Ghostly's Things and Stuff [Read-Only] - Printable Version

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Ghostly's Things and Stuff [Read-Only] - Ghostly - 12-05-2014

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Ghostly's Things and Stuff [Read-Only] - Ghostly - 12-06-2014



This would be a familiar scene to but a single woman with a head full of blonde and a heart smothered by the filth of the abyss. Zeno did not send out tapes of his personal research inquiries often, each was considered works of art and were cataloged meticulously in one of his many archives within these castle walls. The one sent off to Chance however, that was a particularly special day; a moment he'd remember till his final hours, and one he hoped not only the Vereaux but Fortune would have engraved in the back of their skulls. Either way, he was getting himself lost down memory lane. Leather tapped along the cold stone floor of a hallway lit solely by torches, not a window in sight. Perhaps this would be because of the location not sitting in the castle itself, but far under the mountain that it resided on top of. Certain, how would he put it, "projects" required several tons of rock to be dropped down on them as security if something happened to go awry. This has yet to be a measure implemented more than once, quite a few centuries ago. Again, a day to remember, as not only was his home all but demolished, but Zeno lost a sizable portion of his reservoir of souls, and in turn life-force which fueled his form. Mistakes were made, but that was one not to be repeated.

A small camcorder in hand which was not yet running the abomination stopped in front of a large door, presumably some kind of metal or alloy several inches thick if it were to be based on the size alone. His free hand dug through the pants pocket on that side to pull out an unassuming silver key which would then be stuck inside the only hole on the solid plate of gray and turned in one swift motion. For a good minute, tumblers would fall out of place, bars shifted from their stiff positions, and mechanisms far too intricate for what was essentially a lock on a door wound down. All of this pomp and circumstance was necessary though, for if one were not to have this key and attempt to barge into the room. Well, the mountain, above mentioned earlier would come crumbling down. Not only that, but otherwise inert explosives that lined the entire underground complex would be armed and subsequently detonated. No one stole and or fucked with Zeno, and if that meant leveling an entire mountainside along with his home, then so be it. He had others, and he had all the time in the world to gather his possessions back. Nothing wasn't replaceable.

Silence falling upon the area, Zeno finally pushed open the thick entrance and let what little light there was to be had to bathe the room which had been nothing but darkness seconds prior. Unlike the space that contained a one Fortune, sister of Chance, the walls were left marred and blackened, foot-long chunks several inches deep blown out of the solid stone here and there; along the floor remained stains of some fluid or another, probably several, but none of them red or dried brown to denote blood. Scattered around the sealed area, perhaps twenty by twenty feet lay strange humanoid shapes. Less than a dozen, all immobile, failed attempts at golemancy by Zeno. In the middle of the floor rest, or rather hung his prize. "Braelin." The cold voice rang out but received no response that was it any other person they'd rattle the chains binding them in fear. This one though was most certainly beyond that point. A broken toy that never managed to amuse the owner past the unwrapping. Here it rests, abused and tossed into storage till a use could be found. Even now, there was really no pleasure to be taken from this. The fun part of breaking the sentient golem had since passed, and now had moved on to study just what made it tick, to learn just how to recreate and duplicate a perfect weapon out of him.

By the door rest a stand for the camera, to which Zeno set it up diligently and flicked the switch to the on position. The lens focused on Braelin to show off an intricate setup to bind him. One had to be careful when your prisoner had the ability to magically rip apart matter at the atomic level with its bare hands. Chains were hooked to clasps around the small boy's neck, likewise would be the case around his waist and wrists. Along the restraints were sigils meant to limit the mana output by him, and by limit, he meant nullify. Of course, "meant to" did not always hold true, but thankfully this always happened whilst Zeno was messing around with Braelin anyways, so reapplying the prison wasn't too much of a hassle. It had to be like this, the golem ran on mana, through a battery of an impressive capacity that seemed to replenish itself to some degree, and one that he could not study without ripping it out of the golem and ending his odd existence. If Braelin could not bring his weapon to charge, there was no threat to be had, so his mana spent most of its use repairing the damage done by Zeno, and of that, there was plenty to be had.

Tattered rags, that is what the outfit of Braelin ended up as. His figure itself remained, for the most part, indifferent since he'd been taken from Cheswick. The artificial structure didn't function as most life forms did; it ran off of magical energy, as had been mentioned, and as such wouldn't appear emaciated from a lack of sustenance. Bruises, burns, small nicks, and cuts all healed relatively fast without marring the flesh, but some of the larger injuries, where Zeno had torn the boy limb from limb in attempt to better "study" Braelin had marred him with jagged pale scars where appendages needed to be sewn and magically fused back together. By the hanging youth stood a table where a fresh vessel lay cold, an empty golem serving whatever purpose it might have.

Beside that table would be a desk with various instruments, tools that served some cause or another in the horrific endeavors. What Zeno went to was none of these, just a book. Old and worn, long fingers carefully opened the hardback journal and flipped it to the last entry. "Day three hundred seventy-nine, trial twenty-seven." This was all for the records, spoken without a care as this had been done for more than a few times prior. In addition, such notes were written down on the empty page before parchment turned to a section towards the beginning. "Today I shall try yet again in imitating the strange concept that is my subject, Braelin. The past trials have been disappointing at best, but hopefully, this time around I might make some process in weaving soul and mind together into an artificial body. Currently, I still have no way to sustain any magics that might be used by the golem. We'll take it one step at a time." Letting out a sigh, the abyssal monstrosity had resigned himself to probably failing this instance like the others before. Zeno was no golemancer, though he understood the arcane arts enough to be able to grasp the concept and follow instructions. He could manipulate souls to his heart's content, and when the mind was mixed with along with a container, everything should fall into its natural place. Putting these theories together did not bear the fruit he desired, unfortunately.

Back to the lifeless husk presented in the most unglamorous of ways, a cold, flesh analog on top of a similarly chilled stainless steel plate. By now he'd memorized the incantations necessary to perform this rite, the words never being the bearer of complications. Always, the process itself, how he crafted the trio of metaphysical materials together. Still, the recitation did drag on, and came out dull as the sayings were in a language dead, and archaic. At the end of it all, Zeno's fingers were beaming a white-hot blue hue. To even lay eyes upon it would blind and the drab space lit up in kind, overpowering the fixed lighting easily. Unscrupulously, but with the precision those digits ablaze dug into the chest an inch deep and began to carve the circular pattern required to act as an insertion point. Finished, the incisions left by his personal tools were painted in a coloration of the spells etching, leaving the energy along with it. From the desk a small pale crystal hovered over to before him; this would be the mind for him to place. Out of his chest, a singular ethereal wisp seethed through; a soul, naturally for his use in this experiment. Taking each in a separate hand he wasted no time in plunging the two into the arcane circle on the chest, like a target for him to quickly place what needed to be inside, but not for his own person to linger. Exiting, both extremities were coated in that same bright blue, and this is where Zeno carefully adjusted the individual energies of each, where he also juggled jump-starting the golem into action. The latter was a constant, but couldn't happen too soon before the process was ready, lest the experiment fail before getting off of the ground. Face taut, concentrating far harder than he ever enjoyed, Zeno gave his best effort to align what he thought to be the perfect balance between mind and soul. Unfortunately for him, when he let loose all of his control over the magics to see if it was a success, Zeno was instead greeted with a whine that sounded unpleasant even by his standards.

In an instant, the golem was no more. Without time to react the body detonated and sent everything in the room hurtling away from the center of the explosion that wasn't bolted down. Braelin was violently shaken and lightly singed by the event, but still safely chained for Zeno's sake. The camera landed on the stone floor on its side surprisingly intact while an arm twitched in the lens's view. Zeno without much of a huff pushed himself to his feet, taking this time to right the camera so it could continue recording unobstructed, not that there was much but remains to capture. "What a bitch" He groaned as he stretched out his limbs, the joints popping off one by one to remove some stiffness.

Covered in the byproduct of a soul demolished, a hard feat to do, and fine particulate of the inanimate golem. Zeno let out a sigh before giving an empty stare at Braelin. This was by no means a success, but it was an improved development in the end. In a little over a year, he'd managed to get the reaction going. Now he merely needed to find out the right ratio and stabilize it. Easier said than done, but this meant his pawn had no need to be here any longer. Plenty of amusing scenes to be performed on his own accord away from this castle in the mountains. "Lucky you, boy. Back to your furred friend I'll have you go." There was dark humor in that statement, what plans were to be had he couldn't say. Right now though, Zeno would clean himself up.

Perhaps an hour or so later dressed in a white long sleeve button up, the top few and the cuffs left loosened as per usual, along with a clean pair of slacks, the caster prepped Braelin in the same chamber as before for their trip. The redhead, however, seemed wearied and motionless as he was handled, despite clearly in the know that he was going to be taken somewhere away from this horrid confinement. Then, Zeno was gone off to where he was least expected, Cheswick's room at The One Night Stand.

===========================

In the wolf's den, Zeno looked around with muted disinterest. He was only here for the sole purpose of dropping off what he had been taken from the Garou, not that it was hers to begin with. If he could taste the atmosphere it would probably delight him. Sadness welling with pain and loneliness, just a dirty hobble too small for most to live comfortably with a pile of rags in the corner which he assumed to be the bed since the actual piece of furniture laid there bare. "Shifters." He muttered under his breath. The irony of this was that his own makeup was in a constant state of flux, that he had eaten their kind and had the same blood running through his corrupted, complex abomination of a body. Holding out an open palm of one of his hands, a puddle of darkness opened up in a free spot on the floor. From the black depths rose a crate large enough to house an individual if they were to be standing. In the middle of the room Braelin found his way home with a little help on Zeno's part of course. Inside the box he slept in a steel cage by the will of his master, and only to be woken by Cheswick. Battered and abused, with but scraps for clothing, body marked in ways not dissimilar from his pack-mate. On the exterior of the box would a small key hang as to unlock the cage inside the crate. "I'll see you later, my tool. Enjoy your vacation, you've earned it." Zeno wasn't done with Braelin, not by a long shot, but he did leave the artificial magi alone as he vanishing back to parts unknown with a grim chuckle. These parts were not so mysterious as this fiendish fellow could not simply let it sit at that. The silver wolf was not too far off and he planned to harass her, if just for a bit before giving her a kick in the right direction.

Wherever Cheswick wandered did not matter, for one could not escape the inevitable plans set in motion. Once you were pushed into the machine you had no choice but to be ground up by the gears and spit out the other side. Aimless is how Zeno viewed her, ripping through the space in between worlds to slip himself where he needed to be; at this point the mage would be inline with the Garou's pace of movement rather close to her side, but careful as not to touch her in any way. It was an unceremonious entry, barely disturbing the air around him. "Mutt, you look well." The grin of a devil on those lips, not even bothering to place those oculars of ice blue on her tall form which nearly matched his own. His seemingly needless disdain for her seethed through his lips. Zeno was not here to torture her, physically anyway, perhaps for another time, though such an event had barely any gains to it. Emotional pain always suited him more than one's senses could ever feel. "I come bearing a gift. One that I truly think belongs to you more so than me." Kind words fell awkwardly from a man like him, especially when laced with more than a little sarcasm. He did not lie in this case though, the man did come with a present, and truly he felt like the object in question belonged in her hands more so than his own. At least at this point in time.

Stretching out one of his long arms out before her chest, he made to stop her movement, turning to stare into those pained eyes of the wolf. Features trying their hardest to display one of understanding, not a cocky overbearing mockery. "Wolf...I mean Cheswick, you look like you've hit a rough patch in your life. These eyes have seen too much, and in yours I can tell that you are hurting in ways unfavorable. I do hope what I've left in your room helps ease some of this." Nothing more to say to her, he lowered his arm to his side and let her be, though he'd not leave until she left of her own accord.

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Ghostly's Things and Stuff [Read-Only] - Ghostly - 12-06-2014


'Those jackoffs sure took a toll on this aged junker, but it's a hard to put an old dog down without a fight.' At the thought, Zasz couldn't help but let out a deep chuckle from under that helmet of his. Truth be told though, he had a bit of a worried frown on his face; he hated situations like this, and he seemed to find himself in them more and more as of late. Still, he was surprised that this retrofitted scavenger ship had managed to keep itself in one piece. In saying that like a curse from the machine gods, the first of the dual thrusters that propelled his vessel gave a groan of stressed metal and explosive exhaust before tearing away from the hull and falling off in the darkness behind him. Alright, so mostly one piece. All that mattered was that it kept intact enough to maintain a vacuum and keep the slaver from being sucked out into the void. Just a little further towards the closest station, he could dock at after his haphazard jump through space.

Farport.

The station designator blinked garishly with their custom font on the navigation system display. How could he not have heard of it, perhaps lady luck smiled down on him after all in sending him this way? This time he made sure to knock his plated knuckles against the nearly fried console he was managing, just in case. The autopilot had long since shut itself down to preserve power for more vital systems, which in turn were also clicking off in like an old man struggling for that last breath. Hell, the comm line wasn't even functioning as he had to patch the ship's ID through his suit and boost the signal with what he little power he could pull without shutting off the sublight engines.

"Delta Bravo Delta six one four one zero eight eight, Screaming Devil looking to dock. Might I suggest being quick about it, I'm coming in one way or the other with the shape my ship is in right now."

Zasz did, in fact, receive a hasty response.

"Screaming Devil, from our scanners, it appears your craft is barely holding together. If you're able to make it to dock 7-C without it seeming like you're going to crash into the station, you're more than welcome. If not, we're going to have to shoot you down to prevent any damage."

Then the click from the mic and a silent grin from Zasz. Who did they think he was? He didn't plan on dying in such a pitiful manner. At least they were giving him the chance, and to credit this the slaver merely figured he'd cashed in about all of his chips to make it this far. Hands working the console again with much haste he carefully adjusted engine output and made precise corrections in thrust direction to line himself up with the docking gate. Zasz had been flying across the stars for nearly the better half of his life, and he'd made far worse landings than this. Calculations as correct as he could assume them to be, he pressed one last button and the sole remaining engine silenced itself into inactivity. Letting inertia take it from here, the minutes passed as slow as the ice forming inside the eerily creaking hull.

With baited breath, Zasz nailed the docking. He watched as the clamps readied to accept the busted husk. Slowly but surely, his vessel finally came to a halt with somewhat of a lurch as the station struggled to hold the ship in place. Sliding his hands across the various panels, what remaining systems went offline, life support included. His suit, however, was airtight and came with its own brief supply of oxygen. It wasn't a large by any means, the Screaming Devil that is, taking the Taldarian but a few steps to make it to the doors after getting out of the pilot's seat. With everything shut down, he needed to pull down on the lever by the exit to force the metal entrance apart. That was that, goodbye to the old dog. It probably wouldn't be here when he returned, as he planned to put it up for scrap auction immediately. Much better to be out of that cramped deathtrap and somewhere that didn't sound like it was about to crumble out from under his feet. Still, he wasn't off the hook yet.

"Passport and ship credentials."

Head turned to the male beside him. At the checkpoint, Zasz let out a quiet sigh, these formalities were the same nearly in every port of call, but they were a hassle and a waste of time all the same for the slaver. A single hand rummaged around through his coat for a small electronic screen which displayed a picture and name that clearly wasn't the man standing before the dock official. In his defense, Zasz did own the ship, he just appropriated it without filing the necessary paperwork as paper trails were a silent killer in the underground. "Look, the day has been unkind to me, and I think we both could benefit from this being a smooth as possible process" From under that passport, the slaver deftly brought a credit chip into the officer's vision with a number displayed that could make even a high-class escort blush. Now, he hadn't been here for some time, but Farport was never known for its pristine law and order, and while occasionally bribes outright failed the masked man, this would not be the case. Accepting the credits, Zasz passed by without another holdup, stuffing the fake credentials into his coat for safekeeping. Now the bribe had not been unsubstantial, but this sector was a breeding ground for an opportunity in his line of work. He had no doubt about it, he could make it in full and more so.

Realistically, Zasz was in no hurry nor did he have any schedule to keep. Few knew his face as he was one of many individuals with full body suits when he had a constantly shifting voice modulator there were next to no consistent records left behind. With more falsified documents than he could count and a line of credit that would take serious dedication to lead to his actual name, he worried not about where his path took him. Whoever he happened to come across would be worth it in the end, he never went after a useless mark. The docks were not where he desired to be though, so the tall Taldarian with heavy steps made his way towards the market district of which likely held more interest in him than any other area. Along the streets and side corridors Zasz made his way, each face he passed would be marked and run through his personal algorithm to give a general idea of the kind of price the people he came into contact might be worth to him on the market. Ultimately, it provided a rough estimate rather than the end all be all, but it pushed him in the right direction. Such a tool also was of no use against someone like himself, when features were indiscernible. Purse Street, aptly named, shops aplenty and ware ranging from junk to priceless; one merely needed to know where to stick their head and be careful about how they went about it. Too many years had passed since he walked these artificial streets, for good reasons, but such were minor details that didn't need to be discussed here and now.

Disappointment filled the slaver, how could there not possibly be anyone of interest. Hell, he'd have to collar a dozen people off the street just to make back half of what he'd paid in the bribe. Even the brawl he passed several clicks back held nothing for him. The beast far too large for him to adequately restrain and the others involved coming up as above average at best. Getting ready to up and head off to another, more promising district a reading came out on his HUD that stopped him in his tracks cold.

No data

Taking a step back, Zasz peered through the glass window where the marked target stood in full view. Such a tiny creature, unique in every sense of the word and more. Like the flowers surrounding her, she was beautiful yet fragile, in bending the stem of one of the plants she'd too would snap in two. Shutting down his program, he decided on a potential sell. Thus he entered the place of business, Tranquility Floral Arrangements. Needing to bend down slightly to fit through the entrance, he took to walking around examining her specimens on display; whatever commotion he interrupted was paid little mind. Zasz lacked personal understanding of the variety, only what information his database pulled from the net. Reaching out, he brushed his hand against the leaves of one of the larger potted shrubs. Rustling them more than he expected, the man quickly pulled back and got on with the show. "You sell plants?" His question seemed had to have been ridiculous to the owner. Of course she did, it was plain as day. Still, the surprise had to have been common, or perhaps he really had been away from the station for quite some time. "I must say in the times I've visited I have never heard of such a place. I just had to come in and see it for myself when I passed by." It was hard to tell where Zasz had his attention directed, but under the helmet his eyes were trained solely on the Nymph. He made no motion to move closer, in fact he held his hands firmly behind his back. "In this, I must admit that I'm a bit flustered. I came in out of interest, yet I have not a clue to what I'm doing."

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Ghostly's Things and Stuff [Read-Only] - Ghostly - 02-27-2015

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Ghostly's Things and Stuff [Read-Only] - Ghostly - 03-29-2015


Huff huff huff

Ragged, short breaths were caught in between the high-frequency shrills that came just before bright blue streaks pierced through the walls of the narrow corridor an auburn topped male was sprinting down. Braelin had timed their barrage down after the second volley to know when he needed to bob and weave as to not waste any excess movements that might get him hit—again.

His left arm, loosely clutched, had a perfectly cylindrical wound carved just above his elbow. The sensation of pain was no longer an issue for the golem, but it hampered any efficient movement when requiring the use of both hands. These were not the typical freelancers hunting down his bounty. They were too coordinated, too well geared to be just another mercenary corp. That dwindled down the remaining options to a very select few with resources to throw at an old world magic being like himself.

A flash of sharp icy hues was made crystal clear in forefront of his vision just as he turned right on his heels to head down another hallway. A new series of openings for sunlight to shine through into the building were placed just where he had been half a second before. It would be him, it could only be him. There were a miserable few subjects that ever could bring true emotions to the features of the blank-faced automaton; feelings that he'd been deprived of for most of his life, then burned out of himself in the latter half. Cracking a wry grin at the fact that he managed to personally catch the eye of his previous owner was certainly one of them.

Braelin would have to focus back on the matter at hand, or there would be little point in such revelry.

There were at least four hunters that had a bead on his position judging from the consistent number of shots. They had to be tracking his mana signature, a curse brought on by the eternal engine within his chest. It refused to let the boy die all of these centuries gone by. It forced him to watch the only one that had ever touched his nonexistent heart turn to bone and dust. It mocked him in his cowardice to rip the device out of his fabricated ribcage. Now it shined like a beacon for these paid thugs to point their expensive toys at. Surely there were more, waiting for the agile runner to attempt a counter-play to their aggression. If a game was what they wished, Braelin was all the more happy to dance in step. Their rifles were at their maximum distance he figured, they knew of his abilities and were ensuring a safe, but still effective range. That said, they were not so far as to be out of the shadow of the small apartment complex they were shooting up, and that gave the worn down golem an idea. Insane as it was, he'd come to appreciate the more ludicrous schemes than the straightforward directions he used to be fed day in and day out.

Wrappings around his right arm were loosened, a length of white cloth dragging along the rotting wood flooring his boots padded across. There was a wall directly ahead and coming up fast, but he wasn't going to take either direction. Reaching the end, Braelin would kick off and break out into a full sprint in a straight line back the way he came. Radiating almost neon azure, ancient runes inscribed into his still functioning forearm activated, their volatile magic leaching into the trailing fabric and leaving a translucent crack into whatever it made contact with. Naturally, a direct route to the opposite side of the structure was not so easy to reach. In his path lay drywall and wooden frames that the toned figure would barrel a solid shoulder through with a grunt at the impact. Without a second thought, he broke through one room to the next. Having tossed taking care to avoid the new waves of gunfire to the wayside, their shots were far closer to hitting their mark than before, several catching at the fringes of his clothing, ripping new tears into his cloak that he'd have to patch up. Whether luck or their poor aim was on Braelin's side he'd not question, having made it his destination he wasted not a second in tugging at the extension of his less than ordinary hand to remove it from the floor.

A bitter and aged youth spit silent curses at his foes, and almost immediately did a shudder run through the vacated building. In all these years gone by, Braelin had not gone lax in training, if anything he had been required to hone what had been an unruly destructive force into a finely tuned weapon of precision in order to not only survive but simply exist in the vast universe he now wandered. The ethereal marking that he left in his wake had received the signal from Braelin and dematerialized a near surgical slice into the apartment. His attack didn't stop on the fourth floor, following straight down into the earth and all but separating one-half from the other. Unable to hold an unsupported weight, the wall to his side crumbled, and he'd assume where he had started the reaction a similar sight would unfurl. The ceiling came down and the boy took a step back out of the way as the street-facing front of the structure fell away like a domino tipped over by a strong wind. It all happened in the few seconds Braelin took to enjoy his success, and perhaps the men were struck off guard by his ploy or just unable to react in time. Regardless, when the rubble came down, the squadron was well in the spot to be crushed.

The dust didn't even have time to settle before the redhead made way to get the hell away from this battleground. The longer he stuck around the greater a chance of potential backup rearing their ugly faces.

Whirr

Came the sound of a beam rifle being fired. Down at the bottom of the steps, he was descending appeared one more problematic individual, light refactor breaking as a brilliant blast lit up the dark, narrow space. His gut would take the blow, but it took far more than a little hole, or several to put the golem down. If the soldier had read the dossier on the golem, and they damn well should have; Braelin had seen it himself. He'd have taken the surprising strike to destroy his oculars. Perhaps the soldier didn't wish to risk hitting his power core and having himself be at ground zero of a mile wide detonation. As it was though, Braelin didn't miss a beat, and certainly wouldn't allow him to land another shot. Taking a leap downward, one more beam would try to mar his being. Only this one would be caught by an open palm, and there was nothing that wouldn't be torn apart when meeting that dangerous touch. Sturdy boots slammed into the now cracked boards at the base of the stairs, Braelin's assailant having little recourse but to put his back against the wall and steady his gun for one last shot. Only he wouldn't get it off, close quarters combat was Braelin's forte, and able to get into within arm's-length, he made a simple swipe at the energy weapon, slicing through the body like it were butter and rendering it all but useless.

Then the merc had the gall to drop the busted rifle to grab at a blade in his side belt. That cost him the offending limb just under the shoulder joint. A wail in shock, one of many sensations trained out of the now vagrant traveler. Braelin had no sympathy for these hunters, but he didn't kill this one, not yet. Before assuredly bleeding out from the arteries and veins severed without a means to cauterize shut. Braelin having to peer up at the taller man with a sneer had but one inquiry. "Did he pay you well enough?" In this, perhaps the boy's pride and smoldering rage would cost him, but at this moment he couldn't help himself.

Gritting his teeth, the dying leader of the group had a rebuttal that surprised Braelin in his newfound cocky demeanor. "I'm sure...he'll triple the price for the next group...and for the one after that." Chest going through several spasms in the struggled dialogue, but still impressive in how steady he kept a grizzled tone, Braelin didn't catch a quick grab at the belt pack. "He's got your number, boy." Another high-pitched screech, but this was no blaster. Braelin instinctively pounded his hand at his feet, dropping him through a now spacious opening in the floor. He'd escape the blast if only barely, his form showered in splintered wood and fine particulate as a bright red pulse of energy lit up the hole he'd made.

Even the small victory did not allow a moment's rest. If there were others they'd not wait for him to catch his breath. He wanted to curl up into a pile and have all of this fade away, but there was no bundle of ravaged sheets and pillows, no pack to call his family, all that he had was his determination to push on. If Zeno wanted him so badly he could come and see him face to face. Pushing to his feet, Braelin staggered out from a nearly demolished housing unit.

Anywhere away from here.

---

A ship off planet was impossible to procure with how few credits he had to his name, but he had managed. Somehow, the youth crammed himself into the back of a shipping freighter whose destination he had not quite understood considering the golem had not politely asked to tag along in the first place.

Tattered cloak folded as neatly as possible next to where he sat, a satchel would be wearily pulled from his waist. Inside were a collection of strange tools of which Braelin took hold of just one device. Akin to a spatial screwdriver, it radiated a soothing glow when activated and passed over the breach in his forearm the energy weapon had inflicted. In his prime, such a wound would "heal" itself in perhaps mere minutes after being formed. Half a millennia after his expected lifespan left much to be desired in terms of how his golem shell operated. The core in his chest ran as strong as ever, but his body could make less efficient use of its innate gifts as time passed. The tool he held over his injuries focused the mana coursing throughout him as a means to kick-start replicating his semi-organic construct.

Hiding away the device once more, he'd pull out one last object before shutting those sullen emerald hues to the rickety freighter interior. Digits built and trained to destroy traced over every bump and crevice of a singular metacarpal bone, otherwise worn smooth from apparent handling as was going on now. One of the few remnants of Cheswick small enough for him to carry around with him at all times. Back home, she had a proper burial as she'd shown him that night so long ago. Along with that, he held out hope of finding a necromancer to...aid him. A woman smaller than him, with a fouler mouth than he, and often dressed in a stark white suit.

Ziggy Stardust.

The golem may not have approved of anything she performed or stood for, but Braelin had long since discarded the childish notion of the universe working in the simplistic rules he'd created in his early days of innocence. There were others to go for sure, but the boy trusted few, and this one in particular he felt had the purpose to handle this one job no matter the price. He just had to find her, and lose any other goons Zeno would be sending his way...

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Ghostly's Things and Stuff [Read-Only] - Ghostly - 03-29-2015

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Ghostly's Things and Stuff [Read-Only] - Ghostly - 07-08-2015



Danderfell Kalamir, lord of clan Kalamir and purveyor of his expanse of a domain had old, weathered eyes, a look in them that he'd never be able to mask from public viewing. Despite his name holding quite the similarity to a well-known center-point of the Guardians, Cyril Kalmar, he was in fact not related in any way to the father figure of the Vigil's chosen. Actually, he took quite the offense to such claims. What he did share in common, was standing by the man's side on that fateful morn centuries ago. Like many others, the two lost the initial conflict against Aedraxis Mathos, who opened the world to the corruption of the death rifts and fractured the fragile ward that protected Telara from the planar lands. This was all exposition to tell a simple truth that Danderfell was an old fool, and he felt all the more aged with each passing day. Not physically, of course, his body stuck in his early thirties, practically in peak prime as he fought to secure peace in Mathosia. One of many benefits to Ascension.

Under the dim flicker of candlelight, quill was put to blank paper, dark ink spilling scratches into the pages that held no meaning to anyone other than the writer. Danderfell's thoughts were his own worst enemy, and for them to fall into the wrong hands would spell a dismal future for the cleric. When not building his clan of one of greater status with his various schemes and business endeavors, he spent his free hours reading, which in turn leads to an introspect on what he had mentally consumed that would be jotted down for longevity.

The Blood Storm had been a consistent focal of his studies, as they should be considering just how prevalent a threat the sextet of planar dragons were to Telara, no, to all aspects of creation. Like many topics, his interest waned on them in his travels, finding new harbingers of oblivion with every bit of earth overturned. The Ascended were akin to the gods, though not quite, of course, they were rather the children, raised above crippling mortality to serve a higher purpose. In this Danderfell questioned if there could be a step beyond what had been achieved through holy intervention. The Vigil had been able to alter mere mortals into near divine creatures of immortality. Death for an Ascended came rarely, and only under the most extreme of circumstances. His investigation came to a crux, and then stagnation which is where the elder man now stood, or rather sat in contemplation.

With a sigh, he placed the feather back into the inkwell and closed the leather backed tome before pushing out of his chair. So well-worn was his seat that the oils from his skin had left visible oxidation into the metal arms of the furniture. All of the books scattered haphazardly around the room, how many of those were codexes of his own, how many years had he dedicated to cataloging his adventures and curiosities? Surely this trove of information would be invaluable to historical archives around Telara. The shelf next to his curved desk were all neatly stacked together in row after row, labeled on the binding with the insignia of his clan and a numerical value next to it. In his gloved grip one more addition to the collection. The journal snug in its corner section, Lord Kalamir let pass a tired expression to his features as he stepped away from the confined space to stand before an even larger bookshelf for even more literary volumes.

It was nearly time.

Lately, he'd been plagued with the disappearance of his wife, though that was a tentative word. She was but a stand-in meant to look the part, a pawn to gain title by brokering into her family through marriage. Not that he particularly needed a woman by his side, but the company had been a pleasant change of pace to his usual solitude, even if it cost him a figurative arm and a leg in a dowry. He had taken her during his wedding night as was his duty as her husband, but clearly, it had not been the life she had wanted to live and fled shortly thereafter. He couldn't understand it, but Danderfell often did not care to emphasize with the feelings of others. Under normal circumstances, Danderfell would have been keen to cut his former spouse off as a loss. What Pfifer, Phi Phi to her betrothed, had done to garner his continued attention was burn down her entire village. Everything Danderfell had carefully constructed in regards to her as now a pile of ashes. Fitting perhaps, as that was as much weight that their marriage carried in the first place and what he would have been fine leaving at were she not a tarnish to his relatively good name.

Wasting far too many valuable days and nights, he'd donned his old Inquisitor garb to hunt down a witch, so to speak, but that trail ran cold fast and so too did his desire for confrontation. One day she'd come back to him he assumed, or not, as their brief moment together had long since passed.

A lever by the bookcase, in its appearance the mechanism would be unnoticeable without scrutiny. When pulled, the ceiling high furnishing slid out from its position and settled against the side of the staircase. A secret opening; the decor shifting from warm wood and cloth to ancient stone, a faint dusting of sand on the flooring. It was as though this hidden chamber had been here far longer than the structure built around it, even a simpleton could tell at a glance. The distance traveled was short, only a few steps before the narrow hallway leading to a cramped mausoleum of sorts, though void of any tomb. Instead, there was a strange device composed of blood red crystals and ancient Eth technology encompassing the back wall, and a pedestal before it appeared to be a console of some kind. The combination was generating a fluctuating portal of energies, stabilizing only when Danderfell held out a firm hand to an orb atop the carved rock table in front of him.

As if putting the entire collection of artifacts in their proper alignment, the small enclosure quickly filled with a translucent haze of purple and the flux of the portal settled into a constant state. Unintelligible whispers crowded an otherwise clear head of the lone male. His memories drifted to an encounter in the far reaches of Tarken Glacier. An angelic beast who seemed to command the armies of flames that were close to overrunning the icy continent at the end of reality. Samekh had been their name, and then after a close defeat by the cleric, whom he later learned to call a Tenebrean, left with a cryptic message that laid clear the path that he traipsed now.

"After all, you should know better than anyone that this is not the way to kill an ascended."

An Ascended with the power that they wielded was unheard of, altering the fabric of the cosmos itself. That is what Danderfell set his sights upon, and nothing less. Distancing himself from the control crystal broke whatever plane the gateway had connected to, the room returning as it had been moments before and giving off just the hum of magical generators. Running strong, but shaking digits through slicked back golden locks he turned away as though unable to even look at the contraption another second.

Leaving, he shut the entrance to the alcove with a flick of the lever. There was much work to be done still.

---

RE: Ghostly's Things and Stuff [Read-Only] - Ghostly - 10-28-2016



Multicolored irises of deep reds and browns swirled rapidly, unseen thanks to dark lenses. An auditorium, well kept and clean held close to a hundred individuals in a rather sweltering heat. Unbothered by the climate, Nic sat in the back row by his lonesome, completely out of place in appearance considering the locale. Still, the gawking garnered from the wrinkled older women and fresh college students went fully ignored. There were bigger fish to fry, at least they should hope so.

"We are pliable. Love need not be a command nor faith a dictum. I am my own god..."

John Malcolm, age thirty-four, and the pure focus of Nic's study behind stern features and a hidden gaze. At a glance, there was nothing spectacular about the preacher. John was as mortal as they came, which would bring to question why a metaphysical god amongst men had been tailing him. Standing at his podium in his pressed suit and slick blonde hair, he eloquently spoke in a spot on Cambodian even as he talked about turning these people from a faith they had been following from a time so long ago that Nic himself was but a fledgling in the fleshlands.

"We are here to unlearn the teachings that shackle and bind, to break free and empower us."

Nicholaus Avrey Morandori, huntsman of his clan was in the capital city of Cambodia to assess the potential damage this man might cause to the overall faith of humanity. It was a vague concept to grasp one's head around, but when it came down to it, the Fae only existed as long as humans believed in them. Were he a madman rambling on the street corners with passersby giving him the stinkeye, he could continue to do so with impunity. John traveled the globe in chartered flights with the backing organization devoted to tearing apart organized religion brick by brick.

Three sermons later and Nic had been no closer to weaseling himself into the atheistic foundation. John had proven himself a dead end. Now the mess that the preacher had made needed to be cleaned up; better yet made an example of. A guttural groan escaped the broad, toned chest of the Fae as he rose to his towering height. Snakeskin boots clicked across the polished wood-paneled floors as the rugged looking man went methodically from one entrance to another bolting the double doors and snapping off the locking mechanisms as though they were made of butter between his fingers. Despite his size, he went about this task relatively overlooked; a couple onlookers observed in meek silence even as John rambled on.

It wasn't until Nicholaus approached the raised platform did John take a pause in his otherwise long-winded discourse. "Excuse me, there will be a meet and greet after the..." In one swift motion, Nic grabbed the shades off of his face and flung them at John with inhuman swiftness and force. The impact shattered the frames and knocked the stocky male off of his feet with a startled yelp. Unlike John, the Morandori was not one for speeches and he certainly wasn't one for explaining his actions. This was a stubborn nail that needed to be pounded into place, and Nic was the hammer. Up on display in front of the spectators, Nic rose his leg up high and like the tool that he was crushed the blasphemers head into a mess of brain and bone. For the first time in an hour within the auditorium, there was dead silence save for the splintering of wood and the sickening squelch of blood as the man in the snakeskin jacket dug his heel into the floor of the stage. When that cold, emotionless gaze of his hit the audience, that is when the screams filled the room.

Minutes later, Nic pushed through the main entrance, the solid metal doors snapping from their hinges. There was no enjoyment garnered from this assignment. A huntsman as he was, stepping on ants was hardly a proper means to keep up his skillset. It would be more of a hassle for Nick to clean the blood out of his jacket and boots; a task he did not look forward to. Retrieving his phone from out of a pocket in his loose jeans he made his way into a vacant alley away from the scene of the crime. Once, twice it rang before the other side picked up. "Nicholaus here, the job is done. I'll need another lead, this one ended up cold." The line going dead, Nic looked up to the darkening sky with those impossible eyes. How much longer would the people continue to believe in them?

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RE: Ghostly's Things and Stuff [Read-Only] - Ghostly - 10-31-2016



Lilly Vander was feeling surprisingly decent in this current point in time. Her last few bouts had all been solid victories, and her body felt none the worse for wear. In fact, she was still coasting a nice high from her usual cocktail of pills. Despite her win rate, the crowd surrounding the cage seemed quite displeased with her performance. Perhaps her success here was less than desirable considering the past two goons she'd dropped were favorites of the pit. That and the lioness was a newcomer with an arrogant attitude and a set of tits instead of a cock. No matter, the adrenaline coursing through her system was what mattered the most in the end, though the substantial payout she was sure to receive after this match was nothing to sneer at either.

If she was a brighter lass she might have listened to the old adage, not to count her money at the table; it probably would have helped the gambler avoid the right hook to her clenched jaw. Her teeth rattled in her skull and the blow stunned her for a moment. A second was enough of an opening for her opponent to get in a quick and dirty jab to the tip of her nose. "Shit," she snarled stumbling back towards the edge of the arena with a steady stream of blood flowing down her lips.

Barely a few inches under six feet, Lilly was by no means a dainty woman, but the grinning ass of an assailant she was up against had a solid foot on her with biceps as large as her head and speed that was betrayed by his massive stature. Vega Salazar, this is a fight she'd have to win with calculated footwork and precise cuts into his vitals, so, everything she was awful at when even when properly medicated. With a throaty chuckle, she began to bounce on her red high tops and brushed at her beaten nose with bandaged hands. Hues as green as a forest canopy scanned his movements while the lioness approached, her steps like a dance to a beat only she could hear.

There was the right hook that caught her before, but this time she pulled her head back to avoid it. Keeping low, Lilly dashed by his turned torso and raked her clawlike nails across the rippling obliques helping to support Vega's towering figure. A cry of pain earned from the round and an elbow sent her way in retaliation. The huntress sidestepped so that she was directly in front of him and kicked hard downward into the knee that had locked to hold him upright. A sickening crack sounded as the bone was forced out from its socket.

Crashing to that same ruined knee, Lilly brazenly flashed him a grin not dissimilar to the one shown to her prior. Her cocky demeanor did not go unpunished; when it came down to it, she was a rather poor study. Reaching out, a strangling grip latched onto her throat and wasted no time choking the life out of her. She couldn't move an inch away, only able to flail about while a vicious look burned into her being. Vision fading to black she lashed out. There was no way in hell that the last visage she'd see would be Salazar's ugly grimace. With a kick of her long leg upward and met soft, vulnerable flesh. The vice on her neck tightened more so and she thought it was over, and then it was. The beastly fellow released Lilly to reach for his loins and after catching her breath she slammed her knee into the bridge of his nose, laying him flat on his back.

When the brute Vega had her in a death grip, the spectators had been in uproarious cheer. However, with Lilly's arms stretched upwards in victory, a hostile silence had befallen the arena. She wouldn't let it get to her, not with her temples throbbing with every beat of her heart and her meds quickly wearing off. The gate to the cage was opened with her approach and with an upward palm reaching out at the host of the fighting pit she broke her silence. "Pay up." The cash would keep her out of dismal fight clubs like this one, at least for a week or so before she blew through it all.

Dirty blonde locks tied up in a bun, the man in a gaudy scarlet suit dug out a folded stack of hundreds from his coat pocket. As he handed it over, the wad was dropped to the floor without so much as an acknowledgment. 'That's alright, Lilly, let them be bitter.' Bending over with a grunt, the lioness picked up the money only for her world to go white with blinding pain as she collapsed to the filth covered cement floor. It wouldn't last for long as she passed out once a hooded man with a metal bat clocked her one more time from behind for good measure.

---

Lilly came to later both confused and immediately in distress. Eyelids attempting to both open and wince at the same instant she could only see the plaid fabric of someone's shirt who reeked of shit whiskey. The realization hit her all at once, but the lioness was paralyzed in shock as she tried to regain control of her motor functions. Sandwiched between two men, both her ass and cunt were being assaulted and had been for some length of time now. How long had she been out for? Groaning in discomfort, she also found her hands bound behind her back. Still, that didn't stop her from getting a look around the room with a pained tilt of her head to the side.

Back in the arena, she was apparently the post-show entertainment regardless of how vehemently they disapproved of her performance. "Hey, she tightening up. I think she's coming to." Apparently, her stirring had not gone unnoticed much to her dismay. "All the better." The man to her rear said in between savage thrusts that ripped cries out of her throat. "There we go, It was like fucking a corpse. Maybe now we can have some real fun." Woozy as she might have been from several strikes of a bat to the back of her skull, Lilly was not so far gone that she would even for one second accept her place as this third rate fight club's cumdumpster. Her pride as a Simba of the Bastet would not allow it, she would not allow it. A lion's rage is quick to spark and as vast as the ocean itself; few creatures were able to match the fire in a Simba's heart. Usually, she had her common sense about her and was kept well medicated to temper her temper.

Neither were the case now.

The lioness let the singular emotion wash over her like a tidal wave, even as the pair of walking cocks blew their loads into her holes. Her muscles strained, and pupils dilated as she didn't even try to hold back her shifting transformation. Elation turned to terror for the ones closest to Lilly, as the sets of arms holding her in place dropped her in an instant. In seconds her form became something entirely inhuman, but still strikingly beautiful if one were to judge on aesthetics. Standing at over seven feet, her lithe figure covered in a golden coat of fur. What would be beautiful for certain, though, was the carnage to come. With a roar through her razor sharp maw, she took and a single step and a single swipe at one of her partners, his head coming clean off of his shoulders and flying into the fence of the ring.

"She's just a werebeast, put her down. You all can handle one bitch." Surprisingly steeled words from the host that had deceived Lilly in the first place, and perhaps it helped keep a few from bolting for the doors in fear, to stand their ground even as they pissed themselves. Surely, he must have felt somewhat safe in the backline. The other male in the enclosed space with her was curled into a ball behind her as if it was merely a nightmare. The lioness gripped him by the arm and flung him with such force that his arm tore off at the shoulder. The flailing carcass impacted the gate and snapped the hinges from the impact freeing the beast, not that a simple cage could contain her. Metahumans these men might have been, but she was furry filled shifter with claws that could rend flesh like paper to a shredder and a near lack of pain recognition.

Red dyed her coat with each fool that stood in her path to their tacky suited leader. They weren't expecting something like her, there were no silver bullets in their guns, nor were their blades of similar design. Taking a shotgun discharge to her back merely caused her to crush the man's ribcage with a powerful back kick. A telekinetic tried to hold her in place for others to strike at her, unsuccessfully, he then made to pierce her with a steel pole. Instead, she caught it and hurled it through his stomach. On all fours, she pounced through the air and slammed down onto the fight club host, shattering his arms and sinking teeth as long his fingers into his neck. He undoubtedly deserved this as she ripped at his supple tissue, showing herself in his gore.

The rage subsided with time and a lack of fresh victims. Those who hadn't escaped painted the walls and floors, Lilly basking in the mess she'd made in a post-hormonal haze. On the ground, she grabbed at the discarded stack of bills and clutched it to her bare chest with a content sigh as she struggled to push herself to her feet. Hastily, she searched for her scattered clothes and donned them before dashing out of the underground club.

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RE: Ghostly's Things and Stuff [Read-Only] - Ghostly - 11-13-2016



Physiology and Anatomy:

The Taldarian are what one might call a model design in humanoid appearance. In nearly every sense they match up with the human hailing from Earth, perhaps even sharing a similar ancestry.

Like humans, Taldarians possess a similar dental pattern containing molars, premolars, canines, and incisors. Taldarians are born with an extra set of canines which gives off a somewhat menacing look. The male facial structure is built in a more rigid manner commonly giving them square jawlines and strong cheek bones, while women typically have rectangular faces and sharp bone structure.

Taldarians are built somewhat sturdier than humans, their denser bone design provides a more filled out and equal frame for the men. The women are similar in that few are built lanky, and while their legs and arms somewhat longer than their male counterparts they seldom develop a slender build. Since they are in line with the galactic average of humanoid forms Taldarians are capable of mating with nearly all other compatible races. Offspring can only be produced with a genetically similar makeup, however. Most children are conceived within the harsh winter months, but mating can occur at any point in the year if a whim is struck. Female Taldarians give birth in pairs of fraternal twins, one female, and one male. Higher volume pregnancies are extremely rare but possible. In these circumstances, the mother's life is often at risk and surgical intervention is required. The twins are connected throughout their lives through a mental connection and are raised almost inseparable until adulthood. Mental development is increased with the twins feeding of their sibling's experiences. Physical maturity is reached in their mid-teens similarly to humans.

Taldarians are bipedal, with two arms and two legs.
Taldarians have four fingers and an opposable thumb on each hand, and five toes on each foot.
Taldarians irises are commonly colored in dark/light browns, or amber, though rarely they can be a deep blue or silver coloration.
Taldarians hair and skin coloration vary from region to region as it is with humans living on Earth. Skin and hair pigmentation is darker the closer one gets to Voskova's equator, and fairer Taldarians populate the far north or the far south. With the ease of travel on their homeland, a mix of attributes can be found all over the globe.

The average Taldarians male lives to be 120-126 (earth) years old.
The average Taldarians female lives to be 132-138 (earth) years old.
The average Taldarians male is 5.11-6.2 feet tall.
The average Taldarians female is 5.3-5.5 feet tall.


Planet Voskova's details and composition:

Voskova is a planet within the Beta Luporous Star System. The first of two life sustaining planets in the star system, Voskova is unique in that is comprised of one continuous continent surrounded by a mega ocean. Genova is the name of the massive landmass with its internal borders divided into numbered regions. Home to the central government and base of the main military force on Voskova, Region one protects and governs the seven other zones from within their mountainous bunkers that make up their relatively minute territory.

Regions two, and five are sprawling counties committed to food production for not only themselves but exporting it to other regions without the means to sustain their populations. Industrious and selfless people, they prosper with little government intervention within significant portions of the grasslands and temperate forests living relatively simple lives.

Region four is the largest of all the territories consisting of the coastline surrounding all of Genova. With such a wide swath of territory this region is a jack of all trades. Deep ocean mining, fishing, hydro energy production, naval defense, scientific research, space programs, and general housing for individuals wishing to live by the sea of which there are plenty make up just some of the duties taken upon Region Four.

Region three and six are geographically opposite one another on each pole of the world. Each is devoted to similar purpose, interstellar monitoring, global climate conditions, and regional conflicts. Few choose to live in the harsh arctic and tundra environments, but those that do are compensated nicely. Both of these zones consist of a handful of protected facilities, but the southern one perhaps the most so as it had to be built on an ocean platform.

Region seven is the second largest of the zones. It would be considered the typical cityscape. Built of business highrises, the financial districts, entertainment, medical, housing, and other various necessities, region six has carved out a swath of the natural landscape throughout Genova to make an advanced home for most of the citizens.

Region eight is similar to region seven if you replaced the lavish lifestyles and towering skyscrapers with miles upon miles of gray covering the land. The industrial region has torn apart the earth, smothering it in advanced factories producing the technical marvels Voskova exports around the universe. With just one look inside these colossal production halls, one might just understand why the Taldarians have devolved into technophiles.

Scattered across the vast ocean surrounding Genova lies numerous islands and archipelago chains, many of these lie uninhabited with few individuals seeking exile from the rest of the population. Some are held however for corporate and government research facilities, unnamed prisons, or conservation zones for dying indigenous species.

Galaxy: Beta Luporous
Planet Type: Exoplanet of a planetary system
Satellites: Two moons, Vos I and Vos II
Internal structure of Voskova:
1. Crust: 200 km thick
2. Mantle: 3,350 km thick
3. Core: 3,000 km thick
Orbital Distance: 1.9343 e+8 Kilometers
Orbital Period: 600.33 Earth Days
Radius: 6,550 km
Day Length: 15 hours, roughly 8 hours of light.
Surface Pressure: 96.958 kPa
Surface Gravity: 1.1 Earth gees
Surface Temp: Min (-9.0° C/15.8° F ) Max (32.1° C/89.8° F)
Mass: 1.211 Earth Masses
Water Sources: 70% of Voskova is made up of water sources (Oceans, Lakes, Rivers, Ice shelves and glaciers)
Biomes (by spatial size): Mountains (8%), Temperate Grassland (20%), Temperate forests (20%), Boreal forests (15%), Arctic (7%), Tundra (10%) Desert (10%), Shrubland (10%).


Inhabitants:

Taldarians: The singular sentient species living on Voskova. In appearance, they could easily be considered the average humanoid. Where their ancestral roots lie has never been determined, the most common theory is that Taldarians are an offshoot of the same space particles that gave way to the humans of Earth.

In the modern era, the Taldarians face little in terms of natural predators save for the monstrous beasts lurking in the expansive depths of the ocean. Alien threats give the Taldarians only a slight pause. Savants with a circuit board, the united government of Voskova boasts a daunting advanced space fleet to any would be invading force.

A civilization on the bleeding edge of technical advancement, Taldarian society could be considered by some to be utopian. Nearly every square inch of their Pangea continent has been mapped out and settled for use in either city structures, resource mining, research development, farmlands, or industrial factories. Nearing the maximum sustainable population, the Taldarians spread out to their twin moons and other nearby planetoids to develop livable colonies.

Overpopulation is a constant issue as all births come in pairs of two, one male and one female. These twins have an empathic connection to one another from the moment they develop in the womb until the second either dies. It is believed that this development in their evolution has allowed them as a species to reach the heights they have in such quick order compared to others. This mental link imparts the strength of a second mind to ease any emotional trauma or distress the other might feel allowing for greater focus on matters at hand. Regardless of the distance from their sibling, they can always be sensed as if right by their side. Most studies from research institutes give credit to this connection for their astonishingly low crime rates, as it acts as a set of checks and balances to keep ill thoughts at bay. There are always outliers of course.

World Population: 8.2 Billion Taldarians
Largest agglomeration: Region Four and Region Seven.
Most Widely Spoken Languages: Tal'Rasch, Galactic Standard.
Government: Each Region elects a council member to be seated in the governing headquarters in Region One to determine policies concerning Voskova as a whole.
Religion: Numerous religions exist on planet Voskova. Several have grown on home soil while many others were brought in from across the stars. However, the majority hold their faith in the spirit within the circuits; a belief that by worshiping technology the light of divinity is shone upon them. Beyond that, a fanatical subsection has been rising over the recent decades. Their belief is that by merging one's own flesh with machine, that one is able to ascend closer to spiritual enlightenment.

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RE: Ghostly's Things and Stuff [Read-Only] - Ghostly - 11-13-2016


Physiology and Anatomy:

The Valgaari are monstrous reptilian beasts, towering over most humanoid races and then some. Cold-blooded by design, they fundamentally live in temperate or hot environments. Certain technical advancements can allow them to survive in all locales, however. Lacking any outward physical features that exist on humanoids, the Valgaari protect what would be otherwise exposed appendages internally behind their nigh impenetrable dermal defenses. Their ears exist as small slits on the side of their skulls and while they are fully capable of hearing the Valgaari as a whole have a fairly diminished auditory sense. Valgaari eyes are thick black pools that see the typical color spectrum rather poorly but can view not only the infrared range but thermal radiation as well.

From head to toe, the Valgaari are covered in thick, smooth scales, lacking any hair follicles that the mammals of the universe would possess. Typically, the scales of the Valgaari come in earthy hues such as browns and greens, but oddities sprout up every so often and are raised lavishly for breaking from the norm. They would best be compared to the skin of snakes, though Valgaari scales are their ultimate biological evolution. The protective layer is just that, a first and best guard against any threat. The scales are one continuous hue and pattern, save for a strip down their spine and across the top of their heads. These areas are the defining visual characteristics of any Valgaari.

As with their lack of ears, the Valgaari nostrils are slits into the skin instead of outward protrusions. In this case, there are four almost unnoticeable horizontal openings in the center of their flat faces. Valgaari have two sets of arms for a total of four, each are capable of full independence of moment from the others allowing for incredible feats of dexterity and strength.

The Valgaari are built like tanks, with a torso thick as a tree trunk and limbs wider than a man's head. While mating with other humanoid races is possible, it is highly discouraged. Most women would be physically unable to accept the girth of even the least endowed male cocks of the Valgaari, and the female Valgaari are sexually aggressive to the point where other Valgaari are only able to withstand their violent sexual assault. Valgaari men hold feats of strength in the summer to win over the attention of potential mates attention of women so they can produce an offspring by spring. Usually, only a single child is born from this coupling and father likely never know who his progeny is as the mother retreats to the nursery after conception. Valgaari infants physically mature in a rapid manner from the moment they break free from their egg casing, reaching adolescence within a manner of a year. From that period onward their mental development is handled by the matriarchy, funneling the youths into roles within society deemed appropriate for them.

Valgaari are bipedal, with four arms and two legs.
Valgaari have three fingers and an opposable thumb on each hand, and four toes on each foot.
Valgaari irises are nonexistent, instead, their entire ocular unit is a murky black orb lacking any discernible definitions.
Valgaari lack hair and the coloration of their scales vary from region to region as it is with humans living on Earth.

The average Valgaari male lives to be 720-800 (earth) years old.
The average Valgaari female lives to be 1200-1300 (earth) years old.
The average Valgaari male is 7.8-8.5 feet tall.
The average Valgaari female is 8.8-10.0 feet tall.


Planet Brach'tier's details and composition:

Brach'tier is a rather large moon orbiting the gas giant Brach in Epsilon Lambda System. In a system of gas planets which obviously cannot sustain life in the traditional sense, Brach'tier finds itself the only planetoid with sentient creatures populating its surface. Being a moon orbiting a planet, which itself is in a circumbinary orbit of two stars, the global environment is in constant flux on Brach'tier. The theory behind Brach'tier's origin is that it once was a protoplanet drifting through the void of space before it was captured by Brach's strong gravitational pull.

At a glance, Brach'tier appears most inhospitable and upon closer inspection, this would absolutely prove to be the case. At one point oceans seemed to cover the now barren rock now, though, many simply exist as cavernous trenches filled with sand and despair. Brach protects Brach'tier from the deadly solar flares from the twin suns, but there is little recourse from the extreme heat. While the Valgaari are astonishingly resilient to the trials Brach'tier, even they cannot exist out in the open for extended periods.

Nowadays, little of the surface is populated. Instead, the Valgaari cities are carved into the ground and mountains named for the matriarch of that particular tribe. Tch'ava is the largest Valgaari tribe and though no other would admit to it, the ruling force upon Brach'tier. This empire stretches across what would be considered the most liveable section of land. During the fall season, the Tch'ava tribe is able to vacate the caverns and mountains safely. They use this time to collect the thawed glacial water and hunt for larger prey. It is also home to the Valley of the Matriarchs, the resting place for all fallen tribal leaders and war heroes.

Under the surface, tunnels connect nearly every city no matter the distance as it is the only means to trade as well as wage war, each go hand in hand with the Valgaari.

The life forms that are able to survive the intense conditions under the blistering suns are terrible foes even to the Valgaari who fear no one. Eight-legged stalkers three stories high scour the deserts for their prey of choice, the sandworms which can grow to be more massive than the stalkers themselves. Underground vicious molelike monsters nearly as large as the Valgaari fight for territory in a constant struggle against a superior foe. Nothing weak can survive on Brach'tier, pray for all travelers that wander this way.

Galaxy: Epsilon Lambda
Planet Type: Moon of the gas giant Brach in a binary star system.
Satellites: It is the singular satellite of Brach.
Internal structure of Voskova:
1. Crust: 150 km thick
2. Mantle: 2,600 km thick
3. Core: 2,500 km thick
Orbital Distance (Brach): 1.496 e+8 Kilometers
Orbital Distance (Brach'tier): 384,400 Kilometers
Orbital Period (Brach): 300.3 Earth Days
Orbital Period (Brach'tier): 35 Earth Days
Radius: 5,250 km
Day Length: 15 hours, roughly 8 hours of light.
Surface Pressure: 123.1 kPa
Surface Gravity: 2.1 Earth gees
Surface Temp: Min (-151.8° C/-241.2° F) Max (98° C/208.4° F)
Mass (Brach): 23.17 Earth Masses
Mass (Brach'tier): 0.85 Earth Masses
Water Sources: 5% of Voskova is made up of water sources (Underground Lakes, Rivers, Ice shelves, and glaciers)
Biomes (by spatial size): Mountains (10%), Desert (80%), Shrubland (4%), Arctic (6%).


Inhabitants:

Valgaari: The Valgaari are the dominant sentient species living on Brach'tier. In appearance, they are considered fearsome to nearly all other beings and for good reason. When one stands at over eight feet with hard reptilian scales and is packing four muscular arms, it garners such a reaction.

Try as it might the savage world of Brach'tier could not snuff out the fledgling Valgaari race. With weather patterns scorching the world on a cyclical basis the Valgaari had no choice but to flee into the underground. Their monstrous strength allowed the Valgaari to carve a path into the solid earth providing a permanent sanctuary. Once a foothold had been made the Valgaari flourished as much as a violent, warlike race of theirs could.

The Valgaari went completely unnoticed by the universe at large if only because their star system resided in a relatively quiet sector of the outer rim. However, this would change the fateful day a starship coming out of a failed warp would crash into the surface of Brach'tier. As the Valgaari approached the wreck, the survivors thought themselves lucky to find the homeworld race willing to aid them. The situation turned quite suddenly when the Valgaari began tearing the offworlders to pieces, the spacefaring race finding their weapons ineffective against the Valgaari's thick hides.

The Valgaari were an adaptive sort, they took to the technical advances with gusto, appropriating each piece of the massive warship they could get their hands upon and scuttling it back to their caves. While the Valgaari were not a simple race, their means of warfare was limited to metal works and primitive gunpowder. With their newfound weapons and understanding of the possibility of greater progress, the Valgaari looked to the stars hopeful for any alien unfortunate enough to find their way to Brach'tier.

Come they did, ship after ship would arrive following galactic rushes to explore the far edges of the outer rim. Each arrival was met with a violent fate, their hardware stripped apart and studied. While the Valgaari would never have the means to mass produce such weaponry or starships, they did learn how to rebuild the tech that made its way to Brach'tier. Eventually, they designed a gravitational field generator around the moon to drag any nearby ship into orbit whereupon they'd either be shot down or forced to land.

Currently, the Valgaari are a race with a small but dangerous subsection of the universe knowing about them. Always looking for conflict to participate in, the warrior bands of the Valgaari are contracted out for wars across the stars to be paid in blood and tech.

World Population: 42 Million Valgaari
Largest agglomeration: Tch'ava
Most Widely Spoken Languages: Valian, with Galactic Standard rapidly rising in speakers.
Government: Each tribe has a Matriarch that can be challenged in single combat to the death for the position. Although no singular tribe leads the planet as a whole, Tch'ava is the dominant faction and is silently respected as such.
Religion: The Valgaari respect strength above all else, and while religious texts have made their way to Brach'tier through alien crafts, none have replaced the worship of the Golem God, Abrass. Never seen, but always respected, Abrass is supposedly a monolithic mountain-sized creation as old as the Brach'tier itself, crushing all opposition to those that stand opposed to it and sheltering those that worship it.

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RE: Ghostly's Things and Stuff [Read-Only] - Ghostly - 11-14-2016


All eyes were on Braelin and Cheswick this frigid evening. The unique looking couple was currently holed up in an unmarked hostel off the beaten path in St. Petersburg. Tonight was the last day each could afford to stay in this congested hole in the wall, their pockets revealing a perpetual state of poverty. Braelin much to his chagrin mistakenly voiced his concerns over how neither himself nor his wolf companion possessed any meaningful skills to keep them in one place for longer than a week or so. Cheswick fought in the underground pits when searching them out, typically earning herself a new scar and only handful of bills on an average visit. Braelin attempted to compete alongside her only once, in which he garnered a stern stare from the silver topped Garou and a one-word reply.

'No.'

Cheswick's retort came accompanied with a bark to her voice that gave cause for the room to cower back in their fleece covers. Apparently, from her perspective, she'd gotten along readily prior to meeting the golem, and now would be no different. Braelin displayed no such meekness under the fiery gaze in those silver oculars of hers, standing his ground and pointing out how when he'd first met her she was an emaciated mess wrapped in bandages; how she nearly died in their earliest encounter at the One Night Stand.

If anything, Cheswick's stubbornness had no equal, save for rubbing off on Braelin. Suggesting that they return to the metahuman bar where the rent and food had no monetary charge might have been a mistake as well, and Braelin was not so dense as not to catch the shifting wind in their argument. Nothing could impede Braelin from accompanying his wolf across the ends of the Earth, not even Cheswick. The youthful male seized hold of her shaking hands and pressed his lips to hers before she could escalate their tiff further.

Entirely unfair, Braelin knew his display of raw affection was a sure way to bring Cheswick back down from what would have been an explosive departure from the hostel. Entwining her pale digits with his, he led her down to the creaky mattress they shared while each hurriedly shed layer after layer. This left the dispute unresolved as it had been for months now, but it would help both forget their problems and simply focus their devotion to the other. Cheswick and Braelin held unconditional love for no one else.

Now the surrounding group modestly observed the foreigners for an entirely different reason. Without shame or acknowledgment of their surroundings, the Garou and the golem exchanged heated kisses between heavy breaths. Cheswick was certainly not voluptuous, and Braelin a far cry from a bronzed Adonis, but this wouldn't stop fresh claw marks covering the boy's back as he thrust his cock into her waiting cunt. With a fistful of her messy locks and his face in the crook of her neck, Braelin reveled in the bliss of his mate. Their union wasn't drawn out, more quick and full of need. A hand on her rear, Braelin hiked her up while she wrapped those long legs around his back to hold him in place as he finished with an unusually vocal grunt, cherishing statements spoken while dull bites accompanied her throat. "Silly boy." Cheswick sighed contently, kissing his nose lovingly as he made to draw a thick blanket over the pair. Pulling him close she'd drift off with Braelin all while leaking their mixed juices across his thigh.

The morning would come, and surely this one would be as rough if the past few were an indicator, but the two had one another and neither would stop fighting to keep that a constant.

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RE: Ghostly's Things and Stuff [Read-Only] - Ghostly - 11-28-2016


Technical documents were visibly scanned with an alacrity above and beyond even talented speed readers. With his ocular implant, Zasz Fenris needed only to glance at a page or screen of words and the hardware coupled with advanced translation and storage software executed the rest. With select topics such as botany, the slaver preferred to savor the old-fashioned act of reading itself, but with manuals, news feeds, and content of comparable bulk information he'd rather just store to access when necessary. Suddenly his vision blurred, muscles around his artificial eye contracting uncontrollably. The spasms lasted but a fleeting few moments.

The implant was acting up, and the frequency of the episodes continued getting worse.

Thankfully, Zasz was already on route to this fix this complication; that is as soon as his automated skiff reached its destination.This fellow, in particular, had sold him the malfunctioning optic and Zasz fully intended to collect on a promised lifetime warranty. Always a pain in his ass these matters were. In many reaches of space, Zasz was designated quite clearly as a person of interest to the galactic federation in over two hundred abduction cases; a reward of ten million credits for leads that successfully brought in an arrest. However, certain organizations and governments were considerably displeased with the idea of the captain being detained by the legal security of a government prison complex choosing to post bounties of their own varying from fifty million all the way up to one hundred and fifty million credits dead or alive.

This left Zasz coming up short in options regarding surgical operations to receive implants, and the individuals he'd vetted for these procedures were few and far between. Trust when concerning Zasz Fenris was about as trying a feat to earn as a mark escaping his clutch. Luckily, Zasz had a silver lining in all of this. Back on Voskova, there existed a lovely lass who at great risk to herself transported barebone suits to him when she was able. On Voskova, one's family was everything and Zasz never once forgot this. Again, his problem was modifying the suit itself and having physical modifications to his body performed.

Having traveled for the better part of a standard day put Zasz on edge. The conversation with his connection had been painfully vague.

"I'll find you when you get there, don't worry about it."

Zasz worked best with all the pieces on the table, so to speak. How was he not to present a measure of concern when a crucial detail such a secure meeting location was lacking? Either way, there was no sense complaining at this point, Zasz had already arrived. As he docked at the out of the way spaceport, Zasz crammed the thin booklet into the confines of his winter coat. From behind his helmet, the slaver took note of the activity in what appeared to be a bustling marketplace. Removing his hulking figure from the cramped cabin of his taxi Zasz trudged onward without a real direction. This locale was far from desirable, teeming with cutpurses, prostitution, and currently three active fist fights. Where most would be wary at traipsing through a criminal infested port, Zasz instead felt at ease. There was a distinct lack of law enforcement. Also, one tended not to fuck with a seven-foot tall cyborg looking motherfucker without cause.

In that same vein, if one were to approach Zasz, they likely had business with him or were too high on red sand to recognize a threat. As a diminutive lad who had all of the distinct features of a thief blatantly approached Zasz, he rather took it as an invitation from his supplier.

Following in step removed the pair from the populated sectors and into twisting corridors. An occasional shout or scream rang out, but in reality, it was all but drowned out by the hum of the inner workings of the station. Coming to a halt for a second, the boy pointed at a nondescript section of titranium plating to their side before stepping into it and vanishing. Curious, but not hesitant, Zasz followed suit and in turn found himself in a brightly lit store front containing various humanoid modifications.

"Ah, Brax'ii, I see that you've chosen a locale most inconspicuous. A refractive and adaptive hard light barrier to obscure the entrance? A nice touch." Zasz spoke with his modulated pitch through the filter of his mask, his back to the owner and the boy as he ran his metallic digits over where he had passed by, inspecting the sophisticated method of cloaking.

Brax'ii was an odd gentleman if one could even fathom calling him as such. Hovering several feet in the air on a mobile platform, sat the fat torso of a pale humanoid male, connected by various tubes and circuitry weaved into his base. There were two withered arms atrophied from disuse, What would serve as the cyborg's motor skills was a half dozen gold plated extensions, multi-jointed and tipped with numerous attachments for different functions. "Zasz, this is hardly a social gathering. I suspect you are here for something worth my time?" Brax'ii too had his face in an enclosure of sorts, though where Zasz had a militaristic design, Brax'ii had elected a hideous piece of headgear. Demonic features accented against a black steel backing, a deep crimson glow to the eye sockets with tall curved horns atop his skull. A growl of a tone emitted, but Zasz was not even remotely intimidated. Brax'ii was a clever creature and remarkably vain despite his unsightly body.

A hiss of air released as the latches connecting Zasz's helmet disconnected, the captain of the Greenhouse taking deep strides towards the counter Brax'ii floated behind. Removing the veil to reveal a scarred grimace of his own, he pointed a thick finger to his twitching ocular. "You botched the nervous attachment. Shit's spasming on the hourly now." The cybernetics dealer and physician levitated up and over the countertop to take a better survey of Zasz's complaint. Strange limbs began poking and prodding at the tough skin around the eye in question all while Zasz remained motionless as a statue. "I'm not surprised, you know. You gave me a timeframe to work with and I did just that, I thought you'd be back sooner, honestly. If you've got a few hours to spare, I can do this proper. Better yet, if you've credits to spare, I can upgrade it, got a newer model in a couple weeks back."

As it were, Brax'ii knew how to twist the augmented man's arm. He hadn't intended on spending a dime this whole trip, but here was about to fork over the credits to pay for a new implant as well as the doctor's exorbitant install rates. Placing a cred stick onto Brax'ii's platform with a sigh, Zasz meandered with his partner in tow, heading to the back room where the operations took place. "By the way, did you order that special part I forwarded to you in my last communique."

Suddenly disgruntled, Brax'ii groaned but gave a trio of clicks of his tongue in confirmation. "I am not installing that fetish suite of yours. You can pick up the package when you leave. Best do it yourself unless you want to lose some of that highly valued Fenris respect." Receiving only a low chuckle from the slaver, the two disappeared behind the curtain of the operating facility.

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RE: Ghostly's Things and Stuff [Read-Only] - Ghostly - 01-10-2017


Those familiar icy blues lazily flicked open once, then twice with third time the lids staying wide and alert. A midnight-hued void were the surroundings of Zeno Ralin, not a scape he was at all frightened of nor unknown to the abomination; that's what he was, after all, a monstrous creature without compare. If anything, Zeno was simply confused, unsure of how he came to be in this place, what day or even what year the galactic calendar listed. Despite being the lack of depth or recognizable features, the environment surrounding him was heavy with a foul aroma, sickly in essence as if one could touch the death and decay in the air.

Of course, Zeno had no reason to be perplexed or frightful when placed in a situation where most would be rendered insane. This was but an extension of himself, his vile aura.

As though it were second nature, Zeno closed his eyes and combed a set of digits through his slicked-back hair. The supernatural darkness immediately receded in a slithering manner, sounding as if it were a viscous torrent of waste. The room restored to a more natural state, Zeno still took several struggling moments to grasp at a question he asked himself far too many times as of late: where was he, and why was he here?

On an observation deck clearly, not from one of his ships, but perhaps the local moon orbiting a planetoid. From up on high, little could be gathered about from what appeared to be a habitable rock other than the absence of space traffic that accompanied any race that managed to develop a warp drive.

It would hit him while turning away from the massive glass pane that had been the viewport of the planet. "Right, The Ontarou Cluster." The typical tone that Zeno spoke in had long since faded, replaced by a reverberation processing such bass that it was nigh unintelligible. The Ontarou Cluster was unremarkable at best, a series of class B planets orbiting a singular sun with a gracious habitable region. Space flight had been achieved, and surprisingly the five billion or so intelligent life forms were at relative peace. Through his widespread connections, Zeno had learned of this sector and wished to move in and secure it for himself before the federation could intervene and implant their own governmental sanctions.

Neither would occur, as Zeno instead methodically wiped the slate clean and engorged himself on the lifeblood of this isolated solar system; billions of souls swallowed en masse and locked inside the vessel that was his abyssal form. Regardless of if this course of action was a slight to the corporation's motives was of insignificant consequence. Zeno had stepped down as the figurehead sweeps ago, their wealth and name were all that he required in furthering his personal advances.

Staggering, but with powerful steps, the still gorgeous and expensively tailored man made his way from the enclosed room to a meeting hall of sorts, vacant save for a private collection of servant droids and a golden topped gentleman sitting at the end of a lengthy table. "You look like shit, Zeno. Did you really absorb this entire sector?" Azreal chuckled to himself as he appraised one of the scourges wreaking terror across the stars, someone he on occasion called a friend. The shapeshifter had known Zeno longer than most, a feat that had not been without its fair share of risks and continued to be. At a glance, Zeno could pass off as he had in prior millennia, but now those vicious oculars lacked any semblance of focus, the calculative machinator that he used to be now lost to the primal urges that befit his ancient contract.

"I'm bursting at the seams," Zeno stated blankly in a resonating groan which even Azreal had difficulty understanding, eventually settling his gaze upon his partner as his expensive leather soles clicked on polished stone floors. "I can't...stop myself. I lose a piece of myself with each sentience I devour into my own." Reaching the spot where the shapeshifter was casually seated, the loosely collected monstrosity slammed a clenched fist into the aged wood of the table and sent a crumbling shockwave that showering fine splinters across the room. "If all you came here to do was insult me, then I will gladly pluck those golden eyes that you value so highly right out of your skull and swallow them whole."

Removing himself from his chair, Azreal retreated several paces back, Zeno's obtenebration spilling from the hem of his slacks and masking whatever surface the black ink touched. It was an involuntary measure with his control severely lacking, but not without a great threat presented.

"No, I'm sorry," Azreal paused with an almost sentimental look about his usually placid features. Whether it was a mask perhaps only Zeno could parse, if he was even able to by this point. "I came to say goodbye, to see you a final time before you were too far gone, though..."

It was Zeno's turn to lighten the mood somewhat with a laugh bordering a strained groan, the tendrils that had been spreading out around him receding slightly. "We're beyond that, I believe."

A silence fell between the pair of past associates, reminiscing on events that led to this meeting, or mayhaps nothing of the sort. From the floor, those iconic eyes belonging to an unforgettable individual rose to meet Azreal's in what might be their last encounter. Zeno, about to talk once more, found himself cut off by Azreal. "Even so, if I were to go now, our parting would be paltry at best." That said, the shapeshifter knew Zeno was holding back with a well-mastered control to keep his body from striking defensively; their time was short. "Too many people described you as a single-minded monster who existed to eat, fuck, and kill. Not to say that those three subjects were not your forte, but you were a tactician that knew how to play the great game on a scale many couldn't conceive." Without trepidation, Zeno's partner began to approach with careful steps as tendrils licked at his figure but did not hold him back. "You knew how to place yourself at the top even if it took a series of falls to do so even at the cost of those around you. I can appreciate that, though, my kind held no ties that could not be cut if the need arose." Standing face to face with the abomination, Azreal reached into one of the inner pockets of his coat and dug out a polished signet ring with Azreal's initials engraved as well a date, which would be when he had first joined the organization. "Our chapter comes to a close, and what lies in store for you I cannot imagine will be anything desirable, but in giving this to you I hope it helps you retain even a sliver of who you were." Placing the ring into Zeno's open palm which closed around it, the older man could only give a soft sigh in response; the willpower to hold back his obtenebration for one of his classic monologues simply wasn't there. "You should go, Azreal." Those icy blues looked into his past partner's golden ones a final time as the dark appendages began to wrap around his body.

Azreal wouldn't have to be told twice, his cruiser's teleporter warping him from the facility moments before the tentacles could do him any harm. From aboard his ship, the shapeshifter was now surrounded by a crew of a dozen, a command vessel in a fleet of a handful of military outfitted battlecruisers. "We have the station in sight, sir." One officer reported to Azreal who never took his gaze away from the sprawling viewport. Without hesitation, Azreal gave the order. "All batteries open fire." The warships under his direction loosed a volley of blinding laser fire and missile bombardment.

The observation structure, in every sense of the word, was obliterated in the blink of an eye, with the rest of the moon following suit after a sustained attack which lasted over the course of several lengthy minutes. Azreal of course, did not for one-second delude himself into the notion that the entity that was Zeno Ralin had been annihilated, but the message would be heard loud and clear: his presence was no longer to be tolerated by the powers he used to lead.

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RE: Ghostly's Things and Stuff [Read-Only] - Ghostly - 05-23-2017

|Lenthar Khalun| [FF14 Profile]

Character Name: Lenthar Khalun
Character Age: 30
Character Race: Au Ra
Character Gender: Male
Character Hair Color: Short straw blonde locks slicked back.
Character Eye Color: Bright Green
Character Skin Tone: A dark complexion with a reddish hue coming from his ancient ancestors.

Character Class(es)/Profession(s): Monk, Dragoon, Goldsmith, Miner
Character Alignment: Chaotic Good
Character Allegiance(s): Lenthar has ties to the Twin Adders as well as the Holy See of Ishgard.

Character Likes: A challenging hunt, the bustle of large cities, new experiences, alcohol, small women, the cold winters of Ishgard.
Character Dislikes: Silence when around others, traveling through deserts, cramped spaces.
Character Hobbies: Training, drinking, fighting, flirting, exploring.
Character Merits: Loyal to those who earn his trust, he will not hesitate to lend his skilled fists or lance in aiding those in need or against those that slight him.
Character Flaws: Boastful of his own skills and constantly looking for a challenge, Lenthar is not one to back down from a trial or bout of conflict even if the odds are against him. Thinking with his heart and emotions over logic can lead to stressful encounters with many a party he involves himself with. This is also true for women in his life as he tends to say what is on his mind regardless of tact or the consequences. Also, the Garleans tend to be a hot-button topic for the Au Ra and can send him into a blinding rage if a situation involving them arises.

Character History: A child in the city of Doma, Lenthar had been born Shima Montonari. Unfortunately, Doma had decided to rise up and free themselves from their vassalage of the Garlean Empire in their momentary political unrest, this led to the near destruction of Doma and Shima's parents fleeing the city-state with their child. Not getting far, they were cut down by Garlean pursuers, but before finishing off Shima, they would be taken by surprise, a band of scouts from a wandering Xaela tribe taking them out. Taking the lone Shima along with them, he became Lenthar of the Khalun tribe. A humble and close-knit family, they took to raising Lenthar as their own, teaching him to fight without the need of a weapon but his hands. Learning to mine the mountains they traversed in Othard territory for gemstones and ore to trade, Lenthar's new family would befall the same fate as his prior as a Garlean squadron moved in to claim the region's resources, exterminating the Khalun tribe as an afterthought. Barely escaping with his life, Lenthar managed to catch a trade ship to Eorzea in an attempt to start anew.

Character Reference: [To Come]
Character Extras: When sleeping alone, Lenthar almost always is plagued by night terrors of losing his loved ones so he is constantly trying to fill his bed, that is before he met his soulmate, Dax.

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