Post by Silenco on May 10, 2010 14:58:22 GMT -5
Full Name: Silenco Krasny
Nicknames: Sil, Thaumaturge, Dog, Mercenary
Level: Irrelevant
Class: Gladiator
Race: Elyos
Gender: Male
Age at Ascension: 20
Current Age: 21
Hair: Black
Skin: Dusky tan
Eyes: Dark brown
Height: 2 meters/6.6 feet
Weight: 200 pounds unarmored
Biographical[/i][/u]
Place of Residence: None
Place of Birth: Vihkr
Relatives: None, all deceased.
Enemies: Whomever he is ordered to fight.
Allies: Whomever he is ordered to fight with.
Occupation: Mercenary
Tradeskill: Slight skill in weapon and armor repair.
Appearance: On first glance, Silenco is a tall, dusky man, who might have been handsome if not for the multitude of scars that cross his whole body. A second glance reveals the cold, blank eyes that he carries in his head. His thousand-yard stare is eerily uncomfortable, as he never seems to focus on anything, even when he's being cordial.
Fashion of Choice: Practicality first, aesthetics second.
Armor of Choice: Plate armor, or no armor.
Weapons of Choice: Pair of sabers for most combat, greatsword for tactical application of power.
Special Abilities: Perceives the world free of many influences, often in a frank, brutal light. Highly logical, can find a solution to a problem even if it seems unsolvable. Is capable, at will, to force pain from his mind and become like an automaton, absorbing massive amounts of damage, but continuing to attack until he is torn to shreds.
History/Biography: Once upon a time there were two cities in the south, named Tselin and Janeir. Now these two cities didn't like each other all that well. As a matter of fact, they didn't like each other at all, and had been at war for hundreds of years. This war hungrily consumed the young men of each city, until hardly any were left. Even the Guardians steered clear of the cities, preoccupied with the Asmodians and Balaur. Tselin grew desperate. It started looking for more soldiers to throw at the forces of Janeir.
And then it had an idea.
Why not use the children?
Why not take them from their families?
Why not brutalize them into soldiers while they still wet the bed?
Why not send them into battle with only knives against armored troops?
Why not take the ones who survived and continue sending them into battle?
Why not have them drink and bathe in the blood of their enemies?
Why not shatter their young minds into fragments?
Why not?
At best, it was a temporary solution. The war lasted longer, but soon grew hungry for more bodies. Every last citizen was forced to pick up a blade and fight, or die. Whether or not they did, they still died. The two once-great cities were reduced to ashes and bloody stains, and, both populations annihilated, faded into legend.
Years later, a mercenary company in Poeta accepts a new recruit to their ranks. The young man is hardly nineteen, but wields a blade like any seasoned veteran. The company commanders shrug it off as a natural talent, and the subject is closed.
A year later, the young man is summoned by the Guardians, and an offer to ascend in order to join the Asmodian/Balaurian war is extended. The young man accepts. After all, it feels as if he was born to do such a thing, and like any good war, this one needs bodies too, right?
Right?
Personality[/i][/u]
Alignment: Neutral Evil: Mercenary in the worst sense of the word. He does it not because he wants to, but because it is the only thing he has ever known.
Motivations: Combat. It is his everything.
Disposition: Out of combat, polite, if a bit indifferent. In combat, ruthlessly efficient, speech degrades to base terms.
Outlook: War never changes. Only the people I fight do.
Religion/Philosophy: Barren of any such notion.
Sexuality: Has never even thought of the act. Has never let anyone so much as touch him for any other purpose than a greeting, or combat. Besides, the scars repel anyone bold enough to try.
Positive Personality Traits: Logical, unbiased.
Negative Personality Traits: Frank, blunt, and tends to be emotionally lacking, if not outright amoral. Alcohol, when consumed in large amounts, makes him horribly depressed.
Misc. Quirks: Must always have a blade within easy reach. The lack of one drives him to near panic.
Affiliations[/i][/u]
Legion: Disciples of Yustiel
Legion Rank: Contracted mercenary. Hired to assist the Legion.
Interests[/i][/u]
Likes: Fighting. Staring off into space.
Dislikes: Being without a weapon. Alcohol.
Favorite Foods: Will eat anything, no matter how unpalatable, as if he doesn’t have a sense of taste.
Favorite Drinks: Will drink anything, no matter how unpalatable, as if he doesn’t have a sense of taste.
Favorite Colors: Silver, red, brown. Blade, blood, skin.
Hobbies: Sharpening one of his blades. Has recently taken up weaponsmithing.
Nicknames: Sil, Thaumaturge, Dog, Mercenary
Level: Irrelevant
Class: Gladiator
Race: Elyos
Gender: Male
Age at Ascension: 20
Current Age: 21
Hair: Black
Skin: Dusky tan
Eyes: Dark brown
Height: 2 meters/6.6 feet
Weight: 200 pounds unarmored
Biographical[/i][/u]
Place of Residence: None
Place of Birth: Vihkr
Relatives: None, all deceased.
Enemies: Whomever he is ordered to fight.
Allies: Whomever he is ordered to fight with.
Occupation: Mercenary
Tradeskill: Slight skill in weapon and armor repair.
Appearance: On first glance, Silenco is a tall, dusky man, who might have been handsome if not for the multitude of scars that cross his whole body. A second glance reveals the cold, blank eyes that he carries in his head. His thousand-yard stare is eerily uncomfortable, as he never seems to focus on anything, even when he's being cordial.
Fashion of Choice: Practicality first, aesthetics second.
Armor of Choice: Plate armor, or no armor.
Weapons of Choice: Pair of sabers for most combat, greatsword for tactical application of power.
Special Abilities: Perceives the world free of many influences, often in a frank, brutal light. Highly logical, can find a solution to a problem even if it seems unsolvable. Is capable, at will, to force pain from his mind and become like an automaton, absorbing massive amounts of damage, but continuing to attack until he is torn to shreds.
History/Biography: Once upon a time there were two cities in the south, named Tselin and Janeir. Now these two cities didn't like each other all that well. As a matter of fact, they didn't like each other at all, and had been at war for hundreds of years. This war hungrily consumed the young men of each city, until hardly any were left. Even the Guardians steered clear of the cities, preoccupied with the Asmodians and Balaur. Tselin grew desperate. It started looking for more soldiers to throw at the forces of Janeir.
And then it had an idea.
Why not use the children?
Why not take them from their families?
Why not brutalize them into soldiers while they still wet the bed?
Why not send them into battle with only knives against armored troops?
Why not take the ones who survived and continue sending them into battle?
Why not have them drink and bathe in the blood of their enemies?
Why not shatter their young minds into fragments?
Why not?
At best, it was a temporary solution. The war lasted longer, but soon grew hungry for more bodies. Every last citizen was forced to pick up a blade and fight, or die. Whether or not they did, they still died. The two once-great cities were reduced to ashes and bloody stains, and, both populations annihilated, faded into legend.
Years later, a mercenary company in Poeta accepts a new recruit to their ranks. The young man is hardly nineteen, but wields a blade like any seasoned veteran. The company commanders shrug it off as a natural talent, and the subject is closed.
A year later, the young man is summoned by the Guardians, and an offer to ascend in order to join the Asmodian/Balaurian war is extended. The young man accepts. After all, it feels as if he was born to do such a thing, and like any good war, this one needs bodies too, right?
Right?
Personality[/i][/u]
Alignment: Neutral Evil: Mercenary in the worst sense of the word. He does it not because he wants to, but because it is the only thing he has ever known.
Motivations: Combat. It is his everything.
Disposition: Out of combat, polite, if a bit indifferent. In combat, ruthlessly efficient, speech degrades to base terms.
Outlook: War never changes. Only the people I fight do.
Religion/Philosophy: Barren of any such notion.
Sexuality: Has never even thought of the act. Has never let anyone so much as touch him for any other purpose than a greeting, or combat. Besides, the scars repel anyone bold enough to try.
Positive Personality Traits: Logical, unbiased.
Negative Personality Traits: Frank, blunt, and tends to be emotionally lacking, if not outright amoral. Alcohol, when consumed in large amounts, makes him horribly depressed.
Misc. Quirks: Must always have a blade within easy reach. The lack of one drives him to near panic.
Affiliations[/i][/u]
Legion: Disciples of Yustiel
Legion Rank: Contracted mercenary. Hired to assist the Legion.
Interests[/i][/u]
Likes: Fighting. Staring off into space.
Dislikes: Being without a weapon. Alcohol.
Favorite Foods: Will eat anything, no matter how unpalatable, as if he doesn’t have a sense of taste.
Favorite Drinks: Will drink anything, no matter how unpalatable, as if he doesn’t have a sense of taste.
Favorite Colors: Silver, red, brown. Blade, blood, skin.
Hobbies: Sharpening one of his blades. Has recently taken up weaponsmithing.