Post by .:~G:H:O:S:T~:. on Feb 11, 2007 18:24:12 GMT -5
Name:
Ret'ryla Tretani'espia; yet, she is known only as the Ghost
Gender:
female
Race:
Feit of full blood;
If you have not yet been enlightened, the feit race is a highly competitive and deadly race. They control the darkness and evil in the world. They are the lords of the Nether. Males of the species, are the most viscious of rogues. They are relentless, persistant, prideful, and ambitious--desiring what they will by whatever means they feel are necessary. They have no heart, and bear no mercy. The females however are slightly different. As if to counteract and balance out that malicious and malignant streak that the Feit Lords have wrought, they are more docile in personality and purpose. Though equally bearing of a dangerous and malignant edge, the a female feit shows touches of mercy--though the doses vary with each individual. They can even be "caring" in rare instances. They are not as ambitious or as "evil" as they're male counterparts, and this is partially due to their purpose as a mother. They could not properly raise and care for a child, if they did not have some merciful intuitions. Still, do not underestimate them. They are highly manipulative and are as venomous snakes--untrustworthy and dangerous.
Also, without knowing, feit females are attracted to feit males, and vise versa. It is almost as impulse, but the relationship between the to is almost always pure lust--as any malignant society would tell you--and ends almost as quickly as it began, generally leaving the mother to raise a child alone.
PLEASE NOTE: the Feit is copyrighted by PromiseBroken( J. King ) and cannot be manipulated, reproduced, or used elsewhere. If you do so, you will be in violation of this copyright.
This depiction of the feit that I have transcribed above, has been done with the permision and approval of PromiseBroken( J. King ).
Corner Preferance:
fire
Age:
immortal; has memories of the early wars...
Description:
Her hair is a vibrant shade of red, more commonly known as crimson, and the locks fall choppily in waves just barely reaching her shoulders. They frame a delicately proportioned face, that bears a pale skin color. Her flawless complexion is stark against the highly contrast red tassles, but the most captivating aspect of her facial features are her eyes. Unlike any half-breed, she holds a deathly cold glare. Her eyes, appear souless, like empty capsules that can do no more than take life away, and their cold silver iris's seem to drag the very warmth of life from every fiber of one's being.
The skin around those eyes is stained red for unknown reasons--a part of the genetics that makes the skin thin and nearly transparent around the eyes. It is frightening against the pale deathly glow of her skin.
Her body is slender, attractive, and appealing. Proclaiming a petite and lithe bosom and hips. While delicately shaped legs support her stature of 5'6".
She carries herself with a diminuative air, and appears less than she truly is--carrying a shy, forboding, and suppressed expression, amazingly enough she does not stand out in a crowd, but seems to blend into the shadows and slink about without much notice if she so desires.
There is one more thing that I must divulge about this vibrant beauty. Though she has succeeded in disconnecting her history from herself, it is still present upon her. A black tatoo lies embedded into her pale flesh upon her back, just above the left shoulder blade. It is a signiture imprinted upon her at birth by her father--a marking of ownership, as Fait men are very territorial with their "women" as much as they are with their "territories." It was placed there to mark her as a part of his lineage so that all feits would know her as HIS offspring. It is unique to his offspring alone and is concoted of a circle broken in two places--a knotch at the top and botoom. Each side of this broken circle is thin on one end and thick on the other, creating a sharp angled scimitar, in which both scimitars counteract each other--one point facing south, the other north. Within this broken circle are four spheres dissected by four quadrants. In the first and third quandrent there are large circles while in the second and fourth the circles are smaller; the small circles stand for lesser while the larger ones equal a "half man". As a whole this symbol means the woman (litterally translating from "lesser man") of the double scythe (referring to the given reputation of the father). Here is a crude depiction of the marking's general appearance:
Personality:
In many ways, one can consider her to be ambiguous--a different kind of persona. Yet, for the most part her mental structure can be defined with dependable attributes.
... she is unpredictable and very quiet; bearing a dark expression, she rarely smiles. Her cold merciless eyes and pale complexion match her personality well as she is overall an evil entity by societal explanations and the expectations of her species. She is sometimes known for her temper, wrath, and harsh judgement, and is also known to be manipulative, deceitful, and cunning at times. Yet, she has her own standards, and though she is not always a pleasure to share company, she does not live to cause chaos as her brothers, fathers, and lovers do. She has a twisted set of morals and her own code of "right and wrong."
And yet, though this dark, dangerous, and deadly personality exists in surplus within her, to the world she appears as little more than solemn, depressed, and sullen. Those who see her rarely label her as a threat until they truly see the evil within her, as she was truly made. And yet, at the same time--though not looking like much--all who share her proximity and glance into her cold silver orbs are filled with a sense of anciety and unease, reacting as prey would when faced by a predetor.
And still, they do not know or understand. She is not so dark and cold because she wishes to be. She is so morose, so expressionless, so dark, dangerous, and flawless because she must. She cannot help the cold that she brings with her, the shadows she carts behind and along with her. If ever she had allies, they were always lost to the sense that surrounds her. None can seem to bear it for long. If anyone were to bear the cold, and understand that it is merely her being, of her nature, they would come to find a firm ally indeed. Nonetheless, her isolated nature is not something that she pities herself for. Sometimes she rather enjoys the fear she enstils. But whether she wishes it were gone or not, she's come to accept it, and the loneliness and dislike towards her is something that--if it ever did--nolonger bothers her.
To sum it up..
To those she respects... her loyalty is undaunted--end of story. Accept or move on.
As for her past, she bears no conscious feelings towards it. She has forgotten it, and will never remenis about it. The mark that is forever born into her skin means nothing more to her and she ignores it, even when others question it.
Skills:
By feit laws, she is a manipulator of the darknes, but her skills are not as in depth as her male kin.
She can bend light to create and shape the evil black around her, and can even step into the black void beyond reality for whatever intervals she may desire. She is queen of this dismal abyss, and ranked only below the dark lords themselves.
Yet, her true talents and gifts lie in the arts of alchemy. Able to twist magic with reality, her concoctions are potent if not deadly. She can take the innocent milk of the honey-suckle, and destroy it with the fumes of the vesle plant... to create a sweet and alluring taste that can be added to any drink. With this magic, she can twirl the contents of a plain wine into a thick and heavy tankard--meant to lull the most hardy of men within minutes of its consumption. Her potions and mixes can be used for both good and evil--healing and murder--yet for the most most part her solutions are more deadly than beneficial. The healing art that the gods bestowed upon her has become corrupt, and nolonger seems to have the ability to do good.
Sample Post:
*this was taken from a paper I wrote, this is my first RPG, so I can't say I have any examples from elsewhere.
The heavy weight of the noose hung around his neck, but the line was loose and the hands of the man who held him were gentle and lenient. Jacob, a broken old man somewhere lost in his deep forties, offered him slack and only pulled back when the pressure was needed. However, it wasn’t needed. Just as the life and will to live had left his master, so had it left the eyes of Cutter—rightfully named by the scar across his chest.
Cutter was a dog of about six years—still prime and ripe with age and experience. Yet, the skin hung loose upon his frame, and the joints of his hips and knees stood out through the dusty and muddy hide that had once been a rich shade of obsidian black. His fur had lost that shine and color when the dusts began to come, and the devils in the land rose up in condemning columns—seeking the souls and crops of hardworking farmers. These devils saw no difference between good and bad men, and therefore all were punished. The devils even possessed neighbors and friends—fueling fires that motivated the movement of tractors and eradication of loyal farmers and their families. Mercilessly it drove them away from their content lifestyle, thrusting them into the dark sea of uncertain tomorrows without direction or bearing.
Such tragedy had followed the couple—lurking in their shadows and spurring their movement. It brought them here, to a small town that they did not know the name of. Cutter didn’t know exactly why they were stopping here with the several hundred strangers, but his loyalty kept him from complaining. Jacob and Cutter had been through too much together to fail one another now.
Gazing up, his old brown eyes—gritty with dust—blinked as he observed the other strangers that stood around him. Their faces were tight and drawn, and their eyes held a look of defeat that was so similar to Jacob’s. The line was long, and Cutter could not count the number of dismal expressions he saw that day—the rows of men and young boys. They were all drawn by the option of bread. They were waiting for it, hoping for it—spurred by hunger and the need to eat. Many were down to their very last ropes and swayed on the balls of their feet as they stood waiting. From the haunted shadows in their faces, Cutter guessed that many of them had little hope left. However, not all life was gone, and the old dog could pick up a sense of battered hope still hanging in the air—wounded and bleeding, but still alive.
now I am DONE
Ret'ryla Tretani'espia; yet, she is known only as the Ghost
Gender:
female
Race:
Feit of full blood;
If you have not yet been enlightened, the feit race is a highly competitive and deadly race. They control the darkness and evil in the world. They are the lords of the Nether. Males of the species, are the most viscious of rogues. They are relentless, persistant, prideful, and ambitious--desiring what they will by whatever means they feel are necessary. They have no heart, and bear no mercy. The females however are slightly different. As if to counteract and balance out that malicious and malignant streak that the Feit Lords have wrought, they are more docile in personality and purpose. Though equally bearing of a dangerous and malignant edge, the a female feit shows touches of mercy--though the doses vary with each individual. They can even be "caring" in rare instances. They are not as ambitious or as "evil" as they're male counterparts, and this is partially due to their purpose as a mother. They could not properly raise and care for a child, if they did not have some merciful intuitions. Still, do not underestimate them. They are highly manipulative and are as venomous snakes--untrustworthy and dangerous.
Also, without knowing, feit females are attracted to feit males, and vise versa. It is almost as impulse, but the relationship between the to is almost always pure lust--as any malignant society would tell you--and ends almost as quickly as it began, generally leaving the mother to raise a child alone.
PLEASE NOTE: the Feit is copyrighted by PromiseBroken( J. King ) and cannot be manipulated, reproduced, or used elsewhere. If you do so, you will be in violation of this copyright.
This depiction of the feit that I have transcribed above, has been done with the permision and approval of PromiseBroken( J. King ).
Corner Preferance:
fire
Age:
immortal; has memories of the early wars...
Description:
Her hair is a vibrant shade of red, more commonly known as crimson, and the locks fall choppily in waves just barely reaching her shoulders. They frame a delicately proportioned face, that bears a pale skin color. Her flawless complexion is stark against the highly contrast red tassles, but the most captivating aspect of her facial features are her eyes. Unlike any half-breed, she holds a deathly cold glare. Her eyes, appear souless, like empty capsules that can do no more than take life away, and their cold silver iris's seem to drag the very warmth of life from every fiber of one's being.
The skin around those eyes is stained red for unknown reasons--a part of the genetics that makes the skin thin and nearly transparent around the eyes. It is frightening against the pale deathly glow of her skin.
Her body is slender, attractive, and appealing. Proclaiming a petite and lithe bosom and hips. While delicately shaped legs support her stature of 5'6".
She carries herself with a diminuative air, and appears less than she truly is--carrying a shy, forboding, and suppressed expression, amazingly enough she does not stand out in a crowd, but seems to blend into the shadows and slink about without much notice if she so desires.
There is one more thing that I must divulge about this vibrant beauty. Though she has succeeded in disconnecting her history from herself, it is still present upon her. A black tatoo lies embedded into her pale flesh upon her back, just above the left shoulder blade. It is a signiture imprinted upon her at birth by her father--a marking of ownership, as Fait men are very territorial with their "women" as much as they are with their "territories." It was placed there to mark her as a part of his lineage so that all feits would know her as HIS offspring. It is unique to his offspring alone and is concoted of a circle broken in two places--a knotch at the top and botoom. Each side of this broken circle is thin on one end and thick on the other, creating a sharp angled scimitar, in which both scimitars counteract each other--one point facing south, the other north. Within this broken circle are four spheres dissected by four quadrants. In the first and third quandrent there are large circles while in the second and fourth the circles are smaller; the small circles stand for lesser while the larger ones equal a "half man". As a whole this symbol means the woman (litterally translating from "lesser man") of the double scythe (referring to the given reputation of the father). Here is a crude depiction of the marking's general appearance:
Personality:
In many ways, one can consider her to be ambiguous--a different kind of persona. Yet, for the most part her mental structure can be defined with dependable attributes.
... she is unpredictable and very quiet; bearing a dark expression, she rarely smiles. Her cold merciless eyes and pale complexion match her personality well as she is overall an evil entity by societal explanations and the expectations of her species. She is sometimes known for her temper, wrath, and harsh judgement, and is also known to be manipulative, deceitful, and cunning at times. Yet, she has her own standards, and though she is not always a pleasure to share company, she does not live to cause chaos as her brothers, fathers, and lovers do. She has a twisted set of morals and her own code of "right and wrong."
And yet, though this dark, dangerous, and deadly personality exists in surplus within her, to the world she appears as little more than solemn, depressed, and sullen. Those who see her rarely label her as a threat until they truly see the evil within her, as she was truly made. And yet, at the same time--though not looking like much--all who share her proximity and glance into her cold silver orbs are filled with a sense of anciety and unease, reacting as prey would when faced by a predetor.
And still, they do not know or understand. She is not so dark and cold because she wishes to be. She is so morose, so expressionless, so dark, dangerous, and flawless because she must. She cannot help the cold that she brings with her, the shadows she carts behind and along with her. If ever she had allies, they were always lost to the sense that surrounds her. None can seem to bear it for long. If anyone were to bear the cold, and understand that it is merely her being, of her nature, they would come to find a firm ally indeed. Nonetheless, her isolated nature is not something that she pities herself for. Sometimes she rather enjoys the fear she enstils. But whether she wishes it were gone or not, she's come to accept it, and the loneliness and dislike towards her is something that--if it ever did--nolonger bothers her.
To sum it up..
To those she respects... her loyalty is undaunted--end of story. Accept or move on.
As for her past, she bears no conscious feelings towards it. She has forgotten it, and will never remenis about it. The mark that is forever born into her skin means nothing more to her and she ignores it, even when others question it.
Skills:
By feit laws, she is a manipulator of the darknes, but her skills are not as in depth as her male kin.
She can bend light to create and shape the evil black around her, and can even step into the black void beyond reality for whatever intervals she may desire. She is queen of this dismal abyss, and ranked only below the dark lords themselves.
Yet, her true talents and gifts lie in the arts of alchemy. Able to twist magic with reality, her concoctions are potent if not deadly. She can take the innocent milk of the honey-suckle, and destroy it with the fumes of the vesle plant... to create a sweet and alluring taste that can be added to any drink. With this magic, she can twirl the contents of a plain wine into a thick and heavy tankard--meant to lull the most hardy of men within minutes of its consumption. Her potions and mixes can be used for both good and evil--healing and murder--yet for the most most part her solutions are more deadly than beneficial. The healing art that the gods bestowed upon her has become corrupt, and nolonger seems to have the ability to do good.
Sample Post:
*this was taken from a paper I wrote, this is my first RPG, so I can't say I have any examples from elsewhere.
The heavy weight of the noose hung around his neck, but the line was loose and the hands of the man who held him were gentle and lenient. Jacob, a broken old man somewhere lost in his deep forties, offered him slack and only pulled back when the pressure was needed. However, it wasn’t needed. Just as the life and will to live had left his master, so had it left the eyes of Cutter—rightfully named by the scar across his chest.
Cutter was a dog of about six years—still prime and ripe with age and experience. Yet, the skin hung loose upon his frame, and the joints of his hips and knees stood out through the dusty and muddy hide that had once been a rich shade of obsidian black. His fur had lost that shine and color when the dusts began to come, and the devils in the land rose up in condemning columns—seeking the souls and crops of hardworking farmers. These devils saw no difference between good and bad men, and therefore all were punished. The devils even possessed neighbors and friends—fueling fires that motivated the movement of tractors and eradication of loyal farmers and their families. Mercilessly it drove them away from their content lifestyle, thrusting them into the dark sea of uncertain tomorrows without direction or bearing.
Such tragedy had followed the couple—lurking in their shadows and spurring their movement. It brought them here, to a small town that they did not know the name of. Cutter didn’t know exactly why they were stopping here with the several hundred strangers, but his loyalty kept him from complaining. Jacob and Cutter had been through too much together to fail one another now.
Gazing up, his old brown eyes—gritty with dust—blinked as he observed the other strangers that stood around him. Their faces were tight and drawn, and their eyes held a look of defeat that was so similar to Jacob’s. The line was long, and Cutter could not count the number of dismal expressions he saw that day—the rows of men and young boys. They were all drawn by the option of bread. They were waiting for it, hoping for it—spurred by hunger and the need to eat. Many were down to their very last ropes and swayed on the balls of their feet as they stood waiting. From the haunted shadows in their faces, Cutter guessed that many of them had little hope left. However, not all life was gone, and the old dog could pick up a sense of battered hope still hanging in the air—wounded and bleeding, but still alive.
now I am DONE
