~-*Running Revolution*-~

[Renegadius]

~*Storyline*~

Andomirus; A country plagued by a constant war between demon and man. A land so busilly bothered by fighting, that they have failed to keep up an economy.

A land that would be dead far before any demon touched its borders...

That was the story of Andormirus one hundred and thirty years ago. A thousand years of war finally ending as humans simply gave out, unable to fight anymore.

Andomirus; a country of ghosts...

Atlantis; the bustling War Capital of the world some twenty years later. Technologically advanced and masterfully trained, Atlantis alone could resist the forces of Hell.

Bullets that could pierce the plated skin of the Infernal; Swords that could eviscerate the black souls from their twisted bodies.

This is Atlantis, the last hope of the world. The last stand. For this, the Atlantians are named 'the lastbourne', for they alone shall carry the demons away from the world.

Enditis; the betrayers of the light. Those who could not or would not fight attempted to flee, white banners and flags waving as they dashed so vehemently towards the demon onslaught. They sought freedom, liberation...

They were enslaved, white becoming known as Rathma, the cursed color of foolishness. Twas' Rathma, and the Rathmatic Enditians that did so tip the balance of the war to Hell's favor.

Orphans; The people without a people; a land that is landless. Orphans are the suvivors amongst the dead. They are Orphans.

Though these people may have once been warriors, the will to fight has been raped from them, razed from their hearts by the savage onslaught of Hades.

In the days of nigh, if you are not Lastbourne, you are a demon, an orphan, or a Rathman. With all of hell perched on the brink of Lastbourne borders, the end, in one way or another, is nigh.

There will be a revolution, or there will be a massacre to mark a bleeding page, or glorious hymn in the books of history.

Hell itself stands ready to spill out... Will you fight... Or will you be swept away like a common Rathma?

 

[Renegadius]

~*Rules*~

The rules to this thread are generic.

-Thou shalt not kill characters.
-Thou shalt be well spoken and written.
-Thou shalt not whine unnecessarily.
-Thine actions shall be pure.
-Thine language will not be censored; speak as ye wish.
-Offer thy presence to the Deity before questing.

[b]Name:[/b]
[b]Land of Origin:[/b]
[b]Class:[/b]
[b]Weapon:[/b]
[b]Secondary Weapon:[/b]
[b]Appearance:[/b]
[b]Biography:[/b]

Classes include Berserker, Sniper, Thief, Assassin, Ranger, Machine Gunman, Medic, Cleric, and any others you can think of. The world requires three human champions per demon captain.

[b]Username:[/b]
[b]Name:[/b] Be'elthaman
[b]Rank:[/b] Captain
[b]Class:[/b] Tainted Cavalier
[b]Appearance:[/b] Unnaturally handsome, Be'elthaman looks very much like a Prince among men; Except for his eyes. Be'elthaman's power rests in his black, golden-pupilled eyes. It is said that any weak of heart who look upon him fall dead to the ground instantly.
[b]Biography:[/b] Tainted by the power of evil, twas' Be'elthaman that did so lead the people of Rathma to their enthrallment. Even now he twists the hearts of men until they are left black and withered, the evil left the man to function only as a demon. There is no cure.

 

[Renegadius]

~*Current Revolutionaries*~

Name: Mattimeous Levantia Longbard
Land of Origin: Andomirus
Class: Thief
Weapon: A dull-shaded steel kunai worked onto the end of a twelve foot-long chain of simple iron.
Secondary Weapon: A simple steel longsword.
Appearance: Fierce blue eyes seem to burn with inner fire, even though his body appears scarred and bruised. Silver hair frames his delicate features. He is well-built for a boy, but a sense of maturity has been forced into his very essence.
Biography: Born after the forces of hell scourged Andomirus, Mattimeous, or Matthew as he prefers to be called, was prompty dubbed orphan both by name, and by status.

He cannot remember a thing of his parents, or even if he had any; only that there are demons, they are evil, and he is the last Orphan that has the will to rise against them. Being born with silver hair, he was also dubbed 'Cursed One'.
_____________

Name: Raelin lach Ferragh

Land of Origin: Andormirus

Class: Lancer, Berserker


Weapon: A large, black spear, carved of cedar and weighted with a steel core, this weapon is known as Wanderer. The shaft is just under four feet long, with the blade adding another foot and a half.

Secondary Weapon: A one-handed sword in the style of the North Raiders, a wide blade with short point and solid, simply made handguard and pommel. The blade is well made, the grip of black leather and the fittings plated with silver. It is carried on the left hip.

Appearance: At 5' 6'' and of slight build, Raelin is not an imposing figure to most people. His thick, wavy brown hair is tied at the nape of his neck in a sloppy ponytail to keep it from his dark blue eyes. He wears the tunic of the Andormiran Royal Guard, black and silver, a dragon and lion rampant upon a shield, emblem of the old Royal Line, upon his chest. His trousers are plain, homespun, and black, his boots of old, well-worn leather. his sword hangs from his left hip, and he uses Wander as a staff, carrying it in his right hand.

Biography: He does not remember how he survived the Demons, or how a small child could manage in the wilderness, alone. Sometimes, though, he feels this strange compulsion, this maddening rage, and in battle it is his last resort, for when he unleashes it, he has no control over who he may kill, and has no regard for his own safety, no heed for his own wounds. His first memories are in what was once the old Castle Andormirus, where, in the broken, crumbling ruins, a man claimed to be the last son of the Royal Line, and a few men had gathered to him, tough men, who had lived off the ruins. He stayed with them, gaining the clothes he wears, and the weaopns he carries, and learning how to kill, without fear or hesistation, and how to harness the power of his rage, to a small extent. One night, however, the man who called himself King revealed his madness, and went from room to room, slaying his oldest followers in their sleep with a dagger of betrayal. Raelin woke just as the man entered, and snatched up the sword hanging from his headboard, transfixing the mad King upon it. He was almost sixteen when he left that place. For two decades now, he has wandered the wastes, managing to, in the main, avoid demons. He had killed one, almost a year back, through mostly luck. He doesn't like to talk about it, or much else, for that matter.
_____________

Name: Rindo (Last name erased)
Land of Origin: Atlantis
Class: Sniper
Weapon: Longbow, crafted so beautifully, one could have sworn that elves truly did exist. The bow is as tall as its owner.
Secondary Weapon: Single steel short sword, forged specifically for one to protect themself with. One-sided blade.
Appearance: Rindo is six feet tall, a slim build, and slightly underweight. He is underweight because of his wandering nature, causing him to eat little and in sparse intervals. His hair is a short and dark brown with matching dull brown eyes that seem to have lost the spark of life. His boots are worn and somewhat ragged, but still as usable as they were the day he first wore them. His trousers are baggy, covering most of his boots. His tunic and trousers are both black. Over the tunic, he wears a leather jacket that stops at the small of his back. The sword is sheathed at his right side. Also hanging from his right side is his quiver, as opposed to the traditional location on a person's back. This allows easier access, but can be a bit obtrusive when he moves. The bow is held on his back in a bear-fur sleeve.
Biography: Rindo is first and foremost an Orphan by description. To avoid the fighting, he has begun wandering. Rindo still remains with in Atlantian territory, but outside of city and town boundaries. He keeps his weapons more as a comfort than for defense. Rindo would in all probability run unless it was 100%-clear that he could not outrun his attacker.
_______________

Name: Yofiel DivBeau
Land of Origin: Atlantis
Class: Rouge
Weapon: Gun Blade
Secondary Weapon: Pistol and a hidden dagger
Appearance: Yofiel
Biography: Yofiel was a lucky girl. Her memory had been erased, and she was found wondering the desert. Somehow, she was found and taken to the great city Atlantis, where she learned the ways of a Rouge. Every time she was at the great city, she could feel the pride running through her veins...but she never felt like she was at home...She had to find her memories!

 

[Renegadius]

Breathing heavilly, Matthew sat in the corner of a closet; His hiding place from the murder of demons that prowled the burnt-out apartment. White-knucking his longsword with a black-gloved hand, he kept his icey blue eyes focused through a crack in the door of the closet.

Damn it... That prowler was almost right on top of me... Clenching a gash on his arm with his spare hand, he knew it wouldn't be long before the demon with the bird-like predator face came sniffing.

Easing three inches of his blade out of its scabbard, he kept watching the hallway through the door of the room he had taken refuge in. Every shadow that flicked spelling his horrible death, every groaning beam the footsteps of his unmaker.

Gritting his teeth, he held back tears of terror. Don't cry... Warriors don't cry... He was thinking, even as the wall behind him was torn away by the Prowler's crab-like hands; the Prowler was the ranking demon in his city, reigning above the lesser beasts, and would now be his demise.

Kicking open the closet door, knocking the fragile wooden structure flying across the room in pieces, he took off down the hall, the footfalls of the evil entity close behind.

Running full tilt down the hallway, Matt gunned all of his remaining strength into reaching the shining crack in the wall at the end of the corridor. With every step, he could feel the Prowler getting closer, every footfall she made making the weakened floor supports quiver. Every step her fetid breath grew hotter against his neck.

Bunching his legs under his body, he exploded forward shoulder-first, bursting through the wall with a small explosion of rotten splinters, followed closely by a smoking burst of stone fragmments and steel as the Demon plowed through the wall less than a second behind him.

With his chain wrapped completely around his left arm and waist, he held on tightly to where he'd stabbed his kunai to the hilt into the smoke-stained wall, white knuckling the simple steel. As soon as he'd caught his second breath, he began grappling his way up the wall towards the roof.

Even as he'd began climbing, the stunned Prowler shook it off and gave a shriek that echoed somewhat like a thousand women screaming in agony. Lunging at the wall, gaining almost thirteen feet off that single jump, the Prowler dug her crab-like claws into the stone, foot talons digging easilly into the stone as she too began to grapple.

His flight had become a race...

Catching the scent of fresh blood, three Veltur demons barked roughly and snapped their crimson-covered buzzard beaks loudly. Leaping away from the eviscerated corpse of an unfortunate man, they took to the skies, hurtling after the boy, trying to get him before the Prowler.

Realising the futility of running, the Velturs closing in as fast as the Prowler, Matthew stabbed his Kunai back into the wall. Whirling around to face the incoming demons, a burning intensity locked in his eyes, all fear was banished instantly.

Releasing the chain, he tucked his arms down at his sides, going into a sky-diver's barrel roll around the She-Demon's claws. Snapping out his hands as he shot past, he took a double handful of her filthy hair, dragging her off of the wall.

As the twelve foot chain began to draw tight, he whirled around, locking the tips of his feet against the stone wall, going into a sideways falling run, the shrieking prowler dragged behind.

Reaching the end of the chain with a sharp jerk at his waist, he slammed his heels down, driving his arms forward with all of the force his small body could manage. Smashing the Demon's skull into the stone, he let go at the perfect moment to send the semi-comatose beast flailing into the group of Velturs. Reaching up, he wrapped his hands around the chain, swinging slowly back to the end of the cold steel length.

As he climbed back up the chain, the boy took his time to listen to the medley of gunfire, Demonic howls, both of anger and triumph, and the screams of people. It never seemed to stop.

Every morning, he awoke to gunfire. From high noon to a couple hours later, the screams began and then cut off. The demons though, howled nonstop...

Pulling himself over the ledge, he walked slowly across the roof, rubbing his chilled arms. I wonder if the lastbourne will ever send out a squad to help us...

As he climbed back up the chain, the boy took his time to listen to the medley of gunfire, Demonic howls, both of anger and triumph, and the screams of people. It never seemed to stop.

Every morning, he awoke to gunfire. From high noon to a couple hours later, the screams began and then cut off. The demons though, howled nonstop...

Pulling himself over the ledge, he walked slowly across the roof, rubbing his chilled arms. I wonder if the lastbourne will ever send out a squad to help us...

With a deft flick of the wrist, the chain snaked back into a coil around his arm, the kunai slipping back into its sheathe under his palm. Reaching back slowly, hand going around the hilt of his longsword finger by finger, he reached into his back pocket with the other, pulling out a long strip of black silk. Tying it slowly around his eyes in the ceremonial death knot of his people, he caught glimpses of the other three Prowlers climbing silently over the edge of the wall, several Velturs surrounding the building, dropping those who had been named 'Demon' by first witnesses to land on the rooftop.

With a final tug, he finished the knot, pulling his longsword out slowly to savour what may be its final ring. Counting down his fingers as he wrapped them around the hilt, he listened to the footsteps of the damned creatures coming forward, surrounding him, the Prowlers in the circle of demons with him.

Silence reigned thereafter, a single breeze picking up an old newspaper. The demons stared down at the boy who stood before them, blinded, armed only with a steel blade that had yet to leave its scabbard.

No more did the guns of survivors roar.

No more did the survivors scream.

Why?

Because there are no more... "3!" He roared suddenly, startling the demons back a step, wrapping his ring finger around the hilt. "2!" He screamed, even louder as he wrapped his middle finger around the hilt, all fear banished from his voice, the tone befitting more a Lord, or King, but not a mere child... If I am meant to live... Then I shall not die on this rooftop... If I am...

"Then I shall see your master in hell..." Smiling then, upon the horrid faces of the foes he could not see, he wrapped his final finger around the hilt of his blade, snapping it out of the scabbard, holding it one-handed at a perfect horizontal angle.

The Demons lunged.

 

[Renegadius]

Laughing bitterly, the boy held back the jaws of three demons, all of whom sliced apart their jowels trying to get past his blade, which groaned under the stress applied. Behind him, something had embedded itself into his right shoulder, driving slowly deeper and deeper towards his spine, warm fluid trickling down his flesh freely. Though he could not throw the demons back, he held them in a stalemate of their own greed, none wanting to move for fear of losing its meal.

"Bastards... I'll suffocate before you can kill me..." He whispered, pushing his blade forward to keep the beasts from slitting his throat with his own weapon. The massive throbbing ball of flesh looked like some sort of fell orgy of bodies as more and more demons packed onto the ball, trying to get something out of their exploits. Their growls were all carried on the breeze, the same one that flicked the tails of his blindfold, providing some small amount of air in the hot ball of crushing death.

 

[Renegadius]

Dropping his sword suddenly, Matthew used the momentum of the faltering Demons to throw his sword back into the tentacle-bearing monster behind him, tearing its head from its shoulders with an arcing spray of black ichor.
Turning his drop into a roll, the boy slid between the legs of a massive, turtle-like beast, taking off across the surface of the building's roof.

Instantly the black mass of Demonic bodies on top of the roof threw themselves towards their prey, bearing down on the youth with each hurtling step.
Leaping from the edge of the roof, Matthew span around onto his back in midair, impaling the blade of his sword to the hilt into the stone wall to hang as the beasts leaped after him, even now unable to give up their prey to their brethren.

Flyers or not, the amassment of bodies fell over the edge of the roof. Some fell, some hovered, while some of the falling grabbed onto the hovering dragging all down to the ground twenty stories below. A large cloud of dust rose from the sand below, along with the echoing thud of thirty large bodies hitting the ground.

 

[Renegadius]

Lacking the strength to pull himself back up, the boy contented himself to hang from his right arm, cradling his left in his lap. To ease the weight on his tiring arm slightly, he pressed both feet to the wall to provide a counter-balance to gravity. A slow dripping of blood fell from the hole in his shoulder, hindered only by the clawed tentacle appendage of a late Demon which remained to plug the wound. He wasn't certain if the lack of pain in the wound was a good or bad thing, but knew, one way or another, he'd eventually have to get down from the thirteenth story. Bending back his neck, The Cursed One allowed his center of gravity to shift towards his legs as his silver hair fell back about his face to dangle with gravity's caress.