Shallow Waters



Son of Athena and Kyle Hopper

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20 ⚜ Claimed ⚜ Camper
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Height:
Weight:
Hair:
Eyes:
Tattoo's/Marking's:
Clothing Style:


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Features(5 or more): [personality pros]
Flaws(5 or more): [personality cons]
Likes:
Dislikes:
Weaknesses:
Strengths:
Fears:
Secrets:

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Bio:
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Abilities:
Relationship?: [Currently Single, In a Relationship, etc.]
Crush: [If your character likes or has feelings for someone.]
Friends , Enemies:
Sexuality/Alignment: [hetero, homo, pan, bi, etc.]
Favorite Song:
Extras: [Miscellaneous and added information.]

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Anastasia Saharran
The moment the sirens began blasting through the air, Anastasia knew it was going to be a long day.

Warning lights cast shadows of doubt over the half-blood's features, the blaring announcement overlayed by the bright names scrawled across the sky. Some she knew. Others she didn't. Several that grabbed her heart and twisted it painfully. The first few days of this had been awful. Tears were shed, worries were spread, and a general sense of unease had made its home in the pits of Anastasia's stomach. But that was then. Now that unease was more of a begrudging roommate, and mourning came later. However, that didn't lessen the pain of seeing those crimson names. Nothing ever did.

Anastasia squared her jaw, long fingers tugging at the fraying edges of her ever-present scarf as she strode towards the scene of battle. Screams of both monsters and demigods clashed together in a terrifying chorus accompanied by the clashing of weapons. Gods and goddesses stood among the chaos, doing their own metaphorical dance in time with the vulgar song. Poetically, Anastasia thought grimly, it sounded much better than it really was.

She stood a little ways back, not too close to the fighting but not too far either. Her body equipped neither weapons nor armor, but that bothered her little. After all, you didn't need armor when you had a bit of magic on your side.

Closing her eyes, Anastasia extended a hand with her palm towards the hordes. A familiar sensation washed over the demigod as she concentrated. Her breathing slowed and for a moment, it was as if the battle was never there in the first place. Then, a ripple in the air. From the ripple emerged the sleek forms of several metallic hawk-like entities Anastasia allowed herself the smallest of smiles before returning to her concentration. If monsters were being sent to kill campers, then fine. The camp was just going to have to send some back. The Stymphalian birds fluttered their wings, cold eyes glittering hungrily as they swiveled their heads in search of a meal. Upon Anastasia's command, they gave a sharp cry and took to the skies. The bronze birds circled the air methodically, dive-bombing smaller foes while firing arrow-like feathers at larger ones. Slowly, gradually, they helped whittle down the forces until, by mere bad planning and luck, they were swatted away like gnats by a cyclops.

The concentration broke instantly. Anastasia stumbled, swaying as a sudden flood of exhaustion overtook her body and she slowly lowered herself to the ground. She watched with a numb sense of relief as less and less monsters remained on the battlefield, until few to nothing but scraps remained.

Ignoring the pressing pounding of a headache, Anastasia forced herself to stand up and dusted dirt off her skirt. She wandered close to where a crowd had gathered around the newly brought demigods and slipped her way through towards the center. As tired as she was, that didn't mean she was allowed to slack of on her duty of knowing who was who around camp. Smoothing down her hair, she nodded greeting towards the Seekers and newcomers, her mouth spreading into a wide grin as she took them all in.

"And just when I thought things were getting dull around here."


 
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"The moss is particularly happy today, don't you think?"


A G E / D . O . B .
19, March 20th


S K I L L S
⚘ Gardening
⚘ Listening
⚘ Fast-learner
⚘ Good with kids and animals
⚘ Swimming



S P E C I A L • A B I L I T Y
Senecio is capable of controlling/growing fungi and plant life, as well as producing flora from his own body. However, he is seemingly only limited to growing small to medium organisms such as vines and flowers. He is able to regain energy when in direct sunlight or freshwater.


P E C U L I A R • T R A I T S
Senecio has plants grow in place of scars and injuries, such as the moss over his eyes. Plant life also seem to perk up when in his presence, and a trail of moss and flowers often mark wherever he walks. Senecio holds an aversion towards fire, as he's easily burnt. When not in contact with sunlight over a course of few days, he will start to noticeably slow and grow sicker. As a side effect of his abilities, Senecio tends to have an entourage of insects--particularly butterflies and bees--following him around.


H I S T O R Y
Born with flowers in his hair and ivy in his palms, Senecio was deemed different from the very moment he took his first breath. Though she was warned against it, Senecio's mother refused to give up her child, instead fleeing to a remote area to raise him in secret. It was there, in the four corners of a shambled little cabin with a roof of a thousand trees above his head, that Senecio spent his first sixteen years. He was never allowed to travel far--not that he minded--and read during the days when his mother was away for work. Though he dreamed of one day living a normal life, the warnings his mother drove into his head nailed Senecio into the safety of the cabin.

All of that changed the day he met his first friends. They were a group of kids, fueled by rumors of an allegedly haunted cabin in the woods. Instead of finding a ramshackle building full of ghosts and spooks, they found Senecio. Their first meeting was...rough, to say the least. The gang of kids ran home screaming at the sight of the plant-covered 'monster' boy, leaving Senecio more lonely than before. But the children returned. After clearing things up, they returned again. And again. And again. Over the next several years, they maintained this curious clandestine friendship.

But good things can only last for so long. One of the children accidentally let it slip that there was a boy in the woods. Their parents, thoroughly disturbed, contacted authorities to investigate. That night, Senecio's home was invaded by federal agents. His mother fought back to keep them away, but she could only do so much before she was shot and killed before her son's very eyes. In a fit of rage and sorrow, vines emerged from the windows and ground, constricting the agents to death. But Senecio did not come off unharmed. In a mad flurry of bullets, he was shot several times and permanently blinded. Hurt, terrified, and numb with shock, Senecio stumbled away from the scene before collapsing in the middle of the forest.

When Senecio awoke, he found himself, not in the forest, but an unfamiliar apartment building with an equally unfamiliar man. The man explained that, after hearing of an incident in the forest, came to investigate. He revealed that, like Senecio, he too had extraordinary powers and that he was working to help people like them flee to a haven where no one could hurt them. It seemed too good to be true. But, after having all he'd known torn away from him, Senecio had nothing to lose. After recovering, he was taken to the island, where he has stayed ever since.



P E R S O N A L I T Y
Reserved and nervous, Senecio is a bundle of awkward smiles and stuttered replies. He's hesitant to act outright, preferring to ask and think through things more thoroughly. As careful as he is, however, Senecio does have an inquisitive side that's willing to do anything to get answers. Around strangers, he's quiet but kindly; around friends, he's more likely to crack jokes and even, surprisingly, flirt a bit. Senecio isn't exactly naive--he's seen far too much of the world to truly believe that anything is 'pure'--but he is an optimist. It's his belief that, no matter how bad things may seem, there's always something good out there to counteract.



L I K E S
Animals
Flowers
Music
Sweets
Long walks



D I S L I K E S
Cloudy days
Loud noises
Being the center of attention

Confined spaces
Fire



P E T • H A T E
Guns


T H E M E
Dreams of William - Daughter


E X T R A S
⚘ Has impaired vision.
This color is quite nice.



 
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[FONT=Book Antiqua][SIZE=7][COLOR=rgb(255, 153, 255)][I][U]S E N E C I O • A L L I U M[/U][/I][/COLOR][/SIZE][/FONT]

@Everyone
Not for the first time since his departure, Senecio silently swore that he would never get on a ship again. To say the journey had been hell was an understatement. It wasn't because of the cramped rooms, or the lack of sunlight, or even the constant weight of possibility to be found out. It was the aching loneliness. Senecio heard little word of the other passengers on the ship. There were times when he even wondered if he was the only one there. It was a crushing feeling, and too often Senecio could feel the edge of a complete breakdown.

When the ship finally docked, it was like someone had opened the floodgates. Relief poured through Senecio as he gathered what few items he owned into a ragged dufflebag. He concentrated on his hands and a vine-like plant flourished from his palm. It solidified into an almost wood-like form, young leaves capping the top. Gripping the impromptu walking stick tightly, he nervously shuffled out of his room and followed the sound of footsteps off the ship.

Anxiety gripped Senecio's heart tightly, a bloom of moss and small flowers blossoming once his feet finally touched land. He walked towards a set of voices, one a sneer's worth close to condescending and the other tinged with a southern lilt, only to hesitate a few feet back. The young man swallowed hard, the flora growing at his feet blossoming as frantically as his heart beat, before taking a deep breath and approaching the gathered folks.


"He--"
his voice faltered, before he cleared it and tried again. "Hello? I, erm, I'm Senecio. Senecio Allium. Is this where we're meant to go?"
 
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Theryn Verossae
Age:
25

Abilities:

Elemental manipulation spells through usage of a tome and tattooed runes.

Appearance:
Theryn stands at 5'11" with an average build lacking any real muscle or fat. His olive complexion is broken by a series of runes tattooed. Though these are mainly covered by his cloak, the red marking on his throat--a familial emblem--stands prominent. Past incidents have left a trail of scars over his arms and torso, the largest being a burn mark in the center of his chest. At the mere mention of this, Theryn does get embarrassed and avoids removing his cloak in public as a result. His hair is a constant mess of dark brown strands which he occasionally ties back, and his eyes are a deep blue that swim of curiosity and cleverness. Theryn's style of clothing favors practicality and tradition over style. He wears loose but comfortable blue robes, a large hooded cloak marked with his family's crest pulled over. Around his waist is a belt fixed with several pockets, and a messenger bag around his chest.

Personality:


History:
 
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Name: Cyrille the Clever, formerly Cyren
Age: 27
Gender: Female
Race: Human
Class: Thief
Class Tier: Standard
Renown: ★★★☆☆
Weapon Proficiencies: [You may have 1-3 depending on Class and Tier. Check those tabs for info.]
Equipment:
-
-
-
-
-
Appearance:

c3a7429df4357a98a6f4b000e71df8c5.jpg


Gift: Ability to create illusions out of thin air.
Curse: Cyrille's air of control is but a mere facade for the amount she lacks in her mind. As a result, she has paranoid schizophrenia, with visual and auditory hallucinations worsening the more she uses her Gift.
Occupation: [What your character does with, or in spite of, the above 2 entries.]
Personality: [Your character's non-magical defining traits. Be as brief or expansive as you desire.]
Biography: [Your character's background, mostly based on their Occupation and Renown. Optionally, you can tell their entire life's story, or just leave it for later reveal. Feel free to make stuff up to fill in blanks, too.]
Relationships: [If your character is related to other established characters, add those connections here.]
Opinions on Dragons and Magic: [Not everyone approves of the use of dragon fossils, either for magical use in weapons as in war, or in luxury items. Not everyone is glad that the dragons are gone, either. Others simply don't have opinions on any of that stuff. This is the section for all of that.]
 
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Name:
Cyrille the Conjuring, formerly Cyren

Age:
27

Gender:

Female

Race:

Human

Class:

Thief

Class Tier:

Standard

Renown:

★☆☆☆☆

Weapon Proficiencies:

Rapier (Intermediate)
Throwing Knives (
Basic)

Equipment:
- Rose's Thorn: A sleek rapier initially gained through questionable means. Deadly yet beautiful, it's crafted for both ornamentation and duels.
- Throwing Knives
- Rations
- Lockpick
- Tea Set

Gift:

Trompe L'oeil: Cyrille has the ability to create illusions out of thin air. These mirages, though incorporeal, are near life-like so long as she knows what it looks like.
Curse:
Delusions of the Past: Cyrille is prone to heightened paranoia and frequent auditory/visual hallucinations. The more she uses her ability, the worse these hallucinations become.
Occupation:
Butler/Thief
Personality:
Cool and collected, Cyrille is a level-headed individual who prefers a more tactical approach to plans rather than charging head-on. She can be surprisingly stubborn, and sets upon tasks with undivided dedication. Her secretive, distant nature makes it difficult to determine what she's thinking, with any probing questions quickly deterred with a smile and passively forceful change of subject. Nevertheless, she's civil and polite. Or so it seems.

Beneath a facade of obedient smiles is a manipulative being willing to do whatever it takes to get what she wants. A rough life has trained Cyrille that trust is a flimsy device fit only to be broken. She's quick to change sides if she senses a greater reward, but is unopposed to making dicey gambles when it suits her fancy. Cyrille fears the feeling of powerlessness. Moments where she feels like she's lost control of her life genuinely paralyze her with fear, rendering her an emotional mess.

Biography:
Years ago, in the annuls of the rich marketplace of Pelerin, two children were born. One a child named Cyrille with sharp eyes and clever wit, and the other a timid flower called Cyren who blushed at the slightest inclination of attention. The children of a wealthy merchant, they lived happy, blissful lives with not the slightest care in the world.

And then they all died.

Simply stating it that way, however, would be too much of an oversimplification.

The merchant father, though rich, was a shrewd man who made enemies as easily as coins. Though some only went as far as hurling insults to his name, others preferred to take a more...deadly approach. No one knew exactly who hired the assassins. No one saw them slip into the house and slit the merchant's throat with a poisoned dagger. No one but the children.

The twins hid in their closet, terrified that this would be how their short lives ended. They could nothing but wait as they listened to their father's last gurgling breaths, silent tears running down their faces. Then, knowing there was no other way, the Cyrille turned to the other and said with a shaky smile, "I have an idea."

Much to Cyren's horror, their other half sprang from the closet and raced down the halls, screaming like a beast. It was suicide. It was stupid. It was the perfect diversion. The timid twin raced out of the room and down the halls, desperate to reach the door. Cyren had almost made it when they came face to face with an awful sight--Cyrille on the ground, blood pooling around the body with the killer looming over.
The surviving twin escaped. When she returned in the morning, nothing but the charred remains of the manor was left. In a single night, everything was gone.

But it wasn't over. The killers were still out there, and with them the possibility of being discovered. Fearing the worst, Cyren took to desperate measures. She chopped her hair, bounded her chest, and pinched the clothing of a stableboy. Gone was the little girl Cyren. Now, in honor of her brother, she fled town under the new name Cyrille.

Life on the road was hard, but not impossible. There Cyrille learned how to lie, cheat, and steal just for a piece of bread. Daggers became her best friend, and the hunger of several days her worst enemy. Morality became a murky cesspool of gray. No one was purely innocent on her journeys. The world was just that cruel of a place. She learned that, no matter what, you could never trust those around. Most disturbingly, she learned that you could never really run from your past.

While staying at an inn on the road, Cyrille saw her brother. He was sitting at a table, blood pouring from his neck as he stared at her unphased. Yet, no matter how much Cyrille screamed and how many people gathered around her, no one else seemed to see his ghastly form or his tugging whispers at the back of her mind. She fled the inn, but no matter where she went, he followed. If not his apparition, then always his voice just in the back of her mind. The first few years of it was torture. But, as she learned to harness her own Gift, it became just another unsettling factor in life.

Eventually Cyrille made it to Tokoyo where she finally settled down. After saving a nobleman's daughter (albeit accidentally), Cyrille became acquainted with a high-class family that offered her a place to stay in exchange for her services. During the night, however, Cyrille had a different job. Driven by old habits, she took pleasure in breaking in the homes of wealthy people deemed problematic swiping valuables from right beneath their noses before disappearing into the night. But never once did she steal from the family employing her.

When her employers caught wind of the Emperess' army unit, they were quick to encourage Cyrille to join in hopes of furthering their own status.
Relationships:

Opinions on Dragons and Magic:

Cyrille has no issue with the domestic usage, but holds reservations in terms of battle function due to her lack of understanding. Nevertheless, she views the absence of dragons as a sad loss of potential.



Code:
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[IMG]https://fontmeme.com/permalink/171024/779164f3ae5b678cbf4022c2e5986657.png[/IMG]
[/div][div=background-color: black; margin-left: 3%; margin-right: 3%;][div=height: 30%; width: 30%; padding: 5px; margin-bottom: 1%;][imga=left]https://i.pinimg.com/564x/c3/a7/42/c3a7429df4357a98a6f4b000e71df8c5.jpg[/imga][/div][div=overflow-y:scroll; height: 350px;margin-right:5px;][div=margin-rigt: 3%; padding: 3%;]Name:
[INDENT]Cyrille the Conjuring, formerly Cyren[/INDENT]

Age:
[INDENT]27[/INDENT]

Gender:
[INDENT]Female[/INDENT]

Race:
[INDENT]Human[/INDENT]

Class:
[INDENT]Thief[/INDENT]

Class Tier:
[INDENT]Standard[/INDENT]

Renown:
[INDENT]★☆☆☆☆[/INDENT]

Weapon Proficiencies:
[INDENT]Rapier (Intermediate)
Throwing Knives (Basic)[/INDENT]

Equipment:
[INDENT]- Rose's Thorn: A sleek rapier initially gained through questionable means. Deadly yet beautiful, it's crafted for both ornamentation and duels.
- Throwing Knives
- Rations
- Lockpick
- Tea Set[/INDENT]

Gift:
[INDENT]Trompe L'oeil: Cyrille has the ability to create illusions out of thin air. These mirages, though incorporeal, are near life-like so long as she knows what it looks like.
[/INDENT]
Curse:
[INDENT]Delusions of the Past: Cyrille is prone to heightened paranoia and frequent auditory/visual hallucinations. The more she uses her ability, the worse these hallucinations become.
[/INDENT]
Occupation:
[INDENT]Butler/Thief
[/INDENT]
Personality:
[INDENT]Cool and collected, Cyrille is a level-headed individual who prefers a more tactical approach to plans rather than charging head-on. She can be surprisingly stubborn, and sets upon tasks with undivided dedication. Her secretive, distant nature makes it difficult to determine what she's thinking, with any probing questions quickly deterred with a smile and passively forceful change of subject. Nevertheless, she's civil and polite. Or so it seems.

Beneath a facade of obedient smiles is a manipulative being willing to do whatever it takes to get what she wants. A rough life has trained Cyrille that trust is a flimsy device fit only to be broken. She's quick to change sides if she senses a greater reward, but is unopposed to making dicey gambles when it suits her fancy. Cyrille fears the feeling of powerlessness. Moments where she feels like she's lost control of her life genuinely paralyze her with fear, rendering her an emotional mess.
[/INDENT]
Biography:
[INDENT]Years ago, in the annuls of the rich marketplace of Pelerin, two children were born. One a child named Cyrille with sharp eyes and clever wit, and the other a timid flower called Cyren who blushed at the slightest inclination of attention. The children of a wealthy merchant, they lived happy, blissful lives with not the slightest care in the world.

And then they all died.

Simply stating it that way, however, would be too much of an oversimplification.

The merchant father, though rich, was a shrewd man who made enemies as easily as coins. Though some only went as far as hurling insults to his name, others preferred to take a more...deadly approach. No one knew exactly who hired the assassins. No one saw them slip into the house and slit the merchant's throat with a poisoned dagger. No one but the children.

The twins hid in their closet, terrified that this would be how their short lives ended. They could nothing but wait as they listened to their father's last gurgling breaths, silent tears running down their faces. Then, knowing there was no other way, the Cyrille turned to the other and said with a shaky smile, "I have an idea."

Much to Cyren's horror, their other half sprang from the closet and raced down the halls, screaming like a beast. It was suicide. It was stupid. It was the perfect diversion. The timid twin raced out of the room and down the halls, desperate to reach the door. Cyren had almost made it when they came face to face with an awful sight--Cyrille on the ground, blood pooling around the body with the killer looming over. The surviving twin escaped. When she returned in the morning, nothing but the charred remains of the manor was left. In a single night, everything was gone.

But it wasn't over. The killers were still out there, and with them the possibility of being discovered. Fearing the worst, Cyren took to desperate measures. She chopped her hair, bounded her chest, and pinched the clothing of a stableboy. Gone was the little girl Cyren. Now, in honor of her brother, she fled town under the new name Cyrille.

Life on the road was hard, but not impossible. There Cyrille learned how to lie, cheat, and steal just for a piece of bread. Daggers became her best friend, and the hunger of several days her worst enemy. Morality became a murky cesspool of gray. No one was purely innocent on her journeys. The world was just that cruel of a place. She learned that, no matter what, you could never trust those around. Most disturbingly, she learned that you could never really run from your past.

While staying at an inn on the road, Cyrille saw her brother. He was sitting at a table, blood pouring from his neck as he stared at her unphased. Yet, no matter how much Cyrille screamed and how many people gathered around her, no one else seemed to see his ghastly form or his tugging whispers at the back of her mind. She fled the inn, but no matter where she went, he followed. If not his apparition, then always his voice just in the back of her mind. The first few years of it was torture. But, as she learned to harness her own Gift, it became just another unsettling factor in life.

Eventually Cyrille made it to Tokoyo where she finally settled down. After saving a nobleman's daughter (albeit accidentally), Cyrille became acquainted with a high-class family that offered her a place to stay in exchange for her services. During the night, however, Cyrille had a different job. Driven by old habits, she took pleasure in breaking in the homes of wealthy people deemed problematic swiping valuables from right beneath their noses before disappearing into the night. But never once did she steal from the family employing her.

When her employers caught wind of the Emperess' army unit, they were quick to encourage Cyrille to join in hopes of furthering their own status.
[/INDENT]
Relationships:
[INDENT][/INDENT]

Opinions on Dragons and Magic:
[INDENT]Cyrille has no issue with the domestic usage, but holds reservations in terms of battle function due to her lack of understanding. Nevertheless, she views the absence of dragons as a sad loss of potential.[/INDENT]
[/div][/div][/div][div=background: url(https://i.pinimg.com/originals/ff/42/51/ff42518e509df872ced42add26adf981.jpg) repeat center fixed;text-align: center;color: white;margin-left: 3%; margin-right: 3%;padding:1px;]
[/div]
 
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Name:
Aristaeus the Hawk
Age:
27

Gender:

Male
Race:
Human

Class:

Gunner

Class Tier:

Standard

Renown:

★★★☆☆

Weapon Proficiencies:

- Rifles
- Pistols

Equipment:
- The Ambassador: A slightly modified bayoneted rifle.
- Peacekeeper: A worn, but well cared for flintlock pistol.

- Hunter's Coat
- Radio
- Rations

Gift:

Hawk Eye: Aristaeus' vision exceeds that of a normal human's. His vision is sharp enough to pinpoint a mouse a mile away, with a wider and more vivid visual field.
Curse:
Eye of the Beholder: Aristaeus is unable to lie. The moment a fallacy escapes his lips, he is rendered completely blind. Depending on how big the lie is, this can last from several hours to full on days before his sight can properly return.
Occupation:
Bounty Hunter
Personality:
Aris is an energetic, cheerful man with enough patience to fill a shallow puddle and the common sense of a drunkard preparing to fight a bull. His impulsiveness, paired with his love for adventure and blunt honesty, has resulted in him getting along famously with trouble. Aris is a complete romantic, and holds a flirtatious streak that, more often than not, ends up with him getting slapped. Though proud to the point cockiness, he's friendly and genuinely cares about those around him

Make no mistake. As immature as Aris can be, he's a force to be reckoned with when things turn serious. He's surprisingly thoughtful, and won't hesitate to do what it takes to protect the ones he cares about. Despite his confident aura, Aris is prone to self-doubt and esteem issues. He easily takes issue to remarks made about him, even if he doesn't outwardly show it.
Biography:
Born in the more rural parts of Pelerin, Aris lived a simple life with simple pleasures. The only son of a couple quickly gaining in years, he was expected and trained to take over the family's small plot of farmland. He was taught how to wield his father's rifle, set traps for both small and large animals, and cook a hearty meal with only a handful of potatoes and a rabbit. Still, Aris felt a stirring in his soul that there was perhaps more he was destined for.

It's hard to tell what compelled Aris to become a bounty hunter in the first place. Perhaps it was the promise of wealth and fame, or the prospect of journeying around, or the thrill of taking down criminals. Maybe it even was the emergence of his strange Gift and hovering Curse. Whatever the reason, it was enough for the eager young Aris to set out into the world with only the clothes on his back and a small sack of supplies. With what little money he carried, he bought his first rifle--a reliable beauty which he dubbed 'The Ambassador'--before travelling around taking any small jobs he could.

Over the next several years, Aris' skilled shots (and horrible pick-up attempts) garnered him a reputation among certain communities. He improved, upgraded his equipment (though he refused to give up The Ambassador), and completed any and all jobs that crossed his path. It was only inevitable that, when offered to chance, he joined the Catalysts.

Relationships:

Opinions on Dragons and Magic:

While he was raised to around technology less reliant on dragon fossils, Aris maintains a strong wonder with the workings of magic and its uses. He still views the disappearance of the dragons to be a loss, but not as strongly as most others.


 
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[FONT=Book Antiqua][SIZE=7][COLOR=#ffff4d][U]Pirates of the South[/U][/COLOR][/SIZE][/FONT]

The fur along Karhu’s arms bristled as the explosion confirmed her grave fears. The smoke filled the air like a foreboding cloud, the flames of the attack casting a harsh glow of heat and panic. Act. Karhu’s body felt frozen in fear, a thousand thoughts running through her mind but none fully there. Move. Panic seized her chest. Familiar flares of grim imaginings, wondering if this was how she died. GO.

The shout of the captain seized the Inguz’s drifting mind, dragging her back down to the reality of the situation. Karhu blinked hard and swallowed the knot in her throat. Right. Focus first, break down later. She could do this. She had to do this. Karhu barely managed to catch Risna’s orders, managing a stiff nod as her eyes swept over the surrounding crewmembers. Lead Scout Kenna, was it? That was a familiar name. Not in the sense of tight camaraderie--she’d yet to find one of those here, but that Sadira fellow seemed a likely candidate--but one caught in brief mentions in-between orders and conversations. She caught sight of a short, Elven woman fitting the vague description and, silently praying she had the right person, made a beeline towards her.

A blast of heat blew back over the ship as the thunderous explosion erupted just shy of the vessel. Lauchlans’s ears were still ringing with the sudden sound and feeling as though wool had been forced into them. His ears were, however, the least of his worries, and for a moment he stared at where the flames had been before turning to spare a glance at Kenna. She looked as startled as he felt, though neither of them spoke.

He, admittedly, knew little of pirates, but he hadn’t imagined they would have that kind of weaponry. Judging by the reactions of the captain and crew, no one else had, either. At least the first blast hadn’t hit and they were now well-aware of just what the enemy was capable of.

His seasickness had been washed away by the sudden surge of adrenaline, and he hurried after Kenna toward the upper deck. Brennan followed them, remaining uncharacteristically quiet. They hadn’t gone too far, when an inguz woman intercepted them.

“Lead Scout Kenna?” Karhu called.

“Yes?” Kenna turned quickly to see the woman who addressed her. She hoped her action was confirmation enough of her identity, it had sounded like this Warden wasn’t entirely certain that she had found the right person. If Kenna remembered correctly, this woman was an ursine inguz by the name of Karhu.

“Just tell me who I need to bite.”

“I need you to get someone from brig for me,” she said.

“Whatever you need,” Karhu confirmed. She hesitated for a moment, an inquisitive frown tugging at her lips. “What’s the brig?”

“It’s the ship’s prison.”

“Oh. What's in the brig then?”

Kenna tightened her lips as she thought, trying to figure out an accurate answer. “A Warden. She’s learned her lesson by now.” Kenna then added in an aside manner, “Ideally.”

“‘Ideally’?” Experience had taught Karhu that ‘ideally’ was practically the same as a ‘probably’, and ‘probably’ was never as solid as a ‘definitely’. Especially when it involved someone learning a lesson.

“Yes.” The elf answered, not explaining further. “I need you to bring her to me. She’s somewhat unpleasant so be careful.”

Lauchlan raised an eyebrow despite himself and gave Kenna a fleeting, but skeptical look. “Somewhat unpleasant” was a bit of an understatement when it came to Wicker.

Karhu shifted cautiously, but any skeptical thoughts merely manifested into a resigned shrug and nod. There was no room to complain when you were under attack.

Kenna paused a second, then cast a glance at the two men beside her. “Take Lord Copernicus with you.”

“Wait-- Really?” Brennan questioned slowly, the directness of statement bringing him out of the catatonic state he had fallen into after the explosion. The youth had followed his companions in the aftermath of the shock, but he hadn't really been thinking about what he was doing. It wasn't until he heard Kenna mention him that he started to pay attention to his surroundings again. He found her command to be something of a surprise as he had been convinced the Scout Commander didn't think of him as particularly capable. On the other hand, he had never heard her make a joke-- or even laugh at one. A pointed stare from Kenna was all it took for Brennan to understand her message-- she meant what she said.

The inguz draped an arm around her new companion and herded him away, cheerfully asking, “So where exactly is this brig?”

Brennan flinched ever-so-slightly under the weight of the woman’s arm, unprepared for the sudden contact. It only took him a moment to adjust and he quickly eased up. He hoped she hadn’t noticed. This woman seemed a friendly sort, and he was glad that he got a chance to be her companion. “It’s down a couple decks, near the crew quarters.”

“Actually,” Lauchlan said, “I should go with them.” It had just occurred to him that neither he nor Kenna carried bows at the moment-- something he was now feeling foolish for. “Won’t be doing much good without a bow.”

“Alright,” Kenna replied to the northerner. “I’m counting on you,” she added before she set about managing the archers who had been assigned to report to her.

Lauchlan nodded, then turned to catch up with Karhu and Brennan.

“Let’s go,” he called, “if you’re dealing with Wicker, you need to hurry faster than that.” But hurry or no, he had to wonder what Kenna’s plan was and why she was requesting Wicker, of all people.

Brennan cast a quick glance in Lauchlan’s direction as the man joined the two of them. However, it was his comment on Wicker which caught the young lord’s attention-- everything he heard about her only made him more curious about the infamous woman. He guessed that at the very least, it wouldn’t be boring to meet her.

Shouldering through a cluster of crew and Wardens who were obstructing the stairs, Lauchlan pushed Brennan and Karhu ahead of him through the crowd of people. Some of them seemed to have had the same idea he did and were coming up the stairs newly armed. Others seemed so thoroughly alarmed at the sudden commotion that they were unsure whether to go up to the top deck or stay down below.

“If you’re not armed, get a weapon and get on deck for orders,” Lauchlan shouted over the heads of the people packed along the wooden steps. “And for fuck’s sake, don’t block the damn stairs!”

The three pushed through the crowd and descended to the first deck, the gun deck. The top deck’s clamor was paltry compared to the commotion of the gun deck readying for combat. Unlike the mess of the top deck, however, the rush of motion of the gun deck was organized and practiced, and with a bit of observation the group was able to slip through with relative ease. Unfortunately, the second deck paralleled the top deck in its unorganized fervor.

Karhu inwardly grimaced at the amount of people blocking the path. She unceremoniously pushed and shouldered her way through, beginning to mutter a series of excuses before quickly giving up once she realized its futility. It was only when the crowd began to thin out did the young woman relax and focus on her orders. The name ‘Wicker’ was an infamous one. Karhu had never met the woman personally, but the rumors of her fearsome disposition were more than enough to paint a picture of an unpleasant time just waiting ahead.

After pushing their way to the second deck, Lauchlan left the group with little more explanation than a nod. The Armory was at the bow of the deck while the brig was near the stern. A small part of him felt as though he should’ve seen to it that Wicker followed them back up to Kenna, but he hardly had time to spare at the moment, and he felt that the inguz woman, at least, was capable of dealing with the elf. He knew little about her, but she looked strong and seemed competent. It took little time for him to locate his own bow and quiver and grab Kenna’s equipment. For good measure, he slung an additional longbow and quiver over his shoulder and dashed back toward the top deck.

Karhu and Brennan continued onward to the brig, eventually reaching the locked door separating the cells from the rest of the ship. The door was left unguarded, which wasn’t particularly surprising given the circumstance. The brig was standard looking and there were no particular features which stood out to Brennan. There was a large holding cell on the port side and three smaller cells on starboard. Unfortunately, they found a Warden-- who had likely been tasked with guarding the door-- unconscious on the floor. He was relatively unharmed, at least, despite a boot imprint on his face. The worst of it was the empty cell with its door left wide open. Wicker was nowhere to be found.

“Well,” Brennan started as he observed the room. “This complicates things.”
 
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