Time To Fight! (2 VS 1)

[Infinite Nova]

NOTE: This is NOT two of you versus me. It's Me + Shadukai Xjoura versus you. If your not confident in your skills, then don't go up against us.

Yeah, this is a 2 VS 1, as you've read. Just looking for some competition. Also, we'd like to fight an. . . experienced RP Battler (i.e. Zetsumi, The Marauder, LoC, ect. (sorry if I didn't mention you. I just used names that came to my head. I know they're a lot more experienced fighters, but, y'know...) )

Anyways, the Challenger (that being you) gets to choose the arena.

Rules:

Regular RP Battle Rules.
(Note: Grammar Mistakes is limited to 15. More than usual, but still. . .)

Template: (You should have an original one, but still, here)

Name:
Age:
Gender:
Appearance:
Personality:
Weapons:
Bio:
Extra(s):


There. We'll post our templates after you post yours >_<.

[Ragione]

I can't hope to take you both on, so I be judge! If you have a judge spot available.

[Antlion]

Issuing a challenge against one person? At first I thought you grew a nice set, but calling out someone to fight two of you is a bad choice really. You other beat up some noob or get your ass kicked by a pro who wants to toy with you. Well, Good luck ._.

[Chaotic Misery]

Would I be one of those experienced rpers? If not then i'll judge.

[Infinite Nova]

All your choice RC. If you think your experienced enough to fight two people at once, then by all means, challenge us.

Also, FA, well, when your fighting two people, then you have two sets of attacks. . . making it harder (in theory) to fight. It's like multiplying the difficulty.

Anyways, if anyone wants to come on out and fight, please, then do so. We'll fight anyone. All we ask is literacy and some skill and self-confidence >_<

[Desert Jesus]

I'll fight.

I will use Ambrose; here, Ill grab his template.

~~~

=Your Character=

--Basics--

Name: Ambrose Aracely
Nickname: The Poetic Soldier
Age: Defined as “Infinity.” Ambrose is not subject to the fundamental structures of age; instead, he is classified as “time without end.”(Explained in Biography)
Gender: Ambrose navigates the ages in a male shell; in truth, he holds a spiritual essence, a connection with the remnants of the past, allocating the spare pain, mirth, and odium within him.
Race: Ambrose has no specific race; however, he looks like a man tainted with White Magic. He is an Immortal.
Pure Race or Mix: Pure.
Allegiance: Aesthete (The Arts)
Occupation (if Applicable): Poet, Philosopher, Military Veteran of the ages.
Residence: Forest of Heroes

--Family--

Parents: Ambrose had a father, or a creator, if you will. It was known that he did not partake in marriage, and that he did not father any young ones. Unfortunately, his name was lost to legend, and therefore varies.
Siblings: None.
Married?: Once, to a beautiful lass by the name of Aurora. That era of love and passion has long since passed, though.
Children: He once had a son named Bartholomew, who had become a Knight at an early age of eighteen. His pride, quest for honor, and dangerous attitude led him to death in the Fourth Crusade; Ambrose has ever since mourned his sons death.

--Appearance Basics--

Height: 6'1"
Weight: 220
Hair Colour: Moonlight
Eyes: "Physical Appearance"
Distinguishing Features: Once again, you will find this description in "Physical Appearance."

--Physical Appearance--:

~ Appearance: Ambrose is distinct in his features in that he conveys a sense of triquetra morality; a three-leaf clover, if you will, with the stem scalded by obscurity. Ambrose has eyes pierced by a loving warmth of desolate lunacy, as they are as deep and complex as myth in its entirety, with the faint shading of blue Ankhs emanating a dim sapphire glow around his black pupils. Carved into the flesh upon his handsome face is an eloquently calculated Trefoil Knot that arcs over the bridge of his burly nose, cambers around his tight, trivial lips and heads northward to his breaching hairline, forehead untouched by the extensive strands of moonlight hairs coupled together in a substantial knot hung just above the waistline curved around his back. His bangs, half-elliptical in shape, arc fourth and prod into the indents on either side of Ambrose’s sturdy chin.

Ambrose is of a medium build, with defined yet average sized muscle tone.

~ Garments/Armor/Armaments: When subject to the moonlight, his moonlit bangs slice a moon-shaped shadow into the ground around his feet, which are sheathed by black boots, strapped up with silver buckles until thin, dark blue/black armor plates embrace both his ankles. Underneath the armor, silver shackles wrap tightly around his ankles, both connected by a lengthy, embroidered chain draped across the ground. Ambrose’s black, drawn out pants drip over the edges of the armor hugging his ankles, and as they touch upon the foundation of his knees, his pants are at once somewhat pressured by an unchanged presence of poleynes, both stitched into his pants and with half-diamond-shaped fragments of armor jutting out from the mid-section.; the poleynes connect to the cuisses, which rise up to Ambrose’s waist. Skewed to the right of the hefty, black-embroidered belt is a large buckle resembling a triskele, a celtic design with 3 spirals radiating from a common center. Across the entirety of Ambrose’s chest is a black/blue-gold chestplate with a celtic tree of life carved into the center. A solemn spaulder off to the right and vambraces on either arm shield the nearly skin-tight, black cloth that chokes his upper body, ending at the neckline. Ambrose prefers to wear his armor at most times, so as to represent himself to others (if need be) in a chivalrous, honorable fashion.

Ambrose wields three blades, each to signify a piece of the pie divided into thirds that is his mind.

~ Honor:
http://i108.photobucket.com/albums/n...r_01/d_690.jpg
http://i108.photobucket.com/albums/n...r_01/d_691.jpg

~Despair:
http://i108.photobucket.com/albums/n...r_01/d_852.jpg
http://i108.photobucket.com/albums/n...r_01/d_854.jpg

~Lunacy:
http://i108.photobucket.com/albums/n...r_01/d_699.jpg
http://i108.photobucket.com/albums/n...r_01/d_702.jpg

--Personality--

Ambrose is erratic, vindictive, passionate, idealistic, philosophical, chivalrous and honorable. Not by his own will has he learned to embrace these virtues, but by the will of others; through years of confrontation within himself, decades of thirst for admiration and glory, and millenniums of witnessing betrayal at a level below his own, he has become a rather…complicated individual. Through the years, Ambrose has developed three distinct personalities, as well as approaches to life. His true essence is that of an honorable, poetic warrior; a man who craves for strength in honor, and hungers for the beauty of the world, as well as its people, to present him with the perfect epic. On the other hand, Ambrose is unpredictable and powered by a maddening wrath where his thoughts become nothing more than thorny bushes, drawing blood from whomever they touch. In this state of pain, he is crazed, and his bodily functions and personality clearly displays it; also, his writing tends to be dramatic and fierce. On the third hand, Ambrose is emotional and incompatible with all but himself. In this state of mind, he is plagued with sorrow and trauma. When under this condition, he writes under anxiety, as well as searches for conflict.

Given that he has been cursed with the blessing of immortality, his life has often left him in the shadow of other individuals, empathizing. He cannot place his heart in himself, yet he is a master when it comes to understanding the feelings slumbering deep within the folks he encounters along his crossing. There are times when he is at loss with the world around him, and it is then when he is confronted by the tri-presence inside of him…

“Do you even have a heart? If you can understand pain, pleasure, and resentment…why can you not live knowing that you have a purpose, and that your existence is not a waste? Why must our hourglass contain a never-ending supply of sand?”

Ambrose had recognized the simple answer to that question the day he was conjured up… But, it’s the erudite answer behind the mask of the simpler one he has yet to discover. With any luck, he will find his remedies contained within his writings, or possibly within the hearts of the inhabitants of Illiria.

As to how he came to have a tri-personality disorder, that is explained in the bio.

--Likes/Dislikes--

These are, of course, only applicable to Ambros ein his true state, which is honor. Both his state of lunacy and despair are completely different, and do not convey who he is at "heart."

~ Likes:
- Writing. (The Arts)
- Strength, chivalrous and honorable conduct.
- Pain, strength in the state of weakness.
- Women.
- Animals, nature.
- Comraderie, hope for the future, hunger for the past.
~ Dislikes:

- Dishonorable men, the rude.
- Cowardice.
- Weakness.
- Crowds of people. He finds peace in solitude, or with few others.
- Animosity
- Ignorance.

--Skills--

Ambrose is well versed in the arts of both combat and literature. Once titled "Savior" by the peoples of the early Dark Ages, (An era long since buried in the dust that ensues Father Time) Ambrose Aracely is a man of both passion and action; that is, not only is he exceptionally skilled in swordsmanship and White Magic, but he can show compassion without letting the burdens of pride and ego weigh him down. Also, Ambrose has exceptional stamina, he is skilled in hand-to-hand combat, and can withstain excessive pain, having been submitted to it for so long.

White Magic, you say? In his case, it is the ability to bring his literature to life...literally. Only by his hands will others witness the birth of words as they have never before... Through words alone, Ambrose can create binds, fear, and phenomenon.

--Weaknesses--

Ambrose's tri-personality serves as a severe hindrance in all aspects of his life. Whether it be in the midst of war, or in the presence of pen and pad, a sudden change of heart could leave him weak in mind, spirit, ans strength. When controlled by Lunacy, Ambrose finds that only chaos comforts him... This is clearly evident on the top floor of his manor hidden in solitude. When controlled by anxiety, Ambrose is stricken with stress and is very nervous... This frail state of mind causes him to shake with uncertainty, often dealing him a lower card in battle; also, he is unable to make decisions as fast as usual. Ambrose's thought also serves as a hindrance. Seeing as how he is a philosopher unto himself, he is often at the mercy of curiosity.

~Biography:

~Origins:

At the birth of time, there existed two writers, two friends, two heroes, who were renowned for their poems and epics containing ideas and theories as to how existence had come to be, and why it was. They were great friends. Legend has it that they shared some unique bond, incapable of being broken; when one suffered, so did the other. It was their unrivaled talent in tapping into their astral plane that had won them acceptance. They were heavenly in their lexis and emotions so much so that their language was untamed by the current vocabulary, causing them to generate a superior sense of intelligence over most bodies.

For decades they traveled with one-another, recording what they had seen and experienced, disrupting wicked operations at the hand of the devils, and protecting the meek from the aggressive. Breathtaking ballads of beauty and heroism, the duality of the universe, tales of dwarves, elves, knights and others were produced under two pairs of righteous hands; they had caused such a riot amongst the people that some of their beliefs had become etched into the stone laws of many villages, guiding the villagers and townsfolk onto a virtuous path with but one destination: the second life. Aye, it was the writers who provoked the concept that one does not die, but instead lives on in an “alternate form” of oneself in some parallel cosmos. It was not long before they had been hailed superior amongst many philosophers and artists alike, immune to criticism from many parties of ardent thinkers.

However, it is a common fact that superiority does not come without its sense of malevolency, as each of them assembled a profound rivalry with one-another. Companionship soon turned to hostility as they became jealous of the others knowledge and authority over what was and what wasn’t. What was thought to be powerful bond had been knocked down by the flaw of mankind, a fundamental so blood-shot that a little piece of them had died that day. The writers waged written wars upon each other for decades afterwards; these ‘wars’ were not highly obvious, for they were waged within novels, elegies, and books concerning theoretical ideas about the Omniverse. It wouldn’t be sixty years before they’d actually speak to each other again, more or less.

Sixty years had passed since the birth of silence between them. On a fabled night, when the wind silently cried amongst the swaying trees, the two met.

“They say that if you pour your heart out onto paper, you can create life… You can create a breathing idea, a hypothetical shell with no organs, no blood…but, just…life. What is life? Is it the characteristic state of organisms? Or is it something much greater? Is it knowledge? Is it good intention?” Sighing and peering towards his feet, the man spoke once more. “What happened? The life between us swept away with the rising tide, and I can’t help feeling ashamed for succumbing to easily-explicable flaws…”

The other man did not speak; instead, a solemn, yet pitiful tear broke the horizon on his bottom eyelid. As this occurred, the man lunged at his forgiving companion, sword drawn from behind his back. But before he knew it, he had been struck down by a man fitting the description of Ambrose.

“This is Ambrose Aracely, my creation, my idyllic theory.” spoke the man who had spoken only moments before. “He is life in a nutshell, a perfect composition of how life should be led: with honor.” And with those words, he drew his sword and decapitated his enemy.

~Life:

Ambrose had been drawn out the night before, and until that fatal moment, had drifted between what was reality and what was imaginary; a grey void, if you will. Yet, he was not emptiness… Instead, he was a spiritual essence existing only in the mind of a mortal. If you are, in fact, a credible reality to one person, you must exist on some imaginary plane between what is real and what isn’t… Through mastery and deception, the writer conjured up a living, breathing being…an Ambrose, a male shell to house and confine that para-elemental plane of existence in which his essence draws life from.

Ambrose spent what was thought to be an eternity in the void, slowly collecting and piecing together his mind – at the time, he had been created in the image of what the writer had thought was perfect, and therefore was, in a sense, perfect. But after Ambrose had opened his eyes not to see emptiness, but reality, the fact that perfection was not achievable hit him like a ton of bricks. He could not explain it… It was only on instinct that he’d protect his creator, his father. But Ambrose was quick to realize that he was not perfection… After having witnessed the decapitation, he’d realized he was an abomination, a corrupt and black ideal of mankind. However, he could not manufacture any sort of rage or hatred for his father…he could only feel pity.

It was when the blood of a friend had splashed upon his neatly strapped boots that he had dismissed his allegiance to transgression.

“You can not leave me!” the writer spoke, bent by anger. “I created your sorry ass! You ARE perfection! You ARE the image of the invisible flawlessness that surrounds our societies today! Get back here!”

But Ambrose did not turn back to his warped father; instead, he merely looked back and spoke softly.

“You should pity me. You’ve created me out of self-righteous hatred, and now that I have become a permanent decoration in this meager verse, I am forced to help right the wrongs you yourself have become victim of. Please, do not lecture me on what is perfection. Perfection is a paradox: Had I been perfect, I wouldn’t have improved my ability to distinguish between good and evil, as you had so clearly displayed for me. Therefore, I lack "true perfection," which depends on progress.” The man who had created him widened his gaze. “In a matter of minutes, I have disproved your entire life’s work,” In his tone, Ambrose had substituted spite for remorse. “I am truly sorry that you have wasted your life away, it is not your fault. Caught in the void where freedom and omniscience conflicts with one-another, it is only plausible that you do this.” After saying this, Ambrose fled the scene and disappeared over the hills, fading softly into the large moon resting over those same knolls.

As fate would have it, Ambrose ended up spending his days amongst the poor, a heavy cloak worn over his normal attire so as to not fabricate questions amongst the others. There he met a young girl of the name Aurora Glade, three years in age. He became as a father to her, and the two developed a father-daughter bond simultaneously. For nearly twenty years, he served as the protector of that small mining village lost somewhere in the Astrian Mountains, safeguarding them from demons and the like, tasting the burden of the peoples so as to try and understand them, and therefore help them. But he could not… So bad, he wanted to cure mortal sicknesses with his pencil, but to no avail could he achieve that dream. Ever since he had witnessed the beheading, he had felt that he had to help mankind better their flaws, so as to not end up a blemished part of the past.

After 2 years, the village was confronted by a beast, a giant who had lost his way in the mountains. He went by the name of Oron. For days upon end, the Giant camped outside the settlement, waiting for hikers and travelers alike to pass by innocently. Reports of death began to build up, and Ambrose confronted the monster. The battle did not last more than ten minutes. The people watched form the village, gazing upon a huge silhouette atop the mountains as it fell to its knees, feet cut from the ankles. Ambrose then proceeded to cut the beast’s eye out, and threw it over the summit, hurling it into the ocean below. Oron writhed in pain. Seeing this, Ambrose quickly prodded him in the heart, killing him instantly.

Overwhelming praise came to Ambrose like a wave of passion, and what could he say, he loved every minute of it.

“I give the people hope…” he said to himself one night. He had realized that, even though he could not cure mankind in its entirety, he could nurture it. But the merriment was not long-lived.

Shortly after, the Astrian Mountains were caught in the midst of a grueling war between two rivaled nations: Galatia, the sovereign state of the sea; and Salix, the sovereign state of land. A brutal war erupted amongst the villages as the immense armies crashed into each other, the sea nation blanketing the mountains with clouds of arrows as the land nation dispatched vicious beasts to roam the lands freely. Feeling a sense of responsibility for his people, Ambrose stood his ground, single-handedly shielding the innocent from being caught in the crossfire. What was once a beauty more majestic then heaven itself became nothing more than a bloody battlefield, strewn with trenches and corpses.

“How could they do this…? Can they not see the error of their ways?” cried Ambrose, touching upon the pale face of a lifeless young girl. “Is my mission folly?”

But he could not bring himself to believe that it was. Turning cheek to the question, he continued to repel assaults upon his village, only speculating as to how much worse it was on the frontlines, what with the catapults that seemed to light the night sky ablaze. Numerous rebel armies sprouted from the chaos, and became as an obstacle to both nations. But it was not enough.

In the dead of a night unlike any other, a surprise Galatian attack leveled the village in which Ambrose slept. In the midst of the fire and chaos, Aurora was swept away in the flame, captured by the Galations in their search for leverage with the rebel forces.

Fueled by both remorse and anger, Ambrose gathered together what was left of the rebel forces and led an assault upon the Sea Capitol, a huge city drifting with the current of the ocean. The ensuing battle was monstrous – For nearly a week, the rebels continually stormed the fortress, every time getting closer to the castle, the origin of their pain. Finally, after a lengthy siege, Ambrose rescued Aurora from the clutches of Boss Nass, the sea captain. After hiding her on a nearby ship, Ambrose crept back into battle, ultimately bringing his assault to its end by slaughtering Nass in a skirmish.

The Salixans were extremely pleased with Ambrose’s actions and offered him a rank of authority amongst their defenses. He refused as if compelled by instinct. The Salixans had done their equal cutting of the bonds that tied Ambrose to the village, for it was also they who wiped out the villagers, his friends, his brothers and sisters.

But this did not sit too well with Boss Terra, the land chief. He threatened to execute him on the spot less he enlist in their ranks. With the tip of a blade tickling his neck, Ambrose looked the burly man deep in the eyes.

“I refuse to help you. Whether or not your intentions are good, your means of achieving them are poor.”

And as the last syllable was spoken, Ambrose disarmed the man with swift hands and fled the scene. Quickly boarding the ship he had hid Aurora on moments before, Ambrose escaped the flurry of arrows and sailed across the sea to Castor Cove, where he and Aurora lived out the rest of her days in peace and solitude. As soon as they got there, they married under a secret flame and built a small dwelling just outside the inlet, the beauty of the beach filling their lives with blue majesty. It was during this time that Ambrose had come to understand true passion. He clearly displayed this newfound knowledge in his writings, which concerned themselves mainly with the inspiration of love and its effect on a troubled soul.

But he could not escape the lucid, black truth that Aurora was nearing the end of her days. Her will was strong, and her heart was pure, but unable was she to triumph over time, the supreme bringer of ill-fortune. For the last years of her life, this had plagued him so, poisoning his mind, contradicting his impression upon love. But it happened. After she had passed on into the second life, Ambrose carried her into the cove ever so slowly, all the while gazing upon her beautiful, pale face, hungering for her warmth one last time. For days she laid silently upon a rock as Ambrose chiseled it away around her, carving a monumental heart pierced by three swords. On the third day, he buried her in the center; three solemn roses protruded from the ground, and then he left her for the waves.

For centuries Ambrose lived with the burden of a departed love weighing down his shoulders. But he could not let that slow him down; nay, instead of breathing in the past, he chose to push forward, and eventually had become involved in seventeen major conflicts. He became obsessed with the transience of life, as well as the dual illusion of good and evil. He had become a poetic “forever soldier,” a title given to him near the end of the dark ages for having been involved in so many conflicts.

“War, pain, misery… I seem to be a magnet of all these things.”

His many journeys during this era, which he refers to as the “dark ages” in his writings, had allowed him to form friendships in every corner of the world, both weak and strong. He met heroes and villains alike, trained young boys into fierce men, and saved hundreds of lives from evils he had only known too well. Aye, it was during these dark ages that the Legends of Ambrose were birthed. Known to armed forces as the “Immortal Soldier,” and to poets as the “Forsaken Man”… But the greatest title given to him, the label in which he will cherish until the end of his days…was “Savior.” Savior… It sung with such majesty that it could not be denied by the autumn leaves of Alderath, nor the breathing of the gentle wind upon the Black Sea as the sun creeps back into its hiding place.

Savior…

It was with three companions that Ambrose survived the dark ages and lived on into the next light. Javilyn, a thin elf with an eye as keen as an eagle and a hand as quick as a cobra; Rotor, a bulky ogre of a man with a sense of humor as crude as Hades and a blade as powerful as Cerberus; and lastly, Beddock, an average gentleman with an intelligence far beyond any Ambrose had come across. It was in the midst of battle that they had met, but stories of war, friendship and betrayal are for another time.

During the last fifty years of the dark ages, they helped each other through thick and thin, keeping each other alive as the last Great War slowly lost its fire.

Time slowly inched its way forward as the dawn of a new beginning skulked upon the doorstep. Suffering from old age, Ambrose’s friends withered away from time. However, their departures were not sad ones; they were brave men who did not cower in the shadow of death, but instead embraced it with cheerful faces. Ambrose had only witnessed a will so powerful once before…in Aurora. And so he buried them amongst a bed of flowers overlooking the sunlit city of Thenas; an earnest tear reached out at the sun that dusk, for Ambrose felt the grim, cold sting of the Reaper upon his flesh once again.

“For hundreds of thousands of years, I have seen many faces… I am tired of having to bury them in the ground.”

Those were his last words before entering the city of Thenas, the result of the last great war. Unlike others before it, Thenas was an advanced civilization overflowing with technologies Ambrose had never seen before. Monumental buildings scraped across the sky as speedy trains emerged from under the earth’s surface and lost themselves amongst the hundreds of people walking about the city. Warriors were trained in the art of gunslinging, which to Ambrose was just a cheap substitute for the bow.

A new army rose from the ashes of the old, an army led by the Monarch King, a lion of a man…literally. King was a man of honor and justice. He strived to purge prejudice and cruelty from his lands, as well as labored tirelessly to keep his city-state in order.

But he was arrogant. King thought himself a God, a deity which could withstand any force or power.

It wasn’t long after entering the city that Ambrose had bumped into Holland, son of Rotor. But that was not the only bloodline he had been graced with… Marieke Glade. She was a woman of profound beauty. The beauty did not come only from her looks, but from her blood as well. Aye, she was a relative of Aurora, his undying love. Mirth surged through Ambrose’s body as he enlisted into the Imperial Army, so as to try and get to know the nurse.

Unfortunately for him, no such thing would happen.

In the midst of its construction, the newly founded Imperial Army found itself in a grueling battle with outsiders… pirates from a nearby planet. Thenas had been too slow in its expansion to repel the attacking vagabonds, and thusly perished. It had all happened in one night – from behind the buttery clouds engine-propelled ships stormed the city guns blazing, burning the darkness away with a magnificently deadly display of fire and blood. The innocent were slaughtered and the meek were blown away; crying out in pain, Ambrose stood strong in the center of the battlefield, yelling towards the skies and asking them to reach down and take him away from all this senseless agony. In a mere moon, the cities defenses were wiped clean from existence…and Ambrose had shared in that pain.

“Is this… Is this death? This black sense of emptiness… this unrelenting wave of loneliness…it can’t be.” And then it hit him. “This is…the void.”

Yes, it was the grey void once again. For millenniums, Ambrose was forced to reminisce on his past and live in loneliness. For immense periods of time, he had found himself remembering back to his earlier days, when love was the boat that kept him buoyant as he drifted through the endless sea of despair and confusion. Thoughts of death were quick to grow in his mind, for he had begun to grow tired of living… What was his mission? For decades, centuries, it had been to alleviate the lives of those he had touched. But why? What for? He wanted to become a purpose, a champion… But, he felt he would never obtain that goal – these people, why are they so wicked? For millenniums he had watched the soul of men be torn apart and rebuilt again, just to be once more devoured by hatred… These people, they would never change.

And so was the birth of Lunac (Lunak), a beastly essence in the form of a devil with monstrous claws of shadow, piercing red eyes, and a tongue that hissed like a serpent. Appearing from the darkness that held Ambrose, he reached out his colossal hands and cupped them around the Immortal; the beast’s blood-red eyes peered through the crevices in between his fingers. It was a monster born of fire, a living embodiment of the hatred within Ambrose, an entity so vast that its hands could reach out and touch every corner of existence.

It did not speak.

Ambrose, lost in thought, merely stared-down the beast with unconscious eyes – and without warning, Ambrose grinned in unison with the beast. The fiend, opening its mouth wide, swallowed Ambrose, devouring him in a short gulp.

Ambrose’s dual personality was thusly born. Within the honor and desire to aid that slept within him, an infection began to spread. The black virus plagued his body, darkening his soul with that of the tainted fiend. It was after this incident that he had been awakened by Ukiah, the God of Dreams. From the darkness he had birthed into a new world… a majestic, forested planet that called itself Achernar; the planet was exotic, and once again Ambrose had found himself amongst people and creatures of all shapes and sizes.

“What has happened to the towering structures? I see no trains, no paved roads…”

Indeed, for little did Ambrose know that what he had “escaped” was an initial Armageddon of colossal proportions; during the time he had lost himself in the void, the peoples of the planet who survived the Armageddon were forced to live under the surface… What were once peaceful colonies of humans, elves, dwarves, half-lings and others had become nothing more than an army of savages engulfed by the hunger for food; slowly, they turned on each other, turning to meat for nourishment… Many of the sane made it their duty to escape the blood-thirsty that lurked in the shadows, and it was these who had surfaced into the sunlight and bred a new world – the others could not, for too long they had relied on darkness to blanket their now cataleptic eyes.

Leaking with remorse and regret, Ambrose lived in repentance, strained by continuous thoughts of his past love, friendships, and journey’s. The manor in which he built to house himself had become something of a marvel, matched only by his thirst for glory, which had not been spoiled; he was fully aware of the second presence that slumbered with light eyelids beneath his flesh… He could not submit the innocent to its will… What's more, Ambrose had a craving to put pen and pad together again… Long had he wished to hold Aurora in his arms, so much so that his craving became an addiction… With this on his mind, Ambrose isolated himself in a dark wood called Cedar Forest, the largest of the wood on the planet, and committed himself to learning the secrets that his father had hidden within his essence. During this time in his life, Ambrose had learned to connect with his inner spirit, thus allowing him to read through the ancient text that his vicar of mind had sealed inside him. For months upon end, he lived in a constant state of reflection and contemplation, completely severed from the physical world. Recognizing this newfound ability, Ambrose learned to apply it to everything, most notably battle.

This all changed, however, for the winds of time had began to blow with a new pitch. On one fabled moon, a party of travelers had been forced into his courtyard by a band of Mothmen, large, disgusting men with the characteristics of a Moth. They had been the damned, the travelers of the forest who had been polluted with the black, acid-like blood of the Moth. Observing the battle from his window, Ambrose rushed out to aid them. He could not explain his reason for this, for he felt this strong, almost unrelenting wave of determination to help when he found one in need. With the battle won, Ambrose joined the party of travelers, hoping to relinquish and forget the past that had brought him despair. The gathering of heroes claimed to come from a city on the other side of the planet, a city under theocratic rule. They were sent to purge the Behemoth from the planet, for their religion told of a great and historic battle between the Behemoth and Leviathan that would leave the world in pieces and utter chaos.

For years, Ambrose develops strong bonds with each of the six champions; A man by the name of Guts who housed a will far greater than the length of his giant blade; two rogue drow brothers by the names of Cain and Abel, determined to remove the black flaps from over their still sensitive eyes and look upon the beauty of the two suns; an Avarian who calls herself Gabrielle, with wings more majestic than the ocean at sunset; a Tarmarian called Tarin who was a cumbersome being and a Crystalline Elf (Rena). For the next year, they traveled throughout Achernar, gaining praise and the like, searching for the tomb of the fabled beast… During this time, Ambrose forms a relationship with Rena, a love not as potent as before, but still strong nonetheless. In her eyes, he saw the strength he had seen in Aurora, bound by now chains, completely wild. This moved him dearly.

Under cloak of night and stars ablaze, they finally find the Behemoth, peacefully asleep within his tomb buried hundreds of feet into the ground; alas, their descent awakens the beast from a cold, ancient slumber. The unrelenting force of Satan’s right hand thus stirs the ocean, awakening the Leviathan. A conflict of epic proportions arises as the team of heroes pour all their strength into defeating the monsters, who are content on destroying each other. The battle rages across miles of land and takes many innocent lives.

Sadly, in the fog of battle, all of Ambrose’s friends were slaughtered, whether it be during their final blow or minutes after they had triumphed. It was not a glorious victory, nor was it worthy of celebration. Within the tenderness of his hands, Ambrose held Rena until the last breath had been extracted from her body. Crying out in pain, the poetic soldier becomes shrouded in anxiety and desire to turn to dust; with tears heavier than the burden breaking his knees, Ambrose carries his comrades to his manor, regretful that it has not changed.

“Standing on my own, remembering those I used to know… Forget about the life I used to understand.”

The words still fresh upon his lips, Ambrose constructed a shrine in his backyard to house the bodies of the departed; in doing this, Ambrose is confronted with the memory that took place on that night…the night he had chosen to leave behind his creator. In this, he finds a dose of happiness, for he comes to terms with himself by realizing the simple truth that he is unlike the flawed image he had been created in. Nay, he cared about his friends… In all his heart he could not find a sorrow more gut-wrenching than the death of a beloved.

His comrades weapons (Three blades, two axes, a bow, a scimitar, and a staff) protrude though the dirt around a large tree in the center of his courtyard, which becomes much like a cemetery as Ambrose lives on through the ages, inundated by grief, which slowly manufactures a sense of anxiety within Ambrose, thus creating his third personality: despair.

Ambrose lives on this planet for hundreds of thousands of years, taking in the beauty and trying to deal with his disarray – he continues to help keep Achernar free of evil, and soon becomes as a god amongst the inhabitants of the people, a Guardian of the planet.

Ignore this last paragraph, for it has to do with another RP I'm in.

However, that age quickly passes as many others had before, and he now he finds himself an inhabitant of Illiria, wrought with exhaust. Now, he simply yearns to live out the rest of his days in peace and seclusion, confined to his manor hidden in the Forest of Heroes, free from the troubles that boil around him.

--Other Information--
Nope.

~~~

All set. You guys make the first post, and I will follow. I don't plan on taking this lightly, either; if I can defeat both of you, then I'd say I've had a pretty good start.

Good luck.

[Desert Jesus]

Actually, I will use my newest character, D'Eath. His temp isn't finished and, as I can see, this isn't much of a priority for you guys; so, ill edit the post above with the new temp sometime next week, assuming you two are still willing to do this.

[Infinite Nova]

Yes, I'm fine with that. I'm working on my new character right now too. :D

[Shadukai X]

I'm editing my character too, everyone post their character here before the next Saturday. Thanks

[Desert Jesus]

Halfway done, guys. Outlining my Bio as we speak; and I must say, I'm proud of myself. D'Eath may prove to even out-awesome Ambrose.

[Desert Jesus]

=Your Character=

~Basics~

Name: Versai Achersan
Nickname: “The Grim Dawn”
Age: 500 Years
Gender: Male
Allegiance: Samael, the Power of Death.
Occupation: Harvester, the sixth of the five Pinnacles of Samael. His point is the center of the head. (http://i108.photobucket.com/albums/n...down_28de_.jpg)
Residence: The Undercut, Southern Netherworld.
Theme Song: Immortal - Adema

~Family~

Parents: Mary, Jonathan
Siblings: None, Mother had two miscarriages.
Married: N/A
Children: N/A

~Appearance Basics~

Height: 5’8”
Weight: 170 lbs.

Physical Appearance:

~ Versai Achersan is distinct in his features in that he conveys a youthful sense of mockery towards the Netherworld. He is as a black rose, the pedals burnt by sardonic youth. In the same sense, he is as a black rosebud amongst a tree of black roses whose age has befell them with brittle stems; he is the next generation of Death.

Flaming crimson dreads hang from atop his head, each with a small black flame of a knot to tie them tight. Versai, surname Cedric, removes the living from this world with a young face, almost completely disengaged from the rudiments of age that govern the living world. Versai ages one year in the human sense every 666 years in the Netherworld. On either side of his face are strong ears, each pierced by the Mark of Cain, a symbol in which Cain used to mark his prey. Cain had been the spawn of death, the dawn of Samael; therefore, he is worshipped above all pagan Gods. Versai’s ageless eyes are crimson with black pupils surrounded by six small, white spots, and his small nose is complemented only by his sarcastic lips; weapons of his own, often used and skillfully handled. Versai Achersan, named after the river in which he was christened, is The Grim Dawn, a premature eclipse of the very sun that shines within the hearts of the living.

He sports that of a thin, muscle-toned build.

Garments/Armor:

~ In every meaning of the sense, Versai is often shrouded completely in a gloomy shadow. Around his ash white neck is a dark crimson scarf tucked loosely between his bare flesh and the taut, sleeveless red shirt that allows the façade of his rather large, demonic belt to be seen through the fabric. Heavy black jeans fall around his legs, and weaved all through these jeans are the Bonds of Flame that link his soul to the Grim Reaper, the Father of Death and advisor to Samael. A tattoo of this being is carved into Versai’s back. (http://i108.photobucket.com/albums/n...rim-reaper.jpg) This outfit is often covered up by a ragged, crimson cloak with a tail of fabric that follows almost five feet behind him. The collar of this cloak is rather large, as it sits firm and tall on either side of his head. Two rather large wholes are evident in the back of the cloak. His steel wings, 20 feet in span, are constantly bleeding; that is, they are always dripping with the blood of those Versai has executed.

Lastly, Versai carries the Book of Last Rights tucked beneath his cloak.

Armaments:

~ The Steel Angel: The Steel Angel is a steel mechanism that makes up for the structure of his wings. (The only organic compounds on his wings are the thick, fleshy feathers and the blood.) These steel instruments are fused into the supplementary motor area of his neocortex, thus allowing Versai to move these implements at will; The Steel Angel has a wide range of abilities, such as being able to draw out jagged, crystallized blood from the joints. Ultimately, Versai can protract both hardened blood and steel blades from almost any location on either of his wings; steel can only protrude from the joints.

~ Hell’s Rapture: Hell’s Rapture is a beast of a sword; never in the history of Death has there been a Reaper who handled a blade as large and cumbersome. (Note: A Fell Blade, or a blade forged in the Netherworld, is only capable of being wielded by its handler. The only way for an outsider to pick up the blade is for him to break the Chains of Torture, the invisible bonds that chain a soul to Hell.) The hilt, six feet in length, is embellished with the faces of the tortured; the face of every being piloted to the Netherworld by Versai is carved into the hilt. The pommel is the head of Grim, the Father of Death. The guard of the hilt, or the structure in which the blade protracts from, is the head of Samael, mouth agape and jagged, devilish teeth piercing the dark abyss that is his throat. In times of Versai’s choosing, a crooked, serpentine tongue acts as the blade. However, when in combat, Versai has the ability to light the tongue on fire with the blood of the damned. After lengthening the six foot serpentine blade by six more feet, the blood branches off and crystallizes into four distinct blades, forming a cross-shape if looked upon by eyes overhead.

~ God’s Dissension: Versai does not carry God’s Dissension around with him. Instead, by the swift wave of his right hand, (While the Mark of Samael is drawn in blood in his palm: http://i108.photobucket.com/albums/n...down_28de_.jpg) Versai can summon the scythe from the Netherworld. Due to his die-hard individuality, Versai summons God’s Dissension often only as a last resort. The hilt, 71/2 feet in length, hosts the carving of a wave of nude pagan souls atop the statue of an unnamed Pagan God. Seven blades protrude at the summit; on the very top is the longest and most cumbersome, Superbia. Luxuria is just below and lengthens in the opposite direction. Gula is next, and lengthens in the same direction as Superbia. Cupiditia is the next one down, and then comes Pigritia. Then Ira, and lastly, Invidia. Each blade represents one of the Seven Laws of the Netherworld.

~Personality~

~ Versai Achersan is not like the other Reapers. He is young and he is bold, completely different from the other four Reapers who have aged quite a bit, thus allowing them the title of Veteran in Grim’s eyes. They are reserved, cautious, tactful, and overall accepting of their fates. Versai is not. He is brutal, uncaring and, most importantly, resistant to his fate; in his eyes, he sees a thin shred of hope in his future, a release from his prison in exchange for something else.

~Likes/Dislikes~

~Likes:
- Power, seclusion
- Slumber, instruction of the mind and body as one
- Militaristic views, anarchy
- Individuality

~Dislikes:
- The weak/narrow-minded, the physically handicapped
- Light, the sun; the lazy
- Crowds, condescending attitudes
- The arrogant, or unwise

~Skills~

Versai is skilled in swordsmanship, as you may have guessed. In a melee situation, Versai may hold the upper hand simply because of his unrivaled quickness on his feet, as well his ability to take the form of any of six different snakes; currently, he is learning to take the form of the Southern Anaconduer, one of the largest and most deadly of the Southern Netherworld. The first of these snakes, Gassel, is capable of burrowing through almost any form of planet crust.

Secondly, the mechanical wings he was endowed with by Horatio, the marvel craftsman, allow Versai almost unlimited flight. This, in combination with his quickness and agility, proves to be a very powerful aid in battle.

Being the sixth of the five Pinnacles, or the “Head,” Versai is gifted with the unique Dark Source abilities of all five Harvesters: Blasphemy, Despair, Hatred, Venality, Indifference and Sin, Sin being Versai’s chief Dark Source. (A Dark Source is an elemental affinity pertaining too those only in the Netherlands and Hell. A Light Source does the same, except in the heavenly sense. An elemental attribute is the in-between of the two, a watered-down mix of both a Light and Dark Source after it has been stripped of its supernatural core. As you may have guessed, Dark and Light Sources are extremely potent and much more powerful than an elemental attribute; however, it demands more of the body.)

Blasphemy – Blasphemy is the representation of a faith betrayed, Versai’s severing of the bonds between himself and goodwill. This magic comes in the form of Hellish fiends and damned souls alike, those who have also severed the bonds between themselves and heavenly love.

Despair – Despair is the representation of a hope betrayed, Versai’s severing of earthly needs and wants. Hope, as he sees it, cannot exist where he resides, it is his acceptance of the grim world around him. This magic reveals itself in the form of beautiful, yet incredibly thorny dark matter.

Hatred – Hatred is the most direct of his magical attributes, for it is ice, fire and thunder as one; it is a representation of the pit of hatred for his home that he has developed over the years.

Venality – A clear disobedience to God and his will, a mockery of heaven and its “eternal happiness.” The form of this magic varies, for it is simply dark matter in its most potent form.

Indifference – A representation of Versai’s cold, hardened heart. This magic comes in the form of many metals.

Sin – Sin, the most powerful and compelling Dark Source that Versai possesses, has no form. Sin is Versai, Versai is Sin. That said, Versai can take the form of serpents and flame.

Lastly, Versai can cast incantations from his Book of Last Rights, the text in which he reads to every victim before devouring their mortality and tossing them into the pit of fire that is his stomach. (Guys, his stomach is a fancy way of saying Hell. He doesn’t actually eat them. Cannibalism FTL.)

~Biography~

((Liek, omg this is the coolest bio ever. It's long. Real long. So long I haven't even had time to start, as I've been doing the outline. It will be ten pages or so, so be prepared. xD))