Post by baka on Nov 27, 2007 13:52:48 GMT -5
(Okay, I'm aware he's almost exactly like Gaara...I Intended it that way...because I heart gaara)
Name: Sondaime (SSoN-Da-eeemay)
Nickname: N/a
Age: 15
Sex: Male
Race: Flamma Secui
Alignment: Neutral Evil
Occupation: Soldier for Kelt (for the moment)
Personality: Sondaime is selfish and has no qualms about turning on his allies-of-the-moment should they stand in his way. He has no compunctions about harming others to get what he wants, but neither will he go out of his way to cause carnage or mayhem when he percieves no direct benefit from it. Sondaime is an extraordinarily dangerous man, neither bound by any sort of honor or tradition nor is he disorganized or pointlessly violent. Silent and withdrawn, Sondaime views everyone in the world with equal distaste, harboring love only for himself.
History: Sondaime and his brother Nodaime were born Flamma Secui, powerful controllers of sand, born for the sole purpose of serving in Kelt’s army. From birth Sondaime was a prodigy, having the ability to manipulate sand before he could walk. His family chose to view him as a weapon and, after separating him from his brother, began training him to kill during his formative years; this caused his mind to become twisted and forever shaped his personality as a sadistic maniac. However, his parents’ fervent hope that he would become a devoted warrior of Kelt would be shattered as Sondaime slipped further and further into insanity and instability. Not only was Sondaime completely indifferent to his god, but he went so far as to claim to that he was a deity. Sondaime was regarded as a liability by his family, but due to his power could not be removed. In the end, Sondaime remained a weapon of Kelt, albeit a dangerous, constantly loaded one. Sondaime’s control over sand is remarkable for one his age, going so far as to surpass men more than three times his age in sheer power. He is capable of using his sand to create the “ultimate” defense while simultaneously attacking. While his brother is a devoted warrior of Kelt, Sondaime only serves for the chance to kill, if such a chance were ever taken from him his actions could not be predicted.
Appearance Short and jagged red-brown hair, pale sky blue eyes with dark rings surrounding the lids. He is medium height, and leanly muscled with a lithe frame.
Clothes: Sondaime typically wears a dark short sleeved tunic and a light colored scarf, wound about his shoulders. Dark loose fitting pants are worn to allow freedom of movement and give him comfort. Sondaime also carries a large gourd of sand with him at all times giving him a constant source of sand.
Distinguishing Features: Tatoo upon his forehead, dark rings surrounding his eye lids, crazy/maniacal grin.
Picture: Yeah
Magic: Sand
Weakness: Water
Sample Post: It was well known in the Fiyerot Dukedom that the ideal location to find peace and serenity was Hope’s Field. Named after the First Duke’s eldest daughter, Hope’s Field had a history as beautiful and peaceful as the woman it had been named after. Generations of lovers had met and married upon Hope’s Field; it was the pride of the Dukedom. However, Tomorrows sun would dawn on a different, bleaker field.
The sun, in all its resplendent glory, remained fixated behind translucent clouds of purest white casting a lambent light down upon the world below. However, the elegance of the sky above seemed to belie the scene below, creating a picture of oddity and madness that might have been humorous if one possessed a cruel, vicious type of humor. The beauty of the sky above offset the carnage on the earth, the pale blue, golden yellow and pure white of the sky, clashing with the sanguinary scenery. With expressions of pain, agony, rage, sorrow and madness covering their faces, the corpses below littered the battlefield, forever marring the beautiful and peaceful name it had once held. Hope’s field, they had called it, but the corpse littered field was no longer the portrait of hope it had been only a few hours ago. The dew soaked grass, lush and green as any emerald, sparkled and shimmered in the light of the sun, as if trying to ignore the massacre that had occurred. Amidst the carcass covered field a body stirred.
~*~
He was lost in a sea of dark water; the black liquid surrounded him and threatened to pull him under lest he fight. He was alone but he could still see two faces clearly at the front of his mind, begging him not to leave but they were unimportant at the moment; his primary concern was staying afloat in this all consuming sea. However, no matter how hard he tried to fight it, the current was just too strong and he was eventually pulled under. Fighting for air, he kicked his legs and flailed with his arms, desperately trying to break the surface. The dark water filled his mouth, his nostrils; it burned his lungs and pulled him deeper and deeper into the darkness. The last thing he saw were the two faces, begging him to fight.
The first thing he noticed was how dry his mouth was. His tongue felt like sand paper and Martel was certain he had a mouth full of cotton. His vision returned, slowly at first, but eventually he was able to see everything clearly again. Martel was laying face down on the ground and based on the smell he was able to determine that it was not a very pleasant place. From the confines of his hooded gray coat, Martel could see the bodies that littered the field, he could see the weapons, broken and discarded, and he could see the blood. Rising to his feet, Martel brushed himself off, he appeared to be unharmed and all of his effects were still in place, save for his sword. Cracking his knuckles, Martel gave a resigned sigh; he really wasn’t looking forward to digging through all of those bodies. There were a lot of things he wanted to get clear in his mind and searching for his sword would take some time. However, considering that the sword was rather expensive and it held some sentimental value to him, it took precedence over getting the answers he wanted.
It’s gonna take hours… Martel told himself.
Pulling the sleeves of his gray coat up, Martel gave a sigh and set to work.
~*~
Martel did not consider himself a kind man, nor was he the type of man to fight for justice and peace. Martel saw himself as a realist; the reality was that the world was harsh and that if one wished to survive one had to be strong and do whatever necessary to stay on top. That was why Martel had thrown his lot in with the Sorceress. It was why he sat by and watched as countless innocents were slaughtered, and it was why he was still alive today.
Martel had been young and ambitious when he first met the Sorceress and it had not taken much effort on her part to earn his sword. For years he had served the Sorceress faithfully as her Knight, never going against her wishes, until now.
It was well known in the magical world, or at least widely believed, that the purity of a soul dictated its strength. Martel thought it a load of sh*t, but the Sorceress seemed to hold it near and dear to her heart, for she had laid the order before him to bring to her the purest souls he could find. As many children as he could, she had told him, for she had plans.
Martel had an idea as to what they were and he would have no part of it. Martel had no problem standing by while innocents suffered, but he would not be the one to slay an innocent child. Let some mercenary, or assassin, do that job, but Martel would not consciously kill an innocent child.
Children were defenseless; they weren’t old enough to have truly wronged anybody and whatever wrong they did was usually accidental or out of ignorance. Martel had prepared all of his things to make his escape; he would leave tonight while the Sorceress remained enclosed in her study.
Suddenly a violet light hovered above his head; it shimmered and danced in front of his eyes. Martel began to notice that the room was getting darker, was it the violet glow that removed the light from the room?
Without warning, Martel fell into the darkness.
~*~
The name of the small independent duchy was Fiyerot. Martel had heard the Sorceress speak of it in passing, and if what she said was true he was far from Ayenee.
Making his way through the streets, Martel kept an eye out for his weapon. If he saw it in some merchant's shop the gods would pity the poor bastard unlucky enough to have come into possession of Martel's blade.
Strapped across his back, over his gray coat, was a scimitar. The notched blade attested to its previous owner’s fate.
Martel could see the militia making their way down the street. The young man leading the pack had a very direct, very disconcerting stare that Martel was all too familiar with.
Slipping into a nearby store Martel made his way around a large shelf, taking care not to knock over any produce. If he had to do battle he wanted to do it on his terms, not out in the street where they could surround him.
“You would be the man from Hope’s Field, no?” Martel heard a voice say from behind. Feeling something solid press against the back of his coat, Martel gave an annoyed grunt. “You know you look rather menacing in that hood. Is that the look you were going for?”
Martel began to turn to face the man behind him, moving slow and easy but would stop as pressure was applied against his back. “I wouldn’t do that were I you, friend. You see, at the moment you’re considered very dangerous by the Militia and until you’ve been proven otherwise we will take no precautions, understand?”
Nodding his head from within his hood, Martel kept his hands down at his side as the remaining bulk of the Militia entered the store. “My name is Captain Walfstine, and you are under arrest, friend.” The man behind Martel said in a cheery voice.
Clearing his throat, Martel moved his head slightly to the side, speaking to the Captain. “My name is Christian Martel and I am not your friend.”
Rule Keyword: -Censored-
Character Keyword: -Censored-
Magic Keyword: -Censored-
Informis Keyword: -Censored-
Name: Sondaime (SSoN-Da-eeemay)
Nickname: N/a
Age: 15
Sex: Male
Race: Flamma Secui
Alignment: Neutral Evil
Occupation: Soldier for Kelt (for the moment)
Personality: Sondaime is selfish and has no qualms about turning on his allies-of-the-moment should they stand in his way. He has no compunctions about harming others to get what he wants, but neither will he go out of his way to cause carnage or mayhem when he percieves no direct benefit from it. Sondaime is an extraordinarily dangerous man, neither bound by any sort of honor or tradition nor is he disorganized or pointlessly violent. Silent and withdrawn, Sondaime views everyone in the world with equal distaste, harboring love only for himself.
History: Sondaime and his brother Nodaime were born Flamma Secui, powerful controllers of sand, born for the sole purpose of serving in Kelt’s army. From birth Sondaime was a prodigy, having the ability to manipulate sand before he could walk. His family chose to view him as a weapon and, after separating him from his brother, began training him to kill during his formative years; this caused his mind to become twisted and forever shaped his personality as a sadistic maniac. However, his parents’ fervent hope that he would become a devoted warrior of Kelt would be shattered as Sondaime slipped further and further into insanity and instability. Not only was Sondaime completely indifferent to his god, but he went so far as to claim to that he was a deity. Sondaime was regarded as a liability by his family, but due to his power could not be removed. In the end, Sondaime remained a weapon of Kelt, albeit a dangerous, constantly loaded one. Sondaime’s control over sand is remarkable for one his age, going so far as to surpass men more than three times his age in sheer power. He is capable of using his sand to create the “ultimate” defense while simultaneously attacking. While his brother is a devoted warrior of Kelt, Sondaime only serves for the chance to kill, if such a chance were ever taken from him his actions could not be predicted.
Appearance Short and jagged red-brown hair, pale sky blue eyes with dark rings surrounding the lids. He is medium height, and leanly muscled with a lithe frame.
Clothes: Sondaime typically wears a dark short sleeved tunic and a light colored scarf, wound about his shoulders. Dark loose fitting pants are worn to allow freedom of movement and give him comfort. Sondaime also carries a large gourd of sand with him at all times giving him a constant source of sand.
Distinguishing Features: Tatoo upon his forehead, dark rings surrounding his eye lids, crazy/maniacal grin.
Picture: Yeah
Magic: Sand
Weakness: Water
Sample Post: It was well known in the Fiyerot Dukedom that the ideal location to find peace and serenity was Hope’s Field. Named after the First Duke’s eldest daughter, Hope’s Field had a history as beautiful and peaceful as the woman it had been named after. Generations of lovers had met and married upon Hope’s Field; it was the pride of the Dukedom. However, Tomorrows sun would dawn on a different, bleaker field.
The sun, in all its resplendent glory, remained fixated behind translucent clouds of purest white casting a lambent light down upon the world below. However, the elegance of the sky above seemed to belie the scene below, creating a picture of oddity and madness that might have been humorous if one possessed a cruel, vicious type of humor. The beauty of the sky above offset the carnage on the earth, the pale blue, golden yellow and pure white of the sky, clashing with the sanguinary scenery. With expressions of pain, agony, rage, sorrow and madness covering their faces, the corpses below littered the battlefield, forever marring the beautiful and peaceful name it had once held. Hope’s field, they had called it, but the corpse littered field was no longer the portrait of hope it had been only a few hours ago. The dew soaked grass, lush and green as any emerald, sparkled and shimmered in the light of the sun, as if trying to ignore the massacre that had occurred. Amidst the carcass covered field a body stirred.
~*~
He was lost in a sea of dark water; the black liquid surrounded him and threatened to pull him under lest he fight. He was alone but he could still see two faces clearly at the front of his mind, begging him not to leave but they were unimportant at the moment; his primary concern was staying afloat in this all consuming sea. However, no matter how hard he tried to fight it, the current was just too strong and he was eventually pulled under. Fighting for air, he kicked his legs and flailed with his arms, desperately trying to break the surface. The dark water filled his mouth, his nostrils; it burned his lungs and pulled him deeper and deeper into the darkness. The last thing he saw were the two faces, begging him to fight.
The first thing he noticed was how dry his mouth was. His tongue felt like sand paper and Martel was certain he had a mouth full of cotton. His vision returned, slowly at first, but eventually he was able to see everything clearly again. Martel was laying face down on the ground and based on the smell he was able to determine that it was not a very pleasant place. From the confines of his hooded gray coat, Martel could see the bodies that littered the field, he could see the weapons, broken and discarded, and he could see the blood. Rising to his feet, Martel brushed himself off, he appeared to be unharmed and all of his effects were still in place, save for his sword. Cracking his knuckles, Martel gave a resigned sigh; he really wasn’t looking forward to digging through all of those bodies. There were a lot of things he wanted to get clear in his mind and searching for his sword would take some time. However, considering that the sword was rather expensive and it held some sentimental value to him, it took precedence over getting the answers he wanted.
It’s gonna take hours… Martel told himself.
Pulling the sleeves of his gray coat up, Martel gave a sigh and set to work.
~*~
Martel did not consider himself a kind man, nor was he the type of man to fight for justice and peace. Martel saw himself as a realist; the reality was that the world was harsh and that if one wished to survive one had to be strong and do whatever necessary to stay on top. That was why Martel had thrown his lot in with the Sorceress. It was why he sat by and watched as countless innocents were slaughtered, and it was why he was still alive today.
Martel had been young and ambitious when he first met the Sorceress and it had not taken much effort on her part to earn his sword. For years he had served the Sorceress faithfully as her Knight, never going against her wishes, until now.
It was well known in the magical world, or at least widely believed, that the purity of a soul dictated its strength. Martel thought it a load of sh*t, but the Sorceress seemed to hold it near and dear to her heart, for she had laid the order before him to bring to her the purest souls he could find. As many children as he could, she had told him, for she had plans.
Martel had an idea as to what they were and he would have no part of it. Martel had no problem standing by while innocents suffered, but he would not be the one to slay an innocent child. Let some mercenary, or assassin, do that job, but Martel would not consciously kill an innocent child.
Children were defenseless; they weren’t old enough to have truly wronged anybody and whatever wrong they did was usually accidental or out of ignorance. Martel had prepared all of his things to make his escape; he would leave tonight while the Sorceress remained enclosed in her study.
Suddenly a violet light hovered above his head; it shimmered and danced in front of his eyes. Martel began to notice that the room was getting darker, was it the violet glow that removed the light from the room?
Without warning, Martel fell into the darkness.
~*~
The name of the small independent duchy was Fiyerot. Martel had heard the Sorceress speak of it in passing, and if what she said was true he was far from Ayenee.
Making his way through the streets, Martel kept an eye out for his weapon. If he saw it in some merchant's shop the gods would pity the poor bastard unlucky enough to have come into possession of Martel's blade.
Strapped across his back, over his gray coat, was a scimitar. The notched blade attested to its previous owner’s fate.
Martel could see the militia making their way down the street. The young man leading the pack had a very direct, very disconcerting stare that Martel was all too familiar with.
Slipping into a nearby store Martel made his way around a large shelf, taking care not to knock over any produce. If he had to do battle he wanted to do it on his terms, not out in the street where they could surround him.
“You would be the man from Hope’s Field, no?” Martel heard a voice say from behind. Feeling something solid press against the back of his coat, Martel gave an annoyed grunt. “You know you look rather menacing in that hood. Is that the look you were going for?”
Martel began to turn to face the man behind him, moving slow and easy but would stop as pressure was applied against his back. “I wouldn’t do that were I you, friend. You see, at the moment you’re considered very dangerous by the Militia and until you’ve been proven otherwise we will take no precautions, understand?”
Nodding his head from within his hood, Martel kept his hands down at his side as the remaining bulk of the Militia entered the store. “My name is Captain Walfstine, and you are under arrest, friend.” The man behind Martel said in a cheery voice.
Clearing his throat, Martel moved his head slightly to the side, speaking to the Captain. “My name is Christian Martel and I am not your friend.”
Rule Keyword: -Censored-
Character Keyword: -Censored-
Magic Keyword: -Censored-
Informis Keyword: -Censored-
