Post by Mjollnir on Mar 24, 2010 15:04:41 GMT -6
Name:
Mjollnir {My-oll-nir}
Age:
Two thousand sixty-four hundred nineteen and seven nineteenths.
Gender:
Male
Race:
Necromancer
{His father was the Maji of lightning, for a very short time, and his mother was a skilled lightning user as well}
Hails From:
Temarra
Ranking:
Elder
Weapons:
Rapier
Abilities:
Mjollnir has, like all other necromancers, the ability to conjure fourth the souls of the deceased to lend a helping hand. Ghosts, Skeletons, and less summoned but wonderful to chat with Spirits are Mjollnir's area of expertise, but one does not live to be two thousand sixty-four hundred nineteen and seven nineteenths without eliminating the weak-points of one's magickal talents. Anything dead or reanimated will almost certainly assist him in anyway possible, though Mjollnir has often been known to simply do things his own way. His talents are not simply restricted to the resurrection of rotting material.
Having a father who was the Maji of lighting and a mother who was nearly as powerful as the father gave Mjollnir not only his name, but a knack for the element of lightning. Regrettably, unlike the other necromancers who are able to use each element fairly well, Mjollnir is strictly restricted to an expert level of lightning magick but absolutely no talent with any other element. It's a curious thing really... To be so powerful, yet so completely inept in a certain area.
Still, Mjollnir has made the most of his unusual skills and has learned to successfully merge his lightning magick with his powers over the dead resulting in some curious spells. When summoning creatures such as ghouls or zombies, Mjollnir can enhance the "life" of the creatures, allowing them to "live" indefinitely as long as they have a source of electricity such as other lightning mages or thunderstorms, though the latter is much less likely. On top of that, Mjollnir can "super-charge" Ghosts to make them quite the force to be reckoned with. Instead of the Ghost wasting inordinate amounts of energy to make itself tangible for a few short seconds, the electricity bonds to the ghost's presence, allowing it to shift between corporeal and ethereal without expending its limited energy supply. Though if it were to touch living flesh, the result with be rather... Stimulating to say the least.
Because these skills are great, the cost is greater. Mjollnir will rarely combine his magick with his necromancy unless it is an emergency or the situation requires it. The Language of the Dead is complicated enough without him making up dangerous substitutes in order to accomplish his spells. If any syllable is pronounced wrong in the slightest way, it would be quite disastrous.
Companions:
A re-animated cat who responds to the name of "Socrates". Because the cat is dead and was a rather clever cat whilst alive, it has learned a partial set of the Language of the Dead and therefore can communicate with Mjollnir.
Occupation:
Fortune-teller/Medium
Appearance:
Mjollnir is what some would say "classy". He dresses in silks and expensive weaves. Frills, ruffles, bows, and drapes are what classify as his wardrobe. He prefers to wear white and complement it with darker purples or blues, but over all, he appears to those who are not closely acquainted with him (as most people are) as a rich nobleman or royalty. This is a lie, of course.
His physiognomy is that of a confused child. His striking red eyes seem to penetrate the soul, but only at first glance, because the second one is filled with curiosity and intrigue. He stands around the height of five feet and eleven inches, with bright, white hair and smooth pearly skin. His frame is a skinny one, though hardly ever noticed due to the way he wears his overcoats, however; do not be fooled by his weak looking exterior what little meat he does have is incredibly toned muscle. One does not live to be two thousand sixty-four hundred nineteen and seven nineteenths without keeping oneself fit and ready for anything.
Personality:
To put it kindly, Mjollnir is eccentric. One does not live to be two thousand sixty-four hundred nineteen and seven nineteenths without developing certain mental traits. The largest and most notable of these traits is the "common" ailment of speaking to oneself. It has been said that all the great elder necromancers would talk to themselves at one point or another, and it just so happens that Mjollnir is one of these great but rather confused individuals. Often he converses in monologue the pros and cons of his and others' existences. The fact that Socrates is almost always with him lessens the strangeness of the man to that of one who speaks to animals.
The truth of the matter is this: Mjollnir speaks to himself, to the cat, Socrates, and to anyone else who will listen.
As for an actual personality, a list will hopefully suffice enough for one to obtain a grasp upon the creature known as Mjollnir.
Curious
Childish
Confused
Clever
Intelligent
Addled
Forgetful
Whimsical
However, Mjollnir is not always just barely holding onto reality. Sometimes, during moments of extreme stress or simply because of some unknown catalyst, he regains his former traits:
Ruthless
Powerful
Easily Angered
Collected
Suave
Dangerous
History:
Born in Temarra, Mjollnir was raised by a necromancer who had absolutely no affiliation to Mjollnir what-so-ever. A year after Mjollnir was born, his father was killed. It was a surprising thing, considering that he had been a Maji, but the fact remained the he was dead. Mjollnir's mother left her child in the care of a close friend and set out to find her husband's killer. She never returned. The family that Mjollnir's mother had left him with was poor and couldn't feed yet another mouth, so they gave the child to a wandering necromancer in search of a worth apprentice to pass his abilities on to.
At first, the necromancer (whom we shall now call by her given name of Theara) considered raising the child as it was: a child. However, as time passed and the infant's abilities began to surface, Theara found it would be much more productive to raise the child to be her successor. Thus, she began training Mjollnir to become a necromancer at the age of five. A cumbersome and long task. Eventually, Mjollnir had learned all that Theara could teach him. By this time he was somewhere around the age of one hundred and thirty two years old.
He had grown up to be a handsome young man. Intelligent as he was, he lacked one of the most important traits of a necromancer (at least, according to Theara): compassion. He would just a soon watch sometime die and guide their soul on to sanctuary as he would kill them to get it over with. This trait cast a dark shadow over Theara's heart, as she knew that her time to leave this world would be upon her soon. Mjollnir may have learned the skills and abilities of a necromancer at an insane pace, but he still had much to learn about the secrets of the heart.
So, Theara chose to stay with her pupil until he was ready to receive her abilities. Some couple hundred years later, the soulstealers appeared and began to cause problems for the necromancers. By now, Mjollnir was one of the strongest intermediate level necromancers of the time and readily assisted his peers in the fight against the soulstealers.
Eventually, the soulstealers were banished and Theara and Mjollnir continued with their training and travelling. When peace finally returned, Mjollnir was finally given Theara's powers and he personally guided her to Sanctuary. After his mentor left, Mjollnir wandered Yviex ferrying souls to Sanctuary and assisting in the occasional war or plague.
Life was fairly simple. When Mjollnir was one thousand sixty four hundred eleven and three quarters, he went – as most would call it – insane. Now we shall go into some depth of his past in order to explain the strange bond between him and the feline known as Socrates:
(Use this as a roleplaying sample that you didn’t ask for. ;) )
Rain pelted down upon the dry earth with a feverish anger that caused the trees to shake with fear and the mountains to moan with the howling of the wind. The darkness of the night had staunched the last tentative trails of bloodlike light. This was the domain of the night. A single figure wound its way along what was once a dirt road but now was a slippery, muddy torrent of a sludge-like substance. The figure was small… Excessively small. It was difficult to discern the true height of the creature with the heavy blanket of shadow, the deluge, and the raging waters of the path obscuring the observational powers of anyone who chanced to glance over towards the path.
Still, it was obvious that the creature was not human, walked upon four or six legs, and was either furry or had incredibly saggy skin. As the rain continued on its endless foray into the world below its previous home, the creature struggled up the hill that the path had been carved into. It was a difficult task. The waters of the sky ran down the hill, creating a small but powerful river of turbid liquid that relentlessly smashed against the small chest of the creature. Each step was a taxing struggle, but the beast continued, unperturbed. For whatever reason, its mission was far more important than its personal comforts.
The wind began to pick up, if it could be imagined that the gusts could move at any faster pace, the rain began to fall even harder, if that could be imagined, and the creature struggled onward. Lighting flashed somewhere in the distance and surely enough the deafening roar of thunder followed. The creature’s fur (or incredibly saggy skin) seemed to stand on end despite the heavy water that saturated it. The longer it stayed out in the rain, the more prone to danger it would be. The progress of the beast began to speed up, despite the hindrances of nature. Three more times the lightning flashed, and three more times the thunder crashed before the creature made it to the top of the hill.
It paused for a moment; and in that moment the lightning flashed once more and it was clearly visible. It was a cat, a bedraggled and weather-beaten cat. The thunder boomed once more and the cat quickly scampered up towards the church that sat atop what had once been a hill but now served as a tumbling and crashing waterfall of mud. It pawed at the doors but found them to be securely shut tight. The beast jumped up onto a pile of rocks that had once been a regal looking statue, but now lay in a heap of rubble and chaos.
The cat jumped from the pile to the roof of the building. It was so close to its destination. Climbing to the top of the tiled roof, there were two tiles loose. It quickly removed one of the tiles and was about to remove the last when… Kra-koom! The thunder was finally in sync with the lighting. Had the cat been perhaps a foot in any direction from the spot it had been in when the lightning struck, perhaps its story would have had a peaceful and pleasant ending… But as it was, the cat was destined for great things. For this particular cat… Had been struck and killed by lightning.
The burnt corpse of the cat shot through the top of the roof and landed next to the slight figure of a red-eyed man. “Hum? Who is that? Who falls from the roof of the church to land beside me? Have you come for a chat? A chat… a chat… a chat…” The red eyes of the man landed upon the crisp figure of the cat-like corpse. “So you followed me, did you? I suppose you had something to tell me, didn’t you? And now look at you… All burnt and dead. I don’t think you’re aware, but I can quite easily speak to those no longer of this world. Amazing isn’t it?” The words were spoken, but none heard them. Not even the man from whom the words came. “I could save you, you know. Take you to a wonderful place where I’m sure you would become very happy and forget all about his whole ordeal…”
The man gently reached down and moved the cat’s head into a more comfortable looking position than the one it had previously occupied, “But I’m afraid that I’m just a bit selfish.” A sad smile crossed his lips, “No… I shan’t lie about the matter of the fact. I am selfish. So I shall tell myself that by doing this, I am allowing you to continue your quest. Your quest… Your quest… Your quest!” He shook his head, “No, no-no… If I am to do this I must focus.” The man raised his hands over the cat and began to speak in a strange language. Green light flowed out of his hands and into the small feline. Lightning flashed again, but this time it did not disappear immediately. Instead, it seemed to flow into the cat’s body along with the strange light. The man began to sway with fatigue as he continued to chant in his alien language.
Suddenly, with a terrifying blast of thunder the chanting stopped. The man’s hands moved away from the cat and placed them on his lap. “There we go… There we go… Won’t be long now.” Slowly, the cat that lay next to him began to blink. It raised up its head and gave a surprised squeak, “Was I not dead before I did fall into this chamber?” This time the man gave a surprised squeak, “Did you just speak, my little feline friend? No. He couldn’t have spoken. Creatures do not speak. They simply mew or moo or the like. Silly me, silly silly me.”
“I assure you fine sir, that I am speaking. It is rather surprising to myself that you can understand what I am saying.” The cat’s mouth moved to form the words of a language only known by the dead and those close to them, “However, because you understand me I would like to convey to you the message that I carried in life.”
The man smiled, “So you can speak. You can? Or am I speaking cat? No… I just spoke to you in that language… The language of… Dread? Bed? Oh! Perhaps it’s the Language of Fed! The Fed? What’s the Fed I wonder… Maybe it’s-“ A sharp mew stopped the man’s conversation with himself.
“Sir… I hope I have not offended you, but the information that I carry is of the utmost importance.” The cat’s eyes shone with determination. The man tilted his head and made a face that showed great concentration, “My dear cat… I can understand you wish for me to listen… But I cannot understand all that you say. Perhaps I am just hearing things…”
{End}
It was then that Socrates the cat joined Mjollnir on his travels. The cat’s version of the Language of the Dead was close enough to that of Mjollner’s allowed him to understand the cat, and after time eventually understand all the cat said. It took one hundred years and a day for the message the cat carried to finally be delivered and an additional forty two years to resolve the war that would have destroyed the entire dryad race had it been started.
Till now, Socrates and Mjollnir had traveled the lands of Yviex, until the rumors of the darkness and the strange shadow creatures began to circulate. Now, Mjollnir has taken it upon himself to investigate these rumors.
Mjollnir {My-oll-nir}
Age:
Two thousand sixty-four hundred nineteen and seven nineteenths.
Gender:
Male
Race:
Necromancer
{His father was the Maji of lightning, for a very short time, and his mother was a skilled lightning user as well}
Hails From:
Temarra
Ranking:
Elder
Weapons:
Rapier
Abilities:
Mjollnir has, like all other necromancers, the ability to conjure fourth the souls of the deceased to lend a helping hand. Ghosts, Skeletons, and less summoned but wonderful to chat with Spirits are Mjollnir's area of expertise, but one does not live to be two thousand sixty-four hundred nineteen and seven nineteenths without eliminating the weak-points of one's magickal talents. Anything dead or reanimated will almost certainly assist him in anyway possible, though Mjollnir has often been known to simply do things his own way. His talents are not simply restricted to the resurrection of rotting material.
Having a father who was the Maji of lighting and a mother who was nearly as powerful as the father gave Mjollnir not only his name, but a knack for the element of lightning. Regrettably, unlike the other necromancers who are able to use each element fairly well, Mjollnir is strictly restricted to an expert level of lightning magick but absolutely no talent with any other element. It's a curious thing really... To be so powerful, yet so completely inept in a certain area.
Still, Mjollnir has made the most of his unusual skills and has learned to successfully merge his lightning magick with his powers over the dead resulting in some curious spells. When summoning creatures such as ghouls or zombies, Mjollnir can enhance the "life" of the creatures, allowing them to "live" indefinitely as long as they have a source of electricity such as other lightning mages or thunderstorms, though the latter is much less likely. On top of that, Mjollnir can "super-charge" Ghosts to make them quite the force to be reckoned with. Instead of the Ghost wasting inordinate amounts of energy to make itself tangible for a few short seconds, the electricity bonds to the ghost's presence, allowing it to shift between corporeal and ethereal without expending its limited energy supply. Though if it were to touch living flesh, the result with be rather... Stimulating to say the least.
Because these skills are great, the cost is greater. Mjollnir will rarely combine his magick with his necromancy unless it is an emergency or the situation requires it. The Language of the Dead is complicated enough without him making up dangerous substitutes in order to accomplish his spells. If any syllable is pronounced wrong in the slightest way, it would be quite disastrous.
Companions:
A re-animated cat who responds to the name of "Socrates". Because the cat is dead and was a rather clever cat whilst alive, it has learned a partial set of the Language of the Dead and therefore can communicate with Mjollnir.
Occupation:
Fortune-teller/Medium
Appearance:
Mjollnir is what some would say "classy". He dresses in silks and expensive weaves. Frills, ruffles, bows, and drapes are what classify as his wardrobe. He prefers to wear white and complement it with darker purples or blues, but over all, he appears to those who are not closely acquainted with him (as most people are) as a rich nobleman or royalty. This is a lie, of course.
His physiognomy is that of a confused child. His striking red eyes seem to penetrate the soul, but only at first glance, because the second one is filled with curiosity and intrigue. He stands around the height of five feet and eleven inches, with bright, white hair and smooth pearly skin. His frame is a skinny one, though hardly ever noticed due to the way he wears his overcoats, however; do not be fooled by his weak looking exterior what little meat he does have is incredibly toned muscle. One does not live to be two thousand sixty-four hundred nineteen and seven nineteenths without keeping oneself fit and ready for anything.
Personality:
To put it kindly, Mjollnir is eccentric. One does not live to be two thousand sixty-four hundred nineteen and seven nineteenths without developing certain mental traits. The largest and most notable of these traits is the "common" ailment of speaking to oneself. It has been said that all the great elder necromancers would talk to themselves at one point or another, and it just so happens that Mjollnir is one of these great but rather confused individuals. Often he converses in monologue the pros and cons of his and others' existences. The fact that Socrates is almost always with him lessens the strangeness of the man to that of one who speaks to animals.
The truth of the matter is this: Mjollnir speaks to himself, to the cat, Socrates, and to anyone else who will listen.
As for an actual personality, a list will hopefully suffice enough for one to obtain a grasp upon the creature known as Mjollnir.
Curious
Childish
Confused
Clever
Intelligent
Addled
Forgetful
Whimsical
However, Mjollnir is not always just barely holding onto reality. Sometimes, during moments of extreme stress or simply because of some unknown catalyst, he regains his former traits:
Ruthless
Powerful
Easily Angered
Collected
Suave
Dangerous
History:
Born in Temarra, Mjollnir was raised by a necromancer who had absolutely no affiliation to Mjollnir what-so-ever. A year after Mjollnir was born, his father was killed. It was a surprising thing, considering that he had been a Maji, but the fact remained the he was dead. Mjollnir's mother left her child in the care of a close friend and set out to find her husband's killer. She never returned. The family that Mjollnir's mother had left him with was poor and couldn't feed yet another mouth, so they gave the child to a wandering necromancer in search of a worth apprentice to pass his abilities on to.
At first, the necromancer (whom we shall now call by her given name of Theara) considered raising the child as it was: a child. However, as time passed and the infant's abilities began to surface, Theara found it would be much more productive to raise the child to be her successor. Thus, she began training Mjollnir to become a necromancer at the age of five. A cumbersome and long task. Eventually, Mjollnir had learned all that Theara could teach him. By this time he was somewhere around the age of one hundred and thirty two years old.
He had grown up to be a handsome young man. Intelligent as he was, he lacked one of the most important traits of a necromancer (at least, according to Theara): compassion. He would just a soon watch sometime die and guide their soul on to sanctuary as he would kill them to get it over with. This trait cast a dark shadow over Theara's heart, as she knew that her time to leave this world would be upon her soon. Mjollnir may have learned the skills and abilities of a necromancer at an insane pace, but he still had much to learn about the secrets of the heart.
So, Theara chose to stay with her pupil until he was ready to receive her abilities. Some couple hundred years later, the soulstealers appeared and began to cause problems for the necromancers. By now, Mjollnir was one of the strongest intermediate level necromancers of the time and readily assisted his peers in the fight against the soulstealers.
Eventually, the soulstealers were banished and Theara and Mjollnir continued with their training and travelling. When peace finally returned, Mjollnir was finally given Theara's powers and he personally guided her to Sanctuary. After his mentor left, Mjollnir wandered Yviex ferrying souls to Sanctuary and assisting in the occasional war or plague.
Life was fairly simple. When Mjollnir was one thousand sixty four hundred eleven and three quarters, he went – as most would call it – insane. Now we shall go into some depth of his past in order to explain the strange bond between him and the feline known as Socrates:
(Use this as a roleplaying sample that you didn’t ask for. ;) )
Rain pelted down upon the dry earth with a feverish anger that caused the trees to shake with fear and the mountains to moan with the howling of the wind. The darkness of the night had staunched the last tentative trails of bloodlike light. This was the domain of the night. A single figure wound its way along what was once a dirt road but now was a slippery, muddy torrent of a sludge-like substance. The figure was small… Excessively small. It was difficult to discern the true height of the creature with the heavy blanket of shadow, the deluge, and the raging waters of the path obscuring the observational powers of anyone who chanced to glance over towards the path.
Still, it was obvious that the creature was not human, walked upon four or six legs, and was either furry or had incredibly saggy skin. As the rain continued on its endless foray into the world below its previous home, the creature struggled up the hill that the path had been carved into. It was a difficult task. The waters of the sky ran down the hill, creating a small but powerful river of turbid liquid that relentlessly smashed against the small chest of the creature. Each step was a taxing struggle, but the beast continued, unperturbed. For whatever reason, its mission was far more important than its personal comforts.
The wind began to pick up, if it could be imagined that the gusts could move at any faster pace, the rain began to fall even harder, if that could be imagined, and the creature struggled onward. Lighting flashed somewhere in the distance and surely enough the deafening roar of thunder followed. The creature’s fur (or incredibly saggy skin) seemed to stand on end despite the heavy water that saturated it. The longer it stayed out in the rain, the more prone to danger it would be. The progress of the beast began to speed up, despite the hindrances of nature. Three more times the lightning flashed, and three more times the thunder crashed before the creature made it to the top of the hill.
It paused for a moment; and in that moment the lightning flashed once more and it was clearly visible. It was a cat, a bedraggled and weather-beaten cat. The thunder boomed once more and the cat quickly scampered up towards the church that sat atop what had once been a hill but now served as a tumbling and crashing waterfall of mud. It pawed at the doors but found them to be securely shut tight. The beast jumped up onto a pile of rocks that had once been a regal looking statue, but now lay in a heap of rubble and chaos.
The cat jumped from the pile to the roof of the building. It was so close to its destination. Climbing to the top of the tiled roof, there were two tiles loose. It quickly removed one of the tiles and was about to remove the last when… Kra-koom! The thunder was finally in sync with the lighting. Had the cat been perhaps a foot in any direction from the spot it had been in when the lightning struck, perhaps its story would have had a peaceful and pleasant ending… But as it was, the cat was destined for great things. For this particular cat… Had been struck and killed by lightning.
The burnt corpse of the cat shot through the top of the roof and landed next to the slight figure of a red-eyed man. “Hum? Who is that? Who falls from the roof of the church to land beside me? Have you come for a chat? A chat… a chat… a chat…” The red eyes of the man landed upon the crisp figure of the cat-like corpse. “So you followed me, did you? I suppose you had something to tell me, didn’t you? And now look at you… All burnt and dead. I don’t think you’re aware, but I can quite easily speak to those no longer of this world. Amazing isn’t it?” The words were spoken, but none heard them. Not even the man from whom the words came. “I could save you, you know. Take you to a wonderful place where I’m sure you would become very happy and forget all about his whole ordeal…”
The man gently reached down and moved the cat’s head into a more comfortable looking position than the one it had previously occupied, “But I’m afraid that I’m just a bit selfish.” A sad smile crossed his lips, “No… I shan’t lie about the matter of the fact. I am selfish. So I shall tell myself that by doing this, I am allowing you to continue your quest. Your quest… Your quest… Your quest!” He shook his head, “No, no-no… If I am to do this I must focus.” The man raised his hands over the cat and began to speak in a strange language. Green light flowed out of his hands and into the small feline. Lightning flashed again, but this time it did not disappear immediately. Instead, it seemed to flow into the cat’s body along with the strange light. The man began to sway with fatigue as he continued to chant in his alien language.
Suddenly, with a terrifying blast of thunder the chanting stopped. The man’s hands moved away from the cat and placed them on his lap. “There we go… There we go… Won’t be long now.” Slowly, the cat that lay next to him began to blink. It raised up its head and gave a surprised squeak, “Was I not dead before I did fall into this chamber?” This time the man gave a surprised squeak, “Did you just speak, my little feline friend? No. He couldn’t have spoken. Creatures do not speak. They simply mew or moo or the like. Silly me, silly silly me.”
“I assure you fine sir, that I am speaking. It is rather surprising to myself that you can understand what I am saying.” The cat’s mouth moved to form the words of a language only known by the dead and those close to them, “However, because you understand me I would like to convey to you the message that I carried in life.”
The man smiled, “So you can speak. You can? Or am I speaking cat? No… I just spoke to you in that language… The language of… Dread? Bed? Oh! Perhaps it’s the Language of Fed! The Fed? What’s the Fed I wonder… Maybe it’s-“ A sharp mew stopped the man’s conversation with himself.
“Sir… I hope I have not offended you, but the information that I carry is of the utmost importance.” The cat’s eyes shone with determination. The man tilted his head and made a face that showed great concentration, “My dear cat… I can understand you wish for me to listen… But I cannot understand all that you say. Perhaps I am just hearing things…”
{End}
It was then that Socrates the cat joined Mjollnir on his travels. The cat’s version of the Language of the Dead was close enough to that of Mjollner’s allowed him to understand the cat, and after time eventually understand all the cat said. It took one hundred years and a day for the message the cat carried to finally be delivered and an additional forty two years to resolve the war that would have destroyed the entire dryad race had it been started.
Till now, Socrates and Mjollnir had traveled the lands of Yviex, until the rumors of the darkness and the strange shadow creatures began to circulate. Now, Mjollnir has taken it upon himself to investigate these rumors.
