The Kadmon Society (OOC | Open)

[Nude East Ireland]

Hello! My name is Kevin, and this is Kadmon, an RP that I've been planning for some time now. I was in Elfen High for years, and it greatly inspired me to do this; however, I will be adding my own style to this RP. My main inspirations are Lovecraft, Poe, Doyle, and Gaiman, though I will be sliding in my own eccentrics as well. Expect horror, mostly psychological, but also some humour.

Welcome to Hell.

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IC: viewtopic.php?f=31&t=338529

"Of Man's first disobedience, and the fruit
Of that forbidden tree, whose mortal taste
Brought death into the World, and all our woe,
With loss of Eden, till one greatern Man
Restore us, and regain the blissful seat,
Sing, Heavenly Muse, that on the secret top
Of Oreb, or of Sinai, didst inspire
That shephard who first taught the chosen seed
In the beginning how the heavens and earth
Rose out of Chaos"

John Milton
Paradise Lost

When many fought for land and resources, few gathered in the shadows. It was those few that vowed to keep humanity safe from those supernatural threats. And, in doing so, they began a tradition of scholar-warriors - men and women who gave their lives for the survival of mankind. That is the Kadmon Society.

Around the world, members of the Society walk among the ignorant, watching and fighting. The Society is byzantine in structure, and few have been able to fully understand the complexity of its hierarchy. What is certain is this; the Grand Master and Lord Protector of the Kadmon Society was once the leader of the organisation, though, in contemporary times, those titles have become honorary, given to the Director of the Kadmon Society. "It is the twenty-first century," the Director has been rumoured to have said.

The Society has bases and outposts around the world, operating under any number of covers in order to better conceal their actions. The governments of the world are bound by law, blood oath, and pinkie promises to serve the Society whenever required. Thankfully, the majority of the human population remains purposefully ignorant in regards to the supernatural, something helped by widespread disbelief in "fairytales" and "myths".

The City of Love, the City of Lights, the City of Croissants, and the City Where Your Cousin Went for a Semester - truly a beautiful place.

For centuries, Paris has been a hub of supernatural activity, centred in the 21st arrondissement, which lies just beyond the Père Lachaise Cemetery. It is an area of culture, industry, and weird shops that sell things like goblin toes or witch warts in jars. Close enough to be considered normal, yet far away enough to be a little lax in hiding some of the stranger events and beings it houses, the 21st arrondissement is home to a small area dedicated solely to industry and production; much of this area was abandoned, but a small, unused factory that once made clothes is now being used for the purpose of housing a team of Kadmon agents. Hopefully they don't blow anything up.

More information will be added in the future.

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The PCs will begin as members of the Kadmon Society. So, you all have some sort of talent that led you to being employed; I advise you to be as unique as possible when deciding why your character was chosen, out of all of the other people in the world, to be an agent. You will be normal (well, normal is relative) humans, for now. Flesh out your characters, try something you never have before. I want people to experiment a bit with their abilities; which, hopefully, you have. And make sure you have fun with this; if you can't have fun making a character, you won't have fun RPing that character.

Code: Select all

Name:
Age:
Sex:
Appearance:
Personality:
Strengths/Special Skills:
Weaknesses:
Biography:
RP Sample:

Character List:
Tiberius Martellinus (Alias Viktor Nemtsov) - G-Tech Corporation
Kattalin Bidarte - Ceannairceach
Dr. Anna Kolouthon - Astrolinium
Professor Robert McEwan - Great Confederacy Of Commonwealth States
Leobardo "Leo" Herrera - Zarkenis Ultima

[G-Tech Corporation]

Gloricus tag focus maximums.

So, do we get MIB wipers?

[Nude East Ireland]

Gloricus tag focus maximums.

So, do we get MIB wipers?

Maybe.

I'm cynical enough to think that someone would rather get to work on time than notice a werewolf running through the streets.

[Utceforp]

By "some sort of talent" do you mean mundane (like high IQ or combat ability) or magical? (like shooting fireballs from your hands, but more creative than that.) That's not really clear.

[Reverend Norv]

Time have I none. Yet mine eye is upon this, and there may yet come an hour when I shall do more than watch.

[G-Tech Corporation]

Gloricus tag focus maximums.

So, do we get MIB wipers?

Maybe.

I'm cynical enough to think that someone would rather get to work on time than notice a werewolf running through the streets.

Heh, maybe they would. I certainly haven't stopped on my way to work to stare at a werewolf.

Questions:

1) Does the Society have any life-enhancing magics/potions/treatments/twaddle?
2) Is the Masquerade a debated point within the Society?

Because I'm devilishly tempted to make a Roman legionary from back when the Romans dealt with the supernatural in their own ways, who was inducted into the Society for being a bastard to weird things and thinks the Society should just tell everyone so the pure-blooded men can wipe out all others in fire.

[Swith Witherward]

This is not a tag, of course, because I would never do such a thing.

[Constaniana]

I claim this post in the name of Her Majesty. Rule Britannia, Britannia tags the waves.

[Nude East Ireland]

By "some sort of talent" do you mean mundane (like high IQ or combat ability) or magical? (like shooting fireballs from your hands, but more creative than that.) That's not really clear.

The former.

Time have I none. Yet mine eye is upon this, and there may yet come an hour when I shall do more than watch.

Good to know.

This is not a tag, of course, because I would never do such a thing.

Of course not.

I claim this post in the name of Her Majesty. Rule Britannia, Britannia tags the waves.

Goddamn Brits.

Maybe.

I'm cynical enough to think that someone would rather get to work on time than notice a werewolf running through the streets.

Heh, maybe they would. I certainly haven't stopped on my way to work to stare at a werewolf.

Questions:

1) Does the Society have any life-enhancing magics/potions/treatments/twaddle?
2) Is the Masquerade a debated point within the Society?

Because I'm devilishly tempted to make a Roman legionary from back when the Romans dealt with the supernatural in their own ways, who was inducted into the Society for being a bastard to weird things and thinks the Society should just tell everyone so the pure-blooded men can wipe out all others in fire.

1. Yes.
2. I'm sure that there are those who would like to expose it all, but they are a minority. I'd prefer if your character was contemporary, but I trust you if you want to do that.

[Utceforp]

By "some sort of talent" do you mean mundane (like high IQ or combat ability) or magical? (like shooting fireballs from your hands, but more creative than that.) That's not really clear.

The former.

That's what I thought, I just wanted to make sure. I'm thinking of making an anthropologist or historian who is an asset to the Society due to being able to identify supernatural threats by the cultures that wrote about them.

[Nude East Ireland]

The former.

That's what I thought, I just wanted to make sure. I'm thinking of making an anthropologist or historian who is an asset to the Society due to being able to identify supernatural threats by the cultures that wrote about them.

That sounds really cool.

[G-Tech Corporation]

Name: Tiberius Scribonius Martellinus ("Tiber" | Alias "Viktor Nemtsov")
Age: Pretty old.
Sex: Masculine.
Appearance: Tiberius stands slightly over six and a half feet tall, or about six and three-quarters Roman feet- in his life before the Society he was accorded a giant of a man, but as the centuries have wound onwards his height has gradually shrunk from gigantic to merely tall. Of Italian descent, the combatant is swarthy of skin, dark-eyed and a deep brunette, wearing his hair short in a habitual military style for all the fact that the fashion has been out of style for millenia. His face is a mass of short scars, straight slashes from swords or arrows mixed with a long gash of claws that has rendered the left side a ruin of knotted tissue and a metal plate bolted over where his eye was which bears a small black lenses. Whipcord muscles cover his body and he has the exact grace of a fencer. Less of a beefcake than he was, Tiberius in the present era values speed and stamina over raw strength, for he no longer goes into battle in the armor of the ages past. A mere lorica of segmented carbonfonan protects him from harm, and he favors a utilitarian design of trousers and a close-fitted greatcoat in terms of attire, tending towards deep sable with accents of bright color.
Personality: Despite his advanced age and grizzled appearance, "Viktor" retains his youthful exuberance for both wine and wenches, as the colloquial term is, though obviously opportunities at either are rather limited in the service of the Society. His relative chronological separation from comrades means he is rarely serious around others, having seen a thousand comrades come and go, die and grow old. This is merely an insulating measure though, the curse of the near-immortal. A studied man of disciplines despite his cavalier attitudes, Tiber is clean-spoken and shaven, and devotes several hours a day to combat practice and calisthenics when allowed by his deployment cycles.
Strengths/Special Skills: Tiberius is very old. In the thousand years and more since the time of his first encounter with a "supernatural" beast the veteran has met most of them in combat, win or lose. Often a fount of wisdom for the Society on how to fight particularly odd beasts on a practical level, his knowledge is vast, but has grown somewhat erratic and corrupted over the long centuries. A very quick man for even a young fencer, in close combat Tiberius is sudden death with his metalglas gladius, his fighting style having shifted over the years from the group-based doctrines of the Legion to incorporate the many different forms of combat he has engaged in or been wounded by. His left "eye" is also a rudimentary infrared scanning array that replaced his shattered optic nerve, allowing Tiberius to see into the spectrum of heat to a small extent, which can prove valuable when fighting at night or in low-visibility conditions.
Weaknesses: Tiberius is set in his ways- from some standpoints his adaptation to the modern world is stunning, but even that adaptation has left him a bit fuzzy on modern concepts, and he is woefully average when it comes to matters of electronics/combustion engines/other matters invented after the Renaissance. As such his grasp of tactical situations involving complicated tactics with those newer inventions is shaky at best. Additionally his lack of any depth perception makes him only reliable as a ranged combatant when issued with a weapon that fires straight and preferably doesn't need to hit to be dangerous. He is known in Society circles for using an autocannon with explosive bullets to shred foes, a hilarious dangerous proposition to anything within a few body-lengths of his "target".
Biography: Tiberius was born to House Martellinus in the Roman province of Moesia Inferior in the year 747 AUC, or as it would come to be known, the year 85 AD, a son of Roman colonists in the wild and untamed region. Growing to manhood in the agricultural settings of the province, Tiberius was trained for war by his father and the captain of the guard of Novae, the nearby city of Roman garrison in the region at the behest of his somewhat influential father. Like his male line before him, Tiberius was inducted into the legions at the age of sixteen, and assigned to Legio XIII Gemina, the Pia Fidelis. After serving with distinction in the line -and surviving the high casualties of action- in both Dacian Wars, the still-young man requested and was given a transfer to serve in the Legio X Fretensis as decanus. Tiber marched under Trajan in his Parthian campaign, and was elevated to the rank of centurion after fighting on the walls at Ctesiphon and commanding the men when his commanding officer was killed by a Parthian javelin. When Trajan died unexpectedly after his successful campaign, some of the men said it was the only time they saw the Dacian centurion weep, for Tiber had seen death claim the greatest emperor any of the soldiers had ever seen or heard of, save Augustus. When Hadrian handed over Ctesiphon to the Parthians as part of a peace agreement in 117, there were those who earnestly considered revolt, and Tiberius may have been among them, remembering the blood spilt and dead friends from the sack of the city. During the slow ignominious Roman retreat from Mesopotamia, Tiberius was first brought to the attention of the Kadmon Society when he slew three jinn raised by insurgents in the Jewish communities of the northern Tigris using nothing but his gladius and a silver amulet of Mithras. The same beasts killed most of his century alongside several hundred rebels, but when the sun rose after the midnight attack none of the guerrillas that had attacked the camp drew breath. Swearing a campaign of vengeance against the sorcerers who had raised such beasts against soldiers of Rome, Tiberius and elements of the X Fretensis waged a personal war of extermination against any suspected purveyors of the arcane in the region for nearly a year, during which time the Dacian gained knowledge about the strange rituals that bound the beasts and how to defeat them, slaying over two dozen alongside his men. With the region cowed and pacified eventually, Tiber was approached by representatives of the Society during the march back to Palestine, and was receptive to their service, vowing to fight alongside them against the threat of the abominations once he had fulfilled his own vows to the Empire. The Dacian was part of the tail end of the Kitos War, and saw action with the Legion again. Following that time, he served continuing with the Tenth in quiet garrison work while taking on tasks from the Society and semi-official engagements from his commanders to hunt down separatists, insurgents, and other rebels, who often were used as license by his allies in the Society to work with Tiberius and eliminate threats to humanity. As he grew older the Society, respecting his prowess in battle and extensive knowledge of practical tactics for fighting the various abominations of the Near East, confirmed his dosage with the Waters of Life. This rare treatment extended his natural lifespan nearly indefinitely, and eventually Tiberius mustered out of the X Firentis after his twenty five years of service, still maintaining the fighting prowess and speed of a man half his technical age. Having fulfilled his duty to an Emperor he did not love, the Dacian was free to pursue his work with the Society exclusively, taking on many names and cutting a bloody swathe across Mesopotamia and the Silk Road region alongside other warriors of the Society. As far as China they traveled, learning about their foes and keeping the balance between man and otherworldly beast- Tiberius was nearly killed by a Gobi Death Worm impaling him, but those who have drunk of the Waters are very hard to kill if they cling to life, and the Roman had much to live for. As the ages drew on he took up residence first in the Byzantine Empire, once Rome herself was desecrated, fighting beasts from the steppes and Germanic wastes in what was his former homeland, a role which saw him become an accomplished slayer of dread shadows and blood-drinkers from the frozen north who infested the land as the light of civilization retreated. Eventually the Society and Tiberius followed civilization north and east, to the heart of the rising Russian Empire, where he acquired his sobriquet of "Viktor" and current alias fighting the horrors that lurk between cities in the trackless wastes, as well as the fetid things that crawl in the coal-mines and crowded streets as industry came to the continent. During the Age of Sail he traveled extensively under the auspices of both the British and the Portugese, and was one of the first men ashore in Australia, for the Society needed to know what dangers lurked in the land devoid of men. Upon returning eventually to the Society lodgement in Russia, "Viktor" became embroiled in the shadow war at the heart of the industrialized era that spurred the world on to modern warfare and destruction, though he ultimately failed. The supernaturals triumphed that day. One of the beasts, an immense were-wolf larger than three men, took his eye during the time of the Revolution, though the swordsman slew it and its fellows in the wreckage of the old Winter Palace as the Empire tore itself apart in bloody spasms of revolt and counter-revolt. Since the Waters of Life were destroyed during the British campaign on the Ottoman Empire during the time of the First World War, Tiber's memory has begun slowly deteriorating, no longer supported by the forces of creation. He still remains one of the most accomplished combatants of the entire order, though, and is frequently consulted by even experienced elders as to historical points of order and stratagems to fight more uncommon beasts.

RP Sample:
Darkness and Depravities

[Ceannairceach]

Name: Kattalin Bidarte
Age: 31
Sex: Female
Appearance: A wavy-haired woman of short stature, Kattalin rises only to the height of five feet, but is deceptively agile and fast for such a small soul. Thin and lanky, she often relies on that speed to make up for the muscles she lacks. Calluses and scars have covered her hands and feet, leaving the image of the years of wear and tear they have seen: healed burn scars are the most noticeable things on her palms, tempered from years of handling combustive and corrosive material. Her jaw is triangular, coming to a point at her chin, and she is starting to show signs of aging through various laugh lines and wrinkles.
Personality: Kattalin is a generally optimistic and energetic person, enjoying the little things in life as best she can. She has often been called combative, though, even arrogant, to the point that others find her a trial to work with: often critical and demeaning of the work of others, she means it in jest, but her jokes can move from friendly to genuinely hurtful or even detrimental very quickly. She has little respect for authority, save for that of the Church, and is often cited for ignoring or going against orders in favor of acting independently, and were it not for her success in her chosen skill would have likely been terminated years ago. The only earthly thing she still pays reverence to is the Holy Father, the Pope, as the representative to God on Earth; she is very religious, and is known to halt her progress in a mission to utter prayers before allowing herself to continue.
Strengths/Special Skills: Although generally skilled as a scout and with light arms, Kattalin's real specialty is with demolitions and sabotage: having graduated from the University of the Basque Country at the age of twenty-two with a masters in mining engineering and an explosive engineering minor, she has always had a way with bombs and destruction. Having put these skills to practical use as a part of the Basque separatists in the ETA, she has the theoretical as well as practical knowledge to make use of her particular set of skills to great effect. Since becoming a field operative, she has also taken the time to study movement techniques, especially the French style of Parkour, which she finds especially useful in city environs: although she is not strong enough to be exceedingly effective at the art, she has made use of it when having to make her own way out of a hot zone. Also, growing up in the border country, she speaks a number of languages, including Basque, Spanish, French and passing conversational English from her time in university.
Weaknesses: Kattalin is well known, and nigh universally disliked for, her up front and rude way of dealing with teammates: she has a habit of pushing boundaries past the acceptable point for people on their level of acquaintance, and several past partners, both in the Society and previous to her enlistment, have made serious reports to her superiors that she needs a lesson in teamwork and respect. In what she believes to be a lighthearted joke she is overly critical of the work of others, and openly mocks them to their face and to others, with little care for their sensitivities. In her mind, she has no problem whatsoever: it is those who cannot take the joke who are at fault, and once they see past their humorless state, they will warm up to her, surely.

Beyond that mental handicap, she is also physically weak. Barely able to lift a hundred pounds without crumbling under it, she has to seriously consider what she can carry with her on any given day, and given the nature of her job, that often means forgoing the most effective means of destruction in favor of the lightest and most abundant. What's more, her overconfidence means that she often doesn't chose the best option, believing that a few hours of tortuous weight is a very small price to pay for a bigger boom.
Biography: Born to Ekain and Itsaso Bidarte in the city of Bilbao, Kattalin has always been the spunky one in her family: while her brothers and sisters tended to the house with groans and complaints, Kattalin led the charge into the kitchen with a dozen plates in hand every night to set the table for dinner, despite never needing any more than half that number. She was enthusiastic about everything, moving from task to task with a fierce grace no matter the challenge, always quick to deride her siblings for their slow grasp of their daily chores. This bred in her a surprisingly efficient work ethic, one that would carry her through youth and into womanhood, based around the uplifting of her ego through the derision of others, climbing to success on the broken and bruised corpses of her fellows' mental states.

Kattalin's intelligence and strong work ethic would get her in and out of trouble both at home and at school, however. She was seen as a bully, and often her parents had to discipline her for lashing out at either her siblings or her fellow students. More than once did they have to pull her out of school for the day at the request of it's administrators, and scold her for bringing another child to tears. Although she became exceedingly good at feigning remorse, in truth, she felt no need to apologize for the feelings of others; it was their fault for being stupid, she would think, and their fault for not laughing at her joke at their expense. Eventually, she learned the acceptable limits that she could push her fellow students and others to without getting in trouble, but it was always a balancing act between wanting to mock the weak and stupid around her and the need to stay out of trouble.

At the age of sixteen, she fell in to the trap that were the teachings of her mentor, a local "revolutionary" by the name of Elazar Braga, a Portuguese-Basque man with, as she would describe it, an addicting personality. She met him at a rally he was holding in Bilbao, where he told the youths of the city of the struggle that the Basque people had against the oppressors in Madrid and Paris, and how it was the duty of every Basque to fight for the liberation of their homeland, whatever the cost. It is not enough to say that she was mesmerized by his words: a more apt word would be "enthralled," or perhaps "awakened," as she would put it. The moment he finished speaking, she followed him for the next two months, going to every rally, every protest, every event that he attended, let alone spoke at. Finally he appeared at an underground recruitment drive for Basque Country's homegrown "freedom fighters," known as the Euskadi Ta Askatasuna, or ETA, and enlisted immediately.

Unfortunately, her "skills" as a teenager in school left much to be desired, and she was made to go through training with the local chapters, which included rigorous physical practice, as well as shooting and mental tasks. Although it was clear to her instructors through these programs that she sorely lacked strength necessary to be an outright insurgent, her willingness to learn put her on a direct path to become a specialized agent of some sort. It was her success with homebrewed Thermite that truly sold them on the matter, and her excellent performance in a field test melting train tracks with it that truly convinced them to train her in demolitions. For a year she studied under their own masters, but found their techniques wanting: simple hidden explosives and homemade charges did little to spark creativity in her mind, and as such, she requested the permission to attend the University of the Basque Country to truly study the concepts and designs behind explosives.

She entered the university at eighteen, and although she was no longer an active member of the ETA during that period, she maintained her nationalism through advocacy in the school's Basque cultural group, where she taught others of the strength of the separatist movement, and the future of a free Basque Country. Unfortunately, her domineering personality pushed many people away, and some have joked that she has done more to deter insurgents than any police raid or military action. But personality conflicts aside, in university, she flourished, spending the four years there in study, producing in the end a twenty-two year old woman with a degree in mining engineering with a minor in explosive engineering, and a deep passion and understanding of the art of demolitions and sabotage.

She returned to duty with the ETA after graduation, quickly becoming well known for a select few high profile missions against the Spanish government. She was given the code name La Pequeñita, or Little One, by the Spanish police based on what little security footage they could find of her demolitions, but she evaded capture and, more importantly, the reveal of her identity for the entirety of her time in the ETA, never being given the chance by the separatists to truly do something groundbreaking that would push her into the public eye. She resented the leadership for this, thinking that their limiting nature was holding the Basque people back from true victory against the Spaniards.

At the age of twenty-seven she came into contact with the Kadmon society and it's enemies, more specifically, a giant by the name of Tartalo who had plagued men - and sheep - for millennia. Of course, that wasn't her intent: she was merely hiding in the countryside with her team of saboteurs and militants, waiting for extraction. It was their that they met the blind giant, whose cave they were hiding in; he was deadly in his hearing ability, and was able to kill two of her team before they could return fire. While her fellows fought and died, Kattalin was busy placing explosives at the mouth of the cave, intent on burying herself and the monster underneath a fine layer of earth and rock. When one of the gunman was thrown past her and the monster advanced, she uttered short prayers and prepared to trip the mechanism, but was saved by a hail of gunfire from outside the cave.

At first, she thought it was her team, recuperating and launching a counterattack. But she had counted the number of screams that had been silenced by bloody cracking, and deduced them all to be dead or severely wounded. Next she imagined it to be Spanish police forces, hot on their trail by some means. Again, she was wrong, for when the beings entered the cave, they were clearly not Spanish troops of any sort she had seen before. Quickly in Spanish she alerted them to the explosives she had placed, and they took her advice and retreated quickly. Once the last man had exited the cave, she ignited the fuse, and ran as fast as she could in the other direction. The monster barely set foot outside the cave when the charges went off, burying him as expected underneath a good layer of earth and riddling his body with shrapnel.

The soldiers she met revealed as they tended to the wounded that they were operatives of the Kadmon Society, a group of monster hunters of sorts dedicated to the safety of human civilization against the likes of the giant, and far worse. Although they didn't have the authority to recruit her, they promised that after they spoke with the ETA's leadership about keeping this event quiet, they would recommend to their superiors that she be recruited as soon as possible, as a thank you for the aid she provided.

True to their word, in the coming weeks she was contacted by the Society and offered a permanent position within their ranks, as they were impressed by her capabilities and confidence with explosive material in the face of danger, and willingness to sacrifice herself for her goal. She accepted, and as a part of the deal the Spanish state agreed to give her a general, secret amnesty for her past transgressions, with the understanding that she would not continue her insurgent activities against Spain afterwords. This was fine to her: she grew tired of the stalled hostilities between Spain and the ETA, and with peace on the horizon, she felt as if the organization had changed greatly since her joining a decade previous.

She fell into line as a demolition's specialist within the Society, and quickly found a place for herself as a well respected field operative, learning great new things about the secrets kept from the common man. Never before did she imagine a world of monsters and magic, but damned be her if she didn't intend on exploring it.

RP Sample: I haven't RP'd on Nationstates in a while, so instead, here's the tale of my character in a Vampire: The Masquerade game I'm playing in.

Early Days

Baldr was born in 830 to farmers in Vestfold, in the ancient settlement of Kampang. Were anyone alive from this time to meet Baldr now, he would be completely foreign, save for his appearance. As a child, he was carefree and docile, playing with the village's children, helping his father on the farm and listening to the stories that the vikings told around the campfires at night. He cared and wanted for nothing: the village was his life, his world, and nothing outside of it interested him in the slightest.

This changed when a particularly long winter threatened the family with starvation. Desperate for help, Baldr's father Sigurdr Olafsson sold his plows, thralls and infertile land for a sword, shield and a spot on the next raiding party heading for the south. When he came back weeks later, he came bearing jewels, silver and, most importantly, food.

For the rest of the winter, they lived like kings.

Unfortunately, with no land to till and their treasure running out, Sigurdr was forced to once again risk life and limb to provide for his family. With a tussle of his child's hair and a last kiss to his wife, he set off once more, sword in hand and shield at his back.

He, nor the ship he set out on, never returned.

Rage Against Thy Master

Forced into poverty, Baldr's mother took drastic action and finalized their losses, selling their home and becoming a concubine to a local warrior. Baldr became a pest in that household, nothing more than a post to be beaten when convenient. His mother popped out two children for the viking, while Baldr was forced to fight for even the right to eat every night. Some nights he lost, the man's hounds or other children bruising, cutting and tearing him, but those losses coalesced into a strong young man willing to fight for what he needed.

Eventually, as he became more and more able to fend off the attacks of the other children, he was allowed to join them in their practices and games, if only due to their fear that he might slip into their rooms one night and release rats into their beds, or again so handily beat them back during an ambush. It was here that his years of martial training under their merciless bullying paid off: with a practice sword in hand, he soundly crushed every opponent that dared to enter the dueling circle. His strikes always hit home, and almost always left a welt or bruise that would not fade for weeks.

He proved equally skillful at the more tactical games, especially their mock battles and shield walls. Baldr led his team to victory time and time again during these play campaigns, one time not even losing a single boy to the enemy blades through the clever use of “archers” with rocks and slings. “That's cheating,” one boy cried. “That's war,” Baldr laughed.

Despite his successes, Baldr was still far from the first selected to join the viking crews that set sail for Britain every few months. It drove him mad with restlessness, until finally he demanded a position upon the ship of his mother's benefactor, the viking Bjark Fiskesson. The now older but still strong man laughed in Baldr's face: he called him a woman, and said he would never have a place on his or any ship.

To this, Baldr spit in his face, and demanded a Holmgang, a duel, to defend his honor against such insults. Bjark accepted, and the terms were set; they would meet in four days time on the small, nameless island an hour's row from shore, and would fight to yield or death. Three shields would be allotted each, and the weapon of each man would be chosen at will.

Baldr left at first light for the island, with food, his three shields and his chosen weapon: a rune-inscribed axe that his father had brought back from that initial excursion to the west. He waited there for three days, and on the fourth, Bjark arrived on his longship, bringing with him a party of men and women, including his mother and half siblings, Ake and Olvr, as well as several other of his children.

Bjark had been drinking, obviously confident in his victory over the young Baldr. They met at the shore of the island, and Baldr once again declared the terms: three shields, any weapons, to death or yield. Bjark would strike first, as the challenged. The winner would gain the losers possessions in the event of their death, or a full weregeld if they yielded, and the honor of victory. “What possessions do you even have to offer,” Bjark joked. “Yours, soon enough,” retorted Baldr.

They faced each other at an ox's distance, and after three slams of their weapons against their shields, the battle was joined.

Bjark fought like a man possessed, despite his heavy drinking that day. He proved himself worthy of his reputation, moving like lightning with his sword as he crossed the distance between him and Baldr. It was only Baldr's quick senses that saved his life as he rolled out of the way to dodge the coming blow that would have surely shattered his shield.

This game of cat and mouse continued on for several minutes, with Bjark charging and Baldr quickly dodging or carefully parrying. Bjark grew tired of this quickly, however, and broke off his attack, instead moving to the offensive, slightly winded from his constant advances. With a smile that shone through his blond beard, Baldr yelled, “And now, we begin!”

With reckless abandon he dove at Bjark's shield, axe raised. Bjark hardened his grip and prepared for the slam of the axe, only to witness his doom from the corner of his eye: Baldr had dropped his shield, and in its stead pulled a long seax from his belt. In one heavy blow it is said that he cracked Bjark's shield clean in half, requiring the battle to pause while he was tossed another. This respite of seconds was not enough to recover, however, as Baldr was once again upon him the moment the shield rested on his arm.

Crossing the distance at equal speed to his enemy, Baldr held his axe high and hooked the end of it over the top of the shield. Pulling it down, he stared into the fearful eyes of Bjark for just a moment, a sweet, tender moment, before he plunged the seax into his unguarded neck, withdrawing it only to stab again in his eye and cheek.

The crowd was stunned. Some of Bjarks concubines collapsed in fright, while all stood in awe of the bloody Baldr standing over Bjark Fiskesson's beaten body. Pulling his small weapon from the man's head, he pulled back his axe and with a mighty swing lopped his head clean off, and then kicked the torso to the ground.

Baldr was named victor that day. His enemy's children demanded justice, but the laws of his people were soundly on his side: the challenge had been accepted, and Baldr had emerged victorious, and as such all his enemy's possessions now belonged to him by right of the Holmgang.

That is not to say that vengeance was not attempted. For the next few years, his former bullies and sparring partners would make several attempts on his life, either in secret or through open challenge. He made a point to never kill a single one: rather, he left them without limbs or appendages, horrendously scarred so that they may ever remember the brutal treatment they levied against him.

To England, To Glory

His mother died two years after the death of Bjark, in 852. Alone in the world and craving new worlds, Baldr sold off all of Bjark's former estates and bought a ship and crew. With it, he set sail for Britain, intent on gaining fame and fortune through the shedding of English blood.

His campaign there lasted for years; every so often, he would return home, ship laden with valuables hard won from the Anglo-Saxon kingdoms of England. He used this money to finance a modest hall and home in his native Vestfold, building it up brick by brick into a respectable keep. His half-brothers helped him, for a time, but they would seek their own paths in the world themselves in time. He heard that Ake had gone to Byzantium eventually, joining the Varangians until he lost an arm in the service to the Emperor. He would join the priesthood to their god Christ after that, preaching to his former brethren of the glories of his southern God. Olvr died in Brittany, killed by men of the Duke. It is said he continued to kill even as his head left his shoulders.

Baldr's life of raiding grew almost tiresome, until the late 860s, when the sons of the great hero Ragnar called for all brave men to flock to their banner as they prepared to invade Northumbria, in response to the king there executing their great father. Having heard the tales of Ragnar Lobrok and his mighty sons, Baldr did not hesitate in swearing his ship, shield and axe to the cause of Ivar the Boneless and his brother Halfdan.

For years he fought alongside the Great Heathen Army in their attempted conquest of England, until one dark night in 867. Having just set camp now far from the settlement that is now called Cardiff, in Wales, Baldr's party was set upon; his men were murdered one by one in their sleep, and Baldr only became aware when he awoke to the screams arising from the next tent over. With barely enough time to heft his shield and axe, Baldr greeted the figure that entered his tent with an axe straight to the forehead.

Kicking the corpse through the tent's flap, he emerged with a charge and scream of defiance, only to be silenced by the scene that surrounded him: men and women were wrapping themselves around his brave warriors, drinking blood from their necks, arms and legs. He sat their stunned for only a moment before he began cleaving the head of the nearest bloodsucker. It was not long before he was overcome, however, and his axe wrenched from his hand, the butt of which was used to rend him unconscious.

From Viking to Vampire

In what felt like ages later, he woke up, tired and hungry. The world felt different, then, than it did before: he felt heavier, and yet like he was flying. He thought he might be dead, having been slain by what he assumed to be draugr, the walking dead, and perhaps in Odin's hall in Valhalla.

Unfortunately this dream was shattered by a smiling man painted in blue that greeted him, first in the native tongue of the Britons and then in his familiar Norse. The man identified himself as the Warden, and told the delirious Baldr of his mission: to push back the invading Norsemen, who unknowingly served the whims of men he called “Gangrel.” He mocked Baldr when he began damning him to Odin's wrath or Thor's vengeance, claiming that both were powerful Gangrel that had tricked his people into thinking them gods.

While Baldr raged internally but found himself unable to break his physical weakness, the man explained himself: he was what he called a vampire, Kindred as he called them, a member of the learned clan Brujah. He was embracing warriors and thinkers across Britain in an attempt to stave off the Gangrel Norse invasion, and Baldr was to be the final piece to his puzzle, the inside man who would cause havoc within the Danelaw. The Warden explained that to nourish himself, Baldr would have to drink the blood of the innocents: it would grant him power, but there were costs, such as an aversion to sunlight and fire. But, should he remain fed, Baldr would live forever.

Understanding the shock of the news, the Warden left Baldr alone with a flask of blood to think about what he had said. He told Baldr that once he came to terms with his new role in life, he would teach him all he knew of his new unlife.

Unfortunately for the Warden and his machinations, Baldr had other plans. Playing the hand he was dealt, he consumed every last drop of the liquid that was handed to him greedily, savoring its taste on his lips. After a few moments, he felt his strength return, and he took stock of his surroundings. He was in a fur-and-hide tent, and if his ears did not lie, he was near the sea. Likely not far from where his men were ambushed, if his memory didn't lie.

Rising to his feet he got his bearings and did the only thing that seemed rational at the time: he ran. He ran straight through flap of the tent, out of the encampment, into the woods and into the hills. For a short time he heard people following him. Soon enough, though, he stopped hearing the shouts and footsteps, but even then he kept running. Running until he was sure he had crossed from southern Wales into Mercia.

When dawn began to approach, Baldr sensed it. When the sun began to peek its rays out from above the horizon, he felt it. He heeded the man's warning and ran for cover, hiding in a nearby hovel. A woodsman lived there, but not for long: Baldr killed him and drank him dry. He felt no remorse then: it was his instinct, and although he would regret it later, he had no time to think of the man's life. He shuttered the windows, dove under the bed, and slept.

Over the next few weeks he would repeat this cycle of running during the night and sleeping during the day until he finally found himself among his people, at an encampment in York. He tried to tell him what he saw, what he was, but none believed him: Baldr the Mad, they called him. Baldr the Brainless.

That is, until he began seeing a whole new side to the army he had thought so long with. He began to smell them: those like him, the Kindred in their midst. He didn't know how he had gone so long without smelling their stench, like a wet dog's shit.

He would find himself another ship, and another crew, selling off what little treasure he had with him for it. He sailed around Britain several times looking for an answer, but found none, or at least none that he liked. Eventually he fell in line with the others like him: they told him what little they knew, of his curse and of theirs. He learned of the clans, of the wars that their kind waged against one another, of the great Jyhad and of the other worse kept secrets of the Kindred. He learned, and he took every grain of knowledge to heart.

Decades of Struggle

The next few decades Baldr would spend investing in the practice of his new abilities. He discovered them rather quickly, some through trial and error and some through the advice of others, mostly charitable Brujah who weren't willing to see their fellow clanmate suffer in ignorance. His crew began to know him as the Night Terror, for he would only strike at night and sleep during the day. Eventually, when they would begin to grow suspicious of his odd habits, he would disband the crew and start again fresh with a new name and a new crew.

This life of pillaging and raiding the British Isles grew tiresome and boring for Baldr, though. As far as he reckoned, he would never age nor die of natural causes save for the inherent weaknesses of his kind, and he did not want to spend eternity plucking the treasures from the increasingly more resistant Anglo-Saxons. The Great Heathen Army had since receded back to Scandinavia, and every year less and less raiders left port for Britain.

So, he decided that it was time to return home. With a ship laden with treasures and a crew selected for one final journey, he returned to Vestland to see what trouble he could find there.

He would spend the next century fighting for local warlords or being one himself. He witnessed the creeping christanization of his home, and resisted: he wasn't willing to believe the Warden and his rumor of Odin being a Kindred. He refused to trust that man in anything beyond advice for his survival, and so he kept to his own gods, in a fashion. Even tales from other vampires of the mythical Caine being of a product of a curse levied by Christ's god was not enough to sway him, and after that, nothing was ever going to.

Three Century's Sleep

Unfortunately, despite his skill and finesse with battle, Baldr was not immortal, as he discovered one day in 1066. While fighting for the last great pagan lord in Sweden, Erik the Heathen, he sustained heavy injuries to the point that he found himself bloodless and alone at his home in Vestfold. He managed to crawl himself into one of the sub-basements, only to fall into torpor, where he would stay for the next two and a half centuries.

His lands would change hands several times over the years, although not one discovered – or dare open – his makeshift tomb at the bottom of his keep. Until, that is, a man by the name of Olmr Haakonsson bought the land in 1300, and, knowing instinctively what lay below it, broke through the barrier and fed the hungry soul within it.

Baldr did not know what Olmr's intention was. Perhaps he was merely a concerned ally to the Kindred. Perhaps he knew of them and wished to strike a bargain in exchange for his freedom. Baldr would never know, as he killed him upon exiting Torpor. He did not mean to: the Beast within broke free upon his awakening, and when Baldr regained control, Olmr was dead at his feet. Mortified and confused, Baldr braved the Red Fear and took a torch to his once great home, burning all that was inside to the ground while he made his way east, to the land he remembered as the home of the Slavs: Russia.


Russian Renegade

Baldr would spend the next half a century working for various Russian warlords and other Eastern European powers, ranging from the Lithuanians who fought to expand their land against the great Mongol armies, to the Russian princes who tried to maintain some semblance of power against invaders from every direction, to disparate Kindred rulers who required the services of a warrior. As he traveled, he learned what he could of the years he had lost, although little could be gathered, save from the books he managed to find along the way, chronicles of ages long since past.

He learned much in his travels: he heard of rising new clans, of clans being destroyed, of powers invading from the east the likes of which he could not even fathom. These things did not scare him, though: the only thing that scared him now was the endless sleep of torpor, a thing he studied and inquired about at every avenue. He learned little that he did not already know: how the more human a Kindred is, the less likely he'll sleep for long, and how blood can be used to rise should a vampire have some in him. With this knowledge, Baldr changed his ways: he still sold his axe, but he was more mindful of the people he used it against, and made his best effort to use it justly and with honor.

He looked back on his life and unlife with some regrets: not for the hard won victories against worthy opponents, but for the raids and murders against those who could not defend themselves. He never pretended that certain things were not necessary: the death of his mother's master, or the stealing for his very survival were surely just, if harsh. But did so many need to die so that he might line his hall with goblets and jewels?

The more he learned, the more he discovered the depth of his kind's society: the politics and games they played, the wars they waged, the allies and the enemies. It was a disorienting experience for one who had practically ignored the more philosophical side of his heritage in favor of honing his physical skills.

Eventually, he abandoned his quest for wealth in Russia completely, and at the insistence of local friends he had made along the way, turned his attention south, to a city where, it was said, a Kindred may find anything he was looking for. He made his way to the Great City, Miklagard. Constantinople.

Here and Now

Finding himself in Constantinople with only his axe, shield and armor, and not a bit of an understanding of Greek, the odds were stacked against Baldr. Eventually he found a community of his people, the Norse, who called themselves Varangians. They told tales about how their people guarded the Emperor of Rome to this very day, long after they stopped forming the bulk of his majesty's imperial protectors. With the help of these people he slowly became more and more fluent in Greek, until he was finally able to passably make conversation with a local.

The next decade was spent by Baldr becoming accustomed to his new home: he learned of the politics of the city, both Kindred and Kine. He gained favor with local noblemen and leaders, becoming something of a legend: the great viking warrior, new to the city and willing to do hard, honorable work with his axe and shield. He became a bodyguard, a bouncer, a smuggler against various Ottoman attempts at blockade, and, finally, most recently, a soldier in his imperial majesty's army.

Baldr was at home most there, fighting against the Turk and the Slav as he released his rage against them, worthy foes who he could provide suitable combat. He proved himself time and time again on the battlefield, always in the thickest parts of battle, always there to help turn the tide or secure a successful retreat. Despite numerous changes to identity, eventually one came under notice of the Emperor himself. Baldr, after successfully defending the Emperor's cousin from a coup attempt, was given a position in the Imperial Guard, the personal bodyguard of the Emperor. He was one of the few Varangians who still had the honor of defending the Emperor with his life.

Baldr would bear the honor of his position for several years, until finally the Ottomans blockaded the city recently. With nowhere left to turn and the odds getting exceedingly desperate, Baldr has begun to think that the Empire of the Greeks may be at it's last breath. And he does not intend on being there when it draws it...

[Astrolinium]

There is no tag in Ba Sing Se.

[Zarkenis Ultima]

I'll join, like I said. I just need to think of what kind of character I want to have here. And, mostly, how to make him useful to the society. Would a negotiator be a helpful asset to the Kadom Society, or maybe a tamer of sorts?

[Nude East Ireland]

I'll join, like I said. I just need to think of what kind of character I want to have here. And, mostly, how to make him useful to the society. Would a negotiator be a helpful asset to the Kadom Society, or maybe a tamer of sorts?

Here is my advice; take both characters and put them in situations where they might be of little-to-no help. The negotiator has to stop a Wendigo from rampaging through the countryside and the tamer has to get a dwarf group to leave their ancestral home, for example. Find ways for each of them to solve the situation, and if one works better than the other, go with that character.

The idea of having characters with unique skill sets is to, sometimes, force you to think of creative ways to solve a situation. An expert on Ancient Greek tomes captures a shoggoth? Awesome.

[Nude East Ireland]

Name: Tiberius Scribonius Martellinus ("Tiber" | Alias "Viktor Nemtsov")
Age: Pretty old.
Sex: Masculine.
Appearance: Tiberius stands slightly over six and a half feet tall, or about six and three-quarters Roman feet- in his life before the Society he was accorded a giant of a man, but as the centuries have wound onwards his height has gradually shrunk from gigantic to merely tall. Of Italian descent, the combatant is swarthy of skin, dark-eyed and a deep brunette, wearing his hair short in a habitual military style for all the fact that the fashion has been out of style for millenia. His face is a mass of short scars, straight slashes from swords or arrows mixed with a long gash of claws that has rendered the left side a ruin of knotted tissue and a metal plate bolted over where his eye was which bears a small black lenses. Whipcord muscles cover his body and he has the exact grace of a fencer. Less of a beefcake than he was, Tiberius in the present era values speed and stamina over raw strength, for he no longer goes into battle in the armor of the ages past. A mere lorica of segmented carbonfonan protects him from harm, and he favors a utilitarian design of trousers and a close-fitted greatcoat in terms of attire, tending towards deep sable with accents of bright color.
Personality: Despite his advanced age and grizzled appearance, "Viktor" retains his youthful exuberance for both wine and wenches, as the colloquial term is, though obviously opportunities at either are rather limited in the service of the Society. His relative chronological separation from comrades means he is rarely serious around others, having seen a thousand comrades come and go, die and grow old. This is merely an insulating measure though, the curse of the near-immortal. A studied man of disciplines despite his cavalier attitudes, Tiber is clean-spoken and shaven, and devotes several hours a day to combat practice and calisthenics when allowed by his deployment cycles.
Strengths/Special Skills: Tiberius is very old. In the thousand years and more since the time of his first encounter with a "supernatural" beast the veteran has met most of them in combat, win or lose. Often a fount of wisdom for the Society on how to fight particularly odd beasts on a practical level, his knowledge is vast, but has grown somewhat erratic and corrupted over the long centuries. A very quick man for even a young fencer, in close combat Tiberius is sudden death with his metalglas gladius, his fighting style having shifted over the years from the group-based doctrines of the Legion to incorporate the many different forms of combat he has engaged in or been wounded by. His left "eye" is also a rudimentary infrared scanning array that replaced his shattered optic nerve, allowing Tiberius to see into the spectrum of heat to a small extent, which can prove valuable when fighting at night or in low-visibility conditions.
Weaknesses: Tiberius is set in his ways- from some standpoints his adaptation to the modern world is stunning, but even that adaptation has left him a bit fuzzy on modern concepts, and he is woefully average when it comes to matters of electronics/combustion engines/other matters invented after the Renaissance. As such his grasp of tactical situations involving complicated tactics with those newer inventions is shaky at best. Additionally his lack of any depth perception makes him only reliable as a ranged combatant when issued with a weapon that fires straight and preferably doesn't need to hit to be dangerous. He is known in Society circles for using an autocannon with explosive bullets to shred foes, a hilarious dangerous proposition to anything within a few body-lengths of his "target".
Biography: Will think about this- obviously started Roman, went to modern. In progress.
RP Sample:
Darkness and Depravities

Very interesting, and accepted of course.

Name: Kattalin Bidarte
Age: 31
Sex: Female
Appearance: A wavy-haired woman of short stature, Kattalin rises only to the height of five feet, but is deceptively agile and fast for such a small soul. Thin and lanky, she often relies on that speed to make up for the muscles she lacks. Calluses and scars have covered her hands and feet, leaving the image of the years of wear and tear they have seen: healed burn scars are the most noticeable things on her palms, tempered from years of handling combustive and corrosive material. Her jaw is triangular, coming to a point at her chin, and she is starting to show signs of aging through various laugh lines and wrinkles.
Personality: Kattalin is a generally optimistic and energetic person, enjoying the little things in life as best she can. She has often been called combative, though, even arrogant, to the point that others find her a trial to work with: often critical and demeaning of the work of others, she means it in jest, but her jokes can move from friendly to genuinely hurtful or even detrimental very quickly. She has little respect for authority, save for that of the Church, and is often cited for ignoring or going against orders in favor of acting independently, and were it not for her success in her chosen skill would have likely been terminated years ago. The only earthly thing she still pays reverence to is the Holy Father, the Pope, as the representative to God on Earth; she is very religious, and is known to halt her progress in a mission to utter prayers before allowing herself to continue.
Strengths/Special Skills: Although generally skilled as a scout and with light arms, Kattalin's real specialty is with demolitions and sabotage: having graduated from the University of the Basque Country at the age of twenty-two with a masters in mining engineering and an explosive engineering minor, she has always had a way with bombs and destruction. Having put these skills to practical use as a part of the Basque separatists in the ETA, she has the theoretical as well as practical knowledge to make use of her particular set of skills to great effect. Since becoming a field operative, she has also taken the time to study movement techniques, especially the French style of Parkour, which she finds especially useful in city environs: although she is not strong enough to be exceedingly effective at the art, she has made use of it when having to make her own way out of a hot zone.
Weaknesses: Kattalin is well known, and nigh universally disliked for, her up front and rude way of dealing with teammates: she has a habit of pushing boundaries past the acceptable point for people on their level of acquaintance, and several past partners, both in the Society and previous to her enlistment, have made serious reports to her superiors that she needs a lesson in teamwork and respect. In what she believes to be a lighthearted joke she is overly critical of the work of others, and openly mocks them to their face and to others, with little care for their sensitivities. In her mind, she has no problem whatsoever: it is those who cannot take the joke who are at fault, and once they see past their humorless state, they will warm up to her, surely.

Beyond that mental handicap, she is also physically weak. Barely able to lift a hundred pounds without crumbling under it, she has to seriously consider what she can carry with her on any given day, and given the nature of her job, that often means forgoing the most effective means of destruction in favor of the lightest and most abundant. What's more, her overconfidence means that she often doesn't chose the best option, believing that a few hours of tortuous weight is a very small price to pay for a bigger boom.
Biography: WIP, just want to get this up ASAP as a placeholder.
RP Sample: I haven't RP'd on Nationstates in a while, so instead, here's the tale of my character in a Vampire: The Masquerade game I'm playing in.

Early Days

Baldr was born in 830 to farmers in Vestfold, in the ancient settlement of Kampang. Were anyone alive from this time to meet Baldr now, he would be completely foreign, save for his appearance. As a child, he was carefree and docile, playing with the village's children, helping his father on the farm and listening to the stories that the vikings told around the campfires at night. He cared and wanted for nothing: the village was his life, his world, and nothing outside of it interested him in the slightest.

This changed when a particularly long winter threatened the family with starvation. Desperate for help, Baldr's father Sigurdr Olafsson sold his plows, thralls and infertile land for a sword, shield and a spot on the next raiding party heading for the south. When he came back weeks later, he came bearing jewels, silver and, most importantly, food.

For the rest of the winter, they lived like kings.

Unfortunately, with no land to till and their treasure running out, Sigurdr was forced to once again risk life and limb to provide for his family. With a tussle of his child's hair and a last kiss to his wife, he set off once more, sword in hand and shield at his back.

He, nor the ship he set out on, never returned.

Rage Against Thy Master

Forced into poverty, Baldr's mother took drastic action and finalized their losses, selling their home and becoming a concubine to a local warrior. Baldr became a pest in that household, nothing more than a post to be beaten when convenient. His mother popped out two children for the viking, while Baldr was forced to fight for even the right to eat every night. Some nights he lost, the man's hounds or other children bruising, cutting and tearing him, but those losses coalesced into a strong young man willing to fight for what he needed.

Eventually, as he became more and more able to fend off the attacks of the other children, he was allowed to join them in their practices and games, if only due to their fear that he might slip into their rooms one night and release rats into their beds, or again so handily beat them back during an ambush. It was here that his years of martial training under their merciless bullying paid off: with a practice sword in hand, he soundly crushed every opponent that dared to enter the dueling circle. His strikes always hit home, and almost always left a welt or bruise that would not fade for weeks.

He proved equally skillful at the more tactical games, especially their mock battles and shield walls. Baldr led his team to victory time and time again during these play campaigns, one time not even losing a single boy to the enemy blades through the clever use of “archers” with rocks and slings. “That's cheating,” one boy cried. “That's war,” Baldr laughed.

Despite his successes, Baldr was still far from the first selected to join the viking crews that set sail for Britain every few months. It drove him mad with restlessness, until finally he demanded a position upon the ship of his mother's benefactor, the viking Bjark Fiskesson. The now older but still strong man laughed in Baldr's face: he called him a woman, and said he would never have a place on his or any ship.

To this, Baldr spit in his face, and demanded a Holmgang, a duel, to defend his honor against such insults. Bjark accepted, and the terms were set; they would meet in four days time on the small, nameless island an hour's row from shore, and would fight to yield or death. Three shields would be allotted each, and the weapon of each man would be chosen at will.

Baldr left at first light for the island, with food, his three shields and his chosen weapon: a rune-inscribed axe that his father had brought back from that initial excursion to the west. He waited there for three days, and on the fourth, Bjark arrived on his longship, bringing with him a party of men and women, including his mother and half siblings, Ake and Olvr, as well as several other of his children.

Bjark had been drinking, obviously confident in his victory over the young Baldr. They met at the shore of the island, and Baldr once again declared the terms: three shields, any weapons, to death or yield. Bjark would strike first, as the challenged. The winner would gain the losers possessions in the event of their death, or a full weregeld if they yielded, and the honor of victory. “What possessions do you even have to offer,” Bjark joked. “Yours, soon enough,” retorted Baldr.

They faced each other at an ox's distance, and after three slams of their weapons against their shields, the battle was joined.

Bjark fought like a man possessed, despite his heavy drinking that day. He proved himself worthy of his reputation, moving like lightning with his sword as he crossed the distance between him and Baldr. It was only Baldr's quick senses that saved his life as he rolled out of the way to dodge the coming blow that would have surely shattered his shield.

This game of cat and mouse continued on for several minutes, with Bjark charging and Baldr quickly dodging or carefully parrying. Bjark grew tired of this quickly, however, and broke off his attack, instead moving to the offensive, slightly winded from his constant advances. With a smile that shone through his blond beard, Baldr yelled, “And now, we begin!”

With reckless abandon he dove at Bjark's shield, axe raised. Bjark hardened his grip and prepared for the slam of the axe, only to witness his doom from the corner of his eye: Baldr had dropped his shield, and in its stead pulled a long seax from his belt. In one heavy blow it is said that he cracked Bjark's shield clean in half, requiring the battle to pause while he was tossed another. This respite of seconds was not enough to recover, however, as Baldr was once again upon him the moment the shield rested on his arm.

Crossing the distance at equal speed to his enemy, Baldr held his axe high and hooked the end of it over the top of the shield. Pulling it down, he stared into the fearful eyes of Bjark for just a moment, a sweet, tender moment, before he plunged the seax into his unguarded neck, withdrawing it only to stab again in his eye and cheek.

The crowd was stunned. Some of Bjarks concubines collapsed in fright, while all stood in awe of the bloody Baldr standing over Bjark Fiskesson's beaten body. Pulling his small weapon from the man's head, he pulled back his axe and with a mighty swing lopped his head clean off, and then kicked the torso to the ground.

Baldr was named victor that day. His enemy's children demanded justice, but the laws of his people were soundly on his side: the challenge had been accepted, and Baldr had emerged victorious, and as such all his enemy's possessions now belonged to him by right of the Holmgang.

That is not to say that vengeance was not attempted. For the next few years, his former bullies and sparring partners would make several attempts on his life, either in secret or through open challenge. He made a point to never kill a single one: rather, he left them without limbs or appendages, horrendously scarred so that they may ever remember the brutal treatment they levied against him.

To England, To Glory

His mother died two years after the death of Bjark, in 852. Alone in the world and craving new worlds, Baldr sold off all of Bjark's former estates and bought a ship and crew. With it, he set sail for Britain, intent on gaining fame and fortune through the shedding of English blood.

His campaign there lasted for years; every so often, he would return home, ship laden with valuables hard won from the Anglo-Saxon kingdoms of England. He used this money to finance a modest hall and home in his native Vestfold, building it up brick by brick into a respectable keep. His half-brothers helped him, for a time, but they would seek their own paths in the world themselves in time. He heard that Ake had gone to Byzantium eventually, joining the Varangians until he lost an arm in the service to the Emperor. He would join the priesthood to their god Christ after that, preaching to his former brethren of the glories of his southern God. Olvr died in Brittany, killed by men of the Duke. It is said he continued to kill even as his head left his shoulders.

Baldr's life of raiding grew almost tiresome, until the late 860s, when the sons of the great hero Ragnar called for all brave men to flock to their banner as they prepared to invade Northumbria, in response to the king there executing their great father. Having heard the tales of Ragnar Lobrok and his mighty sons, Baldr did not hesitate in swearing his ship, shield and axe to the cause of Ivar the Boneless and his brother Halfdan.

For years he fought alongside the Great Heathen Army in their attempted conquest of England, until one dark night in 867. Having just set camp now far from the settlement that is now called Cardiff, in Wales, Baldr's party was set upon; his men were murdered one by one in their sleep, and Baldr only became aware when he awoke to the screams arising from the next tent over. With barely enough time to heft his shield and axe, Baldr greeted the figure that entered his tent with an axe straight to the forehead.

Kicking the corpse through the tent's flap, he emerged with a charge and scream of defiance, only to be silenced by the scene that surrounded him: men and women were wrapping themselves around his brave warriors, drinking blood from their necks, arms and legs. He sat their stunned for only a moment before he began cleaving the head of the nearest bloodsucker. It was not long before he was overcome, however, and his axe wrenched from his hand, the butt of which was used to rend him unconscious.

From Viking to Vampire

In what felt like ages later, he woke up, tired and hungry. The world felt different, then, than it did before: he felt heavier, and yet like he was flying. He thought he might be dead, having been slain by what he assumed to be draugr, the walking dead, and perhaps in Odin's hall in Valhalla.

Unfortunately this dream was shattered by a smiling man painted in blue that greeted him, first in the native tongue of the Britons and then in his familiar Norse. The man identified himself as the Warden, and told the delirious Baldr of his mission: to push back the invading Norsemen, who unknowingly served the whims of men he called “Gangrel.” He mocked Baldr when he began damning him to Odin's wrath or Thor's vengeance, claiming that both were powerful Gangrel that had tricked his people into thinking them gods.

While Baldr raged internally but found himself unable to break his physical weakness, the man explained himself: he was what he called a vampire, Kindred as he called them, a member of the learned clan Brujah. He was embracing warriors and thinkers across Britain in an attempt to stave off the Gangrel Norse invasion, and Baldr was to be the final piece to his puzzle, the inside man who would cause havoc within the Danelaw. The Warden explained that to nourish himself, Baldr would have to drink the blood of the innocents: it would grant him power, but there were costs, such as an aversion to sunlight and fire. But, should he remain fed, Baldr would live forever.

Understanding the shock of the news, the Warden left Baldr alone with a flask of blood to think about what he had said. He told Baldr that once he came to terms with his new role in life, he would teach him all he knew of his new unlife.

Unfortunately for the Warden and his machinations, Baldr had other plans. Playing the hand he was dealt, he consumed every last drop of the liquid that was handed to him greedily, savoring its taste on his lips. After a few moments, he felt his strength return, and he took stock of his surroundings. He was in a fur-and-hide tent, and if his ears did not lie, he was near the sea. Likely not far from where his men were ambushed, if his memory didn't lie.

Rising to his feet he got his bearings and did the only thing that seemed rational at the time: he ran. He ran straight through flap of the tent, out of the encampment, into the woods and into the hills. For a short time he heard people following him. Soon enough, though, he stopped hearing the shouts and footsteps, but even then he kept running. Running until he was sure he had crossed from southern Wales into Mercia.

When dawn began to approach, Baldr sensed it. When the sun began to peek its rays out from above the horizon, he felt it. He heeded the man's warning and ran for cover, hiding in a nearby hovel. A woodsman lived there, but not for long: Baldr killed him and drank him dry. He felt no remorse then: it was his instinct, and although he would regret it later, he had no time to think of the man's life. He shuttered the windows, dove under the bed, and slept.

Over the next few weeks he would repeat this cycle of running during the night and sleeping during the day until he finally found himself among his people, at an encampment in York. He tried to tell him what he saw, what he was, but none believed him: Baldr the Mad, they called him. Baldr the Brainless.

That is, until he began seeing a whole new side to the army he had thought so long with. He began to smell them: those like him, the Kindred in their midst. He didn't know how he had gone so long without smelling their stench, like a wet dog's shit.

He would find himself another ship, and another crew, selling off what little treasure he had with him for it. He sailed around Britain several times looking for an answer, but found none, or at least none that he liked. Eventually he fell in line with the others like him: they told him what little they knew, of his curse and of theirs. He learned of the clans, of the wars that their kind waged against one another, of the great Jyhad and of the other worse kept secrets of the Kindred. He learned, and he took every grain of knowledge to heart.

Decades of Struggle

The next few decades Baldr would spend investing in the practice of his new abilities. He discovered them rather quickly, some through trial and error and some through the advice of others, mostly charitable Brujah who weren't willing to see their fellow clanmate suffer in ignorance. His crew began to know him as the Night Terror, for he would only strike at night and sleep during the day. Eventually, when they would begin to grow suspicious of his odd habits, he would disband the crew and start again fresh with a new name and a new crew.

This life of pillaging and raiding the British Isles grew tiresome and boring for Baldr, though. As far as he reckoned, he would never age nor die of natural causes save for the inherent weaknesses of his kind, and he did not want to spend eternity plucking the treasures from the increasingly more resistant Anglo-Saxons. The Great Heathen Army had since receded back to Scandinavia, and every year less and less raiders left port for Britain.

So, he decided that it was time to return home. With a ship laden with treasures and a crew selected for one final journey, he returned to Vestland to see what trouble he could find there.

He would spend the next century fighting for local warlords or being one himself. He witnessed the creeping christanization of his home, and resisted: he wasn't willing to believe the Warden and his rumor of Odin being a Kindred. He refused to trust that man in anything beyond advice for his survival, and so he kept to his own gods, in a fashion. Even tales from other vampires of the mythical Caine being of a product of a curse levied by Christ's god was not enough to sway him, and after that, nothing was ever going to.

Three Century's Sleep

Unfortunately, despite his skill and finesse with battle, Baldr was not immortal, as he discovered one day in 1066. While fighting for the last great pagan lord in Sweden, Erik the Heathen, he sustained heavy injuries to the point that he found himself bloodless and alone at his home in Vestfold. He managed to crawl himself into one of the sub-basements, only to fall into torpor, where he would stay for the next two and a half centuries.

His lands would change hands several times over the years, although not one discovered – or dare open – his makeshift tomb at the bottom of his keep. Until, that is, a man by the name of Olmr Haakonsson bought the land in 1300, and, knowing instinctively what lay below it, broke through the barrier and fed the hungry soul within it.

Baldr did not know what Olmr's intention was. Perhaps he was merely a concerned ally to the Kindred. Perhaps he knew of them and wished to strike a bargain in exchange for his freedom. Baldr would never know, as he killed him upon exiting Torpor. He did not mean to: the Beast within broke free upon his awakening, and when Baldr regained control, Olmr was dead at his feet. Mortified and confused, Baldr braved the Red Fear and took a torch to his once great home, burning all that was inside to the ground while he made his way east, to the land he remembered as the home of the Slavs: Russia.


Russian Renegade

Baldr would spend the next half a century working for various Russian warlords and other Eastern European powers, ranging from the Lithuanians who fought to expand their land against the great Mongol armies, to the Russian princes who tried to maintain some semblance of power against invaders from every direction, to disparate Kindred rulers who required the services of a warrior. As he traveled, he learned what he could of the years he had lost, although little could be gathered, save from the books he managed to find along the way, chronicles of ages long since past.

He learned much in his travels: he heard of rising new clans, of clans being destroyed, of powers invading from the east the likes of which he could not even fathom. These things did not scare him, though: the only thing that scared him now was the endless sleep of torpor, a thing he studied and inquired about at every avenue. He learned little that he did not already know: how the more human a Kindred is, the less likely he'll sleep for long, and how blood can be used to rise should a vampire have some in him. With this knowledge, Baldr changed his ways: he still sold his axe, but he was more mindful of the people he used it against, and made his best effort to use it justly and with honor.

He looked back on his life and unlife with some regrets: not for the hard won victories against worthy opponents, but for the raids and murders against those who could not defend themselves. He never pretended that certain things were not necessary: the death of his mother's master, or the stealing for his very survival were surely just, if harsh. But did so many need to die so that he might line his hall with goblets and jewels?

The more he learned, the more he discovered the depth of his kind's society: the politics and games they played, the wars they waged, the allies and the enemies. It was a disorienting experience for one who had practically ignored the more philosophical side of his heritage in favor of honing his physical skills.

Eventually, he abandoned his quest for wealth in Russia completely, and at the insistence of local friends he had made along the way, turned his attention south, to a city where, it was said, a Kindred may find anything he was looking for. He made his way to the Great City, Miklagard. Constantinople.

Here and Now

Finding himself in Constantinople with only his axe, shield and armor, and not a bit of an understanding of Greek, the odds were stacked against Baldr. Eventually he found a community of his people, the Norse, who called themselves Varangians. They told tales about how their people guarded the Emperor of Rome to this very day, long after they stopped forming the bulk of his majesty's imperial protectors. With the help of these people he slowly became more and more fluent in Greek, until he was finally able to passably make conversation with a local.

The next decade was spent by Baldr becoming accustomed to his new home: he learned of the politics of the city, both Kindred and Kine. He gained favor with local noblemen and leaders, becoming something of a legend: the great viking warrior, new to the city and willing to do hard, honorable work with his axe and shield. He became a bodyguard, a bouncer, a smuggler against various Ottoman attempts at blockade, and, finally, most recently, a soldier in his imperial majesty's army.

Baldr was at home most there, fighting against the Turk and the Slav as he released his rage against them, worthy foes who he could provide suitable combat. He proved himself time and time again on the battlefield, always in the thickest parts of battle, always there to help turn the tide or secure a successful retreat. Despite numerous changes to identity, eventually one came under notice of the Emperor himself. Baldr, after successfully defending the Emperor's cousin from a coup attempt, was given a position in the Imperial Guard, the personal bodyguard of the Emperor. He was one of the few Varangians who still had the honor of defending the Emperor with his life.

Baldr would bear the honor of his position for several years, until finally the Ottomans blockaded the city recently. With nowhere left to turn and the odds getting exceedingly desperate, Baldr has begun to think that the Empire of the Greeks may be at it's last breath. And he does not intend on being there when it draws it...

Welcome aboard.

This character will be fun, considering some of my plans.

[Erinkita II]

Imma put my tag right here. Right on this spot here. Tagged. Yeah. Like that.

[Rupudska]

I might actually join this maybe possibly I honestly have no idea.

[Great Confederacy of Commonwealth States]

Thus, I come forth, and I see. Oh, what doth I see?

Anyway, I want to kill some goblins. I'll see what I can do.

[Astrolinium]

Will fill out this app much, much more later.

Name: Dr. Anna Kolouthon
Age: 37
Sex: Female
Appearance:
Personality:
Strengths/Special Skills: Expert in linguistics, classical languages, and translation. Speaks fluent French, German, Latin, Ancient Greek, Modern Greek, Italian, and Arabic (and English, of course). Very outspoken.
Weaknesses: Dogs. Can be a bit emotionally awkward at times -- tends to get called things like "The Fridge" by colleagues. Is somewhat afraid of the real world and of commitment, which perhaps explains her unusually large number of degrees.
Biography: On July 8th, 1978, in a small hospital outside of Cincinnati, Ohio, Howard and Judy Goldstein became the proud parents of a daughter named Anna. A bright girl, Anna excelled at school, and was particularly good at reading, writing, and history. At 12, she had her bat mitzvah at Adath Israel synagogue, though she and her family were never particularly religious. She graduated from high school in 1996 and began attending Ohio State University, from which she received her bachelor's degree in Classics with a concentration in Latin. Graduating in 2000, she immediately enrolled in the University of Pennsylvania's graduate Linguistics program, with a concentration in Historical Linguistics. She spent five years studying there, receiving her first PhD in 2005; her dissertation was titled A Wanax By Any Other Name: Reconstructing Ancient Mycenae Through Comparative Analysis. After this, she began attending the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, entering into the MA program there in classical archaeology in 2005. In her third year of study, 2008, she joined Dr. Michael Cosmopoulos at the archaeological dig in Iklaina, where she met George Kolouthon, an archaeology student from the University of Missouri-St.Louis. A romance of sorts quickly bloomed, and as Anna finished up her master's degree in 2009, writing her thesis on Linear B inscriptions, she and George married. Over the next several years, she worked towards her PhD in Classical Philology from UNC while trying to build a stable home with her new husband. However, as the years went by, they grew distant. Anna threw herself into her work with her degree, and George, who was a good eight years younger than Anna, was working on his first Master's, in archaeology, frequently traveling. Between the age gap and the frequent physical separation, things simply didn't work out, and in 2012 they separated amicably. Anna never changed her name back from Kolouthon. In 2013 she received her PhD in Classical Philology from UNC -- her dissertation was entitled Gladius Inter Enses: A Study of Prose Terms in the Poetry of Vergil.

After receiving this degree, she did not properly know where to turn -- it was then that Kadmon approached her, given that her mixed experience in linguistics and archaeology might prove useful in their field.
RP Sample:

[Great Confederacy of Commonwealth States]

Name: Professor Robert McEwan
Age: 43
Sex: Male
Appearance:

Personality: Somewhat… eccentric. McEwan has his own train of thought, and it is very hard to ride with him. His quick leaps of mental athletics leave many in confusion and generally in doubt. Luckily, McEwan is also generally a kind man, and he also knows how to talk comprehensibly. He has a gift for making the complex easy, often using metaphors and allegories to make his points. This has made him one of the more successful professors at his hometown university at Edinburgh, and more recently, at the École Normale Superieure de Paris, where he finds current employment. Employment next to his normal day job at the Society.
Strengths/Special Skills: Learn, explore, explain. That is the maxim of Professor McEwan. He is a typical scholar at heart, always ready to learn about and explore new areas, new fields, new knowledge. He is a quick learner, and quick to understand a given problem. This is not a trait he had since birth, but rather something he acquired. Being a part of the faculty of archaeology in Edinburgh, McEwan travelled the world in search of archaeological digs. And we are not talking Indiana Jones-style grave robbing. He spent years and years digging up ancient temples in South East Asia, battlefield sites near Borodino and old settlements on the Serengatti plains. This all forced him to become a quick learner and a quick thinker, as well as a good shot. As it appears, if you make bacon pancakes in the middle of lion territory, this will attract some large felines. This made a reasonable shot out of McEwan, who often had to fend off some horrendous beast coming their way. One day, he had to shoot a tiger that had escaped from a local zoo. Dreadful business.

His quick learning capacity also provided him with the status of professor at the university of Edinburgh, where he developed his explanatory capabilities. In the beginning, his students were somewhat resistant to his thinking, but eventually, McEwan became one of the best in his field, beloved by most, respected by all. So, in short, learning, hunting and explaining, those are his strong points.
Weaknesses: McEwan isn’t a very strong man, and he’s a bit of a weirdo on his bad days. He’s quick to trust people, but people often find him somewhat strange on their first encounter. His respectable but funny Edinburgh accent hasn’t made him more liked outside of the classroom, and some regard him as somewhat of a wimp. He prefers the company of his books and literature, and although he loves to work in the field, that does not wipe clean his reputation for being a bookworm. Above this all, he is a pacifist, and will resist killing any animal that does not directly threaten the life of any other being.
Biography: Let’s begin at the beginning, shall we? For we have not reached the finale, and I have a feeling McEwan still has his part to play before the end, for good or evil. McEwan first enters our lights as a young archaeology student at the university of Edinburgh, a young Scottish lad doing what he loved. He combined his archaeology study with his historic training, two fields that worked together nicely. He tried to pick up on Latin too, but he never got further than a few lessons. A student’s life is a busy life, or so it seems.

It was not long after he finished in both fields that the university accepted his promotion, his doctorate, and dr. McEwan became part of the archaeology team. With them, he travelled the world in search for all kinds if artefacts, from the deserts of Galilee to the deserts of Mongolia, to the desserts in New York and Venice. Thus, he climbed the academic ladder all the way to him becoming a professor. You know what happened there from the above sections, so I won’t quench your thirst of knowledge any more. Suffice to say that, one day, a man in dark attire came to him, with a job opportunity he could not refuse. Literally, because his letter of resignation had already been written in some dubious dark corner of London and Paris was now waiting for him. So, already accepted to the position of professor in Paris, not knowing until after the fact, McEwan flew to Paris to accept his new place among the academics. Also, among the monsters. So much fun…
RP Sample: http://forum.nationstates.net/viewtopic.php?f=31&t=332998

[Nude East Ireland]

Will fill out this app much, much more later.

Name: Dr. Anna Kolouthon
Age: 37
Sex: Female
Appearance:
Personality:
Strengths/Special Skills: Expert in linguistics, classical languages, and translation. Speaks fluent French, German, Latin, Ancient Greek, Modern Greek, Italian, and Arabic (and English, of course). Very outspoken.
Weaknesses: Dogs. Can be a bit emotionally awkward at times -- tends to get called things like "The Fridge" by colleagues. Is somewhat afraid of the real world and of commitment, which perhaps explains her unusually large number of degrees.
Biography: On July 8th, 1978, in a small hospital outside of Cincinnati, Ohio, Howard and Judy Goldstein became the proud parents of a daughter named Anna. A bright girl, Anna excelled at school, and was particularly good at reading, writing, and history. At 12, she had her bat mitzvah at Adath Israel synagogue, though she and her family were never particularly religious. She graduated from high school in 1996 and began attending Ohio State University, from which she received her bachelor's degree in Classics with a concentration in Latin. Graduating in 2000, she immediately enrolled in the University of Pennsylvania's graduate Linguistics program, with a concentration in Historical Linguistics. She spent five years studying there, receiving her first PhD in 2005; her dissertation was titled A Wanax By Any Other Name: Reconstructing Ancient Mycenae Through Comparative Analysis. After this, she began attending the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, entering into the MA program there in classical archaeology in 2005. In her third year of study, 2008, she joined Dr. Michael Cosmopoulos at the archaeological dig in Iklaina, where she met George Kolouthon, an archaeology student from the University of Missouri-St.Louis. A romance of sorts quickly bloomed, and as Anna finished up her master's degree in 2009, writing her thesis on Linear B inscriptions, she and George married. Over the next several years, she worked towards her PhD in Classical Philology from UNC while trying to build a stable home with her new husband. However, as the years went by, they grew distant. Anna threw herself into her work with her degree, and George, who was a good eight years younger than Anna, was working on his first Master's, in archaeology, frequently traveling. Between the age gap and the frequent physical separation, things simply didn't work out, and in 2012 they separated amicably. Anna never changed her name back from Kolouthon. In 2013 she received her PhD in Classical Philology from UNC -- her dissertation was entitled Gladius Inter Enses: A Study of Prose Terms in the Poetry of Vergil.

After receiving this degree, she did not properly know where to turn -- it was then that Kadmon approached her, given that her mixed experience in linguistics and archaeology might prove useful in their field.
RP Sample:

Name: Professor Robert McEwan
Age: 43
Sex: Male
Appearance:

(Image)

Personality: Somewhat… eccentric. McEwan has his own train of thought, and it is very hard to ride with him. His quick leaps of mental athletics leave many in confusion and generally in doubt. Luckily, McEwan is also generally a kind man, and he also knows how to talk comprehensibly. He has a gift for making the complex easy, often using metaphors and allegories to make his points. This has made him one of the more successful professors at his hometown university at Edinburgh, and more recently, at the École Normale Superieure de Paris, where he finds current employment. Employment next to his normal day job at the Society.
Strengths/Special Skills: Learn, explore, explain. That is the maxim of Professor McEwan. He is a typical scholar at heart, always ready to learn about and explore new areas, new fields, new knowledge. He is a quick learner, and quick to understand a given problem. This is not a trait he had since birth, but rather something he acquired. Being a part of the faculty of archaeology in Edinburgh, McEwan travelled the world in search of archaeological digs. And we are not talking Indiana Jones-style grave robbing. He spent years and years digging up ancient temples in South East Asia, battlefield sites near Borodino and old settlements on the Serengatti plains. This all forced him to become a quick learner and a quick thinker, as well as a good shot. As it appears, if you make bacon pancakes in the middle of lion territory, this will attract some large felines. This made a reasonable shot out of McEwan, who often had to fend off some horrendous beast coming their way. One day, he had to shoot a tiger that had escaped from a local zoo. Dreadful business.

His quick learning capacity also provided him with the status of professor at the university of Edinburgh, where he developed his explanatory capabilities. In the beginning, his students were somewhat resistant to his thinking, but eventually, McEwan became one of the best in his field, beloved by most, respected by all. So, in short, learning, hunting and explaining, those are his strong points.
Weaknesses: McEwan isn’t a very strong man, and he’s a bit of a weirdo on his bad days. He’s quick to trust people, but people often find him somewhat strange on their first encounter. His respectable but funny Edinburgh accent hasn’t made him more liked outside of the classroom, and some regard him as somewhat of a wimp. He prefers the company of his books and literature, and although he loves to work in the field, that does not wipe clean his reputation for being a bookworm. Above this all, he is a pacifist, and will resist killing any animal that does not directly threaten the life of any other being.
Biography: Let’s begin at the beginning, shall we? For we have not reached the finale, and I have a feeling McEwan still has his part to play before the end, for good or evil. McEwan first enters our lights as a young archaeology student at the university of Edinburgh, a young Scottish lad doing what he loved. He combined his archaeology study with his historic training, two fields that worked together nicely. He tried to pick up on Latin too, but he never got further than a few lessons. A student’s life is a busy life, or so it seems.

It was not long after he finished in both fields that the university accepted his promotion, his doctorate, and dr. McEwan became part of the archaeology team. With them, he travelled the world in search for all kinds if artefacts, from the deserts of Galilee to the deserts of Mongolia, to the desserts in New York and Venice. Thus, he climbed the academic ladder all the way to him becoming a professor. You know what happened there from the above sections, so I won’t quench your thirst of knowledge any more. Suffice to say that, one day, a man in dark attire came to him, with a job opportunity he could not refuse. Literally, because his letter of resignation had already been written in some dubious dark corner of London and Paris was now waiting for him. So, already accepted to the position of professor in Paris, not knowing until after the fact, McEwan flew to Paris to accept his new place among the academics. Also, among the monsters. So much fun…
RP Sample: http://forum.nationstates.net/viewtopic.php?f=31&t=332998

Both of you, welcome.

[Nationstatelandsville]

This has my official approval and moral condemnation.

[Nightkill the Emperor]

Kevin: "Khan, are you afraid of God?"

"No. But I'm afraid of you."

Conversation when I was told about this.