Character Bio Compendeum (Now Helmed by the Murgence)

    Ahhotep1
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    Post by Ahhotep1 on Tue Sep 10, 2013 11:12 am

    Here is my RP about Tamar and Tamara, her twin sister. It's a tentative start and like pieces in a puzzle at the moment. But I will be expanding on the bits so as to have their proper bios.

    Ahhotep1 - "Tamar and Tamara:
    The following is the tentative and "bit" by "bit" beginning of their RP. I will be adding, editing, collating and rendering a cohesive back story(s)...eventually. silly

    For my reference:
    Exiled RP old links and how to's page of OP
    Lifehunt: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7.

    Exiled: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5.

    1) Seth's "Shotgun RP Challenge"

    2) Valanor's RP Arrival at PW

    3) Response to Kahl's "Sorne" Char

    4) Exiled Farewell RP


    Last edited by Ahhotep1 on Wed Sep 11, 2013 2:26 pm; edited 1 time in total

    Elite Knight
    Elite Knight
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    Post by Elite Knight on Tue Sep 10, 2013 9:11 pm

    The Batman of Lordran: http://mmdks.com/3xcg

    Name: Brutus Vayne

    Birthplace: Carim

    Current Residence: Lordran, venturing through the Undead Church to the Lower Undead Burg

    Affiliation: Darkmoon Blade (eventually)



    Lore:


                    Dead air billowed around the noiseless shrine. Even though a handful of weary travelers occupied the crumbling and godforsaken hallowed grounds, the atmosphere never felt more desolate. Spirits were dampened by an aura of hopelessness emanating from the stale air that seemed to haunt Lordran like the specters below in the ruins of the once-great New Londo. It was quiet. That was the way he preferred it to be. Normally, he perched himself atop the roof of the ruined chapel that sat, a moss-covered, stony reminder of the world that had once been. However, he sought for the comfort of the flame, reminiscing on past memories, painful apparitions that haunted even his most pleasant dreams, which were in themselves seldom occurrences.
                    His hands folded, his helmet by his side, facing away from the warrior who always sat idle along the wall, so as to conceal his identity, if only barely. His coat clung to him, sweaty and ragged and still as dependable as it had been when he fashioned it. His knives and bolts were secure in their harnesses, his belt equipped with all manner of items needed for him to wade through this deadened world and root out all manner of malicious activity and evil. He had returned from a bout with a pair of large gargoyles, his wits stretched far in order to succeed in that battle. His mind weighed heavily, thinking that, had the second beast not accidentally slain the first with a large sweep of its overlarge halberd, and fallen from the rooftops with its companion, it was highly likely that he would have been slain.
                    Not that such a thing mattered; death had no adverse consequences in the land of the Undead, other than being excruciatingly painful and **** one of their Humanity. But alas, such a thing was negligible in the long run of affairs, and in this land death was nothing but an obstacle rather than an absolute ending. Now the dark figure sat, silent and brooding in the pale gloom of seemingly endless Lordran sunlight. The lone warrior seemed to pay his company no mind, seemed not to care either way if this bleak and dreary frame were around anymore. He counted this as a blessing; this warrior’s disinterest of his company meant that he was less likely to study him, to learn of him and who he was. Brutus had no idea if his name carried much significance in this accursed place, but his name would remain free of the wind nonetheless.
                    He had invented this darkened persona for a reason, and to shatter the validity of that persona’s terrifying presence meant his lifework’s demise. He was a watchful shadow, striking and nightmarish even in this land of horrors. He was somewhat of a legend in the bordering lands, given a new name that struck fear into the hearts of evil men: The Batman. This name was revered by all; even by the dignitaries and righteous Clerics, and feared by men whose souls were tainted with Sin. He wasn’t a killer of men, not the blade that served as the bane of cruelty. No, he was something much worse than death incarnate. His existence beckoned pleas to die, from any who would fall under his never-ending wrath.
                    The Batman, a dark knight more haunting than those that wandered Lordran, a hunting shadow that stalked and watched and waited, until finally it struck, without warning. His eyes were always gazing, his mind always aware, his body prepared to do what was necessary to halt the existence of evil; even going so far as to adopt his own methods of cruelty. He had broken bones, shattered skulls, and beaten down many who had dared trespass into the realm of wickedness, be it by way of theft, political corruption, or murder. His enemies were many, and his friends were none. He was no beacon of righteous arbitration, nay, but one of necessary justice, the brand which is employed in dungeons where no one hears the screams of the tortured souls that are unfortunate enough to find themselves within their stone walls.
                    He, however, utilized the screams of his prey. Many a night in the darkness of Carim’s underworld he had coaxed the frightened and pain-riddled shrieks of street vermin, employing their psychological power in order to establish his role within the blackness: he was no Saint, nary afraid to stoop down to the requirements in which he would deem acceptable so that he may acquire what he needs; be it information or ceasing the wickedness of a man’s actions, leaving his broken frame for the authorities to apprehend, or crippling them so that may never do harm to anyone else ever again. And with no face, no name to trace back to, vengeance against this master of dark hunting was ill advised and absolutely impossible. He was a product of years of anger and training, an embodiment of vengeance, wrought from tragedy that he will never escape.
                    He began to reflect on that night, within Carim’s embracing walls, those many years ago. It was the night that spawned his sense of revenge, to right the wrong of the murder of his dear mother and father. He came to feel that wielding death would slay the hurt that resided inside him, that by striking down the murderer his conscience would become clear and that he could finally rest. However, as he grew he came to realize that such would not be truth, and that killing those who did evil made him no better than those he vowed to wage war against.
                    Brutus Vayne, born in Carim to loving parents, Thomas and Margaret Vayne. Thomas was an exceptionally wealthy philanthropist, physician and surgeon, and a close personal friend to Sir Arstor, the Earl of Carim. It was through his influence and the support of the Earl that Thomas was able to establish a network of infirmaries throughout Carim. Margaret had a fondness for the arts, and utilized the family fortune to promote all manner of artwork in Carim; painting, theatre, music, all art was beautiful to Margaret.
                    Despite the wealth the Vaynes possessed, they maintained a manner of humility and humbleness, instilling these qualities within their son as well. Thomas, ever the gold-hearted one, often gave his fortune for the betterment of civil life and Humanity. Brutus’ father once said that life is sacred, and that to turn a blind eye to your fellow man is to lose precisely what it means to have Humanity. These words would hold Brutus in his steadfast ascension to vigilantism.
                    He broke his thoughts from the past, returning his conscience to the present. He donned his helmet once more, stood and turned, heading back up to the Undead Church. He had much backtracking to do, and a ferocious dragon to outwit if he were to make his perilous plight into the godforsaken ruins of Blighttown. Thinking about such a journey did nothing to excite him; he’d rather enjoy it if he could stay here by the Bonfire forever.
                    However, there was evil in this land, and evil had to be eradicated. He walked, coming upon the lift, ascending higher and higher, his eyes closed in contemplation. His plan was formulating piece by piece as he lifted higher and higher into the air. He came to a stop within the hallowed and Hollow-infested halls of the church. Stepping forward, turning to the right to face the Undead knights of Balder that stood in the adjacent room. One noticed the dark figure, rousing its companions to join the fray.
                    A smile broke across Brutus’ face beneath the black horned helm. And within moments, his plan played out to his advantage, blurred and quickened. These Hollows were mindless beasts, lusting after the souls of the living so that they too may live again. They were doomed to an endless cycle of rebirth, and incapable of morality; they were primal creatures, having forgotten their senses long ago.
                    This made them ideal opponents, for they couldn’t truly be killed. Brutus walked away from the fallen Hollow knights, steeling himself for the challenges that would come. The path to Blighttown would be paved with the bodies of those he conquered in combat, but it would be paved nonetheless.
                    Lord knows what horrors he would face. But as the Batman of Lordran, he would face them; he would overcome.


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    Wilkinson3424
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    Post by Wilkinson3424 on Tue Sep 10, 2013 9:57 pm

    Elite Knight wrote:The Batman of Lordran: http://mmdks.com/3xcg

    Name: Brutus Vayne

    Birthplace: Carim

    Current Residence: Lordran, venturing through the Undead Church to the Lower Undead Burg

    Affiliation: Darkmoon Blade (eventually)



    Lore:


                    Dead air billowed around the noiseless shrine. Even though a handful of weary travelers occupied the crumbling and godforsaken hallowed grounds, the atmosphere never felt more desolate. Spirits were dampened by an aura of hopelessness emanating from the stale air that seemed to haunt Lordran like the specters below in the ruins of the once-great New Londo. It was quiet. That was the way he preferred it to be. Normally, he perched himself atop the roof of the ruined chapel that sat, a moss-covered, stony reminder of the world that had once been. However, he sought for the comfort of the flame, reminiscing on past memories, painful apparitions that haunted even his most pleasant dreams, which were in themselves seldom occurrences.
                    His hands folded, his helmet by his side, facing away from the warrior who always sat idle along the wall, so as to conceal his identity, if only barely. His coat clung to him, sweaty and ragged and still as dependable as it had been when he fashioned it. His knives and bolts were secure in their harnesses, his belt equipped with all manner of items needed for him to wade through this deadened world and root out all manner of malicious activity and evil. He had returned from a bout with a pair of large gargoyles, his wits stretched far in order to succeed in that battle. His mind weighed heavily, thinking that, had the second beast not accidentally slain the first with a large sweep of its overlarge halberd, and fallen from the rooftops with its companion, it was highly likely that he would have been slain.
                    Not that such a thing mattered; death had no adverse consequences in the land of the Undead, other than being excruciatingly painful and **** one of their Humanity. But alas, such a thing was negligible in the long run of affairs, and in this land death was nothing but an obstacle rather than an absolute ending. Now the dark figure sat, silent and brooding in the pale gloom of seemingly endless Lordran sunlight. The lone warrior seemed to pay his company no mind, seemed not to care either way if this bleak and dreary frame were around anymore. He counted this as a blessing; this warrior’s disinterest of his company meant that he was less likely to study him, to learn of him and who he was. Brutus had no idea if his name carried much significance in this accursed place, but his name would remain free of the wind nonetheless.
                    He had invented this darkened persona for a reason, and to shatter the validity of that persona’s terrifying presence meant his lifework’s demise. He was a watchful shadow, striking and nightmarish even in this land of horrors. He was somewhat of a legend in the bordering lands, given a new name that struck fear into the hearts of evil men: The Batman. This name was revered by all; even by the dignitaries and righteous Clerics, and feared by men whose souls were tainted with Sin. He wasn’t a killer of men, not the blade that served as the bane of cruelty. No, he was something much worse than death incarnate. His existence beckoned pleas to die, from any who would fall under his never-ending wrath.
                    The Batman, a dark knight more haunting than those that wandered Lordran, a hunting shadow that stalked and watched and waited, until finally it struck, without warning. His eyes were always gazing, his mind always aware, his body prepared to do what was necessary to halt the existence of evil; even going so far as to adopt his own methods of cruelty. He had broken bones, shattered skulls, and beaten down many who had dared trespass into the realm of wickedness, be it by way of theft, political corruption, or murder. His enemies were many, and his friends were none. He was no beacon of righteous arbitration, nay, but one of necessary justice, the brand which is employed in dungeons where no one hears the screams of the tortured souls that are unfortunate enough to find themselves within their stone walls.
                    He, however, utilized the screams of his prey. Many a night in the darkness of Carim’s underworld he had coaxed the frightened and pain-riddled shrieks of street vermin, employing their psychological power in order to establish his role within the blackness: he was no Saint, nary afraid to stoop down to the requirements in which he would deem acceptable so that he may acquire what he needs; be it information or ceasing the wickedness of a man’s actions, leaving his broken frame for the authorities to apprehend, or crippling them so that may never do harm to anyone else ever again. And with no face, no name to trace back to, vengeance against this master of dark hunting was ill advised and absolutely impossible. He was a product of years of anger and training, an embodiment of vengeance, wrought from tragedy that he will never escape.
                    He began to reflect on that night, within Carim’s embracing walls, those many years ago. It was the night that spawned his sense of revenge, to right the wrong of the murder of his dear mother and father. He came to feel that wielding death would slay the hurt that resided inside him, that by striking down the murderer his conscience would become clear and that he could finally rest. However, as he grew he came to realize that such would not be truth, and that killing those who did evil made him no better than those he vowed to wage war against.
                    Brutus Vayne, born in Carim to loving parents, Thomas and Margaret Vayne. Thomas was an exceptionally wealthy philanthropist, physician and surgeon, and a close personal friend to Sir Arstor, the Earl of Carim. It was through his influence and the support of the Earl that Thomas was able to establish a network of infirmaries throughout Carim. Margaret had a fondness for the arts, and utilized the family fortune to promote all manner of artwork in Carim; painting, theatre, music, all art was beautiful to Margaret.
                    Despite the wealth the Vaynes possessed, they maintained a manner of humility and humbleness, instilling these qualities within their son as well. Thomas, ever the gold-hearted one, often gave his fortune for the betterment of civil life and Humanity. Brutus’ father once said that life is sacred, and that to turn a blind eye to your fellow man is to lose precisely what it means to have Humanity. These words would hold Brutus in his steadfast ascension to vigilantism.
                    He broke his thoughts from the past, returning his conscience to the present. He donned his helmet once more, stood and turned, heading back up to the Undead Church. He had much backtracking to do, and a ferocious dragon to outwit if he were to make his perilous plight into the godforsaken ruins of Blighttown. Thinking about such a journey did nothing to excite him; he’d rather enjoy it if he could stay here by the Bonfire forever.
                    However, there was evil in this land, and evil had to be eradicated. He walked, coming upon the lift, ascending higher and higher, his eyes closed in contemplation. His plan was formulating piece by piece as he lifted higher and higher into the air. He came to a stop within the hallowed and Hollow-infested halls of the church. Stepping forward, turning to the right to face the Undead knights of Balder that stood in the adjacent room. One noticed the dark figure, rousing its companions to join the fray.
                    A smile broke across Brutus’ face beneath the black horned helm. And within moments, his plan played out to his advantage, blurred and quickened. These Hollows were mindless beasts, lusting after the souls of the living so that they too may live again. They were doomed to an endless cycle of rebirth, and incapable of morality; they were primal creatures, having forgotten their senses long ago.
                    This made them ideal opponents, for they couldn’t truly be killed. Brutus walked away from the fallen Hollow knights, steeling himself for the challenges that would come. The path to Blighttown would be paved with the bodies of those he conquered in combat, but it would be paved nonetheless.
                    Lord knows what horrors he would face. But as the Batman of Lordran, he would face them; he would overcome.
    That's perfect.


    Anyway,

    @ Emergence - I'd be willing to recreate this thread and manage it if you're too busy.

    I've noticed the lack of updates on this, i'm not criticizing you, please don't think i'm complaining, (I really appreciate the work the staff does here). I was just wondering if you wanted help with it is all.


    Last edited by Wilkinson3424 on Wed Sep 11, 2013 7:29 pm; edited 1 time in total


    _________________

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    Emergence
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    Post by Emergence on Wed Sep 11, 2013 11:53 am

    I will get through them. I have not been getting the watch alerts for some odd reason so it slipped off my radar. There would really be no easy way to hand the thread over, it would require a ton of copypasta and linking as far as I can figure.


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    Post by Emergence on Wed Sep 11, 2013 12:02 pm

    Up to date. Two or three posts seemed more to be stories so I will create a subsection for that.


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    Ahhotep1
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    Post by Ahhotep1 on Wed Sep 11, 2013 2:33 pm

    Heya, E biggrin 

    Put mine where ever you see fit. Since I still have to write a proper bio for both anyway. Thanks for letting me put my spoiler here, though. It was more for logistics so I could easily come back to it and do a proper job later. twisted

    I thought there was a proper RP thread that consolidated various stories. But it seems those threads are quite spread out. Creating a story subsection would be a good idea.

    Wilkinson3424
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    Post by Wilkinson3424 on Wed Sep 11, 2013 7:28 pm

    Emergence wrote:I will get through them.  I have not been getting the watch alerts for some odd reason so it slipped off my radar.  There would really be no easy way to hand the thread over, it would require a ton of copypasta and linking as far as I can figure.
    Yeah, I figured it would be more trouble than it's worth.

    Oh... And this is embarrassing on my part but "The Exiled One" is not actually part of the Exiled of Ariamas. I should have made that more clear.

    He is unaffiliated with any covenant. He just resides in the painted world.


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    Pale_Drake
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    Age : 21
    Location : Behide that rock over there

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    Post by Pale_Drake on Wed Sep 18, 2013 12:11 am

    Name: Domanic the "Eastern Demon"

    Birth Place: Eastern Marsh Lands

    Coventant: None

    Appearance: Tarnished leather hood that hides his eye. Robes that would be warn by great sorcerers, along with gaunlet and leggings made out of solid brass. He wields a well kept falchion, caduceus shield, and a powerful pyromanicer flame. It is unclear about his eyes and hair, no one has seen his entire face.

    Battle Skills: Self-taught; he has trained himself with curved blades, but pyromancy came after he took on the teachings of a man from the Great Swamps. He quickly learned about the flames and how they are used.

    Bio: One of the many demon hunters who went to Boletaria during the deep fog. He went in search of the power demon souls could bring. After obtaining and absorbing the souls he collected he gained so much power that he broke free from the fog...almost as if it reconized him as a demon. He then vanished without a trase for years, until the out-break of undead began. He was in search of souls, he roamed around Lordran in search of souls. It didnt matter if it a normal soul or lord soul, he just kept devouring soul after soul. His blade now imbued with the blood of those who had fallen to his blade it now seemed occult like, and his pyromancy flame began to burn more chaoticly. He now roams Lordran killing all that has a soul.Even those who aren't in his time nor dimension aren't safe from him, he pursurs all with souls. He even kill all Four Knights of Gywn in search for souls. His demonic hunger has lead him to the from deepest most acursed places of Lordran to its most holy and divine santuraries. 



    They say the eyes are the gateways to ones soul...no one has seen his eyes.


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    Acarnatia
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    Post by Acarnatia on Wed Oct 16, 2013 9:12 pm

    Name: Nevis Ysbrid. Nevis, in reference to a mountain, and 'ysbrid,' literally meaning 'ghost, apparition, phantom, wraith.'

    Stats for Rynn's roleplay
    Starting Stats

    Gender: Male
    Age: 21
    Race: Astoran
    Bio:
    History: Nevis was born seemingly humble origins; a dirt-poor freeman and wife, between the city and the countryside. Beneath this simple appearance lay something much darker; the father, once knight of the underworld who relinquished his trade, and his mother with a history of abuse and the child of a soldier, was born with something strange inside him. This child inherited an animosity perhaps unlike any other, a seed of hatred with a potential yet unseen by the world. Perhaps, the Dark itself sensed this potential and touched the babe before he was even born, creating him as its perfect champion. And, yet...
    The child grew in a far kinder, more loving environment than most of any class. He was intelligent, kind sweet. The seed went unnutured and did not sprout.
    The child, though, was enamored with stories of masters of a craft, those who bore a single skill of legendary, unequaled proportion. He compared himself to his heroes, and wondered what his gift was. Test what he would, experience what may come, he found none that awoke the deepest recesses of his soul as he knew it should. Years passed, and the child of six grew anxious and frustrated, and even depressed. One day, the child sobbed aloud to the heaven, tears upon his face to tell him, answer him, what his greatest potential was. And it answered.
    The seed awoke within him, and he felt a hate beyond at the very limit of what a human may harbor. The child, terrified, closed his heart, his emotions, by becoming empty, by turning his heart into nothing. Dead inside, the child nearly made himself the same without. For his family, though, he stayed his hand, and grew.
    Years passed, and he grew ever further more distant and unusual. He believed himself unseen, not understood. And how could they? They, who would not understand, let alone believe his plight. He spent more time with books and stories than with people, and wrote much. He had a gift for it, especially poetry, though he payed little attention to it. His education suffered, though, as he was unwilling. Incomplete and inexperienced, his outer existence began to mirror his within; nothingness.
    Then, during a hollow outbreak, he died.
    And then, the Darksign branded his corpse.


    _________________
    I am him who seeks himself;
    Fallen Heaven's malice was I born to bear.
    A phantom-ghost treading upon the mists of Heaven,
    Malevolence or Heaven am I?
    I am the absolute devoted,
    The wraith.

    PSN: Enaid_Waleis (main), Try-chu
    Pale_Drake
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    Post by Pale_Drake on Sat Nov 09, 2013 11:58 pm

    Name: Grell the Abyssal Drake

    Origin: The Duke's Archives

    Covenant: Darkwraith (in-game only)

    Appearance: Hood & coat made for a wanderer, silver leggings and gauntlets. Whited eyes & occult energy riddled scales, with pale skin and scales. Longs white hair and a pendant around his neck.

    Skills: Though possessing incredible strength, he prefers to wield knives and thrusting weapons. He uses a rapier and off-hands a knife, both are finely made. Fast nibbled fighter, is also adapt with several forms of magic. Has a catalyst and another knife hidden away.

    Bio: He is the son of Seath the Scaless and brother to Priscilla, he was born shortly after Priscilla but was hidden away from Gwyn. He was hidden for most of his childhood in the archives with his father helping conduct research. The only place he wasn't allowed inside was the archive tower which only the channelers were allowed to be in. One day he pickpocketed one of them and entered the tower only to find the dark side of his father's research. He saw the women his father kept locked up, and the serpent-like creatures guarding them.
       He was trying to free them but was caught by a channelor and was brought before Seath. His father sentenced him to head to Oolacile and find out about there magic...but that's when the abyss began to spread. He wore and attire to hide his scalely hide from other travelers, one begin Artorias himself. He traveled along side him exchanging words about random subjects. Sif knew that Grell was a crossbreed and often times growled and snarled at him. Once there they parted ways, Grell went to the entrance of the abyss.
       As he tried to enter to began to overwhelm him, he felt the darkness coursing through him. His mind began to dull out and his vision blurred. He felt as if they abyss was absorbing into his very soul. The draconic nature began to rage and lash out, while his deity nature began to fade and malformed into another being entirely. His senses began to be overwhelmed and his body collapsed to the ground. He blacked out entirely for an unknown period of time.
       When he came to it he was laying next to artorias, both were injured and riddled with what appeared to be stain of magic marks that burned to the touch. Heavy breathing could be heard, Manus was be hide Grell. Grell was frightened by the primeval human and coward next to artorias. Suddenly Artorias leaped to his feet sword readied. He signaled for Grell to run, as Grell fled he was swarmed with humanity phantoms and sounds of Artorias's screams in his ears. He awoke in front of a large serpent who introduced himself as Kaathe.
       He was told the "truth" about Gywn & the other lords, including his father. Outraged by his father he joined Kaathe and was given the power of the Darkwraiths and mastered the black magic's. Years later he traveled back to Lordran seeking the Lords killing them off. Once he got into the Kiln of the First Flame he killed Lord Gywn with the very magic he tried to stave off. Once the death of Gywn he simply left and ushered in Age of Darkness with him as its lord.


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    It's not that I killed u because you have humanity, it's because I love the sight of blood

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