Post by .:Z.a.r.r.'.i.n.i.k:. on Apr 28, 2006 22:38:14 GMT -5
Name: Zarr'inik
Gender: Male
Race: Drow / dark elf (an elf that has been shunned by the surface elves and considered an evil race)
Corner Preferance: Fire
Age: Will live to be around 1000 good years; he is currently 135 years old, 100 of those years were spent underground within the Underdark; he appears to be physically fit at a ripe age of 19 or 20.
Skill: A manipulator of Fire; he can mold it to his will, make shadows dance within a flame, and control entire blazes of the wildest of wildfire. His power is drawn from the energy of the fire itself and as long as it is burning is magical energy is endless. Now, this power does not allow him to create the flame. To manipulate the fire it must already be existant, and his magic does not produce such fire out of thin air. He himself cannot create the blaze. But once it is made he can manipulate it at will. He can feed it his own energies and make it grow, he can pull energy from it which strengthens himself but the fire diminishes.
Description: He is tall--stands at about 6'3". His body is lithe, but not thin. He is muscled and well toned for the skills as a fighter. His motions are quick and his body is well tuned for absolute silence and stealth. He moves very catlike and has such an agile run and fleeting speed that he is nigh untouchable during a closerange battle. He wears simple clothing with hard leather covering his biceps, shoulders, and forearms, not to mention his chest. A twin pair of scimitars hang on either side of his hips and they do not hang idely. They are his greatest weapon, and he prefers them over everything else he could possibly wield.
His skin is an inky jet black, and his silver hair stands out harshly against the black skin. His eyes are like cool fire, and are a frightening shade of bright red -- a shade that seems to glow with it's own inner flourescence. The iris is wide and a pupil is nearly non-existant. These eyes are very sensitive to light and too much light from the sun will cause actual harm, thus he sticks to the dark cover of nightfall. He does not see the same way that the normal amount of surface dwellers do. He still sees images, he still sees color... but in a different detail. His eyesight is tuned into the infrared spectrum. He sees the residual heat within all life, and the constant maze of brilliant heated colors of red, orange, yellow, and transluscent blue do not confuse him as he had nearly a century and 3 decade to be used to it. He can see through solid stone, and can read a person's emotions as clearly as if he could see their mind. They grow just a little angry and their blood boils, turning their skin a motlen flare of red and orange. If their face light's up within the cheeks then it is either anger or embarressment. If the heat grows in the palm and around the neck it is nervousness. If the heat grows from the chest and heart then the emotion is fear. He can see it all. He can see faces and details so much clearer - so much deeper. He picks up even the little things, and it is with this powerful eyesight that he dominates within the dark. Nothing can hide from him within the shadows but the shadows themselves.
Of course no murderer is complete without his accomplis. Avenhyvar is his trusted and beloved companion. A male black panther that has traveled up to the surface with him from the underdark. The blackish blue cat fights faithfully beside Zarr and even supports him within the fighting against innocents.
Personality: Zarr is a very secluded fellow. He does not often speak unless he must and he considers silence as a form of strength. He does not cry out when his body feels the burn of pain, nor does he scream when agony injects itself into his systems. He does not cry and he does not waver, he is like a stone to the world -- a stubborn, unmovable stone. No matter how many times the river beats against it, it never crumbles willingly; no matter how often a peice is broken away by the pecking of the water, it stands forever strong; no matter how many years it takes to wear that rock away... he will last stubbornly to the end. What end? And end that he still trying to unmask.
It is safe to say that Zarr'inik does not make pleasurable company. He is not friendly, and does not go out of his way to make friends. If anything, it is the other way around. He has been known to fight with more willing and strength than may be needed, and he also has the perfect mindset of an assassin. Of course he cares about the lives he kills, but sometimes if his hate for the enemy is great enough... he will not care at all. His mindset is a little confused, due to his history and the atmosphere in which he grew up in there are certain things that he was forced to learn and grow up believing... and then there are the natural beliefs that he was born with -- beliefs of righteousness and a good sense of right and wrong, that Drow society tried to erradicate from his nature. He is a tad unpredictable... but if you give him a reason to hunt you, hate you, even loathe you... he may just come try to kill you.
It is a nature bred into him that it is okay and acceptable to murder, kill, steal, pillage, and assassinate to rise to a deserved power. In his world, the underground system of caves, tunnels, and caverns that is known to the drow as the underdark, only the strong survive. He is not a very trusting sort of fellow. Because there was a constant fear of being killed in your sleep wilst you lived within the Underdark he is forever assuming that those who try to draw close to him are trying to draw close to his back -- a place where trust can easily put his enemies... and a where a sword can easily find a sensitive mark.
But there is hope, he has fled from the underdark to the surface. Due to the sun's intense light he cannot travel during the day as much as he would like, he is trying to follow what he believes is the acts of right and wrong. It is difficult for him and goes against everything that he was raised to believe. But he has made it this far, and his demeenor is slowly changing and evolving to adapt to this new world of much lesser cruelty.
Overall, he is in a constant battle within himself -- a battle between Zarr'inik and The Hunter--primitive drow tendencies that have been molded into him during his years in the underdark. Primal instincts created out of the fight for survival--for only the strong survive.
Breif History: Station: In all the world of the drow, there is no more important word. It is the calling of their—of our—religion, the incessant pulling of hungering heartstrings. Ambition overrides good sense and compassion is thrown away in its face, all in the name of Lolth, the Spider Queen.
Ascension to power in drow society is a simple process of assassination. The Spider Queen is a deity of chaos, and she and her high priestesses, the true rulers of the drow world, do not look with ill favor upon ambitious individuals wielding poisoned daggers.
Of course, there are the rules of behavior; every society must boast of these. To openly commit murder or wage war invites the pretense of justice, and penalties exacted in the name of drow justice are merciless. To stick a dagger in the back of a rival during the chaos of a larger battle or in the quiet shadows of an alley, however, is quite acceptable—even applauded. Investigation is not the forte of drow justice. No one cares enough to bother.
Station is the way of Lolth, the ambition she bestows to further the chaos, to keep her drow “children” along their appointed course of self imprisonment. Children? Pawns, more likely, dancing dolls for the Spider Queen, puppets on the imperceptible but impervious strands of her web. All climb the Spider Queen ladders; all hunt for her pleasure; and all fall to the hunters of her pleasure.
Station is the paradox of the world of my people, the limitation of our power within the hunger for power, It is gained through treachery and invites treachery against those who gain it. Those most powerful in Menzoberranzan spend their days watching over their shoulders, defending against the daggers that would find their backs. Their deaths usually come from the front. ::this was borrowed froma book, it is not my own writing... but it serves well to the history of my character::
Sample Post: A petal fled its secure hold and led the rovolution to the rest falling before the mighty stem to open up the predestined light within the flower, the light before the cold, before the dark depth of a cold abyss of a frozen future. The heart is reveled and handed to the eliments in hopes of spreading a seed that was never seen by another or touched by another. A seed unknown to the world. It is within such a seed that a second life pulses from the first which will die with the passing of a cold frost. The wind will be plagued by the presnce of beauty and will be shatter by something untold and unheard of. The flower has opened, to pass on this seed. to connect it to the crowd so thats its purpose can flower and grow to continue the cycle.
However some to do not so easily succumb to the temptations to open their beauty to the world. Some hide from the light, keeping the protection of its petals close and forbidding them to fall until it allows. It forbids the sun to enter its heart and only when the night shade enters does it whisper and shed its barriers, revealing its heart to the one known truth and letting it seed carry among the night to continue its pattern. But though pattern can be consistant it is easily strayed. The fire beneath a mountain can remain quiet and calm. Lurking beneath the surface undetected for many thousands of years and yet suddenly after it is considered nothing but a mountain, dead inside and empty. It rejects all knowledge that has been placed about it and sends forth a fury that is never forgotten. Extinction is never forever. For somewhere where the mountain's speak of tales older than creation itself, there will always be something that once was and is growing again. Something deep within every light of life and soul of dark, there is always something, thought fogotten and discarded that has escaped us, that has filtered from our eyes and leaves the grey tint of dispare lodged within our cores. Hope is forgotten... But hope is never easily defined, and though hope cna be consider good, such as the hope for life or the hope for victory. Demons hope too. They wish for the earth to die within its own despare it wishes for the night to shadow the day. A balance is in motion and the pawns have been placed, times are changing and the tables are turning. Death is walking... life is dying... ::from another site::
Gender: Male
Race: Drow / dark elf (an elf that has been shunned by the surface elves and considered an evil race)
Corner Preferance: Fire
Age: Will live to be around 1000 good years; he is currently 135 years old, 100 of those years were spent underground within the Underdark; he appears to be physically fit at a ripe age of 19 or 20.
Skill: A manipulator of Fire; he can mold it to his will, make shadows dance within a flame, and control entire blazes of the wildest of wildfire. His power is drawn from the energy of the fire itself and as long as it is burning is magical energy is endless. Now, this power does not allow him to create the flame. To manipulate the fire it must already be existant, and his magic does not produce such fire out of thin air. He himself cannot create the blaze. But once it is made he can manipulate it at will. He can feed it his own energies and make it grow, he can pull energy from it which strengthens himself but the fire diminishes.
Description: He is tall--stands at about 6'3". His body is lithe, but not thin. He is muscled and well toned for the skills as a fighter. His motions are quick and his body is well tuned for absolute silence and stealth. He moves very catlike and has such an agile run and fleeting speed that he is nigh untouchable during a closerange battle. He wears simple clothing with hard leather covering his biceps, shoulders, and forearms, not to mention his chest. A twin pair of scimitars hang on either side of his hips and they do not hang idely. They are his greatest weapon, and he prefers them over everything else he could possibly wield.
His skin is an inky jet black, and his silver hair stands out harshly against the black skin. His eyes are like cool fire, and are a frightening shade of bright red -- a shade that seems to glow with it's own inner flourescence. The iris is wide and a pupil is nearly non-existant. These eyes are very sensitive to light and too much light from the sun will cause actual harm, thus he sticks to the dark cover of nightfall. He does not see the same way that the normal amount of surface dwellers do. He still sees images, he still sees color... but in a different detail. His eyesight is tuned into the infrared spectrum. He sees the residual heat within all life, and the constant maze of brilliant heated colors of red, orange, yellow, and transluscent blue do not confuse him as he had nearly a century and 3 decade to be used to it. He can see through solid stone, and can read a person's emotions as clearly as if he could see their mind. They grow just a little angry and their blood boils, turning their skin a motlen flare of red and orange. If their face light's up within the cheeks then it is either anger or embarressment. If the heat grows in the palm and around the neck it is nervousness. If the heat grows from the chest and heart then the emotion is fear. He can see it all. He can see faces and details so much clearer - so much deeper. He picks up even the little things, and it is with this powerful eyesight that he dominates within the dark. Nothing can hide from him within the shadows but the shadows themselves.
Of course no murderer is complete without his accomplis. Avenhyvar is his trusted and beloved companion. A male black panther that has traveled up to the surface with him from the underdark. The blackish blue cat fights faithfully beside Zarr and even supports him within the fighting against innocents.
Personality: Zarr is a very secluded fellow. He does not often speak unless he must and he considers silence as a form of strength. He does not cry out when his body feels the burn of pain, nor does he scream when agony injects itself into his systems. He does not cry and he does not waver, he is like a stone to the world -- a stubborn, unmovable stone. No matter how many times the river beats against it, it never crumbles willingly; no matter how often a peice is broken away by the pecking of the water, it stands forever strong; no matter how many years it takes to wear that rock away... he will last stubbornly to the end. What end? And end that he still trying to unmask.
It is safe to say that Zarr'inik does not make pleasurable company. He is not friendly, and does not go out of his way to make friends. If anything, it is the other way around. He has been known to fight with more willing and strength than may be needed, and he also has the perfect mindset of an assassin. Of course he cares about the lives he kills, but sometimes if his hate for the enemy is great enough... he will not care at all. His mindset is a little confused, due to his history and the atmosphere in which he grew up in there are certain things that he was forced to learn and grow up believing... and then there are the natural beliefs that he was born with -- beliefs of righteousness and a good sense of right and wrong, that Drow society tried to erradicate from his nature. He is a tad unpredictable... but if you give him a reason to hunt you, hate you, even loathe you... he may just come try to kill you.
It is a nature bred into him that it is okay and acceptable to murder, kill, steal, pillage, and assassinate to rise to a deserved power. In his world, the underground system of caves, tunnels, and caverns that is known to the drow as the underdark, only the strong survive. He is not a very trusting sort of fellow. Because there was a constant fear of being killed in your sleep wilst you lived within the Underdark he is forever assuming that those who try to draw close to him are trying to draw close to his back -- a place where trust can easily put his enemies... and a where a sword can easily find a sensitive mark.
But there is hope, he has fled from the underdark to the surface. Due to the sun's intense light he cannot travel during the day as much as he would like, he is trying to follow what he believes is the acts of right and wrong. It is difficult for him and goes against everything that he was raised to believe. But he has made it this far, and his demeenor is slowly changing and evolving to adapt to this new world of much lesser cruelty.
Overall, he is in a constant battle within himself -- a battle between Zarr'inik and The Hunter--primitive drow tendencies that have been molded into him during his years in the underdark. Primal instincts created out of the fight for survival--for only the strong survive.
Breif History: Station: In all the world of the drow, there is no more important word. It is the calling of their—of our—religion, the incessant pulling of hungering heartstrings. Ambition overrides good sense and compassion is thrown away in its face, all in the name of Lolth, the Spider Queen.
Ascension to power in drow society is a simple process of assassination. The Spider Queen is a deity of chaos, and she and her high priestesses, the true rulers of the drow world, do not look with ill favor upon ambitious individuals wielding poisoned daggers.
Of course, there are the rules of behavior; every society must boast of these. To openly commit murder or wage war invites the pretense of justice, and penalties exacted in the name of drow justice are merciless. To stick a dagger in the back of a rival during the chaos of a larger battle or in the quiet shadows of an alley, however, is quite acceptable—even applauded. Investigation is not the forte of drow justice. No one cares enough to bother.
Station is the way of Lolth, the ambition she bestows to further the chaos, to keep her drow “children” along their appointed course of self imprisonment. Children? Pawns, more likely, dancing dolls for the Spider Queen, puppets on the imperceptible but impervious strands of her web. All climb the Spider Queen ladders; all hunt for her pleasure; and all fall to the hunters of her pleasure.
Station is the paradox of the world of my people, the limitation of our power within the hunger for power, It is gained through treachery and invites treachery against those who gain it. Those most powerful in Menzoberranzan spend their days watching over their shoulders, defending against the daggers that would find their backs. Their deaths usually come from the front. ::this was borrowed froma book, it is not my own writing... but it serves well to the history of my character::
Sample Post: A petal fled its secure hold and led the rovolution to the rest falling before the mighty stem to open up the predestined light within the flower, the light before the cold, before the dark depth of a cold abyss of a frozen future. The heart is reveled and handed to the eliments in hopes of spreading a seed that was never seen by another or touched by another. A seed unknown to the world. It is within such a seed that a second life pulses from the first which will die with the passing of a cold frost. The wind will be plagued by the presnce of beauty and will be shatter by something untold and unheard of. The flower has opened, to pass on this seed. to connect it to the crowd so thats its purpose can flower and grow to continue the cycle.
However some to do not so easily succumb to the temptations to open their beauty to the world. Some hide from the light, keeping the protection of its petals close and forbidding them to fall until it allows. It forbids the sun to enter its heart and only when the night shade enters does it whisper and shed its barriers, revealing its heart to the one known truth and letting it seed carry among the night to continue its pattern. But though pattern can be consistant it is easily strayed. The fire beneath a mountain can remain quiet and calm. Lurking beneath the surface undetected for many thousands of years and yet suddenly after it is considered nothing but a mountain, dead inside and empty. It rejects all knowledge that has been placed about it and sends forth a fury that is never forgotten. Extinction is never forever. For somewhere where the mountain's speak of tales older than creation itself, there will always be something that once was and is growing again. Something deep within every light of life and soul of dark, there is always something, thought fogotten and discarded that has escaped us, that has filtered from our eyes and leaves the grey tint of dispare lodged within our cores. Hope is forgotten... But hope is never easily defined, and though hope cna be consider good, such as the hope for life or the hope for victory. Demons hope too. They wish for the earth to die within its own despare it wishes for the night to shadow the day. A balance is in motion and the pawns have been placed, times are changing and the tables are turning. Death is walking... life is dying... ::from another site::
