Post by Howl Wilde on Feb 28, 2007 14:22:56 GMT -5
your name: Howl
other characters RPed on DRA: Tornac, Howl, (Thorn).
character:
name: Kamaru “Spider” Asyris
age: est 120 years
gender: Male
race: Elf
allegiance: Empire [professional torturer; captain in the army] / may desert
description: (based on Axel from Kingdom Hearts)
Asyris is taller than almost all humans thanks to his race, but that’s about where his similarities with his own kind end. Oh, you can usually tell he’s an elf, but he doesn’t look like what most people think and elf aught to look like: his hair is bright red and rather than perfectly straight it is spiky and messy in all sorts of different directions unless compressed by the hood he usually wears. Truth be told, he looks more like a shade than an elf, although his pointy ears give away his birthright. Asyris’ face is certainly quite the mix between elf and shade: red-tinted brown eyes that flash a maroon color in sunlight, an almost too-perfect face that’s almost symmetrical. He has small black triangles tattooed under his eyes.
There’s something about the way Captain Asyris moves that might also hint to those with practiced eyes that he’s both a soldier and not quite human. He hardly manages to do anything without doing it elegantly with just the slightest hint of suppressed violence, although when he looses his temper his movements become twitchy and nervous and tend towards violence not being so suppressed. Actually, most of his more redeeming physical traits fizzle out when he’s angry and since that’s often he has an awful tendency of looking like a good looking, very vengeful, very pissed-off dervish with his odd circular blades twirling, hacking and slashing. Well, maybe not good looking – unless you find an otherwise handsome face contorted into an irritated snarl particularly arousing. In case that is the way you lean, it may interest you to learn that underneath the black cloak that usually hides everything but his boots and hands and face, Asyris looks nothing as pretty –
-- his body is quite literally his history written out in detailed pictures. Tattoos and scars, birthmarks and ritual mutilation cover most of his body from complex black-and-white tattoos that snake from wing-like designs on his shoulder blades to almost-floral scrolls and flourishes over his wrists and blue-black dragons curling around his ankles. Scars from combat come in the form of the more minor silver lines crisscrossing his tattooed skin and more serious puckered pink wounds such as an old stab injury narrowly missing his vital organs.
personality: When it comes to emotions, it occasionally seems that Asyris has far too many of them. He flickers from amusement to anger to depression to envy seemingly without pattern or reason, one moment being pleasant and lovely, then violent and abrasive the next. People around him have an awful habit of either falling in to bed with him (male or female,) or ending up with bruises and blood. He rises each morning in a more or less amiable mood, and depending on the course of the day, ends up either kicking and screaming, or humming love songs under his breath into the ear of the nearest pretty person, or having to lock himself up away from sharp objects to keep from doing something unpleasant to himself.
Asyris is almost childish in character; although he’s well over a hundred and twenty human years. He looks like a thirty-year-old or perhaps a little younger, but he acts like a petulant teenager in whom hormones are still playing chaos catalysts. Like a small child, he can be completely infatuated with someone or something, then loose interest and ignore it. He’s been madly in love, then broken the relationship to chase something new – a new face or pair of legs, a new type of swordplay, a different brand of magic, a series of new elfish words, a horse he’s seen and knows belongs to someone else.
In the company of more highly-ranking men or people who otherwise have some measure of control over his life, Asyris becomes resentful and contradicts everything anybody says; which would be okay if he was always right – unfortunately, that’s not often the case and this makes people generally distrustful and disrespectful of his choice – even on the battlefield, where he is usually right about things. This stands heavily in the way of his promotion, although his being an elf doesn’t help – he’s paranoid about people mistrusting him for his race and its aversion to the Empire.
history: Asyris likes to say that all stories are actually songs – he says this because he’s a singer, if people are to believed. His voice isn’t terrible, but the term singer actually comes from his weapons: circular blades he moves lightning-fast.
His story isn’t much like a song. This is because most songs are beautiful things that tell stories full of emotion: not all songs are beautiful, and not all songs have emotions in them, but the best ones do. Not that Asyris’ story is one of the best. It is neither exciting nor nice and much of it he and other people would pay to forget or take back, and of course there are not many emotions in Asyris’ song because he has them all.
Where Kamaru was born, there weren’t many stories or songs because his parent’s people moved through the great elf forests without taking them time to collect tales and fables like so many nomadic people do. Even nomadic creatures take stories with them, they just don’t tell them to humans or even to elves who claim to have such an affinity with creatures. Anyway, Asyris doesn’t remember much before about his fifth birthday – he remembers running through the forest and hunting with his father. He doesn’t recall at all much about his mother and supposes she must have died when he was young for some reason or other. He tries not to think about that it was perhaps all his fault.
A lot of things were Kamaru’s fault. Not that he purposely made trouble, but the bad things in the world seemed to follow him around so that everything seemed as though he was doing something wrong. It started not long after he’d turned seven or so: he was out, away from the temporary camp of his people hunting rabbits with his miniature bow when he roused an Empire patrol that had stumbled into the forest by mistake, losing their was in the desert and somehow making it to the elf lands.
He unwittingly led the patrol back to camp; as a result several of his people were killed. He said that he was very sorry and life more or less went on as usual; he grew up and became a handsome, open young man whose quick fingers wielded quills for poetry more deftly than they clutched sword blades. Small, unlucky mistakes still seemed to follow him but people forgave it him when he wrote songs and poems for them.
The problem was, the unlucky mistakes just wouldn’t stop. He was one of those people who was followed by misfortune. It was decided, after a few years, that he was to be send to the capital of the elf nation where he could take up a proper education in poetry and creative writing – and could stop causing trouble for the tribe.
Used to traveling, even alone. Asyris agreed and set out towards the capital. For a while, he thought his luck was getting better: he even seemed to be extruding good luck, as he kept running into a little old elf who was constantly suffering from some problem or other, and every time Kamaru met the man, he assisted the old fellow in getting to where he wanted to go. All seemed well – and then he reached a minor town, small and quite pathetic, where he lodged.
He was half asleep when the commotion started outside and he dragged himself upright to look out the window to see what was going on. His old elf friend was in the town, and he was being arrested. Worried, Kamaru vaulted out the window, skidded down the roof, and landed in the road. The men trying to arrest the older elf eventually let him go after Kamaru swore at them and told them it was just an old elf; what harm could he do?
A lot, it appeared. When Kamaru asked what was going on, the old man (who appeared to be dying, but that wasn’t the point,) went so far as to thank Asyris.
“I suppose I aught to thank you,” the old man said. “These last months you’ve helped me along and I wouldn’t have gotten here without you. My friends would thank you too, but I let them go two days ago.”
“Friends?” Kamaru asked, curious.
“The rats,” the other elf said, coughing up blood. “Sniff and Snot. They were carrying the plague, do you know? I let them go here when I realized I probably wouldn’t make it to the great city. Thank you for helping me get my revenge on this stupid, blighted government.”
“The plague?” Kamaru stuttered.
“Bubonic: they didn’t want to go get my son when the Empire got him, did you know that? So now I’m getting my own back.”
Kamaru stared blankly at the dying man, his eyes dark and unreadable, as the last living bit of the other elf flew away. He moved quickly after that, with a speed and solemnity built of resoluteness and despair in equal measures.
He set the trees on fire, you see – built a ring of flames that circled the town, making sure nobody could leave it and spread further the disease the man had unleashed. Asyris had no idea how many people – or indeed, if he himself – had caught the plague, but he decided to be sure. While the town burned, Kamaru Asyris ran.
You see, running is a little bit like a song, because you tend to be going somewhere when you run and songs must always go somewhere, just like stories. Fire, however, is nothing like a song – because fire casts light, but to do that it has to destroy something and songs never break anything, they only glow faintly like fireflies at night. That’s what songs do, they tell stories and they light the world all up.
Kamaru ran right through the desert. He ran past villages and cities and towns and one-man hovels on the side of the rutted roads. He sang when he had to, to get food or water or a place to sleep. He told stories, too – dark, brutal stories about bad luck and old men carrying the plague. His songs were sad, too, but they always had little bits of hope and love hidden in them and people who listened smiled as they wiped away tears.
It was only really another bit of bad luck that got Asyris into the army. He ran, you have to understand, into a camp of Empire soldiers. That’s really where it started: the old man hadn’t really been his fault, nor any of the other unfortunate events he’d brought about. Once the soldiers had finished beating the living daylights out of the young elf – that was when the pain he seemed to drag around with him really became his fault.
That’s another reason that Kamaru’s story isn’t like a song at all: songs have both melody and beat and sometimes they have words, but Kamaru’s seemed to only have beat. Beat, beat, beatings. His own heart beat, sometimes, too, but it didn’t use to thaw much back then.
It isn’t very hard, when you’re a prisoner of an Empire patrol, to learn how to hurt people. It seems to teach itself, often at a price. Kamaru learnt much in the short time and when he was brought to the nearest Empire official and asked who, what and why he was, he put it all to use. He was a loyal Empire man, he assured the officer. A very loyal man, despite his heritage – could you really blame a rat for being a rat? That he was an elf, he said, had very little to do with how much he wanted to serve the Empire – and, of course, you illustriousness.
He was signed on as a torturer because of course elves usually can’t lie, but it had been a very long time ago by a twenty-year-old’s standard, that he had learnt to speak common and therefore could seamlessly fit two sentences together into a lie: put two and two together and get three. For years, the fire-haired elf did what he’d learnt to do, and he was good at it – but it began to get back at him. He used to hear the songs in his dreams – the melody would be screams, the beat would be fists on flesh and singing would be too terrible to bear.
Asyris decided that he would still keep a violent profession – he needed that, because then the bad luck he extruded didn’t seem so obvious. He joined the army, waded though the enmity his companions had for his kind, and rose though a few ranks to sit at Captain. He hasn’t risen or fallen since then and appears to have finally settled down.
His song’s not finished yet: the melody may just be back because he’s started humming now, sweet nothings into the ears of people he might actually care for in his own fleeting way. And the beat’s less erratic and violent now too: it’s the beat of his heart, not just his fists or someone else’s. His heart seems to be thawing, although he still freezes up sometimes as the songs sit in his head and shout obscene things at him. Something happened when his bad luck finally affected him rather than other people: something is happening now when it appears he can spend longer times with people without them getting hurt.
Asyris calls his story a song, but he doesn’t sing it unless it’s in the sound of his weapons cutting the air to strike. He doesn’t tell people who or what he is, because there’s not much to tell, he claims. His life, he tells them, is a song that he can’t sing very well and no body would like anyway.
family: He doesn’t talk about them.
other:
xx. an odd pair of weapons are constantly at Kamaru’s belt – a pair of metal loops, spiked along their outer edges with only hand grips free of razor blades; they are about a hand and a half across with the handles being large enough to be gripped by both hands if needs be. He doesn’t have names for them, but they whistle as they move and people have been known to call them songs or singers.
xx. Captain Asyris has an interesting, very competitive relationship with another of the military’s men, a dwarf whom he refers to only as ‘midget’, that involves them competing constantly and bickering often although if you get him drunk enough / stoned enough / in your bed he may admit that he somewhat admires the dwarf. Somewhat.
xx. in his rank as Captain, he controls few men – a motley crew of urgals, conscripts and mercenaries. Lately he’s been out on his own with his men under review for alleged crimes that he wasn’t watching because he was trying to steal someone’s wife.
xx. as far as magic goes, the elf known to many people as Spider is barely competent. He can create small spells but they aren’t powerful – the only skill he has in manipulating magic is in his slightly unpleasant use of fire.
rp sample: N/A
other characters RPed on DRA: Tornac, Howl, (Thorn).
character:
name: Kamaru “Spider” Asyris
age: est 120 years
gender: Male
race: Elf
allegiance: Empire [professional torturer; captain in the army] / may desert
description: (based on Axel from Kingdom Hearts)
Asyris is taller than almost all humans thanks to his race, but that’s about where his similarities with his own kind end. Oh, you can usually tell he’s an elf, but he doesn’t look like what most people think and elf aught to look like: his hair is bright red and rather than perfectly straight it is spiky and messy in all sorts of different directions unless compressed by the hood he usually wears. Truth be told, he looks more like a shade than an elf, although his pointy ears give away his birthright. Asyris’ face is certainly quite the mix between elf and shade: red-tinted brown eyes that flash a maroon color in sunlight, an almost too-perfect face that’s almost symmetrical. He has small black triangles tattooed under his eyes.
There’s something about the way Captain Asyris moves that might also hint to those with practiced eyes that he’s both a soldier and not quite human. He hardly manages to do anything without doing it elegantly with just the slightest hint of suppressed violence, although when he looses his temper his movements become twitchy and nervous and tend towards violence not being so suppressed. Actually, most of his more redeeming physical traits fizzle out when he’s angry and since that’s often he has an awful tendency of looking like a good looking, very vengeful, very pissed-off dervish with his odd circular blades twirling, hacking and slashing. Well, maybe not good looking – unless you find an otherwise handsome face contorted into an irritated snarl particularly arousing. In case that is the way you lean, it may interest you to learn that underneath the black cloak that usually hides everything but his boots and hands and face, Asyris looks nothing as pretty –
-- his body is quite literally his history written out in detailed pictures. Tattoos and scars, birthmarks and ritual mutilation cover most of his body from complex black-and-white tattoos that snake from wing-like designs on his shoulder blades to almost-floral scrolls and flourishes over his wrists and blue-black dragons curling around his ankles. Scars from combat come in the form of the more minor silver lines crisscrossing his tattooed skin and more serious puckered pink wounds such as an old stab injury narrowly missing his vital organs.
personality: When it comes to emotions, it occasionally seems that Asyris has far too many of them. He flickers from amusement to anger to depression to envy seemingly without pattern or reason, one moment being pleasant and lovely, then violent and abrasive the next. People around him have an awful habit of either falling in to bed with him (male or female,) or ending up with bruises and blood. He rises each morning in a more or less amiable mood, and depending on the course of the day, ends up either kicking and screaming, or humming love songs under his breath into the ear of the nearest pretty person, or having to lock himself up away from sharp objects to keep from doing something unpleasant to himself.
Asyris is almost childish in character; although he’s well over a hundred and twenty human years. He looks like a thirty-year-old or perhaps a little younger, but he acts like a petulant teenager in whom hormones are still playing chaos catalysts. Like a small child, he can be completely infatuated with someone or something, then loose interest and ignore it. He’s been madly in love, then broken the relationship to chase something new – a new face or pair of legs, a new type of swordplay, a different brand of magic, a series of new elfish words, a horse he’s seen and knows belongs to someone else.
In the company of more highly-ranking men or people who otherwise have some measure of control over his life, Asyris becomes resentful and contradicts everything anybody says; which would be okay if he was always right – unfortunately, that’s not often the case and this makes people generally distrustful and disrespectful of his choice – even on the battlefield, where he is usually right about things. This stands heavily in the way of his promotion, although his being an elf doesn’t help – he’s paranoid about people mistrusting him for his race and its aversion to the Empire.
history: Asyris likes to say that all stories are actually songs – he says this because he’s a singer, if people are to believed. His voice isn’t terrible, but the term singer actually comes from his weapons: circular blades he moves lightning-fast.
His story isn’t much like a song. This is because most songs are beautiful things that tell stories full of emotion: not all songs are beautiful, and not all songs have emotions in them, but the best ones do. Not that Asyris’ story is one of the best. It is neither exciting nor nice and much of it he and other people would pay to forget or take back, and of course there are not many emotions in Asyris’ song because he has them all.
Where Kamaru was born, there weren’t many stories or songs because his parent’s people moved through the great elf forests without taking them time to collect tales and fables like so many nomadic people do. Even nomadic creatures take stories with them, they just don’t tell them to humans or even to elves who claim to have such an affinity with creatures. Anyway, Asyris doesn’t remember much before about his fifth birthday – he remembers running through the forest and hunting with his father. He doesn’t recall at all much about his mother and supposes she must have died when he was young for some reason or other. He tries not to think about that it was perhaps all his fault.
A lot of things were Kamaru’s fault. Not that he purposely made trouble, but the bad things in the world seemed to follow him around so that everything seemed as though he was doing something wrong. It started not long after he’d turned seven or so: he was out, away from the temporary camp of his people hunting rabbits with his miniature bow when he roused an Empire patrol that had stumbled into the forest by mistake, losing their was in the desert and somehow making it to the elf lands.
He unwittingly led the patrol back to camp; as a result several of his people were killed. He said that he was very sorry and life more or less went on as usual; he grew up and became a handsome, open young man whose quick fingers wielded quills for poetry more deftly than they clutched sword blades. Small, unlucky mistakes still seemed to follow him but people forgave it him when he wrote songs and poems for them.
The problem was, the unlucky mistakes just wouldn’t stop. He was one of those people who was followed by misfortune. It was decided, after a few years, that he was to be send to the capital of the elf nation where he could take up a proper education in poetry and creative writing – and could stop causing trouble for the tribe.
Used to traveling, even alone. Asyris agreed and set out towards the capital. For a while, he thought his luck was getting better: he even seemed to be extruding good luck, as he kept running into a little old elf who was constantly suffering from some problem or other, and every time Kamaru met the man, he assisted the old fellow in getting to where he wanted to go. All seemed well – and then he reached a minor town, small and quite pathetic, where he lodged.
He was half asleep when the commotion started outside and he dragged himself upright to look out the window to see what was going on. His old elf friend was in the town, and he was being arrested. Worried, Kamaru vaulted out the window, skidded down the roof, and landed in the road. The men trying to arrest the older elf eventually let him go after Kamaru swore at them and told them it was just an old elf; what harm could he do?
A lot, it appeared. When Kamaru asked what was going on, the old man (who appeared to be dying, but that wasn’t the point,) went so far as to thank Asyris.
“I suppose I aught to thank you,” the old man said. “These last months you’ve helped me along and I wouldn’t have gotten here without you. My friends would thank you too, but I let them go two days ago.”
“Friends?” Kamaru asked, curious.
“The rats,” the other elf said, coughing up blood. “Sniff and Snot. They were carrying the plague, do you know? I let them go here when I realized I probably wouldn’t make it to the great city. Thank you for helping me get my revenge on this stupid, blighted government.”
“The plague?” Kamaru stuttered.
“Bubonic: they didn’t want to go get my son when the Empire got him, did you know that? So now I’m getting my own back.”
Kamaru stared blankly at the dying man, his eyes dark and unreadable, as the last living bit of the other elf flew away. He moved quickly after that, with a speed and solemnity built of resoluteness and despair in equal measures.
He set the trees on fire, you see – built a ring of flames that circled the town, making sure nobody could leave it and spread further the disease the man had unleashed. Asyris had no idea how many people – or indeed, if he himself – had caught the plague, but he decided to be sure. While the town burned, Kamaru Asyris ran.
You see, running is a little bit like a song, because you tend to be going somewhere when you run and songs must always go somewhere, just like stories. Fire, however, is nothing like a song – because fire casts light, but to do that it has to destroy something and songs never break anything, they only glow faintly like fireflies at night. That’s what songs do, they tell stories and they light the world all up.
Kamaru ran right through the desert. He ran past villages and cities and towns and one-man hovels on the side of the rutted roads. He sang when he had to, to get food or water or a place to sleep. He told stories, too – dark, brutal stories about bad luck and old men carrying the plague. His songs were sad, too, but they always had little bits of hope and love hidden in them and people who listened smiled as they wiped away tears.
It was only really another bit of bad luck that got Asyris into the army. He ran, you have to understand, into a camp of Empire soldiers. That’s really where it started: the old man hadn’t really been his fault, nor any of the other unfortunate events he’d brought about. Once the soldiers had finished beating the living daylights out of the young elf – that was when the pain he seemed to drag around with him really became his fault.
That’s another reason that Kamaru’s story isn’t like a song at all: songs have both melody and beat and sometimes they have words, but Kamaru’s seemed to only have beat. Beat, beat, beatings. His own heart beat, sometimes, too, but it didn’t use to thaw much back then.
It isn’t very hard, when you’re a prisoner of an Empire patrol, to learn how to hurt people. It seems to teach itself, often at a price. Kamaru learnt much in the short time and when he was brought to the nearest Empire official and asked who, what and why he was, he put it all to use. He was a loyal Empire man, he assured the officer. A very loyal man, despite his heritage – could you really blame a rat for being a rat? That he was an elf, he said, had very little to do with how much he wanted to serve the Empire – and, of course, you illustriousness.
He was signed on as a torturer because of course elves usually can’t lie, but it had been a very long time ago by a twenty-year-old’s standard, that he had learnt to speak common and therefore could seamlessly fit two sentences together into a lie: put two and two together and get three. For years, the fire-haired elf did what he’d learnt to do, and he was good at it – but it began to get back at him. He used to hear the songs in his dreams – the melody would be screams, the beat would be fists on flesh and singing would be too terrible to bear.
Asyris decided that he would still keep a violent profession – he needed that, because then the bad luck he extruded didn’t seem so obvious. He joined the army, waded though the enmity his companions had for his kind, and rose though a few ranks to sit at Captain. He hasn’t risen or fallen since then and appears to have finally settled down.
His song’s not finished yet: the melody may just be back because he’s started humming now, sweet nothings into the ears of people he might actually care for in his own fleeting way. And the beat’s less erratic and violent now too: it’s the beat of his heart, not just his fists or someone else’s. His heart seems to be thawing, although he still freezes up sometimes as the songs sit in his head and shout obscene things at him. Something happened when his bad luck finally affected him rather than other people: something is happening now when it appears he can spend longer times with people without them getting hurt.
Asyris calls his story a song, but he doesn’t sing it unless it’s in the sound of his weapons cutting the air to strike. He doesn’t tell people who or what he is, because there’s not much to tell, he claims. His life, he tells them, is a song that he can’t sing very well and no body would like anyway.
family: He doesn’t talk about them.
other:
xx. an odd pair of weapons are constantly at Kamaru’s belt – a pair of metal loops, spiked along their outer edges with only hand grips free of razor blades; they are about a hand and a half across with the handles being large enough to be gripped by both hands if needs be. He doesn’t have names for them, but they whistle as they move and people have been known to call them songs or singers.
xx. Captain Asyris has an interesting, very competitive relationship with another of the military’s men, a dwarf whom he refers to only as ‘midget’, that involves them competing constantly and bickering often although if you get him drunk enough / stoned enough / in your bed he may admit that he somewhat admires the dwarf. Somewhat.
xx. in his rank as Captain, he controls few men – a motley crew of urgals, conscripts and mercenaries. Lately he’s been out on his own with his men under review for alleged crimes that he wasn’t watching because he was trying to steal someone’s wife.
xx. as far as magic goes, the elf known to many people as Spider is barely competent. He can create small spells but they aren’t powerful – the only skill he has in manipulating magic is in his slightly unpleasant use of fire.
rp sample: N/A