ANARCHit3cht
Call me Archie!
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Makes sense! And you could have asked me to change it :o And yeah, it's not the best but I don't have any art skills :c
[Other FULL] Stella Matutina: DEMON HUNTERS [OOC] [M]
- Thread starter Skymin
- Start date
Logical Cabbage
A Very Big Altaria Fan
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[SIZE="+3"]The Hunter[/SIZE]
DATE OF BIRTH: May 12th, 25
GENDER: Female
HUNTER CLASS: Sanatores
AFFINITY: Urere
HISTORY:
FIRST DEMON SLAYED: None yet; still Ignatii
RP SAMPLE:
MISCELLANEOUS:
Last edited:
Swolligator
Butcher of the Sands
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Clinton Uta'i – Humus Bellatores/Earth Beater
"There are only two things you need in life: cold, hard steel and a hot temper." – Knight Clinton Uta'i
DATE OF BIRTH: 05/04/1992
GENDER: Male
DATE OF BIRTH: 05/04/1992
GENDER: Male
APPEARANCE
Physical: (ignatii form)
Like his brother, Miles, Clinton is tall (6 foot 2) and half-Samoan (through their father) and half-Maori (through their mother). However unlike Miles, Clinton is slightly taller than his brother and rather muscular taking more after their Mother's side of the family with a lighter skin tone. Clinton prefers to shave off his hair, keeping it nice and short while also maintaining a short, stubbly beard at a very similar length to his hair. With a slightly smaller nose than Miles, green eyes and a sharper jaw and chin line, many people don't believe him when he introduces Miles as his twin.
When it comes to clothing, Clinton tends to be more conservative wearing slightly larger shirts to make his musculature look smaller and track pants or jeans to cover his legs. Most of his clothing is mono-coloured with little to no signage, brand names or pictures apparent. However when it comes to shoes, Clinton prefers the comfort of dark cross trainers, even if he were wearing jeans. On the other hand, during trainings he often wears a singlet or rugby shirt (in lieu of both of these, under armour shirts) and short rugby shorts and has no qualms about his musculature being seen around his teammates.
Like his brother, Miles, Clinton is tall (6 foot 2) and half-Samoan (through their father) and half-Maori (through their mother). However unlike Miles, Clinton is slightly taller than his brother and rather muscular taking more after their Mother's side of the family with a lighter skin tone. Clinton prefers to shave off his hair, keeping it nice and short while also maintaining a short, stubbly beard at a very similar length to his hair. With a slightly smaller nose than Miles, green eyes and a sharper jaw and chin line, many people don't believe him when he introduces Miles as his twin.
When it comes to clothing, Clinton tends to be more conservative wearing slightly larger shirts to make his musculature look smaller and track pants or jeans to cover his legs. Most of his clothing is mono-coloured with little to no signage, brand names or pictures apparent. However when it comes to shoes, Clinton prefers the comfort of dark cross trainers, even if he were wearing jeans. On the other hand, during trainings he often wears a singlet or rugby shirt (in lieu of both of these, under armour shirts) and short rugby shorts and has no qualms about his musculature being seen around his teammates.
Decay: (veritas form)
Clinton's decay starts from his hips and descends down his right thigh and up alongside the side of his left flank. His decayed skin has become a scaly hide while his toenails and fingernails are starting tocurve into talon like claws, and has no aversion to showing off the extent of his decay. Other aspects of decay are small bumps on his back and shoulder blades where horny spines will eventually grow and his skin beginning to dry out. His nails and teeth have also started to harden.
Clinton's decay starts from his hips and descends down his right thigh and up alongside the side of his left flank. His decayed skin has become a scaly hide while his toenails and fingernails are starting tocurve into talon like claws, and has no aversion to showing off the extent of his decay. Other aspects of decay are small bumps on his back and shoulder blades where horny spines will eventually grow and his skin beginning to dry out. His nails and teeth have also started to harden.
FIRST DEMON SLAYED: Kiore – Tuamotuan lizard demon
Spoiler:
Low-level Demons local to the Samoan Islands, they can often be found inhabiting the island of Savai'i and most of the smaller islands. They prefer the craggy rocks of cliffs and mountains where their sharp nails can dig into the rocks allowing them to scale the rock faces easily. Kiore found inland tend to be Humus-classed demons while those along the coast are humus-class.
HISTORY:
Clinton initially grew up on the Samoan island of Upolu in the capital Apia with his twin brother, parents and their Father's parents until the age of 12. At this point they moved from Apia to South Auckland to live with their Mother's family when their Father got a job with the New Zealand Police Force. Growing up speaking Samoan, Clinton initially had trouble with English and often fell behind in class. By 18 years of age he managed to complete his High School study before deciding to take up an opportunity to join the Auckland Blues Rugby Development Squad where he spent the next two years playing rugby around the pacific and in parts of Asia.
While visiting Miles during a rugby tour against the Samoan rugby team, he became embroiled in his brother's demon hunting affairs after rejecting them to play rugby. The pair were hunting Kiore on the island of Savai'i in which Clinton slayed his first demon causing the decay to start growing from a sustained wound on his flank. Since then, Clinton dropped out of the development squad to help his brother hunt the many demons that had started to appear on the Samoan islands.
Eventually Clinton started to realise that more demons were appearing than they could slay, and were beginning to grow in power too. Appealing to Stella Matutina for help, the order sent over a Demon Hunter from their New Zealand branch to take care of the Samoan Islands while the order brought both Clinton and Miles over to Griffon for further study (due to the merits of their grandmother).
While visiting Miles during a rugby tour against the Samoan rugby team, he became embroiled in his brother's demon hunting affairs after rejecting them to play rugby. The pair were hunting Kiore on the island of Savai'i in which Clinton slayed his first demon causing the decay to start growing from a sustained wound on his flank. Since then, Clinton dropped out of the development squad to help his brother hunt the many demons that had started to appear on the Samoan islands.
Eventually Clinton started to realise that more demons were appearing than they could slay, and were beginning to grow in power too. Appealing to Stella Matutina for help, the order sent over a Demon Hunter from their New Zealand branch to take care of the Samoan Islands while the order brought both Clinton and Miles over to Griffon for further study (due to the merits of their grandmother).
RP SAMPLE:
Spoiler:
Miles Uta'i – Aer Oratores/Air Aria
"Speak the Demon's Tongue and hear him laugh, speak the Angel's Chorus and hear the Demon scream." - Aria Miles Uta'i
DATE OF BIRTH: 05/04/1992
GENDER: Male
DATE OF BIRTH: 05/04/1992
GENDER: Male
APPEARANCE
Physical: (ignatii form)
Like his brother, Clinton, Miles is tall (6 foot) and half-Samoan (through their father) and half-Maori (through their mother). However unlike Clinton, Miles is slightly shorter than his brother, stocky and takes more after their Father's darker skin tone. His black hair is short on the sides and much longer on top which he often pulls together into a Mohawk. His rounded face, large nostrils and dark brown eyes all emphasise his Samoan heritage often bringing people to question if he really is a twin. Miles isn't a fan of facial hair and often has a small patch of hair on his chin that seems to grow more quickly than the rest of his facial hair.
On his left arm, running from his shoulders down to his wrist is Miles' traditional Samoan tattoo representing his family. He also wears a silver pendant, given to him by his father's grandmother and one small crystal earing in his left ear.
Miles is quite relaxed with his clothing, having an array of singlets and t-shirts at his disposal which he often pairs with shorts or track pants on a cold day. More often than not he will be wearing one of several pairs of jandals or simply in bare feet; his only pairs of closed in shoes being a pair of runners and a pair of dress shoes. The only thing that stands out however is his right forearm and hand that are tightly wrapped up in bandages. Despite initially being excited about having the decay, he soon began to despise the growing affliction and hides it from his sight.
Like his brother, Clinton, Miles is tall (6 foot) and half-Samoan (through their father) and half-Maori (through their mother). However unlike Clinton, Miles is slightly shorter than his brother, stocky and takes more after their Father's darker skin tone. His black hair is short on the sides and much longer on top which he often pulls together into a Mohawk. His rounded face, large nostrils and dark brown eyes all emphasise his Samoan heritage often bringing people to question if he really is a twin. Miles isn't a fan of facial hair and often has a small patch of hair on his chin that seems to grow more quickly than the rest of his facial hair.
On his left arm, running from his shoulders down to his wrist is Miles' traditional Samoan tattoo representing his family. He also wears a silver pendant, given to him by his father's grandmother and one small crystal earing in his left ear.
Miles is quite relaxed with his clothing, having an array of singlets and t-shirts at his disposal which he often pairs with shorts or track pants on a cold day. More often than not he will be wearing one of several pairs of jandals or simply in bare feet; his only pairs of closed in shoes being a pair of runners and a pair of dress shoes. The only thing that stands out however is his right forearm and hand that are tightly wrapped up in bandages. Despite initially being excited about having the decay, he soon began to despise the growing affliction and hides it from his sight.
Decay: (veritas form)
Miles' decay runs from his right elbow downwards, covering his entire forearm and hand. While his forearm and back of his hand are covered in hair, his fingers are slightly elongated and monkey-like. Miles hides his decay with bandage wraps covering the entirety of his forearm and hand which he keeps wrapped tightly and fully covered. Often tufts of fur may peek between the folds of bandage. He also has slightly thicker body hair and a stump over his coccyx (which he has yet to realise) where his tail is beginning to grow.
Miles' decay runs from his right elbow downwards, covering his entire forearm and hand. While his forearm and back of his hand are covered in hair, his fingers are slightly elongated and monkey-like. Miles hides his decay with bandage wraps covering the entirety of his forearm and hand which he keeps wrapped tightly and fully covered. Often tufts of fur may peek between the folds of bandage. He also has slightly thicker body hair and a stump over his coccyx (which he has yet to realise) where his tail is beginning to grow.
FIRST DEMON SLAYED: Pishacha – Hindu Demon (Monkey Form)
Spoiler:
Pishacha are ghost-like Hindu demons that often take the appearance of humans and animals and feed on human energies. Generally they start out as small, Capuchin Monkey like in size and shape however the more they feed the larger and more ape-like they become. The smaller the demon, the more invisible it can go while larger Pishacha lose the ability altogether. Most Pishacha are Aer-class demons but variants of other classes exist.
HISTORY:
Miles initially grew up on the Samoan island of Upolu in the capital Apia with his twin brother, parents and their Father's parents until the age of 12. At this point they moved from Apia to South Auckland to live with their Mother's family when their Father got a job with the New Zealand Police Force. Growing up speaking Samoan, Miles initially had trouble with English and often fell behind in class. By 18 years of age he managed to complete his High School but was not keen to further his study at university level and instead moved back to Samoa to stay with his grandmother there. She was the one who incorporated him into the world of Demon Hunting, much to his parent's dislike, and helped him begin his training. After a year of training she eventually allowed him to banish a demon thus starting his decay. He tutored under her for a year and a half before her decay worsened to the point where she could no longer make it out of her bedroom.
Miles took it upon himself to carry on his grandmother's work and began slaying his first demon and subsequently the few low levelled demons infecting the Samoan islands. While Clinton was visiting Miles during a rugby tour against the Samoan rugby team, Clinton became embroiled in Miles' demon hunting affairs and once his brother had been infected with the decay, Miles pressed his brother to join him. Following that Miles and Clinton teamed up to continue slaying the demons that began popping up on the various islands.
Eventually Miles started to realise that more demons were appearing than they could slay, and were beginning to grow in power too. Appealing to Stella Matutina for help, the order sent over a Demon Hunter from their New Zealand branch to take care of the Samoan Islands while the order brought both Miles and Clinton over to Griffon for further study (due to the merits of their grandmother).
Miles took it upon himself to carry on his grandmother's work and began slaying his first demon and subsequently the few low levelled demons infecting the Samoan islands. While Clinton was visiting Miles during a rugby tour against the Samoan rugby team, Clinton became embroiled in Miles' demon hunting affairs and once his brother had been infected with the decay, Miles pressed his brother to join him. Following that Miles and Clinton teamed up to continue slaying the demons that began popping up on the various islands.
Eventually Miles started to realise that more demons were appearing than they could slay, and were beginning to grow in power too. Appealing to Stella Matutina for help, the order sent over a Demon Hunter from their New Zealand branch to take care of the Samoan Islands while the order brought both Miles and Clinton over to Griffon for further study (due to the merits of their grandmother).
RP SAMPLE:
Spoiler:
ANARCHit3cht
Call me Archie!
- 2,145
- Posts
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- Seen Sep 25, 2020
Just wondering, could I change my class to healer? I'll probably be modifying my character's history/sample a bit and that class just honestly sounds a bit more interesting to me.
EDIT: Actually, and sorry about this, but I'll reworking my entire character so you can just go ahead and remove Abner from the list~
APPEARANCE: Manami is a very beautiful girl by any standards, but it's not as if she simply wakes up that way. While she does have a very natural beauty, she prides herself in her appearance and goes to great lengths maintain it. She has a petite frame, standing no taller than five feet and two inches. Compared to other people, she has small arms and legs, but they accentuate her form rather nice. Vibrant black locks fall just below her shoulders, while her eyes are a typical dark brown natural to her ethnicity.
Although she was born in Japan, she was fascinated with American culture at a very young age, captivated by the amount of expression that they put into their apparel, something deemed rather inappropriate in her culture, and her family especially who prides itself in its heritage. As a result, much of her clothing tends to be very "American"--frilly dresses, knee high boots, high heels, platform shoes and the other things that are typically considered "in" for American women. (Whatever the hell that is...)
For special occasions, she can be seen donning traditional a Japanese garb in the form of a red kimono with flowers running down it. Her hair is done a typical geisha fashion and she wears all the make-up to boot.
HISTORY: Manami was born in Japan, but her father was an astute businessman who had long standing ties within the United State. As a result, she received a world class education and a strong exposure to the western world; her heritage in its entirety would have been lost if not for the insistence of her grandparents who remained devout in their traditions. Somewhere along the lines, her ancestry can be traced back to a daring samurai who had supposedly slayed an entire horde of a hundred demons just to rescue his love, a beautiful Geisha who had been kidnapped--its a story that her grandparents won't let her soon forget.
Still, due to her father's affluence she spent much time traveling the world; most of it spent at their beach house in California, and their estate back in Japan. Again, it was on her grandparents insistence, particularly her grandmother that she take a few summers from her "busy" schedule to return home an appreciate her native heritage, much to her derision. While her parents are not slayers themselves, and her grandparents are long since retired, they tried very hard to press the idea upon their grandchildren, receiving moderate success. As a young a girl, she loved spending time with them and her grandmother imprinted much of her knowledge as a healer onto her. It was not until her later years that she began to dislike such things, never fully understanding--or appreciating--the wisdom that her grandparents tried to impart on her.
Despite Manami's lack of appreciation for the old "family business" when her grandfather had succumbed to the decay, she doubled over at the loss; finding from this tragedy a new sense of purpose that led her to dedicate herself to formally studying the art of healing as her grandmother had offered it. It made sense, naturally, as she had already begun schooling to become a doctor.vThere came a point in time, however, when her grandmother, whose health had also begun to deteriorate in her age, had imparted all the knowledge on her granddaughter that she could. It was at her behest and recommendation that she was sent to the Order of the Morning Star to further her training.
FIRST DEMON SLAYED: Manami has not slayed her first demon yet, and the only she has seen was her grandfather when he had become full consumed by the Decay.
RP SAMPLE:
MISCELLANEOUS: Despite being trained as a healer, Manami has not actually been in combat or used much of her abilities. She desperately wants to find a cure for the Decay, hoping that she can prevent it from consuming another one of her grandparents, but also because she does not wish to become ugly. She claims, until a cure is discovered, that she will never use her abilities for fear of becoming a hideous monster.
As taught by her grandmother, she carries around a small gourd with pure mountain water to amplify her healing abilities. Water is a soothing element, the purer the better, or at least thats what she was taught.
I can expand on the sample if you wish, but I think it portrays her character well enough with the other tidbits I've included?
EDIT: Actually, and sorry about this, but I'll reworking my entire character so you can just go ahead and remove Abner from the list~
Manami Yoshida || Aqua based Sanatores
13/11/1992 || Female
APPEARANCE: Manami is a very beautiful girl by any standards, but it's not as if she simply wakes up that way. While she does have a very natural beauty, she prides herself in her appearance and goes to great lengths maintain it. She has a petite frame, standing no taller than five feet and two inches. Compared to other people, she has small arms and legs, but they accentuate her form rather nice. Vibrant black locks fall just below her shoulders, while her eyes are a typical dark brown natural to her ethnicity.
Although she was born in Japan, she was fascinated with American culture at a very young age, captivated by the amount of expression that they put into their apparel, something deemed rather inappropriate in her culture, and her family especially who prides itself in its heritage. As a result, much of her clothing tends to be very "American"--frilly dresses, knee high boots, high heels, platform shoes and the other things that are typically considered "in" for American women. (Whatever the hell that is...)
For special occasions, she can be seen donning traditional a Japanese garb in the form of a red kimono with flowers running down it. Her hair is done a typical geisha fashion and she wears all the make-up to boot.
HISTORY: Manami was born in Japan, but her father was an astute businessman who had long standing ties within the United State. As a result, she received a world class education and a strong exposure to the western world; her heritage in its entirety would have been lost if not for the insistence of her grandparents who remained devout in their traditions. Somewhere along the lines, her ancestry can be traced back to a daring samurai who had supposedly slayed an entire horde of a hundred demons just to rescue his love, a beautiful Geisha who had been kidnapped--its a story that her grandparents won't let her soon forget.
Still, due to her father's affluence she spent much time traveling the world; most of it spent at their beach house in California, and their estate back in Japan. Again, it was on her grandparents insistence, particularly her grandmother that she take a few summers from her "busy" schedule to return home an appreciate her native heritage, much to her derision. While her parents are not slayers themselves, and her grandparents are long since retired, they tried very hard to press the idea upon their grandchildren, receiving moderate success. As a young a girl, she loved spending time with them and her grandmother imprinted much of her knowledge as a healer onto her. It was not until her later years that she began to dislike such things, never fully understanding--or appreciating--the wisdom that her grandparents tried to impart on her.
Despite Manami's lack of appreciation for the old "family business" when her grandfather had succumbed to the decay, she doubled over at the loss; finding from this tragedy a new sense of purpose that led her to dedicate herself to formally studying the art of healing as her grandmother had offered it. It made sense, naturally, as she had already begun schooling to become a doctor.vThere came a point in time, however, when her grandmother, whose health had also begun to deteriorate in her age, had imparted all the knowledge on her granddaughter that she could. It was at her behest and recommendation that she was sent to the Order of the Morning Star to further her training.
FIRST DEMON SLAYED: Manami has not slayed her first demon yet, and the only she has seen was her grandfather when he had become full consumed by the Decay.
RP SAMPLE:
Spoiler:
MISCELLANEOUS: Despite being trained as a healer, Manami has not actually been in combat or used much of her abilities. She desperately wants to find a cure for the Decay, hoping that she can prevent it from consuming another one of her grandparents, but also because she does not wish to become ugly. She claims, until a cure is discovered, that she will never use her abilities for fear of becoming a hideous monster.
As taught by her grandmother, she carries around a small gourd with pure mountain water to amplify her healing abilities. Water is a soothing element, the purer the better, or at least thats what she was taught.
I can expand on the sample if you wish, but I think it portrays her character well enough with the other tidbits I've included?
Last edited:
- 5
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- Age 34
- Seen May 18, 2015
NAME: Ian Hardgrove
DATE OF BIRTH: 07/08/1992
GENDER: Male
HUNTER CLASS: Strider
AFFINITY: Urere
APPEARANCE: With a straight nose, barely square jaw, hazel eyes, mop of unruly brown hair and a lanky build, Ian was truly a personification of unnoticeable. Even with a habit of scratching one eyebrow when either in thought or through nerves, he seemed unremarkable. He could blend into a crowd like light post and people barely took note of him. He generally wore simple t-shirts, jeans with frayed ends, a worn belt of questionable fashion and a faux-leather jacket. Hats never quite worked with him, even though his hair style never quite seemed to either.
[FONT="]Ian's Decay takes on the form of increasingly bloodshot eyes until they become simple orbs of red. His skin similarly grows more and more translucent, with the bones of his elbows breaking the skin and extending into spikes. Black spines erupt down his spine, culminating in a short black tail.[/FONT]
HISTORY: Middle class family in middle class suburbia. Ian has two sisters along with loving parents who supported him in whatever he chose, though his father did enjoy his drink more than most. He was neither popular nor unpopular, he just settled into the mediocre portion of the totem pole. He did excel in school for a time, winning awards and attending special classes, until he lost his interest in it. He had the ability, just not the motivation to use it.
So he turned to making a wage for himself, starting with the typical shit-kicking jobs like fast food and call centre work before he wound up as an assistant manager at a bar on the seedier part of town. It didn't sound like much but he enjoyed it, he got to meet people and didn't have to feed them a spiel. Alcohol sells itself after all.
One of his most generous customers was some sad asshole named Mick Valentore. He came in every night without fail and ordered the same lot of rotgut that would leave him stumbling out of the establishment. The man's liver had to be a monument to the idea of indestructibility with the sheer quantity he would drown himself in. Whatever Mick did for a living seemed to be a mystery and he kept it that way.
It never quite mattered however as Mick kept coming back, night after night with the money to do so. He would sit at the same stool, with the same glower on his face and order the same drink until it came to closing. Everything has an end however and one night, that end was delivered. Mick was sipping his straight Scotch as he always did, staring into the glass and with a faraway look on his face. His face suddenly snapped up and was flown across the room by an unseen gale. The bar was torn apart into a storm of splinters, which smashed Ian in the face and sent him reeling back into the bottles he tended.
He looked down to discover a thin gash running across his chest, spilling more blood than such a shallow wound should. The next thing he noticed when he raised his head was a nightmare. A tall horrendous figure, more night terror than anything real was grappling with Mick. At least the thing that looked like Mick.
Coughing up wads of dust filled phlegm, he started to crawl away only to have his fingers land on a weapon. An ornate shotgun that Mick always carried on a sling on his back – he was never concerned about the law, simply saying who was going to take it off him?
Fuelled by a panic filled desire to get the fuck out of there with his limbs intact, he grabbed it, cocked it like his father had shown him and rolled over to plant a surprisingly well aimed shot, given the circumstances, into the back of the walking nightmare.
The creature's back seemed to explode, painting the roof, floor and most of Mick in a hideous green like sludge. With a painful shrieking, it fell to the floor convulsing spasmodically as it died. The new visage of Mick's face dripping with sickly gore didn't quite help Ian's heaving panicked breaths.
Whilst Ian was holding the shotgun in trembling fingers, Mick strode over to the sad mess of a human being on the floor, lit a smoke and said 'Well it's time to make some calls, Hardo. You really fucked up this time didn't ya? Say goodbye to this shithole, we're off to teach you a thing or two'.
FIRST DEMON SLAYED: The first demon slain was a rare form of the Urere affinity, a Mortis Engine as it is called. It is a personification of death in its most indiscriminate form, the uncaring, unfair fate that every soul faces. Blood clots, heart attacks, strokes, aneurysms and the like are all favoured methods of delivery for such a demon. The quick, unexpected death which all it takes is a slight tweaking of a nervous or respiratory system. Like most demons however, it will still confront its victims in an overt manner from time to time. A tall, gaunt figure with gangrenous skin covers its repulsive body, having large fore-armed sized claws extending from its palsied hands. Its eyes are absent, merely sunken pits of stinking flesh in its repulsive face, presiding above an absence of a nose and lipless mouth. It is emotionless, uncaring and completely nonplussed by the circumstances of its victim; it merely cares that it reaps the living essence from those that possess it.
RP SAMPLE: Things had died down. All the laughter, shouting, cursing, glasses full of distraction and cash flow had come to an end. The LA Stop Bar wasn't a classy affair but it still managed to turn a profit. Something Ian Hardgrove was proud of, as it hadn't been until he took over as night manager. There's a trick to convincing anyone that another drink was a good idea, whether it be for a celebration, commiseration or simply something extra before they went home to their wife. It's just about figuring out the right angle to use and after a while it's easy to pick which to use on strangers.
"Another then, Mick?" said Ian, wondering why he didn't just leave the bottle on the bar. Mick would only steal one or two when he wasn't looking. His generous tips covered his indiscretions anyway.
"Does the Pope shit in the woods?" Mick grunted. Mick Valentore had the face of a bar brawler that suggested he barely won as much as he lost. With his short black hair, broken nose, cauliflower ears, box-like jaw and an assortment of scars, he was definitely the image of a Calvin Klein model. He was powerfully built however, having thick muscle corded arms and broad shoulders, even with most of it hidden under the worn looking coat he constantly wore, plus standing just over 6 feet tall.
"You know, I don't think he does. I think the real question is whether he ever wears the hat when he does," said Ian with a smirk.
"I'm going to stop ya right there before the holy shit joke appears"
"Hey, you said it, not me"
"Quit being a funny bugger and get on with it, would ya?" replied Mick. Ian poured another lot of cheap whisky into the glass. Slogging it back and hitting the bar with the glass, Mick tapped the side indicating another.
Grinning, Ian pulled a second glass out from under the bar and poured them both a measure. He chinked their glasses together and downed it, grimacing slightly as it burned down his throat.
"No fights, no one puking and no dropped glasses. I'd call that a good night. Finish that up though, it's time to get out of here so I can enjoy my two days off," toasted Ian.
"Another half hour won't kill you, Hardo," grumbled Mick as he downed his own glass.
"It might take you though, I'd end up having to carry…Mick?" questioned Ian, confused by the sudden sober look his face.
Mick twisted impossibly fast to throw the glass at a shadow hammering through the air, reaching into his coat. Impossibly fast wasn't fast enough.
A slab of the bar exploded. Splinters shooting like shrapnel from a grenade spun through the room, shattering glasses, impaling the roof and breaking windows. It was like a wrecking ball piloted by a madman had materialised in the room and hit the bar with the fury normally attributed to vengeful gods.
Ian was thrown off his feet, back into the shelves of spirits behind him only to rebound and hit the ground with a wet smack he never quite heard. One side of his body looked like a poor imitation of a voodoo doll, shards of the bar imbedded in his flesh. His first confused thought was that he tasted rust covered wood, until he realised his cheek had been pierced straight through; he could bite down on a splinter.
He wondered why there was a black outline to everything he was seeing; it was as if he was viewing the world through a blurry black halo. Blood was hammering in his ears, the sound dampening out everything else. Ian surprised himself though, survival instincts kicked in, he started to drag himself across the floor on his forearms. He vaguely heard the crunch of glass as he did so, but strangely didn't feel the bite of it. Something concussive and thundering did streak through the dulled sound, gunshots were ringing out and a high pitched screaming was ringing around the room, rage filled swearing underlined it but couldn't be made out.
He had made it from out the side of the bar, he could keep going, could make it out of whatever the hell was happening. Fight or flight is an instinct but when something like this happens, there's only one option.
His clenched fist suddenly bumped into something heavy and metallic, it took him a moment to realise what it was. It was the shotgun Mick could never be parted with, constantly draped over his back with a leather strap, intricately designed and decorated. A child could look on such a weapon and realise it was something special, no one put that much effort into creating something without it having a purpose. Who the fuck cared what that purpose was, thought Ian.
He pulled it close, got his shaking fingers inside the trigger guard and managed to find the strength to cock the weapon. His father had taken him hunting numerous times, teaching him the basic and advanced methods of how to use and take care of firearms. For all the decoration and ornamentation, it was still a shotgun after all.
For all of the fight or flight instincts that had him make a laughable dash for it, the rational mind kicked it and told him he was in no state for a flight from this. He rolled over and looked towards where the gunshots had rung through his ears. He regretted it instantly.
For Ian, there was a fucking nightmare given flesh in the room, struggling with what he could see of Mick. He could see its back, made of rotting, gangrenous flesh in a putrid green/black colour. It was taller than Mick, standing at over seven feet tall. The monstrous claws that were excuses for hands were imbedded in his forearms, tearing strips away and severing veins. Ian subconsciously chose not to focus on the blood spurting from them. It embodied the sort of thing envisioned should insanity and cancer combine to take form.
With shaking hands, Ian took aim at the forsaken creature that he still wasn't sure was real or not. His heaving breaths didn't help the matter, but he managed to hold them for a second while he pulled the trigger. The recoil was immense. He wasn't sure if his wrist was broken or not, but it hardly mattered. A keening shriek filled the room, scraping across his thoughts and inner monologue. It was like claws slowly digging into the meat of his brain, inch by inch.
The nightmare was disintegrating however, its entire back a monument to the capability of firearms, yet somehow beyond that. With a slightly blue tinge, it was claimed like a flame soaked page. The screaming from the creature suddenly ended as it disintegrated into a pool of horrendously bubbling bile.
Mick was swearing profusely as he walked over to the bar to find some towels to wrap his forearms with. Once finished, he poured two glasses of whisky from the remains of a broken bottle and started to walk over to Ian. It was then Ian realised his problems weren't over. What should had been the beaten and scarred face of Mick had been replaced by a red skinned, black eyed visage with bones protruding from his cheeks, haloed by a pair of horns curving around from the back of his head.
"You alright, kiddo? You look like you just shat your pants. I remember my firs-"
"Stay the fuck away! Don't come any closer!" yelled Ian, in panic filled breaths, raising the shotgun once more.
"Or what, you're going to whistle at me and bleed on the floor?" replied Mick as he stepped closer.
Ian pulled the trigger, prepared to have his wrists flare in pain as they did the first time. The dull click of an empty chamber was the only result.
"Did you seriously just try to shoot me? What the fuck is wrong with you, Hardo. It's Mick, you know me," said Mick before waving his hand over his face. "This is what happens when ya kill creatures like you just did. They call it the Decay, you become like them. I'm a demon hunter, not a demon, you damned idiot," Mick said angrily.
Ian looked up at him with incomprehension plastered all over his face, hyper ventilating as his mind tried to make sense of what just happened.
"Well it's time to make some calls, Hardo. You really fucked up this time didn't ya? Say goodbye to this shithole, we're off to teach you a thing or two," said Mick, turning as he reached into his coat for his phone.
MISCELLANEOUS: (anything extra worth mentioning)
DATE OF BIRTH: 07/08/1992
GENDER: Male
HUNTER CLASS: Strider
AFFINITY: Urere
APPEARANCE: With a straight nose, barely square jaw, hazel eyes, mop of unruly brown hair and a lanky build, Ian was truly a personification of unnoticeable. Even with a habit of scratching one eyebrow when either in thought or through nerves, he seemed unremarkable. He could blend into a crowd like light post and people barely took note of him. He generally wore simple t-shirts, jeans with frayed ends, a worn belt of questionable fashion and a faux-leather jacket. Hats never quite worked with him, even though his hair style never quite seemed to either.
[FONT="]Ian's Decay takes on the form of increasingly bloodshot eyes until they become simple orbs of red. His skin similarly grows more and more translucent, with the bones of his elbows breaking the skin and extending into spikes. Black spines erupt down his spine, culminating in a short black tail.[/FONT]
HISTORY: Middle class family in middle class suburbia. Ian has two sisters along with loving parents who supported him in whatever he chose, though his father did enjoy his drink more than most. He was neither popular nor unpopular, he just settled into the mediocre portion of the totem pole. He did excel in school for a time, winning awards and attending special classes, until he lost his interest in it. He had the ability, just not the motivation to use it.
So he turned to making a wage for himself, starting with the typical shit-kicking jobs like fast food and call centre work before he wound up as an assistant manager at a bar on the seedier part of town. It didn't sound like much but he enjoyed it, he got to meet people and didn't have to feed them a spiel. Alcohol sells itself after all.
One of his most generous customers was some sad asshole named Mick Valentore. He came in every night without fail and ordered the same lot of rotgut that would leave him stumbling out of the establishment. The man's liver had to be a monument to the idea of indestructibility with the sheer quantity he would drown himself in. Whatever Mick did for a living seemed to be a mystery and he kept it that way.
It never quite mattered however as Mick kept coming back, night after night with the money to do so. He would sit at the same stool, with the same glower on his face and order the same drink until it came to closing. Everything has an end however and one night, that end was delivered. Mick was sipping his straight Scotch as he always did, staring into the glass and with a faraway look on his face. His face suddenly snapped up and was flown across the room by an unseen gale. The bar was torn apart into a storm of splinters, which smashed Ian in the face and sent him reeling back into the bottles he tended.
He looked down to discover a thin gash running across his chest, spilling more blood than such a shallow wound should. The next thing he noticed when he raised his head was a nightmare. A tall horrendous figure, more night terror than anything real was grappling with Mick. At least the thing that looked like Mick.
Coughing up wads of dust filled phlegm, he started to crawl away only to have his fingers land on a weapon. An ornate shotgun that Mick always carried on a sling on his back – he was never concerned about the law, simply saying who was going to take it off him?
Fuelled by a panic filled desire to get the fuck out of there with his limbs intact, he grabbed it, cocked it like his father had shown him and rolled over to plant a surprisingly well aimed shot, given the circumstances, into the back of the walking nightmare.
The creature's back seemed to explode, painting the roof, floor and most of Mick in a hideous green like sludge. With a painful shrieking, it fell to the floor convulsing spasmodically as it died. The new visage of Mick's face dripping with sickly gore didn't quite help Ian's heaving panicked breaths.
Whilst Ian was holding the shotgun in trembling fingers, Mick strode over to the sad mess of a human being on the floor, lit a smoke and said 'Well it's time to make some calls, Hardo. You really fucked up this time didn't ya? Say goodbye to this shithole, we're off to teach you a thing or two'.
FIRST DEMON SLAYED: The first demon slain was a rare form of the Urere affinity, a Mortis Engine as it is called. It is a personification of death in its most indiscriminate form, the uncaring, unfair fate that every soul faces. Blood clots, heart attacks, strokes, aneurysms and the like are all favoured methods of delivery for such a demon. The quick, unexpected death which all it takes is a slight tweaking of a nervous or respiratory system. Like most demons however, it will still confront its victims in an overt manner from time to time. A tall, gaunt figure with gangrenous skin covers its repulsive body, having large fore-armed sized claws extending from its palsied hands. Its eyes are absent, merely sunken pits of stinking flesh in its repulsive face, presiding above an absence of a nose and lipless mouth. It is emotionless, uncaring and completely nonplussed by the circumstances of its victim; it merely cares that it reaps the living essence from those that possess it.
RP SAMPLE: Things had died down. All the laughter, shouting, cursing, glasses full of distraction and cash flow had come to an end. The LA Stop Bar wasn't a classy affair but it still managed to turn a profit. Something Ian Hardgrove was proud of, as it hadn't been until he took over as night manager. There's a trick to convincing anyone that another drink was a good idea, whether it be for a celebration, commiseration or simply something extra before they went home to their wife. It's just about figuring out the right angle to use and after a while it's easy to pick which to use on strangers.
"Another then, Mick?" said Ian, wondering why he didn't just leave the bottle on the bar. Mick would only steal one or two when he wasn't looking. His generous tips covered his indiscretions anyway.
"Does the Pope shit in the woods?" Mick grunted. Mick Valentore had the face of a bar brawler that suggested he barely won as much as he lost. With his short black hair, broken nose, cauliflower ears, box-like jaw and an assortment of scars, he was definitely the image of a Calvin Klein model. He was powerfully built however, having thick muscle corded arms and broad shoulders, even with most of it hidden under the worn looking coat he constantly wore, plus standing just over 6 feet tall.
"You know, I don't think he does. I think the real question is whether he ever wears the hat when he does," said Ian with a smirk.
"I'm going to stop ya right there before the holy shit joke appears"
"Hey, you said it, not me"
"Quit being a funny bugger and get on with it, would ya?" replied Mick. Ian poured another lot of cheap whisky into the glass. Slogging it back and hitting the bar with the glass, Mick tapped the side indicating another.
Grinning, Ian pulled a second glass out from under the bar and poured them both a measure. He chinked their glasses together and downed it, grimacing slightly as it burned down his throat.
"No fights, no one puking and no dropped glasses. I'd call that a good night. Finish that up though, it's time to get out of here so I can enjoy my two days off," toasted Ian.
"Another half hour won't kill you, Hardo," grumbled Mick as he downed his own glass.
"It might take you though, I'd end up having to carry…Mick?" questioned Ian, confused by the sudden sober look his face.
Mick twisted impossibly fast to throw the glass at a shadow hammering through the air, reaching into his coat. Impossibly fast wasn't fast enough.
A slab of the bar exploded. Splinters shooting like shrapnel from a grenade spun through the room, shattering glasses, impaling the roof and breaking windows. It was like a wrecking ball piloted by a madman had materialised in the room and hit the bar with the fury normally attributed to vengeful gods.
Ian was thrown off his feet, back into the shelves of spirits behind him only to rebound and hit the ground with a wet smack he never quite heard. One side of his body looked like a poor imitation of a voodoo doll, shards of the bar imbedded in his flesh. His first confused thought was that he tasted rust covered wood, until he realised his cheek had been pierced straight through; he could bite down on a splinter.
He wondered why there was a black outline to everything he was seeing; it was as if he was viewing the world through a blurry black halo. Blood was hammering in his ears, the sound dampening out everything else. Ian surprised himself though, survival instincts kicked in, he started to drag himself across the floor on his forearms. He vaguely heard the crunch of glass as he did so, but strangely didn't feel the bite of it. Something concussive and thundering did streak through the dulled sound, gunshots were ringing out and a high pitched screaming was ringing around the room, rage filled swearing underlined it but couldn't be made out.
He had made it from out the side of the bar, he could keep going, could make it out of whatever the hell was happening. Fight or flight is an instinct but when something like this happens, there's only one option.
His clenched fist suddenly bumped into something heavy and metallic, it took him a moment to realise what it was. It was the shotgun Mick could never be parted with, constantly draped over his back with a leather strap, intricately designed and decorated. A child could look on such a weapon and realise it was something special, no one put that much effort into creating something without it having a purpose. Who the fuck cared what that purpose was, thought Ian.
He pulled it close, got his shaking fingers inside the trigger guard and managed to find the strength to cock the weapon. His father had taken him hunting numerous times, teaching him the basic and advanced methods of how to use and take care of firearms. For all the decoration and ornamentation, it was still a shotgun after all.
For all of the fight or flight instincts that had him make a laughable dash for it, the rational mind kicked it and told him he was in no state for a flight from this. He rolled over and looked towards where the gunshots had rung through his ears. He regretted it instantly.
For Ian, there was a fucking nightmare given flesh in the room, struggling with what he could see of Mick. He could see its back, made of rotting, gangrenous flesh in a putrid green/black colour. It was taller than Mick, standing at over seven feet tall. The monstrous claws that were excuses for hands were imbedded in his forearms, tearing strips away and severing veins. Ian subconsciously chose not to focus on the blood spurting from them. It embodied the sort of thing envisioned should insanity and cancer combine to take form.
With shaking hands, Ian took aim at the forsaken creature that he still wasn't sure was real or not. His heaving breaths didn't help the matter, but he managed to hold them for a second while he pulled the trigger. The recoil was immense. He wasn't sure if his wrist was broken or not, but it hardly mattered. A keening shriek filled the room, scraping across his thoughts and inner monologue. It was like claws slowly digging into the meat of his brain, inch by inch.
The nightmare was disintegrating however, its entire back a monument to the capability of firearms, yet somehow beyond that. With a slightly blue tinge, it was claimed like a flame soaked page. The screaming from the creature suddenly ended as it disintegrated into a pool of horrendously bubbling bile.
Mick was swearing profusely as he walked over to the bar to find some towels to wrap his forearms with. Once finished, he poured two glasses of whisky from the remains of a broken bottle and started to walk over to Ian. It was then Ian realised his problems weren't over. What should had been the beaten and scarred face of Mick had been replaced by a red skinned, black eyed visage with bones protruding from his cheeks, haloed by a pair of horns curving around from the back of his head.
"You alright, kiddo? You look like you just shat your pants. I remember my firs-"
"Stay the fuck away! Don't come any closer!" yelled Ian, in panic filled breaths, raising the shotgun once more.
"Or what, you're going to whistle at me and bleed on the floor?" replied Mick as he stepped closer.
Ian pulled the trigger, prepared to have his wrists flare in pain as they did the first time. The dull click of an empty chamber was the only result.
"Did you seriously just try to shoot me? What the fuck is wrong with you, Hardo. It's Mick, you know me," said Mick before waving his hand over his face. "This is what happens when ya kill creatures like you just did. They call it the Decay, you become like them. I'm a demon hunter, not a demon, you damned idiot," Mick said angrily.
Ian looked up at him with incomprehension plastered all over his face, hyper ventilating as his mind tried to make sense of what just happened.
"Well it's time to make some calls, Hardo. You really fucked up this time didn't ya? Say goodbye to this shithole, we're off to teach you a thing or two," said Mick, turning as he reached into his coat for his phone.
MISCELLANEOUS: (anything extra worth mentioning)
Last edited:
- 38
- Posts
- 9
- Years
- Age 32
- Midwest
- Seen Dec 10, 2021
Mine should be ready to go if you want to give it a look over.
ANARCHit3cht
Call me Archie!
- 2,145
- Posts
- 15
- Years
- Seen Sep 25, 2020
My new character if you want to take a look at her. And sorry for the trouble~ I just envisioned something a little different for the Aria class.
ANARCHit3cht
Call me Archie!
- 2,145
- Posts
- 15
- Years
- Seen Sep 25, 2020
I thought being a relatively self-centered character would be an interesting contrast towards a healer, who's archetype is ideally anything but.
Ozymandias
i'm going on a journey
- 1,069
- Posts
- 10
- Years
- Age 24
- under your bed
- Seen Mar 10, 2021
I'm almost done with mine. Just need to type up an rp sample and then I should be good
ANARCHit3cht
Call me Archie!
- 2,145
- Posts
- 15
- Years
- Seen Sep 25, 2020
When are you going to officially roll this out? No rush, just curious if you're waiting for a specific number of players etc because it seems like we have a good number! Also, would we be able to have a second character enter the RP at a later date? I have an idea for one of Manami's relatives but I don't see him as really joining Stella Matutina as a student per se, but he could be roped along in one of their missions or something and "join" then.
/compulsively reloads RP Corner every 5 minutes hoping its there.
/compulsively reloads RP Corner every 5 minutes hoping its there.
Haha at this present point in time, I'm just waiting on a few of my friends' to post theirs up. And they better get a wriggle on!!
and sure! there will be points in time after I close sign ups where new characters can be appropriately squeezed in
and sure! there will be points in time after I close sign ups where new characters can be appropriately squeezed in
And reportmyname's character is accepted! I think we need a few more greenhorn characters like Ian. We have a lot of family based hunters!
Also, I'm planning on starting this after I finish my first post. Don't worry, there'll be plenty of time to finish sign ups and join in once it's started but there'll be a point when I'll close sign ups once we've gone a bit in. Then after that, they'll open at times when characters can be squeezed in.
Also kudos to everyone's decays. I was sure I was going to see some wolf or fox characters but you all broke that stereotype. Good job!
Also, I'm planning on starting this after I finish my first post. Don't worry, there'll be plenty of time to finish sign ups and join in once it's started but there'll be a point when I'll close sign ups once we've gone a bit in. Then after that, they'll open at times when characters can be squeezed in.
Also kudos to everyone's decays. I was sure I was going to see some wolf or fox characters but you all broke that stereotype. Good job!
Geras
Roleplayer
- 957
- Posts
- 13
- Years
- Age 28
- Everything's bigger here, apparently.
- Seen Jan 1, 2024
Just here to express my interest. I'm unfortunately too busy to join right now, but I'll certainly be keeping up with this. Maybe I'll have time later during one of the SU reopening periods. Anyway, good luck everyone!
ANARCHit3cht
Call me Archie!
- 2,145
- Posts
- 15
- Years
- Seen Sep 25, 2020
Yeah! That's why I made Manami virtually new to the whole thing. Her extended family has a history in demon hunting, but not her immediate one. And everything she has learned is mostly in theory.
Hey everybody! The IC thread is up! http://www.pokecommunity.com/showthread.php?p=8630978
Just a note: rankings exist within Stella Matutina. I'm about to head to work, but I'll write it up later. For reference now though, new members are known as Neophytes. And Anahera, the person the note is from, is a third-class margrave, which is usually written like Margrave III. there are a list of rankings but like i said, ill put it up when i get home.
any questions, let me know!!
Just a note: rankings exist within Stella Matutina. I'm about to head to work, but I'll write it up later. For reference now though, new members are known as Neophytes. And Anahera, the person the note is from, is a third-class margrave, which is usually written like Margrave III. there are a list of rankings but like i said, ill put it up when i get home.
any questions, let me know!!