A sharp, stinging pain jolted Illidan out of unconsciousness. He brought his hand down to tend to the pain, at the base of his neck, but something arrested the movement, metal jingling. Illidan groggily lifted his head and looked at his arm. It depended from a rusty chain, encased in an equally rusty cuff. Indeed, all of his limbs were restrained, leaving him to droop from the wall they were attached to.
 
He coughed, beckoning the wound to flare again. Light was scarce, and a coppery smell strangled the air. Tiny dust particles fell like rain all around him. The squeaking of a rat and its hard claws scraping stone were the only breaks in the silence.
 
A prison. Illidan hated prisons. He had already wasted ten thousand years inside of one already.
 
What happened? The night elf thought back. Count Dracula. He ... bit him, if he remembered correctly. Why the hell did he do that? How did that make him black out? And what was he planning to do now?
 
Illidan's stomach sank. Dracula didn't see into his mind somehow, did he? Did that bizarre bite draw out his plans? He had shoved the idea of revolution out of his mind before he walked under Dracula's roof, even declaring it a ridiculous and short-sighted fancy in hindsight. He still believed that. That couldn't be the reason. But then why was he shackled to a musty wall? Officers of an army only get that treatment when they're found guilty of treason.
 
Whatever the reason, it didn't bode well. Besides, his disinclination to while away his time in prison manifested in a hammering heart beat and a sweat at odds with the cold that suffused the walls. Illidan had to get out. Had to.
 
He punched his arms forward, the movement thwarted by his restraints. The panic saddled his thoughts and urged for freedom despite the slim chance, which only drove Illidan on. He grunted, breaths coming and leaving in sharp rasps, chains rattling, skin chaffing against the coarse manacles. He didn't care. Each strike into the air quietened the fear for a split second; if he kept pumping his arms, it would have no choice but to shut up.
 
Illidan pulled on the chains again, and a creak whispered in his ear. The metal plate clasping the chain was losing its adhesion to the brick wall. Another air punch cracked the brick, dust and fragments crumbling to the ground, peeling the plate at its corners. A few more strenuous thrusts and his arm would be free.
 
"Oh, you're awake now, are you? Thought you might sleep a little longer."
 
The voice came so suddenly that Illidan's skin prickled. A slender man in a black suit stalked towards him, his steps impossibly quiet. A sliver of white showed through the cloak that draped over his thin frame, and his gaunt face matched it. Slick, oiled hair looked more like a shaped helmet. An unassuming man in normal circumstances, but hanging chained from a dungeon wall was anything but.
 
Illidan snarled, the chains rattling. "Get me down from this! Now!"
 
"Easy there," the man said, everything about him cool and calm. "The more you struggle, the longer this will take."
 
Illidan lashed out with an open hand. It stopped prematurely, but more of the metal restraint ripped from the wall. "The more I struggle, the shorter your life will be."
 
"You're putting an awful lot of confidence in your abilities," the man said, eyes half lidded. "And not much in mine." He stepped forward and introduced his fist to Illidan's abdomen. The wind raced from his lungs, stomach instantly closed for business. The white hot fury fizzled, simmering on low heat as the night elf dealt with the throbbing repercussions of his smart mouth.
 
"I don't understand!" Illidan said, spitting out a wad of purple blood. "I pledged myself to Count Dracula. Why am I imprisoned here?" Gods, even using the word made him want to shatter his own teeth from clenching them so tighty.
 
The man titled his head, looking at Illidan as if he were an oddity, unsure what to make of him. "Do you feel hungry?"
 
Illidan lashed out, but his arms only drew the chains taut. Even the weakened metal plate failed to do anything but shudder, Illidan's strength momentarily subdued. The anger re-awoke, pressing against the edges of his skull, screaming at him for release. "If you're going to kill me, just do it!"
 
"No one's going to kill you," the man said, chuckling as if the suggestion was ludicrous.
 
"Enough!" Illidan rolled his tongue, collecting the blood on the insides of his cheeks. He focused on the heavy ache in his stomach, using it to channel the chaotic fel energies within him.  Born of pain and sacrifice, they rose swiftly to the surface, eager to fulfil the night elf's bidding. His wrists expanded until they ballooned against the shackles, his feet slimming into hooves. Green eyes glowed as curling horns broke the skin on his forehead and emerged outwards.
 
The cloaked man laughed. "You still have a lot of fight left in you. That doesn't bode well for you at all."
 
He stepped forward and slapped his palm over Illidan's face. A strange, tiring sensation seeped into his body, winding its way into his mind. The night elf fought it, but it crashed over him, smothering him like a tidal wave. The transformation reversed, everything compressing back into his natural state, the demonic energies subsiding.
 
"Why ..." Illidan managed before he drowned in the black deep behind his eyelids.
 
His heavy eyelids lifted. Illidan's skin rose goosebumps in defence of the chill that saturated the dungeon. Other than the absence of his torturer, the room was identical as it was before he slept. Again, without the guidance of the sun's march through the sky, he couldn't say at all how long he'd been out of it.
 
Thousands of tiny stings registered in his mind. Illidan drew a sharp breath through clenched teeth and examined his body. Thin cuts defiled the skin all over him, crusted with hardened violet blood, trails of it slinking down him. Those weren't there before.
 
"Hey!" Illidan shouted, his voice repeating down the unseen lengths of the dungeon. The coal that ignited his anger had cooled, perhaps in response to the blood that had been let from him. Again he yelled, but with less vigour, the weight of his loss pressing down on him. He raged against the weakened metal plate, but the pitiful response from his muscles only jiggled the links. He may have been making progress earlier, but fatigue had claimed that avenue of escape.
 
"Yes?"
 
The man sidestepped from the shadows, acting as if Illidan had simply ignored him. Illidan's thumping heart told a different story.
 
"What the hell is wrong with you?" Illidan said, head sagging against his chest, his voice lethargic.
 
The dungeon keeper sniffed the air in an exaggerated fashion. "Do you smell that?"
 
The man waited a moment, but Illidan didn't respond. His bony fingers clasped the night elf's cheeks and jerked his head up. The congeniality had vanished. "In case you were unclear, I wasn't making a suggestion. I was ordering you to sniff."
 
Fingernails poked into the soft flesh of his cheeks and forced eye contact. The deep cold in that man's eyes made the icy conditions of the dungeon feel like the comforting blaze of a hearth.
 
Illidan sighed, sniffing to satisfy the lunatic. He perked up. Something did smell good, though gods knew he couldn't identify it.
 
The man grinned, recognising the change in the night elf's countenance. "So you can smell it. How does it make you ... feel?"
 
"How do you want it to make me feel?" Illidan said, framing his lips into a frail grimace. If this formally dressed lunatic was goading him into something, his instincts said to ignore it. Then again, the night elf was the one chained to a wall, skin pulsing from a thousand cuts. Not exactly coming from a place of power.
 
"Sniff it again. Tell me."
 
The fingernails pried deeper into his skin. To avoid another wound, Illidan inhaled through his nostrils, flaring them so that the weird dungeon keeper would acknowledge it. The scent wired him , sending electricity through his flagging body. A renewed vigour laced his mind and muscles, as if the strength hadn't leaked away at all, but simply hidden until the opportune moment.
 
The man let go of Illidan's dirt-smudged face and took a step back. His smug smile told Illidan that he didn't want to know what he had caught the scent of. "Smells good, doesn't it?"
 
Illidan couldn't help it; his curiosity got the better of him. He sniffed again, enjoying the rush that charged through him while focusing on identifying the mystery aroma. Another whiff brought the terrible revelation to rise, sinking a rock in his stomach. His eyes widened, blood freezing in his veins. The jailer grinned, showcasing his pointed canine teeth.
 
"You've worked it out, haven't you Illidan?" he said, smiling all the while.
 
"It's ..." Illidan caged the word in clenched teeth, but it made its escape anyway. "Blood."
 
Blood. Count Dracula had somehow transferred a terrible curse into Illidan's already blighted soul; vampirism. Such parasitic methods weren't entirely alien to him; indeed, the night elf had drained both life and mana from his enemies in Azeroth countless times, fuelling himself on their stolen juices. But he had always done this through magical means, forcibly extracting them through the mastery of the fel and arcane. Never would he debase himself by puncturing their skin and sucking up their disgusting blood. Such unrefined barbarism was embraced by the undead, but by no means would it be him.
 
And yet, as he dangled from rusty chains, the scent suffused each breath. Whereas before he could inhale and remember the tiny cuts all over his skin, now all he could think about was that intoxicating bouquet riding the stale air. At first he could rebuke the enticing desire by picturing a pool of blood dripping from the mangled corpse of some lesser creature, but as time went on, the sadistic jailor rubbing his pallid hands together, the image gained traction in his mind. It went from revulsion to longing to craving.
 
Struggling against the will of the taint only emboldened it. It climbed into his brain, scraping at every corner resisting it, until it begrudgingly acquiesced. Gods knew how long he thrashed against the chains while the dungeon keeper watched with dark glee. Nothing makes time flow like molasses like battling an escalating urge and making it the centre of focus.
 
Eventually, as the cruel march of time stretched out, Illidan couldn't fight it any longer. He roared into the empty chamber, fighting against his shackles. The jailor watched with a sly smirk but said nothing.
 
"Get me out of these chains!" Illidan growled. There were no more thoughts about being proper, or being above the act of drinking blood. In fact, the thirst overrode his will entirely, screaming to be satisfied, a crazed animal in a night elf's flesh.
 
The cloaked man walked up to Illidan with infuriating slowness. That self-satisfied smirk still painted on his thin, grey lips, he stood before him, occupying Illidan's sight. "Why?"
 
Illidan lashed out with his teeth, trying to snag the bastard with a vicious bite. His teeth clicked together, catching nothing but air. "I have to get out!"
 
"Why?" the jailor demanded, his face hardening. "Why do you have to be free?"
 
A fleeting thought danced over Illidan's mind. He's trying to break you. He's forcing you to admit that you want blood. If you do that, he'll own you. Just like the Burning Legion did.
 
An icy hand strangled the burning urge for blood, cooling it enough for a rational discourse to take place. No. He couldn't let that happen again. Illidan couldn't be yoked again, not for any reason. His will was his greatest asset, and it never buckled even to the great demon commanders. Indeed, he had accepted assignments from them, most often to assuage them. But never had he held their interests at heart. And never would he.
 
The night elf yelled in the dungeon keeper's face as the selfish defiance of thousands of years leapt into the fray. Startled, he stumbled backwards, the surprise unmissable on his gaunt face.
 
"You ... you ... you won't!" Illidan slammed his arms forward, screaming as the tarnished shackles bit into the raw flesh around his wrists. The blood thirst wrestled for control, every breath through his nostrils bolstering its assault, burning his veins with the raw madness that addiction brings. And yet, the night elf collected that fury and repurposed it, imbibing it through his own will, his own desire for true freedom.
 
Fight fire with fire ...
 
"Enough of this grotesque display!" the jailer said. "Give in to the urge! Stop fighting it, you will not win!"
 
"I ... I will not?" Illidan repeated. He grimaced, welling up the terrible pride that wrought so much disaster to his life. "I? The great Illidan, will not do as he pleases?!"
 
Illidan barely heard the crack and shatter of brick behind him over the thunder of his pulse in his ears and his own maniacal screeching. His quaking arms shot forward, catapulting the metal plates once affixed to the wall. He dropped to hands and knees, the plates clanging on the icy floor. Jumping to his feet, the night elf scrambled forward, but plummeted back to the ground. He shot a glance over his shoulder, remembering the manacles about his ankles.
 
A solid explosion of pain connected with the side of his head, jumbling the next handful of thoughts. Illidan flopped on his side and swam groggily through the high pitch in his ears and the airiness flooding his skull. Hands splayed and he lifted his chest inches from the ground.
 
"Enough!" a voice cut through the disorder. "Even in a weakened state, you are entirely too spirited. Perhaps more time is needed, or I need to drain more blood from your veins. No matter how impudent you are, after a certain point even the strongest of wills-"
 
Illidan shut out the voice. He focused on his turmoil, both physical and spiritual. He fed on it, magnifying the fel magics washing through his defiled blood. He couldn't see it, but he knew that black smoke spilled from the pores of his skin, as it always did when he quickened the heightening of his sinister power.
 
A great jolt of freeing pain arched Illidan's back, and moments later, two new appendages obeyed him, flapping him to his feet. Speaking of which, they had fully formed into hard hooves. The shackles fastened to his ankles bulged and fractured, and with another sweep of his wings, shattered the corroded metal as he bounded forward. He flexed the corded muscle that heaped upon his arms, channelling the pain of the numerous stinging cuts into the dark well within. The exhilarating chaos of the Burning Legion's magics wore the negative effects of his injuries and made them his strength.
 
"You ... you dare disobey me?!" the jailer blustered. He thrust an open hand towards Illidan's gnarled countenance. "You will follow orders!"
 
The night elf demon snatched the vampire's wrist and squeezed. Illidan snarled as he watched the man drop to a knee. Another tense of his fingers would snap the brittle bone, he was sure.
 
"I follow no orders but my own," Illidan seethed, his voice an order of magnitude deeper in his demonic state. "I will spread Dracula's darkness to the corners of this forsaken realm, but it will be done on my terms. You will not herd me like livestock into your bloodied pen."
 
The vampire hissed, baring daggered teeth designed for piercing flesh. Little more than a frightened display when kneeling before an eleven foot monstrosity. "Count Dracula will hear of your insubordination."
 
"I get the feeling Dracula values initiative."
 
The jailor changed tactics. "If you really want to please the Count, breathe in. Deeply. Through your nose."
 
Oh no. Illidan had pushed the blood frenzy from his mind, but now in undeniable control of the situation, he had loosened the reins. Even without sniffing, it roared back into focus, beautifying the stench of copper lacing the dank air.
 
The night elf demon balled his fist. A snap echoed down the dilapidated prison, followed by a surprised whimper and a lot of heavy breathing. Illidan hauled the vampire off his feet, raising him to eye level by the broken limb. The cloaked man winced, eyes screwed shut. Illidan would be lying if he didn't find a certain satisfaction in drinking in his former jailer suffering at his hands.
 
"My body and soul may be polluted with chaos," Illidan said quietly, "but my mind is free. I will not bow to the vampire curse."
 
His new friend said nothing, perhaps finally understanding that the balance of power had shifted. Illidan considered slaughtering him, tearing his thin body into a messy pile of body parts, but reconsidered. If Count Dracula prized this man, there could be repercussions if he murdered him. Also, and perhaps more poignantly, the blood that would flow from his pulverised corpse could draw the thirst to a point where even his almighty determination would falter. It almost had already.
 
"Now!" Illidan shouted in the vampire's face, jostling his body. "I wish to do the will of Count Dracula. Tell me a way I can achieve this."
 
"Just drink the blood and all will -"
 
Illidan snarled and hurled the vampire against the wall like a limp sack. He cried out as his back slapped against it, bouncing him to the ground.
 
"Your ruse has failed, vampire!" Illidan shouted, his voice returning to him from all angles. He slammed a hoof on his former jailer's back and ground it in. "I grow weary of your unco-operative silence! What of Dracula's plans?"
 
"His ... plans?" the vampire moaned. Illidan paused a moment to give the beast a chance to consider. "If you want to impress him, show him this 'initiative' of yours ..."
 
"Spit it out!" Illidan shifted his full weight to the hoof pinning the vampire to the grimy floor.
 
"Argh! All right! Poenari Castle!"
 
Illidan lifted his foot and kicked his once-jailer in the ribs. Gods that was enjoyable. "More information."
 
The black cloaked vampire sat up, holding his side. "Poenari Castle was a bastion of defence when Diablo first invaded the Pale Moors. The humans and associated scum held for a time, but they crumbled against the onslaught eventually. It remains a strategic location should war ever break out again, especially close to the gate. It's empty right now, but I know Count Dracula wants it under his control."
 
Illidan considered this new information. Was the occupation of the abandoned castle to protect against unforeseen threats, or perhaps the return of an ungrateful commander of monsters hungry for his throne? "If it's empty, why should I waste my time claiming it?"
 
Despite his pain, the vampire managed a mirthless grin. "Do you think it will be easy, unfit for a demon such as yourself? If it was that simple, it wouldn't earn you the kudos of the Pale Moors ruler, now would it?"
 
Illidan breathed in and caught the delectable coppery scent again. He had to leave before the frenzy he ran from finally caught up to him. "How do I know I can trust you?"
 
"I only want the best for Count Dracula." Delivered without emotion.
 
"Which way?" If the vampire lied, Illidan would come back and finish his grisly work. His tone made sure the message was conveyed.
 
The injured jailer pointed towards the far wall. "That way. I can sense ... it from here."
 
The night elf demon's spectral sight fanned out in all directions, finding the closest distance to the outside world, sensing where the dungeon ended and the flat, pale plains began. He aimed an open hand at the wall and propelled a telekinetic shockwave, obliterating the aged brick. "I'll see myself out."

I want to pick some brains here. 

How has writing affected who you are as a person? How has it shaped how you think and perceive others? For those of you who have been within this community for a while, how has it impacted you? For the newly initiated among us, how do you feel about this community, and what do you want to get out of it intrinsically? Even as seasoned writers, we all have had to struggle to find our 'voice'. Have you found yours? What do you do that helps you refine it?

I look forward to the responses!

Jak felt distracted. A thought washed over him as he needed to check something out. Something about tangled greens..

Call it a bad feeling of some sort as he moved toward the gate. He walked toward the twisted greens portal and walked in. He was looking for the fort. Tired was a better word for the hero. After aimless walking, Jak found himself at the fort. Surprising there was no guards. He walked in and was suspicious , however. This was too easy.

As Chara went through the portal something she did not have in forever came back her soul was a mix of black and red with ever passing hour the soul getting Blacker and blacker and she started to feel a feeling she had felt since she came back Hatred and looked down at her arm that held her knife and saw her tips of her fingers turning jet black and saw that they were growing blacker and started to ride somewhere to hide and cry herself to sleep. As she rode she came across a small town of some sort about the size of Snowden if her proportions were correct and she got off her horse and started to ask people about a place she can stay at while she stayed here they said go to the Iron rose and they will get you settled in for now.
 As she walked through the town she came up to the Iron rose and walked in smelling the alcohol and the smoke from everyone's body it was almost like breathing in oil and shook her head while walking to the bar and asking where she can get a room for the night and the bar tender looked down and said "get lost, you don't belong here!" and she walked out and rode to a area where she could fix a camp and started to cry herself to sleep.
"H-hey you seem like your lost, are you ok?" and she looked up not expecting what I would see next.

Please delete this post from the bonus request thread. Sorry ^_^"
http://omniverse-rpg.com/showthread.php?...3#pid78463

Renji’s head thrummed with the ferocity of at least seven jackhammers. This was a familiar place to the ageless swordsman, it was his own personal rabbit hole. The ground was cold and the air was filled with stale dust. This place was stagnation incarnate. He opened his eyes and climbed to his feet. Every muscle sore, every bone cracked and aching. Three stone walls surrounded him, with a fourth made of rusted bars. There was no door. Silence, absolute silence was louder than any cacophony that Renji could imagine. With an urgency reserved for delayed bathroom visits the swordsman rushed towards the bars of his prison. Shouts were met with wordless whispers. He rattled the bars of his cell, baring his flesh against the flaky and rusted metal.

“What have you done?” Rou’s voice echoed from behind him. Renji turned around to face his fellow prisoner. The once-jovial Rou now sported a dour face, and his casual clothes were cast aside for a set of leather armor. As a coming storm the denizen of the prison rushed forward, pinning Renji against the bars of his cage. Rou’s gloved hand wrapped around Renji’s neck and kept him tight against the rusted shafts. Fire smoldered beneath his honeyed eyes and he inspected his prey as a rabid dog would. “You just couldn’t leave well enough alone could you?” he finally asked, making no effort to hide the venom in his voice.

Renji glanced away and stayed silent. With a mighty heave Rou ripped his prey from the bars and dashed him against the cobblestone floor. Renji’s attacker stalked forward, his voice shaking with rage, “well!? What do you have to say for yourself? You could’ve lived happily ever after with that demon locked up and starved, but no you had to feed him omnillium and break his chains. You- you, fucking imbecile.”

“I didn’t want to die,” Renji offered, inching away from Rou.

“Die!?” Rou shouted and smacked his hand against the stone wall, “you’re a prime Renji, you can’t die here! You just didn’t want to lose…”

“No! I…” Renji began to speak, but was sharply interrupted.

“You what? You couldn’t accept the fact that you’re weak without that demon holding your hand,” Rou reached down and hefted Renji up by the collar, “face it kid, you’re nothing but a coward and a pathetic swordsman. Always have been, always will be.”

“That’s not true,” Renji pushed Rou away.

“Whatever,” Rou spit, “believe what you want, but you’re still just a novice in my eyes.”

Renji opened his mouth to speak, but thought better of it and glanced towards a corner of his prison. Four walls, no doors. “How did you get in here Rou?”

“That demon isn’t the only one that has access to your omnilium,” Rou grabbed at the bar and stood still for a moment. After a moment of silence the rusted bars turned to liquid and melted away. The leather-clad man stepped out of the jail cell and motioned for Renji to follow him. “You got us into this mess, you’re going to get us out.” he said.

Renji hesitated for a moment before following Rou into the corridor. There were no more cells, just endless walls of stone forever twisting into madness. Rou walked quickly, forcing Renji to enter a light-job to keep up. “Where are all the prisoners?” Renji finally asked after several minutes of walking.

“Since you’ve given that demon free reign of your omnilium, he’s made some renovations.”

“What do you mean?”

“It means he’s made it harder for you to take over,” Rou paused for a moment, “in other words he’s turned this place into an almost-impossible gauntlet.”

“Then how am I supposed to take control?” Renji asked.

“You have to fight your way out,” the guide responded, “I’d do it myself, but I can’t take control of a body that isn’t mine.”


Soon enough the duo came face-to-face with a dead-end. Renji’s guide pressed his palm against the solid wall, and as if the stone was nothing more than putty he forged a handle. With a solid thunk Rou turned the freshly-made handle and slid the slab of stone open. A circular atrium, devoid of torches, but nonetheless well-lit, opened before them. In the center two swords sat crossed upon a pedestal. The guide stepped into the room and without ceremony removed a sword from its home. He pointed his sword at Renji and said, “pick up your weapon, we’ve got a lot of training to do.”

“Training?” Renji asked as if the word was foreign.

“Kuzuru has taken every powerful warrior that you’ve ever killed and stacked them against you, they hate you and without that demon’s help you’re nothing but an amateur.”

Renji pursed his lips and let out a sharp pulse of air. He withdrew his sword from the stone pedestal and held it in front of him. Slowly he dropped into a low stance and said, “I’m far from an amateur Rou, I may not be as strong without that demon, but I’m still a mas-” Before he could finish his training partner was upon him. A flash of metal caught Renji’s blade and smacked it from his hands. With a flourish of his weapon Rou brought his sword to Renji’s throat and pressed the razor edge against his flesh.

“Nothing but a novice, “ Rou seethed, pressing his sword tighter against Renji’s neck, “you’ve been nothing but a leech, feeding off the strength of that demon and the souls that he’s swallowed.”

What do you need to do in order to add your base to a description of a world,  out of curiosity's sake?  It's something I've been thinking of.  IE how do you make your base an official location on that world?

If you've received an Audit about your roster,  but it is in fact incorrect... how do you go about avoiding trouble for it/getting payment for bonuses/what not?

Character name: Warrior of Light (true name unknown)

Character source:Final Fantasy (Dissidia)

Character history: Warrior of Light, born in an endless cycle of war between Cosmos, goddess of Harmony, and Chaos, god of discord, is strange in origin. Essentialy, he is what would one call a perfect manikin, created by Cid of Lufaine. Manikins were mindless creatures that crystallised and fought against the Warriors of Cosmos, but Warrior of Light was different. He did not crystallize. He hada mind of his own - and no memories or even a name. Through a series of events, he was saved by a girl named Prishe and made a Warrior of Cosmos. However, this fight was in vain, as every time the war was nearing its end, space worm Shinriyu would cleanse the world and the cycle would begin anew, with the Warriors of Light never retaining their memories or powers from previous cycles or their worlds. However, in the 12th cycle, the enemy numbers were too high, and fighting through legions of manikins tired the Warriors of Cosmos out. After finding out about the true nature of the cycles of the world, he and his ally, Kain Highwind, decided to systematically put their allies to sleep so they would have a better chance of fighting in the next cycle, even though devoid of memories. However, a group of Warriors of Cosmos decided to close the Rift that spawned the hordes of manikins, sacrificing their lives permanently in the process. While they did this, Warrior of Light alone stood against the army of manikins assaulting Cosmos. He fought hard and valiantly, but eventually fell, and was to be revived, as was the case with every cycle. He was devoid of his memories again, and he heard Cosmos talking to him, he found himself not in the world of endless war, but somewhere different...

Physical Description: (originals only)

Stats: 
ATK: 3
DEF: 4
SPD: 1
TEC: 2

Starting Proficiencies: Physical Strength (1000 OM), Ranged Proficiency (1000 OM)

Starting Powers: -


Starting Moves: 
1. Sword of Light (requires Physical Strength) - 300 OM. Warrior of Light summons a sword from the essence of light itself to defeat his foes. Held in one hand, it is meant for precise and powerful attacks, even though the attacks are slower.

2. Shield of Light (Requires Physical Strength and Ranged Proficiency) - 600 OM. Warrior of Light summons a shield to hold in his left hand, protecting him from withstandable attacks, whether melee, ranged or magical. The shield can also be used offensively, with Warrior of Light summoning the power of light, which takes about a second, then releasing a shining beam from the shield at the enemy. While this attack can hit ranged opponents and can be used while moving, it is better ud in close range, for it is harder to aim.


I confirm that I have read and agreed to the Rules of Conduct.

Where did you find us? Combination of boredom, random googling and an itch for roleplaying. I hope I'll enjoy it here ^^

It was at this moment Trixie realized for the first time that she was indeed clear of the Underverse. The charred and bloodstained Imperial ARC Trooper armor she had been wearing that fateful day was now present on her body again. The heavy duty combat suit was cracked and torn in several places; a good portion of her left leg was visible, the skin tight material was burned away on her arms leaving only the connected armor plating and exposed skin, and her helmet was shattered, exposing half of her face. Ripping the damaged head piece from her person she tossed the broken equipment to the floor and raised her left wrist to her mouth and clicked the communicator button.

“Come in Commander November Terra. This is Captain Zulenka of the 72nd Special Forces.” Nothing but static crackled through the communicator to the damaged speaker in her right ear.

“Fucking dammit,” Trixie shouted as she ripped the damaged communicator from her wrist and threw it into the void.

The environment shifted violently around her. Trixie could barely tell she was standing on a solid surface. Anger boiled within the red-headed soldier as she dropped to her knees and slammed her fist into the hard surface she was standing on. Each subsequent punch cracked her white armored gauntlets further, sending splinters of the durasteel material showering to the ground. The faint echo of a voice stopped her short, but whatever it was saying caught the ear of the Trixie. Reaching into a pouch on her belt she removed a small solid orb of Omnilium weighing a hefty amount. She was quite surprised that something the size of a large marble could weight almost five pounds.

As if by instinct she palmed the orb and slammed it into the ground. A large cloud of white smoke exploded outward sending the mistress sprawling onto her butt. The rest of her tattered cloak was blown into the void and what remained was a square backpack looking attachment with a note on it. Trixie took the folded piece of paper and opened it, examining the demonic writing on it that, to her shock, she could understand.

A parting gift, Trixie. Thanks for the sex.

It was signed with a signature flourish by Sia. Upon closer examination Trixie noticed that it was an expansion bay for the lower back mounts on ARC Trooper armor. Swinging the device behind her and positioning it right above her butt she clicked it into place. She was surprised that the servos even worked enough to kick in and winch the pack into place, providing it power from the power core embedded in her torso armor across the shoulder blades. As the motors kicked on to lock the device in place Trixie knew just how damaged her armor was. The stench of ozone accompanied by showers of sparks filled the air as the mechanical parts grinded themselves into oblivion trying to work against the damage.

“Combat Exoskeleton Tallgeese Mark Two!” A computerized voice screeched out from the bottom of the back.

“Analyzing…”

“Current armor beyond repair and incapable of supporting exoskeleton. Possible functions available…Boosters.”

“Activate boosters!” Trixie shouted.

Within seconds a wicked pair of mechanical wings jutted out from her back in a liquid state. A brilliant flash of rainbow exploded outward and they hardened themselves into a functioning rocketry system.

“Available boost…thirty-five percent.”

Without thinking, as if the machine knew what the red-head was thinking the two boosters ignited and propelled the woman forward along one of the ley lines.