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Messages - Astaire

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1
Absences/Returns / ---
« on: May 16, 2018, 02:28:21 am »
debating coming back for my brainchildren, the Ravens and Ryun, though i wouldn't be fully back until i graduate (in 2 weeks). i saw there's been some changes, but i'm sure things can be resolved.

i come and go as my moods and mental state dictate so this isn't something particularly rare, i've just been entertaining the thought of getting back to the characters i used to write.

2
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___________
**

{NAME}
Irial Siu Ynnves

{ALIASES}
Nym, the Crow, sadomasochistic fairy, Bossguy

{AGE}
93

{GENDER, SEXUALITY}
Male
He'll fuck anything, even a hole in a tree

{SPECIES/ETHNICITY}
Elf/fae/human mix, suspected ½ Fae, ¼ elf and ¼ human (or demon, based on sexual behavior and attitudes towards violence)
Aedolian

{HEIGHT/BUILD}
6’2”
slender

{OCCUPATION}
Pilot Royal, Squad Leader of the Ryun Ravens

{RESIDENCE}
A nice, comfortable apartment in Ryun with a view at the ocean

{VOICE}
Takahiro Sakurai

___________
IN DEPTH STUFF
___________

{PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION}

Irial’s not human and it shows. He’s no rainbow-colored, exotic xenos, but his bottomless eyes showing barely slivers of the sclerae, pointed ears, predatory sharp teeth and unnaturally unaging, slim, elegant body give it all away. His skin’s almost like paper, he’s all sharp angles and catlike movements, motions so smooth they’re mesmerizing patterned with the ruins of ugly scars he’s not at all ashamed of. Though he could easily be considered unusual to the point of fright and intimidation, he relishes in that; oh, Nym’s a narcissist in love with his own strangeness and ugliness enough to turn it into a specific kind of charm - to seduce or to unsettle, either’s good.

He’s no hunky piece of beef. Fae and elven heritage means a fragile-looking figure, all long limbs and slim bones seeming about ready to snap, but also ephemeral elegance. He’s slender in the waist almost like a woman, with delicate joints and stringy muscles hugging his spindly constitution, but not gangly; every part of Squadron Commander Ynnves’ body is well-proportioned and graceful, from his skinny ankles up long flexible legs and bony hips all the way to his prominent collarbones and narrow shoulders, even his slim hands with scarily long fingers somehow seem to suit the man. He has a narrow chest, prominent hips and ribs, and a slim neck. The thin bones show, but he’s not emaciated, there’s just enough muscle under his colorless pale skin to keep him from looking too much like a scarecrow.
Contrary to that, Nym moves with a natural catlike grace that’s inherent to him. His movements are relaxed and fluid with an unforced confidence; he’s prone to gesticulation and sprawling, the body language speaking of a terribly self-assured and dominant person that doesn’t need either flamboyant theatrics or uptight rigidity. No, he really doesn’t like to force himself either way, preferring to remain himself and keep his faerie charm.

It’s the face where the definitions of human and inhuman begin to slip and mingle between that which is natural for men and an alien, bug-eyed and angular faerie look. Irial’s sharp jaw and especially pointed chin on a long, solemn face say nonhuman, though his triangular face is well proportioned and his delicate features are noble, androgynous, salvaged only by their sharpness and every unpleasantly vicious smile, but remain too soft and slim to be considered manly. He’s got cheekbones to cut yourself on and sloped, sharply defined and expressive brows over a pair of huge slanted almond eyes, heavy-lidded and fringed with thick lashes and what seems to be daily applied kohl to emphasize them. As much as his lips are thin and quite pale, more grayish than a lively pink, he has a flawlessly straight and quite prominent narrow nose. Even his profile is chiseled and resembles the old paintings of the fae. His teeth are sharp, canines poking out whenever he smiles too widely and even otherwise their tips can be seen poking at his lower lip, almost as sharp as the long pointed tips of his knife-shaped ears that always protrude through his hair.

The misfortune of having thin skin with albinic amounts of melanin means that all the veins, the faint smattering of freckles over his cheeks, dark rings around his eyes and old scars show as easy as can be. His eyes, however, seem to shine in his face with a glimmering darkness, deep teal irises that look black in the slightest shadows and showing too little of the grayish and inhuman sclerae. Even the pupil, when visible, is elongated like a cat’s. The right ear is quite badly mutilated, torn to bits and sewn back up much like most of the right side of his face, riddled with holes and scars in the skin and flesh beneath like the surface of the moon, reconstructed only barely and having come close to being torn out. It's an ugly patchwork of burns, tears and lacerations, and though most of the color has faded from it now, it still marks him like a hideous spiderweb all the way from the corner of his hairline, over the forehead, temple and cheek almost halfway through his face, down to the neck where it still barely continues and reaching far enough through the hairline to create large hairless patches on the side nearly to the back of his head. There’s a much smaller crescent scar under his left eye. Three black, somewhat jagged lines run from the center and either side of his lower lip, converging slightly before they stop halfway down his chin.
 
It's quite surprising that a man so badly mutilated retains his confidence almost intact, but it wouldn't be Nym himself if he let it get him down.

His hair is black, and it’s a black as glossy and rich as tar. Only slightly wavy, he keeps the top as long as standards permit him to, and crops the sides and back of his head to a peachy fuzz, mainly due to the extensive scarring on the right side. The main bulk of his hair is silky, but he prefers to keep it tousled and casually unkempt, typically tied in a bun save for the front strands, or with two braids on either side of the undercut, also pinned back. For formal occasions, he likes elaborate french braids and fancy updos, or slicking his back neatly and allowing the strands to cascade down to his shoulders. His hair is his pride, somehow managing to keep his look however disheveled or smooth it is, though it typically doesn’t boast an overly smooth look.

Although Nym looks young, his body’s been worn down a dozen times over and it shows. It’s not just the extensive facial scars, but those are easily the most noticeable. His spinal column had been replaced by a (completely iron-free and lightweight) mechanical construct that still shows up all along his back as a ridge of metallic, barely elevated outcrops, and a more elaborate construct visible at the base of his neck. Parts of his skull and most of his ribs, too, aren’t quite organic, but this isn’t a fact obvious to many, since his real, natural skin covers the artificial bone quite well save for scars left after the surgical incisions. His lungs, however, are the only internal organ that had been replaced entirely due to severe damage. His right leg bears marks very similar to his face, centered mainly on the outer and dorsal side of the upper calf and the knee; his right nipple is gone, replaced by a scar that wraps around the side of his chest. The life of a combat operative is many things but not comfortable, leaving him with a significant motley combination of scars and a few birthmarks especially around the upper half of his back. Some of them don't look like ordinary bullet scars, lacerations and incisions - there's a whole array of burns, acid scars and orderly, neat cuts especially on his arms and upper body, speaking of things other than simple combat, even something that would appear like a mesh of lash scars on his upper back and the words 'bastard' and 'butcher' carved into his skin on the right arm.

Beside the lines on his lip and chin, he’s gathered his fair amount of tattoos through the years. His neck, his swan neck is inked a solid black from below his jawline, softly fading out on the back and on the front ending in a tapered, triangular point of gradually thinning lines at the base of his throat. The meaning’s not important. There’s a similar solid black band above his left elbow, about three inches thick, and one mirrored on the forearm under the elbow. The plain shape of a snowflake-like, runic looking star shape is wedged under his neck tattoo, exactly between the pectorals, and there's the lines of a realistic human heart inked on his right palm. His squad’s signature two ravens are inked on his shoulderblades, one on each, claws almost touching as their outstretched wings reach over his shoulders.
His left ear till carries many piercings and frequently exchanged earrings, there's one in his remaining (left) nipple, and he has three studs in his tongue as well.

Irial loves to dress well and be noticed for dressing well. Ryun’s climate is dry and hot, rarely warranting something more than a pair of sufficiently tightly fitting monochrome jeans, boots or sneakers and a plain black or dark gray t-shirt with an unique enough design to stand out, and that’s what he tends to wear in his free time - paired with a short leather or bomber jacket when it gets cooler, he’s not quite the type to stoop to hoodies and sweatpants, but he’s no suit-wearing, cane-totting dandy on his off days either. That being said, he still likes to show his flair and wear his clothes expensive, tailored and extravagant. Especially keen on combining the classy and the provocative, he’s exactly the kind of man who’d combine silver gilded thread and a torn up biker’s jacket or velvet and a kinky-looking harness. He likes long tunics, but also extremely tight, form-fitting tshirts, sharp lines and minimalist outlines combined with elaborate detailing, and a lot of layers, transparent or semitransparent fabrics. The king of kaftans, over-the-knee boots and mesh shirts, though he’s most easily recognized by smooth black leather, clear-cut silhouettes, a plenty of straps and zippers, and round mirror sunglasses that he only rarely removes outside.
His formal wear is the real sight to behold, as there’s no such thing as ‘too much’, and he likes participating in formal events plenty. Velvet jackets, seemingly neverending coats, beautiful jewelry and delicate embroidery compliment ensembles that are either figure-hugging and sleek, or billow in the air ephemerally like those of a fairy would. He favors dark, cold colors like black, dark green, dark teal, deep grey or steel blue; silver is a frequent accessory of his, he loves especially necklaces and rings and occasionally conceals his damaged ear with an elaborate cuff. He’s a firm believer of the fact that there’s no such thing as ‘too much’, ‘too fancy’, or too extravagant. Velvet, satin and brocade are more than fair game, but never the synthetic cheap variants. He loves a suit that cuts a nice silhouette, but never count on him wearing just a simple three piece - it’s inevitably gonna be something extravagant, much too modern or decked out in fabrics with fancy long names.
He’s also a huge fan of latex, straps, metal, and spikes. And it shows. Oh, it shows. He loves chokers, gloves and bracelets.

{PERSONALITY}

Dark Eldar meets Sídhe meets acid. Nym’s a sadomasochistic, extremely ambitious beast that doesn’t get close or familiar more than physically, he’s selfish and cruel and a sick twisted fuck beside that. The warm outside of a man down for anything at any time, a party animal and a questionable sex symbol’s a cover to make up for the fact he loves to dish out suffering and see people squirm. Sensory overload, adrenaline and schadenfreude are the addictive gasoline of his life and one day riding fast and chasing after the holy grail/imperial title is gonna bite him in the ass or kill him outright, but Nym doesn’t care, he just wants all the ass and all the power.

He’s also shameless, confident, and quick to laugh at anything. Vicious on the job, relaxed in private. Loves to make shit up and poke at people for shits and giggles, more than anything hates being bored.
Somewhere deep beneath all that shit weeps a sorry little heart of a man that doesn’t believe in love, one that he hammered into the ground with a nine inch heel and vehemently denies ever having.

SEX, DRUGS & ROCK'N'ROLL
Hedonistic, always on a high or bored to death. Chasing the holy grail of his own entertainment, loves to enjoy himself. On the outside, he's very extroverted, if capricious, addicted to excitement and never wanting to be held down or limited. Doesn't like boredom, stagnation or routine, absolutely shameless. Sensory overload is the best thing there is, he's always down for some new shit, a new adventure brewing.

THE FINEST PROGENY OF MARQUIS DE SADE
Decadent and ardently believing in his own freedom without a regard for how it affects others. Sick and twisted, he relishes in the pain of others' and doesn't care about their lives or well-being. Error 404 morals not found in this bitch, the only authorities he respects are formal ones and social expectations are bullshit in his eyes.

MACHIAVELLIAN PRINCE
A manipulative, cruel, unfeeling son of a bitch, he'll advance himself without a regard for others and loves to sit on top of the trash dump. Will not stand to be subdued (other than by formal, recognized authority), at the depth of his soul he lacks genuine sympathy for more than a sparse handful of people. Cynical. Doesn't believe in love or inherent human goodness. Not easily trusting. Likely borderline psychopathic.

SKELETONS IN THE CLOSET
Incapable of properly parsing and processing his own emotions, instead deals with them by bottling them up and not doing anything about them. Hates his own weakness. Absolutely horrible at managing distress or anything in a similar vein through other methods than anger and sadomasochistic tendencies, probably wouldn't recognize affection if it punched him in the face.

Fun Facts!:
  • likes lap dances, nine inch heels, harnesses, black latex, and some rumor-spreading tongues would have it that he has every perverted fetish under the sun. Irial makes no effort to disperse those rumors.
  • as part fae, his senses are very sharp, especially in regards to sight, hearing and touch; cacophonous sounds irritate him, and his color vision isn't entirely human (he can see a slightly wider color spectrum)
  • his blood (and subsequently the veins in his eyes and internal membranes) isn't a vibrant human red, but a somewhat darker, more faded burgundy
  • very flexible and agile, loves and practices martial arts and dancing. sex-tango-or-capoeira-?.mp4 is a real video
  • contrary to what was suggested, he didn't have his legs replaced by cybernetics (and is beginning to somewhat regret it due to chronic pain)
  • doesn't have fingerprints
  • the cybernetic implant at the back of his head is sensitive and could reduce him to an immobile wreck if damaged
  • has two pet iridescent pythons, Glitterbomb and Ballgag and had a third, named Buttplug, but it died; Buttplug's skeleton was preserved and is kept as a fashion accessory.
  • smokes menthols and dandylion
  • has a huge interest bordering with unhealthy when it comes the unknown, unfamiliar, unexplored, staring into the abyss until the abyss stares back, and due to this he’s an avid diver and especially enjoys freediving
  • a fashion enthusiast and often making contracts with designers, quite popular in the modelling world
  • prone to sudden changes of moods and frequent lying when approached outside of work, he loves making shit up and is not to be trusted outside of work matters - he takes his job very seriously, but little else, and gives out contradictory information regarding himself for shits and giggles
  • doesn’t believe in love
  • loves spicy food, if it doesn’t have chili in it it’s not worth eating
  • pure iron actually causes him a faint allergic reaction, a little like sunburn on the skin. Steel is fine.

{SPECIAL ABILITIES}

GLAMOUR
Weak. As Fae, he’s able to fool people’s senses to a faint extent, but the effect is very brief and the original forms of thing concealed by it can still be seen by the corner of the eye, in mirrors and through cameras and recordings. Its range is just a few meters.

TELEPATHY
Just like his squad’s specifics demand, Irial is a very strong telepath. More so than range (though that is impressive, too) it’s the insistence, the invasiveness. Probably honed by practice. Can transfer visual information and gleefully employs it in combination with his biokinesis - hallucination and psychotic voices galore.

TELEKINESIS
Moderate. Nothing beyond average, but finely controlled through years of practice. Can telepathically control a dildo if he's feeling particularly lonely or his hands are occupied.

BIOKINESIS
While he can't create new cells, he can affect bodily functions with a specialization on the nervous system and hormones. Can manipulate neurons, simulate pain or symptoms of mental illnesses and cause hormone imbalances as long as he's in the vicinity; the effects aren't permanent and cease within an approx. 100m range away from Irial, and are immediately strengthened by physical contact with him (skin to skin works the best, though clothes do not impede him very significantly.) He's able to manipulate the sensory input upon closer concentration, varying from auditory and visual hallucinations down to temporary shutdown/blacking out of sensory organs, although this effect is temporary and terminates upon breaking concentration or escaping range. The ability is better suited to singular individuals, but can be used on groups as well. Irial is able to manipulate his own hormonal and nervous responses, though isn't capable of doing so for more than several hours at a time (prolonged use could lead to nerve and gland damage). The combination of hormonal and neural responses can induce panicked and/or paranoid states, vivid visual hallucinations and intense physical pain caused by manipulating loose nerve endings. Sadly, it typically isn't what kills the subject.

{RELATIONSHIPS}

Aeval Meabh - Nym's dragon, a very slim female wyvern of a dark black-green coloration with abnormally large spines along her legs, back, head and tail and a fascination with terror. Her scales appear darker around the areas of her spines and limbs, and a part of her tail, but also throat and left front legs are mechanical. Her large, leathery wings have a huge wingspan and she's covered in what appears to be hair-like growths from the distance, especially on and around the spines and wings. Don't get misled by the fascinating, bright eyes; Meabh is an ancient, cruel and machinating creature and knows precisely why she chose Irial. They were a great match since the start, similarly sadistic and infatuated with inflicting suffering on all who might oppose him, perhaps to the point of Aeval being a little lenient towards his tendencies. She bears an extreme dislike towards weakness and will not tolerate it in her pilot, but otherwise they get along frighteningly well. It was Meabh who suggested him to leave the Harpies, and again Meabh who supported his idea of the Ravens.

{HISTORY}

Bastard. Beloved. Hated. Death. Run. Outcast. Alone. Violation. Violation of the inviolable.

Exalted, relishing. Hope. And broken again. Alone, throughout all of it he was alone. Fame. Misfortune. Ambition. Pain. Pain. Death. Death.
Love. It doesn’t exist.

Pain. Ambition. Forever. Might makes right.

Can’t wash his own hands over himself and doesn’t want to. Alone again. War. A sadistic glee. Danger. Suffering. Martyrdom. A crimson sunset. Far. Very far. Death. Death. Death. Pain. Pain. Pain. Suffering. Again. Death, death, death. Always death.

Life. At a high price.

Drifting into the future. Losing track of years.

---

Once upon a time, there had been a Faerie lord, old, wise and powerful. He had had many wives, many children; enshrouded in glamour and legend he seemed to pass through centuries unchanged, and as his progeny amassed so grew his influence. Among them, his eldest daughter Áinfean had always been his favorite, but she was a fickle and whimsical one, not keen on settling down and living a good and responsible life. It was thus that she gave birth to an unexpected child with hair as slick and dark as seaweed and eyes like the depths of the sea.

But this isn't a fairytale. It never was one.
In fairytales, the villain dies and the hero emerges victorious out of his story. Villains don't get happy ends, and heroes don't turn evil; there are princesses and devils, not whores and terrorists.
And that's why Irial's story isn't a fairytale.

His mother, Áinfean of Dan Cais, was the firstborn daughter of a several centuries old fae patriarch and businessman, the widely known Finvarra Uaigh. He had several wives and consorts throughout the years, plentiful offspring and a comfortable government position. And lots of money to provide for his large family, especially ones as Áinfean herself, socialites, models, the hearts of night clubs living their lives in neon lights. It's still not certain who fathered the child, as Áinfean doesn't remember the father's name. Irial was born Irial Siu Uaigh, a bastard child with bottomless dark eyes and was at first ignored by his uncles vying for Finvarra's hard-earned favor.

And he was strange since the start.
Quiet, a little withdrawn from the other kids, always throwing stares that seemed to pierce you through down to the bone, destroying whatever he put his hands on. Disconcerting. A bully, a force of nature called by the wide horizons or a wild animal rather than a sweet little child, though that wasn't altogether too unexpected with the Fae. He had always been a little cruel, a little lonesome and seemingly very ambitious - to impress or excel for himself, that wasn't certain, but he certainly did both in Finvarra's eyes, and the old man took notice.
He saw something of himself in the child. Stubbornness? The ambition? A desire to stand out, the unashamed perseverance and honesty to be himself and not content with a comfortable life, just like the old man himself? Who knows. But he quickly grew fond of little Siu, the empty-eyed, cruel little child that sucked his words in with a religious devotion and never let a thing hold him back.

Of course, this didn't please most of his uncles. How dare some muddy-blooded bastard of Áinfean's enjoy more of Finvarra's attention than them? It was unthinkable, an affront to what they thought the pecking order was - of course, the old man himself never considered any such things and did what he wanted. He liked Irial. And, surprisingly, Irial liked him, as one of the few. In fact, he was more often with his grandfather - who was albeit harsh, commanding and at times controlling, an intimidating presence that bowed to no one, was one of the few that showed him any affection - than his mother. Áinfean soon took the advice of others and largely returned to her old lifestyle.
The head of the Uaigh fae clan wanted Irial to one day become his successor, and began on implementing this. Of course, that didn't please any of his uncles, hungry even for scraps from Finvarra's high table, and they had no intentions of allowing this to happen. They couldn't just get rid of a child, but they could sure enough pin something on him.

The years went by. He got whatever he desired, but drifted away from everyone but Finvarra himself. People kept away, out of fear, disgust or whatever else it was - Siu didn't ask questions, wonder or mind it, because it was better that way. His grandfather gave him everything he wanted, from tutors to toys and gadgets; he took a particular interest in swimming and drank up knowledge with an unusual desire for an Aedolian, but that was likely to be attributed to the fact that the old man, by origin a Libran, had never really bought into the consumerist lifestyle as much. On his regular check-ups, he never tested as a psychic, and ahead of him was the likely life of his grandfather's right hand. It was a glorious prospect.
And some vicious, equally ambitious men couldn't bear the the thought. They didn't make his existence easier, like jackals waiting for a moment of a misstep as argument began to crop up more and more often.
Then, shortly before he turned 15, he subconsciously gave one of his uncles a seizure during a serious argument. Hours later, he was confirmed dead - and of course, the thoughts that the child was the reason for his death began cropping up not much later.

As though in a convergence of everything terrible, Finvarra was found dead in his bedroom a few weeks later. That was the last nail in the coffin - there was no protective hand held over Irial anymore, and the snakes were free to slither in for a venomous bite, or at least so he thought. He had no more future within the Uaigh house, he wasn't welcome. So, in what seemed natural to him at the age of 15, he stole a large amount of his family's heritage, valuables and jewels and hopped on the rail, going over the sea and as far as he only could. He was a runaway now, a self-imposed exile, but it was better than waiting for his uncles to tear him to pieces in the subsequent war of authority. After all, he was still almost a child. He can't recall whether he was afraid at the time; the only thing he remembers was sitting next to the window and wrapping his spindly arms around a bag full of stolen wealth with no future and no goals in life.

He arrived in Aurora and found himself on the streets. As days went on and he wasted his money, living in hotel rooms, getting in trouble; somehow it came to happen that he joined in with a gang - and that's where the name Nym, but also his later alias, The Crow, came from. He quickly rose through the hierarchy despite his youth to become an authority of sorts - with a metal pipe in hand and a sadistic grin whenever he forced someone into submission, he liked this fast-paced, adrenaline-pumped life of threats, blackmail, gang wars and lawlessness. He thrived.
In a way. He convinced himself of this in memory.
In truth, nothing was ideal. He mourned the life he had lost, he wasn't used to this; he was terrified at first, exchanging comfort and luxury for danger and uncertainty was a certain shock. He came to find out about everything Finvarra had previously sheltered him from - sex, drugs and rock'n'roll, violence, pain.

One of those summer nights, Firk, the unofficial right hand of the gang's head, took him to the bedroom of an apartment they'd been raving in at the time. Drugged up on ecstasy and uncertain of what's happening, Firk undressed him and forced him on the bed. He didn't want it, but the man was not asking any questions; when Nym tried to protest, he broke his arm and forced him to comply.
It was not the first night he'd ever dreamed of. Firk left him among the crumpled up sheets alone and hurting, and he hated him for it, he hated him so much; that moment of overpowering hatred was the first time he really realized it--
That when he later caught Firk alone, with a butterfly knife in hand, when he somehow made him fall to the floor writhing in pain and started cutting him. Bit by bit, he watched the blood stream down - and by god, it tasted almost as delicious as the man's screams sounded.
Oh yes, he cut off the manhood that had violated him, piece by piece. He gouged out his eyes, it made him feel so good to take his vengeance and he didn't regret a thing when he saw the exposed bones and viscera. And while the bleeding wreck of a man was still writhing in pain under him, slowly coming closer to the brink of death, he was discovered.

He was alone in the fight that ensued. And it didn't last long. In the dark, there was a lot more knives, a lot more dirty things, a lot more blood. At that point, his memory fades out.

When he came to, he was hospitalized with crushed ribs, a broken leg, and several stab wounds. But there was also one of the other gang members, with severe brain damage and a hormonal imbalance without an apparent natural cause. That was when Nym's psychic abilities were discovered, at the age of 17.
And his world turned around. Accepted into the ATC, he was lifted up from the pits of Aurora's gang life - nothing would ever be the same again.
Of course, it wasn't easy. The plethora of things he was called - an alien, a creature, a beast, whether it was because of his appearance or behavior; once again, everyone remained five feet away from him at the very best. Fear and loathing. He was slowly getting used to it.
He stood on the very brink of being TRIMed several times, due to bullying, sociopathic tendencies and sadism, but somehow carried himself through. Perhaps it was because he was clever, perhaps because he never openly disobeyed, perhaps because he was skilled and willing to learn to become a pilot and serve Aedolis; his love of the suffering of others was simply a vice that was hard to swallow. And like a tool of war, he was broken and remade into a stronger man than he had been before, malleable iron turning first to steel, then to solid titanium. And then, after all the strife and so much effort put merely into making it through, he finally graduated.

The hopes for him were uncertain and shaky as best. He was a wildcard. Dangerous, seemingly unstable - the name of the Crow stuck with him as did an increasingly heinous, horrible record. Surprisingly enough, however, there were no issues. Pilot Cardinal Ynnves was perhaps secretly sadistic, but he was also bright, efficient - scarily so - and good at what he did, even after joining the Harpies. He excelled. Was promoted. Pleased his superiors. Pleased even his squad's leader, though the disputes about technique had been there for a while and eventually they culminated in Irial requesting to be removed from the squad and made a solo Combat Operative. Things worked just fine for the while, with Siu working on his own and doing what he would as a special combat operative; then, the curtains were drawn on peace all of a sudden.

War is never a good thing. Only the strong, the spiteful and the fortunate survive, and there's just one type of man that thrives in the tides of war: the monster. Heinous and cruel, reveling in human suffering. And Nym excelled on the frontlines and in the ambushes, there couldn't have been a better man for that - the lawlessness and atrocity of war unleashed him, deprived him of the chains that had bound him before and set forth the beast. It was the enemy, it was allowed - no one could hold him accountable if the atrocities he committed were in the name of Aedolis and a greater good.
But it is cruel to everyone, perpetrator or victim. The hunter easily becomes the prey.
He had been part of a stealth operation that was going particularly well, but not everyone shared his blood loyalty - things such as morals, beliefs and allegiances to them were still a thing in this rotten world then, as they are now. One member of their little company had been a traitor, working with the enemy and preparing an ambush for them. Although the crew survived, it wasn't for the better - first, it was imprisonment, something he remembered only dimly, then interrogation.

For weeks, months. Traitors, terrorists,  Their faces were all the same with blood, smoke and acid fumes burning him in the eyes, tied to a chair or handcuffed to a wall. Perhaps someone would've said they'd rather not remember, but Nym does, not shying away from the blood, gore and cruelty - the hatred was the only thing that fueled his will to survive then, and became the oil to his fire later. He remembers everything he humanly could.
The intrusions to his mind, a scorching acid trickling over his face. A stranger whose blurred face he couldn't remember with a dulled knife and questions that eventually stopped making sense to him; the repetitive sound of a crowbar hitting limp flesh and the disgusting cracks of fracturing bone. At first, he resisted - even though he could not free himself, he could torment the captors back, every touch becoming a threat to the offender. They had burnt his hands when the specifics of his biokinesis were discovered (after he had already nearly killed one of his torturers), left him starving in that small cell he had been locked in, often unconscious after an interrogation session.
And he survived, because he detested them too much to kick the fucking bucket now and then.

Five months later, the base was attacked by loyalists, reclaimed, and he was discovered in the cell very close to the brink of death - beat up, broken, emaciated and wounded so badly it wasn't even certain whether he'll survive the journey back. He still remembers the one who did this courtesy for him; how could he forget Ren, his old friend, the only--
In the end, it turned out that he was the only member of the captive crew to have survived. Miraculously, he held up despite sustaining massive damage; although it initially seemed that he'll never be able to serve as a combat operative or perhaps even a pilot again due to the mutilation of his spine, skull and nervous system, but he made a seemingly miraculous recovery after undergoing huge restorations, even as much as being fitted with a completely synthetic spine and ribs. His own pride even made him keep his maimed limbs despite nerve and bone damage to his legs; after months, he was ready to resume his service and returned with renewed vigor - although his health wasn't in perfect condition, he arguably performed even better than before.

The things he did were not worthy of words or record. Working as a special covert ops and shock troops agent and beginning his cooperation with others of a similar disposition, had it not been the trying time of war, he certainly would've been on trial for the crimes and atrocities committed. There was only one thing in common between every operation in which he and the likes of his, his black crows, had been deployed in: whatever hadn't been killed with extreme brutality was permanently traumatized.
And how he reveled in it! There was nothing alike to seeing the fruitless retreat of his foes, their terrified screams during what must've felt like an eternity of suffering before the mind and body is slowly torn apart!

That, in a way, was how the Ravens were born. At the beginning, there had been himself and Ren, two black crows circling over the battlefield; the others came later, through accident or conscious recruitment. Although Irial had moved to Ryun years ago already, wanting to stay away from his original clan but also wishing to wipe his head of the memories of Aurora and its crime syndicates (though he'd mopped the floor with some of those, too, shortly after his promotion), it hadn't been till after that war that he contemplated the creation of a squad.
At first, it had been an experiment. Monsters, aliens and freaks the likes of which perhaps would've been rejected elsewhere - he bore no prejudice towards any of them, the only things he had ever disliked having been a meek heart and too much compassion at its bottom.

And despite everything he had ever been casually, as a commander, he was commendable. That became known in the last war between Edanith and Aedolis; formally, the Ravens were formed at its beginning, beginning to operate as a special unit of shock troops specializing in terror tactics and stealth ops. Death from above that you do not expect, acid rain, a creeping terror ready to rend you apart. And they performed beautifully - terrifyingly so. He was promoted again thanks to his terrific war record bordering with the long run of a horror movie and the effectiveness of the Ravens. Finally, after the end of the war, they began functioning as a normal squad.
It was mostly Nym himself who had a hard time getting used to peace after decades of war. Yes, things were less threatening now, but the adrenaline was gone; he had nothing left to let him climb the ladder of importance and rank save for machinations and plans for the future, and fewer yet to satisfy his appetite for human suffering and adrenaline.

One day it'll ruin him - this, or the copious amounts of opiates and his foolish pride - that he knows. But to acknowledge it wouldn't be anywhere as exciting as the titanic struggle against one's own nature and desires to stand on the top of the food chain, once and for all govern the mountaintops, and thus he'd gladly chuck himself into the waves and swim against the riptide just to know he's done something else, something more. Whether it is to take revenge on a cruel world, prove something, or merely have fun till the very end and enjoy the sight of the world falling apart inbetween his spindly fingers isn't important; he'd never gotten as deep as to take the masks off his emotions and get to know them properly. 

_________________
TIMELINE:
x
_________________

3
Havina / A Shave a Day - Well, You Know the Rest. [Lion]
« on: January 13, 2018, 03:44:53 pm »
Dull.
That's what it had become, dull. A morphine-soaked haze dripping its grey scarlet remains into his consciousness when the sedatives dropped to a dangerously low level, or when he'd had too much sleep even for his wrecked body. And threading one or the other made little difference.
His waking world was filled with controls and a dull pain that threatened to drown everything else out with every dip of the anesthetics, till someone entered and changed his IVs again - and then came the sickly sweetness of oblivion, spinning in dreams high as a fucking kite.
He hated it.
But he was alive, so what right did he have to complain?
Whatever was counting out his heartbeat and marking every twitch of the tired muscle within his chest with a beep sustained its regular rhythm, testament to one stubborn son of a bitch that refused to bite a dust even two limbs short and full of tubes and hardware.

It was a miracle, someone said.
No, it's not a miracle, Galahad would've told them if there hadn't been something still stuck in his throat and allowing him to breathe, just a hard-headed old bastard and the wonders of modern medicine.
But he didn't.
It didn't matter.
It had been two weeks now, hadn't it?

Two weeks. During one of those more wakeful times, he'd gathered enough strength to tilt his head sideways and look at Loa's softly rising and falling chest, the green of life controls blinking with what was now familiarity. The pale white of a pillowcase rubbed against his less damaged cheek with a soft rustle.
And that reminded him, someone'd promised to help him shave. Ah, how pitiful it was, to ask another man for such a courtesy, and in a bed no less - but he wasn't being given a choice, not in this matter or any other at the time. All he could do was frown and glance at the blank screen of the TV with shards of quiet contemplation skimming past the surface of his thoughts.
No, now wasn't the time for that. He doubted that he could keep his eye open for long even if he decided to turn it on.
It was hard--
To breathe, to stay awake. Merely exist, counting down the myriads of seconds.
The real miracle was that he persisted without going mad.
Or did he?

Apollo, was that his name?
He wondered whether he'd already seen the man, or if it was simply a name that had slipped him by among the masses of doctors and nurses, barely seen face flitting past as his memory blurred their features, sinking deeper into the pit every day. He'd see it when he comes, and the bit of curiosity was one of the few things that helped him stay awake and wonder.
Moving was out of the question. Broken like a plastic soldier ran over by a lawnmower, it wasn't an option in the first place.
A few more weeks--
Maddening. I want to go out.
He couldn't even keep his thoughts still, the torrents always swept him one way or another. A deep exhale had him regretting it seconds later when his broken ribs reminded him of the current situation.

Till at last, the door opened.
Yes, at least he'd get rid of the annoying stubble. Why didn't Blu let him know he was getting prickly already?

4
Communication / Re: To Pilot Noble Dorn, From Pilot Royal Moon
« on: January 13, 2018, 12:23:15 am »
[to Pilot Royal Moon, from Pilot Noble Dorn]
> m rlly worri ed for loa n i dont know wha s going on. i m not in love but
> feel rsponsible
> i wnt to help im
> don t even knoe how
> blubird. blubi rd w hat m i spposed to do.

[to Pilot Noble Dorn, from Pilot Royal Moon]
> Focus on getting better. He'll be fine. He is getting the best care our planet can offer. The best help you can offer anyone is to work on getting better. Working yourself up only makes it worse!

[to Pilot Royal Moon, from Pilot Noble Dorn]
> m still.. .
> s different n i almost for got ho wit feels to wake up nex to someon e real n i cant help it... i dont wan t history t repeat..
> ive been alone fo r so long.
> b ut i feel
> i wan t to help im.

[to Pilot Noble Dorn, from Pilot Royal Moon]
> You can't live in fear forever

[to Pilot Royal Moon, from Pilot Noble Dorn]
> i knoe.

[to Pilot Noble Dorn, from Pilot Royal Moon]
> I wish I could say I understand...It's been so long Gal. But history doesn't repeat itself unless you haven't learned from the last time

[to Pilot Royal Moon, from Pilot Noble Dorn]
> i asked th doctor to move me in oe room w him

[to Pilot Noble Dorn, from Pilot Royal Moon]
> You better not aggravate your injuries

[to Pilot Royal Moon, from Pilot Noble Dorn]
> i can t eve n mvoe.
> aske d through comm

[to Pilot Noble Dorn, from Pilot Royal Moon]
> That's what I'm worried about

[to Pilot Royal Moon, from Pilot Noble Dorn]
> blu. u don t nee dto worry bout m e

[to Pilot Noble Dorn, from Pilot Royal Moon]
> It's my gods both damned right and you ain't takin that from me(edited)

[to Pilot Royal Moon, from Pilot Noble Dorn]
> apprt ly i m gettin g a new liver ill be ok

[to Pilot Noble Dorn, from Pilot Royal Moon]
> when

[to Pilot Royal Moon, from Pilot Noble Dorn]
> tmr?
> wen i m stable the  said

[to Pilot Noble Dorn, from Pilot Royal Moon]
> I'll light the candles for you
> I'm on my way home right now

[to Pilot Royal Moon, from Pilot Noble Dorn]
> if t makes u feel bet ter

[to Pilot Noble Dorn, from Pilot Royal Moon]
> Don't be an ass

[to Pilot Royal Moon, from Pilot Noble Dorn]
> u know i don t believe i n tht
> or avin a cursed d ick.

[to Pilot Noble Dorn, from Pilot Royal Moon]
> Doesn't change how I was raised or whether I beliee or not....it' something we do

[to Pilot Royal Moon, from Pilot Noble Dorn]
> s y i said it

[to Pilot Noble Dorn, from Pilot Royal Moon]
> Shsut up Galahad before I give you a real reason to think your dick is curseed

[to Pilot Royal Moon, from Pilot Noble Dorn]
> y
> mayb e i shoul d try to bottom. m aybe is just whe n it goes in.

[to Pilot Noble Dorn, from Pilot Royal Moon]
> Because I'll cut it fucking off if you say it's cursed one more time

[to Pilot Royal Moon, from Pilot Noble Dorn]
> ur scaring me
> s not gettin g used tho ugh

[to Pilot Noble Dorn, from Pilot Royal Moon]
> Good. Maybe you'll listen

[to Pilot Royal Moon, from Pilot Noble Dorn]
> wa s just jokin g

[to Pilot Noble Dorn, from Pilot Royal Moon]
> I'm not
> You are not cursed. You are not a hopeless cause. Stop trying ot give up on me

[to Pilot Royal Moon, from Pilot Noble Dorn]
> ve given up on myself
> bu t i  still go t thigns to do
> m not worri ed bou t lo a cus we slept togethr. i knw what shit hs in n i think he cn get out. befoe its late

[to Pilot Noble Dorn, from Pilot Royal Moon]
> Please don't then. You'd hurt me greatly if I lost tou

[to Pilot Royal Moon, from Pilot Noble Dorn]
> m not gonna.
> promise.
> ll still b here
> in thick n th in as alwaus
> . .. i m grate ful to have u

[to Pilot Noble Dorn, from Pilot Royal Moon]
> I miss you
> I went home last night but I wonder if I should have.

[to Pilot Royal Moon, from Pilot Noble Dorn]
> miss u too.
> r u ok?

[to Pilot Noble Dorn, from Pilot Royal Moon]
> Still too stubborn for my own good. That much hasn't changed

[to Pilot Royal Moon, from Pilot Noble Dorn]
> good. it s still u.
> u alwa ys were nd thats wha t i liked about u

[to Pilot Noble Dorn, from Pilot Royal Moon]
> Here I thought it was my winsome personality

[to Pilot Royal Moon, from Pilot Noble Dorn]
> all of u
> u  wre myy firs t friend

[to Pilot Noble Dorn, from Pilot Royal Moon]
> I have to work this week. I've so much to catch up on. So much I've missed. But next chance I get Im coming to see you. So don't do anything stupid until then

[to Pilot Royal Moon, from Pilot Noble Dorn]
> bl u. i cnt move. i m not goin g to do aything

[to Pilot Noble Dorn, from Pilot Royal Moon]
> Aww Cher. Well what a friend eh? You're stuck with me now xP

[to Pilot Royal Moon, from Pilot Noble Dorn]
> w ouldn t want it an y other way
> tho ugh

[to Pilot Noble Dorn, from Pilot Royal Moon]
> They thought I couldn't move. I escaped to a closet my first day conscious(edited)

[to Pilot Royal Moon, from Pilot Noble Dorn]
> i dont know wha t u still se in me
> as  a  frien
> a s a person
> i can  barly move m head. my legs  r broke n. i m not going anywher

[to Pilot Noble Dorn, from Pilot Royal Moon]
> You want me to wax sappy?
> Well fine then
> Loyalty
> Honor
> Compassion
> A far bigger heart than you let on
> Intelligence

[to Pilot Royal Moon, from Pilot Noble Dorn]
> m sry. i cant see it in mself n now i feel
> piti ful
> i hate it.

[to Pilot Noble Dorn, from Pilot Royal Moon]
> How can you not? You're in a hospital bed and yet you're asking after me
> I know that if I asked at any time you'd be here in a heartbeat for me
> Truest of true friends

[to Pilot Royal Moon, from Pilot Noble Dorn]
> o f course.
> ill aways feel i owe u
> don t say anyth ing.
> dont  say i don t
> u cnt chan ge it
> u saved my life n i cant ever e ver repa y it

[to Pilot Noble Dorn, from Pilot Royal Moon]
> it's my duty
> You have missions. I have people's lives

[to Pilot Royal Moon, from Pilot Noble Dorn]
>  i as k fo ru n for loa wanti ng to feel better thinkin g bout someone not my self cau se i dont lik e who ive turne d to
> im selfish
> an d its ugly

[to Pilot Noble Dorn, from Pilot Royal Moon]
> We're all selfish and do things we shouldn't

[to Pilot Royal Moon, from Pilot Noble Dorn]
> yes. ys we are
> ometimes
> im wishing
> i wasn t human ar all. rip this stupid kittle heeart out
> little

[to Pilot Noble Dorn, from Pilot Royal Moon]
> Without a heart we'd be monsters

[to Pilot Royal Moon, from Pilot Noble Dorn]
> mayb e
> ma ybe id be ebtter off a machiine
> but
> i ont want to lose it all. u remind me of it

[to Pilot Noble Dorn, from Pilot Royal Moon]
> Try not to mope. There are always better times ahead

[to Pilot Royal Moon, from Pilot Noble Dorn]
> aight
> s the meds n pain prolly

[to Pilot Noble Dorn, from Pilot Royal Moon]
> It does things to us aye
> I regret the things I said publicly

[to Pilot Royal Moon, from Pilot Noble Dorn]
> m
> i wan te d to
> i think i wa s hallucina ting
> m srry i.. . .thank y ou

[to Pilot Noble Dorn, from Pilot Royal Moon]
> Why are you sorry?

[to Pilot Royal Moon, from Pilot Noble Dorn]
> sayin g
> dumb shit

[to Pilot Noble Dorn, from Pilot Royal Moon]
> You said nothing dumb

[to Pilot Royal Moon, from Pilot Noble Dorn]
> i di d.
> m stuck in the past too..
> i should nt mope yes
> m just
> tired

[to Pilot Noble Dorn, from Pilot Royal Moon]
> Sleep Gal. I won't keep you up. We can talk more later.

[to Pilot Royal Moon, from Pilot Noble Dorn]
> no t like that.
> sleep doesn t help whe n s not the bod y thats tired

[to Pilot Noble Dorn, from Pilot Royal Moon]
> Your heart is weary

[to Pilot Royal Moon, from Pilot Noble Dorn]
> for got i had one a all
> s the boy. da mnedb oy.
> es sleeping

[to Pilot Noble Dorn, from Pilot Royal Moon]
> Tell me about him?

[to Pilot Royal Moon, from Pilot Noble Dorn]
> th wor st part is
> i feel like i don t kkow him but aso like  id o

[to Pilot Noble Dorn, from Pilot Royal Moon]
> You know his pain

[to Pilot Royal Moon, from Pilot Noble Dorn]
> we me t in a bar n got drunk.
> then it came u p tha t we r on th e same missi on
> mak es me miss him
> u know
> feel like
> i don t know w ht happned but e deser ves to b helped

[to Pilot Noble Dorn, from Pilot Royal Moon]
> You could be the one

[to Pilot Royal Moon, from Pilot Noble Dorn]
> the what?

[to Pilot Noble Dorn, from Pilot Royal Moon]
> To help him

[to Pilot Royal Moon, from Pilot Noble Dorn]
> i wish i coul d
> es asleep n it worries m eto see him lookin g awful tho im no t better off
> but

[to Pilot Noble Dorn, from Pilot Royal Moon]
> You have this feeling like you owe the world and need punishment....redee m yourself Galahad.

[to Pilot Royal Moon, from Pilot Noble Dorn]
> long as es sleeping hes not feeling any pain so its k
> caus e i feel i fkd up
> n i hae nothing to live for
> jus t wokr
> work n booze
> u sed to thin k i could be a martyr
> s not the wa y tho
> i can t be. so   all i go t is to try n make this plce bette r till i die
> s a ll i got
> m no t a martyr. m no t a hero.  m y life isnt mea ningful wit hout an nd i was lost
> then
> i stop ped sear ching

[to Pilot Noble Dorn, from Pilot Royal Moon]
> I'm loathe to say it but maybe you should see someone
> I do

[to Pilot Royal Moon, from Pilot Noble Dorn]
> oh
> im
> m happy for u
> blubird i m so hap y for u
> an d i wis h u th best of luck

[to Pilot Noble Dorn, from Pilot Royal Moon]
> I mean a therapist

[to Pilot Royal Moon, from Pilot Noble Dorn]
> no.

[to Pilot Noble Dorn, from Pilot Royal Moon]
> I'm still alone Darn it. I'll always be alone

[to Pilot Royal Moon, from Pilot Noble Dorn]
> fkkkk m srry
> didn  t mean to

[to Pilot Noble Dorn, from Pilot Royal Moon]
> I've accepted it
> I had my chance and I chose the wrong man. Lost them both for it

[to Pilot Royal Moon, from Pilot Noble Dorn]
> if  u were a man
> well. nvm. m sayin g stupid shit gain

[to Pilot Noble Dorn, from Pilot Royal Moon]
> Snorts Seems to be the story of my life. You're the second one that's said that

[to Pilot Royal Moon, from Pilot Noble Dorn]
> we cant choose
> i believ e  ull fin d someone
> u r a goo d person

[to Pilot Noble Dorn, from Pilot Royal Moon]
> No I'm not

[to Pilot Royal Moon, from Pilot Noble Dorn]
> u are
> u r
> th e best person ive eer known
> n m ver y ve ry grate ful to have u
> the angels
> ur work

[to Pilot Noble Dorn, from Pilot Royal Moon]
> Maybe then. There's so much I've failed at now. SO many mistakes I've made

[to Pilot Royal Moon, from Pilot Noble Dorn]
> speak s a lot bout u
> we all make em.

[to Pilot Noble Dorn, from Pilot Royal Moon]
> Maybe the Angels is just my hope for redemption

[to Pilot Royal Moon, from Pilot Noble Dorn]
> its ok.
> uve alrea  dy redeemed urself for five lifetimes

[to Pilot Noble Dorn, from Pilot Royal Moon]
> And made mistakes for ten thousand

[to Pilot Royal Moon, from Pilot Noble Dorn]
> n us aid its never too late fo r anything
> don t say that.
> i don t like i t when u lie.

[to Pilot Noble Dorn, from Pilot Royal Moon]
> You know me well enough to know I don't

[to Pilot Royal Moon, from Pilot Noble Dorn]
> ur ly ing to urself
> i kno w enough
> u rnt a bad person blu
> u ve a bigger hea rt than anyone i know
> and
> hats rare
> very rare

[to Pilot Noble Dorn, from Pilot Royal Moon]
> I see them all Galahad
> Every night I see the faces of the dead
> They're so many of them

[to Pilot Royal Moon, from Pilot Noble Dorn]
> blu.
> listen t o me n ow.
> uve done more, m uch much more than most o f us here. we kill.  you save lives. youve pai d yourself back over and over for a tho usand years. without you, i d be dead, so many others would be, bc ou did nt hesitat e to go on the battlefie ld and risk you r own life for thei rs. for ours. that s what angels s hould do, if there area ny. and sometimes sometime s anythin g you do isn t enough. sometime s youre late... . i know i wa s too... sometimes its jus t like that. lifes a cunt. it doesnt grant mercy. you ve saved many n i know you still will. n i know ho w  yuo feel when u hav eregrets bec ause im there wi th u. the face s of th dead stare back. bu t reemember the faces of tose who lived thanks to u
> you ve saved many n i know you still will. n i know ho w  yuo feel when u hav eregrets bec ause im there wi th u. the face s of th dead stare back. bu t reemember the faces of tose who lived thanks to u

[to Pilot Noble Dorn, from Pilot Royal Moon]
> I did my job and nothing more

[to Pilot Royal Moon, from Pilot Noble Dorn]
> no.
> yo u did muc h more.
> i dont know if iv e seen you r heart
> i d like to be able to say  i dd
> what  i sa w of it wa s good
> better thn i coul dbe
> please, blubird
> don t speak of ourself like that
> it m akes my heart hurt to hear it

[to Pilot Noble Dorn, from Pilot Royal Moon]
> I'll make a deal with you
> You stop self-pitying and I'll stop tearing myself part

[to Pilot Royal Moon, from Pilot Noble Dorn]
> promise
> promise?

[to Pilot Noble Dorn, from Pilot Royal Moon]
> Promise
> Cross my heart hope to die

[to Pilot Royal Moon, from Pilot Noble Dorn]
> no. dont hope to die
> u gotta live
> was ognna write a  part of my will n u then i rel ized i have nothing but mini atures n old guns so
> no point
> unless  u wnt them.
> [sent a picture]

[to Pilot Noble Dorn, from Pilot Royal Moon]
> Dumbass you're not dying. Save the wills for when you're old

[to Pilot Royal Moon, from Pilot Noble Dorn]
> feel old aready
> n w thi s work
> bu t its not time eyt
> too many fkn gospels  left

[to Pilot Noble Dorn, from Pilot Royal Moon]
> Hush. Don't talk about work. I don't want you to get in trouble

[to Pilot Royal Moon, from Pilot Noble Dorn]
> m not
> aight
> shoulnt let my ton gue wander
> es still aslep
> been sleepin for hous
> its a little... aw ful lookin g at all the tubes n the beepig n all that. b ut i see hs breathin g

[to Pilot Noble Dorn, from Pilot Royal Moon]
> And so are you. That's what matters

5
Communication / Re: To Pilot Noble Dorn, From Pilot Royal Moon
« on: January 13, 2018, 12:05:33 am »
[to Pilot Royal Moon, from Pilot Noble Dorn]
>wh ee m i theres so much noise beeping
>legs n head urt so much fk

[to Pilot Noble Dorn, from Pilot Royal Moon]
>You're at DoSaM. You had an accident on a mission I'm assuming. It's going to be ok. Push the button for the nurse. See if they can turn off the lights for you. Close your eyes and try to sleep

[to Pilot Royal Moon, from Pilot Noble Dorn]
>oh fuk i dont rmrmber.. . i cant push the button my a rm is gone. elbow down gone. cant move th other there re wires and tubes it hurts to try
>i need. booze. morphine. wtv.
>can u tell antoine i m ok
>i cant find is number.

[to Pilot Noble Dorn, from Pilot Royal Moon]
>You're not getting booze until you're out. Use your telekinetics to move the remote with-
>He knows

[to Pilot Royal Moon, from Pilot Noble Dorn]
>dont tell hi m i lost an arm. i don want to worry him.

[to Pilot Noble Dorn, from Pilot Royal Moon]
>He always worries. He loves you. No matter where you two are he'll always love you

[to Pilot Royal Moon, from Pilot Noble Dorn]
>thank u.

[to Pilot Noble Dorn, from Pilot Royal Moon]
>Now move the remote so the button can push against something

[to Pilot Royal Moon, from Pilot Noble Dorn]
>ah. ok.
>i felt i mig ht throe up but theres a tube in my throat. blubird. how do i hol d it in

[to Pilot Noble Dorn, from Pilot Royal Moon]
>Try to relax and keep still. Moving about makes it worse. Just breathe

[to Pilot Royal Moon, from Pilot Noble Dorn]
>aight
>am i a shit co
>cant control own psionics prperly
>feel guilty.

[to Pilot Noble Dorn, from Pilot Royal Moon]
>No you're not. We all make mistakes. We all lose control at some point. One of the Valkyries was just in DoSaM. Blew himself up. Nearly took two squads with him. Accidents happen.

[to Pilot Royal Moon, from Pilot Noble Dorn]
>alright.
>i feel horrible.
>but i can t die yet
>promised an ill mary him firs. even if he ha s to put he ring on a cyber netic

[to Pilot Noble Dorn, from Pilot Royal Moon]
>You ain't dying if I have any say in it. I'm not losing another friend. I don't haven't many to start with, Darn It.

[to Pilot Royal Moon, from Pilot Noble Dorn]
>.. lov u too blu.

[to Pilot Noble Dorn, from Pilot Royal Moon]
>Promise me you won't give up

[to Pilot Royal Moon, from Pilot Noble Dorn]
>ill do what i can
>dont evne know full scope but we werent made to break lke porcelain huh

[to Pilot Noble Dorn, from Pilot Royal Moon]
>We're made of stronger things aye

6
Communication / To Pilot Noble Dorn, From Pilot Royal Moon
« on: January 12, 2018, 10:58:18 am »
[to Pilot Noble Dorn, from Pilot Royal Moon]
>Glad you're alive, but Darn It try not to scare the piss outta me. I've missed you, old friend. We have a lot to catch up on but until then...you need anythin, you shout

[to Pilot Royal Moon, from Pilot Noble Dorn]
>I m not even su e how I suvived
>Worry a out Loa it s my fault

[to Pilot Noble Dorn, from Pilot Royal Moon]
>You're alive. That's more than most of us can say. We get up we get better we go again. You can't do nothing for Loa until you get better. So fight Dorn. Fight for you and fight for Loa. Fight for me because darn it I miss ya

[to Pilot Royal Moon, from Pilot Noble Dorn]
>I miss u too
>Ioll live old son o a bitch survives all
>Dont want blood on my hanss. My responsibility, my fault. Did what I could n it'd not enough. Wish I could help im nn give in my years my strength
>Erything hurts do much there'd a tube in my throat n my chest

[to Pilot Noble Dorn, from Pilot Royal Moon]
>You did what you could. We are but human. We can only do so much. If you have blood on your hands then what do I have? All those lives I couldn't save. All those Pilots who died. I got you beat and I'm not quitting. So neither can you.

[to Pilot Royal Moon, from Pilot Noble Dorn]
>A not your fault if you don't come in time. This a different its my incaoability my mistake judgement power
>I made love to him
>First time in years

[to Pilot Noble Dorn, from Pilot Royal Moon]
>If you say your dick is cursed imma slap you

[to Pilot Royal Moon, from Pilot Noble Dorn]
>M not in love. Just want to help him.
>Deserves it and  I don't know how.

[to Pilot Noble Dorn, from Pilot Royal Moon]
>Hush. When I see you you're getting a hug not a slap. None of this now. Hell pull through. He's in the  best hospital there is
>Well second. I have the best now ;)

[to Pilot Royal Moon, from Pilot Noble Dorn]
>No things like curses just ppl and sometimes were not enoufh as we are. Its ok I'm not lucky but hes young ams has a future n I don want it to my responsibility we all must be strong
>I'm not thinkin straight fkni
>Just want to know hes fine... pleass...

[to Pilot Noble Dorn, from Pilot Royal Moon]
>He'll be fine. I believe that. So trust me
>You still trust me yeah?

[to Pilot Royal Moon, from Pilot Noble Dorn]
>I do

[to Pilot Noble Dorn, from Pilot Royal Moon]
>Then breathe an remember all will be well. If it's not right then it's not yet the end

[to Pilot Royal Moon, from Pilot Noble Dorn]
>Mmm
>Wish u r right.
>Wish it waa over. ...
>Erything hurts so so much om weak..

[to Pilot Noble Dorn, from Pilot Royal Moon]
>That's why you're supposed to be sleeping

[to Pilot Royal Moon, from Pilot Noble Dorn]
>S too much
>Im sorry bluebird I'm sorry.

[to Pilot Noble Dorn, from Pilot Royal Moon]
>Why? You giving up on me?

[to Pilot Royal Moon, from Pilot Noble Dorn]
>No
>For
>Being like this

[to Pilot Noble Dorn, from Pilot Royal Moon]
>You're still my darn it. Still the boy I love like family. Ain't nothing to apologise for

[to Pilot Royal Moon, from Pilot Noble Dorn]
>Something new liver. I'm tired. Dont want to be cut apart no more don't want any of this.
>I'm grateful.
>Youre one of a kind
>The real white knight
>Blue one

[to Pilot Noble Dorn, from Pilot Royal Moon]
>Hahahhaa
>I'll still fight for you. Even when you're too tired to fight for yourself

[to Pilot Royal Moon, from Pilot Noble Dorn]
>You don't have to

[to Pilot Noble Dorn, from Pilot Royal Moon]
>I choose to

[to Pilot Royal Moon, from Pilot Noble Dorn]
>Yet you still do n I wonder why. Y do u keep
>Beliefeing n  me

[to Pilot Noble Dorn, from Pilot Royal Moon]
>Because I love you

[to Pilot Royal Moon, from Pilot Noble Dorn]
>He do I deserve jf
>Im

[to Pilot Noble Dorn, from Pilot Royal Moon]
>Because you'd do the same

[to Pilot Royal Moon, from Pilot Noble Dorn]
>Anythind for u anythinf
>I owe you forever

[to Pilot Noble Dorn, from Pilot Royal Moon]
>You owe me nothing beyond a hug and a hello

[to Pilot Royal Moon, from Pilot Noble Dorn]
>When I begged I to unplug me u didn't.
>U were there all alonf

[to Pilot Noble Dorn, from Pilot Royal Moon]
>Weren't alone. I was with you

[to Pilot Royal Moon, from Pilot Noble Dorn]
>Blu, blu
>U deserve better
>I so wish I could give it tou

[to Pilot Noble Dorn, from Pilot Royal Moon]
>I'm no angel Galahad. I accept what I can get in life. You give me plenty and one day I'll need you to return the favor. I know you'll be there

[to Pilot Royal Moon, from Pilot Noble Dorn]
>I hope. I wish.  Really do. Even if I don't feel worthy

[to Pilot Noble Dorn, from Pilot Royal Moon]
>You will
>You are

[to Pilot Royal Moon, from Pilot Noble Dorn]
>Im afraid I won't last much longer
>Chest rly hurts legs too I canf keep my eye open
>I will not die

[to Pilot Noble Dorn, from Pilot Royal Moon]
>Sleeeeeep I'll be a message away as I've always been

[to Pilot Royal Moon, from Pilot Noble Dorn]
>I still have to
>Repay
>Thank you so much
>Thank you.

[to Pilot Noble Dorn, from Pilot Royal Moon]
>Live and that's all the repayment needed

7
Aedolis Characters / Galahad Sagremore Dorn, Pilot Noble
« on: January 01, 2018, 02:03:26 pm »
___________


___________


**

{NAME}
Galahad Sagremore Dorn

{ALIASES}
Darn it, Mor, Gal, Gala, any other variations of his names. "Saggy", "queenie", "iceman" or "saltpile" for those less keen on him.

{AGE}
37, although he looks quite prematurely aged

{GENDER, SEXUALITY}
Male, homosexual

{SPECIES/ETHNICITY}
Human, Aedolian

{HEIGHT/BUILD}
6’3” / 190cm, lean

{OCCUPATION}
Pilot Noble, Inquiry Acquisition Agent

{RESIDENCE}
A small place in Samariel, but he travels around

{VOICE}
Doug Cockle (as Geralt of Rivia)

{OST}
Sólstafir - Love is the Devil
Red Hot Chili Peppers - Encore

___________
IN DEPTH STUFF
___________


{PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION}

Quite the striking presence, tall, slim, angular, tough as a piece of jerky and militaristically straight-backed on all occasions. Galahad is a stern-looking man without a soft bit about him on all accounts, with a single pale eye and a piece of nondescript glass where the other has once been, his real age belied by largely grayed hair and extensive scarring.

In figure and posture, he’s true to his personality, appearing to be put together out of whips of corded muscle and slim bones under nearly translucent skin. He’s moderately wide in the shoulders - more so than elsewhere at least - and in possession of a strong pair of arms with heavy, worn down hands covered in a cobwebs of veins, but his legs are much more impressive. Galahad is all legs, although the left is machine from the knee down, tying into thighs made for crushing the hopes and dreams of the unfortunate. Admittedly, the prosthesis mimics the shape of the real leg faithfully enough to be barely noticeable in uniform and moves with the same finesse, but Dorn still isn’t keen on wearing shorts in public.
He almost always appears rigid, as though all his sinewy muscle had been strung up and kept at a constant threat. Although he relaxes in casual situations at least a little, Dorn in service has the body language of the drill instructor every candidate hates - severe, harsh, and leaving no room for objections or insubordination. If he’s in charge, he’ll damn well make you know it.

Galahad’s flawlessly chiseled jaw and high cheekbones had made him quite the looker in candidacy and his early years as a pilot, and though the years hadn’t been kind to him, his facial structure had been largely preserved, only slimmed and aged. His face is rectangular, somewhat elongated, with elegant features. His thick brows sit over deep set almond eyes, only a little tilted and ringed by thick, dark lashes that become especially prominent on his lower eyelid, but stress and the adverse effects of premature aging brought on by a demanding position are beginning to show in the form of deep rings and wrinkles around the eyes. He has a noble profile with a narrow, slightly pointed nose and high brow, quite thick lips usually pursed in a faint frown and a chronic case of resting bitch face, with a small silver stud on either side under his lower lip.
His remaining eye, the right one, is a pale gray as luminous as a LED light, here and there specked with flecks of blue, green, and a catlike yellow. The left had been taken by a scar stretching over a large part of his face, cutting across the brow diagonally and ending somewhere near the jawline, slightly below ear level; a smaller one in the same direction follows it a centimeter lower, down to his jaw. The eyeball itself is replaced by a plain white glass ball, devoid of any iris or pupil. His sensitivity and muscle coordination on the left side of his face is slightly impaired in comparison to the rest.

Once, his hair had been a deep, oily sea blue, though more than three quarters of it are now grayed to various shades of ashen and white, most visible on the temples and top. He keeps it a little above chin length, cropped short on the sides and back to keep it off his neck and fitting easier into a helmet, here and there riddled with scars that disrupt the flow of the hair. The top’s thick and a little coarse, usually swept back or tied, ruffled and wispy. On the job, it’ll be almost always neatly pinned back.

It was the war more than time itself that had marked Dorn, in the form of many scars, one missing eye and a mechanical leg. Beside the striking lines of slashes slicing across his face, the stitches on his shoulder (gained after his arm had been severed and sewn back into place with a replaced joint) are still quite visible, as is a multitude of others, centered more heavily on the left side of his body, both the mechanical damage of bullets and lacerations as the more irregular burn scars and patches of skin grafts necessitated by his curiekinesis. There are more precise, surgical incisions near the area of his kidney and abdomen, as well as more minor ones on the throat, hips and the rest of his body.
He has a tattoo of three slim stiletto daggers crossed over his heart, the middle one adorned with a single black drop of blood. On his back is a laurel-crowned reaper, stripped of all flesh and grinning, outlined with the words ‘don’t trust the skull’ right above the cracked cranium.

For a relatively high-ranked pilot, he dresses quite plain, if tidy. Dark, cold colors, button-ups, dark trousers and tailored outlines together with leather jackets, waterproof outdoor coats and long blazers are necessary parts of his wardrobe. It really depends on his mood and reason to leave his house whether he’ll choose comfort or elegance, but anything bright, provocative or particularly extravagant would be hard to spot. He gravitates towards grey, monochrome and navy blue and is only rarely seen without a coat or jacket, often holding his personal belongings in place of a bag. He has a weakness for nice shirts and polished, handmade fine leather shoes and gloves. At times, he can be spotted wearing sweats and a cap for the anonymity,  as well as a pair of shades to hide his blatantly obvious missing eye.

{PERSONALITY}

SALT AND PEPPER
Embittered. Dour. Dry. Despite a knightly name, Galahad hates to fuck around with white lies, pointless courtesy and fake smiles. He's a honest man with everything but his own feelings, which he'd never admit to having unless extremely inebriated or at death's door, to the point of coming off as harsh in many situations; his patience with perceived stupidity and irrational or straight up annoying behavior is short and quickly burns up into a dismissive bitterness. That's why he has a whole plethora of unkind nicknames, but luckily, Dorn isn't too concerned with people's opinion of him or public image as long as there's no slander targeting his work ethic, loyalty or integrity. He might hate tabloids, but it stems more from annoyance than caring about their content, and it might seem that he thinks he's better than you - actually, he doesn't think as much as know it.

MARRIED TO THE JOB
He's also notably down to earth, committed and responsible with his work and colleagues. It's a dirty work, but someone's got to do it. That someone's him, an existence that won't endanger anyone with his passing if that happens and fully devoted to his purpose, believing that you've got to work with what you got and give your best; his best simply happens to be deadly. A mechanical and largely unfeeling man in service, he can be intimidating and commanding, even terrible; he doesn't have much of a personal life except for training and drinking sprees, but his devotion to the state is absolute. He wholesomely believes in (or at least would like to hope for) a better future and that he can help create it - by eliminating those destructive elements such as Gospels that would seek to topple it. Which brings about...

THOU SHALT NOT BETRAY
...His high standards and harsh, burning hatred of Gospels. They betrayed their kin, their people and their masters. Galahad is loyal to his purpose even if he sometimes doubts whether he cares about the masses at all, of he's doing the right thing, but he's never once doubted that those that betray Aedolis are deserving of death. He hates traitors. He doesn't take keenly to misdemeanor and irresponsibility either, but they aren't as deserving of judgment as such a straight up failure.

NIETZCHE WAS RIGHT
God is dead. Dorn's a nihilist and materialist with no interest or belief or spirituality, believing in that which can be proven by fact and science and not clinging to sentimental values or senseless morality. His own is based on that which he'd seen proven - do unto others as you want done unto yourself, do not betray, bear no ill will to another if he does not bear it towards you and your people. The fact that existence is essentially meaningless doesn't necessarily devaluate it, but he has a very no-nonsense attitude towards life and the psyche.

PANDORA'S BOX
Dorn hasn't been nicknamed an iceman and a saltpile for nothing. His internal world, save for a penetrating bitterness and seemingly permanent annoyance with any whimsical antics, is tightly shut off from the public and even those relatively close to him - in fact, it's often even closed off from More himself, who doesn't like dealing with his own emotions after finding no suitable outlets and instead prefers to drown them in a few liters of tequila. He can't express himself well in those matters, often scolding himself as a weakling and hypochondriac whenever worries surface. They're much like something between the tide and internal bleeding - coming in surges, hidden on the surface and ravaging him from the inside. He's been dealing with disillusionment, jealousy and loneliness for years, finding himself submit to the occasional strong surges of emotion, but hadn't found the kind of closeness that would allow him to let it out. Thus, he bottles it up, filling more jars with unexpressed feelings by each bottle of liquor he drains. Perhaps his job is a relief in itself to every self-destructive urge, reminding him of the fact he's alive and vibrantly so, even if not in the most pleasant of ways.

GREGOR SAMSA AWOKE
He isn't happy with himself and the person he's become. He's trying to change, yes, trying to hold others back from committing to the same mistakes as himself, but it's hard and doesn't always work out; he found that in time he's built a tough shell around himself and now can't break out of it. The bad and that which lets him survive persists at once. Sometimes, he wonders whether he's become a loveless alcoholic and there's little to no salvation left, only to decline back into nihilism and tell himself that it doesn't matter. He has a shard of warmth and humanity left beneath his cold exterior, but it's buried deep, and he often believes himself beyond salvage and therefore focuses it outwards instead.

Fun Facts!:
  • keeps his personal life private, especially matters of mental health, work and relationships, and often goes on a last name basis
  • collects and paints miniatures as well as unique guns, which are his only valuable personal possessions
  • struggles with PTSD, alcoholism and symptoms of borderline personality disorder, but is very much not keen on therapists and hasn't seen one for years. Has a hard time putting his emotions into words and expressing them properly.
  • is more fond of change and traveling than familiarity; routine means falling into a rut and succumbing to self-destructive vices easily
  • is a surprisingly good climber and likes being in elevated places like a hawk, happiest beneath a wide open sky. Or dome.
  • strictly pragmatic. Really dislikes superstition and strong religious belief if taken as more than interesting, but obviously untrue stories.
  • hates wearing jewelry with a passion. Except for the two piercings, cufflinks and the occasional tie pin, he never wears any
  • can't seem to get used to a regular daily regime, his sleep and wake up hours change frequently
  • likes reading psychological novellas and historical novels. He's actually very well educated.
  • uses his fake eye and empty eye socket for jokes and tricks when drunk. There's been a huge number of things in his eye and a similar one his eye has been in, up to and including drinks, online auctions and various people's various orifices. Drunk Gala is far less uptight.

{SPECIAL ABILITIES}

TELEPATHY
Above or slightly above average. It fulfills its purpose, although it's not his strongest suit.

TELEKINESIS
Moderate and enough to be a threat in combat to others, it's more potent when used in combination or tandem with his curiekinesis than otherwise. Usable to type or perform mundane things in daily life.

CURIEKINESIS
In his youth, when illumokinesis and its offshoots were even rarer than it now seems to be, Galahad was a special kind of prodigy. Rather than having control only over the visible part of the electromagnetic spectrum, his kinetic abilities extend over all wavelengths. He's able to control and change wavelengths as well as adjust the trajectories of photons, resulting in powerful surges of microwave or gamma rays or long radio wave transmissions for emergency use in communication. What he lacks in finesse he more than makes up for in range and strength; a real powerhouse at his best, it's much easier for him to imitate the irradiating effects of stellar flares or nuclear weapons than it is to create an effective disguise for himself and maintain it. His specialization lies in the offensive, ranging all the way from melting bursts of infrared rays to molecule-disintegrating surges of concentrated x-rays and gamma radiation.
However, with great power comes great responsibility. If forced to sacrifice fine control for raw firepower - because Dorn's abilities are quite strong with no holds barred - particle-disintegrating rays, radiation and x-rays can be dangerous both to himself and any teammates within range. Radiation sickness is common, he's been long since rendered infertile by his own abilities and several of his internal organs had been replaced due to radiation damage when even anti-irradiation lining inside his flight suits didn't block all of it out.

{RELATIONSHIPS}

CARTIÉRE - a pure white, impressively bulky male with astonishingly piercing eyes and much of his hind portion and belly mechanical, Cartiére is no sweetheart. Fiercely selective with the pilots he accepts, he demanded both extraordinary psionics and a mental fortitude made of steel, and only barely chose Galahad - after smiting him with one of his massive claws that took his left eye entirely. He's manipulative and fiercely ambitious, much more so than Dorn himself, a trait that has began imprinting on him with times. The two of them aren't friends, that was always clear. While in bouts of anger Cartiére might resort to physical violence, he's more fond of mentally tormenting his pilot in case something doesn't go according to his will. He'd regularly disconnect him from the network and seems to be highly critical of his past pilots that had died already, warning Dorn himself against being a failure too - there's certain disillusionment in him once he found out that the miserable old drunk sod likely has no chances of becoming an Imperial.

BLU MOON - an old friend from his candidate years, Blu was the one who helped him overcome his shyness in his early years and had become something alike to a fourth sister at the time, albeit much different than his blood family. She was all the things he wasn't, and one of his closest friends through the time, onward through the war as well. Without her, he'd likely be dead by now. He had only recently resumed contact with her more strongly, after a decade of relative silence.

ANTOINE GENET - Galahad's first love, a middle class fighter pilot in the standard military, without any psionic capabilities. Him and Antoine met by pure chance, on the street no less, and it was An who asked for his number; only a few weeks later they had both realized the other was in the military as well. Somehow, everything had escalated from there and the two of them went from acquaintances to friends to lovers despite the war going on. Galahad had become very attached to him, and the news of his death when they had already made plans to get married - after he hadn't even managed to say goodbye - was extremely devastating.

FEDERICO DORN - although already in his seventies, Federico is still a very chipper man and very enthusiastically running his empire of enterprise, shielding both media such as TV channels and magazines as well as hotels, charities and whatnot; whatever in this field you think of, Federico's probably dabbled in it at some point and perhaps still cashes in on it. He was a father more for show than any other way, strongly imposing his desires on his child, but he couldn't be called neglectful or cruel. Galahad hadn't contacted him in more than a decade and has no intention to, though his father still sometimes attempts to call him; he isn't keen on facing him after the things that had happened, between them and otherwise.
The Kiwi magazine, a popular weekly tabloid, as well as the five star White Mussel hotel chain are both Dorn family businesses.

ALMA DORN - his mother, once a prolific fashion model, nowadays mostly retired and appearing in public as Federico's consort. Although she was loving enough during his youth, it seemed that she's always more preoccupied with something else. Once, Galahad had unknowingly picked up her call when drunk - about four years ago. It was the last time it happened, and after finding him in such a state, she seemed repulsed.

ISOLDE DORN - Dorn's eldest sisters, now in her late forties and working a good government job. Due to a large age difference, they were never particularly close. She is well-known particularly for the number of marriages she's been involved in, none of which lasted more than five years.

CONSTANTINE DORN - the middle Dorn daughter, and the softest clay in their father's hands, Constantine - or Conti, as she was nicknamed at times - was always the perfect middle child. Naturally extroverted and beautiful, she went on from modelling just like her mother to become a well-known actress and despite being in her forties is still largely popular and starring in many movies. They bear a certain level of physical resemblance that had even been uncomfortable to Galahad himself after estranging himself, but he never really hated Conti. They were just too different from each other.

GUINEVERE DORN - only two years older than Galahad himself, she had also always been his most favorite. Guinevere is a curious and creative soul, not as shy as he had been, but lacking Isolde's brazenness and Constantine's love of the spotlight; she's also the only one with whom he keeps in contact, if very barely so, only letting her know he's alive every few months. She still works for her father, managing her own TV channel.

{HISTORY}

Galahad; a near-mythological knight and dragon rider. Ages had turned the hypothetically historical figure into an ideal, twisted by the people's dreams and desires as to what the flawless knight should be. Nonetheless the name remained connected with its bearer and as such became an epitome of honor, bravery, strength and virtue as knightly ideals of Adela of old.

Federico Dorn, with his love of history of ages long past and an interest in his idealized vision of class and style that some might consider unhealthy, knew precisely why he had chosen that name for his fourth child and only son. A male progeny to follow in his steps had been his aim ever since the first gray strand appeared in his smooth prussian blue hair; he claimed to have loved him ever since he first saw him, screaming and covered in the viscera of the womb, but famous men often say such things when asked by the public. Their trustworthiness is not absolute.
The Dorn family, a Haviah enterprise magnate of the disgustingly rich upper castes, never lacked in anything. And neither did Galahad himself, save for perhaps his parents' attention and affection - he had anything his heart could ever desire if it just wasn't an hour of his father's time or his mother's kiss after she had just applied her crimson lipstick.

His family put a lot of stock in manners, class and education, and as such he'd had a childhood surrounded by tutors and instructors, expensive toys and the vast emptiness of a penthouse too huge for too few people. His father spoiled him rotten and forced him into a rigid mold at the same time, weighing the child down with the burden of responsibility and expectations - to excel at everything, never break decorum, don't bring shame to the family. He learned the piano and the violin, studied every subject his father put him up to, and in his spare time and loneliness took to books. They gave him what he lacked. Closeness, an illusion of a home. And living in a world of words and letters, life was better.

Now, Federico and his perfect little family never lacked any public attention, and as such he insisted they are presented as absolutely perfect - something Galahad wasn't all too keen on, disliking the rumors in tabloids or being the center of everyone's focus, but his father liked to parade him, dress him up well and show his perfect son off. And coincidentally, that was also how his psionic abilities were discovered at the early age of eight years old, through bad photos with blurred, burned and overly dark captures that somehow always failed to capture the boy's image. Someone had noticed the trend, resulting in suspicion and a subsequent screening. Sure enough, it was found out that Galahad is a potent psychic and therefore prime Pilot material.

His parents were overjoyed. The psionic ability had skipped a generation, not having resurfaced since the time of his grandfather; now, a new pilot in the family meant new vistas of opportunity for fame, profit and pride.
Galahad didn't share their excitement. It meant yet more expectations, his father's hand of steel hammering him into the shape of the perfect son with hopes that he might once rise to a high rank. Besides his parents' galas, official parties and social events, he didn't really have a social life of his own.

In a way, entering candidacy was a blessing. He was thirteen, and at first it was a shock - there were so many people his own age, the shy little bookworm that he had become was far out of his depth. Bunks, other candidates, his long teal hair suddenly shaved off to a military buzzcut, a rigorous schedule. Unbeknownst to him, his father's education had prepared him well, only the physical side was lacking; the candidate program quickly made up for it. And he learned, and excelled.
Soon after entering candidacy, he was discovered not to be an illumokinetic; he lacked the fine control necessary for creating fine guises, but could manipulate ultraviolet and infrared rays as well. At last, his psionic specialty was coined curiekinesis, manipulation of electromagnetic waves and photons with a specialization in high frequency waves. It had extended his time in stage 4 slightly, but in training had been recognized as a hypothetically large asset and he went on to graduate without greater issues. The war machine was running on all its power and demanded new gears.

Galahad was hopeful, an ambitious young pilot with dreams of a war won, proudly serving his country and rising through the ranks. He was almost able to see himself as the knight his father's choice of name had predestined him to be.

And it was his first major shock. The dragon that had picked him, Cartiére, was no kind friend of his. When he chose him, he swiped him across the face, resulting in the loss of an eye. But he chose him, for his will and his resilience. Right after he recovered, he was sent to the fronts.
War is a cruel thing. It changes men, rips them apart from the ideals they once had and instills within them pain and cruelty without offering them a choice. Galahad held up from the start, believing it's for a good cause and that the future is hopeful. He fell in love, found a man that gave him what no one else did, and it brightened up his days - albeit, Antoine was later sent to a different front and they were apart, only visiting each other on occasion and through long video calls.
The two of them had been together for six years, enough to begin making plans for marriage. They only wanted a small ceremony, away from the public eye; Galahad hadn't revealed their relationship to his father for fear of being made too public for his liking, but Antoine was easily the sun and moon of his life.

Then, the news came.
An was deployed on a different front, far away. Dorn got regular updates through him, but battles meant that there were long stretches of electrosilence between them; during those, worry ate away at him for every day, but he managed somehow.
One evening, just after finishing a mission, he was contacted by Antoine's sister. She requested a video call on serious family matters, and Galahad already suspected the worst when he asked for permission. It turned out he was right.
Antoine had been severely wounded in combat and despite the best efforts of the medical team died only hours later.

Galahad broke down. He couldn't imagine living without him; An had become his everything, an existence on his own simply wasn't meaningful. Of course such an unhealthy attachment would never end well, something he was very much aware of and willingly ignored in the face of love, but only now he realized how much.
He borrowed money from his father, without his permission, to pay for the transfer of the body and burial entirely on his own; Federico found out, but he didn't care about his anger. Due to the damage, there was no open casket funeral. Galahad never had the time to tell Antoine goodbye or see him in his final hours.

Naturally, he had to return to the front, and he put all his attention and remaining strength to the fight, alternating between a catatonic apathy and almost martyr-like fervor on the battlefield; it was all he had left, the country and goal he was fighting for, fueled by grief and despair and a wish for revenge if one was to be had. But, truth be told, he wanted to be reunited with Antoine and meet his end somewhere in enemy fire after he'd given his absolute all, mowing down ranks (he never contemplated were the same as his lover) of the enemy. Cartiére was intent only on him pulling together and rising through ranks, mentally lashing him with cruel words to solidify his exterior and keep him fighting.
It was almost fatal. He had overused his body's capabilities and his own psionics, pushed into a corner and releasing a surge of high-frequency waves nearly equivalent to a nuke, and what happened after wasn't in his mind anymore except for shards of confused, half-conscious memory. Someone had found him, took him from the battlefield and patched his badly savaged body up. He lost a leg and almost his arm as well, and in those moments he had often wished that he would've simply died, or that heavy radiation poisoning will just claim his life now, despite the attention of the doctors.

It didn't, partially thanks to Blu. No one listened to his pleas to unplug him from life support, fortunately for himself; it was a very narrow brush with death, but he recovered, albeit it took a long time and he'd never be the same as before. The cold touch of a cybernetic when his legs brush one another in his sleep would remind him of what he fought for and how close to death he got, and the face that looked at him every morning from a mirror changed - gray-haired, exhausted, scarred and pale, the war had stared back down the barrel of a gun and its glance now clung to him. But the war itself ended (he was 26, though he felt much older than that at the time), and although it was terrible, things would settle back down into normal.

Dorn had nothing more to live for, so he turned to work and the bottle. He moved away from his overbearing family, as far from Haviah as he could, and broke all contact with them - he didn't reply to his father's increasingly insistent messages, ignored the invitations to Isolde's third and fourth wedding, shut himself off entirely and lived his life spinning between drinking sprees and work. All he now had was the country he served and his loyalty to it.
Things didn't get better, they just got more bearable. He grew accustomed to Cartiére's scathing remarks, the burn of alcohol at the back of his throat and swimming through his days in a daze between guns and shots. And that was fine, because he'd mostly given up on himself and put his hopes into others, if at all.

_________________
TIMELINE:
x

_________________

8
The Rest of Aedolis / Bad Reputation [Moonie]
« on: August 29, 2017, 01:40:17 pm »
From above, the city looked spectacular.
The sun gleamed off the windows of countless buildings as though their facades were myriads of mirrors, visible from miles away into the desert; it was a blinding brightness that did not recede till the coming of nightfall, now reflecting the cornflower blue sky like a perfect canvas. A city of glass and steel amid a scorched wasteland, it glinted in the sands like a handful of carelessly scattered diamonds with its skyscrapers and spires climbing up. And a view like this was a privilege of the rich, the powerful and the extraordinarily fortunate.
The poor masses never saw Solarta as the desert rose it was.
That realization, borne of impatience and worry, really only hit him when he stood there and looked upon the city from one of those mirror-like windows, illuminated by fierce sunlight; he'd already gotten used to it so well that it felt like second nature to look below, and only stare up to watch the color of the sky change at dusk. It was hard to see the stars through the dome, anyway.

And it brought him no relief whatsoever, because the concern and uncertainty still lingered at the bottom of his stomach like a leaden weight.
He turned away from the window. The sun was burning his eyes even through two different layers of glass.
In some ways, perhaps it was better to be left waiting. He had the time to collect his spirits and calm down, a certain sort of mental preparations to be done in silent solitude as he paced around the couch and table, and to come to terms with anything that would follow - get ready for the worst, even. But he didn't like the dead, suffocating silence interrupted only by his footsteps and the brushing of fabric against fabric; it was disconcerting and unnerving, ragging his already slight patience raw.
Truth be told, Sieg just wanted the shitstorm to be over with, to rip the damn button up off and disappear in his apartment again.
But he made a mistake. There was no laundry service for fuck-ups to iron it out instead of him.

He had to do this on his own. Every thing of importance you had to do alone; there was no one on he whole wide ruined earth to help you carry the burden no matter the circumstances, no shoulder to share the weight when you feel like it's getting too heavy. And he was a pilot, for fuck sake!
No point in regretting. No point in wishing to change the past.
The only thing that he could do was to face the future head on, grind his heels in, and go forwards like a rodeo bull against a red sheet.
He tugged the leather jacket thrown over his shoulder tentatively; he wasn't really feeling like a bull for a change. Suspended for dropping acid, demolishing a bathroom and burning his hand and currently waiting for the PR's verdict of his punishment, that didn't exactly give a man tons of confidence or so to speak.
He'd already heard what he should've from Yavul, but it wasn't really his commander he feared; the new PR officer they got was a tougher cookie, especially since he had yet to see the guy and get to know him by more than hearsay. Sure enough, he did the best he could've to at least leave a good impression - a stark white shirt, though he felt that if he twitches or tenses a single muscle the seams will come apart in another public fiasco, newly cut and neatly brushed hair softly framing his face, even polished shoes, and all that just to ease his own sentence for this misstep.

And he was still waiting.
How long had he been waiting, anyway?
It felt like hours. With a deep sigh, he paced to the other wall again, staring at the carpet beneath his feet and the white of bandages mercifully covering the burns on his hand. The wait had gone beyond mental preparation and turned the time into dripping tar, a slow countdown about to suffocate him.

Yet, despite it all, when the long-expected call to enter came, he felt no relief whatsoever; he straightened his back out and squared up his shoulders, preparing to enter with his head high and all the charisma necessarily involved in his station. And thus he did, carrying himself with familiar and practiced confidence even if he didn't feel it at all and even if he had the dry and dull expression of a man that doesn't like his circumstances one bit.
He strode through the doorway, sliding the jacket off his shoulders and throwing it over his arm. The leather bent smoothly.
He was what he was. He did what he did. And he was here to fix it, the past be damned.
"Morning."

9
Wants and Limits / Astaire's wants and limits
« on: August 28, 2017, 03:57:45 am »
PLAYER WANTS

What types of plots are you interested in playing?
Varied; plot-driven, challenging ones that bring out the facets of the characters involved. Action, drama. Psychological horror. Some romance is good, too. Some humor and bits of everyday life thrown into the mix. I like tormenting and challenging my characters, don't make it easy on them, and I prefer to lean towards the darker side of things with in-depth psychological matters, ambiguous morality, difficult decisions and plots with emotional weight.
Go dark and gritty. Fuck me up buddy.

What types of plots are you not interested in playing?
Pure fluff, pure crack, insubstantial things. Plots that don't go anywhere, absurdities and plots that don't really challenge me or my characters, insubstantial or absurdities.

How often can you reply to any given thread?
About weekly, daily at best.

What is the longest you're willing to wait for a reply to a thread?
2-3 months save for special cases, I will let you know if I'm dropping a thread. I prefer weekly responses, though.

Are you open to RPing over instant messengers? If so, what's the best way to contact you and what times are you generally available?
Yes, I am open for RPing over Skype and Discord. It's preferable for one-liners, brief smut and generally plotless pure character interaction, I actually like it a lot though. I'm always available. HMU through Discord to set it up.

Are you open to post volleying?
(Where you and another player post rapidly back and forth in a thread with each other. If so, what's the best way to set that up?)
Yes, MSG me on Discord, and I'll let you know if I'm free or when we can set it up.

Anything else?
I'm always easy to reach over Discord.
I prefer detailed plotting and particular goals to improvisation. If you want one-liners or pure interaction with less plot, Skype is the way to go. OOC is very important for threads. I'm not interested in threads with replies once a month, pace is important.

PLAYER LIMITS

What are you limits regarding powerplay/godmoding?
(For instance, do you mind if someone grabs your character? Picks them up? Punches them?)
Minor details to speed the plot up instead of needing to wait for my reaction are ok if plausible. (Ie, your character punches mine if mine's not expecting it, your character grabs and kisses mine at short notice). Larger or implausible instances of godmodding will earn you a request to edit, if repeated I will drop the thread.

What are your limits in regards to romantic situations?
(What are you comfortable with and not comfortable with? Do you prefer to pre-plot relationships or let them happen organically? Are you open to IC-rejection or love-triangles? Age differences? Etc.)
I prefer to plot things out, organic development is good when it comes to creating pairs in the first place though. I'm comfortable with anything; m/f, m/m, f/f, age/species differences, unrequited love, rejection, love triangles, cheating etc. No limits.

What are your limits in regards to sex?
(Do you prefer to imply it, fade to black, or play it out? Is there anything you won't write?)
I won't write graphic descriptions of characters' genitals. Mentions are ok. I like to play out a tasteful sex scene, if needed will fade to black. Otherwise, no limits in regards to content involved (kinky, dubcon/noncon etc) - just no detailed descriptions of reproductive organs, the rest of humanoid biology (breasts etc) is fine.

What are your limits in regards to pregnancy within plots?
(Are you okay with pregnancy in plots? Miscarriages? Loss?)
No limits. They're all natural occurrences and I'm a realist. Miscarriage/loss/still birth etc is all ok.

What are your limits in regards to violent scenes?
(Are you comfortable with violent scenes? Do you prefer to imply it, fade to black, or play it out? Is there anything you won't write?)
No limits. Play it out, I love gore. There is nothing in regards to combat, violence, torture, body horror etc that I would particularly mind or that I am averse to writing. Again, I'm a realist.

What are your limits in regards to abuse/rape in plots?
(Are you comfortable with such themes? Do you prefer to avoid them? Do you prefer to imply it, fade to black, or play it out?)
No limits. I don't avoid them. Play it out, fade to black if needed to according to my partner's preference. See sex and violence questions above.

Are you okay with characters being transformed against their will?
(Think vampires and werewolves. Should a player ask before attempting to turn your character?)
Yes. Ask me before, don't go ahead without my permission.

What about healing?
(For instance, if someone plays a blind character they may not want people to try and "cure" the character.)
Same as above, includes removing scars etc.

Anything else?
(Anything else you want to add that other players should know!)
Set the limits if you have any, I have no particular taboo/sensitive subjects. If you want to write messed up things, go ahead as long as you do it with taste; I like gore and nsfw and have no issues with it.
I can be picky in regards to writing partners depending on whether I'm comfortable with their writing & plotting styles and them personally.

10
Aedolis Characters / Re: The Pilot and Candidate Catalog!!!
« on: August 21, 2017, 03:22:58 pm »
Name: Galahad Sagremore Dorn
Rank: Pilot Noble; Inquiry Acquistion Agent
Age: 37
Dragon: Cartiére, a pure white, massively muscular, ambitious male. Is highly controlling and critical of Galahad, disappointed in the fact that his ambitions aren't as great as anticipated. It was him that slashed Dorn's face, as a result of which he lost his eye.
Fun Facts:
- likes climbing, being in high places and under an open sky/dome, much more of an observer than part of the crowd
- has an extensive collection of lovingly hand-painted miniatures and unique historical guns, but otherwise owns no valuable personal possessions
- drinks more than a depressed leprechaun, but can easily remain standing after downing a whole bottle of vodka
- his left eye has been replaced by a plain glass eye, without iris or pupil; when sufficiently inebriated, he'd frequently take it out and insert random things in his eye socket, or put the eye in places where an eye decidedly shouldn't be. he has had the eye stolen and auctioned out or simply kept as a souvenir several times.
- despite not even being in his thirties, his hair has mostly grayed already
- known for being a joyless, salty asshole
- loves books and especially psychological novellas and novels
Rumors:
- is a widower
- is related to Federico Dorn, that Federico Dorn, the Haviah enterprise magnate that's all over the media, and Constantine Dorn, his famous silver screen actress daughter
- was the drunk man in a Samariel fountain that became a hugely popular net meme

Name: Irial "Nym" Siu Ynnves
Rank: Pilot Royal; Squad Commander of the Ryun Ravens
Age: 93
Dragon: Aeval Meabh, a black-green, very slender female with a massive wingspan, cruel, twisted and machiavellian. They get along frighteningly well with her pilot and often try to outgross each other in regards to combat atrocities and cruel tricks. Detests weakness.
Fun Facts:
- avid diver and freediver
- his drills resemble the candidacy training routines or a pov camp in harshness
- quite a well-known avantgarde fashion model
- has two pet iridescent white-lipped pythons, Glitterbomb and Ballgag, and had a third that is already deceased and now its skeleton is occasionally worn as a fashion accessory, named Buttplug
- loves spicy food, but can't process grains well; mainly carnivorous
- as part fae, his senses are very sharp, especially in regards to sight, hearing and touch; cacophonous sounds irritate him, and his color vision isn't entirely human (he can see a slightly wider color spectrum)
- his blood (and subsequently the veins in his eyes and internal membranes) isn't a vibrant human red, but a somewhat darker, more faded burgundy
- doesn't have fingerprints, but there's an anatomically correct heart tattooed on one of his palms
- fought in four wars and enjoyed it
- extremely flexible, sex-tango-or-capoeira-?.mp4 is a controversial video of his
Rumors:
- has a sex/torture dungeon and every perverted kink there is
- is a vampire or demon or something similar and sucks the life out of people. It would explain a lot.
- can suck himself off
- is an alien, a past gangster, or both; rumors regarding the origin of his scars vary, too
- the figurehead on the squad yacht has a real dead body inside it and it's Irial's doing
- an opiate/painkiller junkie and probably should've been working a desk job by now

11
Aedolis Characters / Yahui Sung, Pilot Royal [WIP]
« on: August 21, 2017, 06:38:54 am »
___________

___________


**

{NAME} Yahui Sung

{ALIASES} Ya, for a particular few people that are close to him

{AGE} 42

{GENDER, SEXUALITY}
Male
Pansexual
Demi, doesn't like casual sex

{SPECIES/ETHNICITY}
Post-human. Human, though his genetic make-up includes strains of other humanoids as well
3rd generation Aedolian with Thanati heritage

{HEIGHT/BUILD}
174cm/5'8"
Lean, wiry

{OCCUPATION}
Pilot Royal
Officer in the Haviah Inquiry cell

{RESIDENCE}
The Citadel, Haviah

___________
IN DEPTH STUFF
___________


{PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION}

FRAME
Yahui isn't very imposing to look at. Height-wise, he's on the short side, and while he's not devoid of muscle it's not immediately obvious; he's not particularly tall or ripped, rather remaining lean and built like a dancer or acrobat with wiry, corded strands of muscle on his small frame. He has pronounced collarbones and hips, a narrow waist and a slim swan's throat; there's just a hint of abs and defined pectorals to be seen on his torso, though he has elegant legs. His shoulders are quite narrow and he's visibly sinewy, having a hard time packing on both bulk and fat. While not frail and not really effeminate either, he's far from being heavy-set or a shredded alpha male. He has very slim, elegant fingers and particularly pretty hands.
His posture and mannerisms subtly betray his attitude; while he has the tendency to keep his head up high and never slouch, he typically subtly shies away from people he's unfamiliar with and keeps a very reserved body language. Physical contact with strangers is a no-go. His motions are smooth, elegant, but not flamboyantly so, rarely ever theatrical or overblown and showing an underlying confidence rather than throwing his weight around, often sitting with his legs crossed or threading his fingers together - a habit built from efforts to stop himself from gesticulating while he speaks. There's a stark difference between Yahui in service and Yahui in his private life; Yahui the pilot moves with the automated speed and certainty of a soldier, leaving no doubts about his position, but Yahui the civilian is more reserved and gentle.

FEATURES
Due to his post-human and genetically modified nature, he hardly looks older than his late twenties by now; his facial features betray both his Thanati heritage and not quite human identity. They're soft and noble, reminiscent of a doll, his most recognizable traits being his huge sad tilted eyes with creaseless eyelids and high cheekbones. He has particularly prominent lower lashes and his eyes are quite deep-set, somewhat narrow and set under lightly bent, thin and well-maintained brows transfixed in a perpetual resting bitch face. His nose is small, soft and a little upturned and his round lips are typically pursed in a firmly dispassionate grimace with the corners of his mouth dropping downwards. He has a soft chin and a slightly elongated heart-shaped face, though his jawline is just about chiseled enough to be masculine, and his ears are a little pointed - a mark of his not quite human genome. Overall, he's actually quite androgynous; his face only betrays minimal hints of emotion on most occasions, a skill he had actually cultivated on his own. His smile had been noted as both disconcerting and sweet, and therefore he does not smile. A pilot royal has no business going around grinning, anyway.

PALETTE
His skin is pale, with a soft peachy undertone, much like porcelain or tinted alabaster; especially his face and hands give off that doll-like appearance, what with his near-androgynous features. Curiously, his eyes seem to display no hints of an iris or pupil, instead being a monotone blank white. Upon closer inspection, differences can be seen and it is visible that the white presumed to be sclera - oddly devoid of any veins - is actually the iris, filling the entire eye as it does in some species of elves, fae and other mammals. On occasion, he wears contact lens to disguise this, though shades are a much easier solution. His lashes are nearly white, while his brows have a slightly darker faint pink tint than his hair. Curiously, the hair on top of his head is lighter; white near the roots and a faint pastel pink towards the tips, it becomes a wholesome pastel pink with a hint of peach towards his ears and the nape of his neck. Although his palette is all whites and muted peachy pinks, he doesn't give off a particularly warm appearance.

HAIRSTYLE
He keeps his soft straight hair lightly mussed up and cropped to mid-ear length, with bangs usually worn somewhat parted around the middle and covering most of his forehead and the top of his ears; it's short around the back of his neck, but not quite shaved. His haircut is regularly trimmed to keep it from getting too long. It's the short length and lack of product use that makes it appear scruffy. On rare formal occasions, it will be smoothly combed back and out of his face, although this makes him look particularly severe and harsh. His face is perfectly clean-shaven without a hint of facial hair and there's no noticeable body hair to see save for a very faint trail down from his belly button.

DETAILS
He doesn't have any piercings; or rather, none that he still wears, though his ears had been pierced several times and there's still a faint hint of a lip piercing that had knitted together in all the years he hadn't worn it. There's the tattoo of a stylized, vaguely rose-shaped flower done in white ink on the palm of left hand, but it's barely visible. He had it done in his early twenties and getting it removed seemed like a waste of time.
There are some barely visible incision scars on his hips and left shoulder from replaced joints. He typically heals quite well and small scars eventually fade in a few years' time.

STYLE
A very easily noticeable trait is how neatly picked his wardrobe is and the attention he puts to his clothes; while not an attention hog, Yahui cares about upkeeping a neat public image and a steady aesthetic. He dresses chiefly in light, muted colors with a particular emphasis on white that he can somehow keep pristine no matter the circumstances, though his other favorites include light rose, teal, pale gray, peach, silver and golden, and cream. His fashion style is very well defined, and he seems to have a neat outfit for every weather and every occasion. It's also easily noticeable; preferring single colors or two color combinations including only minimal discolored details, printless fabrics or at most geometric patterns, simple purposeful lines, practical clothes and designs that reveal only a comfortable minimum, he's far from a show-off. His clothes are very modern, favoring straight lines, minimalism, luxurious materials and a smooth, streamlined appearance. He's rarely seen without long pants - not jeans, he probably doesn't even own a pair; they're usually a simple pair tighter around the ankles or something slightly similar to cargo pants, loose around the thighs with some pockets to eliminate the need for a bag. Simple colarless shirts, nondescript T-shirts with small necklines, outdoor jackets or long coats, his everyday clothing is very modern and typically in a light color palette. He also owns several elegant, high-class suits, most of them white. Typically, he wears comfortable sneakers or laceless boots. He avoids both oversized and overly tight clothes, dressing for comfort and a simple futuristic aesthetic rather than to show off. Sometimes during his depressive moods he dresses in dark gray or dark blue, but it's rare.
He doesn't wear any jewelry and usually avoids wearing hats; if need be, most of his jackets incorporate a hood. However, in public, he's never seen without a white (or, on occasion, dark gray) surgical mask - to avoid immediate recognition and protect himself from pollution/dirt and, to a lesser degree, foul odors. He also very frequently wears sunglasses; he's rarely ever seen without them.

TL;DR: Small, lean, wiry, built more like a dancer, elegant hands, Thanati features, big sad eyes, resting bitch face, pale porcelain skin, blank white eyes, white-pink mussed up hair with bangs in his face cut to cover the top of his ears.
Light, minimalist futuristic clothes, nothing too revealing, a very streamlined aesthetic. White or light colors. Usually wears a jacket and sunglasses. Never seen without a surgical mask.

{PERSONALITY}

COGITO ERGO SUM


Fun Facts!:
  • has bipolar disorder (rapid-cycling BD-I); takes mood stabilizers and attends therapy regularly
  • does yoga in his free time, though he has problems with meditation
  • neat freak, perfectionist, and doesn't like human contact unless he initiates it on his own or the person touching him is a close acquaintance/friend
  • likes scented candles and weed in controlled amounts, but avoids getting high in his depressive episodes
  • has a very keen artistic interest, chiefly in regards to poetry (although literature in general counts) and painting and likes to draw architecture and interiors, but he's not very good at it; philosophy is another of his big interests
  • very easily irritated by cacophony or disruptive sounds; always carries noise-cancelling earphones on him for this reason
  • a fashion and interior design brutalist and minimalist, his aesthetic is extremely neatly streamlined and carefully maintained
  • loves looking at the sky, especially starry skies
  • likes to dance, but is far too shy to ever do it in public

{SPECIAL ABILITIES}


{RELATIONSHIPS}

Inieta - A smaller female with pale, faintly iridescent scales, two pairs of slightly twisted horns and her leathery wings appear to be split into two parts each; there's a lot of protrusions on her skin that appear thin and hair-like from a distance, although they're actually covered in scales as well. Her tail and a portion of her lower right side, almost up to the throat, is mechanical. She's very many-layered and moody, fiercely intelligent and with a keen interest in history - and a shared love for philosophy - but their relationship is very turbulent. There are points when they get along flawlessly; other times, Inieta is volatile, aggressive and prone to swiping him. If one thing is certain, it's that as much as she can be nice, she's capable of being a scheming bitch.

{HISTORY}


_________________
TIMELINE:
x

_________________

12
{NAME} Siegfried Reynar

{ALIASES} Sieg

{AGE} 23

{GENDER, SEXUALITY}
Male, very masculine
Bisexual with a preference for women/feminine men
Poly to the point of hypersexuality
Probably aromantic

{SPECIES/ETHNICITY}
Human
Aedolian

{HEIGHT/BUILD}
191cm / 6'3
Ripped, top-heavy

{OCCUPATION}
Pilot Echo
Solarta Valkyries Squadron Leader

{RESIDENCE}
An apartment on one of the higher levels of Solarta. One of its rooms is entirely dedicated to workout equipment.

___________
IN DEPTH STUFF
___________


{PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION}

FRAME
A powerfully built man with an imposing figure, Sieg's rigorous workout regime that is demanding even for his station shows very obviously through his body. He's built. Damn right he is. A huge amount of his free time is dedicated to working out in order to maintain his muscle mass; he ardently pursues an ideal of peak human condition in both aesthetic and physical regards, training to oblivion, and it shows. While he does not have the stature of a bear with massively thick bones - actually, his wrists and ankles are kind of thin once one gets a better look at them - his musculature is, however, worth the attention. He's particularly broad in the shoulders, with a triangular silhouette to his torso - much slimmer at the waist with visible hipbones and visibly top-heavy with very, very muscular arms. His legs aren't far behind, with thick, powerful thighs and a toned ass; he has a chiseled six-pack that he likes to show in tight T-shirts and an overall finely muscled body without looking unhealthy or shriveled, just a little sinewy under a thin layer of fat, though he still has visible veins and surprisingly slim and bony hands and feet.
He typically carries himself straight-backed in order to retain a powerful, militant presence, walking fast and bearing himself with obvious confidence. However, he's not overly rigid or uptight outside of work situations and is capable of surprisingly smooth movements for his thickly muscled frame. He tends to sit and stand with his legs apart and sprawls over seats, taking up all the space as though the world belonged to him, and often keeps his arms crossed over his chest or with his hands on his hips.

FEATURES
He has an easily recognizable, diamond-shaped face with high, pronounced cheekbones and a chiseled square jaw; his brows are particularly thick, bushy and expressive, move significantly and betray a large portion of his thoughts and feelings. His face isn't as extremely masculine as the rest of his body, surprisingly. Underneath them are wide-set almond eyes, big and upturned, lined with thick lashes and slightly squinted largely out of habit to bear with the Solartan sun; he has a narrow greek nose and full, slightly downturned lips, the lower being thicker. His typical expression is calm and dispassionate - actually easily noted by most as smug - with just a hint of a smile.

PALETTE
For a Solartan, he's very pale; his nearly translucent skin has a cold tone, typically in dire need of protection from sunlight, and is in sharp contrast with his black brows and black hair. The lengths of his hair pale to steel grey towards the tips from about a quarter of the length off the roots, smoothly blended; however, the shorter sides and back are pitch black, no gray. His eyes are mismatched - the left is a pale and vibrant electric blue, while the right appears to be a solid black, only revealing brighter specks in direct light. Considering how light his skin is, his lips are a surprisingly dark rose. Overall, his palette is starkly monochromatic.

HAIRSTYLE
His hair is cut in an undercut, with the sides and back shaved up to about the level of his ears as little more than peach fuzz, enough to cover skin; the top reaches his shoulders in generous, thick, glossy waves, curling when humid - luckily, Solarta's in the desert. It's rich and healthy thanks to the plentiful attention he gives it, though disobedient - he tends to get hilarious bed head. He wears it up in a bun for any physical activity, but outside of that, it's left to fall free and frame his face parted in the middle or only loosely tied. On occasion, it might get braided - but never by himself. His body and face are clean-shaven save for the rarest of occasions, chiefly to accentuate his muscles and allow them to stand out; only his sideburns reach a little down his cheeks, but his face is typically free even of stubble.

DETAILS
From the nape of his neck to his waist, his back - including his shoulders and a little of his arms -
 is covered in a single colorful, detailed tattoo of a tiger sneaking through flowering branches. Truth be told, it has no real significance save for the symbolism of a tiger as a powerful, predatory beast, the king of the jungle; the tiger itself is showing its claws and baring its teeth in a roar. He has the Valkyries' logo and signature sword and wings tattooed on his upper right arm; along the left collarbone the words "veni, vidi, vici" and along the right "memento audere semper" in a simple, all-caps black font. The valkyrie, albeit heavily stylized, is on his throat as well, rising out of a lotus flower wedged at the base of his throat and spreading her wings nearly to his jawline. On his right hand, there's a line-only, widely grinning skull crowned with thorns, one thorn vine branching off and twisting around his wrist, and the year of his pilot graduation on the first segment of each of his fingers. In regards to piercings, he's actually quite tame - he has two small studs in the helix of his left ear.
The skull on his hand conceals some burn scars; there are others, too, more minor than those. His canines are filed sharp.

STYLE
Outside of uniform, he dresses very casually; most of the time, he can be seen in sweatpants, a tight enough tank top to show his abs, and a hoodie or thin jacket on top at most. He seems to own dozens of sweats in every existing shade of gray and very often wears the signature Valkyries hoodie - and if it's not that one, then it'll certainly be some other, similar one. Nearly all T-shirts he has are tight enough to be taut at least around his pectorals - that's if they don't envelop his physique completely, showing every detail.  90% of all times outside of uniform, he wears trainers and sneakers, typically differing very slightly from those he exercises in. He likes neon details - in particular neon blue, green and yellow, deep burgundy and prussian blue. When out clubbing, he actually fancies more elegant clothes - a largely unbuttoned shirt and high black boots, a slight military style; during his candidate years, he discovered that shirts look quite good on muscular bodies. He likes expensive underwear and typically doesn't wear any jewelry save for the two earrings, but he quite likes sunglasses and snapbacks - they're a necessity in the Solartan weather.

TL;DR: Tall, ripped almost like Arnold, paper-pale skin, black shoulder-length hair with steel-grey ombre, thick brows, an expressive face, almond eyes - the right is black, the left bright blue, square jaw, thick lips, colorful tattoos of a tiger and flowers across his whole back, a valkyrie on his throat, the Valkyries' logo on his upper right arm and a skull on his right hand.
He usually wears sweatpants, tanks and hoodies in various shades of gray, but will pick up a shirt to go clubbing.

{PERSONALITY}

EPIMETHEUS
Sieg is notably impulsive and not altogether too thoughtful; he has a bad habit - especially when it comes to his personal life and pursuit of pleasure and nice things - to act first and think about it later. Some common sense has already been instilled in him, but it doesn't work out. He doesn't like being forced to think outside of combat situations. However, it has - surprisingly enough - also a good side: good instinctual behavior especially useful in combat. He's also not half bad at improvising and won't lose his head if things don't go according to plan, chiefly because his own plans tend to be very bare-bones and flexible. In the end, everything will turn out good, even if not in the predicted manner; he'll get there somehow.

NARCISSUS
A narcissist and egoist, Siegfried is vain and loves himself above all. He's also extremely confident in his appearance and abilities, and it's not exactly unfounded; he's worked hard for his appearance and skills, and believes he has the right to be proud of them - there's nothing to be ashamed of. He likes attention, and he desires the stares, adoration and appreciation of others, things he never really had as a child; without them, he'd certainly wilt. He cares about his public appearance and perception, even if it's perhaps a sleazy kind of caring. Handling the fame of being a pilot came somehow naturally, only that he's ever greedy for it and hates being ignored. Truth be told, this fragile ego is a very easy way to manipulate him - and he does not take public humiliation too well. While he's not so much of a sore loser as he used to be, he's still having a hard time accepting defeat and will always be searching for a way to get back and come out on top the next time around; jokes and mutual provoking between other pilots is becoming second nature without needing to get too offended, though.

CLOTHES MAKE THE MAN, UNIFORM MAKES THE SOLDIER
On duty, Sieg is a largely different man. Efficient. Reliable. You need something dead, burnt to a crisp, boiled in its own juices? He's got you, it's only a question of 'when', not 'if'. He's convinced that he was born to be a pilot, and to die in service to glorious Aedolis would be about the greatest honor - but not too soon; first, he'll give his all. There's little he will not do if his job demands it, really. The adrenaline of battle coupled with the pride he feels for his station is a powerful force, one that fuels him in fact. And he can be terrible with a gun in hand, cold, mechanical, cruel - nothing's too much, really. He'll scorch the faces off of people for his country and relish in it too. The smug attitude of a man that can't take anything seriously only disappears in two cases, and one of those are combat situations and drills. When he's in service, he's far from a troublemaker.

BROTHER WOLF
It's hard to deny the fact that Sieg can often be an asshole. He's foul-mouthed and lewd, and he's also got very little shame and few manners when it comes to mouthing it off with someone he doesn't like; he's considerably selfish, too, but there's a very important exception to that: his squad. His squadron is his family. He'd do anything for them, and he's very protective of his squad and its members - be it their reputation or their lives, if you threaten a Valkyrie or shit-talk them, Sieg will not simply let it be. Even his selfishness, and sometimes his ego, can sometimes take a second seat to his squad at a rapid pace, even if he jokes about his squadmates in public - it's nothing but good-natured. In reality, he values them, perhaps more than anything. They're the best family he could ask for, and he doesn't really take his position of squadron leader as lightly; there's a lot he'd be willing to sacrifice for his squad and honestly believes in being open and fair with them and giving all he has to the squad when he has to. He'll take responsibility when needed and wouldn't be afraid of elbowing his way through for the sake of his squad.

HUMOR, ROSES, THORNS
Typically, it doesn't take to notice that Sieg takes few things seriously. He likes to laugh, on the expense of rivals and people he dislikes too - and often, the humor he'll implement isn't meant to be all that kind. He's a provocateur, as long as it makes him laugh. There's not a lot of things that he can take and process with levity and without at least some joking when it comes to daily life; being quick to laugh makes things easier. Truth be told, Sieg is not that emotionally mature and trying to work through his own misgivings in front of others' eyes - or, even worse, admitting to weakness, vulnerability or mistakes - is simply too much harder than joking about it. And this is probably why he'll never get into a relationship unless it changes, he's simply too afraid of that degree of intimacy. In private or next to people that he trusts - chiefly his squadmates - it's a little different, but he's not good at being emotionally open or saying what he really feels; he's better at kicking it under the rug and pretending there's nothing there, although the insecurities and doubts might already be piling up visibly. That is, unless he fucking hates you. Then you'll know.

Fun Facts!:
  • he has a huge tank full of tropical fish in his apartment, positioned inbetween the lounge and bedroom to be visible from both; in fact, he loves water and frequently goes swimming and diving when he has the opportunity.
  • he's claustrophobic as a consequence of getting stuck in an elevator for hoursas a child, but trying to control it
  • viciously carnivorous, loves huge portions, eats like a pig, sneers at vegan/vegetarian menu options and he especially dislikes eggplant and zucchini; doesn't really like candy, but won't turn a cake or pie down
  • he likes apocalyptic movies and videogames; bad B-list horrors are his guilty pleasure, they're not even scary, they're just hilarious because they're awful
  • sleeps with faint neons on, they're installed throughout the bedroom and living room
  • there have been rumors about him taking steroids, which he denies - but not particularly vehemently; hallucinogens are fair game, though (or used to be up until one very bad trip. He's not allowed to do anything worse for weed since then.)
  • hates wearing very formal clothes - black tie, white tie, three piece suit - since he finds them too constricting

{SPECIAL ABILITIES}

Telepathy - His telepathy is very average and far from a strong spot, being just about able to talk to people through a wall or across a larger hall; it's necessary for squad maneuvers.

Cryokinesis - Also relatively average for this ability - enough to be used in combat as a lethal weapon, but not too far out of the norm. He has fine enough control over it to cool drinks and keep himself cold in the Solartan heat, which is where it comes in handy during daily life, but overall does not excel in the most finesse-requiring abilities.

Pyrokinesis - This is where his real strength lies. Sieg is a pyrokinetic powerhouse, even if he's not particularly bright; besides lifting weights and firing guns, his best skill is probably scorching faces off of people. It's also the reason why he spent longer than usual in stage 4, to achieve a fine enough control at an otherwise deadly power - fine enough to heat his food without burning it, for example, or to be able to keep the fire just above his skin and avoid burning his skin off. Though it took a long time to learn, he's able to avoid scorching himself raw - for the most part; he's more power than finesse, and accidents still happen. He has a lot of raw power, and when the flame's up, it's hard to control. A very useful skill to have in regards to precise pyrokinesis is the ability to affect the body temperatures of living organisms - beautiful and deadly, to slowly boil someone's organs, it's also probably the best finely honed skill he has.

Hand to hand combat - Practices kickboxing and grappling in his rigorous daily workout schedule and he can probably bench-press a smaller horse. Going toe to toe with him is ill advised. He's heavy and hits like a sledgehammer.

{RELATIONSHIPS}

Arie - a large, older slim wyvern with a particularly wide wingspan and steel blue scales with a metallic sheen. Both his hind legs are mechanical, as is his ribcage, visible through metallic protrusions along the main spine on his back. He has a long tail, large teeth on a slim horned head and particularly sharp spines - they actually make him hard to ride. More thoughtful and less brash than his pilot, he chose Sieg chiefly for his dogged determination and go-getter personality. And truth be told, Arie changed him, though it's highly questionable if it's for the better, because he's a cruel creature that doesn't need his human compassion or kindness, he needs a soldier - strong-willed, loyal, mechanical.
He actually convinced him to break all bonds with his family, and did so well enough to make Sieg think it was his idea all along.

{HISTORY}

CHILDHOOD

Sieg was born to a very average middle class Solartan family; his mother was a secretary and his father an ordinary clerk. He had a three years older sister that was much beloved by both of his parents. There was only one issue with his birth: Siegfried was an illegitimate product of his mother's affair with a manager, what his father was very much aware of - and though he chose to stay with her for the financial benefits and because of their first child, he often regretted the decision and let Sieg know that his sister was by far the preferred offspring on multiple occasions. It was never really kept a secret, especially not when his father grew to low-key resent him; his mother loved him and cared about him, but most of both of their parents' affection and attention still went to Rickarda. The reason was simple: she was found out to be a psion gifted with precognition. Sieg? Sieg was just an ordinary, not particularly bright kid that liked to play with lighters to his parents' dismay. Disobedient. Reckless. Lazy. Stubborn, and according to his father 'a fucking idiot'.

And Sieg grew jealous of Rickarda because of it. There was never a particularly strong sibling bond between them; in fact, the only family member whom he was genuinely close to was his uncle that worked in the military, but he did not get the chance to see him very frequently. He tried to run away once, and spent three days at a friend's house, only to return home because his friend's mother didn't permit him to watch TV long into the night. He did not voice this to his parents; a quiet rivalry grew between him and his sister, with Sieg provoking Rickarda out of defiance and becoming rebellious towards his father. He was gone out of home more often than not, and when he wasn't, it was chiefly to play videogames in his room. Truth be told, he was really, really jealous. His only wish was to one day become a famous pilot and serve Aedolis, like General Infantry Joseph or the pilots on TV and in magazines. Rickarda already had everything she asked for. Why couldn't he be the special one for a change?

When his psionic ability was discovered, it was actually a huge relief. It meant a certain future for him; he was immensely proud, so immensely proud that he did not even take a moment to consider that there might be a drawback to it. The years afterwards he spent in tense anticipation of being drafted at long last; Rickarda was taken into candidacy at the age of thirteen, and the three years that followed which he spent at home - or largely outside of it - were a blur that passed him by, only spiked by dreams and occasionally his father's insults and comparisons saying he'll never measure up to his sister. But he knew he'd prove him wrong, or at least really hoped so.

STAGE 1

He was drafted into the candidate program aged 13, too. It was a harsh awakening from the idealized dream that he imagined pilot training as, with strenuous exercise, high demands, a rigorous schedule and vicious rivalry and bullying from older, stronger candidates. Less so than an issue of missing his family, it was an issue of his freedom - until then practically unlimited - being ripped away from him. Within the first month, the idea of his world and his future fell apart, and persisted only out of sheer stubborn hope that things will get better and one day, he'll become a famous, celebrated pilot, get all the cash, get all the ass, and will be able to do what he wants. Safe to say, he had a very narrow worldview.

STAGE 2

Things didn't get easier. In fact, they got harder. The pressure only got worse, now with the addition of classroom work - which Sieg honestly hated; he began doubting himself and his ability to make it through the program, and during some clashes with cruel older students that liked to pick on younger candidates also his own strength. Luckily, the desire to be a pilot - and, by then already growing, almost stupid determination and tendency to sink his heels in when things went to shit - was stronger than the doubts; if it hadn't been, he'd have been sent to TRIM. It was necessary to get up every time he got beaten down, wipe the blood off and continue.
He was barely fifteen, he was terrified, and for the first time in his life he encountered a brand new sensation: despair. While he could get used to the physically demanding training, the constant pressure to persist in equally difficult study courses and avoid breaking under the psychological strain of competition, threat and an outlook on nothing but more work ahead was tremendous; on several occasions, he thought he might not make it.

He had tried to keep contact with Rickarda - to a small degree - knowing that she was a part of the program, too, but he wasn't fully aware that she was not doing well. It came as quite the shock that she broke down mentally and was removed from the program. Just like that. After that, there was a dull silence and unanswered texts on the phone he had received from the program. He didn't know what happened; he didn't really find out, either.
But it was probably precisely what he needed to steel his resolve and persist in all efforts. He was horrified. This must never happen to me, he told himself, built a wall between himself and the hostile reality on the other side, worked hard, and isolated himself from unnecessary emotions that could get in the way. Being cold and mechanical and focusing merely on his duties worked wonders.

He had the luck - or bad luck? Only his fellow pilots are able to judge that now, although he considers it a lucky circumstance - to be mentored by Aisling Sheehy. That's where he got his vanity from; he was honestly infatuated and amazed by his mentor from the moment he met him, and it's safe to say Aisling also affected him by a large part, since he used to hero-worship his beautiful, imposing mentor.

STAGE 3

Moving to Stage 3 was a blessing. The studying and training didn't get easier - in fact, it could be argued that they got harder - but Sieg himself was older and had the mental fortitude he had lacked in Stage 1 and 2, and now also mostly tolerable teammates. He was determined to finish the program no matter what it takes, even if it meant euthanizing his emotions completely and start searching for other outlets for stress and anger, ways to cope with the pressure - thought they weren't always good ones. Hunter became prey. He realized that getting his own insecurities out on others worked well enough, that he liked the fear of younger candidates when he did precisely what he himself had hated earlier. And he also liked betting on who'll make it through candidacy to then try and bully the ever-loving fuck out of anyone who caught his eye in particular and see them disappear. This cruelty, sadly, stuck somewhere deep within him.

STAGE 4

The time he spent in stage 4 was probably disproportionately drawn out by the time and learning that his pyrokinesis required. He burned himself many times, and he has the scars to show for it - at least partially, since a lot of them has gradually been covered up by tattoos. His destructive behavior continued even now, sadly; it was an effective way of boosting his ego, and cruelty's a hard thing to unlearn. He eventually forgot about what he was before candidacy, about Sieg the excitable kid that messed around all day, about his parents, about past's dreams and intentions. It was peeled away and removed, replaced by layers and layers of a new person. And what he was before candidacy ultimately did not matter, because he would soon become a pilot.

STAGE 5

Aged 19 and having almost nothing in common with the child that entered candidacy, stage 5 was largely devoid of the problems that the earlier years had presented. He knew he'd like the life of a pilot once he graduates and a dragon chooses him; after all, this was what he had been looking forwards to all his life - even the harsh candidacy years were worth it. The Siegfried Reynar interning and helping out with younger candidates was a new man, a militant, eager, self-confident candidate only waiting to be chosen by a dragon and learning the details of his profession now. In fact, there was a very real sense of satisfaction in knowing that he's very close to achieving the thing that he had wanted to prove to his father all along.

When he was finally chosen by Arie, to say he was overjoyed would be an understatement - in the moment of his graduation, he was certain it was worth every price he had to pay for it during candidacy. His graduation was followed by a week of celebrating, just as it warrantied.

PILOT LIFE

He actually took his new position seriously - surprisingly seriously for someone reckless and prone to acting without thinking it through too much beforehand; as a soldier, he was devoted to duty quite a lot. It was always the personal life that was a bigger issue to keep in check. He was promoted to Echo aged 21, and it was around that time that he attained the position of squadron leader with the Valkyries. Truth be told, squad life was a good life - and the squad he got into was the best he could wish for; he'd been rooting for the Valkyries in the games ever since childhood, and it was almost like a dream come true to become the squadron leader.
Though, things weren't often flawless. Pilot life, too, began to leave an imprint on Sieg - together with Arie and Arie's cruel, narcissistic personality. He broke even the minor contact he retained to his family and hadn't seen them ever since his graduation, when he briefly met them again. He got an apartment; he fulfilled his dreams of a luxurious life, he got famous, he got a following. What more he could ask for?
It's a pity that fame, money and brainwashing can't really make you happy, though it sure enough makes it seem like it for a short while.

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