You can have only one character. And you cannot use someone else’s character without their permission.If you want to give your character a name other than your forum username you may do that.Bio’s can be as big or as small as you want, the more detailed it is, the better it will help to describe your character, and you wont have to try do it later, but do leave some room for development.
Name: Age: Skill Trees:
Weapon of Choice:
Bio:
The way we will use skills in this RP is unique. You can pick from any of these skill trees:
Note: If you have a skill tree that is not portrayed in the zakarum faith (Combat skills, Offensive auras, fire, lightning, and cold spells) You must provide a background as to how you acquired those skills in your bio.
There will be six "acts" in our main quest. After each act you will unlock a new tier of skills on all of your skill trees.
Example of character build: (dont use this one, its mine!)
Name: Divinus Ventus
Age: 46
Skill Trees:
Combat skills (barbarian)
Offensive auras
Lightning skills
Weapon of Choice: Polearm axes.
Bio:
Divinus Ventus was born Kontak Marenfel of the Crane Tribe. His childhood was spent in rigorous training sessions with polearm axes. The harsh training was not his lone burden, but the burden of all who were born into the Crane Tribe. The weapons were heavy and unweildy, wearing his fingers to the bone, and the rigors of training often overcame his resolve as he cried out in pain. Over time however his hands became as tough as the hide of a yeti and his skill with the weapons grew to surpass his instructor. Though he had gained much respect within his tribe he often wondered about the lush landscapes laying south that he had heard of in many of his elders wonderous and often exaggerated tales.
After his father died in a raid by a neighboring tribe he found it hard to justify living out his years in cold isolation from the rest of the world. At the age of twenty Kontak Marenfel cut his ties with the crane tribe forever and began his journey south.
Ten years after his departure from the crane tribe he found himself wandering the streets of Kurast in search of his next job. He had become a well known mercenary in the years following his journey into the civilized world. But now work was sparse, there seemed to be nobody in need of his services.
An ear battering crash radiated from behind him as the entrance gate was smashed down. Cries of terror rose up all around him as the crowded street quickly emptied. He turned swiftly to face the source of the commotion, and what he saw astounded him. A dozen hulking figures made their way towards him. As they grew nearer he could see that they weren't creatures of flesh and bone but creatures of wood. Their trunk like feet scraped the cobblestone street uprooting the individual cobbles as they approached him. They were too close now, Kontak drew an axe from his back, and gripped it firmly as he had been shown by his instructor. The leader of the pack swung at him in a violent display of power, causing Kontak to step backwards as its large wooden fist drove into a building on his left. To his surprise lightning bolts crackled away from its fist and shocked Kontak. Kontak had never faced such a daunting opponent, but his resolve remained unscathed. He swung straight at the creatures head with an upswing, but the axe head lodged in its forearm as it blocked. Kontak ripped at his polearm so hard that it tore the creatures arm clean off. The wooden beast let out a cry as lightning emminated from its wound. A second blow sunk straight into the creatures forehead causing it to burst into flame. The rest of the pack stalled for a moment as if unbelieving of what they had just witnessed. Their wait was short lived, Kontak lept towards the closest beast and whacked its head off. Having left his back turned toward another beast, it took its chance and brought its fist into Kontaks back, sending him crashing into a vendors cart, full of oranges. The smell of citrus filled his nostrils as rage filled his mind. Kontak slashed the beast chest in a criss cross motion. Flame bust forth from the deepest wound and singed Kontaks eyebrows. The creature fell back into its counterpart and they both hit the ground burning as if he had just lit a bonfire for the annual crane celebration of his home tribe.
The rest were closing in when the sound of thunder struck his ears. The foul creatures were reduced to ashes in a moment, as light flooded the surrounding area. For a second Kontak thought that he had been defeated, but as his vision and hearing returned he noticed a wizened old face staring down at him. He bore the insignia of Akarat, marking him as a zakarum faithful. " That was a impressive display young man" the old man said. "But it looked as though you were in trouble so I intervened" he continued. " It was you who fell those beasts?" Kontak asked. "Indeed" the old man responded, twisting his beard as he spoke. "Where did you learn such powerful magic?" Kontak asked. "Through my many years as a priest of the Zakarum faith." He retorted. "Get up and follow me" He said. Kontak did so willingly.
Kontak gazed at the many shelves full of potions and strange artifacts that poulated the elderly mans house. "So why did you bring me here?" Kontak requested. "To offer you an apprenticeship" the old man groweled. "What you saw of my power today was only a glimpse of what you can attain" he went on. "I see many aspects within you that are perfect for this type of spellwork" he said with a renewed sense of youth in his voice. "I have never used a spell in my life old man, what makes you think that I have the ability to do that?" Kontak said in a tense voice. "just a feeling" he said in a calm voice that threw Kontak off.
Sixteen years has past since Kontak had met the old man and became his apprentice. He had been given a new title by his master, Divinus Ventus "the divine wind". The old man is currently the last living council member that is outspoken against the Zakarum Inquisition, but now he lays upon his death bed, slowly declining in health.
Divinus, tended to his masters high fever, laying a soaked washcloth across his forehead. The old man strained to make words but failed. Divinus noticed and brought him a quill and parchment. As the old man wrote the ligaments in his hand crackled, but he continued. After he had finished his short note he collapsed back into his bed and let out a last puff of air. Silence, Divinus reached over to his masters face and closed his lids shut. After a moment of reflection he read the barley legible note that his master had written.
"The inqusition is wrong, you must confront the evil to the west. The Triune is upon us."
Divinus's mind struggled to decipher his masters criptic death note...
Weapon of Choice: Magic, but a short sword at the ready.
Bio:
Galaphile remembers:
Long, dark tunnels, filled with the endless dead. Corporeal and grotesque manifestations of the spirits- the Undead. They were strewn about him, raising their limbs and shaking appendages with weary and cumbersome movements. Their eyes would seem empty to all but the knowing Spirit Wielder, a Necromancer of the truest kind whose White Magicks were being tested beyond the brink. His own essence transcended the horrific scene about him, transcended the chaotic and terrifying screams of the aching dead. Shades of light emanated from his mind and body, echoing through the living world and going beyond it- to that which is forbidden the mortal eyes. To the land of the dead.
Rathma had taught: There is to be balance. Always. If there is not, establish balance in its absence. Only then will the true cycle of life and flow of spirits be complete and unified- in life, and its inevitable counterpart, death.
The living dead about him must be made balanced. They must be made restful. Their existence are animation was an abomination to the balance.
Galaphile stretched his spiritual being from host to host, testing each possessed manifestation. There were floods of terrible human sufferings- starvation, loneliness, suffocation, anguish- the bodies were rife with them. The whole crypt was rife with them. The balance was upset. The spirits had been wronged in life and must be put to rest.
He firmly took hold of their spiritual hosts, grappling with them one by one, his own living body shaking and trembling, being molested and beaten by not only the spiritual excursion, but also the physical pains of the dead trying to destroy his physical focal point. He could not lose his living body- if he did, his spirit would be losed to the same damnation that these poor souls endured for centuries. He must not lose focus, he must not die. Not yet.
The lights of high spiritual presence were floating and flying about the great crypt- passing about pillars and through skeletons and decaying flesh- inhabiting anything that they could find hospitable. The spirits were becoming more hostile. Galaphile could not fight them off on his own- his spirit was too weak. The Priests had not prepared him for such a task as this- they did not predict such loathsome hostility in the crypt. It was worse than they had feared.
The spirits began to shoot through his body- piercing his very soul. With each pass, he felt a metaphysical chilling pain course through him, his own light shade beginning to lose from his corporeal body.
He could not put it off any longer. It had to be done. Losing his glove, he pulled his fine stone wand from his belt.
It was all he could do to hold his concentration and begin small incantations to focus his power so that he might gather the spirits to one single focal point so that he could deal with them all at once. So that he could deal with their suffering, with their pain, all at once.
It was risky, but he could not fight them all.
"Recolligo silenti etc,
Signum sursum suum poena,
Redimio lemma,
Signum lemma,
Obfirmo phasmatis volo!"
It was a harsh whisper as it all came from his mouth, his hand cuffed closely about his wand as the symbols about it flared to life with enchanted power. Under normal circumstances, he would have banished the vile spirits, perhaps even without an incantation. They were too strong and too numerous, however. They needed to be dealt with differently.
Besides, they would provide good fodder for his own conjurations later, if necessary. Their spirits were hostile and powerful enough.
No sooner had he finished the Incantation of Spirit Binding than the lights of death began to pour in to his own body. Hundreds of them, their pains and sufferings nearly overwhelming- their baleful screams and cries the only thing filling his mind. Any lesser Necromancer would have lost his being at this point. Galaphile was stronger, though. He would be stronger. He had to be.
The last bits of death shade filled his body, flashing for only a little moment longer until they were fully absorbed. The bodies of the dead dropped to rest about him, grimy, rough finger nails and limbs that had been mauling his body falling uselessly to dusty death. His mind reeled with the afflictions of the dead. His body convulsed and spasmed under the mental and spiritual strain. His eyes struggled to regain vision of the physical world after ingesting so much spiritual energy. He struggled not to let his stone wand fall from his grasp or the seal could not work and they would be released again, tearing his own soul with them.
With a shaky hand, he groped for his bone knife. Fumbling upon a twisted handle, he yanked it free of its leather binding and jammed it in to his chest. Though streaks of pain seared through him and his ribs cracked from the heavy and deep stab, he did not relent, lest he lose his soul. He carefully but slowly carved in to his flesh, very deeply, ancient runes of power adapted from the southern swamps who housed the ruins of ancient Sorcerers. As his own blood left him, he was filled to overflowing with new, spiritual blood. It was dangerously invigorating and seductive, and Galaphile mustered all his being to resist its power.
Finally, the sealing was complete. With a final wave of nauseating pain and terror, the spirits were locked deep within his flesh, his body a prison to the dead. He managed a brief sigh as his bloody body collapsed onto the dusty stone floor, ancient bones crunching under his weight. It was not a practice that was permitted, sealing the dead in such a way, but it was his only choice.
Several hours later he managed to climb from the labyrinthine depths of the crypt, ascending to the Sealed Chamber of the Hall of Testings. Priest Coai walked hastily to him, wrapping an arm about Galaphile's form. He met his gaze with determination, "They are finished, the Souls of the Starving."
Coai nodded, "A difficult task. I and the other local priests of Ra'Thul had not foreseen such a hostility in the dead. When someone dies of such a primal suffering, however, things can become nasty in the afterlife."
Galaphile only nodded weakly.
"Ah, forgive me, you are obviously weakened from the endeavor. Come, follow me." Caoi kept his arm about Galaphile, bringing him out the stone-block building, the Hall of Testings, and down its many stone steps.
I need time to struggle with my new found demons, he thought quietly to himself. Rathma willing, Caoi will never need know what manner of spell I sowed to contain those beings.
-------
Caoi had taken Galaphile to his small hut on the edge of the priests' dwelling area and set him on his bed. Galaphile was asleep instantly, gone in to that strange realm beyond the waking eye where one dealt with other issues than the physical. It was not long until the voices began.
Hear us, hear us! they screamed in his mind. Sealed we are, and now you bear what we had suffered in life. Listen, hear!
He felt as though his body was tossed from the sky, and he came to rest on a pile of bleached bones in a dark chasm. He saw about him the spirits of those sealed within him and, despite his training, was terrified. Their metaphysical, dreamworld bodies were grotesque and twisted forms of human shades, their eyes betraying only emptiness and longing, such dreadful longing that Galaphile could feel their eyes' weight on his own soul. Their suffering had ended, it was now his- their purpose, however, after their death had yet to be finished, it seemed.
What manner of dreadful curse befell you that you should haunt a man in his resting hours?
Curse? Curse?! What manner of curse would cause a mother to be taken from her children, slaughtered in the public places for all those gloating fools to see? What manner of curse would take a son from his family and throw his blood upon the flagstones, for his faith was found lacking? What manner of curse defeats freedom and laces its bearer to a dark death in agony and loneliness? Tell us, tell us! What do you know of curses, young Necromancer?
They circled about him, their eyes grown wild and hungry as they displayed their sufferings momentarily and then returned to their state of longing. Galaphile could see wrapped about each of the spirits the same binding glyphs he had carved on his own flesh in the form of spiritual chains and fetters.
So, if not a curse, what troubles you, lost ones? Why do you persist in your deaths?
There is, to the north, a large city, whose name we will not utter in our deaths, for fear of opening old memories- a large and grand city whose history is painted in blood and sacrifice. There the faithful gather and snuff out all who do not accept their mantle and charge. Go there, for another task is needed, one that requires you.
They began to close about him in their ever-tightening circle of ghastly forms. What manner of task? What would be more balancing than bringing death to the death-givers abundant?
They hissed in unison, their bodies crouching low as if to incline one to a whisper. You know of a great world beyond Sanctuary whose name is Burning- from whence comes a great Evil. No, Three!
They began to spin around him in a dance of macabre and death, reciting a dreadful mantra:
One in Purpose, Three in Part, Terror, Hate, Destruction; Banished from the Burning Lands And now to Men Awakened.
Go! Go! Go to them! Find their power, squelch it! For in their Wake the Demons Come And Men will Live no more!
So it is written in the Eaves of Fate, in the Book of Dooms. Go forth, our time is done and message heard. Our purpose is finished, now we go. Let not our suffering to have been in vain!
In an instant they were caught up in a great whirlwind. Galaphile was knocked from his dreamtide feet and thrown from the pile of bones in to the darkness, falling... Falling...
-------
He awakened to a humid, misty morning, as always in the deep Eastern Jungles. The dream was the only thing on his mind. Remembering the fetters of the spirits, he quickly looked at his chest to see if the runes had scarred over.
They were gone.
That meant that the spirits had freed themselves- their purpose had truly been fulfilled. Their words came back to him in his waking mind. He must go north to find a great city, whose history was paved in blood and sacrifice and whose dwellers are the faithful. It was an easy enough riddle.
Weapon of Choice: Sakpata's Flail of Disease and Delirium (D&D Flail)
Bio: The precarious Sakpata of the tribe of the Clouded Valley hails from the dense Torajan jungles. Although a witch doctor of the mystic Umbaru teachings, Sakpata did not attach himself to groups easily. He was a wanderer by heart and nothing could seem to change that. That unique quality, unheard of in those born of Umbaru, paired with his distaste of the ritualistic war between tribes, Sakpata left the Torajan jungles at the yound age of 22. Sakpata had seen his fair share of bloodshed and was ready to begin his own life journey after what seemed like a lifetime of fighting, traveling wherever the breeze took him.
He enjoyed the uneasiness of not knowing his surroundings. Sakpata used his voodoo magiks and warrior skills in combination to survive. It was not uncommon for one like Sakpata to come in conflict with evil spirits and demons. Considering a witch doctor like Sakpata was often dealing with realms of existence only known by the spirits of the dead, the land and others, he was like a magnet for evil spirits and demons.
In battle Sakpata was incredibly agile, usually never suffering more than a scratch when his enemy most often ended up maimed or dead. Sakpata, when dealing with an enemy was swift and hasty with desire to finish quickly. Sakpata would begin a bout with a concoction he kept with him to confuse the enemy. With a green haze surrounding a battleground Sakpata would seemingly appear from behind unnoticed with his flail to deliver a blow that need not be used more than once. Most often Sakpata would not kill immediately with the blow itself, but rather with the voodoo enchantments attatched to the flail. If diseased, the flails poisons would seep through the victims vains to first paralyze and eventually kill as a result of agonizing pain that gripped the heart and chocked it until it stopped. Or, Sakpata could be using his arsenal of fire spellls he learned from both his own people and sorceress he came in contact with throughout his nomadic journeys. Then, he could use his flail to ignite his enemies sending them into an inferno frenzy in a futile effort to escape the grasping flames.
When faced with a new region Sakpata would enter into the Ghost Trance of his people to communicate with the spirits of the area. Unlike a druid he did not make connections with the land itself, but rather the spirits of the land.
20 years ago Sakpata settled in the near jungles of Kurast. It reminded him of course of his homeland as it almost lied in the same region. But unlike before Sakpata had an unusual amount of contact with the outside world. Learning the language of the land Sakpata became a very sociable person, loving to vendor off his potions, teach a bit of his voodoo magik or even simply tell the lore of ancient prophecies and tales.
But in the last 5 years he was faced with more horrifying demons and evil spirits every day as it worsened. Sakpata would communicate with the land in both the physical and spiritual realm, learning of current affairs that had ominous implications. Both the people of the land and the spirits of the Ghost Trance began to become very restless, and it certainly did not go unnoticed.
Know not did Sakpata what was going to happen....But there was baaad voodoo in the air.
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
"I want to say something but I'll keep it to myself I guess and leave this useless post behind to make you aware that there WAS something... "
-Equinox
"We're like the downtown of the Diablo related internet lol"
-Winged
Bio: An arrogant and pitiless man who's brutality in battle is mirrored only by his fanatical zealotry to the doctrine of the Zakarum. A proud believer in the phrase, 'the best defense is a good offense', he follows this philosophy almost blindly as evident by the two handed sword he carries.
Spending much of his life and career either fighting or converting heathens and so called barbarians in the northern highlands of Sanctuary, he slowly began to adopt their brutal methods of attacking. Their fondness for raw physical power over the more arcane power appealed to him.
His love of brutality it deep seated in his childhood. The murder of his parents before his eyes and a young age, left a lasting impact on him. An orphan he grew up under the care of the priests in the Zakarum. He was a quick study in their teachings. He excelled in the doctrines and teachings, and quickly rose through the ranks of the Zealot to the position of Inquisitor, a role that suited him well. The heavens appeared to be on his side as one of his earliest assignments as an Inquisitor gave him the opportunity to avenge his parent's death, by killing their murderer, in as much a brutal and bloody way as he had killed Reignier's parents.
It is said by many in the Zakarum faith that fighting and weaponry are all Reignier cares about, so much so to the point where it is said it is in his blood, hence the name, Iron Blood.
Heading the call of his master's on a mtter of urgency, he left the highlands and headed southeast to Kurast, the spiritual home of his faith.
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
-Humankind cannot gain anything without first giving something in return. To obtain, something of equal value must be lost. That is alchemy's First Law of Equivalent Exchange. In those days, we really believed that to be the world's one, and only, truth.
"I want to say something but I'll keep it to myself I guess and leave this useless post behind to make you aware that there WAS something... "
-Equinox
"We're like the downtown of the Diablo related internet lol"
-Winged
-Humankind cannot gain anything without first giving something in return. To obtain, something of equal value must be lost. That is alchemy's First Law of Equivalent Exchange. In those days, we really believed that to be the world's one, and only, truth.
Well...Everyone who started a character are still regular posters. Lets get this thing back on track!
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
"I want to say something but I'll keep it to myself I guess and leave this useless post behind to make you aware that there WAS something... "
-Equinox
"We're like the downtown of the Diablo related internet lol"
-Winged
I'm ready whenever- Need something to do on the site while I'm sifting through my latest hate mail Besides, I really wanted to play with this character.
I'm the one to blame. I was a little intimidated because I had never role played before. Tonight I'll read over all the material, sleep on it, and in the morning I will write up an epilogue.
Prologue. Epilogue comes at the End. Think Diablo II. Epilogue is Diablo dying. Prologue is Marius at the tavern with the outcasts.
And yeah, you do that.
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
-Humankind cannot gain anything without first giving something in return. To obtain, something of equal value must be lost. That is alchemy's First Law of Equivalent Exchange. In those days, we really believed that to be the world's one, and only, truth.
OH yes. I'm the man! Can't believe complaining actually worked haha. I'm excited now!
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
"I want to say something but I'll keep it to myself I guess and leave this useless post behind to make you aware that there WAS something... "
-Equinox
"We're like the downtown of the Diablo related internet lol"
-Winged
I'm the one to blame. I was a little intimidated because I had never role played before. Tonight I'll read over all the material, sleep on it, and in the morning I will write up an [pro]logue.
Name:
Age:
Skill Trees:
Weapon of Choice:
Bio:
The way we will use skills in this RP is unique. You can pick from any of these skill trees:
Note: If you have a skill tree that is not portrayed in the zakarum faith (Combat skills, Offensive auras, fire, lightning, and cold spells) You must provide a background as to how you acquired those skills in your bio.
There will be six "acts" in our main quest. After each act you will unlock a new tier of skills on all of your skill trees.
Example:
act 1 bash
act 2 leap, double swing
act 3 stun, double throw
act 4 concentrate, leap attack
act 5 frenzy
act 6 whirlwind, berserk
Example of character build: (dont use this one, its mine!)
Name: Divinus Ventus
Age: 46
Skill Trees:
Combat skills (barbarian)
Offensive auras
Lightning skills
Weapon of Choice: Polearm axes.
Bio:
Divinus Ventus was born Kontak Marenfel of the Crane Tribe. His childhood was spent in rigorous training sessions with polearm axes. The harsh training was not his lone burden, but the burden of all who were born into the Crane Tribe. The weapons were heavy and unweildy, wearing his fingers to the bone, and the rigors of training often overcame his resolve as he cried out in pain. Over time however his hands became as tough as the hide of a yeti and his skill with the weapons grew to surpass his instructor. Though he had gained much respect within his tribe he often wondered about the lush landscapes laying south that he had heard of in many of his elders wonderous and often exaggerated tales.
After his father died in a raid by a neighboring tribe he found it hard to justify living out his years in cold isolation from the rest of the world. At the age of twenty Kontak Marenfel cut his ties with the crane tribe forever and began his journey south.
Ten years after his departure from the crane tribe he found himself wandering the streets of Kurast in search of his next job. He had become a well known mercenary in the years following his journey into the civilized world. But now work was sparse, there seemed to be nobody in need of his services.
An ear battering crash radiated from behind him as the entrance gate was smashed down. Cries of terror rose up all around him as the crowded street quickly emptied. He turned swiftly to face the source of the commotion, and what he saw astounded him. A dozen hulking figures made their way towards him. As they grew nearer he could see that they weren't creatures of flesh and bone but creatures of wood. Their trunk like feet scraped the cobblestone street uprooting the individual cobbles as they approached him. They were too close now, Kontak drew an axe from his back, and gripped it firmly as he had been shown by his instructor. The leader of the pack swung at him in a violent display of power, causing Kontak to step backwards as its large wooden fist drove into a building on his left. To his surprise lightning bolts crackled away from its fist and shocked Kontak. Kontak had never faced such a daunting opponent, but his resolve remained unscathed. He swung straight at the creatures head with an upswing, but the axe head lodged in its forearm as it blocked. Kontak ripped at his polearm so hard that it tore the creatures arm clean off. The wooden beast let out a cry as lightning emminated from its wound. A second blow sunk straight into the creatures forehead causing it to burst into flame. The rest of the pack stalled for a moment as if unbelieving of what they had just witnessed. Their wait was short lived, Kontak lept towards the closest beast and whacked its head off. Having left his back turned toward another beast, it took its chance and brought its fist into Kontaks back, sending him crashing into a vendors cart, full of oranges. The smell of citrus filled his nostrils as rage filled his mind. Kontak slashed the beast chest in a criss cross motion. Flame bust forth from the deepest wound and singed Kontaks eyebrows. The creature fell back into its counterpart and they both hit the ground burning as if he had just lit a bonfire for the annual crane celebration of his home tribe.
The rest were closing in when the sound of thunder struck his ears. The foul creatures were reduced to ashes in a moment, as light flooded the surrounding area. For a second Kontak thought that he had been defeated, but as his vision and hearing returned he noticed a wizened old face staring down at him. He bore the insignia of Akarat, marking him as a zakarum faithful. " That was a impressive display young man" the old man said. "But it looked as though you were in trouble so I intervened" he continued. " It was you who fell those beasts?" Kontak asked. "Indeed" the old man responded, twisting his beard as he spoke. "Where did you learn such powerful magic?" Kontak asked. "Through my many years as a priest of the Zakarum faith." He retorted. "Get up and follow me" He said. Kontak did so willingly.
Kontak gazed at the many shelves full of potions and strange artifacts that poulated the elderly mans house. "So why did you bring me here?" Kontak requested. "To offer you an apprenticeship" the old man groweled. "What you saw of my power today was only a glimpse of what you can attain" he went on. "I see many aspects within you that are perfect for this type of spellwork" he said with a renewed sense of youth in his voice. "I have never used a spell in my life old man, what makes you think that I have the ability to do that?" Kontak said in a tense voice. "just a feeling" he said in a calm voice that threw Kontak off.
Sixteen years has past since Kontak had met the old man and became his apprentice. He had been given a new title by his master, Divinus Ventus "the divine wind". The old man is currently the last living council member that is outspoken against the Zakarum Inquisition, but now he lays upon his death bed, slowly declining in health.
Divinus, tended to his masters high fever, laying a soaked washcloth across his forehead. The old man strained to make words but failed. Divinus noticed and brought him a quill and parchment. As the old man wrote the ligaments in his hand crackled, but he continued. After he had finished his short note he collapsed back into his bed and let out a last puff of air. Silence, Divinus reached over to his masters face and closed his lids shut. After a moment of reflection he read the barley legible note that his master had written.
"The inqusition is wrong, you must confront the evil to the west. The Triune is upon us."
Divinus's mind struggled to decipher his masters criptic death note...
Fuck you, I'm a dragon.
Name: Galaphile
Age: 24
Skill Trees:
-Poison and Bone Spells
Weapon of Choice: Magic, but a short sword at the ready.
Bio:
Galaphile remembers:
Long, dark tunnels, filled with the endless dead. Corporeal and grotesque manifestations of the spirits- the Undead. They were strewn about him, raising their limbs and shaking appendages with weary and cumbersome movements. Their eyes would seem empty to all but the knowing Spirit Wielder, a Necromancer of the truest kind whose White Magicks were being tested beyond the brink. His own essence transcended the horrific scene about him, transcended the chaotic and terrifying screams of the aching dead. Shades of light emanated from his mind and body, echoing through the living world and going beyond it- to that which is forbidden the mortal eyes. To the land of the dead.
Rathma had taught: There is to be balance. Always. If there is not, establish balance in its absence. Only then will the true cycle of life and flow of spirits be complete and unified- in life, and its inevitable counterpart, death.
The living dead about him must be made balanced. They must be made restful. Their existence are animation was an abomination to the balance.
Galaphile stretched his spiritual being from host to host, testing each possessed manifestation. There were floods of terrible human sufferings- starvation, loneliness, suffocation, anguish- the bodies were rife with them. The whole crypt was rife with them. The balance was upset. The spirits had been wronged in life and must be put to rest.
He firmly took hold of their spiritual hosts, grappling with them one by one, his own living body shaking and trembling, being molested and beaten by not only the spiritual excursion, but also the physical pains of the dead trying to destroy his physical focal point. He could not lose his living body- if he did, his spirit would be losed to the same damnation that these poor souls endured for centuries. He must not lose focus, he must not die. Not yet.
The lights of high spiritual presence were floating and flying about the great crypt- passing about pillars and through skeletons and decaying flesh- inhabiting anything that they could find hospitable. The spirits were becoming more hostile. Galaphile could not fight them off on his own- his spirit was too weak. The Priests had not prepared him for such a task as this- they did not predict such loathsome hostility in the crypt. It was worse than they had feared.
The spirits began to shoot through his body- piercing his very soul. With each pass, he felt a metaphysical chilling pain course through him, his own light shade beginning to lose from his corporeal body.
He could not put it off any longer. It had to be done. Losing his glove, he pulled his fine stone wand from his belt.
It was all he could do to hold his concentration and begin small incantations to focus his power so that he might gather the spirits to one single focal point so that he could deal with them all at once. So that he could deal with their suffering, with their pain, all at once.
It was risky, but he could not fight them all.
"Recolligo silenti etc,
Signum sursum suum poena,
Redimio lemma,
Signum lemma,
Obfirmo phasmatis volo!"
It was a harsh whisper as it all came from his mouth, his hand cuffed closely about his wand as the symbols about it flared to life with enchanted power. Under normal circumstances, he would have banished the vile spirits, perhaps even without an incantation. They were too strong and too numerous, however. They needed to be dealt with differently.
Besides, they would provide good fodder for his own conjurations later, if necessary. Their spirits were hostile and powerful enough.
No sooner had he finished the Incantation of Spirit Binding than the lights of death began to pour in to his own body. Hundreds of them, their pains and sufferings nearly overwhelming- their baleful screams and cries the only thing filling his mind. Any lesser Necromancer would have lost his being at this point. Galaphile was stronger, though. He would be stronger. He had to be.
The last bits of death shade filled his body, flashing for only a little moment longer until they were fully absorbed. The bodies of the dead dropped to rest about him, grimy, rough finger nails and limbs that had been mauling his body falling uselessly to dusty death. His mind reeled with the afflictions of the dead. His body convulsed and spasmed under the mental and spiritual strain. His eyes struggled to regain vision of the physical world after ingesting so much spiritual energy. He struggled not to let his stone wand fall from his grasp or the seal could not work and they would be released again, tearing his own soul with them.
With a shaky hand, he groped for his bone knife. Fumbling upon a twisted handle, he yanked it free of its leather binding and jammed it in to his chest. Though streaks of pain seared through him and his ribs cracked from the heavy and deep stab, he did not relent, lest he lose his soul. He carefully but slowly carved in to his flesh, very deeply, ancient runes of power adapted from the southern swamps who housed the ruins of ancient Sorcerers. As his own blood left him, he was filled to overflowing with new, spiritual blood. It was dangerously invigorating and seductive, and Galaphile mustered all his being to resist its power.
Finally, the sealing was complete. With a final wave of nauseating pain and terror, the spirits were locked deep within his flesh, his body a prison to the dead. He managed a brief sigh as his bloody body collapsed onto the dusty stone floor, ancient bones crunching under his weight. It was not a practice that was permitted, sealing the dead in such a way, but it was his only choice.
Several hours later he managed to climb from the labyrinthine depths of the crypt, ascending to the Sealed Chamber of the Hall of Testings. Priest Coai walked hastily to him, wrapping an arm about Galaphile's form. He met his gaze with determination, "They are finished, the Souls of the Starving."
Coai nodded, "A difficult task. I and the other local priests of Ra'Thul had not foreseen such a hostility in the dead. When someone dies of such a primal suffering, however, things can become nasty in the afterlife."
Galaphile only nodded weakly.
"Ah, forgive me, you are obviously weakened from the endeavor. Come, follow me." Caoi kept his arm about Galaphile, bringing him out the stone-block building, the Hall of Testings, and down its many stone steps.
I need time to struggle with my new found demons, he thought quietly to himself. Rathma willing, Caoi will never need know what manner of spell I sowed to contain those beings.
Caoi had taken Galaphile to his small hut on the edge of the priests' dwelling area and set him on his bed. Galaphile was asleep instantly, gone in to that strange realm beyond the waking eye where one dealt with other issues than the physical. It was not long until the voices began.
Hear us, hear us! they screamed in his mind. Sealed we are, and now you bear what we had suffered in life. Listen, hear!
He felt as though his body was tossed from the sky, and he came to rest on a pile of bleached bones in a dark chasm. He saw about him the spirits of those sealed within him and, despite his training, was terrified. Their metaphysical, dreamworld bodies were grotesque and twisted forms of human shades, their eyes betraying only emptiness and longing, such dreadful longing that Galaphile could feel their eyes' weight on his own soul. Their suffering had ended, it was now his- their purpose, however, after their death had yet to be finished, it seemed.
What manner of dreadful curse befell you that you should haunt a man in his resting hours?
Curse? Curse?! What manner of curse would cause a mother to be taken from her children, slaughtered in the public places for all those gloating fools to see? What manner of curse would take a son from his family and throw his blood upon the flagstones, for his faith was found lacking? What manner of curse defeats freedom and laces its bearer to a dark death in agony and loneliness? Tell us, tell us! What do you know of curses, young Necromancer?
They circled about him, their eyes grown wild and hungry as they displayed their sufferings momentarily and then returned to their state of longing. Galaphile could see wrapped about each of the spirits the same binding glyphs he had carved on his own flesh in the form of spiritual chains and fetters.
So, if not a curse, what troubles you, lost ones? Why do you persist in your deaths?
There is, to the north, a large city, whose name we will not utter in our deaths, for fear of opening old memories- a large and grand city whose history is painted in blood and sacrifice. There the faithful gather and snuff out all who do not accept their mantle and charge. Go there, for another task is needed, one that requires you.
They began to close about him in their ever-tightening circle of ghastly forms. What manner of task? What would be more balancing than bringing death to the death-givers abundant?
They hissed in unison, their bodies crouching low as if to incline one to a whisper. You know of a great world beyond Sanctuary whose name is Burning- from whence comes a great Evil. No, Three!
They began to spin around him in a dance of macabre and death, reciting a dreadful mantra:
So it is written in the Eaves of Fate, in the Book of Dooms. Go forth, our time is done and message heard. Our purpose is finished, now we go. Let not our suffering to have been in vain!
In an instant they were caught up in a great whirlwind. Galaphile was knocked from his dreamtide feet and thrown from the pile of bones in to the darkness, falling... Falling...
He awakened to a humid, misty morning, as always in the deep Eastern Jungles. The dream was the only thing on his mind. Remembering the fetters of the spirits, he quickly looked at his chest to see if the runes had scarred over.
They were gone.
That meant that the spirits had freed themselves- their purpose had truly been fulfilled. Their words came back to him in his waking mind. He must go north to find a great city, whose history was paved in blood and sacrifice and whose dwellers are the faithful. It was an easy enough riddle.
He must go north, to Kurast.
Name: Sakpata
Age:42
Skill Trees:
Poison and Bone tree
Fire Spells
Weapon of Choice: Sakpata's Flail of Disease and Delirium (D&D Flail)
Bio: The precarious Sakpata of the tribe of the Clouded Valley hails from the dense Torajan jungles. Although a witch doctor of the mystic Umbaru teachings, Sakpata did not attach himself to groups easily. He was a wanderer by heart and nothing could seem to change that. That unique quality, unheard of in those born of Umbaru, paired with his distaste of the ritualistic war between tribes, Sakpata left the Torajan jungles at the yound age of 22. Sakpata had seen his fair share of bloodshed and was ready to begin his own life journey after what seemed like a lifetime of fighting, traveling wherever the breeze took him.
He enjoyed the uneasiness of not knowing his surroundings. Sakpata used his voodoo magiks and warrior skills in combination to survive. It was not uncommon for one like Sakpata to come in conflict with evil spirits and demons. Considering a witch doctor like Sakpata was often dealing with realms of existence only known by the spirits of the dead, the land and others, he was like a magnet for evil spirits and demons.
In battle Sakpata was incredibly agile, usually never suffering more than a scratch when his enemy most often ended up maimed or dead. Sakpata, when dealing with an enemy was swift and hasty with desire to finish quickly. Sakpata would begin a bout with a concoction he kept with him to confuse the enemy. With a green haze surrounding a battleground Sakpata would seemingly appear from behind unnoticed with his flail to deliver a blow that need not be used more than once. Most often Sakpata would not kill immediately with the blow itself, but rather with the voodoo enchantments attatched to the flail. If diseased, the flails poisons would seep through the victims vains to first paralyze and eventually kill as a result of agonizing pain that gripped the heart and chocked it until it stopped. Or, Sakpata could be using his arsenal of fire spellls he learned from both his own people and sorceress he came in contact with throughout his nomadic journeys. Then, he could use his flail to ignite his enemies sending them into an inferno frenzy in a futile effort to escape the grasping flames.
When faced with a new region Sakpata would enter into the Ghost Trance of his people to communicate with the spirits of the area. Unlike a druid he did not make connections with the land itself, but rather the spirits of the land.
20 years ago Sakpata settled in the near jungles of Kurast. It reminded him of course of his homeland as it almost lied in the same region. But unlike before Sakpata had an unusual amount of contact with the outside world. Learning the language of the land Sakpata became a very sociable person, loving to vendor off his potions, teach a bit of his voodoo magik or even simply tell the lore of ancient prophecies and tales.
But in the last 5 years he was faced with more horrifying demons and evil spirits every day as it worsened. Sakpata would communicate with the land in both the physical and spiritual realm, learning of current affairs that had ominous implications. Both the people of the land and the spirits of the Ghost Trance began to become very restless, and it certainly did not go unnoticed.
Know not did Sakpata what was going to happen....But there was baaad voodoo in the air.
-Equinox
"We're like the downtown of the Diablo related internet lol"
-Winged
Name: Reignier "The Iron Blood Inquisitor"
Age: 40
Skills:
Combat Skills (Barbarian)
Combat Skills (Paladin)
Offense Auras
Weapon of Choice: Zweihander (Two Handed Sword)
Bio: An arrogant and pitiless man who's brutality in battle is mirrored only by his fanatical zealotry to the doctrine of the Zakarum. A proud believer in the phrase, 'the best defense is a good offense', he follows this philosophy almost blindly as evident by the two handed sword he carries.
Spending much of his life and career either fighting or converting heathens and so called barbarians in the northern highlands of Sanctuary, he slowly began to adopt their brutal methods of attacking. Their fondness for raw physical power over the more arcane power appealed to him.
His love of brutality it deep seated in his childhood. The murder of his parents before his eyes and a young age, left a lasting impact on him. An orphan he grew up under the care of the priests in the Zakarum. He was a quick study in their teachings. He excelled in the doctrines and teachings, and quickly rose through the ranks of the Zealot to the position of Inquisitor, a role that suited him well. The heavens appeared to be on his side as one of his earliest assignments as an Inquisitor gave him the opportunity to avenge his parent's death, by killing their murderer, in as much a brutal and bloody way as he had killed Reignier's parents.
It is said by many in the Zakarum faith that fighting and weaponry are all Reignier cares about, so much so to the point where it is said it is in his blood, hence the name, Iron Blood.
Heading the call of his master's on a mtter of urgency, he left the highlands and headed southeast to Kurast, the spiritual home of his faith.
-Equinox
"We're like the downtown of the Diablo related internet lol"
-Winged
-Equinox
"We're like the downtown of the Diablo related internet lol"
-Winged
Fuck you, I'm a dragon.
And yeah, you do that.
-Equinox
"We're like the downtown of the Diablo related internet lol"
-Winged
Cool, can't wait