farcry11
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Post by farcry11 on Nov 15, 2013 6:31:36 GMT
Three hundred years ago, humanity's destructive nature finally got the better of them. In a fiery hellstorm, nuclear war was enacted across the globe, scorching radiation blasting the earth and leaving only... The Valley. Located somewhere in Central Europe, this is where a hundred thousand survivors fled. A massive valley, picturesque, fertile, with freshwater rivers, dark forests, and rolling fields. With the humans came livestock- horses, sheep, cows, pigs. All was well in the beginning. Farms and homesteads, and even a village or three popped up as the world outside fell to ruin.
Some of the more courageous men and women of the valley set out after the fallout faded, and some returned with disturbing stories of barbaric, cannibalistic tribes and monstrous mutants. Some never came back at all...
Over time, society (and technology) in the valley regressed, becoming akin to the feudalistic Dark Ages of medieval Europe. 150 years in, the three major ethnic groups of the valley- the French, the Germans, and the Russians, split apart in a bloody civil war. The eventual division of land left each faction- now referring to themselves as fiefdoms- with about 1/3 of the Valley each. The Russians claimed the Northern forest lands, the French claimed the central riverlands, and the Germans claimed the bountiful southern fieldlands.
Now, the three fiefdoms live in a tumultuous peace, each one not really trusting of the other two. Some people speak of war on the horizon, but there are even more disturbing rumors of the barbarian tribes grouping together and marshaling a force to take the Valley by force. In this uncertain, unsafe world, you live. Who will you be?
The Fiefdoms
The Fiefdom of France
Ruled by the Marquis du Alexandre, who is famously kind and generous, this fiefdom is nestled in the riverlands. It's capital city is Neuf Paris, a city of about 10,000 people. Ten other towns and villages dot the riverlands, most of them prosperous and content. The main military force of this fiefdom consists of Archknights, soldiers that wield both swords and bows, and move as quickly on land as they do in their canoes. This fiefdom's main exports are a variety of fish, and the occasional stash of pearls. They have a few low-yield iron mines. It is rumored that the fiefdom's greatest minds are working towards inventing some form of firearm...
The Fiefdom of Germany
Ruled by Count Alarick, a famous drunkard but fierce warrior. He is married to the Lady Agathe, one of the most beautiful women in the Valley. The capital city is Neu Berlin, a fortress-city with about 8,000 inhabitants. There are about twelve other villages scattered about the plains, most of which have agricultural purposes. The main force of the German military is the much feared Wolf Cavalry, lightning quick horse-mounted lancers. The main exports of the fiefdom are a myriad amount of grains, as well as gold and steel from the scattered mines.
The Fiefdom of Russia
Ruled by the famously vicious Tsar Vasili, an accomplished warrior and hunter of great cruelty. The capital city is named Vasiliberg. It is a settlement of about 5,000 people, ringed by a gigantic log-and stone wall. There are about five other small villages throughout the vast forests of this fiefdom. There is no established military- rather, most citizens are well versed in the ways of the spear and the longbow. Among the forest trees, the citizen-soldiers are deadly to adversaries. The Russians are sometimes subject to raids by the barbaric Tribesmen, who come in at the Northern mouth of the valley to rape, pillage and murder. These incursions have hardened the Russians against the outside world. They have few exports except for furs, meat and crude iron.
Character Sheet
Name: Age: Physical Description: Home Fiefdom: Profession: (hunter, soldier, petty lordling, etc) Backstory:
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farcry11
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Post by farcry11 on Nov 15, 2013 6:38:34 GMT
Name: Jacques Clermont Age: 29 Physical Description Slender but well muscled, with close-cropped black hair and a neatly shaved goatee. He stands at the average height of 5 feet 11 inches, and is exceptionally quick. His face appears warm and friendly, but his eyes are cold and calculating. He usually wears a navy blue cloak, plain greenish breeches and shirt, fine leather boots and a swordsman's belt, which has a shortsword strapped to it. He usually wears a brown scarf around his neck... Home Fiefdom: France Profession: Exiled Lordling. Backstory: Born to the famous Archknight and Lord, Adrien Clermont, Jacques led a privileged childhood. He learned swordsmanship from his father's master at arms, and could maneuver about the riverlands as well as any Archknight. He also learned his letters and numbers, and was not only athletic but scholarly. His exceptional upbringing, however, led him to arrogance and vanity, as well as a hot temper. At the age of twenty-four he killed a commoner from whom he had perceived an insult. His father, appalled at his actions, banished him from his household and disowned him.
Jacques left, anger and revenge in his heart. He vowed to return someday and claim his birthright- and he intended to bring his own army with him. He's ended up in Vasiliberg, looking for mercenaries...
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Post by tuiee on Nov 15, 2013 7:00:09 GMT
Name: Artyom Alyosha (Originally "He-That-Walks-The-Sands") Age: 43 Physical Description: Rough and weathered, with more than a few wrinkles crossing his face. His eyes are brown and shine with an inner flame indicative of his determination and drive. His hair has been hacked short, with grey streaks at the temples. He has an angular, gaunt face, with high cheekbones and thin lips. He is growing a thick, mildly trimmed beard.
He stands around five and a half feet tall, with the wiry build of a hunter. His fingers are long and graceful, made for delicately laying tripwires and manipulating the intricate mechanisms of a crossbow.
Artyom wears a dark green tunic, with several oddments from beyond the Valley woven into the cloth. His shoes are fashioned from treated leather, and were crafted using an ancient raider's technique that allows for him to gain incredible traction when climbing or moving across wet terrain. An intricate harness, made of a material known only to wastelanders, is wrapped around his torso, with numerous adjustable straps allowing him to hang all manner of small blades, tools, and food pouches from varying positions on his chest and upper legs. A thick bear-fur cloak covers most of his body, with a crude set of quartz range-finding lenses hanging from the neck. Home Fiefdom: Russia (More or less) Profession: Scavenger Backstory: Artyom was born outside of the Valley's sheltering expanse. His childhood is a jumbled mess of pillaging, killing, and surviving no matter the cost. As he grew old, however, he came to the realization that his lifestyle would kill him, most likely slowly and painfully, and he would much rather spend the latter portion of his life in relative peace.
With this goal in mind, he set out to find a home - perhaps a cave or a hidden copse of trees - but instead he found the Valley. Enormous, developed, and safe, it seemed to be the answer to all of his needs. He immediately snuck in, using a lifetime of survival expertise to establish a well-hidden home on the fringes of the Valley, away from the more civilized areas, and close enough to the wasteland to allow for him to make scavenging forays into the beyond for scrap to sell in the fiefdoms' cities.
Known only as "The Hermit" to those he trades with, Artyom keeps mostly to himself, and his only contact with civilization is during his supply runs into the towns.
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farcry11
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God Emperor of Pleb Kind
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Post by farcry11 on Nov 15, 2013 7:07:26 GMT
Mang, I'm on an iPad. I'll make a poll tommoruh.
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Post by tuiee on Nov 19, 2013 3:20:02 GMT
All right, I made a character sheet. Your turn, babykins.
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Leore
Tertiary Admin
Posts: 158
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Post by Leore on Nov 21, 2013 1:41:23 GMT
Name: Bartholme Matthaus
Age: 43
Physical Description:Refined and large for a man his age and profession. A gruff voice of germanic/scandinavian descent, with a mildly large belly. And while he may seem unfit, most of it is muscle. He has strong arms, a stout face with low cheek bones and bushy, wild eyebrows. He has a thick beard and long, greyish hair, usually done up in some sort of pony tail. He appears old yet strong, with a somewhat fierce look to him. He often has his swordbelt with him, and in it, sheathing the mighty longsword he calls his own. He has a deceitful, dishonest look to him.
Home Fiefdom: Germany
Profession: Mercenary Captain
Backstory: Bartholme was born and raised in the the Valley, and due to being around the acts of war during much of his childhood, has grown so accustomed to its likings that most of his compatriots hardly recognize him during the heat of battle. They see him as a machine of war when he is unleashed- a dog with no chain, nor master. Bartholme started his career as an adventurer with a small band of compatriots seeking only fame, glory and coin.
Soon, more adventurers and mercenaries flocked to his party, and he had found himself leading a company of grizzled men and women with a heart burning for adventure, battle and coin! He had designated it the Sons of Gauck, whereas their motto was, respectively, "Einigkeit und Recht und Freiheit", which would translate in English to "Unity and Justice and Freedom". The Count Alarick had grown fond of this merry band of warriors and missionaries, and had hired them into his retinue. Bartholme and his men fought many battles for the Count Alarick, and soon, had stopped paying Bartholme.
When Bartholme demanded him and his men be paid, else they shall abandon the cause, Alarick had attempted to have one of his fingers removed. Bartholme's guards had drawn their swords, but before they could attack, they were on the ground, mutilated by the Count's guardsmen.
Bartholme had lost his finger, and was imprisoned, until he was able to escape with the help of his compatriots. Bartholme had sworn to return one day and show the Count that one does not simply piss off the Sons of Gauck. Bartholme, in his departure, left a trail of blood and death in his wake. Bartholme and company have since fled to Vasiliberg for refuge, recruiting whenever possible, preparing to strike and take their prize once and for all.
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farcry11
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Post by farcry11 on Nov 21, 2013 7:16:55 GMT
((Gonna get this ball rolling. Anyone can make a character sheet and join at any time!))
Jacques sat hunched over in his chair at the tavern's bar. The Sick Bear, despite it's name, was one of the cleaner inns in Vasiliberg; that is, the ale was only one quarters water, and there weren't too many hairs in the stew. Clermont scanned the smoky room, seeing only the usual commoner trash- tavern whores, thugs itching for a fight... And mercenaries. He looked for anyone who seemed particularly seasoned...
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Leore
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Post by Leore on Nov 21, 2013 14:34:24 GMT
Bartholme and three of his men were sitting at a rounded table in the far left corner of the tavern, slamming their mugs down on the table merrily whilst laughing whole heartedly. They were donned in the essentials of protection - banded leather armor with bronze chainmail. Two halfhelms were sitting on the table before them. They seemed to be well furnished. On Bartholme's right hand was a bandage wrapping around the entirety of it, still blood soaked, yet he paid it little mind at the time his senses were dulling. The three men and Bartholme had longswords attached to their swordbelt, and the concept of giving them up seemed void to the band of fierce looking men. One seat at their table was left free, perhaps one could find solitude in their conversation...
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Post by tuiee on Nov 21, 2013 21:16:06 GMT
Artyom stared intently into the bottom of his mug. The ale was tasteless, as per usual. The last dregs of the stale brew stared up at him from the depths, as if daring him to finish the drink.
He looked up and gave the tavern a cursory glance, taking a moment to ponder why he always came to this place following his trading runs. Here he felt different, set apart from the other men - and he was; the blood flowing through his veins was foreign and unfamiliar, most likely the only of its kind in this kingdom.
The others knew, as well. He was always receiving stares, glares, leers, jeers, and everything in between. Something about his gait, or maybe the way he talked, tipped the people of the fiefdoms off to his alien origin. Or perhaps it was more than that: perhaps they could smell the raider on him, hear the way his heart was always rattling, beating with an erratic pace; maybe they could feel the monster within him, maybe they could -
A hand fell on his shoulder.
He jerked his head up. The hunter within stirred. Muscles coiled, preparing to strike. To kill.
"Petrikov, ish that yoush?" A burly man stared down at him, smiling in an overly friendly manner. The scent of beer saturated his breath. He scrutinized Artyom's face, failing to realize in his drunken haze that he was staring at death itself. "Ah, yoush aren't him... apologeesh, friend."
The man sauntered off. Alyosha relaxed and realized with a start that his hand had snaked itself to one of the daggers rigged to the side of his chest. He sighed, relinquishing his hold on the blade. Determined to push his temporary bloodlust from his mind, he busied himself with watching the tavern's patrons. A rather rowdy group of men, numbering at four, drew his attention. Lifting his mug to his lips, he downed the last of its contents and listened intently to their loud conversation.
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farcry11
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Post by farcry11 on Nov 21, 2013 21:59:46 GMT
Jacques looked around some more, peering through the smokey haze and taking in the scents of stale ale and tobacco. His eyes finally settled on a group of four that seemed to be seasoned sellswords- one of them was even wounded, though he seemed to be ignoring it altogether. They'd even worn their armor in, a sign that they were always ready for a fight. He stood up, intending to walk over and sit down with the men, but as he strode across the common hall a foot stuck out from a nearby table, almost tripping him. As he regained his balance, wobbling precariously, a drunken voice jeered from behind him. "Whatsh yer shtep, FISH," a burly, bearded Russian spat at the Frenchman, with an arrogant, derisive look on his face, a harsh smile curling his lips.
Of course, Clermont wouldn't expect any better from these half-savages. However, this supposedly routine 'joking' was an affront to his honor as a highborn man. He drew his sword and barked, in broken Russian, "Draw your iron, filth." Jacques took up a defensive position, staring at the man as the tavern grew silent.
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Leore
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Post by Leore on Nov 22, 2013 1:37:15 GMT
Bartholme raised a hand, as if motioning for his men to quiet down as his focus fell from his mug to the proud nobleman before him. He too was of a foreign nature to these Russians- ancient enemies, it is known. Yet his German heritage did not seem so obvious to the drunken sots he was surrounded by. He took praise in that, cursing a fight if one had happened, not truly in the mood.
He smiled wryly at the men and women around him moving to the corners and walls of the tavern as he stood, speaking out with a bellowing, fierce voice, the tone of a warrior born, "The hour grows meek, as blood is bound to fall this day! It seems a battle is to happen, a duel more like. My men and I have been yearning to spill blood for days! Kommt, ihr Russisch Hunde und schmecken den Stahl Bartholme und Gesellschaft!"
Bartholme ended with a battle cry in German tongue, drawing his steel as his men mimicked his actions, stepping up to stand by him, ""Einigkeit und Recht und Freiheit!" Bartholme and his men sputtered the words, glaring at the Russians around them, with Bartholme smiling in a cocky, proud fashion, towards the supposed French nobleman.
(Also, should there be some sort of Dungeon Master to control NPC mobs in situations like this? I wouldn't want to direct the story in a powerplay.)
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farcry11
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Post by farcry11 on Nov 22, 2013 4:38:17 GMT
Jacques noted with satisfaction that the man remained in his chair, quivering in fear at the sudden outburst of the mercenaries. Jacques looked over at them, nodding in satisfaction, then turned back to the drunk, who had apparently just pissed himself. Jacques scoffed, then spoke again in his broken Russian.
"You soil self. You not fight, filth?"
The man shook his head quickly, furiously.
"Which foot you use to trip?"
The man pointed to his left foot, almost falling off of his chair. Suddenly Jacques raised his sword lightning-quick and drove it in to the man's boot, piercing the dead center of his foot. The nobleman wrenched the blade out of the mans foot as he screamed in agony, then turned to the other patrons of the bar, speaking in eloquent French.
"Can you not see that this coward is wounded?! Take him from this place, you swine!"
He turned to the mercenaries and spoke in more or less clear German, "You, you will be rewarded.". He was so busy addressing the men that he didn't notice the slender, knife wielding Russian creeping up behind him.
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Leore
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Post by Leore on Nov 22, 2013 16:24:06 GMT
Bartholme let out a bellowing, guttural laugh, eyeing the Frenchman up and down with his wild, grey eyes. He seemed pleased that the Frenchman seemed so fluent in German. His men eyed the crowd, blades pointed to the floor of the shoddy tavern, as Bartholme moved forward, sheathing his blade and pulling out a slim, jagged dagger from his belt.
He stared at Jacques, grinning wickedly, before laying his blood-thirsty gaze upon the craven nearing Jacques with what he would call a coward's way of battle. He charged forward, likely giving Jacques a scare for a moment, until Bartholme passed him, only shoving him slightly with his burly, broad shoulder, lunging for the craven. Bartholme cried out in a parted, rancid French, "Watch yourself, Frenchman, these Russians adhere to cowardly ways, ha ha!"
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Post by tuiee on Nov 23, 2013 1:31:39 GMT
Artyom stared impassively at the mounting brawl. He'd have none of it, of course; and it was time he retired to his lodge regardless. Rising from his stool, he began to make his way through the crowd, towards the door. It was strange, he thought, how nobles and lordlings were willing to potentially risk their lives over matters of "honor". The practicality of such a concept was next to nothing, thus, why should it be perpetuated?
He surfaced from his thoughts in order to push a stumbling drunk aside. Unfortunately, it seemed he had chosen the wrong individual to shove. Whipping around and spitting in anger, the man growled, "You dare attack me, swine? Do you know who I am?"
Artyom cocked his head to one side. "No."
Grabbing Artyom with his fist, the man said, "I am Anatoly Kreshnov, esteemed hunter and fighter! None touch me without reciproca -"
"Enough." With blinding speed, Alyosha reached out and snapped the man's wrist. The action was clinical, measured; this time, without being surprised, he could temper the beast, allow it to hurt the Russian without taking full control. It was... satisfying. Stepping around the wounded man, he resumed his beeline for the door.
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farcry11
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God Emperor of Pleb Kind
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Post by farcry11 on May 3, 2014 18:18:31 GMT
(Bump. I really want this to work, guys! Moar players pls!)
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Post by subdigital on May 3, 2014 19:51:51 GMT
(( will make char sheet when I get home, Kay?!))
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Post by tuiee on May 3, 2014 21:15:32 GMT
(Jeez, talk about necromancy! >.<
I'm more than willing to keep this thing going, if someone wants to post another action. Also, I could always double post, if needed.)
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Post by halorocks22 on May 3, 2014 21:38:40 GMT
Name: Christof Wenger
Age: 38
Physical Description: He is a solidly built, aging man standing at a fair height of around 5'7". His skin is rough and a couple of battle scars cover his chest and arms.
His eyes are a dark shade of brown and they seem to emit an intense sense of concentration and caution. His hair is short and mostly brown except for a few strands of grey that stand out and show off his age. He has a chiseled, arguably handsome face and thin lips that appear to be twisted into a frown most of the time. Black stubble covers the area around his mouth.
He wears a deep green silk cloak adorned a hood around his worn olive-colored cotton tunic and brown trousers. Over his tunic, a pendant made of rough copper shaped into a circle lies hidden underneath his cloak. A pair of black boots fashioned from high-quality leather covers his feet. A cowhide quiver hangs loosely from a strap on his back and it contains numerous barbed cast iron arrows. A durable yew bow strung with sinew is wrapped around his body and a gnarled shortsword rests at his waist.
Home Fiefdom:Germoney
Profession:Hired Assassin/Rogue
Backstory:Christof was born to a poor family inside of Neu Berlin. His early childhood was marked by poverty, and hardship. His father worked as a laborer and his mother washed laundry for a living causing for Christof from an early age to scour the streets for survival, teaching him how to defend himself and how to keep himself alive.
One day, his father died in a tragic accident and his mother also later died from grief and disease. Heartbroken and now without support, young Christof turned to a serious life of crime. He saw the world as cruel and unforgiving and became willing to kill a man over a loaf of bread. While he was stealing from a jewelry shop one afternoon, a guardsman snuck up behind him and knocked him out with a cludgel, effectively ending his crime spree.
He was put in irons and sentenced to death for various crimes against the Fiefdom. However, the Count, impressed by his skills, offered a pardon in exchange for Christof to serve in the elite Wolf Cavalry to which he accepted. He served in the Cavalry for some time, chasing down criminals who commited the same crimes he commited in the past.
After a while, he became increasingly unsatisfied with his job and deserted. Now a hunted outlaw of the Fiefdom of Germoney, Christof 'works' as a sword for hire for the right price. After spreading his reputation by taking down many high-value targets, he is now known as "The Ranger" to those that have heard about him.
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Post by halorocks22 on May 3, 2014 22:19:15 GMT
Christof opened the tavern door and momentarily stepped aside for an odd Russian man who was in a hurry to leave. He looked back at the Russian to see him leave before turning his attention back to the tavern and starting to walk inside and then abruptly stopped when he saw a wounded man rolling on the floor in pain and a brawl about to take place. Fools, he thought, and he momentarily reached for the shortsword at his waist before deciding against it.
He pulled his hood on and nonchalantly walked inside to stand beside the door and observe. His boots created a light tap-tap sound as they made contact against the planks that comprised the floor of the tavern. Another bystander near the east side of the tavern noticed him and began to stumble towards him with a bottle of vodka in his right hand.
Knowing that he had attracted unwanted attention, Christof silently cursed to himself in German and began to consider incapacitating him with his bow. Before he could decide, the man approached him and pointed a crooked finger at him. "Who are you?" The man asked in Russian before taking a swig from the vodka bottle he held. Christof, while he understood the question, ignored it and continued to observe the brawl quietly. This man was not worth it.
The man stared at him, red-faced and with angry eyes before roughly grabbing him by the wrist and twisting it painfully. "I believe I asked you a question, scum. We don't like strangers around here." Christof looked at the man with one dull eye before tearing his hand off his wrist and snapping it in one swift movement. The man only had a brief chance to grab at his broken wrist and scream before he followed up with an uppercut and knocked the man out cold.
Fortunately for Christof, however, the brawl had created a loud ruckus and his fight had gone mostly unnoticed.
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Post by Covert0ddity on May 3, 2014 23:32:16 GMT
Name: Scalvusa 'Metalman' Kirisian
Age: Rumoured 39
Physical Description: Scalvusa is a strange looking man. He is always wearing a strange, metallic suit, and has never been seen outside of it. Even by his close friends. The suit is a greyish black, with strange insignia's covering it. Tubes protrude from the helmet and connect to the shoulders and strange back cannister. Blood encrusts certain parts of the suit. It is very bulky, and it leaves not an inch of his body exposed. It is covered in very deep scars. A strange insignia adorns the chestpeice, faded over ungodly amounts of time. It is two olivebranhces, surrounding a globe and three stars above it. The globe is blue, with strangely shaped patches of green. Underneath the globe and branches is a strange word in a long lost, unknown language, labelled 'Equalibrium.' This same insignia adorns, albeit a smaller icon, on his right shoulder.
The helmet itself is an even stranger item. With two large tubes extending from the back and connecting to a back canister, the helmet is akin to a gas mask. Large, dish-like, tinted eyes peer out into the world, masking what his true eyes look like. The front of the helmet pushes outwards into a pursed-lip like formation, ending with a strange metallic filter. A shattered flashlight adorns the tip of his helmet, with the initials SMK, on the forhead.
His walk in gaunt and slow, and it makes him impossible to be sneaky, by the massive boots stomping. He carries a large sword at his wastline, itself jewel encreusted and make of similar metal of the suit.
He rarely speaks, but when he does, his voice is metallic and garbled, but definitely a males. It is deep and slow, almost as though he regarded who he was talking to was inferior, and didn't understand what he was saying.
Home Fiefdom: Fiefdom of Germany
Profession: Freelance explorer/Mercenary.
Backstory: No one is quite sure where Scalvusa is from. The few people that cared to do any extensive searching for relatives and friends, found none. Although he proclaims to be from the Fiefdom of Germany, no one is quite sure. As a young boy, Scalvusa took after his father in the art of exploration.
Some speculate to the strangeness of his armor, and why we wears it so often, is that it's keeping him alive. Many question governments that hire him. There is one truth about this metallic man, however. He knows how to kill.
From the time of his first appearence, Svalvusa has been hired by all three governments a multiple of times. He is rumoured to have a killcount of at last 100, and he is regarded a torturous monster. He is most famous in THe Fiefdom of Russia, for unknown reasons, likely past jobs, and most infamous in the Fiefdom of France. The Fiefdom of Germany seems to disregard his existence, and stands at a nuetral party. Despite his non-loyalty, and his status among the populace of the fiefdoms, he is still hired at present to do high-authority missions for the Fiefdoms.
His most recent, rumoured, mission was to assist the Fiefdom of France in securing components to build their firearms. There are, of course, romours, and should not be believed...
There is a high chance that most characters have heard of him. If you have, depending on where you are from, your opinion of his will change. Fiefdoms of Russia regard him as a hero. While France regards him as a boogieman and murderer. Germany regards him in a nuetral manner, and he is less well known there.
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