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Title: Majils Iblis
Description: Covenant of the Despaired

Majils Iblis - October 1, 2009 08:50 PM (GMT)
Player Name:Allister
RP experience: Couple of years now.

Majils Iblis

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Full Name: Allenos Majils Iblis
Age: 48
Race: Human.
Ancestry: Myridian (through naturalization, though originally a gypsy)
Faction: Rebel (in the sense that he's not keen to Ashar being the official figure of state, but he's yet to align with the rebels)
Occupation: Follower of Animus


He's short in comparison to his peers, and of average height whence he reached the US. Stringy looking, and lanky as his long limbs dangle from a longilineal torso. Coming off as slim, lanky and gangly to most people; he is an odd site for anyone to behold. His body is built squarely (or y’know rectangularly) with a broad back, his shoulders hang tightly from his sides as they denote the oftentimes ignored physique under the bulk of his clothes. From his shoulders hang very long arms, which contribute to his lanky exterior, they’re well-toned specifically when drawing closer to the forearm, at which point they become hardened showing evidence of rigorous agility training. Tall as he is, he is not the lumbering hulk kind, having chosen to get the most use out of his limbs rather than limit himself to lifting and carrying. His legs are also well-toned for a man of his age, whom although having sheathed his blade still retains some of that virility of his youth, if only hidden behind the creases in his face and the hidden musculature under the bulk of his clothes. His head's of a somewhat oval shape, with a squared jaw that's fixed into an expression (ironically) of non-expression, his forehead prominent over the furrow of fading eyebrows. His eyes are almond-shaped, and affixed to a permanent expression of somnolency, tinged light blue they're heavy-lidded with bags under his eyes. Creases line his forehead and his cheek, as narrow lines that bore unto the aged skin. His hair is typically worn short, in no particular manner as his head is usually covered.

He carries himself proud, with his head upright, walking in a gallant manner with quick decisive steps, never turning back literally or figurativey if not to reminisce and never regret whatever decision he may have made in the past. That is not to say the same for his arms; although his stance and walk appears graceful to the common observer, his arms and hands tend to have less that subtle movements. Due to Parkinson's disease, he's hampered by uncontrollable trembling, thus it is common for him to conceal this by holding and manipulating things in his hand (a practice that has allowed him to master prestidigitation). He always brings a cane with him, (which although unnecessary for the purpose which it was designed, it serves its purpose in keeping unintentional trembling at bay).

This is particularly why he's so keen to grasp a blade, without it he is prone to shaking, whereas when swinging the blade about the trembling fades, this has translated into the use of his cane. His hands tend to be kept busy as he speaks, utilizing various mannerisms and gestures. Having lived with his problem for years now, he's developed a great many techniques to conceal his sickness from the public eye, with even close acquaintances fooled into thinking he does not ail from such sickness. Typically he dresses in loose clothing as not to hamper his movement. He wears scapular, a sort of cloth that is suspended over the shoulders and stretches down to his legs, it's worn over a white tunic, and is fastened by a brown sash, strapped unto the scapular and robe. The sleeves of his tunic are in turn strapped by leather bracers. To cover his legs, he wears a set of trousers, colored of the same white as his robes, they're strapped at the waist by the same sash that holds his scapular together, as well as two leather shin-guards that are interrupted at the feet (he walks barefoot). His head is concealed by a white tagelmust, a sort of turban which doubles as a veil, allowing opponents to see only his eyes. The clothing is of course ceremonial. He also wears 'shades' (rather tinted-glasses), as a means to protect himself from some of his manifestations.

Avatar Claim: Max von Sydow


It should come to no surprise to anyone who's ever met him that he strikes people as being odd. Quirky has been used to describe him as well as downright mad, all perfect adjectives that combine into a sort of crazy that only he could deliver to other people. He's the embodiment of ideals of a past age, bound by some unspeakable code of chivalry which he not only honors but practically lives by, as some sort of vestige from the tales of bards (quite unlike the actual knights of old). He's been cited as something of a philantropist, being able to become mesmerized by even the simplest of things and be awed by the complexity of life that most people take for granted. He can find himself enjoying even repetition at the realization of the ephemeral existences that humanity oftentimes fails to recognize. If he was to find death, he would welcome it with open arms, for he sees beauty in the gentle repose of the dead, in that without it there would be no meaning to life, and it is mortality that allows one to actually enjoy life. He finds that the realization that one will eventually expire, is what allows one to treasure everything and everyone as the last he'll ever meet or experience of their kind, such emotions are valued by him, who made his life something of an alliteration of the age old saying to live life by the day.

That is not to say he's some boundless bag of happy, he's merely a romantic or rather the nuances of a real one who finds pleasure in not only being happy, but in depression, anger and even those horrible bouts of 'cholera' which people seem to spurn. The languid feeling of melancholy after having experienced the loss of a loved one, and the comfort one can take in re-living the past, followed by relief felt when one has grieved and moved on with their life. This way of exaggerating expression is his way of covering for the fact his facial palsy does not allow him to truly convey what he feels, he resorts to words and his mannerisms to express himself rather than the flawed body he's been born with. He feels this overwhelming sensation of impotence at the thought he may never truly express as he is as he wishes. He's very outspoken, very rarely keeping something to himself, however because of this he's made many an enemy in his life, there's no point in bearing a grudge to him however, existence is such a small time as it is that there's little reason for one to spend it seething and scheming the demise of another person. That is not to say when he's infringed upon that he'll 'turn the other cheek'. To him one's greatest virtue, one greatest boon is their freedom, and in any way imposing upon a person's freedom is a transgression equating to the murder of that person.

He can be lighthearted and forgiving, or if provoked he can be grim, to the point of becoming a twisted mirror image of himself.

Steppen-wolf comes to mind as one begins to describe the rather peculiar nature of this individual. Since birth he's been taught that one had ought to learn how to do things by oneself rather than the rely on the kindness of others, that one's own judgment should stand greater than any authority and that there is no need for a higher power if everyone knows to take their place and only what they need. It is a credo of the community his father was a part of, lending itself to a somewhat anarchic interpretation. It was their values that were most seated unto his persona and still continue to make their presence manifest today. Majils does not usually rely on others, thinking that a person able to adapt to any situation is more useful than a person with but complete if narrow focus on his disciplines. To him, specialization makes a person more useless whilst making them savants in one particular area of expertise. Though recently he's come to appreciate the value of seeking companions whose abilities mesh well, and compliment one's own rather than having a general field of action. That is not to say he does not enjoy the company of others, it is however his respect of the boundaries of others that lends to this 'uncaring' sort of personality he's been brandished with. This could not be more false, as it is this deepfounded respect for the ideals of others that he wishes not to impose on them his help, if they look more or less capable of doing the task themselves, and they themselves are not asking for help then why aid them? This lends to the misinterpretation that those of his race are uncaring or even cold towards others, though that could not be farther from the truth. Because of his individualist nature, Majils considers his privacy to be the utmost expression of the self, in the sense that things that are his will not be touched, and will he not infringe upon things that are yours, so long as there is an understanding of this sort between people, then Majils will bear no enmity towards strangers. One thing that you do not do however is approach him too closely, he considers it as something of a personal insult. That is not to say he does not relish the company of others, though his way of doing so involves being attentive to their wishes, their words, expressions... spending time with them should not entail being clung to them or holding onto them the entire time. Similarly there is something of a juxtaposition to this enjoyment of other's company, and that is the paradoxical desire to seek solitude.

Majils considers this to be a necessity in maintaining a healthy relation to his peers, in that spending this time away from them will in fact benefit them in the long run, being in the presence of a person too long can lend itself to certain flukes, certain principles to be ignored because of the prolonged contact and hence gaining of confidence between the two tends to break down certain barriers, whilst a certain degree of intimacy is appreciated by Majils, he remarks that his problems are his own, and his acquaintances' are theirs. This intimacy lends itself to a sort of openness with other people as far as sentiments go, Majils has had something of a hard time adjusting to being among members of other races, having to curb the manner in which he manifests emotion, oftentimes resorting to dry humor to mask more profound feelings. To him the expression of joy and deep sorrow are normal within a person and it is not odd to him for a person to cry or laugh. He feels as though the lives of others, humans especially is oftentimes repressed and this doesn't lend particularly well to the sort of person he is. This individualism goes hand-in-hand to a need for self-expression, taking up an art or a certain discipline that allows him to truly convey his feelings, turn them into physical form. This relates as to why he's acquired so many different skills throughout his life, because he's long-lived he can take his time to learn new things each day, hence new ways to express himself. He's rather fond of poetry and metallurgy, two vastly different mediums through which he does the same thing, and it shows in his speech and in his weaponry just how much attention he places to detail. It is of his belief, that if one is to craft something that it must meet all of one's specifications, else why would you make something for your own use, that is not to your liking?

He enjoys debate and comparing rhetoric with others, long conversations are a pleasure of his that make him seem almost frivolous to others, this however stems from the knowledge that he has time for such things. He is by no means arrogant, though inevitably there may be allusions drawn to this, due to the manner in which he carries himself. Noble, upright, with gallant steps, decidedly and without falter unto regions unknown. This manifests as a desire to see the world, to learn its secrets and enrich himself in the process. He manifests a sort of old ideals that are unbecoming of the times, thinking him old-fashioned and a man who sees the world through the past. He feels that because a custom is old that it should not fall to disuse, though he's quick to replace a rite for a newer one should it prove more practical, that is not to say he approves of the use of machines. Any sort of contraption or machine that simplifies an already simple task is but an abomination to him, it cripples people from doing a task they're perfectly capable of doing themselves, or so he feels. That is not to say he loathes machines, but that this fascination with the new world and its clockwork is unfounded when there are still many secrets to uncover, whether or not he'll have to find these out himself still remains an e'er prevalent question in his meditation. Majils is prone to reflect on matters, oftentimes for days at a time, he appears to others as flighty and lost in thought though he is not any less attentive to the world around him, his philosophy is that life is to be enjoyed, and to squeeze the maximum amount of profit out of any given activity that everything must be analyzed. Why is this pleasant and how could I enjoy this even more? What taste is this? I wonder if it would look as impressive in another color? Little things like that, which turn into entire conversations with himself, making him seem more distant and aloof from the world.

He is tolerant of the beliefs of others, after all it's how they wish to live their lives, what he will not allow is for others to impose their beliefs upon those unwilling to accept them. Majils has something of a problem with authority, which manifests as his disdain for absolute figures, to trample on the individuality of other people is but a most grievous sin, one which he will go to great lengths that it should not happen again. He is passionate of his endeavors, resulting in a volatile sort of character that is an effective drive to pursue what he wishes. He awaits death with open arms, and lives each day as though it were his last.


Birth is often described as a conflux of the essences of both father and mother, which in turn carry with them the essence of all their ancestors, creating something of an influx of the lives of all ascendants that conform that particular ‘stirpe’ of humanity unto this resultant of the act of copulation. The creation of life carries with it the burden of raising said product, to become something akin to a decent human being, however Majils’s birth was different in the sense of other burdens for him to carry. With each birth a myriad of probabilities blossom as to the paths these neonates may follow, each born with the same potential to become their own person, no intervention by some outside force could predestine an unborn to follow a set path, at least it is thought of that way. There exists a force, one that predates even the passing of time, and is primeval in the sense it is a necessary component of reality. This force invests in people that it may sense have the potential to aspire to greatness, though this greatness is decided by this presence one which was wrought of the evil that exists without precedence in the world. Thus it planted the seed of evil, unto an unwilling being that this being may grow into his fate as a sleeper agent. One such being was Majils, however this potential would be used in a manner more differently than this presence could have predicted. Majils’s birth was not without complications, aside from the seed, his birth heralded the death of his mother, who’d been used unknowingly by some greater power to prevent the birth of this individual, this would mark a series of events that would further fuel the idea that the gods, the fates were something that humanity could live without.

That was not to say Majils would be disowned in any way by his father, fact of the matter was, he lived a very happy childhood alongside his father, though the void left with his mother’s passing became more obvious the more he grew. The seed remained without activation due to his father’s care, and he was given no reason to curse his existence, without a proper motivator to trigger the seed’s response, the potential that had been expended with Majils remained wasted, though not before long. The nature of the seed was to facilitate his becoming unto an agent to this force, however it never happened and this potential remained wasted until Majils’s first encounter with the unifying force, the ‘weave' that permeated all in the world. His first instance was met with an almost morbid curiosity, that he may ask how he’d be able to wield such power. It came to him as a mage protected the small settlement he lived in with his otherworldly abilities. For you see, Majils' was originated of a tribe of settlers along the fringes of the plains of Reza. It was stil la while before he could so much as manifest a mote of light however. His first formal instruction was that of the blade, being the primogen of his family (not to mention y'know... male), his father thought it prudent that the child should learn to defend himself. Thus he was introduced to the blade; his life for the next 3 years would comprise a strict regimen that consisted of warmup exercises and then slashing at the air, that is until he could properly balance the weight of the blade between strikes. He wasn't a quick study however, taking years to master the basic techniques before being able to spar. Nearing the age of 15 was he allowed to enter the circle and spar with his brothers. Not keen on the entirety of the process, it was a while before he could start winning a few battles of his own, gradually improving upon what aspects of his father's style had been taught to him, and developing his own paradigm with which to wield his blade. To him this was the world, to travel from place to place and train in the use of a blade, starting mock battles to entertain what passersby would come to their caravan.

Not everything could remain in this pseudo state of stasis amidst a life of travel and entertainment. Perhaps it was for the best, for in the guise of a fire mage, came Majils' ticket out of the caravan, and what would later allow him to hone his abilities. Though his life was fraught with travel, there were eventual stops along the road, whether there existed a need to gather food and supplies, or even if they were to set up a small settlement to stage their performances, the fact of the matter was that they could not continue to travel all the time. It was one of those times when the road had been uneventful, food stores were running low, and the caravan had walked for weeks now, a small reaspite was due. No sooner had they set up camp, that they were assaulted by bandits, the men took up arms and attempted to stave them off, and to a certain extent they'd seemed to have won, that is until they brought in additional firepower of their own. As these were not your run-of-the mill rogues, they'd brought with them a spellcaster, one which made short work of the ranks in the caravan. One by one, the men in the caravan were felled by hellfire that the magus brought forth, each consumed in desecrating fires that obliterated all in their wake. The caravan's numbers dwindled until Majils was brought into the fray, shaking in place as he held his blade aloft, intent on protecting those whom he loved. His resolve faltered as a ball of flame flew towards him at blinding speed, he closed his eyes and prepared for the worst, awaiting his death. However death did not come, the moment he'd opened his eyes, the fireball had seemed to have stopped in mid-air, then returned to his assailant, consuming him in a single bout.

Unsure of what had happened, he was surprised to find another magus in the vicinity, fearful of the magics he tried to scamper off, however there was little place to run to, the shock had been enough to knock him off his senses and so he went to the world of dreams. This was the trigger the seed required, which began to grow within Majils as a morbid curiosity began to manifest, he would come to learn of the magics which the magus wielded. He approached this stranger as he went about checking the caravan, he was rebuked in his first attempts though persistence had him poke and prod the stranger (not always literally) until he would spill the secrets which he sought, he would induct him in the ways of the mage, though only after making a covenant with the stranger. Majils agreed, if only to further his goal of one day wielding the powers which the mage had wrought. He became an apprentice to the Magician Calo Geron, a Wizard. The hours were long, tedious with the memorization of magical formulae and sortileges that would later allow him to influence his surroundings, this coupled with the fact he was an aide d’camp to Calo as he explored ruins made the learning all the tougher for him. Nearing the 18th year of his life, Calo had turned the over-eager apprentice into a respectable mage, whose only fault was his desire to learn more, and was kept in check for Calo had always suspected behind the oftentimes hungry knowledge-seeking that Majils had always had.

When it came to learning of the more offensive nature of magic, Geron was called back. Apparently some sort of invasion had taken place, and Myridia had fallen to both Ashar and Kalenia. Geron, being of Myridian ascent; heeded the call nearly leaving his student behind. There was so much more that Majils wished to see, and he feared that cutting his training short would only leave him where he stood. For you see, the seed that had been planted within him had begun to grow. The entirety of his potential was vested in learning of the art, and how to coerce the existing elements to obey one's will. Geron posed a quandary to Majils, if he was to continue his training he'd require to travel with Geron and aid in protecting Myridia, or he could stay here, indifferent to the affairs of lands not his own. Majils would have tarried with the decision, was it not for the fact that the sway of the seed was strong within him, he didn't hesitate in saying yes, and so accompanying Geron he would continue his training, and in effect aid in the offensive against the Kalenians.

Thusly he was conscripted into the Myridian army, as a private officer serving under Magus Geron, who'd be leading the assault against the Kalenian forces. With the advent of light magic, they were able to choose their battles against Kalenia, their army far out-numbering them; they were limited to using guerrilla tactics to draw them out, attempt to break their offensive that they may stand a chance against them. Geron's training allowed Majils to tap into the light, create diversions and most importantly he provided cover for his allies. In a shroud of blinding light they would arrive, and just as quickly as they'd tread into battle, like a flash they'd disappear at the next moment. It is often said that men who sould find their way onto the field of battle, are defined by it, and for Majils this was no different. He'd found a place amongst the men which composed the Myridian army, seeing them as more than faceless soldiers, they were friends, comrades.... brothers. He found a sense of communion and acceptance that he'd never felt as a child, and so, long after the Kalenian offensive had ended, he found himself serving for a greater term. The constant exposure to battle allowed him to refine his swordplay, lesser and lesser did he depend on diversions to allow himself a clean thrust at the enemy, to the point he very nearly considered the blade as an extension of his arm.

However we all know what concluded of the Kalenian offensive, though victory came to the Myridians, Ashar eventually overcame then. Majils deeply regrets what transpired that fateful day of 906 C, however it allowed him to tap into a reservoir of power that was unprecedented, and what allowed him to wield the light as a weapon. It was during the final days of the Asharian conflict, when all pointed towards defeat. During a desperate attempt to create a pincer against the Asharian forces, the generals outmaneuvered the Myridian army, employing a shift in formation to attempt to surround the incoming ambush party. Majils, awaiting the arrival of reinforcements stood his ground, faithful that the pincer would work. Steadfast, he steeled himself before the incoming wave of soldiers, his blade poised and raised to strike. As hordes, they swarmed over the surrounded party and rushed. One by one they fell, each swing of the blade cutting men asunder, however the efforts of a few soldiers could not possibly hold against the might of the Asharian army. Seeing his men fall, ignited a passion within Majils to attempt to save them, fueled by his endeavor to overcome he channeled all light that he could gather at his eyes. Motes of light began to gather all around him, until the gathered light had been refined. Its wisp-like form, concentrated unto a single point of escape. A torrent of light shot out from Majils' eyes, as he incinerated the incoming soldiers, nothing could escape the light's consecrating touch. The display so frightened the Asharian soldiers that they'd no choice but to run from this mysterious foe, many more of their numbers were felled by Majil's gaze.

Unkowingly he'd cut a path through the enemy forces to allow his men to retreat, and blinded from the display he retreated, left with nothing more than the bitter taste of defeat and plenty of time to ponder of what had transpired that day. Majils spent several days in the infirmary, allowing his sight to recover. As such, he dedicated his time to deducting how he'd managed to do as he'd done. To him, the light was merely a tool, not something to be wielded against another person, and yet he couldn't deny the fact that for a moment he could set things ablaze by sight alone. He could find no answer to this problem, that is until the day when he could make use of his eyes again. His first sight was that of the sun, and so he immediately thought of the heat, being a by-product of the light. If he could somehow convert all invisible light to a visible spectrum, and then 'narrow' the breadth at which it could be viewed, then he could well focus the energy, creating a beam. However when it came to 'focusing' the light, he found that using his eyes carried to great a toll on him, not allowing for the repeated use of this technique. He thought a convex lens would be perfect for the task, however as battleground aren't exactly known for their forges, he made do with the help of fire mages and glass bottles. Attempting to create a lens, he ended up with a crystal that reflected the light within itself to then deliver the focused beam through it. He would emply this crystal for the duration of the war until Myrida lost.

Retired from the Asharian conflict, the imposition of Ashar over Myrida placed a series of regulations on the magic users of the city. He was branded a magus and ordered to identify himself with the distinctive head-band of all magi, he did so grudgingly, having only an allegiance to a kingdom which had perished before his eyes. The only semblance of Myridia remained only in the minds of those that had been there to protect her, and so the idea of remaining within the military appealed to him. The last records of his active service included the offensive against Neamir, not following into the ideals of attacking people who'd yet to do anything against the Empire, at the first opportunity he was said to have vanished in a nimbus of light, leaving his sword behind; he was never to be seen again.

He moored without destination allthroughout the land until he found a place to gather his thoughts, reflect on the sort of person he'd become and how he'd turned a purely defensive art into an offensive one. He wept for his fallen comrades and the men he submitted to the consecrating light, and resented each of his actions from having become Geron's apprentice. He loathed what he'd become, and what he'd been for nearly 20 years, and so without an identity he retreated into a cave in the Arkil mountain range, became a hermit and a complete recluse from the world. He lead a life of ascetism, each day was filled with meditation and quiet contemplation of things, until he'd emptied himself of all memories of the war, only until he'd forgotten who he was could he hope to become someone new. His journey of life would become one of self-exploration, until he could mandate his own actions, not requiring a god-king or the gods to tell him what to do. He sought to become wholly independent, utilizing what had been granted to him. If the gods were the power, then within each being lived the gods, even those without the ability to cast spells were capable of tapping into the unifying force, which proved to him the existence of something greater than the gods, magic in itself had not been a creation of the gods, just the elements which the magi manipulated. He's spent much of his life traveling now, practicing a core set of beliefs that is akin to the philosophy of Animus (though he's yet to actually meet a practitioner). He's forgiven himself from some of the things he committed whilst in the service, and is slowly growing more comfortable around the use of his powers. He has pacted not to use the light as a weapon again, and just as he'd devised a means to use it as as the scyte of Harpe, he thinks that he can very well use it to be his Aegis in times of need.


For a good portion of his life, magic was Majils' everything; becoming an all too encompassing aspect of his day to day, being drafted into the military didn't help distance himself from the art as a frontline magus in the service of Myridia. As such, he has a little experience under his belt as per the use of magic, which manifests as to the more unique approach he's taken to his gift, as something more than a means through which one can dispel the darkness. Being a light mage, Majils' object of deification is light (duh), commencing with the basics of how to augment or even dim its presence in enclosed spaces, to doing the unthinkable, and snuffing it out entirely even in the midst of day (within small areas of course). He does so by shifting the perception of light from a visible spectrum to one that cannot readily be detected through the naked eye, and vice versa (law of conservation of energy ftw). Using the same principle he can allow himself to experience a much broader spectrum of visibility, essentially allowing him to see in conditions that limit or impair sight (such as dark areas), similarly although he could allow himself to perceive the infra-red and ultaviolet spectrums of light, he refrains from doing so for it places too much strain on the eyes.

His ability to manipulate the spectrum at which light is viewed is not the reason why he worked in the military for so many years, however. It was most likely the advent of 'Incandescense' that allowed him his stay within the military. Handling light as a form of energy, Majils attempted to harness it as a weapon, he was infamous for using this 'radiance' to smite foes from afar, igniting them with focused beams of light. Though the eyes possess a natural lens there's also the matter that he'd temporarily blind himself by focusing the light whilst within his eyes, thus he employed the use of glassess (the shades he wears). The light would leave his eyes and enter the crystal matrix of his glasses, converging the waves of light at a single point, upon which they'd exit, violently as a beam that could set people, and objects aflame. This is the reason as to which the glasses are now tinted, as to prevent the use of this technique. Though he could 'technically' focus the light without the use of the lens, doing so is taxxing to him, to the point it became inefficient (given the amount of energy he'd need to convert from other invisible spectrums to the visible and gather them on a single point). Since the energy that he's converting already exists within other spectrums of light, this power is not significantly hampered with darker times of day.

Lately he's been experimenting with cloaking, attempting to phase the entirety of his self into a spectrum of light that is invisible to most people. He can manage for small stretches of time, this effect is increased where light is at either end of its visible spectrum (when it's too bright or too dark to see), allowing him to remain hidden for far longer.

The sword also holds a particular allure to him, and feels 'at home' in his hands. Coupled with the fact he's no stranger to swordplay it's become something more than a tradition for him to wield a blade in times where the gun has all but eradicated the archaic weapon. He relies on an expansive style, swinging with large arcs to direct his foe to a place where he can't move as comfortably in an attempt to corner them, letting the length of the blade do the rest of the work as a precarious slice is 'thrown' in the enclosed space. He favors the use of broad blades, requiring the use of two hands and finds himself particularly comfortable with a curved blade, the falchion is the epitome of swords to him, allowing him to place the entirety of his weight into the blade to very nearly tear limb from limb any person that dare oppose him. However, the blade has been replaced by a walking cane.

RP Sample:

The day seemed akin to an Ansel Adams picture, in its inescapable beauty limited to the extremes of the spectrum of light. Through a monochrome filter, the day seemed dispensed in shades of black and white, still hues of gray appeared as gentle strokes in the air, like a brush that adorns with slivers of paint an otherwise bleak looking sky. Filled it seemed, by this long spindly giants that streaked from across, like serpentine fish that swam in a pool of gray. Offset by this dull picture, the sun was tangled in the lines of these clouds cast, its auric splendor creeping through the slivers amidst each cloud, rays visible as though small halos of light that delivered unto the ground painted it with its splendor. Disposed of tones like red and blue, and the natural browns and yellows this painting seemed a twisted reflection of an otherwise colorful scene, however with prospect of rain on the horizon any hint of color had been suffused from the sky, naught but what little gold could seep amidst the cracks in the clouds. It was beautiful to say the least, though one could not help but be overcome with this creeping feeling that all of this was alien to the onlooker from below.

The ground, a start contrast to the heavens, was disposed in tones of gold, as long blades of grass protruded from the ground. They flooded the immediate surroundings of the cobblestone path that lead from the strangely arched bridge, overlooking the stream which reflected in its stilled waters the haziness of the skies. They were but the only thing remaining in the winter, and it wouldn't be long before these colors would also fade that the monochrome reign of winter should begin. This fringe period was merely an adjustment from the fall, which had dethroned each tree as its crowns lay scattered about. It wasn't messy however, rather quite the opposite, when caught in a precarious wind these would rise and dance for the onlooker that stared into the skies beside the cobblestone path in that bridge in this nondescript park of Manhattan. A man heading to his forties, though onlookers would argue he looked to be well into his 50's, his head denoting the many winters which he'd lived and had yet to live, as golden hairs had turned silver with the passing of time. They fell over a side of his face as his hands lay crossed over his chest, as he laid back into the leaves of grass to look up to the heavens. His legs, stretched over the grassy knoll, curving them to its natural contours.

His eyes fixed to the serpentine clouds above as they slithered through the skies, eyes of milky white that bordered near blindness, cataractic some would say, however his sight was as good as when he first came to this world, though he could only really appreciate the grays amidst the blacks & whites which people built their lives upon. (No in-between.... just one or the other...) he said to himself, letting out a small sigh of relief whilst he receded into a small respite. He'd taken a moment to marvel at something not artificed by the hands of man, and the only way of appreciating it was here, beside the arched bridge, and beside the stream. Spread against the ground, a basket lay beside him, there still remained a decanter filled with some unknown golden looking fluid. His expressionless face concealed the absolute feeling of peace which streamed off of his gargoyle-like figures. Though he'd lost the ability to express through his facial contortions how he felt, that did not however stop him from enjoying small moments such as these, when the rigors of daily life did not matter, and for a moment he could forget who he was.

Note: By submitting this application, you agree that you have read the rules and all the necessary information on this board. You also agree to adhere to the fantasy setting of Myridia and will defer to the authority of the Administrators of Myridia in any decisions that may or may not affect your character.

Tamsin Istakhar - October 1, 2009 10:21 PM (GMT)
Hey Allister, and welcome to Myridia! There's a few things about your app I'd like to discuss with you; do you have MSN, by any chance?

Majils Iblis - October 2, 2009 02:44 AM (GMT)
I do as a matter of fact, you can reach me at

Elisavet Shahyar - October 2, 2009 03:36 AM (GMT)
I'm about to hit the sack, but I'll hit you up for chats tomorrow, okay? =D

Majils Iblis - October 2, 2009 03:44 AM (GMT)
Alrighty then.

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