Post by Scythe on Aug 9, 2007 23:47:39 GMT -5
Name
Scythe Raymon
Age
Unknown, appears to be approx. 25 years by human standards
Race
Human
Occupation
Apprentice/Planeswalker
Height
5'10"
Weight
155.5 lbs
Appearance
Physically, Scythe is above average in height and is of a somewhat slender build. Lithe, quick, and precise in his movements, he is clearly a creature of speed and reflex rather than direct strength. His facial features give him an appearance of intensity, especially his sharp eyes with their mismatched red and blue irises.
Scythe often appears much as he does above. He favors well-cut clothing and seldom is seen in street-wear. Regardless of weather, his usual attire includes a full tailored suit complete with tie and jacket, polished black shoes, and a dark knee-length coat with a turned-up collar. Finally, he always wears a peaked black hat with a wide brim. Always has, always will; he considers it to be his "soul hat," a hat that he feels suits him perfectly and matches his personality.
In dangerous areas, he carries with him a pair of hook swords cut from enchanted, translucent, smooth crystal as hard as steel, if not harder. Their shades match the colors of his eyes; one an icy blue, one a fiery red. Also, a wide-banded silver ring set with a deep red stone sits astride the middle finger of his right hand, bearing the sigil of South Conclave.
History
Scythe Raymon
Age
Unknown, appears to be approx. 25 years by human standards
Race
Human
Occupation
Apprentice/Planeswalker
Height
5'10"
Weight
155.5 lbs
Appearance
Physically, Scythe is above average in height and is of a somewhat slender build. Lithe, quick, and precise in his movements, he is clearly a creature of speed and reflex rather than direct strength. His facial features give him an appearance of intensity, especially his sharp eyes with their mismatched red and blue irises.
Scythe often appears much as he does above. He favors well-cut clothing and seldom is seen in street-wear. Regardless of weather, his usual attire includes a full tailored suit complete with tie and jacket, polished black shoes, and a dark knee-length coat with a turned-up collar. Finally, he always wears a peaked black hat with a wide brim. Always has, always will; he considers it to be his "soul hat," a hat that he feels suits him perfectly and matches his personality.
In dangerous areas, he carries with him a pair of hook swords cut from enchanted, translucent, smooth crystal as hard as steel, if not harder. Their shades match the colors of his eyes; one an icy blue, one a fiery red. Also, a wide-banded silver ring set with a deep red stone sits astride the middle finger of his right hand, bearing the sigil of South Conclave.
History
As with many stories, this one is best begun by saying it started a long time ago. This particular story happens to begin in a world other than our own, but one akin to it in many ways. People were much the same there as they are here. All laughed and wept, toiled and made merry, and lived and died very much the same as we do. This is the story of one such man, aside from the fact that he was born, by some trick of fate or meddling of some mischievous deity, with a spark within him that would set him apart from other men with its igniting. However, naught short of universes of pain would be sufficient to awaken it, and that was exactly what was in store for the subject of our tale.
Scythe Raymon began his life as all men do, as an empty-headed lad. He grew strong and intelligent under the guidance and care of his doctor parents, who supported him in all things. He attended a university, but grew disinterested in studies and dropped out to pursue a career as a musician. With a few years; hard work, he began to gain some renown as a fabulously gifted trumpeter. Soon, he met an energetic young woman with whom he had more in common than merely skill with musical instruments; they were like two halves to a single being, and their stage performances were like nothing the world had ever seen. They married, of course, and were gifted with a young son.
Then, on a cloudy winter's day during the happiest years of his barely begun adult life, disaster struck...
"It was mid-afternoon on a late December day, and the year's first snow had begun in the early hours of the morning and had carried on all day, until it covered everything with an almost warm-looking white blanket.
The baby's first snow. Little Zelos, Raine, and I were in the garden, all bundled up against the chill. I remember laughing at how much he resembled an overstuffed cushion rather than a child, wrapped as he was in that puffy little snowsuit.
I rolled some snow into large boulders, and when they grew too large, Raine helped keep them moving until they were huge. With great effort, we managed to stack them, and our snowman was created. We collapsed, exhausted but with laughter on our lips and snowflakes in our hair. Even Zelos laughed at us, silly fools in the snow.
Of course, the job wasn't finished. The poor fellow had no face! He had no face, so we fetched all the cliche trappings that a proper snowman required: coal, a carrot, and dead branches. She picked the baby up, and we stepped back and looked at our creation together. The world was made of only the tree of us, the white ground, the gray sky, and the flakes falling from the latter to the former.
There was a flash, I remember that much. From behind. I was thrown sideways and forward, as if by a blast. I lay in the snow, dazed but unharmed as far as I knew. Raising my head, I slowly became aware of a strange change that had overcome my surroundings. The snow still fell, but it was not right. Something was different, wrong.
It was red.
Red snow fell, and I cried out. Above me towered the snowman. It was red now too; not completely, but spattered with it. Its macabre grin was still directed at the horizon behind me, but I knew it was a mocking smile, directed at me, all the same.
On the ground beside me, was what remained of my family. Raine, face pristine but for the trickle of blood running from the corner of her mouth, stared back at him with dead eyes. The bundle she had carried was a ragged thing off to one side now.
I could not cry out; no sound rose to my throat, for what sound would have truly suited the occasion? My mind was empty of all though, and comprehension of what I was seeing escaped me. How?! Why!?
I scrambled to my hands and knees and looked behind me. There, hand raised, a silhouette of a man stood. Did he do this? The void in me suddenly began to fill with rage like wine poured into a glass.
Now my dumbstruck vocal cords re-awoke. Roared would be the nearest word for the sound I uttered then. It was as if I was trying to launch my soul through my mouth as a projectile. The man, however, remained unmoving, seemingly as frozen as the landscape.
I understand what he said to me now, but I did not then. "It begins for you now," he said, and he slashed a hand through the air. There was a tearing sound, and the feeling of being sucked through a tiny hole by a powerful vacuum. I had shut my eyes, I no longer wanted to see anything; this was surely the end.
Then there was pain."
At the time he was not aware of the true nature of the situation. It was not merely a physical pain; his mind and spirit were engulfed in the most complete agony imaginable. The mysterious murderer had torn an opening in the fabric of reality, and flung him into the space between universes, if it could technically be called "space."
It is not clear where an individual obtains the trait Scythe had hidden within him; perhaps it was passed down through blood, or maybe it surfaced randomly or by the dictations of destiny. However it came to him, the fact remains that the Blind Eternities failed to destroy Scythe when his spirit, mind, and body should all have been torn to bits on the smallest level. Instead, some bit of him clung to sanity and cognitive thought, and as if by instinct he forced open a way out of the place he had been flung, or rather, back into a reality, a universe.
Scythe was immediately aware that the world he found himself in was not his own. His grief not forgotten but dulled by the eternity of pain he had suffered, he blended into the people of this world and lived inconspicuously for a time. Soon, he became aware of a change within himself. He no longer aged. Whatever had been done to him had disrupted his circadian rhythm. He could still be harmed like any other man, but he never grew to look even a day older than when it had happened.
So he existed for a time. He took on many jobs, names, lives. He loved other women, made friends, but all grew old and died, and he would travel on to a different universe. Finally, one day, he me someone like no one he had ever met. It was someone like him.
This man introduced himself as Mor'baruk. He informed Scythe that he was what was known of as a Planeswalker. Mor'baruk himself belonged to a community of such beings that sought to bring peace to all universes, and invited Scythe to join them. This community was called The Conclave. There, Scythe made many friends of his own kind, the best of which was Mor'baruk. Eventually, Mor'baruk became the leader of them all, and Scythe rose as one of the four lords beneath that; he held the position of Lord of South Conclave.
This period did not last forever. You see, the human mind is not meant for immortality. While the bodies of those in The Conclave did not age, the mind invariably decayed in a prison of increasing monotony. Every last member of the group began to slip into madness. One, Aratar by name, did terrible things and was destroyed by the others before worse could be wrought. his fall was the last straw though, and the Conclave disbanded for all time. Presumably, all its members succumbed to madness.
Scythe was no exception. He exiled himself to a frozen waste of year-round blizzards on a particularly technology-free world, where anything he might do would not hurt others. There madness took him for a time, and he became little more than beast. Eventually, lucidity returned to him, not at once, but in little bits. Bouts of madness were broken up by moments of clear thought, and the moments became minutes, hours, days over time.
By now, the world he was on had advanced very far. This world was our world. He ventured out amongst people again, once he was sure the madness had subsided enough that he felt that he would not harm them. He lived for a few years, amassing wealth quickly through benign and unobtrusive means. Eventually, the implacable Tracers of the academy were drawn to him as moths to a flame. Aside from his planeswalking ability and his lack of aging, he possessed little knowledge of magical arts and knew only a few simple spells he had learned from fellow Conclavers. Still, the Tracers sensed great potential, and potential danger, in him, so he found himself bound for the Academy.
Personality
Scythe holds in his mind the wisdom of a thousand lives lived in different ways, and so possesses a wealth of wisdom that is belied by his apparent youth. Unavoidably attached to it is a stubbornness and pride that he is aware of and tries to bury in his dealings with people, but it sometimes surfaces just the same. He doesn't speak much with just anybody, but once befriended he is outgoing, warm, and friendly. To a friend or companion he is unflinchingly loyal, and toward a foe he is cold and aloof. His greatest pleasure is to feel alive, and especially enjoys being in places and/or with people who make him feel that way and whom he can make feel that way as well.
Weapons
Into combat, Scythe carries two hookswords made of smooth, translucent crystal harder than steel. One is red and one is blue to match his eyes. one color symbolizes grief and loss as empty and vast as a frozen waste, and the other stands for hatred and indignation that burns in the mind of one to whom monstrous wrong has been done.
Fighting Style
Our man Scythe relies on agility in combat. Stylish and terrifying twirls, stabs, and slashes as quick as lightning characterize his motion. Combined with incorporated hand-to-hand techniques and creative use of his weapons' unique shape and design makes for a style that's as much a dance as combat; one movement flows unhesitatingly into the next.
Casting Style
Scythe follows the art of Tapping, which is very similar to elementalism. It requires Scythe to have intimate knowledge of a landscape somewhere, be it a forest or city or ocean or whatever. He creates a link with that land that does not decrease in strength with distance or time, even across universes. Scythe can use that link to tap into the energies of that land and draw upon it to provide energy for his spells, much as a farmer might tap a maple tree to draw upon its sap for syrup-making.
Strengths and Weaknesses
As stated above, Scythe's greatest asset is his speed and relentlessness in physical combat. his spells also focus on the short range and are largely meant to be used as a part of his flow of uninterrupted motion. If a high strength character manages to land enough solid blows, Scythe could be in trouble. A skilled ranged opponent could keep out of Scythe's melee range and keep him on the defensive with long-range spells and projectiles. In close combat, Scythe is a match for most warriors and will quite likely leave the slower of these in the dust. Mind-penetrating attacks will have little effect on Scythe; he knows more about the darkest recesses of his own mind than some learn about their own in a lifetime.
Spells
I'll think them up tomorrow; it's getting late.
Scythe holds in his mind the wisdom of a thousand lives lived in different ways, and so possesses a wealth of wisdom that is belied by his apparent youth. Unavoidably attached to it is a stubbornness and pride that he is aware of and tries to bury in his dealings with people, but it sometimes surfaces just the same. He doesn't speak much with just anybody, but once befriended he is outgoing, warm, and friendly. To a friend or companion he is unflinchingly loyal, and toward a foe he is cold and aloof. His greatest pleasure is to feel alive, and especially enjoys being in places and/or with people who make him feel that way and whom he can make feel that way as well.
Weapons
Into combat, Scythe carries two hookswords made of smooth, translucent crystal harder than steel. One is red and one is blue to match his eyes. one color symbolizes grief and loss as empty and vast as a frozen waste, and the other stands for hatred and indignation that burns in the mind of one to whom monstrous wrong has been done.
Fighting Style
Our man Scythe relies on agility in combat. Stylish and terrifying twirls, stabs, and slashes as quick as lightning characterize his motion. Combined with incorporated hand-to-hand techniques and creative use of his weapons' unique shape and design makes for a style that's as much a dance as combat; one movement flows unhesitatingly into the next.
Casting Style
Scythe follows the art of Tapping, which is very similar to elementalism. It requires Scythe to have intimate knowledge of a landscape somewhere, be it a forest or city or ocean or whatever. He creates a link with that land that does not decrease in strength with distance or time, even across universes. Scythe can use that link to tap into the energies of that land and draw upon it to provide energy for his spells, much as a farmer might tap a maple tree to draw upon its sap for syrup-making.
Strengths and Weaknesses
As stated above, Scythe's greatest asset is his speed and relentlessness in physical combat. his spells also focus on the short range and are largely meant to be used as a part of his flow of uninterrupted motion. If a high strength character manages to land enough solid blows, Scythe could be in trouble. A skilled ranged opponent could keep out of Scythe's melee range and keep him on the defensive with long-range spells and projectiles. In close combat, Scythe is a match for most warriors and will quite likely leave the slower of these in the dust. Mind-penetrating attacks will have little effect on Scythe; he knows more about the darkest recesses of his own mind than some learn about their own in a lifetime.
Spells
I'll think them up tomorrow; it's getting late.
