Post by Emery on Jan 10, 2018 1:27:21 GMT -5
I'M GONNA MARRY THE NIGHT,
"If the protagonist in the story can give life, and I can take it away... doesn't that make me the enemy?"
"If the protagonist in the story can give life, and I can take it away... doesn't that make me the enemy?"
I WON'T GIVE UP ON MY LIFE,
NAME: Emery
GENDER: Male
AGE: Twenty-one
AFFILIATION: Moon
GONNA MAKE LOVE TO THE STARS,
PERSONALITY:
Detached | Friendly | Eloquent | Reckless | Studious | Passive-Aggressive
LIKES:
Helping [enjoys aiding others] | Festivals [loves the grandeur] | Death [an interest, and insight for necromancy] | Family [admires the concept] | Flowers [the thing he is named after]
DISLIKES:
Childish things [he is more professional] | Cold [joints stiffen up] | Insults [directed at him] | Sleep [brings nightmares or bad memories] | Lack of tradition [ no base for culture]
I'M NOT GONNA CRY ANYMORE,
HISTORY:
Emery was born on a full moon's night, and at the moment he slid out from his mother, whimpering pathetically into the night, there were words of admonition and reverence. Curses and blessings. A shock of white hair tufted the infant's head, something the older villagers took as benevolent yet ominous sign.
The boy had been bleached by the moon, touched, perhaps, by the Goddess herself.
In his earlier childhood, the murmurings of elders all but died out sometime after his fifth birthday when they realized no curse or praise was to befall the village, and he was left to slowly grow under his mother and father's care. His parents both hunters, and, if need be, warriors who'd take up weapons in the name of loyalty. Replacing their bows that had hunted much prey to axes and blades ready to slaughter. But the calls never came for them. As Emery aged within the safe confines of the village, his mother saw a change to him in his early age that both fascinated yet frightened her, and forced her to reckon with her son's capabilities.
An inkling of magic, burrowed deep within his heart, that allowed him to reconstruct the dead. His bow-worthy mother, a woman who was not adept in the realm of magic, was unsure of the route to take when confronting her young son, and in her actions to ensure he was not labeled with the reputation of a curse, forced him to suppress his capacity. Never show this to anyone, understand? The words were clear, but his curiosity was unwavering. In the cover of darkness, after learning of the powers he could possess, Emery honed his skills in secret.
It started with a mouse. A little thing he easily managed to dispatch by hurling a rock. It took him thirty minutes to resurrect it's body, and get it moving again. Not good enough. For the next ten years, until he was around the reckless age of sixteen, Emery practiced in the night. The moon and the fluorescent mushrooms his only source of comfort, and his parents less the wiser. They never noticed him slipping into bed at the cracks of pale dawn as they were always too exhausted coming back from their own day's hunt in helping the village. And without their consent, Emery excelled.
A mouse eventually transitioned into a bird - twenty five minutes to resurrect. A bird into a snake - twenty minutes. Snakes into wild cats - thirteen. His father wouldn't miss his bow, and the boy became a deadly shot with an arrow; reeling back the line to let the arrow sail straight through the eye. There was no mercy, no compassion, and each animal he killed only fueled his interest in the dead. In necromancy.
The time he spent out in the jungles at night paid off, and though it took its toll with a lack of energy, he had progress to show. Calculated, efficient progress. Emery could take life, and give it back. He had never broken his mother's demand once.
But his father was a suspicious character, fearful of the Goddess and superstitious. In the mornings when he would rise to go hunt with his wife, arrows would be missing from the quiver, and though his son showed no signs of knowledge, he doubted the boy's words. It had become a frequent problem. Determined to get the truth from Emery, his father waited in bed for his son to finally presume they were asleep, and what he saw was his child slip away from their house and down towards the jungle. He followed, relentlessly; keeping the skills of a hunter - light-footed and slow - on guard.
The view his father witnessed was blasphemy. And he confronted Emery. You dare practice such unholy, dark magic in our family? No son of his was going to be dealing with the arts of darkness, and he moved... but Emery was the one holding the bow. It was self-defense.
In the morning, only Emery returned from the depths of the jungle; his lips sealed tight, bow in hand, and a new practice to add to his list: the resurrection of man. No one knew what happened to his father, the only words his mother could pry from him revolving around a botched hunting experiment late in the night. His father an unfortunate accident. The body was never found, and nothing added up.
But the jungle was a mysterious place. There was nothing but his own false words to conscript the truth.
What happened that night is still cloaked in deception, but the nightmares forever haunt him.
As he grew older in his life, he learned to numb the guilt and focus on strengthening his power in secret. If the village were to find out, he would truly be labeled as a curse, and the subject of his father's controversial death brought to life. But due to his more isolated nature, he was generally left alone to his own routine.
Somewhere around the age of eighteen, two years after the accident, he moved in as the resident mortician of the clan. His predecessor desiring to train the black sheep in their footsteps. Slowly but surely, he was taught the structure of anatomy and the classification of death from a village elder who soon passed on from old age.
And though he is twenty-one years of age, a clear grasp over undertaking the bodies of the deceased and preparing proper funerals, it is all just a mask to hide what he preforms behind the curtains.
Necromancy.
FAMILY:Father - hunter for the village | 38 years
Mother - hunter for the village | 35 years
POWERS:
Rigor Mortis
The morbid title to the black magic Emery possesses, it is a profound ability that allows him to reanimate the dead. Essentially, he can call upon the spirit of the deceased to forcefully bring them back into their former bodies, whether it be out of pure amusement or curious intent; channeling his own life energy to bond the soul back into the body. It is not something that lasts long, however, and is limited to some degree. Hence, he can only raise up to two at a time, but is successful when it comes to giving them demands; telepathically or verbally. Whether it be an animal or a human, Emery can reconstruct the souls of the dead. But it comes with a price. The resurrected retain no memories of their former lives, and is entirely dependent on Emery for command. And with each successful reanimation, a little part of his life is shaved away. Slowly shortening his lifespan with every small increment.
---
Gallows' Curse
A power that allows Emery to take on another individual's ailment and make it his own, it is both a blessing and a curse. Bestowed upon him sometime in his teenage days, it is unsure how he really managed to pick up the curse - though he claims it was from the Goddess, supposedly. The details are vague and unknown, and even Emery forgets how he came about the concept. This ability permits him to draw upon himself someone else's pain, whether it be a life threatening wound or sickness. A tactic that saves another's life while in turn threatening his own, effectively sentencing himself to potential death, he can perform the curse as long as he makes physical contact with the individual. By touching the injury with a hand - or anywhere on the body for sickness - Emery can drag it out and ease afflictions. Something of a reverse parasite, he fondly describes.
WEAPONS:
Valkyrie - his father's bow, it was disposed onto him after his parent's untimely and unfortunate 'accident'. A hunter's bow through and through, it is a plain and simple weapon etched in protective runes. It has seen many animals slain throughout its long usage.
Peace Keeper - an ornate dagger, it is made of a silver blade with a black handle, and is more ceremonial than for defense or combat. Peace Keeper is mainly used during his funeral preparations, and though Emery is not trained in the art of war, it doesn't mean he can't use it to attack.
DOWN THE STREETS I LOVE,
OOC NAME: Ukyo
HOW DID YOU FIND US:
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PASSWORD: Moon Cookies
CUSTOM TITLE: Black Angel
ROLEPLAY SAMPLE:
He could see it. A glittering reflection in the back of his mind; molten grey eyes set in a grim expression, and the rampant beginnings of a twisted smile spreading across thin lips. Beckoning him closer, ever so closer until the stench of decay was upon him, and the beauty of peace shattered before his vision. Tumbling down, fractured splinters and shards of nightmares he no longer could make sense of. Virulent, it infected his brain, swelling against his skull the phantasmal visions dancing like a parade of skeletons.
And it jolted him awake. Bolting upright, it disturbed the bowl of berries within his lap. Sending the sweet red fruit - red like blood - tumbling down the stone stairs he rested upon and to their ultimate demise below. It was fine. He was not hungry anyway; the nightmare that had plagued his sleeping moments, quick nap that it was, ruining any little inkling he had for nutrients. Forget it. The container was dispatched to the side, and he rose to his full height. Shifting in the cool breeze that played with his hair to wrap the black mourner robes further around his bony form, effectively blocking out the chill that permeated the air.
The changing of seasons was upon him, and he knew from the scent of ozone lingering on the breeze, a storm was brewing. Far off in the distance. Ominous and lurking. With a disgruntled sigh befitting a man who has seen one too many sleepless nights, he turned to traverse up the stone stairs to the hovel lying in wait before him. A homey building, yet in shambles. The only evidence of light the flickering of fire deep within the bowels.
He drew one hand out of his robes, a bony spider-like thing with long reaching fingers, and pushed open the door. Barring his way into the warmth, and the thick smell of medicinal herbs.
He did not pay much heed to the body lying across the table.
And it jolted him awake. Bolting upright, it disturbed the bowl of berries within his lap. Sending the sweet red fruit - red like blood - tumbling down the stone stairs he rested upon and to their ultimate demise below. It was fine. He was not hungry anyway; the nightmare that had plagued his sleeping moments, quick nap that it was, ruining any little inkling he had for nutrients. Forget it. The container was dispatched to the side, and he rose to his full height. Shifting in the cool breeze that played with his hair to wrap the black mourner robes further around his bony form, effectively blocking out the chill that permeated the air.
The changing of seasons was upon him, and he knew from the scent of ozone lingering on the breeze, a storm was brewing. Far off in the distance. Ominous and lurking. With a disgruntled sigh befitting a man who has seen one too many sleepless nights, he turned to traverse up the stone stairs to the hovel lying in wait before him. A homey building, yet in shambles. The only evidence of light the flickering of fire deep within the bowels.
He drew one hand out of his robes, a bony spider-like thing with long reaching fingers, and pushed open the door. Barring his way into the warmth, and the thick smell of medicinal herbs.
He did not pay much heed to the body lying across the table.
- - - - - - - - - -
TEMPLATE MADE BY PANDA.
MODIFIED BY LOTTI.
LYRICS FROM LADY GAGA'S "MARRY THE NIGHT".
TEMPLATE MADE BY PANDA.
MODIFIED BY LOTTI.
LYRICS FROM LADY GAGA'S "MARRY THE NIGHT".