Mareth
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Character Introductions
Cyr, The Lord of Nightmares
Cyr was a normal boy like most any others, he had a happy childhood, great parents who cared for him and taught him how to properly respect Lore and all of its inhabitants. Both of Cyrs parents were Magi by nature and taught at the Swordhaven academy itself, a school in which Cyr himself was more than excited to attend when he came of age.
But unlike his parents, Cyr was not naturally as gifted of a Mage and had to work extra hard to become proficient in the arcane arts. It is because of this struggle that Cyr became so versed in The Elemental Scales, after coming upon them in a search for different ways to help him increase his own power. Cyr saw the pull of Light, and experienced first-hand the trouble of an elemental flood when his parents were both lost in The Great Fire War after being deployed into battle. It was on the day he received this grim news that he vowed to walk The Path of Dark. He vowed never to let the elemental scales tip in such a way ever again, that no one would be forced to feel the same way he did.
Present day, Cyr is a gruff older man. His hair long and dark as the night's sky, with rugged stubble masking his chin. He wears the uniform black armor of his Army of Night, with slight modifications fo suit his personal style. He sports a fitted dark grey coat over his attire, with the Insignia of The Army of Night prevalent on each shoulder. In terms of Combat he is unmatched with his greatsword, a long black blade with a dark prismarine crystal set in the middle, that begins to emit a gentle red glow as the daylight approaches its end, thus earninf it the nickname 'Night Bringer'. Though Cyr is notbonly proficient with his blade, he is still a gifted mage, practicing mostly dark-elemental spells, he is particularly known for his unique and peculiar ability to manifest and control the worst nightmares of his foes and allies alike. This art is what earned him his title 'The Lord of Nightmares'.
Mareth, The Blackguard
Staring at death, the young rabbit-eared girl lie barely-breathing as the falling snow began to cover her body. With nowhere left to go she offered to death her hand, willing to fall into his cold embrace. But despite her prayers Death would not have her yet. She heard the humans shouting closer and closer now, it seems her journey into the long dark would not be as gentle as she had hoped.
Suddenly a man's voice called out from ahead of her.
"Fire!" she heard him cry.
And just as the words passed her ears, a volley of arrows passed overhead towards the humans that had just been on her tail. She heard their screams of anguish, and their shouting orders to run away. Slowly upon the edge of her vision she could make out a large troop of men wearing black armor approaching her, but before she could call out to them for aid, she fell unconscious, closing her eyes for what she feared to be the last time.
Suddenly she awoke in a sweat, nearly leaping out of the bed before succumbing to her now-stitched wounds.
"Easy now" The man smiled at her, pouring a glass of herbal elixir and setting it beside her. "Youve only just been patched up, don't work yourself up too much. My name is Cyr, you're in safe hands now".
Descending from a race of animal-human hybrids known as the Feolkin, Mareth boasts heightened senses and a higher sensitivity to the elementals. Tall and slender she boasts skin pale as the mountains snow and a head of messy pure white hair. Two long tribal markings adorn the lower halves of her cheeks, which she tends to keep covered by a black silken scarf held just over her nose. Typically she keeps her ears tucked beneath the hood of her cloak as to make her less easily identifiable by humans or any opposition to Cyr and his band. Mareth s fiercely loyal to Cyr and The Army of Night, being her saviours, but tends to pose an unbridled disdain for humans. This coupled with her fierce attitude tend to bring about many an unnecessary conflict.
As a Blackguard, Mareth bound her soul with that of a profane weapon in order to control her dark powers, a grim spear with black chains dangling from its head. 'Loveless' she has dubbed it. Though her profane spear is her main arm she also boasts a beautiful sabre with a deep blue blade containing many etched runes called 'Surrexit, and two smaller shortswords made of Damascus steel known as 'Fang' and 'Claw', respectively. Mareth's fighting style is quick and vicious, she is never one fo be without a weapon in each hand, no matter how unwieldly it may seem.
Benvern, The Magus of Dusk
Flames engulfed the fields around the high-tower, Light Elementals, Rise Soldiers, Guardians all engaged together in brutal combat. The flowers the children of the valley had all planted slowly burned away as the burning rocks flew their way across the sky, their embers engulfing all they passed by.
"It seems our time has come at last, Master Benvern" the young apprentice calmly spoke as he approached the Hooded man. "Looks as though it's finally time we intervene. Lest' you intend to run, old man?"
"Run?" The old master laughed "You should know me better by now, Cyr". With this Benvern raised the old oaken staff high above his head brining forth a bright orange light, and in that flash each and every Guardian below him was engulfed by a bright light before being whisked far away, safe from the oncoming storm. "If they would have my home my burn, then with it these fools too shall fall."
"I would expect not less from you, Grand Master" Cyr chimed bowing before the old man. "Ill gather the troops and make sure not a Guardian was left behind, I ensure you can handle it by yourself?"
"Worry not for me, boy, I may be old but Im still twice as powerful as any other Magus who walks Lore, save the old Blue Mage himself" Benvern retorted, still holding his staff above his head as it spewed the twilight glow.
Benvern is an old Magi of great, but often heavily over-exaggerated, power. A former professor at the academy in Swordhaven, Benvern spent many an hour of his little free-time into the study of the elementals and The Avatars, leading him to come into the possession of The Elemental Compass, which he purchased off of a scholar who was visiting from overseas.
Elderly in appearance, Master Benvern is somehow just as spry as he was in his youth. He boasts a salt-and-pepper coloured bears that extends up the side of his face, leaving a large bald-spot upon the top of his head. Not one to care for neither armour nor uniformity, instead of the signature dark armour of The Army of Night, Benvern instead dons an old cloak, White with grey and brown patterned trims. Not one for martial combat, Benvern only wields his large staff, which he claims was carved from The World Tree itself, and a small Dagger that he keeps beneath the sleeve on his right arm.
Rodello, The Forlorn Blade
Orphaned as a child, the path of darkness is the only thing Rodello has ever known. The pain of losing both his parents and his only surviving sibling has ever weighed heavy on blackened heart. Rodello spent the majority of his boyhood living on the streets and learning to survive off the land.
Once a travelling smithy came passing through the old streets of Rodellos home town. Upon seeing the starving boy grovelling on the streets for scraps, he decided to take him as his apprentice and teach him the art of smithing. In his weakened state, Rodello struggled with the daunting tasks at first, but slowly as he built up his strength once more it quickly became clear that Rodello had a natural talent for the art.
Rodello spent many years as the smith's apprentice, but after a long rainy season the smith grew deathly ill, before passing away in his sleep. Devastated once more by the loss his only family, Rodello's heart was completely consumed by his pain. In the only way he knew how, he vowed to keep the smiths memory alive with him always. Rodello cremated the man's body, and infused his ashes into a vat of molten onyx. For six straight days Rodello worked the blade, never stopping to eat or sleep. He worked each and every detail into perfection until the blade was complete.
A large Katana with a glorious black blade, just holding in his hands Rodello could feel the blade humming, as though the sword itself were truly alive. Sharpened beyond even the limits of a master smithy simply holding the blade aloft would slice apart even the air around it. Rodello vowed his revenge against the world itself, honing his skills as a warrior every single day. The sword, which he simply named 'Father', was designed with the sole purpose of destroying, and so that is what it does.
Rodello is a tall, very handsome man. His body, shaped by his years of smithing and battle, his hair long and dark, kept tied back to avoid obstructing his vision. Many scars and wounds adorn his body, permanent reminders of every mistake he's ever made in battle. Before joining with Cyr and his band Rodello had worn the smith's beige shawl wherever he went, and continues to do so even now over his armour. His unmatched skill with the blade has made him one of only a handful of humans to ever have earned Mareth's respect.
< Message edited by Mareth -- 4/17/2019 20:09:11 >
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