction being a rather curious lack of eye slits, effectively serves as a mask; between that and an additional scarf or mantle, the entire garb is also meant to be so plain and characterless that ideally, its details, and Midnight by extension, would be forgettable in passing.

His clothing aside, Midnight's complexion is fairly dusky as was that of his parentage, and his dark-blue hair, while normally straight when properly kept, is often left as shaggy and long as a sheepdog's. Most of his hair is tied back into a short tail, and the rest hangs like a veil over his face, partly obscuring a glassy and outwardly docile gaze. Midnight's face has only recently regained healthy shape and vitality attributable to moderate youth, and only hints of the dark circles of sleep deprivation remain faintly visible, fading albeit slowly. In stark contrast with Midnight's dispassionate personality and manner, his eyes are a clear, piercing ice-blue, striking in contrast to his skin but possessed of a certain vacancy. When either M or 7 are "on-stage," however, the bowman's irises then take a vivid green or red hue respectively. His eyelashes are, uncommonly, not black but the same shade of blue as the hair on his head.

Withdrawn and decidedly impassive (if only to further disguise his thoughts), Midnight's common facial expressions range from placid disinterest to complete vacuity. Even his lips are normally relaxed, the bowman himself finding it tiring to hold either a smile or a frown for long. With a sometimes listless look, an often smooth and gentle voice that would sound better suited to a young cleric, and a relatively unassuming and dispassionate demeanor, the quiet Midnight often does not register as being as fatal as he can be until after he has struck.

non-stupid long summary: Click Here To Show/Hide This Text
yay, it's ido's happy four-point skeleton summary of midnight's life~:
  1. oh no i'm a slave; ouch, my sense of self-identity
  2. oh no i'm a merc; ouch, my sense of genuine sympathy
  3. oh no i've been thrown away; ouch, my humanity
  4. oyay recruited as a gov. agent; i guess i must still be under warranty (?!)

full text version: Click Here To Show/Hide This Text

Scheduled Asset Reevaluation Log — Session# 00MD-47

Activities: Begin secondary evaluation of asset mental integrity; selected method is memory exercise, ideal target is the subconscious. All damages must be logged and reported to Director Six for study and corrective purposes.

Goal: To reevaluate asset suitability, observe and repair defects in asset scripts, and corroborate personnel intelligence reports regarding this asset.


Proctor's Notes: Session starts, asset begins. Passive reading starts; on standby for active read.

His earliest, clear memory was wandering aimlessly through waves of passerby on a main street of Magani at sunset. The sight of his parents' figures then was as fleeting from his mind as was his sight from tear-clouded eyes. The whole day had been a whirlwind of action and curses to the gods, and he could not help but be lost to it all. He could not even recall what he was thinking at that time — whether he had been abandoned or simply forgotten and left behind — but he could recall the sensation, the taste, of fear. He was alone and afraid, suddenly acutely aware of his helplessness as a mere child, and desperation made him cry out and extend his hands, wishing for someone, anyone, to save him. And shortly, someone eventually did hear him, firmly grasped his small hand, and led him off in a deliberate direction, deeper into the heart of the city.

But he would in fact not be saved. Memories of the years immediately thereafter were fragmented and dyed grey by a myriad of shades, flavors, and degrees of agony and terror. Something or everything hurt, always. Always moving, always working, day and night, never done, never enough, never right... hateful words, sudden and unprovoked hails of blows, rubbish for food, daily humiliations, horrors kept behind lock and key and unspoken threat. Always distrusted, ever to blame, always at fault as the despicable pirate-child. He remembered hating the irony of drawing his life blood daily just to keep living. He remembered hating the birds, pegasi, and wyverns alike for having wings and being free to come and go at their pleasure, at least until the former wound up in the oven and the latter two found bits thrust into their mouths and saddles upon their backs anyway. He remembered hating himself for succumbing to despair and wishing for "salvation," having gotten just that. Most of all, he remembered hating the endless sea of pain and scorn in which he was cast to struggle but never allowed to drown.

Proctor's Notes: Low fragmentation encountered and logged. Asset continues unaffected.

Only the memory of a home and people who loved him motivated him to wake daily and live on, but a memory it would remain, one irrelevant to the present. Waves of faces and names came to mind that meant nothing to him, nor he to them. Somewhere in the tangled swirl, both given name and surname quietly dissolved away — "toys need them not" — and so he became nameless thereafter. He remembered having lost track of his general location on the continent in shifting hands: among riches was he passed in one year, like a dinner plate, and amidst ruin years later was he sold again to a passing caravan of armed men. Two copper pieces and a biscuit was the value of his life. The passing thought eventually occurred to him of how unfazed he was by the entire affair at the time, and the nameless was unable to recall at exactly what point in that period that he had cast off all prior hope and desire, moving and living with as much deliberate purpose as a ghoul or a golem. Dreaming without fulfillment was an exercise in madness, one that he knew inexorably well, and the human will was all he had left then. However, if even the slightest degree of his will would not be honored in life, then the devil take it all — the nameless would better enjoy walking dead.

Proctor's Notes: Moderate fragmentation encountered and logged. Asset pauses but continues.

Memories only grew hazier now as they grew newer, but he could at least remember how his situation changed. The food was certainly much better. For once, he owned the clothes that he wore along with the cheap armor that he was afforded. For the most part, no one in his immediate company struck him without reason either, at least not while sober; in these respects at least, the conditions of life as a common sellsword were passably livable. The only tradeoff for these improvements was that on a daily basis, the nameless unchangingly walked a hair's breadth from oblivion. With no accounting for taste, the Suicide Brigade was aptly named for such a loose affliation of people unflinchingly marching side-by-side with the reaper, to be taken at any moment it pleased.

"Watch, break, signal, hide." Humans wanted him dead on sight whether on a proper battlefield or in the midst of a night raid on a village whose defenses and defenders he himself had spent the previous day disabling; the company was bound only by their circumstances, routing bands of roving pillagers one day, then burning and looting the villages saved for supplies the next. No measure of kindness or cruelty seemed to alter the Brigade's bearing. In contrast, the nameless remembered how oddly comfortingly and reliably unconditional demon aggression was; the simple honesty of their blind, oft murderous fury upon spying a lone human was soothing in its baseness and fixedness, mostly predictable unlike most people had been so far.

Proctor's Notes: Fragmentation has ended temporarily.

Neither man nor demon could catch and put an end to him, however, so long as he remained swifter, more sly, better prepared: the nameless one was given no weapon, nor did he need one beyond his hands and feet as an advance scout and saboteur. His responsibility ended after gathering info and doing what he could to make sheep of the opponents before the real wolf pack showed up. The few savage, near-death beatings and maulings that he did receive were punishing but instructive, plunging him through new worlds of injury and pain from which he would crawl from and avoid in the future on his own. Survival of the company above all was the mercenaries' credo, and it led endlessly to improvisation, to opportunism, to selfishness, to audacity, to apathy.

Burning thatch and wood roofs, the din of combat, blood-washed grass, screams of anguish and despair from men and women alike... nothing reflected in his eyes or echoing in his ears seemed to reach, earning only curious puzzlement from the nameless. It was like a missed cue on-stage from one character to the next: something just did not click. Strangely, it seemed as though he should have reacted, as though something was missing as he watched what he had caused, but he could not remember just what it was anymore. Whatever that thing was, it was lost to memory along with date of birth, origin, name, parents... the nameless one felt his history, his proof of having lived, to be a scattered and fragmented puzzle not worth sorting out, both then and now. All that mattered then was pressing forward, step by step, over corpses of comrades-in-arms or enemies. A reason was not necessary; some mindless, sheer compulsion drove him and the others all on, headlong into the abyss...

Proctor's Notes: Moderate fragmentation detected and logged. Asset pauses here for a moment here, at a seeming loss.

Lack, lack, lack... something else was missing, forgotten.

A contract to secure some tiny, old fort near the Deadzone borderlands came in one day, the purpose lost entirely on the nameless; he was sent in to scout the area before the main force of the Brigade assembled and moved in, and was summarily chased into the fort gates proper by demons predictably scattered about the open grounds. After that, an abrupt fall, falling, falling for ages... then pain. Darkness so deep and sudden that the nameless was momentarily uncertain whether he or not he had simply gone blind, a cramped path that seemed only to lead further downward, into the heart of the earth itself, and...

Proctor's Notes: Asset has come to a stop, looks dazed. Switching from passive to active reading.
Critical memory fragmentation detected. Confirmed: a time period estimated to at least one week is damaged and unretrievable at present. Issue logged for tertiary evaluation and repair, asset encouraged to continue from next closest memory.

He remembered feeling a warm pain, feeling how it focused him, parted the cloudiness of his mind. The sensation of pain and the warmth of his own blood seemed to have become almost comforting at some point. Arms and legs fractured, numb, or riddled with claw and teeth marks, clothes and hair matted with mud and debris, long-standing hunger pangs twisting his innards into overhand knots; so common had his state of injury and disarray been that it now fell just short of replacing the normal. Even the ache of his eyes in that damnably bright light was a curious pleasure, not yet adjusted to the sun after being deprived of it for... days? A week? Two? Longer? He was uncertain. He supposed that he had been attacked many times while trying to escape that pit. Not that recalling those events were of great importance. The Suicide Brigade's nearby camp, and the contract for that matter, had long since been abandoned at any rate, all tracks leading away from the borderlands, none towards the fort. Once again, he had been cast off.

The slow, lost, and dead were discarded immediately and without exception, and so had been the case with the nameless when he failed to report in a timely manner, judged to be dead as a result. Having himself left a fair number of Brigade members behind in his own time, he remembered feeling no shock at being subjected to the same. The entire affair was devoid of malice or remorse; survival of the company was the simple credo. So the nameless simply gathered what was left from the camp and returned to plodding forward, just as he would have even without the Brigade, even unto death. Walking, step by step, pain by pain, he would head out of the borderlands, moving somewhere, anywhere, nowhere, even without reason to move.

...No, the two voices simply urged him onward, as haggard, tired, purposeless, and nameless as he. They spoke, and he listened, and vice-versa. The nameless never even questioned their presence, nor they his. They were the same after all; that much was clear.

It was not long before he was intercepted by you people, apparently coming in behind the Brigade's leftovers.

You people...

Proctor's Notes: Session end. Reading results indicate that asset's mental integrity is stable and holding; several instances of fragmentation including one critical fragmentation were recorded. Recommended scheduling for corrections before undertaking new activity.


All the while, he felt as though he had been retelling in detail a story that was not even his own. He, M, and 7 could each give the same account in exact detail on separate occasions when so ordered, yet not one felt that they had truly lived it — it felt old and vaguely foreign, as foreign as the codename Midnight was to himself, the nameless one. Having recently received a new rank, he was 'Midnight Seven' by record, yet he was still the nameless, and vice-versa. He was a recently-naturalized Valhassan citizen, and for the past two years, he had been a soldier for a certain, equally nameless military agency, currently in training as a marksman in addition to familiar roles as an intelligence officer and saboteur. He was one of a new "generation" of soldiers participating in a recently established program, and between himself and his established, multiple personalities, M and 7, his duties were to be quickly mastered even at once.

This present was all that held importance to Midnight. All else was extraneous. With little footholds or interest in his past to shape his future, he was dedicated to remaining in motion in the present, content to drift along as the tide of life carried him where it would.

Somewhere along the way, he had become satisfied with merely being able to choose to put one foot in front of the other... that choice alone was his.

Additional Notes/Comments:: Click Here To Show/Hide This Text
lol ported from gen1. therefore the person in question from gen1 who held the name of 'midnight seven' and who i rp'd as effectively never existed

just to cover/clarify some basic stuff:

"M" basically = "superego" personality : his presence is indicated by green irises, a marked shift in tone towards mild joviality, a (false) smile, and a penchant for deception, falsehood, and vagueness in general.

"7/Seven" = id personality" : his presence is indicated by red irises, a mild but deliberate shift towards curtness, more apt to be honest about others when sufficiently driven, and combat orientation in general.

and "Midnight," by process of elimination, = ego personality : see summary paragraph for details

this midnight's DID is largely natural; however it and his mind as a whole have been subject to extensive and deliberate tampering and modification for reasons to be clarified later (oh shi- maybe that fkn bucket of a helmet has something to do with it.. ?!)

yay fun facts! midnight:
  • spends his leisure time seeking books to read, training, or listening to music where he can
  • eats a fair amount, probably would be a fatty if he didn't work so hard
  • learned a variety of more civilian skills during his time a slave of which i will not go into detail here unless it would be preferable to see a clear list
  • is studying hand-to-hand combat techniques to defend himself at close range when necessary/unavoidable

    FMI (for my information):
Completed RPs for tracking purposes~:Notable marks, dead (D!), alive(A!), or otherwise~(O~):
  • Nimbus (D!) Was present for this
  • Motiff (A!)
other crap i need to keep track of for consistency's sake:
  • all hand bows are/will be modified to be collapsible
  • crossbows may or may not fold depending on size and model
  • no open prod (bow) designs for xbows; too easy to dislodge loaded bolts still under consideration
  • xbows may or may not use a bullpup design depending on size and model going with standard-ish designs
  • midnight's single-shot xbows will use mh, vertical prod-mounted models; chambers may or may not be completely closed
  • repeaters will be close-chambered and pump-action; side prod mounting to be decided later; magazines will be top-loaded
adding more crap as i see fit

levels and whatnot so i have a personal record of this stuff:
Blood Money for a Betrayer: +4 levels, +1 Bow level
RP Contest #2 (lolstorytime): +2 levels, +2/4 Bow level

thought/motive (running list):
phazon mines
sora no kiseki sc 24 - the enforcers
sub gates (cardon, lake jyun, clozer)
sub cities (all 3, cattlelox)
saul kada
elysium zones (shuttle/residential, guardian, mother)
sepr-0013 — 08 坂本昌一郎 - 異形の神(けもの)に供物を捧げよ
31 May 2010
Name: Solomon Seda
Age: 22
Creation Points: 15
Statline: 2/2/2/3 Weak: Slash, Fire, Wind.
Macca: 250

Appearance: With as much of an apparent presence as that of a ghost, Solomon's unassuming appearance and dispassionate manner more or less belie his stature as a star student in BCC's medicine and natural sciences departments. He stands somewhere between 5'8" and 5'10" and has a fairly average build which, in spite of an apparently frail constitution, turns out to be a deceptive representation of his physical ability. As seems to be the norm in his field of study, Solomon's wardrobe is limited mostly to business-casual attire, and to wit, every day of class, interning, infirmary duty, and/or research work at BCC will likely see him in some sort of dress shirt, a tie, trousers, and dress shoes; other clothes are dictated by the weather. As most of the aforementioned college activities place him foremost in a laboratory setting, Solomon can often be seen wearing a white lab coat as well. Books, supplies, a laptop, and several other things are toted around in a shoulder-strapped carrying case, and a certain, long umbrella is almost always clenched tightly in one hand or the other when the student is traveling a significant distance.

Cut to shoulder-length, Solomon's black hair prominently drapes over his neck, covers his ears, and hangs over the better part of his brow like a mop. Buffering the low, heavy curtain of his bangs, the pair of wide, circular glasses resting on the bridge of Solomon's nose frame the pair of equally glassy green eyes behind them, the student's calculating acumen subdued beneath an outwardly mellow gaze. A pair of thin, drawn lips and a clean-shaven, semi-round jawline round out a face that somehow manages to appear surprisingly youthful even for Solomon's age; that serves to offset the hints of fatigue in his visage and occasional paleness of complexion, if nothing else. Though certainly not incapable of expression, the young man usually goes about his day with a reserved, blasé look on his face as nothing more or nothing less is required of him in that regard; beyond class and work, Solomon simply finds little to smile (or frown) about... on most days, anyway. Absentminded and even scatterbrained on occasion, Solomon would initially seem ill-disposed to his chosen field of study, but his strict schedule and continued accomplishments speak to his true nature moreso than he is inclined to speak himself.

Background: From birth to current day, Solomon's existence has been largely intertwined with two things: the medical world, and contradiction. Over a decade would pass before he would begin to understand exactly how contradiction factored into his professional aspirations so early on, and so in retrospect, as a young man who already has his M.D., is working towards a Ph.D. for his research interests, and still harbors a certain dissatisfaction with all of it, Solomon believes that his beginnings, among other things, were initially flawed. As a boy, he began his studies with the single belief that like his parents, he would be able to help save other people, yet after years of struggling to gain the knowledge, experience, and skills necessary to achieve that goal, he could not help but doubt that his ideas of truly "helping" or "saving" were ever possible.

Born into a family long-rooted in medicine and medical research, Solomon's lot in life was to follow in the professional footsteps of his elders, and the familial pressure to avoid failure and disappointment in all things naturally shadowed the boy like a wraith in each and every one of his exploits. His mother was a gifted surgeon, his father was a medical chemist researching new pharmaceutical drugs, and both had combined their talents and efforts for years to exceptional effect; their research aside, one of their professional distinctions was their routine participation in volunteer efforts to provide medical assistance to third-world countries in the midst of civil wars, epidemics, and any other large-scale disruption to life.

That meant putting themselves in harm's way many times over for the sake of others' lives and livelihood — violence, disease, and all manner of additional hardships in the course — that much was obvious to Solomon even as a child. Yearly his mother and father would do this, leaving both Solomon and his older sister in the care of relatives, and yearly they would return home, completely unscathed, having contributed significantly to the salvation of multitudes of people, and going right back to doing exactly the same thing at the hospitals and other medical institutions that employed them. They were heroes in Solomon's eyes. They were saving lives. They were an inspiration to a child who believed so earnestly in the reverence of human life.

Solomon wanted nothing more than just the simple chance to be more like his parents.

Therefore, the boy set out from an early age to remove every obstacle between him and that level of medical and humanitary excellence, the Seda name be damned — yet the tireless and undeterrable manner in which he plowed directly through his work would do his family proud regardless. Between his own intellectual gifts and the academic and professional opportunities that his parents and relatives' positions afforded him, Solomon was on his way to his medical degree in rather short order, majoring in pharmacology and studying some surgery. Furthermore, prior to his final year of medical school, his parents suddenly offered him the opportunity to accompany them on another of their international excursions to provide voluntary medical aid to an ailing country. Happily, Solomon signed on, elated to be a part of such a grand scale of altruism.

Solomon had never really noticed it before... the occasional darkened look in his parents' eyes whenever they came home from work or returned from one of their "trips." Not that he would have understood what they were about, anyway; all that Solomon had encountered in his studies up to that point were standardized, practical scenarios and procedures, little that stepped outside of predetermined form... or that which otherwise supported his little dreams. The volunteer work, in contrast, would step directly outside of the traditional boundaries of medical service to which Solomon had been accustomed, an opposite extreme of realism towards medicine and towards life. Certainly, his parents treated many people, saved many lives, but they would often helplessly watch just as many others die in front of them, right beside them, in horrible conditions, in horrible ways. So, too, would Solomon watch, and learn from that flow of blood, tears, and agony.

It was a wake-up call, a dose of reality to put a kind but very vague, naive, and untested notion of "saving lives as a doctor" into perspective. That was only exact effect that Solomon's parents had intended, too, and from that point on, they had Solomon accompany them whenever a call for volunteers arose or the free time was available for leave. Yearly, Solomon and his parents would do this, and yearly they would return home, each time bringing their son home a wiser, more frank young man who was beginning to redefine his conception of what it meant to be a doctor, what it meant to "help" patients, to save them. Medical practice was much more... involved than simply practicing a series of pre-defined surgical procedures, or correctly prescribing medicine, or even connecting socially with patients. Love was good, but it was not enough without understanding. Solomon had been forced to reflect upon that, but that commitment to life never left him — nor should it have. Reflection alone was the point.

All of that reflective growth, however, was shattered and thrown into confusion when Solomon suddenly found himself forced to choose between lives, an incident that would occur not once but several times thereafter. The fact of that choice was disconcerting enough, but it would be the way in which Solomon made that choice each time that ultimately broke him in retrospect.

What did it mean to place value on a life? Was that even absolutely possible? Would it be "correct" to take lives in order to save them? And would it be "incorrect" to save a life if it meant condemning others to die?

What of murderers, then? Was murder correct in defense of a life? And was it "murder" to live in spite of another's death?

Who "deserved" to live, or die, anyway?

Was all life indeed as equal as Solomon believed? And, if all life were not... then had he chosen "correctly" that day? What if he hadn't? What kind of person would that make him, then? Was Solomon really doing as much good for those he wished to help, and himself, as he thought?

It took a few, long years for the young man simply to come to terms with all of those questions, let alone find any answers, and those years of nigh-obsessive fixation with all of them took their toll on his mind. In fact, Solomon found himself sickened and at his lowest point when he finally realized something: he'd already answered those questions well enough, then and forever after, at the moment he himself had made his decision and acted upon it. The contradiction that he perceived in the very idea of choosing which lives to save was so only because he now found that his premises were flawed: believing that all lives were equal did not take into account human will, much less those wills outside of Solomon's own. Though it was a small enough insight on its own, its impact on Solomon came from the way in which it spread from that point like a disease, turning everything stemming from that initial belief into nonsense — into contradictions, all.

And the young man could do naught but accept it in the end. This was truth, wasn't it?

Solomon's personality changed sharply afterwards, the young man now content to allow his inward deadening to the painful realities of medicine as a result of his new knowledge. His love for the profession had waned somewhat as well in the face of his apparent inability to accomplish with it what he'd set out towards some nearly twenty years ago; it was what he was best at, however, so he simply stuck with it. Solomon also never forgave himself for holding for so long what he now saw as a lie, not because of what it simply was, not because it was the crux of his decision, but for the ignorance that was fostered within that "lie" and all of the negative impact that he was convinced it must have had. To wit, Solomon's transfer to the town of Bethany and its community college roughly a year prior to the current day was a direct result of his new, headlong dive into his research into drug discovery and development, running counter to his slow drift from the study and practice of a physician.

All of the chemical compounds that Solomon openly brought forth, examined, and modified in his coursework were largely products of long-standing private research that he had been conducting into potential, new pharmaceutical drugs — variant antidotes, stimulants, suppressants, and so forth — exactly what his father did as part of his job. Significant, however, was that even Solomon's failed projects were of great value to him, cannibalized for use in his newest research interest of toxicology. As this work occurred at his discretion, with his own resources, out of plain sight, Solomon would produce without restraint virtually any kind of chemical compound that served his research purposes at a given moment, which as of late, increasingly began to include some particularly potent poisons, both natural and synthetic. Truth be told, Solomon was perhaps a bit more tenacious about some matters than he was consciously aware... somewhere in his mind, he had not quite given up his inquiry into the matter of a life's value, and the unyielding nature of his questions was beginning to distort his perception on just how he was to proceed further.

Stranger still, following the sudden descent of supernatural and otherworldly forces upon Bethany, Solomon's varied research efforts almost immediately doubled in pace...

Weapon: A plain black, unobtrusive-looking umbrella that Solomon seems particularly loathe to leave in the hands of others or otherwise be without, rain or shine; its only apparent distinguishment is its being just a bit... weighty. This is largely due to the three cross-shaped, heavy blades concealed within (among other things) the umbrella's telescoping shaft that, when snapped out from the handle, would redefine said umbrella as a concealed and (probably) illegal weapon: a custom-made jumonji-yari to be exact. When and where Solomon learned to wield this foreign, ranseur-like polearm to such deadly effect is as much a question as how he even managed to acquire it, let alone the reasons as to why he owns it.

Incidentally, the umbrella's canopy can be detached from its shaft when Solomon finds that he has less use for cover from the elements and more for something sharp. The spear's blades and shape were forged such that they via stabbing but by cutting or a mixture of both; Solomon's usage betrays a predisposition to the former, however, and the same would apply to virtually any polearm that he chooses to pick up. [Piercing damage]

Manifestation: Persona - Sekhmet, Eye of Ra: Egyptian war goddess of the sun and bringer of purgative destruction and pestilence. Manifests as a wraith-like, bronze-skinned woman wreathed in a dark miasma, wearing a lightly-decorated, blood-red sheath dress, a golden neck collar, golden arm bands and gauntlets, and perhaps most notably, a rather distinctly crafted, sleek, gold war helmet that takes the shape of a roaring lion's head and bears the uraeus on its brow; a wide stream of waist-length, decorated black braids cascade from the back of the helmet, partly over each shoulder with the rest floating freely from behind. Bears in one hand a broad-headed great spear easily larger and at least a third longer than herself, with a stylized ankh of life extending from the opposite end of the shaft.

A goddess sometimes torn between divine rage and bloodlust, Sekhmet is associated with the lion as a fierce hunter and warrior, signified by her war helmet, and she takes her very name from the Egyptian word for power, "Sekhem"; it was with such blinding rage and power that the goddess, by blade, by flame, and by plague, was said to have visited a bloody and near complete purge upon humanity for their disrespect and defiance of the sun god Ra, sending their souls to Anubis and Osiris in heavy torrents. However, Sekhmet's outwardly warlike nature and appearance bely a second nature from which springs her ability to give life, equal to her inclination towards destruction; one may note the human face hidden within the confines of Sekhmet's helmet...

Purge Seal: Basilisk [6pts | Single (+0), High Power (+4), Dark (+2), Damage Shift (+0)]
"To dust with a single glance." — Sekhmet sometimes fixes her eyes upon an opponent and, when sufficiently agitated, may choose to simply will the offending target into oblivion through her gaze rather than lift her spear to the same end.

Purge Seal: PT-β (Proto-toxin Beta) [4pts | Single (+0), Normal (+0), Mystic (+0), Boost Null (+2), Status: Poison (+2)]
"Toxikinetic glass ceiling." — Sekhmet's vast knowledge of poisons and plagues was shared with Solomon when she was awakened within him. Through the goddess' powers, Solomon is learning to visualize and then generate chemical compounds by thought, and his newfound understanding of their complexity and effects allows him to formulate particularly degenerative poisons for both study... and application.

Sōjutsu: False Death Adder [3pts | Single (+0), Normal (+0), Slash (+1), Critical Seeker (+2)]
"Fast as death..." — Solomon's hitherto unidentified school of spearsmanship includes disabling attacks designed to be executed without warning and with the utmost alacrity, something in which he had already specialized. Now, Sekhmet's passive influence allows Solomon to strike in bursts of speed such that the technique's starting and ending stances have become nigh imperceptible.

Life Seal: PS-T (Proto-stimulant Tau) [2pts | Single (+0), Short-ranged (-1), Support (+0), Clear Body (+1), Attack Boost (+2)]
"Prelude to maintaining status quo." — Just as Sekhmet affords Solomon the ability to conceive and generate synthetic poisons, so too has she allowed him to produce chemicals with more... constructive attributes. Another work-in-progress, Solomon uses this compound to purge his body of physical ills while stimulating his metabolism.

NPP-Strain Lambda [2pts | Life Bonus]
Solomon's research into chemical-induced cell growth and death is beginning to bear fruit. Now if only he could be more certain that the actual work behind the research could find approval from the HSIRB (Human Subjects Institutional Review Board)...

Solar Channel [5pts | Mana Surge]
Solomon borrows a modicum of Sekhmet's divine energies for his own use in his techniques. Considering Sekhmet's nature, however, whether or not this occurs by mutual consent is debatable.

Reaper's Witness [4pts | Null: Fear]
Observing how people live and die in the midst of uprisings, civil wars, and plagues, steeped in their own pain and anguish, actually does get old after a few years, as Solomon once found out to his great disgust.

Disciple of Sōjutsu [4pts | Pierce Rise]
Whether by stabbing and then twisting, taking a two-handed stance before a thrust, or some other approach — if forced to reveal it, then Solomon sincerely wants to make his spear hurt.

Jambavan - Tier 2 Genma (Bought: 750 macca)
1/0/1/0; Strong: Wind; Weak: Ice, Electric
Strike; Agi; Dodge Wind, Dodge Pierce
Racial: "Phantasma" - Lets the demon slip through walls and ignore most obstacles. Ineffective against all attacks.

Lilim - Tier 3 Femme (Fused: Ubelluris [T3 Kishin, freebie #1] + Angel [T3 Divine, freebie #2])
0/1/0/1; Null: Electric; Weak: Ice
Strike; Sukukaja, Rakukaja, Elec Dance; Mana Bonus, Anti-Electric, Dodge Ice
Racial: "Devotion" - Group Sniper Normal-Powered Support with Healing

Other Notes: By getting express approval far in advance before collecting, Solomon amassed a large, private stock of exotic plant specimens from his various research trips over the years, from which he extracts a number of chemical compounds for use in his experiments. By virtue of necessity, he also became an avid student of botany in order to preserve his collection.

Solomon's supervisors and professors have noted that the young man appears under the weather on a somewhat regular basis, something that he himself will openly blame upon a slightly weak constitution from birth, and not upon a notable lack of access to suitable test subjects...

More crap whenever I feel like adding it~
21 Jan 2010
Name: Rudolph Curien
Age: 22
Creation Points: 10

Appearance: Befitting the professionalism that one might expect from a student of his level as well as a teaching assistant within BCC's natural sciences department, Rudolph is a fairly well-kempt young man of moderate stature—5'10" to be exact—and gentle features, having straight, moderately short-cut hair of a dark shade of red, soft green eyes framed behind a thin set of glasses, and a quiet, disarmingly sweet smile given his commonly reserved manner. For how tidy an appearance Rudolph maintains, it often comes as a shock that he is an occasional smoker, though it is a habit that he entertains mostly out of public sight. His skin is a bit tanned from past days of outside manual labor, and accordingly, though he admittedly seems outwardly weak from a glance, his usually full-body clothing tends to belie what muscular development and athleticism that he has cultivated in his years.

Rudolph's usual attire consists of average dress clothing given his TA job, so most weekdays will see him in class or at work in some sort of dress slacks, shirts, and shoes, ties, and a soft blazer; when attending laboratory sessions, a lab coat will be worn over his clothes. Beyond that, however, the man usually dresses for comfort, meaning that the same man leading class discussions as if he were the professor on Wednesdays and Fridays may be seen about the city of Bethany in running shoes, a wind breaker, and the corresponding pants on Saturdays and Sundays, when he is attending to additional, extracurricular activities or the like. Overall, Rudolph presents a fairly amiable and receptive, if a bit distant, presence both as a student and as a person, and though he is not above occasionally making joking comments or adopting a more casual manner from time to time, he often seems to prefer demureness to informality when given the choice.

However, all of the above assumes that one has encountered Rudolph normally during the day.

The Rudolph who, under the psuedonym "Remote Control" at night, is hard at work mass-producing and selling an assortment of different grades of homemade, high-grade, electronic and conventional explosives out of a certain, undisclosed location in Bethany to a normally unsavory customer base... is actually an even friendlier person than he is while at BCC. Openly initiating conversation and rather easily provoked into fits of fervent (if slightly manic) laughter, this Rudolph's smile, when he shows one, is that of a dead man's yet rivals the obnoxiousness of the Cheshire cat's, noticeably wider, toothier, and strangely more genuine than usual, with a half-burned cigarette butt likely clenched firmly between the teeth all the while. Likewise, his normally mild, sleepy gaze is replaced with a look that sits somewhere between a dull vacuity and an indescribably vague sense of disorder.

Drifting vocally between a settled tone of composure and one with a marked lack of such, this Rudolph is just a tad unhinged despite any appearance that would dictate the contrary, including his apparently undiminished intellect in this frame of mind. His "working clothes" at this point consist of a full suit of (stolen and thus duly unmarked) SWAT gear: any angry or unsatisfied customers tend to voice their complaints about his products or service in person, with weaponry, rather than a series of irate phone calls, and thus a bit of protection always proved to be a good investment since the opening of R/C Explosives.

Background: In actuality, Rudolph is not at all sure from where he hails... he is fairly certain that he was born in America, at least, seeing as he recalls no airplanes, boats, or otherwise international travel in his past, but the specifics of his origins were mostly lost on him in his early years of being passed around by witness protection and child services like a ball. All that was clear was that he had started off with a silly, straightforward dream of being a scientist and creating all sorts of useful things, but in retrospect, Rudolph would say that that was just the naivete of one who yet lacked a fair understanding of the workings of the world. Sure, overhear shady one conversation in a park between a politician and some business official about hiring some thugs to scare residents out of the poorest section of your city—the section you just happen to live in, for that matter—to make buying land and building a mall on top of it a cinch, decide to blab the entire scheme like a good boy to mom, and dad, and even the police... and your whole apartment complex is subsequently bombed within the week. With you in it, of course: even if it has to be a child, a dead witness is still a worthless one! The disaster search-and-rescue crew sure took their time picking through the wreckage for survivors... but certainly, there is nothing quite like spending roughly four days in near-darkness, amidst shifts in the collapsed building material, lying face-to-face beneath the blackened and maimed corpses of your parents—they only thought to shield their son from the blasts, flames, and falling debris—to build a kid's character!

Surprisingly the only survivor of the incident, Rudolph was 7, then. In spite of the admitted lack of evidence, yet in light of the suspicious immediacy of the bombing following the boy's allegations, he was placed in witness protection while the hunt for a suspect or suspects ensued. A follow-up on those involved in the supposed scare-off scheme, however, would never take place, and it only would be some years later that a wiser Rudolph would correctly suspect that someone had pulled some strings then with the police to finish the job where that bombing had failed. With no immediate family or relatives to speak of that could take him in and possibly give voice to his involvement as a witness, the entire bombing case would written off as a random act, all of the victims would be given a proper burial, and no one would be the wiser; who would miss that poverty-stricken lot, now?

Truthfully, not only the movements—or lack thereof—of the police but of even the child services agencies to which Rudolph was handed off were all part of a small, final plan to simply, quietly, hide away what might be left of that potential real estate scandal, should anyone come to take the boy's word seriously. That would turn out to be far less of a problem than expected, however, as Rudolph himself had little interest in speaking at all at this point, nigh-mute from the trauma for the next few months. In fact, by now, he had convinced himself that his thoughtless outspokenness was what had killed his parents, the only people who were really close to him, as well as everyone else in the building, families, children, and all; all that was really left of his family was his surname. Coupled with the fruitlessness of his appeals to the police over the following three years to at least track down the bomber, whom they had mostly given up on as time passed, Rudolph would become well-acquainted with the sense of powerlessness as a person that would continue to haunt him throughout his teenage years and into his adult life, being swept almost helplessly and without consent from one situation to the next.

Having started out as fairly cheery, if perhaps a bit too naive, Rudolph was a shade more withdrawn following the bombing incident, having started a new life in the care of an orphanage in the relatively peaceful city of Eureka some several states away from his own. Though he still spoke readily and openly with anyone who approached him, smiled and laughed as much as any of his peers, landed a part-time job with a delivery service, and participated in a few school clubs and sports, the boy ultimately kept everything and everyone at a personal distance from himself, having slipped into a facade of sorts as a result of how rather starkly he had been made to face the reality of human mortality, his and everyone else's. It just took one mistake, one for his parents—people who had been stronger, wiser, more capable of living compared to himself—to die an unceremonious death. That meant that they were fragile. That meant that they were not the gods of his world that he had imagined them to be. What was more, if they had died so easily... what about everyone else?

Everyone could be swept off by death in an instant just like mother and father... and in their case, it had and still hurt him terribly. What sense was there, then, in forming any ties with anyone else if that invisible threat of death hung over everyone's heads, to fall at any given moment? The pain of guilt and personal responsibility for that loss was at the core of Rudolph's heart, and from late childhood, he had been too afraid... much too afraid to risk adding more to it by forming even the slightest attachment to anyone around him. "If you've gained nothing, you can lose nothing," he reasoned to himself at that age, "I don't have to lose anything anymore... so long as I just don't 'have' anything." Even as he was graduating high school in hopes of moving onto college, holding his head high and ignoring the pain of his fears all the while, Rudolph had never once budged from that sentiment, yet somehow, that managed to be only half of the burden weighing on his heart. Where the first had been emotional, the second was financial: from the beginning, the boy had been largely poor all his life, and that fact would not remove itself from his conscious mind for a moment.

While he had at least had sustenance, clothing, and shelter at the orphanage, that was roughly all that Rudolph received, and once he was of working age, the director gave him a few months before turning him out, an event for which Rudolph had only thought that he was prepared after having at least secured an apartment as well as, luckily enough, both acceptance in and an academic scholarship to the college in Eureka. If nothing else, his performance in high school had left little doubt either there or in admissions about the intellectual potential that had apparently lain otherwise concealed by Rudolph's distant manner; despite what assumptions might be made of him with regards to his background, Rudolph had actually skipped a couple of grades in elementary school, having taken a particular shine to science and mathematics in that time, and true to form, the young man had planned specifically on studying chemistry, physics, electronic engineering, and several other fields of natural science or science-related fields while in college, still hoping that he could follow up on that silly dream to which he had clung. In the process, he also intended to finally drag himself out of poverty.

In a sense, though the salary from his job was quite meager even with the increased hours, leaving him paltry savings with each check, Rudolph found that he was at least able to handle paying for rent, food, clothes, utilities, and other necessities, and tuition was handled neatly by the scholarship. In this respect, at least, matters seemed to take care of themselves such that Rudolph was just barely able to juggle both his course load and work schedule, forced to favor the latter over the former simply by virtue of its being his lifeline; as such, there came a few instances in which he was forced to delay taking a course or two simply because he was afforded no flexibility in choosing his hours. The consequences of Rudolph's constrainted options were minor individually at first, but as they grew collectively through the next two years, the young man realized that he was swiftly approaching a wall. Left little choice but to opt continuously in favor of the job that kept him financially afloat, he had accumulated a small wealth of delayed courses, some of which were even prerequisites to other upcoming courses; in short, Rudolph was running out of room and time in which to carry both work and school. The demands of both were forcing him to a point at which he would have to choose one over the other... but that would be impossible from the start.

Having no one to whom he could turn for help by virtue of his preference for seclusion, Rudolph could not afford to lose his only source of income and end up on the street even for the sake of his studies, yet without sufficient time to take the necessary courses, there was no way that he could move forward in his degree plan—Rudolph would eventually fall below full-time status, and he could kiss the both scholarship as well as any hope of further progress goodbye at that point. Coupled with the sure conviction that taking out a loan with his current earnings would be tantamount to suicide, it was a near-perfect Catch-22: Rudolph would soon be out of time, and while it seemed certain that he had no means of saving his sinking educational career, his yet awaiting job held relatively no opportunity for advancement without, of course, some tertiary degree. All that Rudolph's circumstances essentially allowed him to do, then, was simply continue to exist. There it was again... that feeling of utter powerlessness and otherwise alienation from the world in which everyone's will to grasp their desires carried value and effect... all but his.

And why?

Rudolph could not fathom an answer, having trusted in the capacity of honest effort to provide its own rewards even after having condemned himself and that same effort for the fate of his late parents. The more he thought about it, the more it ate at him, and at one point, he simply stopped attending classes, stopped reporting for work, and sequestered himself in his apartment, unable to ignore the rising, nigh-frantic desperation borne of his situation any longer. His dreams, his will... were completely ineffectual. In the face of that realization, an utterly despondent, fatalistic Rudolph, crushed beneath the seeming inevitability of his powerlessness to act, finally... snapped. Losing both his job and place at college, he would step outside of his apartment one day and simply vanish from public sight altogether for some time, and given how little people personally knew of him, his absence went largely unnoticed. Strangely, however, the rent and utility payments continued to reach the leasing office of Rudolph's landlord. Ironically enough, it would be in the throes of a madness of hopelessness that an answer to his troubles would strike his mind so clearly... the name "Eureka" was suddenly so fitting for the city. There was one thing that he possessed that was both unique and powerful enough to bring him everything that he needed, given only the proper application. For how mentally broken he was at the moment, no such compunction remained to keep him from using any means within his grasp, and the means that Rudolph would choose in the end, incredibly ironic as it was, would exemplify that newfound absence of compunction to the letter.

The following year would pass more swiftly than anyone in Eureka could have imagined. With the passing of the first month, a massive gang war erupted, with all of the city's moderately small and otherwise quiet gangs suddenly in arms and openly at each others' members' throats on a daily basis. The violence escalated quickly from simple ambushes and beatings to stabbings, shootouts, and even several particularly destructive fire-bombings of rival safehouses, meeting places, and headquarters, behavior that was completely out of character for even Eureka's worst thugs. The media may have greedily lapped up all of the violence for the news, later dubbing the period of unrest the "Year of Anarchy," but the rest of the city was nearly in arms over the sudden and seemingly inexplicable disarray, to say nothing of the fresh surge of activity at the Eureka PD.

The only consistent info on the street was that the leaders of Eureka's largest gang had been slain at some point before the war began, and with that gang in disarray, unfit to keep the others in check through its influence, the other gangs had seen it as an opportunity to claim supremacy for themselves... resulting in the current struggle for power. There was also a rumor that the one gang that seemed to be dominating the rest was responsible for the bombings, and that someone else was selling them both the bombs and information on the other gangs' movements. A number of data files on the nature of the city's criminal element had even been stolen from the EPD's servers prior to the outbreak of the gang war. Regardless, for the span of that year, this unpredicted streak of chaos would continue, throwing the entire city into a state of emergency as the mayor was forced to declare martial law, and then just as suddenly as it had begun, it puttered out.

Just as the war seemed to have produced a victor out of the one gang that had been using bombs against its opponents, subjugating all others in the process, a series of critical tip-offs were provided to the police that then allowed them to rout, arrest, and otherwise scatter what was growing to be a potentially out-of-control group of criminals whose sights could easily be turned to the city itself once all other threats were squashed. Rumor had it, however, that the police had had it easier than it could have been, as the gang had lost their apparently-real explosives supplier by the name of "Remote Control" in a bout of internal infighting towards the end of the war. In any case, the police informant received a hefty reward, the state prison's inmate population rose significantly after all court proceedings had ended, and peace returned to Eureka, who now boasted a rather well-reformed and well-manned police force at the end of the crisis.

It would only be a few months afterwards that Rudolph would finally show his face again at college, strangely more relaxed in personality but otherwise just the same as before he went AWOL. Though he had effectively abandoned his studies without a word, he found that he was easily able to gain readmission on the strength of a spotless academic performance prior to that event as well as some understanding with the recent chaos of the "Year." The only issue was that even with his grades, his dropping out had caused him to become ineligible for his academic scholarship... but that was apparently no longer an issue, as Rudolph personally paid for his tuition and other college expenses up to his graduation. Near the top of the senior class by that time, Rudolph's academic and professional prospects were the point of attention regarding him personally, but a more detached, observant person would have easily noted the strangeness of the fact that, for the remainder of his study, the young man was unemployed, having neither gone back to his previous job nor sought another. Stranger still was how swiftly he had packed up and departed from Eureka following his graduation, apparently having already applied and been accepted to a graduate program as well as a corresponding assistantship program at another out-of-state college elsewhere in the U.S.

Lazily reading a Eureka city newspaper on the flight to the city of the college in question, reading an article on a continuing investigation into the causes of the "Year" as well as the gang that had just fallen short of winning the war elicited an odd smile and an odder look from Rudolph, whose mind then turned to the dozens upon dozens of unmarked packages that... should arriving ahead of him at his new apartment. He had gotten what he had wanted so desperately, and perhaps even more valuable was the knowledge of how to continue to do so. Arlington... no, Bethany as a whole proved to be a much quieter place than even Eureka, however, so Rudolph admitted to himself that maybe there was no need to do things the same way, especially if he planned on studying there in peace. Just opening shop and selling from there would do well enough; no need to try to burn the whole place down or blow it up if it was not necessary. Customers could figure out for themselves what to do with his merchandise, that would be as far as Rudolph would concern himself, and so it would go for one mostly quiet year, until...

Statline: 3/0/2/3; Weak: Light, Electric

(Basic) Weapon: A supply of various compact, adherent explosives; ASPLODIN'~ (lolStrike).

RCG-12 Grenades - [4pts | Group (+3), Normal (+0), Strike (+1)]
R/C Explosive's current best seller: custom-made, anti-personnel concussion grenades, small enough to fit in a purse, strong enough to disperse riot police! Perfect for the busy fisherman inland or at sea who doesn't have time to put up with the whims of the fish, clearing off inner-city sidewalks as an alternative path in morning rush-hour traffic, jump-starting that pond construction project for the front yard, dealing with those horrid gophers on the golf course once and for all, or if one's situation should necessitates, even remorselessly blasting one or more offending persons directly to kingdom come. One grenade is (usually) sufficient for the job; works wonders in densely packed crowds! Roll them, bat them, kick them at the target—the sturdy construction of the RCG-12's casing ensures that premature detonation will not occur due to physical impacts; customers are encouraged to test this out for themselves!* Comes in a one-person ten-pack, standard "Party" box, or wartime supply crate; established R/C-E customers receive a 40% discount, so feel free to toss anywhere between two to twelve RGCs at your problems!

(*Disclaimer: R/C Explosives assumes absolutely no responsibility for any customer injury or death that results for such activity as the customer is perfectly free to disregard this suggestion at will.)

RDA-01 Cannonball - [4pts | Single (+0), High Power (+4), Inaccurate (-2), Dark (+2), Damage Shift (+0)]
Another popular customer favorite, the 01 Cannonball model of the RDA line of electronic explosives comes in the form of a sturdy yet remarkably light disc with extendable throwing star blades, each one filed to a molecule edge similar to those of the more economical 09 model. The defining difference between the 09 and the 01 in question, then, is the grade of explosive material** used: once the star is armed and successfully lodged in a target surface, R/C Explosives guarantees that the explosion to follow can regularly breach an average of 15 inches in reinforced concrete*, so customers are advised to stand well off from the target area after the RDA-01 has been deployed. At this time, Remote Control has declined to identify any of the individual components of his modified plastique mixture; any and all customer bids/death threats/love letters/chain letters/etc. regarding such will be immediately rejected.

(*Disclaimer: Intended only for use in covert sabotage and/or demolition by military assault teams looking to make good use of the element of surprise; R/C Explosives absolutely will not be held responsible for any horribly mutilating, life-altering injuries or fatalities to humans or other living creatures that will may result from the misuse of the RDA-01 as an anti-personnel weapon.)

(**: Due to the added explosive material, customers should advised that the weight difference between the 01 and 09 models should be taken into account when throwing the former; unfamiliarity with handling the RDA-01's weight may hinder one's accuracy. Extensive throwing practice prior to field use is advised; luckily for customers, however, R/C-Explosives sells weighted training models at a 75% discount as a bundle with a customer's first order of the RDA-01! Order today!)

Smoke Break! [2pts | Single (+0), Short-ranged (-1), Support (+0), Clear Mind (+1), Reaction Boost (+2)]
In many of his ventures and endeavors, even Rudolph inevitably reaches a point where he just says "Know what? Screw this!", immediately drops what he is doing, and either sits down on the spot or wanders off with cigarettes and lighter in hand for a quick drag or fifteen—this tends to be a regular and on occasion, seemingly stupid occurence in his working day, a fair example of which is when he leaves in the middle of the assembly process of any of his given explosive products, failing to make note of any measurements or details key to avoiding an premature death via mishandling. Given how much more mentally focused the man usually is when he returns, however, as well as the fact that he has lost neither extremities nor employment to date, one could more or less conclude that Rudolph's self-motivated breaks do him more good than anything. Everything seems to work itself out in the end... somehow.

Dead Man Walking - [4pts | Null [Fear] (+4)]
Life in close proximity to a gallery of highly dangerous objects and materials that can, have, and just might explode at any given moment really tends to take the edge off of most of life's surprises after a few years. ...Coincidentally, Rudolph simply doesn't give much of a flying flip anyway simply by virtue of being half-mad, so.

"You can run, but...~" - [4pts | Reach (+4)]
"... You can't hide from the BOOOOOOOOM~! C'MERE, I GOT A PRESENT FOR YA~!! KEKEKEKEKE!"

Diehard(er) - [2pts | Life Bonus (+2)]
"Well, crawling from the Armory to Ben Franklin Memorial in West-A after a botched experiment is always the really, really easy part. Explaining away the charred clothes and burn wounds to the doctors, not to mention the police, and then getting away with it all unidentified, however...~"

Manifestation: Persona: Eris, Goddess of Strife.

Other Notes: Too tired of writing all these :wordswordswords:. More if/whenever I think of more and actually feel like writing it~
Last Visitors

29 Jul 2015 - 21:37

30 Aug 2014 - 0:42

5 Jun 2014 - 14:23

5 Jun 2014 - 10:24

23 Oct 2013 - 18:58

Rather belated, but happy birthday to you too, and thank you for your well wishes. ^_^
Gemini all the way. X3
27 May 2009 - 20:19
Hehe, thanks~♪
25 May 2009 - 2:22
Higan Retour
25 May 2009 - 2:21
Higan Retour
Thanks again, man.
26 Dec 2008 - 1:28
The only User on the FEP Irc Channles it seems xD Well Nice to meet you! ^_^ Hope to see you around the place I guess! =D
11 Dec 2008 - 18:16


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